Things to rant about...in 3 minutes.

Scottish Housemate and I, and others along the way, have been debating the concepts of speed dating, internet dating and other types of arranged dating activities - as well as the would you/wouldn't you conversation.

The most frequently repeated comment from men and women alike is that they have done it or would do it "for a laugh". My retort is always, "That's not fair!" Someone is genuinely looking for a possible partner and is most likely placing a great deal of faith and hope [and some serious angst] in the process. In my eyes, it's just plain mean to enter into this dating fray if your intentions are not honorable. I imagine how hurt I would feel [and possibly humiliated if I actually quite liked him] if I shared my time allotted self only to find out that he was there for a laugh. I object!

Observation tells me that internet dating to the majority is nothing more than a grown up version of 'Hot or Not'. Let's not pretend that the hopeful lads consider qualities, interests and hobbies. In my office internet dating and subsequent dates are discussed openly. Those women who never make it to the actual date stage are displayed on the monitor for all to see because they dared to express some level of interest and are mocked mercilessly for it. With comments such as "what a minger" the boys rule them out one by one based on looks: and looks alone. Let me point out that these "boys" are aged 28 and upwards, and as the idiom goes, are no oil paintings themselves. God help us.

Now there is another kind of arranged dating activity, one which was the original purpose of this post. Scottish Housemate tells me, courtesy of the London Lite, that there is a new phenomenon sweeping the bars of London town. That was for dramatic effect...one bar somewhere in South Ken is hosting something called Down With Dating. An anti-speed dating if you will. People can go and legitimately take the piss. On the dreaded wall of faces, photos are replaced by your own hand-drawn-with-crayons self-portrait...and your 3 minutes of me me me is an opportunity for you both to talk about things that really piss you off. This I could do. I shall start making a list right now: things high up on shelves in shops; American English; people who walk really slowly in front of you; the fact that Quality Streets come in giant tins; phone contracts; customer services "your call is important to us" on hold mesasges; South African accents....This is too easy. Suddenly "for a laugh" sounds very appealing to me.

Stars in my eyes

A while back I expressed something hopeful about horoscopes and such. I was promised a good year that year and I thanked the stars for that. Since it proved to be completely the opposite, 2006 being an almost complete pile of poo, I turned my back on the wish-wash.

Enter Facebook.

Horoscope and Tarot applications telling me my fortune every day. I am supposed to have found love many times over by now. Why is it then that of late, the only man to have shown any sort interest at all is the manager at Pizza Go Go? At 2 o'clock in the morning. Flirting with me whilst waiting for my fries to become golden and delicious. To go with my large pizza. OK, nevermind, I just answered that. I need new hangouts, clearly.

I think I am going to remove them from my page. Or simply stop reading them. Reading into them.

But hark! Tomorrow my Money and Love are BOTH sunshiny...

Interpol @ Alexandra Palace

Arcade Fire at Alexandra Palace, Wood Green

I do not want a bench

From time to time I think about how I want to be remembered when I die. I don’t much like talking about me dying because I plan to live a very long and healthy life. Apart from how people will think of you, or speak about you, things happen in the very important few days after that I think we should all have a say in.

I do not want a bench. Those ones that you see in parks. “How softly the river flows…” “In memory of…” “You will be missed” and so on. The river walk from Surbiton to Kingston, as I discovered this weekend, is a very pleasant one…but there was a certain distraction that I could not acclimatise to. Bench after bench after bench of the aforementioned variety. I thought to myself, most definitively, I do not want a bench.

Upper lip hair

I was determined to write something tonight, but was distracted by this blog, the link to which appears below. It pleased me greatly to find it, and have instead spent my writing time giggling. It's impossible not to get caught up in the unashamed appreciation of the mustache.

"Ah, the pleasing symmetry of a delicate gullwing swoop in hair, mustache, and tie."

Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century

Have you found Jesus?

Those of you who know me will know why I am posting this and yes, I am probably going to hell in a handbasket.

(non-essential) [explantory]

The difference between brackets and parentheses has never really concerned me until recently. It was upon receipt of some communications where the square bracket was in use which caused me to ponder whether or not its use was technically correct.

I am particularly fond of the parentheses as I have a neverending supply of thoughts, offhand remarks and justifications which cannot be left unstated so I chuck them into a round bracket and keep going.

This is what I found out: use the parentheses () to provide non-essential information, to mark off a part of your sentence that is not part of the main thought; and the bracket [] to insert a clarifying word or phrase.

You'd never believe I used to work as a copy editor and proofreader, would you?

Bookshop Blues

I love browsing bookshops. Rarely do I have an intention to buy something...Amazon is cheaper after all. But when I am thinking about buying a book, I can't skip the part of looking for it, finding it, picking it up and paging through it. There is something so base about smelling the smell of paper printed and bound. Even though the book I will eventually buy will arrive in the post, at least I've had a good look at it first, albeit somewhere else.

Yesterday, because it's impossible to walk past a bookshop without going in or at least looking in the window, I spent some time browsing in one of the more commercial bookshops. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, sometimes I wait for something to catch my eye before lifting it from the shelf for a flick through. This time I happened upon a book on the 3 for 2 table. It wasn't the title or the cover that grabbed me, it was the tag line: "You're nobody until somebody dumps you." Ouch. It made me smile in acknowledgement.

I skipped to the 'It's not you, it's me' bit. Turns out it's probably true. Not comforting, but true.

I did not need to know that

Maybe it's the interested look on my face. Maybe it's the bored look on my face. Whatever it is that encourages people to come into my office, ensconce themselves in a chair and proceed to tell me the most intimate details about their medical issues, I obviously exude it. Note: I am not a doctor. Such visits are thrust upon me, I am the unwillingly party. These people always, always take me by surprise: even when I see them coming. Inevitably they leave my office, their burden unloaded, their problem shared, completely oblivious to the fact that I am left feeling bilious.

James (name not changed). Infection of the urethra. "My ass hurts. It burns when I pee! I don't know how you women do it!" Do what James? "Sit on your bits all day, it's so uncomfortable, it hurts! I had to go for, like a test where they blah blah blah blah...so in case you were, like, wondering why I look so down, this is why. Blah blah." James, I wasn't, like, wondering.

Seriously. Do not. Want. To know.

What does THAT mean?

If only I could invent a software application for mobile phones. More specifically, for text messages. I would call it "Read Between The Lines". Every time you receive a text message from a boy, it automatically rewrites it in a language you can understand. All those innocuous comments and miscellaneous x's can be translated into plain English. "I like you." "I like you but I don't really want to be tied down right now." "I am not really that interested but I'll keep this going just in case." "Please, go away."

Just say it like it is. x

Good Friday

Yes, yes indeed it was.

Just thought you'd like to know!

Just thought I'd like to know? Just thought I'd like to know that I have been eating, all this time, a product which COULD have been made with 80% less saturated fat, but hasn't been until now. Why? What makes you think I'd like to know that you have knowingly and deliberately been making crisps soaked with lard when it is possible to make crisps not soaked with lard? Now, I believe in personal responsibility and I am not about to blame W*lkers for my inability to control my intake of saturated fat, because yes, it was I who made the choice to eat them, and watch with apathy as the scales increased year after year: however, if we rented a vehicle from Time Travellers R Us, and we went back to say 1999 (my first taste of Quavers, not just a random year) and from that day forth we made them with 80% less saturated fat, I think it is possible that you'll find that it would not only be the crisps that are less lardy: I would be too.

The Shins at The Forum, Kentish Town

Virtually Free Bar

I am not accustomed to having drinks bought for me. This is something new. Why it has come about, I am not entirely certain. I have a number of surmises:

1. It has to do with going out with Scottish Housemate, who, let's face it, is a good looking girl.
2. My recently acquired Single status.
3. My recently achieved GI Jane status. (In case you haven't, check my footer).
4. My irresistible charm. No? OK, I'll pick #1 as the most likely candidate.

Last night saw another tres fun evening in Camden, which although lasted from 3pm to 4am, didn't bankrupt me, despite a continuous flow of alcohol, entry into a night club and a cab ride home. Should I be having this much fun at my age?

Of course Sunday was a virtual write off, particularly when I discovered that the time had changed and I lost yet another hour lying in bed willing my water bottle to miraculously fill itself and empty its delicious contents into my sandpaper and cotton wool mouth so that I could stop speaking in Khoisan Bushman dialect. Sadly, eventually, and with a little help from Amy Winehouse, I extricated myself from duvet-entanglement and did it myself. One thing led to another which led to having to clothe myself and trundle down the road for a 4pm breakfast fry-up with the guilty party (see #1). I love lazy Sundays.

s'kceB

The backup friend

St. Patrick's Day. Not a good idea at the best of times. Yet, Scottish Housemate and I decided to brave it, and ventured forth. Both of us have an explicable fondness for Camden after dark. We tried the Barfly, but upon encountering "Police Line Do Not Cross" starting from the Lock Tavern and extending for most of the rest of the block, we about-turned and meandered in a different direction. The World's End seemed like a good choice. And it was very enjoyable. Good enough music, reasonable access to the bar, and place to stand without being jostled. Scottish Housemate got some male attention...one of the hopefuls actually, in front of me, referred to me as "the backup friend". Mmm, good luck calling that number she gave you.

Puggy!

OK I know it's rather a strange name for a band; well it's rather a strange name fullstop.

Nevertheless, ever since I was first introduced to Puggy in 2006, I have hearted them. Finally, after some missed opportunities, last night took me to Tommy Flynn's to see them play. My first Puggy gig, and I was not disappointed. They were pretty great. "Sorry" is my favourite at the moment...but they're all awesome.

Oh, and I might have a serious crush on Matthew Irons.

Gobbets

Today was a day off work courtesy of one of my 'use or lose' days. I was messing around with some words, trying to put them to good use. "A poem perhaps?" I had bravely suggested to myself when I sat down at the kitchen table. The glorious rays of sunlight streaming through the patio doors had obviously immediately to set work on melting my brains, because as a result of that seemingly innocuous decision, I spent a hearty chunk of the morning wiping my nose with my sleeve as tears streamed down my face. Needless to say, those particular words have since been packed back into the box as, clearly, I am not yet ready for them.

Welcome distraction came in the form of my Chelsea Dagger ring tone. With a small sniffle I answered my phone hesitantly. It was Scottish Housemate. She suggested the theatre. That cheered me up a great deal and, later, after a light dinner reminiscent of the Frasier theme song (tossed salad and scrambled eggs for those of you not paying attention) we high-heeled it to Leicester Square. Why does no one dress for the theatre these days? That is not to say we did, in fact the heels were our only salute to that concept, but wouldn't it be fun if people still did?

Anyway, we were lucky enough to get tickets to The History Boys. It's brilliant.

Irwin: "For what it’s worth, I sympathise with your feelings about examinations, but they are a fact of life. I’m sure you want them to do well and the gobbets you have taught them might just tip the balance."
Hector: "What did you call them? Gobbets? Is that what you think they are, gobbets? Handy little quotes that can be trotted out to make a point? Gobbets? Codes, spells, runes – call them what you like, but do not call them gobbets."
Irwin: "I just thought it would be useful …. "
Hector: "Oh, it would be useful … every answer a Christmas tree hung with the appropriate gobbets. Except that they’re learned by heart. And that is where they belong and like the other components of the heart not to be defiled by being trotted out to order. "

The Charlotte Church Show

Channel 4, Friday 9th March 2007, 10 p.m. Look for me on The Charlotte Church Show! I just spent four hours queueing, waiting, queueing, clapping (Levels 1, 2 and 3), laughing (clean laugh, short laugh) and ooohing and aaahing. I, yes I, was in the audience during the taping of Friday's show. Call me naive but I really believed that the show was not only live (not) but also that it flowed smoothly from one piece to the next. No. They take and retake; we clap and reclap; we laugh and relaugh. Damn, it's tiring. My cheeks ache from smiling. Still, I saw Hilary Duff two feet away (she is but tiny) and Chris Moyles was quite fun. Jamelia I can take or leave. Sorry hun. Nice dress though. Charlotte herself, what can I say, a legend, I do love her.

How To Become A Writer

There has been much talk in the past from my lips to your ears about me and my attempts to be a Proper Writer. I'm still on about it. More than a year and a half since I decided to work on my novel, I have decided to work on my novel.

I am sure that if I bothered to look on The Internet, I would find a hundred WikiHows to tell me about what Real Writers are made of. I don't know what ingredients I need, but these are the ingredients I have:

• Bunches of angst and flagging self-confidence in my Talent and Ability to Write Properly... countered by inestimable measures of But I Love Writing and I Really Really Want To Be a Proper Writer
• A folder C:\My Computer\My Documents\Writing which is full of bits and pieces waiting patiently for my considered attention
• Lots of Very Good but Useless Reference Books with titles such as Word Power and Weird and Wonderful Words and How Not To Say What You Mean and so on
• A novel which I prepared earlier (Personally, I think this is the most useful ingredient apart from Talent and Ability to Write Properly)
• A nome de plume/pseudonym/pen-name, should this be necessary

So, the cupboard is not exactly bare...surely something can come of this?

Bollywood Tears

There is a particular kind of heartbreak you feel when you see someone cry. It's one thing when it's someone you know, but when it's a stranger it seems strikingly sad, perhaps because there is nothing you can do, really.

Sitting on the train, music blaring in my ears creating that amazing disconnect between the goings-on around you and the bliss in your head, my attention was attracted to someone behaving oddly. On first assessment he looked, dare I say, like a Bollywood star. Everything he wore looked designer, oh so cool shades, a general attempt to look irresistible. (And about those shades: it was night-time). He was muttering to himself, pacing between the two doors and running his fingers enthusiastically through his hair. You could have been forgiven for thinking he was practicing lines for his new musical...but with more intent inspection I saw that he was crying. Sobbing actually.

Let me pause here to say that I too have sobbed on the train once. I couldn't help myself, but I think I tried to be discreet about it, despite the rivulets. He was full-flood waterworks...if I could hear I am sure there would have been noises and everything.

I noticed some other passengers laughing at him. I felt paralysed with sadness: his tears and the attitude of his fellow passengers. Was he a nutter? Maybe. But he could also have simply been unable to contain his misery, and I know exactly how that feels. I wasn't about to get up and pat him on the back and tell him everything would be OK. Eventually. But I like to think he felt my compassion hugging him like those big blue cuddly arms in the soup advert.

How Long ©

I left your house that day
To catch the train
How long did it take you
How long to move on

It was clear, so clear
Sorry, you were sorry
I was your regret you said
You don’t belong here

I turned my eyes in, to not see
That you were looking past me
To your next possibility

You made it clear, so clear
Sorry, you felt sorry
I was your regret you said
Why are you here

I left your house that day
To catch the train
How long to move on
You’d already gone

It made me smile

On the bus home from a late night at work, I was gazing out of the rain spattered window wondering how it could be that I was on my way home at 9 o'clock on a Friday night. I let out a deep resigned sigh at the thought of what was waiting for me: tea and toast and to bed with my book. Unexpectedly, through a gap between the buildings, I saw the London Eye in the distance, all lit up in pink. I welled with happiness. It was a brief welling, but it was one of those moments I have from time to time where I feel utter contentment.

A definite USP

Cigars...and lighters? Cigars...and matches? Cigars...and tobacco? Nope.

Truly. This shop sells cigars and firetrucks. I'm not kidding. Where? New Jersey, where else but America?

Bakelite and racy prints

Today I went to the Battersea Art Deco Fair, accompanied by Scottish Housemate. I love Art Deco. This print came home with me, as did a fabulous Bakelite lamp. How did plastic become a collectible item?

Clutching her purchases, Scottish Housemate was accosted by the TV people there filming for Channel 4's Grand Designs. She found her few minutes of fame explaining why she too loves Art Deco. "Because it's pre-tt-y!" apparently wasn't what they were wanting to hear so she tried to sound very important. Look out for her!

Ettore Tito, 'Aide toi. Le ciel t'aidera' ('Heaven helps those who help
themselves'), about 1925-30.

Tito's illustration shows a modern emancipated girl of the period: she
wears short skirts, drives her own open-topped car, and is even capable of
fixing it herself when it breaks down. She is presented as independent and
rather 'racy'; the image is clearly meant to be amusing but also
suggestive.

Wordkill

Working with Americans has its unique joys. One such joy is their language. There truly is a language called American. Its filled with heartbreaking word blends. One I hear all too often, and die inside each time, is "irregardless".

According to Dictionary.com this word is "nonstandard". I should bloody hope so!

Making a Mixtape

Recently I was invited to spend the weekend with An American Colleague at her home in Bridgewater, New Jersey, USA. They have a Mall in Bridgewater. With a Macy's. And everything. V. American.

Whilst idly passing time in the kitchen, drinking coffee and trying to ignore the fact that my toes had registered that it was minus 1.2 million on the Cold Enough For You? temperature scale, her husband asked me about music. My favourite question. He had no idea what he was in for. After naming a few bands that he had never heard of and some that he vaguely had, he rushed off to find a 'rock' CD that he was sure I would like. American Colleague looked at me with raised eyebrows and mouthed "WTF?" And then after a thoughtful pause, "It's probably ten years old, I warn you." It was. Whilst not truly awful it was not rock and it was not for me. I was a guest after all so I made some appropriate Interested Listener noises, and as quickly as it was polite to inserted Fiona Apple into the pretty silver Bose. At that moment I promised myself and American Colleague that I would make American Colleague's Husband a mixtape of proper music.

Making mixtapes is something I did as par for the course when I was younger. By younger, I of course mean when cassette tapes were the actual main component of mixtapes. I remember sitting cross-legged on the lounge floor nose to nose with the radio listening to the Top 40, finger poised and hovering over the Record button waiting for the DJ to stop talking and get on with playing the damn songs.

A Dog Called Kevin

This weekend saw the beginning of an official project called the Urban Exploration Project. This concept, proposed by my Most Delicious Friend Regina Silverspoon ®, is nothing more than taking good photographs in urban areas and posting them in one place.

Today's exploration was of Highgate Cemetery. We took a guided tour of this very beautiful, surprisingly uncreepy place. More about the cemetery on my other blog.

We also passed by Holly Village which is a group of eclectic gothic cottages built in 1865 for Baroness Burdett-Coutts' retired servants. We are sure that vampires live there.

Walking back through Waterlow Park we were mowed down by various very-pleased-to-be-out-in-the-freezing-cold-running-around-the-park-chasing-sticks dogs. One dog was a bit older than the other raggamuffins and was much happier sniffing the ground tentatively and was thrilled to shivering bits to receive generous pats on the head. His name was Kevin. What a cool dog-name.

Too Close For Comfort

A bit of a sombre posting tonight. There's a story in the news at the moment about the murder of a woman in her offices. I know the company where she worked. They are a competitor; we talk about them all the time.

It's a truly awful thing that happened. Locking up our offices the other night, I felt a flutter of unease. It's one of those tragedies that I will not forget. Despite the dozens of other murders that take place all across London and in my own neighbourhood, and despite that fact that I did not know her, this one feels a little too close to home.

A story about a date

Last Saturday we had a party. A housewarming party. It was a good party. Some say a great party. 80's theme: the music, the food, the outfits, the works. I played Queen of the Cocktails and got everyone verily drunk.*

My French Friend was there. She lasted until the jug of Shakey Milken Banana with Whiskey** was passed round, and claims to not remember much else after that. That would include not really remembering giving out her phone number.

Sunday dawns, or rather afternoons, and My French Friend receives a voicemail message from someone called Ned***. It's not a common name, Ned. He mentions 'party' 'your number' and 'dinner' and she thinks that she vaguely remembers someone she thinks may indeed have been called Ned and even remembers possibly, maybe giving him her number.

I receive a frantic French accented email: "Who ze hell iz Ned?"

Duly, I gather Housemates around my laptop to view the photos in an impromptu identification parade. Girl Housemate #2 points a finger and declares: "Ned!" She proclaims him to be 'nice', 'sweet', 'funny, if a bit cocky.' Fair enough. Sounds harmless. Attach. Send.

"Aah, oui, I remember zis person. Cool."

A date is susequently arranged. The day arrives and she goes on her way with my voice ringing in her ears: "I expect full details please!"

I expected to hear about the restaurant, the bar, the conversation, the did he go in for a kiss. What I did not expect was a text message an hour later: "Nightmare...it's not who we thought it was! It's the Wrong Ned!"

What are the odds? Two boys, both called Ned, at the same party, talking to the same girl. Poor Ned the Wrong. What's more no one really knows who Ned the Wrong actually is. I didn't invite him, Housemates 1, 2 and 3 didn't invite him. My French Friend's face must have been a picture. She called me on her way home, walking in the rain rather than getting into the same cab, and I laughed until I couldn't breathe. With her, of course, never at her, hahahaha.

*they all made it home safely
** secret recipe available to those who submit something, anything, which makes me laugh out loud
***name changed to protect the flash, boring, posh boy

He's just not into you

"Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love." - Charlie Brown

The Shins or Happy Coincidence

I know I said this wasn't a blog about bands, but this is more than that. This is about those rare moments when things seem connected and all's well that ends well.

While I wasn't reading about BitTorrent and while I definitely wasn't installing it, I came across a mention of a band called The Shins. Now, given my already stated impeccable taste in music, in theory I should already be aware of this band. I was not. That said, I filed it away for future reference and thought nought more of it. But Hark! A few minutes later, mine ears are pricked to the radio, for what should be playing but the new single by The Shins! (It's called Phantom Limb and I love it). "Hmm", I mused. I read it about it and then it (aurally) appears. "It must be a sign!", I declare with certainty. I have subsequently acquired all three albums.

Were it not for me absolutely not investigating the pirate underbelly of music downloading, which for the record is Wrong, I would never have come across this brilliant band. It makes me happy when one thing leads to another which leads to Good Things.

Yesteryear

Whilst the year past was a truly rubbish year for me, I will allow myself to look back at My Favourite Things About 2006. Surely I can find 10 of those...

1. My favourite entire album, the one that makes me feel happy
The Killers, Sam's Town. I didn't have to think about that for very long.

2. My favourite "Have you ever heard..?" "No, I haven't." band
This is a toughie because there are two neck and neck, both introduced to me by my Most Delicious Friend, Regina Silverspoon ®. In order that I not have to make a decision I will have both.
Sub-favourite 1: Interpol
Sub-favourite 2: Diamond Nights

3. My favourite place to be
My new house. End of.

4. My favourite event of the year
My French Christmas.

5. My favourite new word wot I learned
Putain!

6. My favourite item of clothing which I wore the most all year
My River Island jeans.

7. My favourite place I love to hate
Ikea. I hate that they're so fucking clever. With everything. Like marketing and store layout and delicious cake sit downeries. Fucking smart arses. I hate that I vowed never to go back and now I'm going with My French Friend next weekend and I know I will spend my money no matter how much I mutter about it. Bastards.

8. My favourite purchase
Star-shaped fairy lights. From the place I love to hate. Oh the irony.

9. My favourite past-time
Making and receiving "mix-tape" CDs.

10. My favourite thing to think about. Endlessly.
*Censored*

So long, and thanks for all the fish!

Delicious! Mrs. Henderson Presents

I found myself at home, on a Friday night, the house to myself. Determined not to feel too sorry for myself as is my wont from time to time, I thought it a prime opportunity to watch TV, a rare occurence of late. Both the TV watching and the home on a Friday night.

I settled in, and prepared to be dazzled by my choices: BBC 1 & 2, ITV 1, Channels 4 &5. Wow. Delighted I was when I saw that not only was I just in time for the start of a moo-vie, but that it was one which I was pleased to be watching.

My favourite piece of dialogue in this moo-vie and possibly one of my favourite ever, is in reference to boobs. I have those and so it's always nice to see some and hear what other people think/say about them. Those with boobs will understand. I hope I'm not alone here.

It goes something like this:

Mrs. Henderson to the Old Guy What Makes The Rules: "You're thinking bosoms, but I'm thinking breasts!"

Old Guy What Makes The Rules: "And what, my dear, is the difference?"

Mrs. Henderson: "Ah, the difference is in your soul."

Mrs. Henderson rocks.

Many Ways To Cook A Duck

If you were expecting this posting to be a profound philosophical proverb, look away now for you will be disappointed. Vous serez déçu for you fluent French speakers out there. Because after four days in France with my newly appointed French family, I am of course now fluent in The French. Ha!

Phrased as a question: How many ways are there to cook a duck? Really, how many? In four days, I ate duck in many many more than four different forms. I shall attempt a list:

1. Foie gras. You may gasp in horror, but it's true, I sampled the liver of the duck. The fat liver at that.

2. Duck pâté. "Is this not the commoner's version of foie gras?" I ask tres innocently. "Non!" my French family vigorously defended, en masse, the subtle difference. I never quite got to the bottom of what the difference is as I was too busy ducking (ha ha) the Viva le Frances being fired back and forth across the table.

3. Confit de Canard. That be Confit of Duck. Essentially McDuck is marinated in its own fat. For days. And then cooked. In its own fat. Delicious. Served with my new favourite: little bits of fried potatoes, name unknown. Not pomme frites, smart arse. I did ask. I forgot.

3. Margrets de Canard. I think. It's fried (of course) duck breast served with pepper sauce and the little fried potatoes of goodness. Very very good.

4. Gésier salad. Gizzards. Yes siree. Fried. I think I'm repeating myself. Yum.

5. Duck Proscuitto. I made that name up, but it was like proscuitto. Of duck.

Only five. It seemed like lots o' ducks. A raft of ducks. A team even.

Related posts: Fortnums, Stansted, Langoustine

Not your average Friday night

So there I was sitting in the pub with my friends, drinking a Peroni and talking about Stuff, and the next thing I knew I was looking at a penis. With a metal bar through the tip. In the pub. A penis. It's not really par for the course on any given night out, hence this specific mention. You will be clamouring for the whowhatwhenwherewhy detail, and I shall oblige.

Dellboy: "Everyone, my friend (let's call him) Al is joining us. He has a penis piercing."
The rest of us: "Really? How interesting and well, quite gross, but thanks for introducing us to his name and his penis in the same breath."

Later that evening.

Dellboy: "Everyone this is Al. Al, this is everyone."
The rest of us: "Hi Al, we know about...you know, your penis. Do tell."

And he did.

The rest of us: "Can we have a lookie?" Not thinking for one second he would. Again, he did.

So many levels. Wrong.

Dear Goddess Who Sends Men for Women,
When picking out the man for me, please ensure that the Unpierced Penis box is ticked, bolded and underlined.
Thank you in advance. A lot.
P.S. Please, no penis piercings. I hope you understand.


Here's the bit for my fellow Fact Geeks:

Palang involves piercing the glans of the penis horizontally and
the insertion of a barbell. This item of jewellery is called an ampalang. It originated in the tribes who inhabit the island of Borneo. The term palang translates as "crossbar" and can be related to the timber roof supports of the longhouses of the tribes of the area, and symbolises the protective power of the male over the family.

(I assure you this is not the explanation Al provided as to the Why Would You?)

And for your visual pleasure, in case you were having trouble imagining it.

Tractors Schmactors

I still haven't started reading the Book.

Tomorrow I fly. To the France. A Worrie took up Residence for some days in my Thoughts of the Fog. This Worrie has now lifted with the Fog. And so I say again, I shall spend Christmas in France, so there! French wine, French cheese, French bread, French Christmas presents, French family, French air, French dogs, French walks...I could go on. Housemates have requested that I bring back French People. Good-Looking Ones. They were quite specific about that bit.

The Science of Book Reading

I am, or certainly have been, an avid reader. One or two books per week was my staple. Pretty much anything goes as long as it holds my interest for a bit, and from there on in it's a sure thing that I will probably be able see it through to the end. There are a few books I have started but have been unable to pursue. I can't think of any right now, but there are a few. I have spent many years and many books pressing on to the end despite extreme boredom or confusion or a combination of both.

I should come up with a formula to a) ensure I never choose one that's a non-starter, or b) enable me to put it down with less umming and aahing about whether or not to give it a chance.

This formula would have to consider:

1. Choosing a book by its cover. Is this wrong? A good cover covers a multitude of literary sins. And looks good on the shelf. Especially if it matches your colour scheme.
2. Level of excitement and/or interest within the first say 10 pages. A good first paragraph is hard to find, but when it's there it can buy another 20 pages at least.
3. Did someone recommend it? You would have to be able to report back to them, not only knowledgeably but also truthfully. Truth is important I think. Particularly if they're your friend. Yes indeed. Perhaps this could be manipulated a bit if they are say just a colleague.
4. If it's required reading for a course of some variety can you get away with watching the movie adaptation? This worked very well for some of my classmates, especially as Mel Gibson made for very worthwhile Hamlet eye candy (though much less so since the "sugar tits" episode).
5. How easy it is to skip to the sex bits, if any.
6. Everyone's talking about it.

Having thought of those off the top of my head, I now have no idea how to create a meaningful formula. So I'll move on to my next point. Or go back to it. For various reasons, I have not read a book for some months now. Either partly or wholly. The time has arrived. I am ready. I am willing. I bought one from ASDA for £3 and I am determined to keep still long enough to read it through, with or without scientificated formula. It's called A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka. Here's to getting lost.

Full dancecard

I have truly embraced the party season. Lots of Eating, lots of Drinking and much Being Merry. The inevitable office Christmas Party has been had. No horror stories to admit to. At least none involving me personally. To this Christmas Party I wore a Dress. Yes, you heard me, a Dress. But wait, that's not all. I wore Shoes. You know, ones For Girls. With the Heel Bits. Is a transformation in progress? Because, picture if you will, the Dress and the Shoes with Heels, and then close your eyes tightly and to this picture add some Make Up. For the Face. To make the Face look all Nice and Smooth. Flawless some might say. Aye. Watch out world.

Smoke and mirror lockdown*

I have oft been told that I am a straight talker who calls it as she sees it, and I pride myself in that. I am mildy annoyed when people favour the beating around the bush approach; spit it out! As a consequence of being frank by nature, I often give myself a hard time for not speaking my mind more freely in this space (see Yellow-bellied decoy). I reread my postings from time to time and each one of them is truthful and factually correct, but there are several that only vaguely hint at what lies beneath. They're more footnotes for me to remember what I probably will never forget. In spite of not baring my soul and dark thoughts, what I say, I mean, even if it lacks detail and emotional gravitas. And so I accept that I will carry on doing what I do, because this is what it is.

*REM: Bad Day

This time last year...

...I was dreaming of change. So nothing's changed in that respect, yet everything has changed since then. Happy Birthday to me.

Clouds really do have silver linings

Today started abominably. Many many much too many late nights and far too much drinking-imbibing-consuming of the Alcoholic Liquids is truly starting to take its toll. The mirror reflects a wrung out rag. Tired and grumpy, accompanied by a raspy voice and thick head, I managed to make my way to the kitchen for some tea. I thought I should eat something too and decided at this point to be sensible and have some Scott's Porage Oats. With raisins. Good Wholesome Food for Soaked Livers. I sat at the table watching the squirrels; chewing carefully and swallowing slowly and planning my trip back Up the Stairs to the Good Place Beneath the Duvet. Enter Scottish Housemate. I have no recollection of how I ended up participating in the planning of a Roast Dinner and a Trip To The Shops. Well and truly roped in, I was forced to abandon warm and cozy bed thoughts in favour of a hot shower and the task of Getting Dressed.

Let me skip to the best bit. Alannah, this Primark. Primark, this is Alannah. Never have I been so thrilled to bits with a bargain. A few coins for like a zillion pairs of knickers, Ally McBeal clouds-all-over pyjamas, and Other Pyjamas and Stuff. Throw in a handbag and glittery belt and call me Pleased as Punch. The roast was rather good too. And, inadditiontoaswellas&also, I have the day off tomorrow so I can Recover Properly.

Fortnums, Stansted, Langoustine

What do those three have in common? My Christmas in Brittany! I decided. Not a very hard decision it has to be said. My flights are booked, my luggage is to be checked at £7 per piece and my arms are to be full of my gift for the French family. I thought a very English hamper from Fortnums would do the trick.

That leaves the langoustine. Now, this one deserves some discourse. In the past when I have had houseguests or indeed been a houseguest, the question one asks and gets asked is something like "what don't you eat?". Or if you had a menu in mind "do you eat such and such?" Such and such usually being brussel sprouts (no) or cranberry sauce (yes). This must be the first time that I have been asked if I will eat langoustine! Sadly, the answer is no. What! you cry in disbelief. It's true. Tuna and cod is my fishy lot. I'm a food Philistine, I know. But I'm going to France for Christmas, so there.

Write it down: my favourite song lyrics

:)I may have mentioned before: I love music. This is the place where I will write down any song lyrics that have an impact on me, not ones that run round in my head, those annoying ones you can't get rid of, but the ones where I know, just know, that actually it was me who wrote them. They, those artisty musically musical people, sucked them from my brain and put them to a tune. Some of them are meaningful sentences (to me obviously), some are just words that I think are nicely strung together...or uniquely descriptive...or funny. I'll put a link on the sidebar for continuous updating.

Ani Difranco (Adam and Eve) - "So I let go of the ratio of things said to things heard, and I leave you to your garden and the beauty you preferred."
Arcade Fire
(Neighbourhood #1 Tunnels) - ...then I'll dig a tunnel, from my window to yours."
(Crown of Love) - "Your name is the only word that I can say..."
The Bravery (Give In) - "All I want is everything."
Charlies Amp (Lights in LA) - "...it's staying out 'til 3 with people that excite me."
Cooper Temple Clause (Waiting Game) - "...I promise I never meant to turn you away. Why did you trust me with your heart?"
Counting Crows (A Long December) - "All at once you look across a crowded room to see the way that light attaches to a girl."
The Cure (Just Like Heaven) - "I kissed her face and kissed her head and dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her grow."
Feist
(Mushaboom) - "It may be years until the day, my dreams will match up with my pay."
(1243) - "Sweet heart, bitter heart, now I can't tell you apart."
The Fratellis
(Cuntry Boys and City Girls) - "I love the way you city girls dress, even when your head's in a mess."
(Whistle For the Choir) - "So if you're crazy, I don't care, you amaze me."
Guillemots (Annie, Let's Not Wait) - "I found something crying; it was my soul."
Interpol
(NYC) -"It's up to me now, turn on the bright lights."
(NYC) - "I had seven faces; thought I knew which one to wear, but I'm sick of spending these lonely nights training myself not to care."
The Killers
(Sam's Town) - "I know that I can make it as long as somebody takes me home, every now and then."
(Read my Mind) - "...with magic soaking my spine."
Neko Case (Hold On, Hold On) - "I leave the party at three a.m., alone, thank God."
The Ordinary Boys (Talk Talk Talk) - "Tell me all your secrets, I'll never tell you mine."
The Psychedelic Furs (Pretty in Pink) - "The one who insists he is first in the line is the last to remember her name."
Puggy (Sorry) - "Sorry you didn't notice what this meant."
R.E.M.
(All the Way to Reno) - "Your Achilles heel is a tendency to dream."
(Aftermath) - "And you've worked it out, and you see it all, and you want to shout how you see it all."
(Leaving New York) - "It's easier to leave than to be left behind."
Roddy Woomble (My Secret is My Silence) - "You approach land without a harbour to find your way home."
The Shins (Phantom Limb)
"Follow the lines and wonder why there's no connection."
"This town seems hardly worth our time."
Stereophonics (Hurry Up and Wait) - "Wait to get there, and when we get there, we wait around for anyone to tell us what we even got there for."

A nice warm feeling

Today I was invited to France for Christmas. I was lamenting the fact that I was sans family for the first time in many a year (OK, ever) and that I would be the only housemate without somewhere to go for the usual celebrations. Woe is me. And that's when My French Friend said, "Let me ask my mum, then you can come to France with me and spend Christmas with my family." How nice is that? How nice I ask you? There is one small issue I see in this arrangement. She is the only one in her family who speaks English. Problem. Sign language is an option...or at least enthusiastic gesticulating, like some earnest form of Charades...

But France for Christmas. v. intr. pon-der-ing.

We just didn’t connect

Today I wandered the street called Oxford in search of what I thought was a pretty simple request. I’ve read about it, I’ve heard about it, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. A data card: laptop internet connection through my mobile phone. Quick explanation: I’ve moved into my new houseshare (love love love) but we have yet to install wireless broadband. Now, it must be stated as a fact that the internet is essential to my being and I get [insert Latin name here] a.k.a. “the shakes” without it. This posting is quite a naughty one because I’ve hopped onto an unsecured wireless network. What? It’s a medical emergency(ish). Thank you whoever you are.

I was saying. I visited all of the mobile phone shops up the street and down. Whilst every single one was able to offer me a data card on a 12 month contract, only one (brightly coloured one) was able to offer me one without – but I could only get it online! How funny is that? I’m looking to get an internet connection and the only way I can get it is online.

One sales advisor at one of the major mobile phone providers, who I have always regarded highly (the provider not the advisor), informed me that although I was able to get what I was looking for, it wasn’t there, and what’s more he refused to tell where I could get it.

Here’s to piggybacking (but just until I get my own). Thank you.

Putain!

I've had such a sh*t day at work, it deserves its very own posting. That's it, that's all I'm going to say about it, lest I get fired.

Could it be, could it be?

1 x 4-bed house. Check.
3 x friendly housemates. Check.
1 x lovely street. Check.
1 x awesome bedroom. Check.
With en-suite. Check.

Woo hoo! Almost there. To do:

1. Meet landlord.
2. Sign tenancy agreement.
3. Move in.

Easy as 1,2,3? Let's hope so! I do so deserve it.

The beat goes on

I'm back onto my flatshare saga. It's ongoing. Yesterday it appeared to be moving in a good direction. The fabulous Gumtree brought together a whole bunch of seemingly like-minded people looking for a decent place to live at a reasonable price. Outcome? The search begins for a 4-5 bedroom house. At this time of year? Apparently not. 4-5 bedroom houses seem to be very scarce "at this time of year". Why? Students, that's why. They've swarmed the streets of Clapham and nicked the lot of them. Where does that leave us (read: me)? Frustrated. I have the means, I just don't have the end. And I was so hoping to move by the weekend.

Couples. Couples everywhere.

People I know have started inviting me out with them and their friends now that I am Single. I suppose previously they thought that the marital state would mean I already had plans...Nevertheless, it's very thoughtful and I am pleased to be invited and pleased to accept.

There is just one thing that has reared its inconsiderate supremely unattractive head recently and I am finding it very difficult to cope with, particularly when arranging to meet up somewhere public, such as a tube station. Places where Other People arrange to meet up too. Suddenly it seems to me that everyone in London is in a relationship of some sort. Every which way I turn, couples all over the place. Meeting up, going home, kissing, hugging, laughing. Fuckers. I barely lasted until midnight before I finally had to acknowledge my utter misery. My mood crashed and shattered on the floor of the Ha! Ha! Bar. I turned my back on it and went straight home.

There was one highlight of the evening. I learned a new swear word. Putain. Look it up. (Clue: it's French)

Hunting (High and Low)

So it's been a bit since I placed my Pick Me ad for a flat-share so it's time for a progress update.

The Scorecard:
5+ stars = When can I move in (assuming you want me to)?
Double stars for “I like the way you think”
Double negatives for “wrong on so many levels”

Flat 1
Who: Two boys; one girl.
For: I was offered coffee; it’s near to the gym; I know the area well (3 stars)
Against: a lorra lorra stairs (double negative); a dubious snow globe collection (double negative) (-4 stars)
The room: good enough (1 star)
Verdict: 0 stars = No

Flat 2
Who: Two girls.
For: very friendly; they shared their wine with me (double stars) (3 stars)
Against: loud talking, talking very loud make it stop; they gave me an up-down look at the door (double negative); don’t like that particular street = (-4 stars)
The room: good enough (1 star)
Verdict: 0 stars = No

Flat 3 (actually more of a house)
Who: Two girls; two boys.
For: I got lost and one of the boys came to find me, how nice is that? (double stars); really lovely people (3 stars)
Against: living with a couple (double negative); very narrow poky house; busy, noisy area with some dodginess within my peripheral vision = (-4 stars)
The room: not great (0 stars)
Verdict: -1 star = No

What have I learned? In no particular order…
1) Don’t go for places where the rent is suspiciously cheaper.
2) Don’t go even if they say “we’re not a couply-couple”.
3) Don’t ask about the snow globes. Trust me.

Will the rest of the week and weekend brings more treats of this ilk?…I remain surprisingly hopeful that I am close, so close.

So Low

I have a tick. Not the bloodsucking variety, but the variety that you develop in order to cope with some particular stressful circumstance. I recognised my tick today, tipped my hat to it, when I connected two unrelated events and leapt wildly to the conclusion that mine is in fact a bona fide tick.

First someone said: "You're very attached to your iPod of late, aren't you?" I looked up at him, and askance (he's very tall you see, and he was standing to my left) and said something brilliant like "Am I?"

And then a bit later while I was making tea or something equally mundane, I had a rare-but-becoming-more-common-yet-perfectly-understandable-given-my-personal-circumstances mood crash...and the first thing I did when I got back to my desk was select a playlist, pop the little white pips into my ears and sink into it.

Music, my drug.

Would you live with me?

I placed an ad today on one of those free online looking-for-a-room sites.

I spent some pencil-chewing time thinking about how to present myself and what I am looking for. It was harderer than I thought it would be. I started with some lovely descriptive words and strung those together with some sturdy joining words, then I sprinkled in some very sensible words for balance and weaved a magical piece of prose. OK, it was legible and that was good enough I thought, so I pressed Post My Ad Now! (or summat like that).

So proud was I of my published accomplishment that I promptly whizzed the URL to my friend in a show of look-at-me-so-independent-already. She replied immediately-

"Erm, are you sure? I don't really think you should put the word "bedroom" in the same sentence as the word "socialise"...Wrong impression, know what I mean?"

"Urggh, that's gross," I replied with vigourously executed disgustinged-faces.

"...and perhaps you shouldn't use the word "fun" either. You'll attract party animals."

"Oh, boy, we can't be having any animals a-partying in my home, verily no!"

"So, try again and send it to me before you post it, OK?"

She may as well have patted me on the head and gone poor, poor you, whatever is going to become of you in the great bigedness of the world.

She's right of course, I have no idea what I'm doing. So this is the ad, eventually posted after much wordsmithery:

I am looking for a friendly household with a decent size room where I can relax. I am 30 years old, easy going, love music, reading and the internet (wireless broadband would be good). A glass of wine and a chat is also a good idea from time to time. A good shower is important! I am reliable and consistent and I pay the bills on time.

Form an orderly line please! As if. Not one response yet.

Thank you, Anna Pickard

Sunday started like every Sunday has started for...well for some time now. Eyes open at 7a.m. Que? On the weekend? On goes the iPod, which is next to my bed within half-awake-fumbling reach (thank you Logitech® Portable Speakers for iPod). I get up, go to the loo, make a cup of coffee, get back into bed, lie there for a while listening to my tunes with my coffee resting warmly on my bosom. Then I snooze a bit and am woken by my stomach grumbling something about being woken up at the dawn of time yet still waiting for a feeding. So I get up again and make some toast and some tea.

Today's toast topping: peanut butter sprinkled with pumpkin seeds. I recommend it, it's too tasty.

I take my feast back to bed and boot up my laptop for some surfing, some Myspacing and some emailing. Same old same.

So there I am, toast'd and tea'd, writing an email to someone ("someone" is said with gravitas) and it's a difficult email and I'm still not sure if I will send it. I want to put in a quote from the the Wizard of Oz and I wanted to make sure I had it right so I Googled it. The first listing is how I found Anna's Little Red Boat.

Her blog distracted me from the task at hand (probably a good thing) and I have just spent the last hour wiping tears from my cheeks. Tears of laughter you'll be pleased to hear. It's the best thing that could have happened to me this very Sunday. Very funny. Did I mention she's funny? It's just what I needed. So, thank you Anna Pickard for making my day. Punk. I haven't laughed like that for such a long time. (The kind of laugh where no sound comes out and then you snort like a pig - the best!)

Flatshare Virgin

And so it has come to pass that I find myself looking for a room to rent. What qualities ensure you'll make and/or find a good flatmate? Do I live with boys, do I live with girls? Do I choose somewhere new, do I stick with what I know? What if I hate it? What if they hate me? This is all new to me. Almost thirty-something and starting what is essentially a new life. But, I keep telling myself in a stern voice, I love change, remember. (See Born Under a Wandering Star). I'll be fine.

Everything's changing

Another Friday night at home. Surfing, watching TV, blogging, updating MySpace and downloading music. I can't tell you how many of my Friday nights look like this. (Last Friday and the Friday before: exceptions). Having said that, tonight does feel different, like a temporary state. I just know that this is not what my future looks like.

London Bridge American-Style

Let me sum up yesterday in three words: I love London.

I took An American Colleague sightseeing and we had such a great day. Both nursing sore heads from the night before, we set off at noon with a Starbucks and a double chocolate muffin and just walked. The weather was awesome and we had no real plan. From Trafalgar Square to Bankside and all the way around again.

She was so looking forward to seeing London Bridge, and knowing full well she was mistaking one bridge for the other, I played along and took her to London Bridge. She looked at me incredulously and said that it didn't look like the pictures! I thought about spinning a yarn but one look at the glorious Tower Bridge behind her silenced me and I just pointed and smiled.

Free bar

Something monumental happened this weekend. I'm trying to imply by the title that alcohol was responsible for it, but I honestly don't think it was. It helped, yes. I can't describe what I am feeling. Perhaps it can be called Possibility?

All I know for sure is that decisions have to be made.

On the box

I was dragged kicking and screaming to John Lewis today. It wasn't the journey I objected to...I love taking the number 6 to Oxford Street (no really, I mean it); it was the purpose of the excursion that I objected to so vehemently. End goal: digital TV aka Freeview. Yeuch. Who needs 40 channels when 5 do the job just fine?

Like the iPod revolution, I swore I would never, ever be converted. (I now own a little black nano which I carry with me everywhere. See Pod Person).

Anyway. The little silver box was purchased, taken home, and connected. It didn't take long; before I knew it, I was scheduling my programs and ooohing and aaahing over the selection of channels. Disgraceful. I have again lost the battle against "things I do not need to be happy". How fickle am I?

The Superkings

This is not intended to be a blog about bands, but here is another one worth a listen. They have a more rocking sound. I'm totally addicted to one of their songs found on Overplay. It's called Legend of Three Guitar Men.

The Superkings are Lancashire-based and have a number of profiles on the web, including a MySpace page.

Could you?

Well, I thought I could, but I was unceremoniously informed that simply being an upstanding-citizen-and-all-round-good-person is not enough to join this particular police volunteer program. I was prepared, willing and able to give up all my spare time to do my bit. Psyched even. I filled in the form with serious thought and consideration, lined up the appropriate referees, and waited in anticipation for the acceptance letter and details of my first assignment. Alas, when I received the letter, it was to tell me that I had to have been living in the UK for 3 years to even be considered. When I queried it, no one was able to provide me with an explanation as to why. "Those are the rules." Apparently.

Sunday Morning ©

I am lying on the couch, flat, toes pressing up against the arm
The air is cold and I know I should put warmer clothes on
But I don’t
The waste removal van is outside
Bottles are clanking their way noisily into the
yawning back
My mind is distracted, I have slept but am exhausted
The news is on and I occasionally turn my head towards it
“Man cured of HIV”
I wonder what that means for the world, if it’s real
It’s Sunday morning
I'm lonely

Park Life

British summer days are brilliant. Packing my bag with suntan cream, my book, my mat and my iPod. Lying in the park with dozens of strangers, feeling the sun on my face, hearing the useless conversations around me. Being social without having to socialise. The best kind of social. Three chapters and 50 songs later, slightly reddened and blissfully smug, I walk home and lie on the couch...but I don't feel bad about doing nothing, because I've done nothing outside. It's different: it's summer, it's park life.

The man for the job (part 2)

When I first postulated my theory of the indescribable attractiveness of a man who is good at what he does, (see The man for the job) I had only ever experienced this effect in a professional office-bound setting. However, for the past 8 weeks I have observed another type of profession which has caused me to revise my theory to include manual labour. Our office refurbishment is being managed by such a man. Nondescript to start with, the way he goes about doing his job has transformed him in my eyes. Competent, knowledgeable and thorough, he carries himself like a man whose life is exactly as he wants it to be. I totally fancy him.

Something about the beach

Perhaps it's the air, perhaps it's the proximity of ice-cream. There's something about the beach that makes me feel hopeful. This is Cape May, NJ.

Get lost

"Lost" seems to a theme this weekend. This time I'm not talking about TV, I'm talking about me. Sometimes I just want to pack up and go. Anywhere, as long as I'm not found unless I want to be. I am so tired of being responsible for everyone else. For our relationship, for the domestic errands, for keeping things tidy, for having to give up my spare room - and my personal time - for family members who feel entitled. Remember Obligated? A studio flat is looking more and more appealing.

Lost the Plot

The first season of Lost had me on the edge of my seat, every Wednesday night. Loved talking about it, loved trying to figure out what the hell was going on...Season 2 leaves me in a quandary. If you'd have asked me 4 episodes ago what my current favourite show was, I'd have said Lost, hands down no debate. Now I feel like they're taking the mickey. How much longer do we have to take three steps back (flashbacks) but only move two steps forward (jungle chases and whispers). They're having a laugh. Nowadays if you ask me, I'd probably say give me Prison Break any night of the week. Yes, it's decided, my allegiance has shifted quite firmly to Monday nights.

Blue Man Group

We went to the New London Theatre last night to see the Blue Man Group. While we were having a drink at the bar, I casually asked how long the show was. The bar person said, "It's 1 hour 40 minutes - and you better get in there before it starts!" I didn't think anything of it except that she was a very diligent employee... but it soon became clear that there was more to it than that!


Go see it! Wear your white rambo headband (don't worry they give you one), don't sit on the aisle or at the back...and whatever you do, DON'T BE LATE!

The Sultan's Elephant

We spent Saturday afternoon being delighted by the Jules Verne inspired street theatre show, The Sultan's Elephant.


The Sultan’s Elephant is a spectacle you’ve only imagined... Created by theatrical magicians Royal de Luxe, it tells the story of a sultan from far-off lands and his magical, time-travelling mechanical elephant. Forty feet high and 42 tonnes in weight, this beautiful creature will capture the hearts and minds of everyone who sees it.

Royal de Luxe are an extraordinary European street theatre company, renowned on three continents but hardly known in Britain. The director Jean Luc Courcoult founded the company in 1979, and they have performed all over the world ever since.

Cannes-Cannes

Cannes, France.

Everything is different when you're on holiday. Even the trees become something exotic and deliciously foreign.

Things that make you go "hmm..."

I love that things happen every day that amaze me, tickle me, or just make me feel something. The corny version of this statement is: things that remind me that I am alive.

It can be something as simple as the sight of a yellow blossom resting on a green hedge, a vision that makes me feel joyful, and I smile all the way home. Or the cartoon in the newspaper that makes me nod in recognition...or the article that makes my blood boil and I feel despair at the future of normalcy and common sense.

But, every once in a while something catches hold of me...my interest is piqued, and I go off for hours, maybe days thinking about it or reading more about it or, usually, Googling it.

Movies do that sometimes. I Heart Huckabees did that and the movie I just watched did that: Donnie Darko. What an insane journey! I felt the same kind of befuddlement when reading Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder.

So after watching Donnie Darko, I've spent the afternoon looking for more information to answer all my questions, mainly "What the hell was that about?" I don't consider myself to be a scientist, philosopher or existentialist, yet I feel so excited whenever I am introduced to all of these concepts. I want to know!

The Mighty Boosh

Saturday night we ended up at the Hammersmith Apollo to watch a show that neither of us had heard of. You know how it goes...Friday afternoon the all-office email goes out..."Theatre tickets, friends ditched us last minute...anyone?" We had nothing else to do, so off we went.

It was studentville deluxe. We arrived too late for a beer so, thirsty, we sat looking at a bright red curtain with a face on it, waiting for the show to start. People were taking photographs of it. Photographs of the curtain. Hmm, what were we in for?

All-in it was a blast. Loved every minute of it. Whacky crazy brilliant. If you haven't had a taste of Vince and Howard: see it or throw your eyes in the bin.

Yellow-bellied decoy

When I started this blog, I intended it to be magnanimous in its purpose, noble. I thoroughly romanticised the idea of it. It would be my throw-away comment at parties, and I would coyly divulge the throbbing www dotcom loveliness of My Blog- a nonchalant, yet oh so subtle intimation that this was me. You lucky, lucky thing.

As it turns out, that's not what's happening here. I have not told many people about this here place. I'm not a pretender, what you read is real, but there is so much that I'm not saying, and therein lies the hypocrisy. I think.

You get the sanitised me, and frankly it's constrained. Maybe it's a consequence of the job I do...most likely it's because I'm a coward. I'm much angrier, more pissed off, a whole lot sadder, and much much more acidic of tongue and filthy of mind than I like people to think. Big deal?

Obligated

There must be one word that describes this:

• The feeling of frustration experienced when a family member outstays their welcome in your home, and;
• is ignorant of, or deliberately blind to the effect this has on 1) you 2) him 3) your routine 4) your patience 5) all of the above, and;
• expects a level of hospitality that you would not normally provide in your own household, and finally;
• keeps coming back, because, and this is the kicker, how the hell can you say no? She's your mother!

Any suggestions as to what this word may be are welcome. In honour of your creativity, I shall rename this posting accordingly.

The works

Online shopping has to be at the top of the list of things entirely necessary for a working person. The last thing I want to do on the weekend, is go grocery shopping.

I recently switched delivery services, tired and annoyed of waiting around for two hours, only for the groceries to be not only late but also wrong. Always. I'm now with one who delivers in one hour windows, who is always on time, and never gets an order wrong.

Until today.

Now before you nod knowingly and say, 'had to happen one day', allow me to explain. Was my delivery late? No. Was it wrong? Well, yes and no. Yes, it was wrong. No, it's not a problem. Why? Because I got everything I ordered (except for one tiny thing which I will get to in a minute) and in addition to that, I also got a whole chicken and two packets of organic spaghetti.

What I didn't get was my cotton buds. Now, if called upon - in, I don't know, a predicament that required quick-thinking bartering in a world where money was useless and toiletries were a rare commodity - I would again exchange cotton buds for a whole chicken and a kilogram of spaghetti - organic or not.

Dirty/Fruity?

We all know James Bond's preference - a mix of vodka and gin, shaken, not stirred...but recently I found someone else who is particular about their martinis: me.

About a year ago on a visit to glorious New York I was introduced to an Apple Martini, and not long after, in New Jersey of all places, a Dirty Martini. A joyous experience on the first occasion, an unforgettable one on the second (and not in a good way). Not being a cocktail connoisseur, I have since gambled and ordered martinis in various different places, and not been quite as satisfied as I was at Métrazur's in Grand Central.

Out to dinner recently, a colleague visiting from the US asked the waiter - in an Indian restaurant - what kind of vodka they used in their martinis.

He looked at her strangely and said, "Normal vodka".
"What's normal?" she asked curiously.
"Smirnoff", he replied with certainty.

She opted not to order her martini and after he left the table, turned to me and said, with feeling, "The only normal vodka is Grey Goose...anything else can be considered not normal, got it?!"

And so it dawned on me, it's not if it's dirty or fruity, it's got to be vodka, and it's Grey Goose or bust.

Getting by with little help

Friends. I spend a great deal of time wondering how much effort should be put into rejuvenating flagging friendships. It is true that friends are around for a reason, drifting away when the reason is fulfilled, whatever that reason may be? When you lose touch with a friend, how much time do you spend chasing before it's time to resign yourself to the fact that they may not need you...or want you in their lives? Do we accept that friends come and go...or do we remember why we were friends to begin with and focus on that as a reason to keeping trying to reach out? I wish I knew.

Turn back time

Last weekend we went to the Tate Modern to see what was new. He wanted to see the Embankment installation by Rachel Whiteread. It didn't really move me. I scampered through it dying to go up to my favourite piece by Giuseppe Penone.

Tree of 12 metres. I can't do it justice by describing it, and this picture doesn't do the job very well either. Penone took a man-made timber beam and used a chain-saw to chisel it to reveal 'the tree inside'. The form of the tree is visible, showing the knots of the young branches. He leaves the base of the beam to contrast. It's lovely.

Things to look forward to

It's been pretty busy around here lately. Next week brings another series of hard work and late nights. I have:

• my boss visiting the office for a week (from the US)
• two confirmed office dinners, and probably 3 unconfirmed evenings in the pub
• a company presentation at which I will actually be presenting
• a series of difficult conversations
• an assignment due (I passed my exams by the way)
• ...any other essential tasks as assigned

What, you may ask, is there to look forward to? Cake Friday, is my answer. Double chocolate muffin, you can't beat it. A perfect double chocolately end to the week.

GI Jane

I've been dabbling in the world of red, yellow and green. The GI Diet. After following a 7-day plan from a Sunday-paper supplement ('following' is a very loose description) I've decided to give it a proper go. Went out a bought a book and everything, so now I have to do it. Starting tomorrow.

For an indeterminable period - apparently between 3 and 6 months - I have to live my life in the Green column. My favourite fruit - the underestimated banana - falls into the Yellow column, so there lies an immediate problem. My philosophy has always been: as long as its food from the earth, I can eat as much as I wanted...hmm. I hereby appoint the banana an honorary Green column food. I have to, otherwise there's not much chance of this thing lasting.

My so-called life

I'm a disgrace. For the first time in my life I bought not one, but two tabloid magazines (at the same time) just because they blared my two favourite words on the cover: Chantelle & Preston.

Live the dream. No pressure.

12 steps to serenity

I have spent every night of the past 3 weeks watching Celebrity Big Brother (fondly known as CBB).

It's Saturday night, the first night since CBB came to a glorious end, and I feel...bereft. I've had to go cold turkey, and let me tell you, it's not pretty. Gone are the shrieks of disbelief as Pete lays into Traci. Gone are the moments deciphering what Dennis is saying. And, gone are the butterflies while we wait for Chantelle and Preston to fall in love.

I need a fix! Give it to me! I'm off to scour the news site for more more more.

Baby, I don't care

This week I've felt a bit like Wendy James. Things have appeared very black and white to me. Usually I mess around with the shades of grey and consider things from everyone's angle. Sometimes this results in a non-conclusion, but ultimately everyone is appeased. Maybe I just don't care anymore? Is this the end of my civility?

In the stars?

I've always been happy to entertain all things astrological. Numerology, birth charts, Kabalarian philosophy, horoscopes...

I've never had a reading, or had a chart prepared for me, but from time to time I try out the free ones online to pass the time. You provide your full name (as on your birth certificate, apparently that is super important), your birth date and time, and et voila, your chart appears, albeit a brief one. $14.95 for a full report of 8-10 pages in layman's language. (Hippies have to earn a living too.)

The best one I've seen is, wait for it, 0800-Horoscope.com

Apparently it's going to be a good year for me. That's what I like to hear.

In favour of podiquette

Now that I have one, I feel quite justified in expressing my annoyance at other commuters iPod abuses.

Definition: podiquette noun: 1. unwritten code of acceptable behaviours when using an MP3 device, such as an iPod.

You, yes you, in the pristine unscuffed, unmarked baby-poo-coloured Caterpillar boots, you know who you are. You tapped loudly with both feet with no discernible rhythm (a generous description) all the way along the District line. You looked around you and mouthed obviously to the words, although you only knew a few of them. You jiggled your knees, stood up, walked around, sat down again, all the while trying to get someone to catch your eye. Make it stop.

Unassembled

It's almost time to go back to work and I desperately need to start reassembling my reality. These past weeks I have allowed myself to forget that my reality is a job, responsibility and paying the bills. For me, time off can be dangerous: I begin to think that things can be different. Monday morning comes, and I have to accept that things are not different.

I've not made any resolutions, only wishes. I wish it were easier. Easier to be good; to give my time freely; to put my dreams first; to not so thoroughly enjoy the material world; to have the courage to make a difference in some way, and to take the time to pursue what I love doing instead of getting up and going to work everyday because it means a pay cheque.

I found the best cushion in a little shop in Scotland. It caught my eye more than once, so I bought it. It says: "Snowmen fall from heaven unassembled". Well, it's not only snowmen is it? I think that's why I took it home with me – kindred spirits, me and that little snowman. Ha ha ha.

Happy New Year.

Nostalgia

Spending time with my music collection has taken me back to times past, evoking a curious mixture of emotion.

Today was the first snow of winter. This photo taken from my kitchen window.

Pod person

I'm one of them. After being infinitely proud of not having an iPod - my trusty Sony Discman providing me with the only musical pleasure I thought I needed - it's happened. He Who Plays Warcraft, in the guise of Santa, presented me with an iPod for Christmas. An impossibly small black nano. I'm a convert, I can't wait to make it my own. Merry Christmas.

Irreconcilable differences

Gay marriages, or Civil Partnerships, became legal in England today, and subsequently, Elton John got married.

It got me thinking about divorce rates and I wondered if homosexual divorce rates would increase as rapidly as heterosexual divorce rates. Civil Partnerships are ended by dissolution orders, not divorce, but the result is the same: the end of a legal relationship.

As is my wont, I did a little bit of research on how easy it is to get a quickie divorce. Pretty easy, it seems. For £25.99 you can get a DIY Divorce. For those who are status conscious, the services are available in Platinum, Gold, Silver and Bronze. Why should you use their services? Why, because they've handled 30,000 divorces since 2000. Interested? You can download a Divorce Demo. I kid you not.

Adultery, unreasonable behaviour, desertion - these are a few of the "grounds" you can choose from. I have my very own reason which I cannot seem to find on any of the websites: World Of Warcraft.

Hmm, I might think about petitioning.

Ring-a-Ding Ding

I went to the Savoy Theatre to see The Rat Pack the other night. I know you're thinking they're dead, aren't they? and you're right. Whoever played the parts of Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jnr. did so very well.

Now, I love the theatre, but I prefer a proper musical - like with a storyline. People standing around singing is not usually my thing, but I stuck it out. (One of our party actually said "this is not my thing" and left halfway).

It was surprisingly good. The dialogue was excellent, transcripted from actual shows in Las Vegas. The singing was good too. Unexpectedly, I knew all of the songs.

Watching reruns

Today is the first day of my much deserved holiday. I'll not be back in the office until the New Year. How wonderful that sounds. It won't work out that way of course. There will be emails and phone calls, there always are. I expect them, nay, I welcome them. One can never really turn off. If I did, I think I'd be back at square one, another first day at work.

"I'm sorry, you are...?" I'd say, knowing I recognised the face but not quite being able to place it.
"Huh? Are you nuts, I'm Kelly. Your boss?" My boss would say with a worried look.
"Are you asking me, or are you actually my boss?"
"I'm actually your boss. Remember me? I'm the one who pays you."
"Ah yes, it's coming back to me now."

On my days off, I always watch morning TV. It's rerun heaven. A double bill of Will & Grace (love); yet another double bill of Friends (you can't beat that) and a good solid Frasier. That is what I intend to do every single day of my holiday. My TV morning begins at 8.00am and my real life morning begins at 10.30am. It's going to be FAB.

Born under a wandering star

I have spent a great deal of my life dreaming of, and encouraging, change. In my teens, feeling dissatisfied and restless, I would move the furniture around in my bedroom, at least every two weeks, just to experience the change I seem to constantly crave (no, not al la KD).

When my perpetual wanderlust whispers sweet nothings to me, some days I hear them more clearly than others, and I might go away for a long weekend. It helps, at least until the next bout.

So, when today I started to feel like I need a change, and I was pondering the merits of living in yet another country (I've lived in 3), I wasn't too shaken up. Par for the course, I thought, at this time of year. By this time of year, I mean my birthday. It's a big one, and dammit, it deserves big dreams.

Christiania, Copenhagen

Christiania, also known as Freetown Christiania, is a neighbourhood with its own rules, independent of the Danish government. It's a hippy commune of sorts. Christiania was started in an abandoned army barracks in Copenhagen, Denmark, in 1971. The government has attempted, without success, to remove the squatters, and is not sympathetic to its existence as soft drugs have always been part of the plan. (The main drag is known as Pusher Street).

Although I found the Christiania experience quite disturbing, I had to laugh (and take a photo) when I saw this message. It's really about bending the rules, just a little bit. Like a STOP sign saying PAUSE AND THEN GO.

I just want to buy a melon

I pretty sure I've never had any Malibu, but I adore the TV ads.

There are times when I feel exactly like that: all I want to do is buy a melon and the melon stand owner is either too clueless or too enthusiastic to understand that all I want is a melon.

I love the versatility of that statement. It can apply to so many situations.

SRY PLZ 4GV ME

This is a retraction of sorts. Ref: Savvy?

Having thought more about this issue I have with text messaging, I feel it's necessary to review and update my stance on it. It concerns me more when anyone habitually writes and speaks as if they are using a mobile phone. I heard a story about a woman in someone's office who says LOL instead of laughing. Fucking annoying. I do think that if I don't keep taking handfuls of Valium I could get rather annoyed that no one seems to be too bothered that we have a generation of people who think it's cool to speak and spell poorly. Oh God, I sound so uptight. I'm not really. L8R.