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