Yesterday I found the holy grail: a shop selling boots which fit my legs. Every winter I go through the same thing: trawling the high street, cramming myself into boots that zip up to the ankle and no further… it’s demoralising and depressing. But at Wow Retro (yeah, I know) the shelves are lined with eighties boots, the sort of boot I love and that you can buy nowhere: wide, buckety calf (sadly I think they’re supposed to slouch and bag around the ankle: mine cling like limpets), softly rounded but pointy toe, chunky 1.5”-2” heel. And they’re all under £45. I realise they were most likely bought in charity shops for a fiver, but as a working lady sadly I do not have the time to search every Oxfam in southern England. But the Fatted Calf (TM Steve) on Mercer Street has the perfect boots.
Last night I dreamed Jeff Buckley came over to my house to do a gig. The sleeping mind cares not that Buckley Jr. is dead, only that he is hott. In the dream Jeff wasn’t very impressed that the show I’d booked for him was taking place in my living room and would be watched by under a dozen people.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Monday, September 20, 2004
First day of my new job, and it’s pretty scary! I walked to work though, which took under half an hour, and although I nearly got blown off Waterloo Bridge and arrived looking like Little Richard, at least I get my daily exercise. I entered the building and told the security guards I was starting work today. One asked ‘How long for?’ While his interest in my long-term career plans was touching, the question came as quite a surprise. ‘A year or two?’ I replied. ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you were a temp.’ Great. Note to self: wear power suit tomorrow.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Clothing dilemmas
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Clothing dilemmas
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Still trying to find vaguely professional garments that don’t make me look like a counter clerk at Barclays’ bank. Over the years I have learned that short, curvy women do not look good in trouser suits. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that short women do not look good in trouser suits, full stop. We either look like little boys or circus dwarves. I have never in all my shopping years come across a trouser suit that makes me look good and feel good: any place that does a ‘petites’ range seems to think that women under 5’ 5" just don’t give a shit about what they wear and are so damn grateful for clothing that does not drag on the ground when they walk that they will gladly buy 100% polyester trousers which give you thrush as soon as you put them on and produce enough static to see you home on a dark night.
Guilty of this are Topshop and Dorothy Perkins: Topshop petites section consists of the aforementioned poly trousers, invariably black and boot-cut, boring cotton tops, and one style of jeans. Meanwhile, taller gals get to run riot with fifteen styles of jean and a salmagundi of fashionable slacks. It’s enough to make you consider having that surgery where they break your legs, insert something to make them longer, then put them back together and you’re taller (and possibly crippled) afterwards. Sigh.
Monday, September 06, 2004
Fab snippets overheard (and donated… thank you, Kyle)
‘Every single one of my friends who’s said that has got pregnant within a year!’ (Said what, for the love of God?! I don’t want to accidentally say ‘it’!)
‘Ever since I started taking the hormones, I’ve been randy as a man!’ (Ageing dowager at the Chelsea Arts Club)
‘The best thing about working with blind people was that you could do this [Rik Mayall-esque v-signs and face-pulling] to their faces and they didn’t know.’ (I’m sure this wasn’t ‘the best thing’, but it would certainly be pretty funny.)
ARGOS YOU FUCKING SUCK. My closest branch of Argos, in their pikey wisdom, have decide that rather than have any catalogues a person can, you know, take away with them, and peruse at their leisure, ideally with a cup of tea, while lounging on a sofa and watching rubbish telly with one eye, it would be far better to laminate every available catalogue and chain it to a podium. Well no thank you, Argos. I did want to buy a dust buster-type thingy, but now I’ll take my business elsewhere. (Robert Dyas, probably. So there.)
In other news, I narrowly avoided giving myself a hernia changing the water cooler bottle. There was no one around to ask for help, so I weighed things up: undoing the work of my osteopath Vs dehydration-induced headache? The need to drink won out.
Great thing of the day: Therese sent me a birthday package! It is full of vintage 70s pillow cases and beautiful vintage Diane von Furstenberg scarves, sun dresses and Carmex, fashion magazines, a milk frother, a beautiful diamante choker/necklace, triple-choc Kit Kats, a polka dot blouse and other delights… Wish I could hibernate for a week!
‘Every single one of my friends who’s said that has got pregnant within a year!’ (Said what, for the love of God?! I don’t want to accidentally say ‘it’!)
‘Ever since I started taking the hormones, I’ve been randy as a man!’ (Ageing dowager at the Chelsea Arts Club)
‘The best thing about working with blind people was that you could do this [Rik Mayall-esque v-signs and face-pulling] to their faces and they didn’t know.’ (I’m sure this wasn’t ‘the best thing’, but it would certainly be pretty funny.)
ARGOS YOU FUCKING SUCK. My closest branch of Argos, in their pikey wisdom, have decide that rather than have any catalogues a person can, you know, take away with them, and peruse at their leisure, ideally with a cup of tea, while lounging on a sofa and watching rubbish telly with one eye, it would be far better to laminate every available catalogue and chain it to a podium. Well no thank you, Argos. I did want to buy a dust buster-type thingy, but now I’ll take my business elsewhere. (Robert Dyas, probably. So there.)
In other news, I narrowly avoided giving myself a hernia changing the water cooler bottle. There was no one around to ask for help, so I weighed things up: undoing the work of my osteopath Vs dehydration-induced headache? The need to drink won out.
Great thing of the day: Therese sent me a birthday package! It is full of vintage 70s pillow cases and beautiful vintage Diane von Furstenberg scarves, sun dresses and Carmex, fashion magazines, a milk frother, a beautiful diamante choker/necklace, triple-choc Kit Kats, a polka dot blouse and other delights… Wish I could hibernate for a week!
Thursday, September 02, 2004
I am working on a book which contains the words ‘after a final bout of defecation…’. Someone please kill me.
An honest idiot
Today I found £40 in the street. There were two people walking ahead of me, but as the man had crossed the road and was walking away, I followed the woman. At this point I will add that I was not thinking: had I been thinking I would not have offered a total stranger money which was BLATANTLY not hers. I am a fucking idiot. She took the money, and was very pleased to see it (yeah, cos it was like a little gift!), and as soon as the words ‘Did you just drop some money?’ left my mouth I knew I’d got the wrong person, and the money was the man’s, and not hers. She hesitated, and smiled, and said, ‘Yes, I think I may have.’ Right then I should have said ‘Maybe I dropped it’ and run away, but no, I am an idiot so I handed over £40 which I could have used to help the people of Sudan/pay off some of my credit card/buy clothing/get groceries.
Am so mad at myself. And it’s dumb, because I haven’t lost any money. But I feel worse: feel like I’ve found money, and then given it to a total stranger. Like I said, fucking idiot. I’m already kicking myself, but feel free to wait your turn. Ach.
And all that jizz about karma isn't making me feel any better, let me tell you.
An honest idiot
Today I found £40 in the street. There were two people walking ahead of me, but as the man had crossed the road and was walking away, I followed the woman. At this point I will add that I was not thinking: had I been thinking I would not have offered a total stranger money which was BLATANTLY not hers. I am a fucking idiot. She took the money, and was very pleased to see it (yeah, cos it was like a little gift!), and as soon as the words ‘Did you just drop some money?’ left my mouth I knew I’d got the wrong person, and the money was the man’s, and not hers. She hesitated, and smiled, and said, ‘Yes, I think I may have.’ Right then I should have said ‘Maybe I dropped it’ and run away, but no, I am an idiot so I handed over £40 which I could have used to help the people of Sudan/pay off some of my credit card/buy clothing/get groceries.
Am so mad at myself. And it’s dumb, because I haven’t lost any money. But I feel worse: feel like I’ve found money, and then given it to a total stranger. Like I said, fucking idiot. I’m already kicking myself, but feel free to wait your turn. Ach.
And all that jizz about karma isn't making me feel any better, let me tell you.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
Some of our readers are incarcerated
Today at work we got a postcard from a guest at the South Bay Correctional Facility. Woo hoo!
Weekend was ok. Spent nearly two days working, which was not fun, and about one day drinking in the afternoon, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and baking bread, which was. Made rosemary and garlic focaccia, and as the main ingredient was a 56p packet of bread mix, I am a convert to home baking. It was cheap and tasty, and full of garlicky goodness! Went to a jumble sale with Tim on Monday, and even though we got there before it opened, there was a queue of about 60 people already waiting to get in! Ruddy vultures. I couldn’t get near the clothing tables. And when I did I regretted it… soiled children’s knickerbockers; old, threadbare trousers and unidentifiable rags seemed to be in the majority.
Seeing as I have a swanky new job and am now a proper career woman, it may be time to start dressing like one. So I went to H&M today and bought a pair of brown cords, a maroon 70s jumper, and a pale blue knitted hat. Hey, it’s a start: today I am wearing jeans, old Converse and a blue T-shirt. Am being mistaken for the work experience kid again.
Today at work we got a postcard from a guest at the South Bay Correctional Facility. Woo hoo!
Weekend was ok. Spent nearly two days working, which was not fun, and about one day drinking in the afternoon, watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and baking bread, which was. Made rosemary and garlic focaccia, and as the main ingredient was a 56p packet of bread mix, I am a convert to home baking. It was cheap and tasty, and full of garlicky goodness! Went to a jumble sale with Tim on Monday, and even though we got there before it opened, there was a queue of about 60 people already waiting to get in! Ruddy vultures. I couldn’t get near the clothing tables. And when I did I regretted it… soiled children’s knickerbockers; old, threadbare trousers and unidentifiable rags seemed to be in the majority.
Seeing as I have a swanky new job and am now a proper career woman, it may be time to start dressing like one. So I went to H&M today and bought a pair of brown cords, a maroon 70s jumper, and a pale blue knitted hat. Hey, it’s a start: today I am wearing jeans, old Converse and a blue T-shirt. Am being mistaken for the work experience kid again.
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Anyone seen Ny/Lon, the groovy transatlantic romance Channel 4 has been trailing like mad for the past few weeks? I haven’t: the ads were enough to turn me off. Why do TV execs persist in making programmes where the hero, who presumably all the ladies are supposed to fancy, is so damn ugly? Posh, smug, crickly-eyed and with stupid hair: just because most men who work in TV look like this, doesn’t mean it’s attractive. Miles Davenport is the poster boy for this look, although thankfully he does not appear. The woman in the show (the ‘Ny’ half of the duo) is equally annoying, coming across as one-dimensional and prissy: twice in the trailer we hear her whining about ‘not being a crazy person’ and not doing ‘impulsive things’. Presumably sleeping with Americans is a crazy thing; I won’t comment on that one.
Other stuff: my sister is still being detained in Tel Aviv after flying to Israel two weeks ago. It’s a pretty complex case (her basic argument is that as a journalist she has a right to report the truth as she sees it. Israel’s argument is that she’s a left-wing activist and biased, and now they’re saying that she may ‘accidentally get involved with Palestinian terrorists’. Um, ok. Here’s an article on the case.
So that’s taking up most of my attention span today, and I can’t concentrate on anything else. I called the detention centre where Ewa’s being held, and wasn’t allowed to speak to her.
Other stuff: my sister is still being detained in Tel Aviv after flying to Israel two weeks ago. It’s a pretty complex case (her basic argument is that as a journalist she has a right to report the truth as she sees it. Israel’s argument is that she’s a left-wing activist and biased, and now they’re saying that she may ‘accidentally get involved with Palestinian terrorists’. Um, ok. Here’s an article on the case.
So that’s taking up most of my attention span today, and I can’t concentrate on anything else. I called the detention centre where Ewa’s being held, and wasn’t allowed to speak to her.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Yesterday was an odd mix of tearful trauma and free wine. In the morning I paid a visit to the British School of Osteopathy for back-crackin’ thrills. I’d read that a visit to the O requires stripping (at 10am! Really!), but when getting ready that morning I hadn’t taken the time to really think about this. So my legs were hairy, everywhere else was, as usual, hairy, and I was wearing bad mismatched underwear. Also, thank you God, I had my period. I had requested a female med student, as the last time any guy except Steve saw me in my pants was in 2002. But there were TWO students, one male and one female, and there was fluorescent strip lighting and there was me, with sock indentations on my ankles. Not only was I made to strip, I was made to bend and stretch. The only funny part was when I bent over to touch my toes and, as if on cue, a bus on Borough High Street exhaled noisily. Har. Then I had to lie on a couch and a doctor came in and prodded me and felt my neck and then got me in a headlock and my neck made loud cracking noises. Call me strange, but I believe the neck is one of those body parts that should be seen and not heard. Silent neck = good neck. Loud, cracking neck = crying and pain. I am going back next week, but have requested they hold off the wrestling moves and just use massage instead.
But the evening made everything better. Went to the launch/exhibition to accompany this book, and there were nice people (and some silly hipsters) and free booze, and a very wonderful vintage store next door having a huge sale. Gorgeous 40s dresses were marked down from £40 to a tenner, but sadly I am not built for fitted clothing: compared to 40s ladies I am tube-shaped. I always thought I had a waist; apparently I was wrong. Anyway, this didn’t stop me from spending twenty minutes rubbing my sweaty face over the dresses as I tried in vain to pull them over my head.
But the evening made everything better. Went to the launch/exhibition to accompany this book, and there were nice people (and some silly hipsters) and free booze, and a very wonderful vintage store next door having a huge sale. Gorgeous 40s dresses were marked down from £40 to a tenner, but sadly I am not built for fitted clothing: compared to 40s ladies I am tube-shaped. I always thought I had a waist; apparently I was wrong. Anyway, this didn’t stop me from spending twenty minutes rubbing my sweaty face over the dresses as I tried in vain to pull them over my head.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Things I am loving today
The film Charade, for Audrey Hepburn’s outfits, the many red herrings, and Paris in the sixties
Watching the above film on Sunday afternoon while eating chocolate tart and raspberries and drinking red wine
The amazing CD Rachel made me, with dozens of tracks that would be perfect for the Actionettes to dance to
My new shoes from Office. Brown, flat, slightly 1930s, and very comfy. Tempted to buy three more pairs
Property websites. Just found a great one for south-east London
Things I am hating today
The bike courier who missed me by a centimetre (yes, I was a foot off the curb, but the bastard swerved towards me) and the white-van driver who called me a ‘stupid cow’ cos I hesitated five seconds before crossing the street. I’m sure all the people lazily watching the event were surprised to hear the words FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! Coming from the mouth of a demure-looking lady wearing pearls and a 50s skirt. Or maybe they are used to it, in Covent Garden. Sadly I am used to idiot drivers trying to kill me every day.
Star spotting in SE11!
Steve was out in the world over the weekend while I was lolling about at home feeling crook, and he saw loads of celebs! Rachel Stevens in Tesco! Laughing with two girlfriends and wearing lots of makeup! Apparently she is very thin in real life, but Steve neglected to peer into her basket and see what she was buying.
Also! Charles Kennedy, leader of the Lib Dems, watering his front garden, which happens to be attached to one of the vast Georgian houses around the corner from me! Wow.
The film Charade, for Audrey Hepburn’s outfits, the many red herrings, and Paris in the sixties
Watching the above film on Sunday afternoon while eating chocolate tart and raspberries and drinking red wine
The amazing CD Rachel made me, with dozens of tracks that would be perfect for the Actionettes to dance to
My new shoes from Office. Brown, flat, slightly 1930s, and very comfy. Tempted to buy three more pairs
Property websites. Just found a great one for south-east London
Things I am hating today
The bike courier who missed me by a centimetre (yes, I was a foot off the curb, but the bastard swerved towards me) and the white-van driver who called me a ‘stupid cow’ cos I hesitated five seconds before crossing the street. I’m sure all the people lazily watching the event were surprised to hear the words FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!! Coming from the mouth of a demure-looking lady wearing pearls and a 50s skirt. Or maybe they are used to it, in Covent Garden. Sadly I am used to idiot drivers trying to kill me every day.
Star spotting in SE11!
Steve was out in the world over the weekend while I was lolling about at home feeling crook, and he saw loads of celebs! Rachel Stevens in Tesco! Laughing with two girlfriends and wearing lots of makeup! Apparently she is very thin in real life, but Steve neglected to peer into her basket and see what she was buying.
Also! Charles Kennedy, leader of the Lib Dems, watering his front garden, which happens to be attached to one of the vast Georgian houses around the corner from me! Wow.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Wednesday night was a glittering evening of sparkles, diamante-studded velvet booths, and mini-burgers. Heaven! The Actionettes had been asked to dance at a party for this amazing lady. Barbara Ruskin had some success in the 60s, and her early records are apparently now changing hands for $100. She’s just released a new CD, and the party was, I think, a celebration of that. All her friends and family were there, and it was an honour to be invited to dance. We were supposed to be a surprise, but the jig was up when we arrived to rehearse only to find that Ms Ruskin was there too, tuning her guitar and soundchecking! She was very surprised to see us, though, and when her daughter explained who we were and why we were there, she seemed very happy. The high point of the evening was performing a dance to one of her songs, while she sang it. And there was free booze for all (a good thing, as beers cost £4, wine £4.50 and a double spirit and mixer was a whopping £10), and mini-burgers, roasted vegetable wraps, and chips in tiny newspaper cones. I had borrowed a dress from the very chic Miss Roulette, and although it fit when I put it on, after a few hastily scoffed canapés and a couple of glasses of wine I was having trouble breathing. These fifties frocks may look good but they don’t give an inch…
Friday morning I was dozing in bed when I turned my head to the right and heard a crunchy, grinding noise. It was the sound of a muscle in my neck doing something it wasn’t supposed to, and it hurt a lot, and I couldn’t move my head at all. Steve called NHS Direct and gave me paracetamol and coffee and breakfast. I hobbled around the house with my head tilted at a coy angle, because to hold it in any other position was either impossible or agonisingly painful. We both called in sick to work, and Steve went to the doctor with me. I was told to take lots of ibuprofen and not move around too much. Doc said it had probably been on the cards for a while, and now that I’m at work again I can see that the way I sit at my desk may have something to do with it.
Although I had to cancel all Friday plans, I didn’t want to cry off Saturday night dinner and cocktails chez moi with K and A. There was food. There were Kir Royales. There was a liqueur I bought in Bruges called De Klok, and it was drunk. I had a very nice night, despite having a panic attack early in the evening when I realised that K&A thought I was having a cocktail party with lots of guests, instead of a dinner thing with just them.
Some good news
I have a new job, with a swanky managerial-sounding title, more money, and more challenging work. Bad news is that, because my boss helped me get the job, she thinks that I owe her and is making my last month a living hell of menial, non-work-related, tasks. And I can’t complain. I guess we do what we have to in our efforts to claw our way up the career ladder. Now where did I put that vacuum cleaner?
Friday morning I was dozing in bed when I turned my head to the right and heard a crunchy, grinding noise. It was the sound of a muscle in my neck doing something it wasn’t supposed to, and it hurt a lot, and I couldn’t move my head at all. Steve called NHS Direct and gave me paracetamol and coffee and breakfast. I hobbled around the house with my head tilted at a coy angle, because to hold it in any other position was either impossible or agonisingly painful. We both called in sick to work, and Steve went to the doctor with me. I was told to take lots of ibuprofen and not move around too much. Doc said it had probably been on the cards for a while, and now that I’m at work again I can see that the way I sit at my desk may have something to do with it.
Although I had to cancel all Friday plans, I didn’t want to cry off Saturday night dinner and cocktails chez moi with K and A. There was food. There were Kir Royales. There was a liqueur I bought in Bruges called De Klok, and it was drunk. I had a very nice night, despite having a panic attack early in the evening when I realised that K&A thought I was having a cocktail party with lots of guests, instead of a dinner thing with just them.
Some good news
I have a new job, with a swanky managerial-sounding title, more money, and more challenging work. Bad news is that, because my boss helped me get the job, she thinks that I owe her and is making my last month a living hell of menial, non-work-related, tasks. And I can’t complain. I guess we do what we have to in our efforts to claw our way up the career ladder. Now where did I put that vacuum cleaner?
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
There are about two weeks of the year when my job is so unbelievably dull and slow that it’s all I can do not to call in sick. If I wanted to sleep all day, I’d rather do it in my bed.
Today I have: looked on eBay a lot; read magazines; popped out for fruit yet mysteriously returned with half a Mars ice-cream bar in my hand and caramel smeared on my face. The only stressy part of my day was when a set of page proofs appeared on my desk from out of nowhere* and I had to scrabble around writing letters and filling out bike courier request forms. Now it is slack time again.
Yesterday I had a lovely evening out for only £2! True. Went to the secret sushi place (don’t even ask where it is, I am never telling you, ever, it’s my secret!) and got 10 pieces of tuna roll for £2. Sat in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then tried to find the Old Curiosity Shop, but couldn’t. We ended up on Kingsway and as we approached Bush House we heard Indian music (what sort? Couldn’t tell you. A guy hitting bongos fast, some sort of jingly music). There were dancers in the courtyard, dancing in the fountains (which were on), and not very many people had showed up to watch them, but it was very lovely. As I was walking home I happened to notice that every homeless person in Lambeth was out stumbling around, asking for change for a cup of crack tea, or arguing with a fellow homeless person in the street. The hoodlums in my neighbourhood were enjoying the mellow weather, too: I took a different route to avoid two arguing hobos, only to happen upon three adolescent boys (one about 11 years old, riding bike, one wearing basketball vest, foot-high afro, one wearing hood even though it was 85 degrees). As I passed them I overheard the kid on the bike saying ‘Yeah, well, that kid owes me money. I need to get the money back.’ What? Who owes you money, Mr 11-year-old? Your mum’s late with your allowance? I thought it was quite funny that someone whose voice hadn’t yet broken had debtors already.
*from the production dept, who gave me a month’s notice on the proofs’ arrival
Today I have: looked on eBay a lot; read magazines; popped out for fruit yet mysteriously returned with half a Mars ice-cream bar in my hand and caramel smeared on my face. The only stressy part of my day was when a set of page proofs appeared on my desk from out of nowhere* and I had to scrabble around writing letters and filling out bike courier request forms. Now it is slack time again.
Yesterday I had a lovely evening out for only £2! True. Went to the secret sushi place (don’t even ask where it is, I am never telling you, ever, it’s my secret!) and got 10 pieces of tuna roll for £2. Sat in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then tried to find the Old Curiosity Shop, but couldn’t. We ended up on Kingsway and as we approached Bush House we heard Indian music (what sort? Couldn’t tell you. A guy hitting bongos fast, some sort of jingly music). There were dancers in the courtyard, dancing in the fountains (which were on), and not very many people had showed up to watch them, but it was very lovely. As I was walking home I happened to notice that every homeless person in Lambeth was out stumbling around, asking for change for a cup of crack tea, or arguing with a fellow homeless person in the street. The hoodlums in my neighbourhood were enjoying the mellow weather, too: I took a different route to avoid two arguing hobos, only to happen upon three adolescent boys (one about 11 years old, riding bike, one wearing basketball vest, foot-high afro, one wearing hood even though it was 85 degrees). As I passed them I overheard the kid on the bike saying ‘Yeah, well, that kid owes me money. I need to get the money back.’ What? Who owes you money, Mr 11-year-old? Your mum’s late with your allowance? I thought it was quite funny that someone whose voice hadn’t yet broken had debtors already.
*from the production dept, who gave me a month’s notice on the proofs’ arrival
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Work is pretty slow today. I have things I could do (write rejection letters, do some filing, tidy my desk), but I don’t feel like doing any of them.
Last night we had a rehearsal for the summer club, but at the moment we’re not sure if it’s even going ahead, as the Water Rats double booked us (even though we booked in 2003…). They’re not even acting like they’ve done anything wrong, either.
Nothing really to say, so here are some links:
The symbol of Poland now has it’s own website! Send someone a bison e-card today.
http://www.zubry.com/ has all you need to know about our shaggy pals.
I am looking forward to my trip to Poland, as I want to explore the primeval forest (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) and view the wolves, deer, birds and, yes, bison.
Last night we had a rehearsal for the summer club, but at the moment we’re not sure if it’s even going ahead, as the Water Rats double booked us (even though we booked in 2003…). They’re not even acting like they’ve done anything wrong, either.
Nothing really to say, so here are some links:
The symbol of Poland now has it’s own website! Send someone a bison e-card today.
http://www.zubry.com/ has all you need to know about our shaggy pals.
I am looking forward to my trip to Poland, as I want to explore the primeval forest (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) and view the wolves, deer, birds and, yes, bison.
Monday, August 09, 2004
This was actually written on Friday, but Blogger has been playing up...
It’s still hotter than hell. Last night I could not face cooking, so dinner was a salad and water. Then a cold shower, and hiding in my bedroom, the only part of my flat where the temperature was under 30 degrees. There was no breeze, and as my bedroom window only opens four inches, it was pretty grotty. BUT great news is that I got a letter from Tesco and a £10 voucher! The letter acknowledged my trauma at finding a dingleberry in my quiche, and my blood ran cold (which made a nice change that evening) at the sentence ‘We could not identify the item, so we have sent it to our laboratory for testing.’ Eeeeeeerrrk.
Thanks to Therese for this great article. Germaine Greer isn’t my favourite polemicist, but she makes some interesting points about the Catholic church’s refusal to see women as anything other than wives and mothers, or potential wives and mothers.
Tonight I am looking forward to lots of food and various vodka-based cocktails at a Polish colleague’s house. Apparently she is a great cook (every Christmas she invites her department round for a giant traditional Christmas feed), so I am bringing gifts: a bottle of Zubrowka and an empty stomach.
It’s still hotter than hell. Last night I could not face cooking, so dinner was a salad and water. Then a cold shower, and hiding in my bedroom, the only part of my flat where the temperature was under 30 degrees. There was no breeze, and as my bedroom window only opens four inches, it was pretty grotty. BUT great news is that I got a letter from Tesco and a £10 voucher! The letter acknowledged my trauma at finding a dingleberry in my quiche, and my blood ran cold (which made a nice change that evening) at the sentence ‘We could not identify the item, so we have sent it to our laboratory for testing.’ Eeeeeeerrrk.
Thanks to Therese for this great article. Germaine Greer isn’t my favourite polemicist, but she makes some interesting points about the Catholic church’s refusal to see women as anything other than wives and mothers, or potential wives and mothers.
Tonight I am looking forward to lots of food and various vodka-based cocktails at a Polish colleague’s house. Apparently she is a great cook (every Christmas she invites her department round for a giant traditional Christmas feed), so I am bringing gifts: a bottle of Zubrowka and an empty stomach.
Friday, August 06, 2004
It’s still hotter than hell. Last night I could not face cooking, so dinner was a salad and water. Then a cold shower, and hiding in my bedroom, the only part of my flat where the temperature was under 30 degrees. There was no breeze, and as my bedroom window only opens four inches, it was pretty grotty. BUT great news is that I got a letter from Tesco and a £10 voucher! The letter acknowledged my trauma at finding a dingleberry in my quiche, and my blood ran cold (which made a nice change that evening) at the sentence ‘We could not identify the item, so we have sent it to our laboratory for testing.’ Eeeeeeerrrk.
Thanks to Therese for this great article. Germaine Greer isn’t my favourite polemicist, but she makes some interesting points about the Catholic church’s refusal to see women as anything other than wives and mothers, or potential wives and mothers.
Tonight I am looking forward to lots of food and various vodka-based cocktails at a Polish colleague’s house. Apparently she is a great cook (every Christmas she invites her department round for a giant traditional Christmas feed), so I am bringing gifts: a bottle of Zubrowka and an empty stomach.
Thanks to Therese for this great article. Germaine Greer isn’t my favourite polemicist, but she makes some interesting points about the Catholic church’s refusal to see women as anything other than wives and mothers, or potential wives and mothers.
Tonight I am looking forward to lots of food and various vodka-based cocktails at a Polish colleague’s house. Apparently she is a great cook (every Christmas she invites her department round for a giant traditional Christmas feed), so I am bringing gifts: a bottle of Zubrowka and an empty stomach.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
I wrote the entry below last week but have been too lazy/busy (pick one) to post it until now. Also, today I am oversalted: just ate loads of taramasalata and now heart is beating a bit funny and feel like I need to run around the block a few times to calm myself.
Reasons I don’t want to stay over at Steve’s (sorry my love)
Shower has only three settings: freezing, icy cold; hot enough to brew coffee; off.
Bathroom is home to all manner of weird, tropical creatures: centimetre-long flying ants and large black moths.
More moths have set up housekeeping in the kitchen (we think that’s their real home, and they venture to the bathroom every night for a wash, and that’s where we find them and KILL THEM! Ahahahahaha.)
It’s just too damn far away, compared to my place.
OK now here’s the really old post…
More surreality:
Walking down Shelton Street past a building site and hearing a builder singing ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’.
Going to Cybercandy, the shop which boasts of stocking sweets from all over the world, and seeing Twinkies on sale for £1.46. FOR ONE.
Toda I am so tired I feel like crying. Feel dizzy, haggard, and cannot form a coherent sentence. Last night I was out late again, working on the door of a friend’s club night. It was pretty busy, but it reminded me too much of the crappy jobs I took when I was 21, and not in a good way. I am glad that I don’t have to work with the public any more, and I am glad I have a job where I can use my brain. And I am especially glad my day job doesn’t involve being harassed by evil homeless guys who yell at me, and as there is no bouncer and the club is downstairs behind a closed door no one can come to my aid, and I can’t go anywhere cos I can’t leave the door unattended, so I just have to sit there and pray they leave. I finished at about 11.30 and went to Tesco for a few groceries. Got in at 12 and ate, set up my new Britta water filter (set to become a family heirloom. I love it), and then lay in bed reading this, the best book in the world. Well, truly, anything by Cynthia Heimel is the best book in the world, as she is a goddess. If President Kerry (fingers crossed) is looking for an advisor on women, he should look no further than Ms Heimel.
Reasons I don’t want to stay over at Steve’s (sorry my love)
Shower has only three settings: freezing, icy cold; hot enough to brew coffee; off.
Bathroom is home to all manner of weird, tropical creatures: centimetre-long flying ants and large black moths.
More moths have set up housekeeping in the kitchen (we think that’s their real home, and they venture to the bathroom every night for a wash, and that’s where we find them and KILL THEM! Ahahahahaha.)
It’s just too damn far away, compared to my place.
OK now here’s the really old post…
More surreality:
Walking down Shelton Street past a building site and hearing a builder singing ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’.
Going to Cybercandy, the shop which boasts of stocking sweets from all over the world, and seeing Twinkies on sale for £1.46. FOR ONE.
Toda I am so tired I feel like crying. Feel dizzy, haggard, and cannot form a coherent sentence. Last night I was out late again, working on the door of a friend’s club night. It was pretty busy, but it reminded me too much of the crappy jobs I took when I was 21, and not in a good way. I am glad that I don’t have to work with the public any more, and I am glad I have a job where I can use my brain. And I am especially glad my day job doesn’t involve being harassed by evil homeless guys who yell at me, and as there is no bouncer and the club is downstairs behind a closed door no one can come to my aid, and I can’t go anywhere cos I can’t leave the door unattended, so I just have to sit there and pray they leave. I finished at about 11.30 and went to Tesco for a few groceries. Got in at 12 and ate, set up my new Britta water filter (set to become a family heirloom. I love it), and then lay in bed reading this, the best book in the world. Well, truly, anything by Cynthia Heimel is the best book in the world, as she is a goddess. If President Kerry (fingers crossed) is looking for an advisor on women, he should look no further than Ms Heimel.
Monday, July 26, 2004
IT'S THE 100TH POST! HANG OUT THE BUNTING!
Not sure how to commemorate this momentus occasion, if at all... Um, I am at my desk, and it smells like old bananas. Because there is an old banana skin in the bin. It's been annoying me all day, but not enough to actually do something about it.
So once more I am flirting with the idea of going freelance. In weighing up the pros and cons I have discovered some things about my character: namely that I like routine. I like having plans for the day, and having nothing to do fills me with dread. I wonder if working from home would just be an opportunity to go slowly mad… My main worries are actually to do with things like tax, claiming expenses (i.e. phone calls to clients, water rates (for some reason when I am at home I need to wee about every half hour), electricity etc.), and late payment. I know from working with freelancers that it doesn’t matter if I take their invoice to accounts as soon as I get it; they may still get paid over a month later. And as someone who has no savings but does have huge debts, the thought of not being able to pay my mortgage fills me with horror. And keeps me working for The Man! If anyone can offer me advice about the realities of freelancing, I would be most grateful.
Speaking of going slowly mad, I really thought I had entered an alternate universe on Saturday afternoon, in the Kennington branch of my beloved Tesco. I was searching for meringues with which to make strawberry and meringue ice-cream, but where to look for them? They’re not a cake, and not a biscuit or snack: after a brief search I asked a member of staff. He looked at me blankly ‘What? What’s that? [describe basic structure and appearance of a meringue] Nah, never heard of it. Wait, I’ll ask him.’ [Goes to ask other member of staff, who looks at me like I am a pervert, and similarly has never heard of a meringue, and has no concept of what it might be.] I try explaining what a meringue is to a third member of staff, thinking it may jog his memory. ‘You know, it’s a dessert made of sugar and egg whites.’ ‘A cake?’ ‘No, not a cake. A… thing.’ He goes to ask his manager (who probably has a red button with a direct line to the police station under her desk for precisely these sorts of queries) and comes back saying that they might possibly be past the jams. We go to look. Past the jams are sugar and baking ingredients. I give up, and I make the ice-cream with just strawberries, and it’s still delicious.
On Emerald’s recommendation, I just went to see this at the National Portrait Gallery, and it was fab. One of the highlights was a short film of Penelope Chatwode floating across a river in the Himalayas on an inflated buffalo (I think) skin. Wow.
Great songs I am listening to at work!
Eggs – The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players
I’m On Nights – Richard Hawley
The District Sleeps Alone – The Postal Service
And many other fine songs from the Rough Trade best of 2003 compilation (CD1; haven’t listened to CD2 yet).
Not sure how to commemorate this momentus occasion, if at all... Um, I am at my desk, and it smells like old bananas. Because there is an old banana skin in the bin. It's been annoying me all day, but not enough to actually do something about it.
So once more I am flirting with the idea of going freelance. In weighing up the pros and cons I have discovered some things about my character: namely that I like routine. I like having plans for the day, and having nothing to do fills me with dread. I wonder if working from home would just be an opportunity to go slowly mad… My main worries are actually to do with things like tax, claiming expenses (i.e. phone calls to clients, water rates (for some reason when I am at home I need to wee about every half hour), electricity etc.), and late payment. I know from working with freelancers that it doesn’t matter if I take their invoice to accounts as soon as I get it; they may still get paid over a month later. And as someone who has no savings but does have huge debts, the thought of not being able to pay my mortgage fills me with horror. And keeps me working for The Man! If anyone can offer me advice about the realities of freelancing, I would be most grateful.
Speaking of going slowly mad, I really thought I had entered an alternate universe on Saturday afternoon, in the Kennington branch of my beloved Tesco. I was searching for meringues with which to make strawberry and meringue ice-cream, but where to look for them? They’re not a cake, and not a biscuit or snack: after a brief search I asked a member of staff. He looked at me blankly ‘What? What’s that? [describe basic structure and appearance of a meringue] Nah, never heard of it. Wait, I’ll ask him.’ [Goes to ask other member of staff, who looks at me like I am a pervert, and similarly has never heard of a meringue, and has no concept of what it might be.] I try explaining what a meringue is to a third member of staff, thinking it may jog his memory. ‘You know, it’s a dessert made of sugar and egg whites.’ ‘A cake?’ ‘No, not a cake. A… thing.’ He goes to ask his manager (who probably has a red button with a direct line to the police station under her desk for precisely these sorts of queries) and comes back saying that they might possibly be past the jams. We go to look. Past the jams are sugar and baking ingredients. I give up, and I make the ice-cream with just strawberries, and it’s still delicious.
On Emerald’s recommendation, I just went to see this at the National Portrait Gallery, and it was fab. One of the highlights was a short film of Penelope Chatwode floating across a river in the Himalayas on an inflated buffalo (I think) skin. Wow.
Great songs I am listening to at work!
Eggs – The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players
I’m On Nights – Richard Hawley
The District Sleeps Alone – The Postal Service
And many other fine songs from the Rough Trade best of 2003 compilation (CD1; haven’t listened to CD2 yet).
Friday, July 23, 2004
Dear Sir or Madam,
I have been a Tesco customer for many years, and now shop almost exclusively with you, as Tesco is my nearest supermarket. But yesterday I was horrified to find the enclosed item in my salmon and broccoli quiche. I’m not sure what it is, but am fairly certain that it wasn’t supposed to be in food. I also enclose the receipt. I would, at the very least, like a refund on this item.
This is the letter I sent to Tesco after finding what looked like a small dread of sweater fluff in my dinner last night… it was so nasty I couldn’t eat the rest of the quiche, so dinner consisted of a tomato, some strawberries and a handful of crisps.
Plans for the weekend: Sunday is Routemaster 50, a celebration of the king of buses, in Finsbury Park. RMs are a dying breed, and by 2007 they will have disappeared entirely from London’s streets, with the exception of a ‘heritage route’, presumably for tourists/saddoes like me.
Wednesday night Steve, Tim, Andy, Xaun and I went to see the Schla La Las and Holly Golightly at the Windmill, an initially somewhat terrifying estate pub in Brixton. It was ok, but I felt the best thing about the Schla La Las was their matching dresses and red handbags… I liked what they were doing, but I just didn’t think they were doing it very well… After about three of Holly’s songs we left, for a variety of reasons: 1) to escape Holly’s caterwauling 2) the fashion victims next to us (very thin, wearing lots of layers of chiffon/lace/sequins/oilskin/bacofoil, standing pigeon-toed in 80s shoes) were beginning to piss me off and 3) thought I was going to brain the guy who had parked his six-foot frame in front of me to take pictures of Holly. As I am 5 "4 on a good day, I am sure my head wouldn’t have found it’s way into the viewfinder if he had stood behind me. But I guess you and I know that chivalry, etiquette and plain good manners are long dead on the gig circuit.
This weather makes me want to sit in a beer garden. Sadly my local boozers (the Dog & Handgun, the Knife & Throat and the Ferret & Crackpipe) don’t really have any nice outside space. One has a sort-of beer garden (few wooden picnic tables on Kennington Road) where at least I can watch the 159s sail past in all their curvaceous majesty.
I have been a Tesco customer for many years, and now shop almost exclusively with you, as Tesco is my nearest supermarket. But yesterday I was horrified to find the enclosed item in my salmon and broccoli quiche. I’m not sure what it is, but am fairly certain that it wasn’t supposed to be in food. I also enclose the receipt. I would, at the very least, like a refund on this item.
This is the letter I sent to Tesco after finding what looked like a small dread of sweater fluff in my dinner last night… it was so nasty I couldn’t eat the rest of the quiche, so dinner consisted of a tomato, some strawberries and a handful of crisps.
Plans for the weekend: Sunday is Routemaster 50, a celebration of the king of buses, in Finsbury Park. RMs are a dying breed, and by 2007 they will have disappeared entirely from London’s streets, with the exception of a ‘heritage route’, presumably for tourists/saddoes like me.
Wednesday night Steve, Tim, Andy, Xaun and I went to see the Schla La Las and Holly Golightly at the Windmill, an initially somewhat terrifying estate pub in Brixton. It was ok, but I felt the best thing about the Schla La Las was their matching dresses and red handbags… I liked what they were doing, but I just didn’t think they were doing it very well… After about three of Holly’s songs we left, for a variety of reasons: 1) to escape Holly’s caterwauling 2) the fashion victims next to us (very thin, wearing lots of layers of chiffon/lace/sequins/oilskin/bacofoil, standing pigeon-toed in 80s shoes) were beginning to piss me off and 3) thought I was going to brain the guy who had parked his six-foot frame in front of me to take pictures of Holly. As I am 5 "4 on a good day, I am sure my head wouldn’t have found it’s way into the viewfinder if he had stood behind me. But I guess you and I know that chivalry, etiquette and plain good manners are long dead on the gig circuit.
This weather makes me want to sit in a beer garden. Sadly my local boozers (the Dog & Handgun, the Knife & Throat and the Ferret & Crackpipe) don’t really have any nice outside space. One has a sort-of beer garden (few wooden picnic tables on Kennington Road) where at least I can watch the 159s sail past in all their curvaceous majesty.
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
What I did on my sabbatical
By Ilona Jasiewicz, aged 29
By Ilona Jasiewicz, aged 29
Paddled in the sea at Broadstairs and visited Bleak House
Had a champagne, cherries and salade nicoise birthday picnic in Green Park
Went to the Science museum to see a great exhibition about domestic machines: if 1950s TV ads for refrigerators and washing machines are your thing, you ought to check it out
Went to the Museum of London to see the 1920s exhibition: predictions for the future were particularly funny and inaccurate
Ate gin and tonic jellies which had frozen bubbles in them and made me very drunk very quickly
Visited Bruges where I took a boat ride and ate fondue
Explored the extraordinary shell grotto in a scuzzy part of Margate
Went to Dreamland to ride the only roller coaster to be grade II listed, but it was closed
Went to Ladyfest Birmingham with the Actionettes on my birthday!
Yesterday was an odd day. Three good things and three bad things. Good: free bus ride to work (sat on the top deck and pretended to be asleep. Works every time.); very nice falafel for lunch; discovered fab frozen yoghurt place near work. Bad: caught the heel of my shoe in a hole in middle of a street I was crossing: stepped out of my shoe and realised I’d left it behind, and had to retrieve it. If there had been any cars I would have been hit. Also bad: a pigeon in Covent Garden Piazza swooped low over my head and brushed my hair with its foul claws and wings. I shrieked. Worst of all: while making dinner I dropped an 8" kitchen knife point-first on my bare toe. Lots of blood and faintness ensued, until cold water and a plaster were administered, and I lay on the couch all night while Steve made dinner, washed up, brought me drinks etc. etc.
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