What a shitty week to be a woman. The papers are full of articles reporting the Amnesty International survey which found that 1/3 of people think that if a woman flirts/dresses provocatively (whatever that means) or is drunk she is at least partially responsible should she be raped. Nice. Maybe it was naïve to think that this attitude died out several decades ago, what with the conviction rate for rape standing at under 6% and police estimates that only 15% of rapes are reported to them. But it’s the tone of the newspaper articles I hate: the headlines all say things like ‘drunk women more likely to be raped’. Why not ‘rapists target drunk women’? Why is the onus on women to behave, to not drink, not flirt, not wear short skirts, in other words, to do everything we can to protect ourselves from it? So unless I go out wearing jeans and a baggy sweater, don’t drink, and don’t make eye contact with a man (could be construed as flirting!), I am asking for trouble. Why is the problem of male violence women’s responsibility and not men’s?

Also making the front page is binge drinking. Despite the statistics showing that men are more likely to binge drink than women, and more men are alcoholics than women, articles about binge drinking are always, and I mean always, illustrated by a group of pretty twentysomethings in strappy tops clutching goblets of chardonnay. Give me a fucking break. This always reminds me of the brilliant and oft-repeated (usually by her) Julie Burchill quote that there are men out there who cannot bear the thought that somewhere, at some time, a woman is having fun and getting away with it.

OK, some happy things now. The lovely Therese and Dan are staying with us for a couple of weeks, and it’s a pleasure to have them here. Not only are they cooking up a Thanksgiving feast tonight, but they’re going to do some DIY too! Yes, they are earning their keep. Last night we went ice-skating at the Natural History Museum (see pics), followed by stuff-your-face Japanese in Catford. I am proud (ashamed?) to say that we got through 20 dishes between the four of us.

I love Polly Toynbee.

Just had soup for lunch. Like so many of the new Covent Garden Soup Co. offerings it was pretty bad. Will I never learn to stick to mushroom or broccoli and stilton? It was citrus chicken and sage, and just tasted like creamy orange drink with bits of chicken in it. I still ate two bowls, despite the chest pains caused by salty badness. I asked my colleague if he wanted some, and told him to get a mug. He came back with a glass, and I don’t know why but watching someone drink a glass of soup is right up there as a Horrible Thing to See.

Catford isn’t famous for much (I think they have a dogtrack and a market), but it is famous for having the best all-you-can-eat Japanese restaurant in London. And it’s no ordinary buffet: the food doesn’t stand there all day, and it’s not MSG-tastic. You go in, sit, and are given a menu of 8 starters, 8 sushi, 8 mains, and 8 specials, and you pick, for the table, 8 items. They’re made to order, so the prawn tempura roll is crispy and the batter is still warm. The gyoza are porky and spicy and fat. You eat it all, then you order another 8 items. Then another, until you a) die b) are asked to leave (rather wisely, the menu states in bold that dining time is 2 hours). All this for £10.90 per person. Last night me and Steve shared 8 dishes and were fit to burst, and the thought that we could have had 8 more was both frightening and exhilarating. We will be back.

Food eaten today
2 slices sunflower bread with cheddar
I Krispy Kreme glazed donut
1 small treacle flapjack
2 bowls chicken soup (see above), 1 slice of bread
Slice of frosted carrot cake

On Monday I got a call at work from the Evening Standard. They asked me if I had any thoughts about ad exec Neil French’s comments about women being crap employees etc. etc. Basically they were asking me to write an angry letter, and the fact they had to ask indicates that women weren’t filling the ES mailbag with furious screeds, but were instead just rolling their eyes and getting on with their lives. I obliged, and they published my letter, and thankfully I wasn’t fired when I got to work the next day. I criticised the publishing industry for the lack of women at the top, despite editorial assistants being 95% female. By the time editors reach the stage where they’re commissioning, somehow 60% are men. By the time employees reach the board of directors, about 90% are male. Where do all the women go? And where do all the men come from? (My ex-boss, a female editorial director, emailed me to say ‘they mostly come from bookshops’. So I never should’ve left Borders after all…)



Last night I went to the House of Lords. I’ve always wanted to see the place, and it is beautiful inside. Really breathtaking. I was there for a talk organised by Abortion Rights UK, with speakers including several Labour MPs, Diane Holland, a trades unions representative; Jo Salmon, Women’s Officer for the NUS; Guardian columnist Zoe Williams and several others, including a woman from NOW. The venue was packed and we moved to a bigger room, which quickly became full and about half those attending had to stand for the full two hours. The meeting had been called to discuss the attempts being made by right-wing politicians to reduce the time limit on abortion, ostensibly to do away with ‘late term’ abortions (which receive a disproportionately high number of column inches despite accounting for 1-2% of all abortions performed). The speakers were inspiring, impassioned and articulate. Zoe Williams spoke about how the media represent abortion: as a tragedy, never as a reasonable option. No one on TV has abortions, unless it’s in a period drama and they go to a backstreet abortionist. No celebrity comes out and admits to having had one, although as 1 in 3 British women have terminated a pregnancy, we all know people who have. She mentioned in passing her own abortion, and a middle-aged Camilla Parker-Bowles doppelganger with pearl earrings spoke up cheerfully: ‘I’m the co-chair of Abortion Rights UK, and I had three abortions before the law came into force.’ There were women (and a few men) in their 60s and 70s, who had fought for the law to be changed in 1967, and defended it in the 1980s when it was under attack, and who expressed sadness to be here again, fighting again, when we shouldn’t have to.

Worldwide, over 80,000 women a year die as a direct result of backstreet abortions.

YUM: Curried parsnip soup.

I caved in, and I bought a pair of skinny jeans. I have bad association with any trouser that tapers at the ankle, as my first pair of jeans (circa 1987) were from Bhs with hems so narrow my mum had to buy a size larger so I could get my foot through. I looked like a turkey in them, and ever since then I, like so many women, have embraced the boot cut. But, feeling all 30 of my years, and dressed like a businesswoman/undertaker (black boot-cut trousers, long black coat, sensible flat shoes), I decided to try the trend all these hip young things (Kara, Kyle, most London gals) are wearing. So I went to Gap. Not the first place you go to for cutting edge design but, dang, they really do have nice stuff. Plus, they boast that their skinny jeans make you drop a dress size as soon as you put them on. So I took a few pairs into the fitting room, along with a pair of city shorts, which made me look like this dude. But the jeans… they were a revelation. Suddenly I saw what all the fuss was about. I looked younger, thinner, I suddenly had a new wardrobe staple to wear with boots (forgive me Father, but I will tuck them in), flats, dressy tops, casual tops. I cackled to myself and I bought them.

I am getting heartily sick of the media circus around men saying dumb things. An ad exec claims that the reason women don’t get to the top in advertising is because they’re crap and don’t deserve to. He then went on to say ‘they all go off and suckle something’. What a prince, eh? Rightly, he lost his job, all the while insisting that he’s not sexist, he’s just telling it like it is. I’m sure the latter is the case: while many men in senior management think women are crap, few of them are stupid enough to say it. What is stupid is that TV and radio latched onto this, with Vanessa Feltz doing a call-in on the subject. That’s right: so, are women really crap? Call in and have your say! Today there’s another furore, this time over Gordon Ramsay’s comment that women can’t cook. Bigmouth Gordon will be sleeping on the couch tonight: his wife, Tana, is Grazia magazine’s cookery writer. Oops. But, once again, women have to drop everything and rush to refute this boring, clichéd, brainless accusation. Why do we bother? Seriously, why? Some of us can cook, some of us can’t. So what? Are the ones who do practice the domestic arts so insecure that they have to speak up when some idiot makes a throwaway comment? What does it matter whether we choose to make dinner from scratch using 23 ingredients, or throw a Chicago Town pizza in the microwave? The argument is so old (for years men have been gloatingly pointing out that all the top chefs are male, while their partner is doing all the grocery shopping and cooking a meal after a day at work), and so stupid, that the more I write about it the more riled I’m getting. OK, enough.

Just spent a couple of house riding the 13 bus, as this is the last day the route will be served by Routemaster buses. There were bus enthusiasts galore lining the route (that’s quite a lot of people – it runs from Aldwych to Golders Green), standing on traffic islands and at junctions, taking photos of the bus, and the bus itself was packed with middle-aged men enjoying the ride. The atmosphere on the bus was cheerful but slightly melancholy, and the men (I saw one woman) taking photos looked sad as the bus passed.

I fucking hate eBay. They are being bastards, and have removed two of my listings, claiming I was using keywords to get interest. I listed a trench coat as 'not Burberry' - so obviously I am not trying to pass it off as a genuine item, although yes, I am hoping that people using Burberry as a keyword will see my coat. What really pisses me off is that their policy is totally inconsistent. Look on eBay.co.uk and search using Marc. The vintage section has over a dozen items with Marc in the title, even though they're not Marc Jacobs. Same with Miu Miu. So why the hell aren't eBay upbraiding those sellers? Am hopping mad. Must go drink.

Links galore!

Not sure if T’s getting my email (either her IT dept or mine seem to have twigged that the content of the dozens of emails flying back and forth each day is not remotely work-related, unless you count bitching about evil bosses). So here’s a list I made for her (and any other non-UK pals who are coming to stay!), listing lots of fun, cheap ways to spend a day.

Train to London Bridge, lunch at Borough Market. Get RV1 bus, which goes past the Tate Modern, London Eye and across Waterloo Bridge to Covent Garden.

A walk in one of the parks: Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park, St James’s Park are all nice, as is Regents Park.

Marylebone High Street! Lovely, pretty shopping street near Selfridges, with nice cafes, a great book shop, lots of swanky clothes/homewares shops. Good place for Xmas gifts.

Dennis Severs House, and the Sir John Soane’s Museum. Follow a visit to the latter with a warming shot of vodka at Na Zdrowie, which is around the corner.

V&A Museum, National Portrait Gallery, National Gallery, and Tate Britain. Good way to spend a few hours on a rainy afternoon.

Geffrye Museum in Bethnal Green, followed by Vietnamese food in one of the many amazing, cheap restaurants on Kingsland Road.

Shopping in East Dulwich, a walk in Dulwich Village (tres posh), and a drink in the really good bar on the main road in East Dulwich, which does great sausage sandwiches and has tons of different beers.

Indian food in Whitechapel, near Ilona & Ewa’s old flat. BYOB, and super cheap.

Girly thing: treatment at the Aveda spa, drinks at Claridge’s, afternoon tea at Liberty.

Fish and chips. Olley’s in Norwood is one of the best in London, or Rock & Sole Plaice in Cov Garden, or Sea Cow in East Dulwich.

Walk the Thames Path! Not the whole thing, but a few miles. Visit Hays Galleria near Tower Bridge.

Greenwich market and the Royal Observatory, lunch in a nice pub.

Cake and coffee at Paul, and a browse in the Office Shoes sale shop down the street.

Photos from the first Crafternoon baking session... We spent about 6 hours shopping, cooking, and drinking Bellinis. And eating all the cakes we made. Next one is at the end of October, at Amy's house, with pumpkin pie and other autumnal baked treats...

Also, jacket potato for lunch = comatose by 3pm.

Managed to see almost my entire UK-based family over the past weekend. Went to big sister’s housewarming/engagement party on Saturday, and little sister was there too. On Sunday half-sister’s kids had a birthday party, and I saw aunt, cousin with his wife and two children, other cousin’s wife with their three kids, and after all that I went to see my mum. Phew. At the birthday party we were discussing my sister’s engagement, and my aunt picked up my left hand, looked sadly at my ring finger, and sighed. I feel that my inability to extract a proposal from Steve is a sign of my failure as a woman. Ah well.

Ten years to the day since the OJ verdict. I heard the verdict in the parking lot of the 7-11 across the street from my flat on Halsted Street in Chicago. As it was early afternoon, I was either on a day off or working a late shift, and was nipping to the 7-11 for lunch (probably a Snickers and giant coffee… my diet sucked when I was 20), when a newspaper truck pulled in and the driver started unloading papers. I couldn’t believe the verdict back then – and the way it divided America. There’s a really good article by Gary Younge here.

Went out to get a winter coat, came back with a polo-neck, long-sleeved, empire line, peacock feather-printed mini dress. It is practical! I can wear it to work, out for swanky do’s, to visit family… plus is looks very 60s so it’ll never go out of style (for me anyway).

Question: if the only cords I own are straight leg/boot cut, and in order to look cool I try to cuff the hems in that 80s fold-and-roll style, will I look like a turkey wearing knickerbockers?
Answer: sadly yes.

More crazy dreams last night. After reading a review of Stephen Malkmus’s solo gig, I dreamed he came to the Actionettes dorm room (sorority house?) where he left his bag before going to the recording studio on the corner (in real life a Tesco Metro). We all pawed through his bag (full of sticks of gum and girly Hello Kitty items, and scraps of paper), and when he returned I seduced him. But when he was getting nekkid I was a bit turned off by his extreme pallor and 26” chest. Plus there was a small dead mouse in the room, which kind of put a damper on things.

Still no news on our new home. It’s taken nearly a whole year to sell my place and buy another one. I never want to move again. Maybe once more, and then I’m staying put.

This needs no words. Except: marrow bodies, garlic (?) ears, and asparagus legs. This lil beaut won a prize at the Lambeth County Fair, and I for one am not surprised.

Picture post today, as I've finally figured out how to email photos from my phone to my computer! But sadly have not figured out how to make it look good on a page...

(Bottom) 30th birthday champagne tea at Liberty...

(Top) and the nervous man picking up the tab... wisely he stuck to a pot of tea.

Last night I dreamed that the police were after me, but I didn’t know why. I was in hiding and told Steve I was going to go turn myself in, but then the search had died down and I figured maybe they’d forgotten. Also, as none of my friends or family members had shopped me, I figured the price on my head wasn’t that high.

A few days ago I work up and Steve was reaching over me to turn off the alarm clock. His hair was tufty and he looked like an owl. We’d been looking at a bird book the previous night, and then the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a looming boyfriend/barn owl.

Been reminiscing about my dire first full-time job in publishing, at Plexus (I can’t be bothered to hide their name. Look, here’s their website, too! http://www.plexusbooks.com/ They were doing Tupac books back when I worked there!). One of my clearest memories of that time – other than sobbing in the toilet and wondering how badly my future career would be damaged if I quit my first job after two months – was of my boss dictating emails to me, which I would write on a note pad, and type later. We only had email on one computer, you see (well it was 2001), and I only had access to it for about an hour a day. I remember asking her ‘Do you want me to pp it?’ Meaning, do you want me to sign your name and write pp next to it, indicating that although you didn’t sign it, you gave me permission to? She, harassed and impatient as always, barked back ‘No, I don’t want you to pp it. There will be no pee-peeing.’

I just thought of it now, cos I was on my way to the loo when my boss intercepted me for a holiday form. My pee-peeing was delayed by a few minutes.

I’m losing a lot of hair, well, enough to notice it. Yesterday I counted how many hairs I lost, and it was over 200. Any advice (causes, cures) will be much appreciated.

Co-worker is picking his nose. And as I sit opposite him, it’s kind of hard not to notice.

Summer holiday

It’s a cliché to say that there’s something magical and timeless about the New Forest, but that’s only because it’s so true. We left London on Thursday morning, frazzled by six weeks of non-stop police sirens and terror alerts, and as the train pulled out of Waterloo and sped through the countryside and we cracked open the picnic, it began to really feel like a holiday.

We alighted at Brockenhurst and walked to the guest house, a large detached building at the end of a gravel drive. It had only two guest rooms: ours was lovely, with mahogany antique furnishings and a giant bed, and curtains printed with kissing parrots. The bathroom was big and our hosts had provided large bottles of shampoo and body lotion, cotton buds, lots of towels and a big bar of soap. So different from all the miniatures you usually get in a B&B. We unpacked all our clothing (to make it feel like we lived there), and went to pick up our bikes. Rather than gangs of hoodie-wearing youths, Brockenhurst has groups of wild ponies hanging around on street corners or loitering by the post box. And like hooded youths, you need to give them a wide berth as they’re unpredictable and can be violent.

We decided to do a 14.5 mile ride, which was a bit optimistic seeing as neither of us had cycled since we were kids. The route was mostly off-road (at our request), and took in dark, dense forests, a pond surrounded by ponies and donkeys having a paddle, and a pub. Standing on a rough path, under a canopy of giant conifers, we could have been in the 11th century, when the forest was founded by William the Conqueror. We stopped and let the silence wash over us, the forest quiet save for the twitter and rustle of its thousands of inhabitants. The ride was free of mishaps, but I did get a bit anxious riding along a winding country lane with trucks overtaking us. As we’d burned off a lot of calories with all that exercise, we went for dinner at the Rose & Crown, a pub with a huge, lush garden, where we ate burgers that appeared to have been deep fried, bun and all, and were all the more delicious for it. Then we went back to the hotel and I fell into a deep, fatty sleep.

Friday we’d reserved a couple of horses, and sloped off to the stables after a fry-up consisting of egg, bacon, sausages, hash brown, tomatoes, beans, mushrooms, and toast, preceded by a big bowl of fruit (for health). We had to borrow coats from the stables, and the barn they were kept in was full of spiders, and a giant rat. We dusted down a couple of cobwebby jackets and mounted our steeds: Freckles (Steve’s fearsome beast) and Pie (my aptly-named mount). Pie was a lazy old thing, requiring a jab with my heels just to stay moving. We walked across heath and went into the forest, and when we trotted S realized why he was the only male on the ten-person ride. Saddle-sore, we waddled off to the Buttery, an olde worlde café, for some lunch: broccoli and stilton soup, and home-made cakes to take back to our room. I don’t know what the Buttery put in those cakes, but I think it was Mogadon. We ate them and the next thing I remember was fuzzily waking up on a drool-covered pillow several hours later, S snoring next to me. He went for a walk to clear his head (and cos he likes to have ‘alone time’ on every holiday we take – I do too, but it usually involves shoe shopping), while I watched a programme about the very lovely Dr Mo Mowlam. I’d arranged to meet Steve at the Rainbow Fish Bar for a spot of dinner, and, for the third time that day, as soon as I set foot outdoors, it started to rain. Luckily he had an umbrella, and I’m sure we provided amusement for tourists and locals alike as we shared a fish supper on a bench, huddled under a National Trust golf umbrella.

On Saturday we took a heritage train (basically an old slam-door train painted dark green) to Lymington, a freakishly quaint town on the Solent, just across the bay from the Isle of Wight. It was market day, so we inched along behind senior citizens before heading off to the harbour and taking the one hour ‘cruise’. I’m still bitter about this (and I think Steve will take his anger to the grave). The ‘cruise’ entailed going to the Isle of Wight, dropping off some passengers, and coming back. We were going to ask for a refund, but on reading the board again it did say that the trip ‘provides good views of the Needles and Hurst Castle in the distance’. It’s only the last three words that count: the Needles and the castle were specks on the horizon. And I would argue that the views were not ‘good’. Disgruntled, we cheered ourselves with sandwiches made with fresh crab, and a Cornish pasty we nearly came to blows over (it wasn’t even nice – Steve just gets really, really mad when I take giant bites).

In the afternoon we saw Steve’s family, and went for a walk in the forest before getting a lift to Lyndhurst to look at St Michael and All Angels, after which we had one of the worst, slowest meals I’ve ever eaten. Did you know bruschetta and a pizza takes an hour and a half to make?

On our last day we hired bikes again, this time following the ‘Tall Trees and Deer’ route, and taking a picnic. We did indeed see deer, and used Steve’s new binoculars to watch some buzzards and spy on other cyclists. Again, no major accidents, except for when, after a pint of bitter shandy, I veered into a ditch and got horseshit on my jeans. We stopped in a field and lunched on quiche, crisps, a sausage roll, raspberries, cereal bars and ginger beer. It was a lovely holiday; I only wish we’d been there for a week.

Sometimes I really like my job

This afternoon we had a shandy taste-test to decide which beverage the Victorians would have drunk, as shandy will be served at Thursday's launch of a book about Brunel. Lager + ginger beer or ale + ginger beer? The ale one was much nicer.

Also, one of my colleagues has become something of a tea connoisseur, and I now get to sample all his teas.

I realise there’s nothing more boring than strangers’ dreams, but this one was so bizarre I had to share. I dreamed I had a baby. The newborn had the face (and shoulder-length hair) of my niece, Sabrina. But it was the size of a hamster and about as active, running over my hands and sitting up unaided. Also, in the dream I felt fine about an hour after giving birth (think I also rang Steve after the baby’d popped out, and he was going to try and drop by later to see us), and went to Starbucks with the baby. While glugging my latte it struck me that I hadn’t read any parenting books, and had absolutely no idea how to look after my little bundle of joy.

Also, in the dream Therese and Anna Wintour were in a swimming race in a lake. And no, I didn’t get to find out who won.

The giant Chinese restaurant near Lambeth North station is pulling out all the stops in a bid to get people to eat there. A sign boasting ‘All you can eat, £12.99’ has the subtitle ‘126 DISHES!’ and ‘children under 5 feet, £4.99’.