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.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
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’.
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’.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Somebody stop me
Or, How I spent £55 in my lunch hour
1 rushed, badly-done bikini wax, which took 5 minutes, ruined a nice pair of pants, and cost £12.50. Don’t lawyers charge less?
1 pale green racer-back cotton vest, £9
1 hot pink polka dot racer back bra/tank top thing, £10
1 white top with ribbon trim, for a present, £10
Raspberries, blueberries and a yogurt in Tesco, £4
That adds up to £45, true, but I also got a tenner cashback in Tesco, which counts.
Or, How I spent £55 in my lunch hour
1 rushed, badly-done bikini wax, which took 5 minutes, ruined a nice pair of pants, and cost £12.50. Don’t lawyers charge less?
1 pale green racer-back cotton vest, £9
1 hot pink polka dot racer back bra/tank top thing, £10
1 white top with ribbon trim, for a present, £10
Raspberries, blueberries and a yogurt in Tesco, £4
That adds up to £45, true, but I also got a tenner cashback in Tesco, which counts.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
One of the funniest things I saw last night was on the 10 o’ clock news. There was a piece about Iran wanting nuclear power and the reporter was speculating as to why they’d want it, when they already have so much oil and gas. As he was talking, footage of a lorry bearing the words WE WILL TRAMPLE AMERICA BENEATH OUR FEET rumbling down a dusty road was shown. Me and Steve laughed a lot, in a slightly terrified way.
Speaking of terror (a word I can never think of without hearing George W Bush’s pronunciation of it: ‘teer’), I am jumpy these days. Armed police on the streets ain’t helping things. On the bus this morning, as we drove up Whitehall, I looked out of the window to see two police, cradling machine guns, squinting up at the top deck of the bus. At every station there are at least two police in high-visibility jackets, usually carrying guns, scrutinising everyone entering and exiting. I know that the heightened police presence is supposed to reassure Londoners, but it just makes me more scared. I’m not sure why. Maybe because if I didn’t see police every time I stepped outside, the ‘terrorist threat’ wouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind. But I do, and so it is. And also the fact that the Met is taking it so seriously (rightly so), and has clearly stopped bothering trying to hide the gravity of the situation from us, makes me think oh shit this is real. And I should be scared. And OK, the terrorists haven’t ‘won’, in the sense that most people* are still taking the bus and the Tube, but also, on one level, if you count ‘keeping people in a constant state of low-level fear’ as ‘winning’, they have.
* I have spoken to several people, friends and family, who now refuse to travel on public transport, instead walking, taking cabs, or just staying at home.
Speaking of terror (a word I can never think of without hearing George W Bush’s pronunciation of it: ‘teer’), I am jumpy these days. Armed police on the streets ain’t helping things. On the bus this morning, as we drove up Whitehall, I looked out of the window to see two police, cradling machine guns, squinting up at the top deck of the bus. At every station there are at least two police in high-visibility jackets, usually carrying guns, scrutinising everyone entering and exiting. I know that the heightened police presence is supposed to reassure Londoners, but it just makes me more scared. I’m not sure why. Maybe because if I didn’t see police every time I stepped outside, the ‘terrorist threat’ wouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind. But I do, and so it is. And also the fact that the Met is taking it so seriously (rightly so), and has clearly stopped bothering trying to hide the gravity of the situation from us, makes me think oh shit this is real. And I should be scared. And OK, the terrorists haven’t ‘won’, in the sense that most people* are still taking the bus and the Tube, but also, on one level, if you count ‘keeping people in a constant state of low-level fear’ as ‘winning’, they have.
* I have spoken to several people, friends and family, who now refuse to travel on public transport, instead walking, taking cabs, or just staying at home.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Tesco has long annoyed me with its ability to offer crap customer service whilst simultaneously making profits of about £5,000,000 per hour*. Today I went to the Tesco below my work (literally. We’re on the first floor, they’re on the ground floor) to get fruit. I had a coupon for 50 Clubcard points (which, for the benefit of foreign readers, you’d have to spend £50 to earn), redeemable against a punnet of blueberries. So I got my berries (and some pineapple, mmm) and stood in the always-long line. Got to the till and the dude scanned my coupon. Nothing. He tried again, looked at me and said ‘Um, you have to spend £5 to get this.’
Me: No. You don’t have to spend £5. You just have to buy some blueberries. Him: £2.73, please. [Scans coupon, again, nothing. Gives me my change.]
Me: That didn’t work, did it. And you knew, didn’t you.
OK, so it’s not that big a deal. But two things I hate are bad service, and people lying to me.
Do you ever look in your wardrobe and realise that all your clothing looks the same? And that the reason for this is that your clothing is pretty much all the same, or at least many items are a variation on your favourite items? The five styles I buy (and buy, and buy…) season after season, year after year, are:
Knee length, A-line skirts. There’s just something so right about them.
The perfect black T-shirt. I have some which are tight, some which are fitted but loose; plain ones, printed ones. Basically my style idol is Joan Didion in the author pic found on all her books: long bobbed hair, rock ‘n’ roll black tee, sunglasses, cigarette, gazing into the distance.
A good cardigan. I love a nice cardi, whether it’s crochet, v-neck, round neck, polyester or cashmere.
Jeans and denim skirts. Quest for the ideal denim skirt is now reaching mythical proportions, and is into its third year.
Sparkly knitted tank tops/cardigans/jumpers. Something about the combination of any fabric + lurex brings out the Bet Lynch in me.
*Tesco redeemed itself somewhat when yesterday my purchases were rung up by a nice young man whose name badge identified him as ‘Monki’.
Me: No. You don’t have to spend £5. You just have to buy some blueberries. Him: £2.73, please. [Scans coupon, again, nothing. Gives me my change.]
Me: That didn’t work, did it. And you knew, didn’t you.
OK, so it’s not that big a deal. But two things I hate are bad service, and people lying to me.
Do you ever look in your wardrobe and realise that all your clothing looks the same? And that the reason for this is that your clothing is pretty much all the same, or at least many items are a variation on your favourite items? The five styles I buy (and buy, and buy…) season after season, year after year, are:
Knee length, A-line skirts. There’s just something so right about them.
The perfect black T-shirt. I have some which are tight, some which are fitted but loose; plain ones, printed ones. Basically my style idol is Joan Didion in the author pic found on all her books: long bobbed hair, rock ‘n’ roll black tee, sunglasses, cigarette, gazing into the distance.
A good cardigan. I love a nice cardi, whether it’s crochet, v-neck, round neck, polyester or cashmere.
Jeans and denim skirts. Quest for the ideal denim skirt is now reaching mythical proportions, and is into its third year.
Sparkly knitted tank tops/cardigans/jumpers. Something about the combination of any fabric + lurex brings out the Bet Lynch in me.
*Tesco redeemed itself somewhat when yesterday my purchases were rung up by a nice young man whose name badge identified him as ‘Monki’.
Monday, July 25, 2005
There is a guy I work with who drives me fucking nuts. He cannot walk down the corridor to the kitchen without accompanying his journey with an assortment of whistling, doo-da-doo-da-ing, finger clicking and general relentlessly cheery noise. I hate him.
Another bizarre noise heard recently was my niece laughing. She’s nearly four and has, after too much telly, cultivated a crazy guffaw. She unleashed it on the bus, and it goes something like HYUCK HYUCK HYUCK HYUCK HYUCK, very loudly, with each HYUCK enunciated clearly and deliberately. I am all for encouraging children to express themselves and be individuals, but, my dear, there are limits.
The scene of the crime, above
I lost about half a stone on the Bilbao Salmonella Diet, and have put it all back on, now that I have rediscovered the joys of stuffing my face. On Saturday night I made a picnic for me and Steve, but as it was grey and muggy outside and there was a threat of flying ants, we ate indoors. Read the menu and drool.
Thin slices of salty Parma ham wrapped around chunks of melon
A Polish tomato salad, made from ripe vine tomatoes, finely chopped onion, olive oil and black pepper, mixed together in a bowl
Mags’ potato salad, which I adapted to suit my lazy cooking style. New potatoes, finely chopped gherkins, mayonnaise and a little bit of Dijon mustard. If you want to be healthy and/or fancy, use 2/3 mayo and 1/3 natural yoghurt, and add a chopped Golden Delicious apple.
Creamy, pungent Roquefort and crumbly Double Gloucester with caramelised onion, French bread and Hovis crackers
Mini pork and pickle pies. It’s not a picnic without them, as I keep telling my cardiologist
Bottle of crisp, cold white wine
Pudding was vaguely healthy, but actually not at all. I made a variation of Eton Mess, substituting blueberries for strawberries. And as I don’t own a whisk, I used double cream, which you could literally stand a spoon in.
Sunday morning we had tea and shortbread while discussing our mortgage. I realise that sentence manages to make us seem simultaneously bourgeois, twee and adult, but in fact the conversation went something like this.
‘Which one shall we get?’
‘Dunno. What’s the difference between them again?’
‘Dunno.’
Tomorrow is softball night, but I will not be attending this week. I did go to last Tuesday’s game, to sit and watch, and it was freezing, and I had just bought a coat, so I put it on and people made fun of me. The coat was billowy and smock-like (I returned it the next day), and on windswept Primrose Hill I looked like a shivering Pablo Picasso clutching a beer in one hand and trying to keep my bag from blowing away with the other.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Finally, some good news.
I might be living in a new home by September. Or October, as these things often overrun. We’re buying a flat in south-east London (leafy, hilly, nice cafes, restaurants and bars, affordable), a five-minute walk from the station, and a ten-minute train ride to London Bridge. While this makes me very happy, it’s also making me freak out a little bit. Not cos I’m scared of buying a place with my boyfriend when we’ve never lived together (although I am, but only a tiny bit), or because we’ll be in debt for 25 years, but because I get really, really, really attached to where I live. And my current home has, for two years, been a happy batchelorette pad, all mine. So I guess really I’m scared of two things: change, and sharing. Which I actually knew already…
But for our sisters Stateside, some bad.
This sucks. Can I write and object to this appointment, even though I don’t live in the US?
Friday, July 15, 2005
Wow! Finally! I can add pics to my blog and I don't have to download some claiming-to-be-simple-actually-difficult program to do it!
This was taken about two years ago, on Southwold pier. We had a lovely weekend there, and only one major but hilarious bust-up, in the middle of a boating lake, over whose fault it was we were going in circles and running aground. Happy two-and-a-half years anniversary, Steve.
Bean sprouts, avocado, broccoli, cauliflower, mushrooms, capers, salami, cous cous, beans, sugar snap peas, mint, cucumber, walnuts, red onion. Admittedly, those are the ingredients for three salads and not one, but what salads they are… And the quiche! The quiche… Warm, buttery pastry, leek and stilton filling, made that morning. Sadly the two chefs and owners of Kastner & Ovens are women, or I’d be hanging around there in a low-cut top trying to get a date with one of them…
Yesterday I went to the vigil in Trafalgar Sq with a few friends. We expected it to be silent – or low key, at least. Instead it was more of a rally/2012 Olympics showcase. A poet whose name I didn’t catch read some bad poetry, and someone else read some bad poetry too. Mayor Ken’s speech deserved and got applause, and his voice was breaking as he spoke. He is genuine in his love for the city. Trevor MacDonald read a poem by Maya Angelou, which was lovely. But we all felt the vigil might have been better with less talking, more reflection, less mentions of the Olympics.
Yesterday I went to the vigil in Trafalgar Sq with a few friends. We expected it to be silent – or low key, at least. Instead it was more of a rally/2012 Olympics showcase. A poet whose name I didn’t catch read some bad poetry, and someone else read some bad poetry too. Mayor Ken’s speech deserved and got applause, and his voice was breaking as he spoke. He is genuine in his love for the city. Trevor MacDonald read a poem by Maya Angelou, which was lovely. But we all felt the vigil might have been better with less talking, more reflection, less mentions of the Olympics.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Birthday weekend was great, but today I have major birthday come-down. Plus I forgot to brush my teeth this morning, which doesn’t help. Saturday Jean was here so we went to the V V Rouleaux playground fair, which was cute but really expensive. Then we went to the V V Rouleaux shop, where you really can spend £8 on five pieces of ribbon. We met Emerald for lunch and then went home to get ready. My birthday party was great fun, with a good mix of people and three cakes (well, four, if you count a box of Krispy Kremes). Steve bought me two cakes (and a third was hidden in the fridge at home), my sister baked a cake, and Mags provided the donuts. So really that’s five cakes. I’m on salads for the rest of the month.
Biggest surprise (and biggest, heaviest gift) was a sewing machine, a joint gift from Steve and Therese. Everyone I know is getting cushions and/or lavender bags for Christmas/birthdays from now on.
Sunday was a day of birthday surprises and a day of feasting. Brunch in bed listening to the new Sufjan Stevens album, afternoon tea at Liberty (with smoked salmon sandwiches, scone with cream and three types of jam, champagne, a pot of Earl Grey and lemon chiffon cake), and dinner at Inn the Park. When Steve booked the restaurant, which as the name suggests is in the middle of a park (St. James’s, to be exact), he didn’t realise that VJ Day celebrations would be taking place. So we sat on the terrace forking artichokes into our mouths as various regiments marched past. I wanted to wolf whistle the sailors but Steve wouldn’t let me, and when I made a comment about how, let’s be honest, most people join the military cos they want to kill people but don’t want to get in trouble for it, he asked me to keep my voice down. Hah.
Biggest surprise (and biggest, heaviest gift) was a sewing machine, a joint gift from Steve and Therese. Everyone I know is getting cushions and/or lavender bags for Christmas/birthdays from now on.
Sunday was a day of birthday surprises and a day of feasting. Brunch in bed listening to the new Sufjan Stevens album, afternoon tea at Liberty (with smoked salmon sandwiches, scone with cream and three types of jam, champagne, a pot of Earl Grey and lemon chiffon cake), and dinner at Inn the Park. When Steve booked the restaurant, which as the name suggests is in the middle of a park (St. James’s, to be exact), he didn’t realise that VJ Day celebrations would be taking place. So we sat on the terrace forking artichokes into our mouths as various regiments marched past. I wanted to wolf whistle the sailors but Steve wouldn’t let me, and when I made a comment about how, let’s be honest, most people join the military cos they want to kill people but don’t want to get in trouble for it, he asked me to keep my voice down. Hah.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
I wanted to write something about Andy, whose funeral is this afternoon, but everything I have to say sounds weird and silly. Rachel said it well at Pamzine (see the link in the sidebar). I will say that his death – and the accident that caused it – was a horrible shock. He was a popular person, and I saw him at lots of events we both attended: gigs, clubs, book group, fundraisers. He was a passionate, curious, questioning, funny, principled man. The Pamzine ladies summed up exactly how I felt: that the world needs a lot more people like him. He will be very much missed.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Tormentas!
That’s the weather forecast for Bilbao on Monday. Luckily the tormentas! (illustrated by a large grey cloud, fat raindrops and daggers of yellow lightning) should pass by Tuesday, when all should be scorchio! again.
On Friday night I went to see Salt of the Earth, a 1950s film made by blacklisted actors, writers and crew, at UCL. It’s about a miners’ strike in New Mexico, which the women take over and hold the picket line despite being repeatedly gassed and threatened. It’s based on real events, too. And for anyone who thinks (as I did) that feminism died in the 1920s and wasn’t resuscitated until the late 60s, this film comes as a pleasant surprise. The story behind it is fascinating, too: ultra conservatives such as Howard Hughes did everything they could to stop it being made, including banning labs from processing the film. Hence the final cut jumps around a bit, and the colour and sound varies from scene to scene, because the film was processed and edited in bits before being pieced together.
After the screening we wandered the halls of UCL, and took a peek at Jeremy Bentham. I did not know that Mr Bentham still attends all university meetings, despite the fact that he died in 1832. His cadaver, per his instructions, was dissected, embalmed, dressed, and placed in a chair, and to this day resides in a cabinet in a corridor of the main building of University College (from http://www.iep.utm.edu/b/bentham.htm). Sadly Mr Bentham’s chamber does not have glass doors, so we didn’t get a look at him. But just knowing he’s there is scary enough.
We rounded the evening off with fat chips from Rock & Sole Plaice, and teacups of wine at Irene’s flat.
Dr Rachel L, where are you? Have you moved to New Haven yet?
That’s the weather forecast for Bilbao on Monday. Luckily the tormentas! (illustrated by a large grey cloud, fat raindrops and daggers of yellow lightning) should pass by Tuesday, when all should be scorchio! again.
On Friday night I went to see Salt of the Earth, a 1950s film made by blacklisted actors, writers and crew, at UCL. It’s about a miners’ strike in New Mexico, which the women take over and hold the picket line despite being repeatedly gassed and threatened. It’s based on real events, too. And for anyone who thinks (as I did) that feminism died in the 1920s and wasn’t resuscitated until the late 60s, this film comes as a pleasant surprise. The story behind it is fascinating, too: ultra conservatives such as Howard Hughes did everything they could to stop it being made, including banning labs from processing the film. Hence the final cut jumps around a bit, and the colour and sound varies from scene to scene, because the film was processed and edited in bits before being pieced together.
After the screening we wandered the halls of UCL, and took a peek at Jeremy Bentham. I did not know that Mr Bentham still attends all university meetings, despite the fact that he died in 1832. His cadaver, per his instructions, was dissected, embalmed, dressed, and placed in a chair, and to this day resides in a cabinet in a corridor of the main building of University College (from http://www.iep.utm.edu/b/bentham.htm). Sadly Mr Bentham’s chamber does not have glass doors, so we didn’t get a look at him. But just knowing he’s there is scary enough.
We rounded the evening off with fat chips from Rock & Sole Plaice, and teacups of wine at Irene’s flat.
Dr Rachel L, where are you? Have you moved to New Haven yet?
Thursday, June 02, 2005
There’s a guy I work with who has a Dr Hibbert laugh. I mean, really a Dr Hibbert laugh. And he’s an old, big, bearded, upper-class white guy. He looks like Father Christmas, too.
Went to the Imperial War Museum photo archive today, and looked at over 6,000 pictures from WW1. The library assistant wasn’t exactly unhelpful, but she didn’t go out of her way to make my search easier, either. I was looking for something quite specific: a photo of two or three British soldiers, standing, and the pic had to have emotion, dirt, mud. The librarian suggested I start with the ‘civilians’ file, and after flicking through dozens of sepia images of soldiers picking grapes, flirting with local women, and milking cows, I realized I’d be better off looking for blood ‘n’ guts elsewhere – like in the files marked ‘battles’! Still, I came away with about twenty good shots. Hopefully Intense Author (who declared our original – and our revised – cover ‘awful; absolute shit’) will like one of them.
Went to the Imperial War Museum photo archive today, and looked at over 6,000 pictures from WW1. The library assistant wasn’t exactly unhelpful, but she didn’t go out of her way to make my search easier, either. I was looking for something quite specific: a photo of two or three British soldiers, standing, and the pic had to have emotion, dirt, mud. The librarian suggested I start with the ‘civilians’ file, and after flicking through dozens of sepia images of soldiers picking grapes, flirting with local women, and milking cows, I realized I’d be better off looking for blood ‘n’ guts elsewhere – like in the files marked ‘battles’! Still, I came away with about twenty good shots. Hopefully Intense Author (who declared our original – and our revised – cover ‘awful; absolute shit’) will like one of them.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
£100 poorer
Yes. Last night I locked myself out, and two hours and £100 later I was back in. After kicking myself, I tried to look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t raining. At least the locksmith didn’t need to put in a new lock. At least I wasn’t in my underwear.
But then I kept thinking of all the stuff I could have spent £100 on. A flight to Poland, or Seville, or a trip to Bruges. A massage and/or a facial for my 30th birthday. Some new shoes and a dress. Solicitor’s fees and estate agents fees for when (if) we move. Fuck. This is really making me sad.
Yes. Last night I locked myself out, and two hours and £100 later I was back in. After kicking myself, I tried to look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t raining. At least the locksmith didn’t need to put in a new lock. At least I wasn’t in my underwear.
But then I kept thinking of all the stuff I could have spent £100 on. A flight to Poland, or Seville, or a trip to Bruges. A massage and/or a facial for my 30th birthday. Some new shoes and a dress. Solicitor’s fees and estate agents fees for when (if) we move. Fuck. This is really making me sad.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
I can’t afford to eat this well.
On Monday: a brown rice, lentil, roast aubergine salad with a garlic and oil dressing, and a new potato, baby asparagus, red onion and parmesan salad with a creamy hollandaise dip (which is so delicious I could drink it from a mug). And a bar of Green & Black’s organic dark chocolate.
Today: Kastner & Ovens stung me again. £4.15 for a small salad and an apricot and almond* slice.
* which I pronounce Al-mond, like in ‘You can call me Al’, rather than All-mond. Cos I don’t know any better.
Stressy co-worker is annoying me. He overreacts to everything. Lots of swearing. Heavy sighs. Animatedly throwing things around. Head in hands. Opening printer and slamming it shut. Happens every day, so I don’t bother asking what’s wrong. In fact, I really want to tell him to chill the fuck out.
As usual, Wednesday night sees me curled up on the couch watching DH. I was curious to see how the storyline of Gabrielle’s unwanted pregnancy would develop. For those of you who (gasp!) don’t watch, Gaby’s husband, the evil Carlos, has been tampering with her birth control pills. She has told him a number of times that she doesn’t want kids, ever, and has no desire to be a mum. They agreed on this when they married, and she’s perfectly happy with things as they are. So Carlos switches her pills to placebos, and voila, she’s up the duff. I wondered whether the writers and producers would use this opportunity for an abortion storyline. In my fantasy world, Gaby would, after she’d calmed down and stopped screaming at Carlos, decide that she really did not want this kid, and go to her doc, and have a termination. She and the other Housewives would sit around at their weekly poker game discussing her choice and why she made it, and even if they didn’t all agree with her decision, they would all respect it as hers to make.
Somehow I don’t think we’ll see this. Without checking out the upcoming episodes, I predict that Gabby will decide that, even though she admits she and Carlos would make lousy parents, she will have the baby (so far, in DH land, there seem to be no other options at all). Cue funny/cute plotlines about Gabby leaving Baby Solis in the Manolo Blahnik shop, or at the beauty salon, or spending a fortune on designer baby outfits.
Bitch. Ph.D.: Abortion Just read this today and it’s great. Bitch says it a million times better than I ever could.
On Monday: a brown rice, lentil, roast aubergine salad with a garlic and oil dressing, and a new potato, baby asparagus, red onion and parmesan salad with a creamy hollandaise dip (which is so delicious I could drink it from a mug). And a bar of Green & Black’s organic dark chocolate.
Today: Kastner & Ovens stung me again. £4.15 for a small salad and an apricot and almond* slice.
* which I pronounce Al-mond, like in ‘You can call me Al’, rather than All-mond. Cos I don’t know any better.
Stressy co-worker is annoying me. He overreacts to everything. Lots of swearing. Heavy sighs. Animatedly throwing things around. Head in hands. Opening printer and slamming it shut. Happens every day, so I don’t bother asking what’s wrong. In fact, I really want to tell him to chill the fuck out.
As usual, Wednesday night sees me curled up on the couch watching DH. I was curious to see how the storyline of Gabrielle’s unwanted pregnancy would develop. For those of you who (gasp!) don’t watch, Gaby’s husband, the evil Carlos, has been tampering with her birth control pills. She has told him a number of times that she doesn’t want kids, ever, and has no desire to be a mum. They agreed on this when they married, and she’s perfectly happy with things as they are. So Carlos switches her pills to placebos, and voila, she’s up the duff. I wondered whether the writers and producers would use this opportunity for an abortion storyline. In my fantasy world, Gaby would, after she’d calmed down and stopped screaming at Carlos, decide that she really did not want this kid, and go to her doc, and have a termination. She and the other Housewives would sit around at their weekly poker game discussing her choice and why she made it, and even if they didn’t all agree with her decision, they would all respect it as hers to make.
Somehow I don’t think we’ll see this. Without checking out the upcoming episodes, I predict that Gabby will decide that, even though she admits she and Carlos would make lousy parents, she will have the baby (so far, in DH land, there seem to be no other options at all). Cue funny/cute plotlines about Gabby leaving Baby Solis in the Manolo Blahnik shop, or at the beauty salon, or spending a fortune on designer baby outfits.
Bitch. Ph.D.: Abortion Just read this today and it’s great. Bitch says it a million times better than I ever could.
Monday, May 09, 2005
making the day go faster. I am totally hooked on this site . . . there are some real gems!
Very Scary Squaddie Author has emailed me implying that I have lost one of the photos he provided for the picture section of his book. He borrowed it from some tough guy, and, in a roundabout way, said that if the picture was lost there would be trouble for him and therefore for me also. So if I am found enjoying a quiet dip in the Thames wearing concrete boots, it’s not a new fitness regime or a fashion statement. Just so’s you know.
Danced on Saturday night at a highly swanky event. It was the Vintage Fashion Fair in Mayfair, and the sponsor was a classy champagne house, and much sparkly booze was flowing. The venue was done up in retrotastic 1960s style, and the stage we danced on was silver metal, eight foot across, and . . . round. So moving backwards or forwards was risky, and as there were large, low-hanging glass light fittings above the stage, arm movements were restricted. We did OK though. I think they even liked us (although Peaches Geldof, standing by the stage with her equally Nicole Richie-esque teen queen pal, both as blonde, tanned and thin as each other, rolled her eyes at us. I glared at her and she looked shocked. Ha!)
Very Scary Squaddie Author has emailed me implying that I have lost one of the photos he provided for the picture section of his book. He borrowed it from some tough guy, and, in a roundabout way, said that if the picture was lost there would be trouble for him and therefore for me also. So if I am found enjoying a quiet dip in the Thames wearing concrete boots, it’s not a new fitness regime or a fashion statement. Just so’s you know.
Danced on Saturday night at a highly swanky event. It was the Vintage Fashion Fair in Mayfair, and the sponsor was a classy champagne house, and much sparkly booze was flowing. The venue was done up in retrotastic 1960s style, and the stage we danced on was silver metal, eight foot across, and . . . round. So moving backwards or forwards was risky, and as there were large, low-hanging glass light fittings above the stage, arm movements were restricted. We did OK though. I think they even liked us (although Peaches Geldof, standing by the stage with her equally Nicole Richie-esque teen queen pal, both as blonde, tanned and thin as each other, rolled her eyes at us. I glared at her and she looked shocked. Ha!)
Friday, May 06, 2005
Did you vote?
My mum tried to, but couldn’t. She got to the polling station and didn’t have her card with her, and the guy (before even asking whether she was registered) said ‘Only British citizens are allowed to vote.’ My mum said that she was a British citizen, showed him her passport and a utility bill, and said she’d voted before. He said ‘That was probably in local elections. It’s different with a general election.’ My mum explained that she’d lived in England for 33 years, and she had voted in many a general election. But he wouldn’t budge, and said she could vote in the next one. When my mum told me all of this, I was outraged, but she was totally unfazed. I guess if she got upset every time someone made a snide remark, she’d never get a damn thing done. And after 33 years, she’s sadly probably used to it. I’m just glad she doesn’t let the bastards get her down.
Did anyone else hear the very brief news story about a place in south Wales where all the candidates for the election were female, and this incensed a local guy so much that he stood for election? And won? I cannot believe that, after centuries of undoubtedly all-male candidates, the very thought of no men standing for election was so terrifying. And what, precisely, was his campaign built on? The fact that he has a penis, or the fact that he’s a big fucking misogynist? Who voted for this cock face? It’s men like this who drive me up the wall. Men who are so scared of women having just a little bit of power, that they will do anything – anything, even running for office when their only reason for doing so is to prevent a woman from getting in – to stop it.
Freaky local things yesterday
2.30pm, Kennington Road bus stop: man wearing jeans and T-shirt, riding a carthorse (no saddle), slowly heading towards Central London.
6.35pm, further up Kennington Road: walking back from Tesco, I saw a red estate car festooned with red balloons, pumping out Abba’s ‘I have a dream’, with a very embarrassed Kate Hoey in the front passenger seat. As the Hoeymobile cruised through Kennington and Vauxhall, the expressions on people’s faces ranged from horror to incredulity to pissing themselves laughing. However, of all the MPs standing in my constituency, Ms Hoey was the most visible (OK, her office/shopfront thing was around the corner from where I live, sandwiched between an estate agency and Kitsch & Curio, a secondhand store/florist). I didn't see the Lib Dem guy at all (although Champagne Charlie is regularly spied watering his front lawn or shopping in Tesco), and the Tory was pretty much invisible. Which is how I like 'em.
God I am really crabby today. I hate being at work when there is literally nothing for me to do. People keep coming up behind me while I’m searching eBay for kitchen doors, and I want to bat them away…
My mum tried to, but couldn’t. She got to the polling station and didn’t have her card with her, and the guy (before even asking whether she was registered) said ‘Only British citizens are allowed to vote.’ My mum said that she was a British citizen, showed him her passport and a utility bill, and said she’d voted before. He said ‘That was probably in local elections. It’s different with a general election.’ My mum explained that she’d lived in England for 33 years, and she had voted in many a general election. But he wouldn’t budge, and said she could vote in the next one. When my mum told me all of this, I was outraged, but she was totally unfazed. I guess if she got upset every time someone made a snide remark, she’d never get a damn thing done. And after 33 years, she’s sadly probably used to it. I’m just glad she doesn’t let the bastards get her down.
Did anyone else hear the very brief news story about a place in south Wales where all the candidates for the election were female, and this incensed a local guy so much that he stood for election? And won? I cannot believe that, after centuries of undoubtedly all-male candidates, the very thought of no men standing for election was so terrifying. And what, precisely, was his campaign built on? The fact that he has a penis, or the fact that he’s a big fucking misogynist? Who voted for this cock face? It’s men like this who drive me up the wall. Men who are so scared of women having just a little bit of power, that they will do anything – anything, even running for office when their only reason for doing so is to prevent a woman from getting in – to stop it.
Freaky local things yesterday
2.30pm, Kennington Road bus stop: man wearing jeans and T-shirt, riding a carthorse (no saddle), slowly heading towards Central London.
6.35pm, further up Kennington Road: walking back from Tesco, I saw a red estate car festooned with red balloons, pumping out Abba’s ‘I have a dream’, with a very embarrassed Kate Hoey in the front passenger seat. As the Hoeymobile cruised through Kennington and Vauxhall, the expressions on people’s faces ranged from horror to incredulity to pissing themselves laughing. However, of all the MPs standing in my constituency, Ms Hoey was the most visible (OK, her office/shopfront thing was around the corner from where I live, sandwiched between an estate agency and Kitsch & Curio, a secondhand store/florist). I didn't see the Lib Dem guy at all (although Champagne Charlie is regularly spied watering his front lawn or shopping in Tesco), and the Tory was pretty much invisible. Which is how I like 'em.
God I am really crabby today. I hate being at work when there is literally nothing for me to do. People keep coming up behind me while I’m searching eBay for kitchen doors, and I want to bat them away…
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