Enough of the home improvements Mr Irving Coleridge...
One of the wonderful things about life is the way wildly disparate bits of it can suddenly join up together in ways you could never have dreamed of.
Last Sunday I was indulging my gardening side with two of my very favourite planty friends. Consulting the National Gardens Scheme guide, we decided to visit the National Collection of day lilies, which lives somewhere near Bicester.
It was a bit of a disappointment, frankly, as even flowers as lovely as day lilies need a decent setting, and this lot were basically in a small field. So we left pretty fast, though I did manage to pick up some Crocosmias to replace the ones that S dug up and threw away on her only gardening venture. And these ones are brighter and more beautiful.
Crocosmia delight aside, it felt like a big voyage in the baking heat for not much reward, so we decided to drop in to an open garden in Kidlington on the way home.
And what a fine decision it turned out to be: we entered through an unpreposessing garage to find ourselves in quite the most incredible garden imaginable. It was a shrine to ferns.
We had tea and cake in the conservatory and then wandered down gravel paths through what was basically a shady woodland in the heart of suburbia. The shade came from old trees and pergolas covered in ivy and clematis, and there were ferns everywhere, some tiny and delicate and some huge and imposing. It was incredible.
There were other plants as well, hostas and fuchsias and other lovely things, and every corner seemed to have a surprise in it.
We sighed collectively and made to leave back through the garage, stopping to look at the little ferns for sale.
And there in litre pots were lovely looking specimens of Polystichum Setiferum Plumosum "Bevis" -- a previously rare fern which has recently become more widely available.
And I thought to myself ... the Bevis Frond!
The Bevis Frond is Nick Saloman, described (quite accurately I think) on a fan site as a neo-psychedelic renaissance man.
His songs are a combination of swirling psychedelic guitars and sharp, bittersweet lyrics that can make grown women cry really quite easily. His earlier albums were a large part of the soundtrack to my early 20s, as my Significant Ex was one of his biggest fans, but he has cropped up in several places since, and there are still times when only a Bevis Frond track will do.
From his songs I have found out what fan vaulting is, and sphagnum, and a triptych, and the phrase "gentle, sensitive, loving man" (used wryly) has passed into my lexicon. Breaking down on the Westway also had a whole new resonance.
But in all these years I never knew what a Bevis Frond was. And now I do. And one day, when I have excavated the shady corner of my garden, I shall grow some.
joella
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Thursday, July 17, 2003
The politics of dirt
'Who cleans your house?' asked the Guardian last Saturday. A woman who lives there, a man who lives there, or a cleaner?
I had a friend once whose boyfriend's idea of cleaning the toilet was pissing through the Harpic block. Resorting to a Harpic block in the first place must have been a sign of desperation -- surely it's like having urinal cakes in your house? The same man would cut and butter bread and then leave the whole shebang -- bread, butter, buttery knife -- out on the side for his girlfriend to clear up after him. Which she did, presumably when she'd finished cleaning the toilet.
My own mother (who lives with a man who wouldn't know a bottle of bleach from a hole in the ground) bought me a dishwasher when I first moved in with my Significant Ex. If you're going to live with a man, dear, she said, you're going to need one of these. And she was pretty much right: while it is true that he did take his turn cleaning the bathroom, it is also true that the time elapsed between turns did come to stretch the boundaries of acceptable hygiene, and it is perhaps truest of all that as soon as I moved out he hired a cleaner.
To be fair, he did want to hire a cleaner *before* I moved out: I am no domestic goddess, and the place was pretty dirty. But I wasn't having any of it.
And I'm still not.
This seems to be an increasingly unfashionable line to take -- my higher income friends are happily paying people to come into their homes to clean the dirt off their floors, take their hair out of the plughole and get all the 'difficult stains' off the cooker.
On the surface of it, this would seem to be a sensible way to resolve domestic strife of both the cohabiting and housesharing variety, while at the same time clearing precious non-working hours for activities more pleasurable than wiping piss off the toilet bowl (and environs, if there are men in the house).
But it's not for me. I clean up my own shit, and I expect those who live with me to do the same. It's not that I enjoy it, because mostly I don't -- occasionally it is satisfying, when very premenstrual it is cathartic, but on the whole it is something I do when necessary in order not to feel like a slut.
And I find the thought of paying someone else to do it quite fundamentally wrong.
It's taken me ages to write this post, which is a usually an indication that it's an issue I am not clear about -- sometimes I only find clarity by doing the writing itself. But that's not the case here -- I am very clear about the issue, it's just hard to express why.
Barbara Ehrenreich's article covered some of it: the low pay, bad conditions (lack of paid holiday, sick pay etc) and zero prospects of the average cleaner, the discomfort of the employer : employee relationship in one's own home in an area that is essentially unskilled. Paying someone to do something you could easily do yourself is different from paying someone to carry out a specialised piece of maintenance or repair. It's saying 'my time is too valuable to waste it doing this'.
But there's something else as well, and I think I finally got it when I read the letters about the article in this week's Guardian. Someone wrote that she defended her insistence that the family clean the house together rather than hiring a cleaner with the argument that cleaning up after yourself is part of what it means to be fully human. I buy that.
joella
'Who cleans your house?' asked the Guardian last Saturday. A woman who lives there, a man who lives there, or a cleaner?
I had a friend once whose boyfriend's idea of cleaning the toilet was pissing through the Harpic block. Resorting to a Harpic block in the first place must have been a sign of desperation -- surely it's like having urinal cakes in your house? The same man would cut and butter bread and then leave the whole shebang -- bread, butter, buttery knife -- out on the side for his girlfriend to clear up after him. Which she did, presumably when she'd finished cleaning the toilet.
My own mother (who lives with a man who wouldn't know a bottle of bleach from a hole in the ground) bought me a dishwasher when I first moved in with my Significant Ex. If you're going to live with a man, dear, she said, you're going to need one of these. And she was pretty much right: while it is true that he did take his turn cleaning the bathroom, it is also true that the time elapsed between turns did come to stretch the boundaries of acceptable hygiene, and it is perhaps truest of all that as soon as I moved out he hired a cleaner.
To be fair, he did want to hire a cleaner *before* I moved out: I am no domestic goddess, and the place was pretty dirty. But I wasn't having any of it.
And I'm still not.
This seems to be an increasingly unfashionable line to take -- my higher income friends are happily paying people to come into their homes to clean the dirt off their floors, take their hair out of the plughole and get all the 'difficult stains' off the cooker.
On the surface of it, this would seem to be a sensible way to resolve domestic strife of both the cohabiting and housesharing variety, while at the same time clearing precious non-working hours for activities more pleasurable than wiping piss off the toilet bowl (and environs, if there are men in the house).
But it's not for me. I clean up my own shit, and I expect those who live with me to do the same. It's not that I enjoy it, because mostly I don't -- occasionally it is satisfying, when very premenstrual it is cathartic, but on the whole it is something I do when necessary in order not to feel like a slut.
And I find the thought of paying someone else to do it quite fundamentally wrong.
It's taken me ages to write this post, which is a usually an indication that it's an issue I am not clear about -- sometimes I only find clarity by doing the writing itself. But that's not the case here -- I am very clear about the issue, it's just hard to express why.
Barbara Ehrenreich's article covered some of it: the low pay, bad conditions (lack of paid holiday, sick pay etc) and zero prospects of the average cleaner, the discomfort of the employer : employee relationship in one's own home in an area that is essentially unskilled. Paying someone to do something you could easily do yourself is different from paying someone to carry out a specialised piece of maintenance or repair. It's saying 'my time is too valuable to waste it doing this'.
But there's something else as well, and I think I finally got it when I read the letters about the article in this week's Guardian. Someone wrote that she defended her insistence that the family clean the house together rather than hiring a cleaner with the argument that cleaning up after yourself is part of what it means to be fully human. I buy that.
joella
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
CatholicShopper.com
A divine website if ever there was one.
And Ricardo has just emailed to let me know that the Inspirational Jesus Tennis Statue is currently half price! News worth sharing.
joella
A divine website if ever there was one.
And Ricardo has just emailed to let me know that the Inspirational Jesus Tennis Statue is currently half price! News worth sharing.
joella
Monday, July 14, 2003
On my bike / Beetle in my salad
Miles and I went out for dinner last night. He managed to wear his Turkish flag T-shirt into the Euphrates, a restaurant offering Greek and Kurdish specialities, but they were polite enough not to chuck us out. And the food was great.
Over dinner we discussed our expanding girths, consequences of a mutual love of cooking (and of course eating) combined with the side effects of giving up smoking (more eating) and general laziness.
And a plan was hatched, a sort of yet to be named sub-brand of Year of Living Healthily, consisting of three months of doing more exercise and better meal planning. Three months is a good length of time -- it's long enough to see the difference of any initiative while being short enough to feel achievable on the legs bums tums classes / no crisps for tea type front.
And so it was that I cycled to work this morning, without even angling for a lift. And went swimming at lunchtime. And then had a salad.
Or some of a salad. I bought my salad from the Co-op instead of M&S, on the grounds that the former is an organisation far more worthy of support. But when I was about two thirds of the way through I looked down to see a dead beetle on my plate. And that was it for me and that bag of mixed leaves I'm afraid.
I do slightly crave a cheese sandwich, which has none of these complications. But overall I am fairly optimistic.
joella
Miles and I went out for dinner last night. He managed to wear his Turkish flag T-shirt into the Euphrates, a restaurant offering Greek and Kurdish specialities, but they were polite enough not to chuck us out. And the food was great.
Over dinner we discussed our expanding girths, consequences of a mutual love of cooking (and of course eating) combined with the side effects of giving up smoking (more eating) and general laziness.
And a plan was hatched, a sort of yet to be named sub-brand of Year of Living Healthily, consisting of three months of doing more exercise and better meal planning. Three months is a good length of time -- it's long enough to see the difference of any initiative while being short enough to feel achievable on the legs bums tums classes / no crisps for tea type front.
And so it was that I cycled to work this morning, without even angling for a lift. And went swimming at lunchtime. And then had a salad.
Or some of a salad. I bought my salad from the Co-op instead of M&S, on the grounds that the former is an organisation far more worthy of support. But when I was about two thirds of the way through I looked down to see a dead beetle on my plate. And that was it for me and that bag of mixed leaves I'm afraid.
I do slightly crave a cheese sandwich, which has none of these complications. But overall I am fairly optimistic.
joella
Thursday, July 10, 2003
Too. Damn. Hot. But there's cherries.
Yes, yes, I know we all complain whatever the weather, but it really is too hot.
Countries where it is this hot a lot have sensible ways of coping with it, like big stone buildings or air conditioning. My office has a fan, and frankly it's not enough, especially as there is a bank of servers and a photocopier just outside the door blasting out heat which the fan then pushes in my direction.
We are all barefoot and wearing our floatiest clothes (and that's just the boys). There's nothing else we can do. What if it gets hotter? Our health and safety guidelines have a minimum temperature below which we cannot be compelled to work, but no maximum temperature above which we cannot be compelled to work. We will die in here.
The only consolation is Rainier cherries from the greengrocer's across the road. They are delicate and temperamental, and only in season for about a month -- and it's now. They are pale yellow with pink splatters and as big as conkers. They taste like heaven.
The only thing with cherries is the stones. I want to fill my whole mouth with them, to experience ultimate cherriness, but it's treacherous on the teeth.
So I have just invested in a cherry stoner (I knew they existed, it was just a matter of getting it together to find one) -- I just hope it arrives before the season finishes.
joella
Yes, yes, I know we all complain whatever the weather, but it really is too hot.
Countries where it is this hot a lot have sensible ways of coping with it, like big stone buildings or air conditioning. My office has a fan, and frankly it's not enough, especially as there is a bank of servers and a photocopier just outside the door blasting out heat which the fan then pushes in my direction.
We are all barefoot and wearing our floatiest clothes (and that's just the boys). There's nothing else we can do. What if it gets hotter? Our health and safety guidelines have a minimum temperature below which we cannot be compelled to work, but no maximum temperature above which we cannot be compelled to work. We will die in here.
The only consolation is Rainier cherries from the greengrocer's across the road. They are delicate and temperamental, and only in season for about a month -- and it's now. They are pale yellow with pink splatters and as big as conkers. They taste like heaven.
The only thing with cherries is the stones. I want to fill my whole mouth with them, to experience ultimate cherriness, but it's treacherous on the teeth.
So I have just invested in a cherry stoner (I knew they existed, it was just a matter of getting it together to find one) -- I just hope it arrives before the season finishes.
joella
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Gay bishop
I have never been a member of the Church of England and can't see that I ever will be, but I do have some regard for its status as part of the Establishment, and I do think it has often been a force for good. The Church can get into places that most of civil society can't, rightly or wrongly, and it can (and does) speak out for moderation, and tolerance in situations where the voices of the powerless are seldom heard.
But of course it is also hidebound in many ways, as organised religions tend to be... and so I rejoiced unto the heavens when it was announced that Dr Jeffrey John, who is openly gay if avowedly celibate, was to be the next Bishop of Reading. How refreshing for an ancient institution to be able to focus on someone's ability to do the job rather than who they fuck or don't fuck (or indeed what sex they are -- though I suspect a woman bishop is a way off yet).
But of course he ended up stepping down, as his ability to do the job was fundamentally compromised by an outpouring of vitriolic homophobia across middle England and beyond, with Nigeria threatening to sever ties with the C of E if the appointment went ahead.
They should have let them, frankly. And everyone else should just deal with it, or convert to Catholicism or something. There's plenty of space for bigots in the world, but if the country's church can't be a broad one, it can't claim to represent the people.
joella
I have never been a member of the Church of England and can't see that I ever will be, but I do have some regard for its status as part of the Establishment, and I do think it has often been a force for good. The Church can get into places that most of civil society can't, rightly or wrongly, and it can (and does) speak out for moderation, and tolerance in situations where the voices of the powerless are seldom heard.
But of course it is also hidebound in many ways, as organised religions tend to be... and so I rejoiced unto the heavens when it was announced that Dr Jeffrey John, who is openly gay if avowedly celibate, was to be the next Bishop of Reading. How refreshing for an ancient institution to be able to focus on someone's ability to do the job rather than who they fuck or don't fuck (or indeed what sex they are -- though I suspect a woman bishop is a way off yet).
But of course he ended up stepping down, as his ability to do the job was fundamentally compromised by an outpouring of vitriolic homophobia across middle England and beyond, with Nigeria threatening to sever ties with the C of E if the appointment went ahead.
They should have let them, frankly. And everyone else should just deal with it, or convert to Catholicism or something. There's plenty of space for bigots in the world, but if the country's church can't be a broad one, it can't claim to represent the people.
joella
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
Can't seem to face up to the facts...
Actually that line just came into my head because Miles is sitting behind me playing Psychokiller on the piano.
But there do seem to be a hell of a lot of babies around all of a sudden, and I am finding it quite unsettling.
Not because I want one, because I am still pretty sure that I don't, but because not wanting one is starting to feel even more like a freakish position to hold than it used to.
There is a body clock rush beginning: people are meeting on internet dating services and conceiving within weeks (actually that's only one person, but she neatly illustrates the sharp end of the trend). There's placenta everywhere.
I am trying to work out what it is that is getting to me. I think it's what I assume (perhaps wrongly) to be the volte face of thirtysomething pregnancy... women who have never previously seemed to give a stuff about children suddenly going doe-eyed at the latest bunch of jpegs on the latest 'baby's first website'. (Please, wash the blood off first. Please.)
But it may be that all these women have been nurturing dreams of nurturing for many years, just not talking about it. Or I haven't been listening. In which case, I might have a bit missing. Which is fine: it's a big world, there's plenty to do to make it better, and I have my inner child to look after.
Or it may indeed be that you wake up one morning and feel that your life will count for naught if you don't, as a friend of mine once put it, fulfil your biological imperative. In which case I should start to panic right about now. Especially as I carefully chose a boyfriend with a vasectomy.
joella
Actually that line just came into my head because Miles is sitting behind me playing Psychokiller on the piano.
But there do seem to be a hell of a lot of babies around all of a sudden, and I am finding it quite unsettling.
Not because I want one, because I am still pretty sure that I don't, but because not wanting one is starting to feel even more like a freakish position to hold than it used to.
There is a body clock rush beginning: people are meeting on internet dating services and conceiving within weeks (actually that's only one person, but she neatly illustrates the sharp end of the trend). There's placenta everywhere.
I am trying to work out what it is that is getting to me. I think it's what I assume (perhaps wrongly) to be the volte face of thirtysomething pregnancy... women who have never previously seemed to give a stuff about children suddenly going doe-eyed at the latest bunch of jpegs on the latest 'baby's first website'. (Please, wash the blood off first. Please.)
But it may be that all these women have been nurturing dreams of nurturing for many years, just not talking about it. Or I haven't been listening. In which case, I might have a bit missing. Which is fine: it's a big world, there's plenty to do to make it better, and I have my inner child to look after.
Or it may indeed be that you wake up one morning and feel that your life will count for naught if you don't, as a friend of mine once put it, fulfil your biological imperative. In which case I should start to panic right about now. Especially as I carefully chose a boyfriend with a vasectomy.
joella
I love the smell of jasmine in the evening
I had a bout of the post-Glastonbury blues last week I think. Maybe, after months of relative TLC, my body was overwhelmed by the daily injections of black coffee, hot cider and fried bread. Maybe I caught a bug from not washing my hands enough. Maybe my soul was daunted at the thought of returning to urban office life. Whatever. I wasn't feeling good.
So on Friday night I went for an Ayurvedic massage at Eau de Vie. I had actually booked a deep tissue massage, but the deep tissue woman was off sick (maybe she had the post-Glastonbury blues as well). So instead a tiny woman with bottles of oil nearly as big as she was took me upstairs and did strange things to me.
And it was fantastic. I want to do it all the time. I was a bit sceptical at the beginning as what I wanted was a good pounding and instead it was all very gentle. I was also a bit worried that I was becoming aroused (not supposed to happen, surely?) but then realised she had just dragged me up the bed by my neck and my nipples had got squashed in on themselves.
And then I stopped thinking about anything at all, and it's not often I can do that. It was quite difficult to get up afterwards and Cowley Road seemed even more insane than usual, but I managed to negotiate buying some tofu and rice from the Rice Box then floated home for an early night. I felt amazing.
So I am thinking to myself, in the style of a good search engine, we need more results like this. This is about refreshing the parts that lager cannot reach.
I found a little one last night. We had a houseful for dinner and I wasn't at my most sociable, so I retreated for a bath after a terrifying episode of Spooks. Baths are definitely good, especially ours, which is huge, but the bathroom is an oppressive reminder of some of the drawbacks of living with others: we can't agree what to do with it, so it retains the smelly brown carpet it's had since we moved in.
So I still wasn't quite right. But then I wrapped myself in my vast pink bath towel, a glorious feeling in itself, and went and sat in the garden for half an hour. There are so few evenings in Britain when it's warm enough to sit outside at 11 at night in a bath towel and smell the jasmine as your hair dries. Taking advantage of one of them was a very good move.
joella
I had a bout of the post-Glastonbury blues last week I think. Maybe, after months of relative TLC, my body was overwhelmed by the daily injections of black coffee, hot cider and fried bread. Maybe I caught a bug from not washing my hands enough. Maybe my soul was daunted at the thought of returning to urban office life. Whatever. I wasn't feeling good.
So on Friday night I went for an Ayurvedic massage at Eau de Vie. I had actually booked a deep tissue massage, but the deep tissue woman was off sick (maybe she had the post-Glastonbury blues as well). So instead a tiny woman with bottles of oil nearly as big as she was took me upstairs and did strange things to me.
And it was fantastic. I want to do it all the time. I was a bit sceptical at the beginning as what I wanted was a good pounding and instead it was all very gentle. I was also a bit worried that I was becoming aroused (not supposed to happen, surely?) but then realised she had just dragged me up the bed by my neck and my nipples had got squashed in on themselves.
And then I stopped thinking about anything at all, and it's not often I can do that. It was quite difficult to get up afterwards and Cowley Road seemed even more insane than usual, but I managed to negotiate buying some tofu and rice from the Rice Box then floated home for an early night. I felt amazing.
So I am thinking to myself, in the style of a good search engine, we need more results like this. This is about refreshing the parts that lager cannot reach.
I found a little one last night. We had a houseful for dinner and I wasn't at my most sociable, so I retreated for a bath after a terrifying episode of Spooks. Baths are definitely good, especially ours, which is huge, but the bathroom is an oppressive reminder of some of the drawbacks of living with others: we can't agree what to do with it, so it retains the smelly brown carpet it's had since we moved in.
So I still wasn't quite right. But then I wrapped myself in my vast pink bath towel, a glorious feeling in itself, and went and sat in the garden for half an hour. There are so few evenings in Britain when it's warm enough to sit outside at 11 at night in a bath towel and smell the jasmine as your hair dries. Taking advantage of one of them was a very good move.
joella
Friday, July 04, 2003
Canicular
Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day is always worth a look. And today it is fabulous: canicular, an adjective meaning 'of or relating to the dog days of summer'.
As in: My canicular cravings are few, but they are irresistible: a cold drink, a soft hammock, and a good read.
Here's why:
The Latin word "canicula," meaning "small dog," is the diminutive form of "canis," the word that ultimately gives us the English word "canine." "Canicula" was also the name for Sirius, the star that represents the hound of the hunter Orion in the constellation named for that Roman mythological figure. Because the first visible rising of Sirius occurs during the summer, the hot sultry days that occur from early July to early September came to be called "dies caniculares," or as we know them in English, "the dog days."
I love words.
joella
Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day is always worth a look. And today it is fabulous: canicular, an adjective meaning 'of or relating to the dog days of summer'.
As in: My canicular cravings are few, but they are irresistible: a cold drink, a soft hammock, and a good read.
Here's why:
The Latin word "canicula," meaning "small dog," is the diminutive form of "canis," the word that ultimately gives us the English word "canine." "Canicula" was also the name for Sirius, the star that represents the hound of the hunter Orion in the constellation named for that Roman mythological figure. Because the first visible rising of Sirius occurs during the summer, the hot sultry days that occur from early July to early September came to be called "dies caniculares," or as we know them in English, "the dog days."
I love words.
joella
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
New look for oatcakes!
Sometimes, I like to visit the websites of the products I buy. This is because I like websites, bad ones as well as good ones, and it is always interesting to see who takes theirs seriously and who makes the mistake of leaving theirs in the hands of marketing people.
Some of them are excellent, like the site of J Parker Dutch Bulbs. Minimum fuss, maximum usability, even if the plants they deliver never seem to grow up to look like the photos.
Some are hugely disappointing. Our new Vaude tent is a masterful piece of design and engineering, and wasn't cheap, but the website offers nothing but some crappy links, bad gifs and a link to order a print catalogue.
And others are hilarious. I have a bit of a thing for Paterson's Oatcakes at the moment. The website has a great news section, including Bronte Biscuit Range Re-Launched and Arran White Pots Redesigned. But the best is definitely New Look for Oatcakes:
"The oatcake product has always been popular in Scotland. We have now re-designed our range to emphasise the versatility of the products. To do so, the pack now helps to explain the oatcake’s suitability with various toppings and dips as well as the majority of eating occasions. The pack design also helps to introduce the product to a younger audience without neglecting our duty to the mixture of ages currently purchasing Paterson’s oatcakes."
The majority of eating occasions! Fantastic stuff.
joella
Sometimes, I like to visit the websites of the products I buy. This is because I like websites, bad ones as well as good ones, and it is always interesting to see who takes theirs seriously and who makes the mistake of leaving theirs in the hands of marketing people.
Some of them are excellent, like the site of J Parker Dutch Bulbs. Minimum fuss, maximum usability, even if the plants they deliver never seem to grow up to look like the photos.
Some are hugely disappointing. Our new Vaude tent is a masterful piece of design and engineering, and wasn't cheap, but the website offers nothing but some crappy links, bad gifs and a link to order a print catalogue.
And others are hilarious. I have a bit of a thing for Paterson's Oatcakes at the moment. The website has a great news section, including Bronte Biscuit Range Re-Launched and Arran White Pots Redesigned. But the best is definitely New Look for Oatcakes:
"The oatcake product has always been popular in Scotland. We have now re-designed our range to emphasise the versatility of the products. To do so, the pack now helps to explain the oatcake’s suitability with various toppings and dips as well as the majority of eating occasions. The pack design also helps to introduce the product to a younger audience without neglecting our duty to the mixture of ages currently purchasing Paterson’s oatcakes."
The majority of eating occasions! Fantastic stuff.
joella
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
Year of Living Healthily Update
Year of Living Healthily Update
So we are six months through the year, how are we doing?
Cigarettes smoked: none
Recreational pharmaceuticals: none
Alcohol drunk Jan 1-April 19: none
Alcohol drunk April 20-June 30: some
Hangovers: four (day after Ali's last night, day after Duane's party, day after Richard & Mopsa's party, Glastonbury Monday)
Really bad shocking awful want to die have to apologise to people hangovers: none
Hangovers on a schoolnight: none
Colonic irrigations: four
Amount of wheat, dairy and caffeine in current diet: hardly any
Spots: none
Yoga classes per week (average): one
Swimming sessions per week (average): half
Riding bike to work days per week (average): hardly any
And how do I feel? I have better periods, definitely. I have better skin. It is easier to get up in the morning, while still not exactly being easy. It is easier to go to bed. It is easier to go to sleep.
I have less non-specific anxiety. I have less non-specific aggression. I get more done and spend less time angry with myself for not getting things done.
I read more books. I spend more time thinking about stuff. I do better work.
When I do drink I decide in advance how much I am going to drink and don't try and make this decision after several pints. I have also realised why people drink halves, and have started doing that.
I have better guts. I don't ache. I poo nearly every day.
I ring my parents more often. I eat breakfast. I have salad for lunch. I laugh in the face of pizza.
I think some of these things will still happen even when I am not Living Healthily. Even though I am not totally sober, I am very proud of myself. And if I had kept up the totally sober part I would have missed out on some very good times.
But I still don't do enough exercise. I still hate cycling to work and I still pay an exorbitant amount for a gym membership that I barely use.
In short, I am still a lazy arse. In a world of Type As who tend towards action, I am a Type B who tends towards bed.
What's new is that I will remember to put on my moisturiser when I get there.
joella
So we are six months through the year, how are we doing?
And how do I feel? I have better periods, definitely. I have better skin. It is easier to get up in the morning, while still not exactly being easy. It is easier to go to bed. It is easier to go to sleep.
I have less non-specific anxiety. I have less non-specific aggression. I get more done and spend less time angry with myself for not getting things done.
I read more books. I spend more time thinking about stuff. I do better work.
When I do drink I decide in advance how much I am going to drink and don't try and make this decision after several pints. I have also realised why people drink halves, and have started doing that.
I have better guts. I don't ache. I poo nearly every day.
I ring my parents more often. I eat breakfast. I have salad for lunch. I laugh in the face of pizza.
I think some of these things will still happen even when I am not Living Healthily. Even though I am not totally sober, I am very proud of myself. And if I had kept up the totally sober part I would have missed out on some very good times.
But I still don't do enough exercise. I still hate cycling to work and I still pay an exorbitant amount for a gym membership that I barely use.
In short, I am still a lazy arse. In a world of Type As who tend towards action, I am a Type B who tends towards bed.
What's new is that I will remember to put on my moisturiser when I get there.
joella
Monday, June 30, 2003
Five nights of zeitgeist
Selected high points
Radiohead's headliner on Saturday night
The piss just after Radiohead's headliner on Saturday night
Billy Bragg old school solo set in the Left Field tent on Sunday (especially the whole crowd singing This Guitar Says Sorry)
Campaigning with fantastic people to a warm and friendly crowd
Comfrey pakoras by the fire in the permaculture corner on Friday night's wandering
Sunset in the stone circle with hot cider
Hot showers at 6am in the staff field. In fact, most things about the staff field
Getting there before the crowds, getting away at 7am today
Our fabulous new tent
Selected low points
Bastard man and his miserable family who were breathtakingly rude when I asked them to sign up
Men still pissing in hedges despite having far more than their fair share of toilet facilities
Grumpy PMT moments then period in a field, never good
Achy achy legs from endless walking
Missing Interpol because of clash with shift
On balance then, top weekend. Amazing weather, good vibes, great music. Glad I went back (having sworn not to after not much fun experience in 1995), glad we had a safe place to camp, glad am grown up and sensible enough to get enough sleep and take things like hats, and very, very proud of myself for NOT SMOKING AT ALL. Who would have thought it possible.
I feel like I've been away for a month though. God knows how I'm going to cope with work tomorrow...
joella
Selected high points
Selected low points
On balance then, top weekend. Amazing weather, good vibes, great music. Glad I went back (having sworn not to after not much fun experience in 1995), glad we had a safe place to camp, glad am grown up and sensible enough to get enough sleep and take things like hats, and very, very proud of myself for NOT SMOKING AT ALL. Who would have thought it possible.
I feel like I've been away for a month though. God knows how I'm going to cope with work tomorrow...
joella
Monday, June 23, 2003
Getting ready for Glastonbury
... or rather, not getting ready for Glastonbury, simply getting in a right old state about needing to get ready for Glastonbury.
Tent, clean pants, a jumper and a load of cash. What more could you need?
Head torch, definitely. Wellies, the weather forecast is patchy. So a rainproof coat as well. But not my new one, what if it gets nicked. Sun hat. Sunscreen. Towel. Sleeping mat. New plastic mat to carry around and sit on that we got for the beach in Brighton.
New Harry Potter book. Another book in case it's all too exciting. Evening Primrose Oil. Toilet paper. Water bottles x several. Face wipe things. Shampoo etc in case of shower opportunities. Scarf for hair in case of no shower opportunities.
Umbrella? Or is that silly. Pen, I always forget a pen. Mobile phone. Calor Gaz lamp thing that's dangerous in the extreme but really handy. Stove and kettle or is that wishful thinking.
Alcohol? Does this count as a holiday from Living Healthily? Flaxseed oil to keep bowels moving to new higher standards.
Liz's Womad gazebo that she might lend us. Any point in that? Will we be hanging out by the tent much?
Flip flops? Old ones or new sparkly ones? Or sensible Scholl sandals that can walk miles in but are v uncool. Any attempt at cool, or straight for sensible?
Special festival neck purse.
Moisturiser.
Alarm clock for early shifts (am campaigning for Make Trade Fair, camping in staff field, v good option)? No, phone can do that. Actually, there's 24 hour food and drink in that field, so definitely no kettle.
So much to worry about, so little time.
I'll be checking this list tomorrow night as I'm packing.
And by Wednesday night I might even have calmed down a bit.
I'd have made a shit hippie.
joella
... or rather, not getting ready for Glastonbury, simply getting in a right old state about needing to get ready for Glastonbury.
Tent, clean pants, a jumper and a load of cash. What more could you need?
Head torch, definitely. Wellies, the weather forecast is patchy. So a rainproof coat as well. But not my new one, what if it gets nicked. Sun hat. Sunscreen. Towel. Sleeping mat. New plastic mat to carry around and sit on that we got for the beach in Brighton.
New Harry Potter book. Another book in case it's all too exciting. Evening Primrose Oil. Toilet paper. Water bottles x several. Face wipe things. Shampoo etc in case of shower opportunities. Scarf for hair in case of no shower opportunities.
Umbrella? Or is that silly. Pen, I always forget a pen. Mobile phone. Calor Gaz lamp thing that's dangerous in the extreme but really handy. Stove and kettle or is that wishful thinking.
Alcohol? Does this count as a holiday from Living Healthily? Flaxseed oil to keep bowels moving to new higher standards.
Liz's Womad gazebo that she might lend us. Any point in that? Will we be hanging out by the tent much?
Flip flops? Old ones or new sparkly ones? Or sensible Scholl sandals that can walk miles in but are v uncool. Any attempt at cool, or straight for sensible?
Special festival neck purse.
Moisturiser.
Alarm clock for early shifts (am campaigning for Make Trade Fair, camping in staff field, v good option)? No, phone can do that. Actually, there's 24 hour food and drink in that field, so definitely no kettle.
So much to worry about, so little time.
I'll be checking this list tomorrow night as I'm packing.
And by Wednesday night I might even have calmed down a bit.
I'd have made a shit hippie.
joella
Sunday, June 22, 2003
Saturday, June 21, 2003
Gadding about
This week I have spent two nights on sleeper trains and two nights in Manchester -- one with N&D, which was lovely, and one at the very strange Luther King House in Rusholme. I was not having theological education, despite the venue's raison d'etre. No, I was having gender training.
And a very odd experience it was. When I was at university, I would have given my eye teeth to get a job involving gender training. My feminist sensibilities were at their sharpest, and if my personal and sexual identity was a little confused (and I daresay confusing), my politics were very clear.
But I didn't get such a job, in fact the first job I did get was in the kind of place where they asked me to wear a skirt when going to meetings. To this I responded by changing into the skirt just before the meeting and changing out of it immediately afterwards. Not exactly challenging the foundations of patriarchal capitalism, but I was only 23 and I needed the money.
And life gets muddier, doesn't it. Now I own two skirts and three dresses, and wear them when the occasion demands. If it's a posh one, I shave my armpits too.
But I digress. My gender training was based in the realities of life for people living on low incomes in the UK. We learned about gender budgeting from a very cool feminist economist, looked at gender-disaggregated statistics and practised lobbying policymakers about the gender dimension of debt and financial exclusion.
It was interesting and challenging. The most challenging thing for me was that we were focusing on what men and women actually do with their lives, and how important it is to take that into account in policymaking and practice, and never mind the unfairness of the system in the first place. That's a different battle, and one that needs to be fought in a different place.
It's acres more complicated and sophisticated as an approach than anything I had previously come into detailed contact with, even if it does feel weird to be talking in what feel like gender stereotypes. It might help me throw some light on the pink pants issue.
joella
This week I have spent two nights on sleeper trains and two nights in Manchester -- one with N&D, which was lovely, and one at the very strange Luther King House in Rusholme. I was not having theological education, despite the venue's raison d'etre. No, I was having gender training.
And a very odd experience it was. When I was at university, I would have given my eye teeth to get a job involving gender training. My feminist sensibilities were at their sharpest, and if my personal and sexual identity was a little confused (and I daresay confusing), my politics were very clear.
But I didn't get such a job, in fact the first job I did get was in the kind of place where they asked me to wear a skirt when going to meetings. To this I responded by changing into the skirt just before the meeting and changing out of it immediately afterwards. Not exactly challenging the foundations of patriarchal capitalism, but I was only 23 and I needed the money.
And life gets muddier, doesn't it. Now I own two skirts and three dresses, and wear them when the occasion demands. If it's a posh one, I shave my armpits too.
But I digress. My gender training was based in the realities of life for people living on low incomes in the UK. We learned about gender budgeting from a very cool feminist economist, looked at gender-disaggregated statistics and practised lobbying policymakers about the gender dimension of debt and financial exclusion.
It was interesting and challenging. The most challenging thing for me was that we were focusing on what men and women actually do with their lives, and how important it is to take that into account in policymaking and practice, and never mind the unfairness of the system in the first place. That's a different battle, and one that needs to be fought in a different place.
It's acres more complicated and sophisticated as an approach than anything I had previously come into detailed contact with, even if it does feel weird to be talking in what feel like gender stereotypes. It might help me throw some light on the pink pants issue.
joella
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Ricardo's train ticket
R and I went to Brighton this weekend, and travelled down together from Oxford on the train. Being an organised sort of chap R decided to buy his ticket in advance from thetrainline.com.
Following instructions on the screen, he chose the Friday 17.45 there and the Sunday 13.40 back. But when his ticket arrived, it was for the 17.38 via Reading and Redhill, which didn't show up on any of the timetables I was looking at.
Anxious to coordinate, I rang up National Rail Enquiries (NB in a splendid bit of marketing, they don't put their phone number on their website, truly there are some stupid people with important jobs in public transport).
No, there wasn't a 17.38 to Brighton via Reading and Redhill. Hang on a minute, I said, I've got the ticket right here in my hand, it's just arrived in the post, and that it what it says. Please can you look again?
His exact words were: 'no love, I haven't got one of them'.
Get this. It turns out the Trainline had sold him a ticket he didn't ask for, for a train that does not exist and which could not be used on the train he did want to catch, or the train after it, or the train after that -- in fact any train via London, which is the only way to get your ass to Brighton before 10pm on a Friday.
So he rang up and asked for a refund, which will take up to 20 days and cost him £5 in administration fees.
Kafka, anyone?
He got a lift back with Miles, I don't blame him. Me, I got the sleeper train to Pitlochry, but that's another story.
joella
R and I went to Brighton this weekend, and travelled down together from Oxford on the train. Being an organised sort of chap R decided to buy his ticket in advance from thetrainline.com.
Following instructions on the screen, he chose the Friday 17.45 there and the Sunday 13.40 back. But when his ticket arrived, it was for the 17.38 via Reading and Redhill, which didn't show up on any of the timetables I was looking at.
Anxious to coordinate, I rang up National Rail Enquiries (NB in a splendid bit of marketing, they don't put their phone number on their website, truly there are some stupid people with important jobs in public transport).
No, there wasn't a 17.38 to Brighton via Reading and Redhill. Hang on a minute, I said, I've got the ticket right here in my hand, it's just arrived in the post, and that it what it says. Please can you look again?
His exact words were: 'no love, I haven't got one of them'.
Get this. It turns out the Trainline had sold him a ticket he didn't ask for, for a train that does not exist and which could not be used on the train he did want to catch, or the train after it, or the train after that -- in fact any train via London, which is the only way to get your ass to Brighton before 10pm on a Friday.
So he rang up and asked for a refund, which will take up to 20 days and cost him £5 in administration fees.
Kafka, anyone?
He got a lift back with Miles, I don't blame him. Me, I got the sleeper train to Pitlochry, but that's another story.
joella
Thursday, June 12, 2003
Tony and Carmela bite the dust
I don't watch much television, but I know what I like. And I like The Sopranos very much indeed.
Marriage can be a tough game to play at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Tony and Carmela's final confrontation over his decades of infidelities and her unconsummated love for Furio was a triumph of screenwriting. I had to watch it through my fingers.
In fact -- of course -- if you can raise the stakes that high in a screaming match without one of you caving in you must be a pretty well matched couple to start with, which just adds to the tragedy.
And then Meadow's "why did you eat shit from him all these years" speech combined with her flashbacks to happy family times, fucking fantastic.
Never forget how far there is to fall...
joella
I don't watch much television, but I know what I like. And I like The Sopranos very much indeed.
Marriage can be a tough game to play at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Tony and Carmela's final confrontation over his decades of infidelities and her unconsummated love for Furio was a triumph of screenwriting. I had to watch it through my fingers.
In fact -- of course -- if you can raise the stakes that high in a screaming match without one of you caving in you must be a pretty well matched couple to start with, which just adds to the tragedy.
And then Meadow's "why did you eat shit from him all these years" speech combined with her flashbacks to happy family times, fucking fantastic.
Never forget how far there is to fall...
joella
Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Sub fusc wet dream
It's finals time of year, and here in Oxford the University insists that its students wear sub fusc to sit their exams.
So far so arcane, and I would argue so unfair, as the last thing you want to be doing the night before one of the biggest exams of your life is to be making sure you've got a clean white shirt and stupid ribbon thing to go with it. At Cambridge we were luckier, and I seem to remember taking most of my finals in T-shirt and pyjama bottoms.
And to be fair, most of them do look fairly ramshackle as they flick through their notes outside the exam hall smoking four cigarettes at once and drinking Red Bull.
But there's the odd woman who looks like she's about to be turned down by Page 3 and sent over to the Sport as more their style. Miniskirt, lip gloss, high heels and a mortar board makes quite an impact, and you can see men adjusting their trousers as they walk past and drifting off into little reveries about being their examiners.
Frankly, I am baffled. Why dress carefully like something off the top shelf in WHSmith in order to sit your degree? Who are you doing it for?
There's plenty of time to play the nubile-and-a-bit-slutty card, if that's your thing, when (to paraphrase Anne Robinson for the first time in my life) you discover the treachery of the workplace.
Your finals are blind marked. It's probably the last time in your life that anyone really will only want you for your mind. I'd be making the most of that.
joella
It's finals time of year, and here in Oxford the University insists that its students wear sub fusc to sit their exams.
So far so arcane, and I would argue so unfair, as the last thing you want to be doing the night before one of the biggest exams of your life is to be making sure you've got a clean white shirt and stupid ribbon thing to go with it. At Cambridge we were luckier, and I seem to remember taking most of my finals in T-shirt and pyjama bottoms.
And to be fair, most of them do look fairly ramshackle as they flick through their notes outside the exam hall smoking four cigarettes at once and drinking Red Bull.
But there's the odd woman who looks like she's about to be turned down by Page 3 and sent over to the Sport as more their style. Miniskirt, lip gloss, high heels and a mortar board makes quite an impact, and you can see men adjusting their trousers as they walk past and drifting off into little reveries about being their examiners.
Frankly, I am baffled. Why dress carefully like something off the top shelf in WHSmith in order to sit your degree? Who are you doing it for?
There's plenty of time to play the nubile-and-a-bit-slutty card, if that's your thing, when (to paraphrase Anne Robinson for the first time in my life) you discover the treachery of the workplace.
Your finals are blind marked. It's probably the last time in your life that anyone really will only want you for your mind. I'd be making the most of that.
joella
Monday, June 09, 2003
Pink pants
For as many years as I have been buying my own pants, they have been either black or white. They would all be black, given how manky white pants can get if your washing machine is as inadequate as ours, but a few items of clothing do necessitate the wearing of a white bra rather than a black one and I like to match.
I have a couple of 'special' matching bra and pants sets which are neither black nor white, but 'special' broadly translates as 'uncomfortable', so they don't get much wear. And with 'special' sets it always seems to be a choice between huge pants or strings, and as I don't wear strings (why deliberately have a wedgie all day?) I end up with something resembling school athletics shorts made out of lace. I'm not convinced of the allure.
So generally I just buy a multipack of black minis from M&S whenever I notice that the last batch have more holes in than they should. No decisions to make. No problem.
But I bought a new skirt from RipCurlGirl -- far trendier than anything I would normally buy, but I was in a bad mood and it was hot. It is mostly white and it hangs very low. You can see black pants through it, never a good look, and my white ones come up a good two inches higher than the skirt itself -- and even I can tell that this is a screaming faux pas, especially given their slight bagginess (I think I bought them before they had Lycra).
So on Saturday I decided to buy some 'low rise pants' -- these are new fangled garments which don't really cover very much at all and are designed not to poke out the top of 'low rise' clothes. But a little bit of poke-out (is there a fashion term for this?) is inevitable so you also need to make sure that said pants are presentable, in the same way bra straps have to be if you are wearing a certain type of vest.
It took me ages. Once you deviate from the multipack you're on your own. The number of twenty-first century pant options is staggering. I eventually settled on a 'low rise garter' in white, which were three for £10, and then recklessly chucked one back and substituted a pink pair. They are tiny and made of mesh stuff.
Pink pants! Little pink pants! I was very excited. It's hard to explain the forces which have stopped me even thinking about buying little pink pants for the last 15 years, and harder still to explain why I feel little pink pants are now ok, but maybe when the PC is fixed at home and I don't have to blog in my lunch hour, I should try.
I then decided a matching bra would be just the thing, but sadly they do not make little pink bras in my size.
Sometimes it's hard to be a woman.
joella
For as many years as I have been buying my own pants, they have been either black or white. They would all be black, given how manky white pants can get if your washing machine is as inadequate as ours, but a few items of clothing do necessitate the wearing of a white bra rather than a black one and I like to match.
I have a couple of 'special' matching bra and pants sets which are neither black nor white, but 'special' broadly translates as 'uncomfortable', so they don't get much wear. And with 'special' sets it always seems to be a choice between huge pants or strings, and as I don't wear strings (why deliberately have a wedgie all day?) I end up with something resembling school athletics shorts made out of lace. I'm not convinced of the allure.
So generally I just buy a multipack of black minis from M&S whenever I notice that the last batch have more holes in than they should. No decisions to make. No problem.
But I bought a new skirt from RipCurlGirl -- far trendier than anything I would normally buy, but I was in a bad mood and it was hot. It is mostly white and it hangs very low. You can see black pants through it, never a good look, and my white ones come up a good two inches higher than the skirt itself -- and even I can tell that this is a screaming faux pas, especially given their slight bagginess (I think I bought them before they had Lycra).
So on Saturday I decided to buy some 'low rise pants' -- these are new fangled garments which don't really cover very much at all and are designed not to poke out the top of 'low rise' clothes. But a little bit of poke-out (is there a fashion term for this?) is inevitable so you also need to make sure that said pants are presentable, in the same way bra straps have to be if you are wearing a certain type of vest.
It took me ages. Once you deviate from the multipack you're on your own. The number of twenty-first century pant options is staggering. I eventually settled on a 'low rise garter' in white, which were three for £10, and then recklessly chucked one back and substituted a pink pair. They are tiny and made of mesh stuff.
Pink pants! Little pink pants! I was very excited. It's hard to explain the forces which have stopped me even thinking about buying little pink pants for the last 15 years, and harder still to explain why I feel little pink pants are now ok, but maybe when the PC is fixed at home and I don't have to blog in my lunch hour, I should try.
I then decided a matching bra would be just the thing, but sadly they do not make little pink bras in my size.
Sometimes it's hard to be a woman.
joella
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
Our Dick's at Wigan
There are several sayings and phrases that I grew up using which appear to be unique to our family. In fact I think my mother must have made them up.
I didn't realise this until I started using them as an adult. A very good example is 'you left me standing there like cheese at fourpence'. I screamed this at someone once and all the impact was lost because he fell about laughing at me and I ended up laughing too. I don't even know whether cheese at fourpence is really expensive, and therefore gets left because nobody will pay that much, or is really cheap and gets left because it's going mouldy.
Another is used when you are reeling off a long list and want to say 'and lots more like that obviously', or if you just run out of steam half way through something. So you might say 'and then she told me about her fabulous new baby and her fabulous new car and her fabulous new hairdresser and blurbedy blurbedy fishcakes'.
Or I did, until people started snorting coffee out of their noses.
But there is one which really does deserve wider use. Let's say I was having this conversation with my family. How are you? they would ask.
Not great really. I have to write these performance objectives for work and they're doing my head in, I just can't get them right, and I had a really stressful phone conference yesterday with the project officers and I wonder if we're making any progress at all, and I've got this horrible blister rash on my arm which I got in the garden on Sunday it really hurts, and the bum lady's cancelled my next appointment after I'd arranged to work at home and the computer's blown up anyway so I don't know what to do, and I just can't get it together to cycle to work, and we've got this mortgage thing to sort out and...
And they would chorus: 'And our Dick's at Wigan, and t'threshing machine's in t'yard and it's raining.'
It means 'you're boring us now, but we do recognise that life is shit sometimes'.
joella
There are several sayings and phrases that I grew up using which appear to be unique to our family. In fact I think my mother must have made them up.
I didn't realise this until I started using them as an adult. A very good example is 'you left me standing there like cheese at fourpence'. I screamed this at someone once and all the impact was lost because he fell about laughing at me and I ended up laughing too. I don't even know whether cheese at fourpence is really expensive, and therefore gets left because nobody will pay that much, or is really cheap and gets left because it's going mouldy.
Another is used when you are reeling off a long list and want to say 'and lots more like that obviously', or if you just run out of steam half way through something. So you might say 'and then she told me about her fabulous new baby and her fabulous new car and her fabulous new hairdresser and blurbedy blurbedy fishcakes'.
Or I did, until people started snorting coffee out of their noses.
But there is one which really does deserve wider use. Let's say I was having this conversation with my family. How are you? they would ask.
Not great really. I have to write these performance objectives for work and they're doing my head in, I just can't get them right, and I had a really stressful phone conference yesterday with the project officers and I wonder if we're making any progress at all, and I've got this horrible blister rash on my arm which I got in the garden on Sunday it really hurts, and the bum lady's cancelled my next appointment after I'd arranged to work at home and the computer's blown up anyway so I don't know what to do, and I just can't get it together to cycle to work, and we've got this mortgage thing to sort out and...
And they would chorus: 'And our Dick's at Wigan, and t'threshing machine's in t'yard and it's raining.'
It means 'you're boring us now, but we do recognise that life is shit sometimes'.
joella
Friday, May 30, 2003
My poppies
When I got back from my lovely holidays on Monday, there was a huge poppy in the front garden.
I am a fan of poppies generally, but I was excited about this one in particular because it grew from a set of runty little root cuttings that I planted last year. They came from B&Q -- it took me a while to realise that B&Q is possibly not the best place to buy top quality plants -- with a hosta and a dicentra spectablis which both died immediately.
But two of the four poppy root cuttings made it, and by far more luck than judgement are also well placed in the garden, in front of a rose which hasn't flowered yet and bearded irises which have just finished.
Oriental poppies are splendid things. The buds are big, tight and furry (like puppies' testicles, said Roger), and then overnight they pop open into huge flimsy blowsy flowers in an almost impossible shade of red.
Now there are six, and there are another six at least to open. I have been taking photos of them next to my head to show how big they are. The world is a better place for them.
joella
When I got back from my lovely holidays on Monday, there was a huge poppy in the front garden.
I am a fan of poppies generally, but I was excited about this one in particular because it grew from a set of runty little root cuttings that I planted last year. They came from B&Q -- it took me a while to realise that B&Q is possibly not the best place to buy top quality plants -- with a hosta and a dicentra spectablis which both died immediately.
But two of the four poppy root cuttings made it, and by far more luck than judgement are also well placed in the garden, in front of a rose which hasn't flowered yet and bearded irises which have just finished.
Oriental poppies are splendid things. The buds are big, tight and furry (like puppies' testicles, said Roger), and then overnight they pop open into huge flimsy blowsy flowers in an almost impossible shade of red.
Now there are six, and there are another six at least to open. I have been taking photos of them next to my head to show how big they are. The world is a better place for them.
joella
Charlotte
On the third day of our holidays, my parents and I went on an all day boat trip to the beaches and islands near Fethiye.
A bus came to pick us up, then picked up lots of other people as well. Near the end we waited for ages for a family with a small boy called Oscar and two daughters. The older one, who was about nine or ten, was called Charlotte and she struggled onto the bus carrying a bag about as big as she was.
Once on the boat, it soon transpired that Charlotte could do no right, in fact it appeared that everything was her fault, including the fact that she got sunburnt. Her parents had a go at her at every possible opportunity, whatever she did or didn't do. At one point we heard them telling her she was ruining their holiday which had cost a lot of money, and she had a week and a half to make amends for this. Throughout, Oscar grizzled.
At the end of the day they didn't get back on the bus, but instead wandered off dysfunctionally into Fethiye itself. I felt sad as I watched Charlotte tailing along at the back, and wished we could take her back with us to give her aftersun and ice cream.
A couple of nights later, my dad and I were up late having a beer (I think it was the night the internet was 'broken' after the storm). Charlotte came up in the conversation. I wish they'd got back on the bus, he said. I wanted to have a quiet word with her dad.
What?! I said.
Yeah, he said. I wanted to say, I've got two grown up daughters, one's 33 and one's 29, and they've both come on holiday with me. The way you're going pal, do you think you'll ever be able to say that?
Brought a huge lump to my throat, that did.
joella
On the third day of our holidays, my parents and I went on an all day boat trip to the beaches and islands near Fethiye.
A bus came to pick us up, then picked up lots of other people as well. Near the end we waited for ages for a family with a small boy called Oscar and two daughters. The older one, who was about nine or ten, was called Charlotte and she struggled onto the bus carrying a bag about as big as she was.
Once on the boat, it soon transpired that Charlotte could do no right, in fact it appeared that everything was her fault, including the fact that she got sunburnt. Her parents had a go at her at every possible opportunity, whatever she did or didn't do. At one point we heard them telling her she was ruining their holiday which had cost a lot of money, and she had a week and a half to make amends for this. Throughout, Oscar grizzled.
At the end of the day they didn't get back on the bus, but instead wandered off dysfunctionally into Fethiye itself. I felt sad as I watched Charlotte tailing along at the back, and wished we could take her back with us to give her aftersun and ice cream.
A couple of nights later, my dad and I were up late having a beer (I think it was the night the internet was 'broken' after the storm). Charlotte came up in the conversation. I wish they'd got back on the bus, he said. I wanted to have a quiet word with her dad.
What?! I said.
Yeah, he said. I wanted to say, I've got two grown up daughters, one's 33 and one's 29, and they've both come on holiday with me. The way you're going pal, do you think you'll ever be able to say that?
Brought a huge lump to my throat, that did.
joella
Thursday, May 22, 2003
Sun, sea, sand and none of the other thank you very much
Well the jolly hols proceed apace, and I am liking Turkey just as much as I have on previous visits, although it doesn't feel right being here without Mr B (who lives in Istanbul). I keep looking at my parents and doing a double take -- am I really on holiday with you? I would probably do the same for my sister but she's mostly asleep.
Everyone is very friendly, the food is fantastic and the weather is sublime: sunny and windy and not too hot. I am definitely feeling some of the downsides of being on a package thing, which is basically like living in a bubble, but it's a very comfortable and chilled out bubble, which is good, and I wouldn't want it any other way with the parentals.
And you aren't exactly guaranteed authentic 'experiences' (man) when trogging round with a backpack, just guaranteed a cheaper and bumpier time. They are running a business here, they are doing a very good job of it, and everyone's a winner, right?
(not sure, need to think about this more)
As a slightly related aside, the waiters must succeed sometimes, or they wouldn't be so doggedly persistent. I wonder what the ratio is -- how many nos to a yes?
joella
Well the jolly hols proceed apace, and I am liking Turkey just as much as I have on previous visits, although it doesn't feel right being here without Mr B (who lives in Istanbul). I keep looking at my parents and doing a double take -- am I really on holiday with you? I would probably do the same for my sister but she's mostly asleep.
Everyone is very friendly, the food is fantastic and the weather is sublime: sunny and windy and not too hot. I am definitely feeling some of the downsides of being on a package thing, which is basically like living in a bubble, but it's a very comfortable and chilled out bubble, which is good, and I wouldn't want it any other way with the parentals.
And you aren't exactly guaranteed authentic 'experiences' (man) when trogging round with a backpack, just guaranteed a cheaper and bumpier time. They are running a business here, they are doing a very good job of it, and everyone's a winner, right?
(not sure, need to think about this more)
As a slightly related aside, the waiters must succeed sometimes, or they wouldn't be so doggedly persistent. I wonder what the ratio is -- how many nos to a yes?
joella
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Viva Turkey
You really can get internet access anywhere these days. Along with several pools. more bars, and general holiday-style ambience, our hotel boasts an internet room. Only one of its two PCs works, and that not very fast, but still, how the world has changed.
And we are having a lovely time so far, though my sister is still a little stressed. And I am wondering just how old you have to be before Turkish waiters stop trying to hit on you. Thus far I have resisted, and I have also discovered some marvellous mixed salad flavour crisps. They've got to be good for you, right?
Okay, got to go, my dad is waiting and he wants More Beer.
joella
You really can get internet access anywhere these days. Along with several pools. more bars, and general holiday-style ambience, our hotel boasts an internet room. Only one of its two PCs works, and that not very fast, but still, how the world has changed.
And we are having a lovely time so far, though my sister is still a little stressed. And I am wondering just how old you have to be before Turkish waiters stop trying to hit on you. Thus far I have resisted, and I have also discovered some marvellous mixed salad flavour crisps. They've got to be good for you, right?
Okay, got to go, my dad is waiting and he wants More Beer.
joella
Sunday, May 18, 2003
God bless Miss Selfridge
When I was a teenager in Blackpool, I used to buy most of my clothes at Miss Selfridge (warning: dodgy website that opens many windows and contains not a great deal of information). It was cheap, it was in your face and it was very cool.
And it still is, but I am not, and for the last few years I have done nothing more than stick my nose up against the window and dream (in passing -- this is not an obsession) of being young enough and stick thin enough to get away with wearing whatever type of flourescent multi coloured rags are currently the thing.
But on Saturday I went shopping for my hols, and encouraged by the fact that they now do size 16 (and size 6 -- neither of which sizes existed in teenagers in the 80s), I ventured in.
I didn't even need a size 16, which was extremely pleasing, and I bought a watermelon coloured vest, a khaki vest, a pink top with one side gathered up and the most fantastic pair of green trousers with satin bits, which are slightly too long, but can be used to do that pavement sweeping thing. All for thirty quid. Brilliant.
I may of course look ridiculous, but I can't quite tell. And as I am going with my parents, perhaps subsconsiously I feel that dressing like a teenager is appropriate. We shall see.
I've got to get up in three hours to catch the bus to Gatwick, with my shiny holiday clothes and six novels all packed. I am hoping for an internet cafe so I can blog in Turkey, but otherwise back in a week.
joella
When I was a teenager in Blackpool, I used to buy most of my clothes at Miss Selfridge (warning: dodgy website that opens many windows and contains not a great deal of information). It was cheap, it was in your face and it was very cool.
And it still is, but I am not, and for the last few years I have done nothing more than stick my nose up against the window and dream (in passing -- this is not an obsession) of being young enough and stick thin enough to get away with wearing whatever type of flourescent multi coloured rags are currently the thing.
But on Saturday I went shopping for my hols, and encouraged by the fact that they now do size 16 (and size 6 -- neither of which sizes existed in teenagers in the 80s), I ventured in.
I didn't even need a size 16, which was extremely pleasing, and I bought a watermelon coloured vest, a khaki vest, a pink top with one side gathered up and the most fantastic pair of green trousers with satin bits, which are slightly too long, but can be used to do that pavement sweeping thing. All for thirty quid. Brilliant.
I may of course look ridiculous, but I can't quite tell. And as I am going with my parents, perhaps subsconsiously I feel that dressing like a teenager is appropriate. We shall see.
I've got to get up in three hours to catch the bus to Gatwick, with my shiny holiday clothes and six novels all packed. I am hoping for an internet cafe so I can blog in Turkey, but otherwise back in a week.
joella
Friday, May 16, 2003
Dinner with Radiohead
It all sounded so promising.
I have written about Aziz, his fabulous restaurant and his long-time acquaintance with Miles before (back on November 22 last year). Last time we were in there he was name dropping that Radiohead (sometime Aziz regulars, apparently) were coming to his fundraising evening.
Oooh, said Miles, can we come too? So he took our phone number and said he would ring and let us know.
And the night before, he did. Would we like to come and fundraise with Radiohead? Of course we bloody would. Smart lounge suit, he said. Fine, we said.
So on Tuesday night, S and I were scrabbling round looking for posh clothes and make up, and Miles was wailing because his nearly-only-tie had a big food stain on it.
I emerged wearing my scarf pashmina-style and looking rather elegant, I thought, but S laughed her socks off at me and said I looked like the posh woman across the road. She had enormous hair and high heeled boots on, and was looking very rock chick apart from the fact that she couldn't actually walk properly. We recruited C the sax player from the Limitations as number four, as unlike S's Quiet Man he a) has a suit and b) likes Radiohead.
And off we went.
When we arrived we felt profoundly self-conscious. Where should we sit? Sit anywhere you feel comfortable, said Aziz, how about over there in the corner behind that pillar? So we trotted off there and watched as the place filled up with civic dignitaries and people who looked like estate agents and estate agents' wives. (These people turned out actually to be estate agents and estate agents' wives).
Where were Radiohead? Where, in fact, was anyone under 50 who was not wearing one of the following: loud tie, novelty cufflinks, dress with no straps a couple of sizes too small?
Hmmm. But we liked the family we were seated with, who were also probably more comfortable at the back, we ate our unquestionably delicious dinner, and then it was time for the speeches.
There are some people who couldn't make it, said Aziz. Radiohead, they haven't managed to come. But we do have another very good local band here, we haven't got Radiohead, but we do have the Limitations!
And everyone clapped.
Later on, a football that doesn't actually exist yet but that will definitely be signed by Manchester United when it does was auctioned for £350, we all got a chocolate moulded in the shape of a position from the Kama Sutra, and one of the loud tie brigade offered to sing American Pie if someone donated £50. Foolishly, someone did.
Finally, Aziz insisted that Miles got up to sing, as the resident rock star. We all wanted to die on his behalf, but he survived the experience by insisting on a duet of Hound Dog with Aziz himself, who had offered to sing Elvis earlier in the evening.
Surreal is a much over-used word, but I think it is genuinely valid in this case. We were had by a pro.
But if Aziz hadn't told us that Radiohead were coming, we probably wouldn't have gone, and the Centre for the Rehabilitation of the Paralysed in Bangladesh, an undoubtedly good cause, wouldn't have had all our jelly and treasure hunt money and more besides.
And if Radiohead *had* been there, we probably wouldn't have laughed nearly so much. Also, Thom Yorke would have had to get up and sing an Elvis song instead, which might well have finished him off.
So if you look at it like that, everyone's a winner.
joella
It all sounded so promising.
I have written about Aziz, his fabulous restaurant and his long-time acquaintance with Miles before (back on November 22 last year). Last time we were in there he was name dropping that Radiohead (sometime Aziz regulars, apparently) were coming to his fundraising evening.
Oooh, said Miles, can we come too? So he took our phone number and said he would ring and let us know.
And the night before, he did. Would we like to come and fundraise with Radiohead? Of course we bloody would. Smart lounge suit, he said. Fine, we said.
So on Tuesday night, S and I were scrabbling round looking for posh clothes and make up, and Miles was wailing because his nearly-only-tie had a big food stain on it.
I emerged wearing my scarf pashmina-style and looking rather elegant, I thought, but S laughed her socks off at me and said I looked like the posh woman across the road. She had enormous hair and high heeled boots on, and was looking very rock chick apart from the fact that she couldn't actually walk properly. We recruited C the sax player from the Limitations as number four, as unlike S's Quiet Man he a) has a suit and b) likes Radiohead.
And off we went.
When we arrived we felt profoundly self-conscious. Where should we sit? Sit anywhere you feel comfortable, said Aziz, how about over there in the corner behind that pillar? So we trotted off there and watched as the place filled up with civic dignitaries and people who looked like estate agents and estate agents' wives. (These people turned out actually to be estate agents and estate agents' wives).
Where were Radiohead? Where, in fact, was anyone under 50 who was not wearing one of the following: loud tie, novelty cufflinks, dress with no straps a couple of sizes too small?
Hmmm. But we liked the family we were seated with, who were also probably more comfortable at the back, we ate our unquestionably delicious dinner, and then it was time for the speeches.
There are some people who couldn't make it, said Aziz. Radiohead, they haven't managed to come. But we do have another very good local band here, we haven't got Radiohead, but we do have the Limitations!
And everyone clapped.
Later on, a football that doesn't actually exist yet but that will definitely be signed by Manchester United when it does was auctioned for £350, we all got a chocolate moulded in the shape of a position from the Kama Sutra, and one of the loud tie brigade offered to sing American Pie if someone donated £50. Foolishly, someone did.
Finally, Aziz insisted that Miles got up to sing, as the resident rock star. We all wanted to die on his behalf, but he survived the experience by insisting on a duet of Hound Dog with Aziz himself, who had offered to sing Elvis earlier in the evening.
Surreal is a much over-used word, but I think it is genuinely valid in this case. We were had by a pro.
But if Aziz hadn't told us that Radiohead were coming, we probably wouldn't have gone, and the Centre for the Rehabilitation of the Paralysed in Bangladesh, an undoubtedly good cause, wouldn't have had all our jelly and treasure hunt money and more besides.
And if Radiohead *had* been there, we probably wouldn't have laughed nearly so much. Also, Thom Yorke would have had to get up and sing an Elvis song instead, which might well have finished him off.
So if you look at it like that, everyone's a winner.
joella
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Smells like community spirit
The street fair was a resounding success. Lots of people did Miles's treasure hunt, and some even finished it. I sold all the jelly (apple was more popular than I expected, and vodka was the last to go, who'd have thought it).
I had a couple of glasses of wine from the French cafe, came over all light headed, bought some pink plants and some buns, and played Lemon Jelly and Radio Zumbido from our doorstep when the man down the road wasn't singing pop classics with his acoustic guitar. I got AstroTurf graze from the Tug of War and only got mildly agitated when people trod on my plants as they used the barbecue in our front garden.
The skies opened just after five, conveniently emptying the street, and then I came over all tired and grumpy, not helped by washing up fifty little plastic bowls. Had to retire to my pyjamas and missed Jeremy's party (sorry Jeremy).
Lessons for next time (in the spirit of living and learning)
Do one thing as a household not two, otherwise you get competitive and snappy
Be clear about who's buying the food for the barbecue, otherwise you are eating the surplus all week
Daytime drinking brings daytime hangovers, you should know that already
If you do Tug of War you fall over and it hurts
And Vege-Gel should sponsor me: several vegetarians said they would be off to buy some immediately. Not that they'll find any, as I bought every box in East Oxford.
joella
The street fair was a resounding success. Lots of people did Miles's treasure hunt, and some even finished it. I sold all the jelly (apple was more popular than I expected, and vodka was the last to go, who'd have thought it).
I had a couple of glasses of wine from the French cafe, came over all light headed, bought some pink plants and some buns, and played Lemon Jelly and Radio Zumbido from our doorstep when the man down the road wasn't singing pop classics with his acoustic guitar. I got AstroTurf graze from the Tug of War and only got mildly agitated when people trod on my plants as they used the barbecue in our front garden.
The skies opened just after five, conveniently emptying the street, and then I came over all tired and grumpy, not helped by washing up fifty little plastic bowls. Had to retire to my pyjamas and missed Jeremy's party (sorry Jeremy).
Lessons for next time (in the spirit of living and learning)
And Vege-Gel should sponsor me: several vegetarians said they would be off to buy some immediately. Not that they'll find any, as I bought every box in East Oxford.
joella
Saturday, May 10, 2003
Purple haze
We all have our foibles, right? But why, having left paint trays and rollers all over our already overcrowded kitchen for About Three Weeks, has Miles decided now is the perfect time to do those little bits of touching up to the purple dining room which happens to be a conservatory?
When we need to go out NOW for important last minute jelly and treasure hunt supplies? It's doing my head in.
joella
We all have our foibles, right? But why, having left paint trays and rollers all over our already overcrowded kitchen for About Three Weeks, has Miles decided now is the perfect time to do those little bits of touching up to the purple dining room which happens to be a conservatory?
When we need to go out NOW for important last minute jelly and treasure hunt supplies? It's doing my head in.
joella
Friday, May 09, 2003
Jelly wobbles
I said I would do a jelly stall for our street fair on Sunday (now *there's* a sentence I never thought I'd see myself type). But I'm getting quite worried.
I've done the Tesco run, bought orange juice, grape juice, apple juice, elderflower cordial to make it all a bit sweeter, Seabreeze ingredients for the alco-jelly, Vege-Gel, and little bowls and spoons and napkins. I have the materials for fifty little bowls of jelly.
But
Where am I going to get the time to make fifty little bowls of jelly?
Where am I going to get the fridge space to set fifty little bowls of jelly?
What if I get the proportions wrong and have fifty little bowls of unset jelly?
What if it rains? What am I going to do with fifty little bowls of leftover jelly?
What if nobody likes it (see above)?
Maybe anxious people should stick to clearing up at the end.
Interesting aside -- really I wanted to go to Waitrose, not Tesco. But it was 7.30 and I checked the Waitrose website and it closes at 8. Then I checked the Sainsbury website, which reassured me my nearest branch was open all night. Then I checked the Tesco website... and all you can do is shop online. It tells you nothing whatsoever about its real shops in the real world! Their internet manager is clearly stupid. It does happen.
Tesco won the day nonetheless, but only because I had a hankering for its splendid own-brand Mushroom Burgers. Next time it might not be so lucky.
joella
I said I would do a jelly stall for our street fair on Sunday (now *there's* a sentence I never thought I'd see myself type). But I'm getting quite worried.
I've done the Tesco run, bought orange juice, grape juice, apple juice, elderflower cordial to make it all a bit sweeter, Seabreeze ingredients for the alco-jelly, Vege-Gel, and little bowls and spoons and napkins. I have the materials for fifty little bowls of jelly.
But
Maybe anxious people should stick to clearing up at the end.
Interesting aside -- really I wanted to go to Waitrose, not Tesco. But it was 7.30 and I checked the Waitrose website and it closes at 8. Then I checked the Sainsbury website, which reassured me my nearest branch was open all night. Then I checked the Tesco website... and all you can do is shop online. It tells you nothing whatsoever about its real shops in the real world! Their internet manager is clearly stupid. It does happen.
Tesco won the day nonetheless, but only because I had a hankering for its splendid own-brand Mushroom Burgers. Next time it might not be so lucky.
joella
Thursday, May 08, 2003
Trash
The Limitations are looking for new tunes for their big party in July. I've just been listening to Trash by Suede on 6Music. Now there's a song for Thatcher's children to dance to on a hot summer night.
joella
The Limitations are looking for new tunes for their big party in July. I've just been listening to Trash by Suede on 6Music. Now there's a song for Thatcher's children to dance to on a hot summer night.
joella
Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Punting / Quorn
Two words have amused my Australian artist half-aunt while she has been staying with me.
The first is Quorn. They don't have Quorn in Australia. And if you had heard an Australian say it, you would know why. "What's this Kawoooarn stuff then?" The focus group must have laughed them out of town.
The second is punting, or more specifically 'punt'. I suppose it does sound a bit rude if you say it with a certain vigour. But she seemed to enjoy the experience anyway. We took a day off and headed north past the Victoria Arms. There was hardly a soul on the river, and we ate a Lebanese picnic and got bullied by swans. It was great.
And I have picked up a few things from her lexicon as well. Last time she was here (about nine years ago) it was the fabulous verb 'to pike'. Piking is when you go to bed before everything is eaten, drunk, smoked, snorted and the birds have got up.
I am a big piker at the moment, what with my healthy living. But that's okay these days, because we are all grown ups and have choices. The way to say "no, that's fine, really, you do what you think is best and I will not put any pressure on you to do otherwise", is to say "no worries, it's all good".
It's very satisfying when you get the hang of it.
joella
Two words have amused my Australian artist half-aunt while she has been staying with me.
The first is Quorn. They don't have Quorn in Australia. And if you had heard an Australian say it, you would know why. "What's this Kawoooarn stuff then?" The focus group must have laughed them out of town.
The second is punting, or more specifically 'punt'. I suppose it does sound a bit rude if you say it with a certain vigour. But she seemed to enjoy the experience anyway. We took a day off and headed north past the Victoria Arms. There was hardly a soul on the river, and we ate a Lebanese picnic and got bullied by swans. It was great.
And I have picked up a few things from her lexicon as well. Last time she was here (about nine years ago) it was the fabulous verb 'to pike'. Piking is when you go to bed before everything is eaten, drunk, smoked, snorted and the birds have got up.
I am a big piker at the moment, what with my healthy living. But that's okay these days, because we are all grown ups and have choices. The way to say "no, that's fine, really, you do what you think is best and I will not put any pressure on you to do otherwise", is to say "no worries, it's all good".
It's very satisfying when you get the hang of it.
joella
Friday, May 02, 2003
Cornflake Girl
It's happened! I have started waking up and wanting breakfast! In a sort of 'I need to eat now or I won't function properly' sort of way! This is a remarkable development.
Mostly I am eating cornflakes for breakfast, with So Good, which I grudgingly have to admit does live up to its name. In fact, I like the fresh version of it *better* than milk (though it goes funny in coffee, so you need the long life version, which I do not like better than milk). This is another remarkable development.
Also remarkable, but not a development... I thought of 'Cornflake Girl' this morning and tried to get into Blogger, but it was down. So I went off to do another search, to find out if I can eat cornflour or not (at the request of my aunt, whom I am visiting this weekend with my Australian artist half-aunt).
And Google result #4 is an info page about cornflour which has a link to Amazon to buy... Tori Amos's Cornflake Girl. You couldn't make it up.
joella
It's happened! I have started waking up and wanting breakfast! In a sort of 'I need to eat now or I won't function properly' sort of way! This is a remarkable development.
Mostly I am eating cornflakes for breakfast, with So Good, which I grudgingly have to admit does live up to its name. In fact, I like the fresh version of it *better* than milk (though it goes funny in coffee, so you need the long life version, which I do not like better than milk). This is another remarkable development.
Also remarkable, but not a development... I thought of 'Cornflake Girl' this morning and tried to get into Blogger, but it was down. So I went off to do another search, to find out if I can eat cornflour or not (at the request of my aunt, whom I am visiting this weekend with my Australian artist half-aunt).
And Google result #4 is an info page about cornflour which has a link to Amazon to buy... Tori Amos's Cornflake Girl. You couldn't make it up.
joella
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Seven Nation Army
There are many, many things to like about Jeremy's website. I always try to read her weekly strip, there are lots of clever things with photos, and she keeps a journal as well. She is an example to us all.
One of the things I like best about it is the mood/music stamps all her journal entries have. Wish I'd thought of that. If I had, today would definitely be Seven Nation Army. Very Very Loud. Times like this I'm glad we've got a keyboard amp in the house.
joella
There are many, many things to like about Jeremy's website. I always try to read her weekly strip, there are lots of clever things with photos, and she keeps a journal as well. She is an example to us all.
One of the things I like best about it is the mood/music stamps all her journal entries have. Wish I'd thought of that. If I had, today would definitely be Seven Nation Army. Very Very Loud. Times like this I'm glad we've got a keyboard amp in the house.
joella
Friday, April 25, 2003
Miss Laetitia Cash
Would you take more than five items into the five items or fewer queue at Marks & Spencer? This, I have decided, is one of the great dividing questions of our times.
You see I never would, and I think people who do either can't read, can't count, or have an inflated sense of their own importance.
The five items or fewer queue (as distinct from the five items or less queue that you find in lesser supermarkets) is there for a reason. It is for people who are buying a few things in a bit of a hurry. There are lots of these people at lunchtimes and it makes sense to have a special queue for them so a) they don't get stuck behind people doing their weekly shop and b) the shop avoids long queues. Everyone benefits. Granted, five is a fairly arbitrary number, why not four or six, but it's generally accepted and it's a system that works.
Until people like Miss Laetitia Cash come along.
I was behind her, with two items. There were lots of people behind me, all with five items or fewer, as they are decent members of society and can read and count. She had six items, which she nonchalantly piled on the till. That I can just about live with. But then she disappeared off, bashing me with her sharp-cornered handbag as she went (I was probably a bit close to be honest, as I was giving her pile of six items a Hard Stare).
And, just as it was her turn and I was about to take her place, she arrived back with four smoothies, and added those to the pile. The assistant did look at them all and then look at her and then look at me, but she went ahead and scanned them, as I suppose good customer service people do, even if their customers do not extend the same degree of courtesy to their fellow human beings.
And *then* she produced a cheque book, and proceeded to pay with a very posh cheque from a private bank I had never heard of (which is how I know her name is Miss Laetitia Cash) -- surely the slowest way to pay that there is.
Having taken up more time than three standard transactions of five items or fewer and created a nice long queue of people on their lunch hour, she sauntered off.
I fart in her general direction.
joella
Would you take more than five items into the five items or fewer queue at Marks & Spencer? This, I have decided, is one of the great dividing questions of our times.
You see I never would, and I think people who do either can't read, can't count, or have an inflated sense of their own importance.
The five items or fewer queue (as distinct from the five items or less queue that you find in lesser supermarkets) is there for a reason. It is for people who are buying a few things in a bit of a hurry. There are lots of these people at lunchtimes and it makes sense to have a special queue for them so a) they don't get stuck behind people doing their weekly shop and b) the shop avoids long queues. Everyone benefits. Granted, five is a fairly arbitrary number, why not four or six, but it's generally accepted and it's a system that works.
Until people like Miss Laetitia Cash come along.
I was behind her, with two items. There were lots of people behind me, all with five items or fewer, as they are decent members of society and can read and count. She had six items, which she nonchalantly piled on the till. That I can just about live with. But then she disappeared off, bashing me with her sharp-cornered handbag as she went (I was probably a bit close to be honest, as I was giving her pile of six items a Hard Stare).
And, just as it was her turn and I was about to take her place, she arrived back with four smoothies, and added those to the pile. The assistant did look at them all and then look at her and then look at me, but she went ahead and scanned them, as I suppose good customer service people do, even if their customers do not extend the same degree of courtesy to their fellow human beings.
And *then* she produced a cheque book, and proceeded to pay with a very posh cheque from a private bank I had never heard of (which is how I know her name is Miss Laetitia Cash) -- surely the slowest way to pay that there is.
Having taken up more time than three standard transactions of five items or fewer and created a nice long queue of people on their lunch hour, she sauntered off.
I fart in her general direction.
joella
Thursday, April 24, 2003
Decaf soya cappuccino
My healthy bum regime currently precludes caffeine and dairy products, among other things. So on the whole I am avoiding coffee completely -- it's all too fiddly.
However, last night I was at the train station to meet my visiting Australian artist half-aunt, due in on the 18.18. Which, predictably enough for Virgin Trains, was running half an hour late. As it's a fifteen minute drive home, I decided to wait.
And I waited, and waited, and waited. After a while, the arrival time shifted ten minutes every ten minutes, so the train was always nearly here. I asked the information desk where it actually physically *was* about fifteen times, and each time they said which train, love? THE ONE I JUST ASKED ABOUT TEN MINUTES AGO WHICH IS NOW AN HOUR LATE AND HAS NO FIXED ARRIVAL TIME, I said. Oh, won't be long now, they said. It was like something out of a bad dream.
So I bought a magazine and decided I needed a coffee. I went to the coffee kiosk that all stations have but that nobody can ever remember the name of. I thought I'd just have a black decaf. But they did soya milk too. So I said 'decaf with soya milk please'. The barista reeled off a list of coffee styles, all of which are apparently possible with soya milk. Er, cappuccino, I said.
'Decaf soya cappuccino!' she shouted. 'You fucking what?' said the guy who had to actually make the thing.
When it came it tasted like fluffy eggboxes. Serves me right.
joella
My healthy bum regime currently precludes caffeine and dairy products, among other things. So on the whole I am avoiding coffee completely -- it's all too fiddly.
However, last night I was at the train station to meet my visiting Australian artist half-aunt, due in on the 18.18. Which, predictably enough for Virgin Trains, was running half an hour late. As it's a fifteen minute drive home, I decided to wait.
And I waited, and waited, and waited. After a while, the arrival time shifted ten minutes every ten minutes, so the train was always nearly here. I asked the information desk where it actually physically *was* about fifteen times, and each time they said which train, love? THE ONE I JUST ASKED ABOUT TEN MINUTES AGO WHICH IS NOW AN HOUR LATE AND HAS NO FIXED ARRIVAL TIME, I said. Oh, won't be long now, they said. It was like something out of a bad dream.
So I bought a magazine and decided I needed a coffee. I went to the coffee kiosk that all stations have but that nobody can ever remember the name of. I thought I'd just have a black decaf. But they did soya milk too. So I said 'decaf with soya milk please'. The barista reeled off a list of coffee styles, all of which are apparently possible with soya milk. Er, cappuccino, I said.
'Decaf soya cappuccino!' she shouted. 'You fucking what?' said the guy who had to actually make the thing.
When it came it tasted like fluffy eggboxes. Serves me right.
joella
Monday, April 21, 2003
pLeAsE dOn'T MaKe Me gO BaCk To wORk
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my job. First, I have a work ethic, and second, I can see the point of what I do. It's still working for the man to an extent, but it's a much nicer man than most. He is a force for good in the world, or at least he tries.
But I feel like I've been working forever. I want a big fat juicy break. I had four weeks in Guatemala last year and that was wonderful, but I was superstressed before I went and superstressed as soon as I got back, and that's the price you pay for being away for four weeks. This needs to change.
I've had four days off and I feel good. I am getting stuff done at a good pace, and if I just had a few weeks like this, just mooching, I am sure my world would be so much more manageable.
Or would it? Perhaps I tend to chaos rather than tending to order. Perhaps I use the fact that I work full time as a reason, when in fact it is an excuse. Perhaps I better get my ass back to work pronto just so I can do something useful.
joella
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my job. First, I have a work ethic, and second, I can see the point of what I do. It's still working for the man to an extent, but it's a much nicer man than most. He is a force for good in the world, or at least he tries.
But I feel like I've been working forever. I want a big fat juicy break. I had four weeks in Guatemala last year and that was wonderful, but I was superstressed before I went and superstressed as soon as I got back, and that's the price you pay for being away for four weeks. This needs to change.
I've had four days off and I feel good. I am getting stuff done at a good pace, and if I just had a few weeks like this, just mooching, I am sure my world would be so much more manageable.
Or would it? Perhaps I tend to chaos rather than tending to order. Perhaps I use the fact that I work full time as a reason, when in fact it is an excuse. Perhaps I better get my ass back to work pronto just so I can do something useful.
joella
Sunday, April 20, 2003
Pisshead (not)
Happy Easter!
Mayhem this morning -- everything bar the table from the dining room which happens to be a conservatory was squidged into the kitchen thanks to the purple painting going on yesterday. Then add two people who don't normally cook together and get them cooking together, with about four square inches of worktop free.
Something had to go, and it did -- Miles smashed a picture frame while negotiating his way to the pan cupboard. (Or just the cupboard, for our never-to-be-sufficiently-damned kitchen has only one, but that's another story.) Broken glass and food do not mix well. It was tense.
But it all worked out in the end, and six of us sat down to a splendiferous roast dinner only half an hour later than planned, and with it some of the aforementioned Chablis. Very, very cold, it was, very smooth, and very, very delicious. It was like revisiting a foreign country, where the waters are warmer and it's tempting to swim out into them, but you know it could turn stormy at any moment.
Ah, wine. So we got a bit drunk but not very. Everything was sparkly and giggly for a bit, and then our guests left and S disappeared with her Quiet Man, and I settled down for a little snooze.
And now it's all normal again, except I feel a bit lazy and crumpled round the edges. Which I guess I am.
So this evening, rather than heading out on the piss, I have been trying to resolve the Great Bathroom Dispute. S wants it blue, only blue is allowed, no other colours except maybe purple. I am happy with blue but want a contrasting colour for the woodwork, of which there is quite a lot. I have had enough of purple. I bought a print of Cherry Autumn by Bridget Riley to hang in there and want to use a blue from that with one of the orangey-pinks or orangey-yellows.
S maintains that blue and orange can never exist in harmony, and I am out to convince her that they can, as long as they are the right blue and the right orange. And I have discovered a fantastic feature on the Dulux website called MousePainter. You choose a room to play with, choose the photo that's most like your room, then try different colours of paint on the walls, the woodwork, the floor etc.
The colours are a bit off, but it's a lot better than squinting at colour charts and trying to imagine them all over your walls. You can also ask it to suggest coordinating colours, or choose only from certain ranges. This is what DIY websites should be about. I approve.
The version on the Dulux Australia site is called MyColour and is even better -- you can see what it's like at night as well as in the daytime, and the rooms are bigger. But the paint colours are different. Why is that? Do Australians actually have different colours or do they just call them different things?
On both though you can save your schemes to show your sceptical housemates, and print off a list of all the colours you need. Then, if you measure your room, you can pop over to the Wickes website and put in the dimensions, and it will tell you how many pots of paint you need.
I think that's enough DIY websites for one day.
joella
Happy Easter!
Mayhem this morning -- everything bar the table from the dining room which happens to be a conservatory was squidged into the kitchen thanks to the purple painting going on yesterday. Then add two people who don't normally cook together and get them cooking together, with about four square inches of worktop free.
Something had to go, and it did -- Miles smashed a picture frame while negotiating his way to the pan cupboard. (Or just the cupboard, for our never-to-be-sufficiently-damned kitchen has only one, but that's another story.) Broken glass and food do not mix well. It was tense.
But it all worked out in the end, and six of us sat down to a splendiferous roast dinner only half an hour later than planned, and with it some of the aforementioned Chablis. Very, very cold, it was, very smooth, and very, very delicious. It was like revisiting a foreign country, where the waters are warmer and it's tempting to swim out into them, but you know it could turn stormy at any moment.
Ah, wine. So we got a bit drunk but not very. Everything was sparkly and giggly for a bit, and then our guests left and S disappeared with her Quiet Man, and I settled down for a little snooze.
And now it's all normal again, except I feel a bit lazy and crumpled round the edges. Which I guess I am.
So this evening, rather than heading out on the piss, I have been trying to resolve the Great Bathroom Dispute. S wants it blue, only blue is allowed, no other colours except maybe purple. I am happy with blue but want a contrasting colour for the woodwork, of which there is quite a lot. I have had enough of purple. I bought a print of Cherry Autumn by Bridget Riley to hang in there and want to use a blue from that with one of the orangey-pinks or orangey-yellows.
S maintains that blue and orange can never exist in harmony, and I am out to convince her that they can, as long as they are the right blue and the right orange. And I have discovered a fantastic feature on the Dulux website called MousePainter. You choose a room to play with, choose the photo that's most like your room, then try different colours of paint on the walls, the woodwork, the floor etc.
The colours are a bit off, but it's a lot better than squinting at colour charts and trying to imagine them all over your walls. You can also ask it to suggest coordinating colours, or choose only from certain ranges. This is what DIY websites should be about. I approve.
The version on the Dulux Australia site is called MyColour and is even better -- you can see what it's like at night as well as in the daytime, and the rooms are bigger. But the paint colours are different. Why is that? Do Australians actually have different colours or do they just call them different things?
On both though you can save your schemes to show your sceptical housemates, and print off a list of all the colours you need. Then, if you measure your room, you can pop over to the Wickes website and put in the dimensions, and it will tell you how many pots of paint you need.
I think that's enough DIY websites for one day.
joella
Saturday, April 19, 2003
Cleanliness is next to godliness is next to drunkenness
I don't do Easter in the sense that people who go to church do Easter. I am far too lapsed a Catholic for that.
But I do do Lent (normally: crisps, this year: cheese -- though I have modified this to allow goat's cheese and sheep's cheese given that I am currently eating no cow's milk products at all as part of colon detox -- a kind of SuperLent). I would point out that I had already given up cheese for Lent before I was told to give up cow's milk -- Lent's not about cheating.
And in anticipation of Easter we have cleaned the house from top to bottom -- well, top and bottom, the stairs are still pretty dirty. My job was the kitchen and the shower room, and neither has been cleaner in recent memory. S has done one of her super-blitz jobs on the front room, the back room and the bathroom, and Miles got out of his job -- the dining room which happens to be a conservatory -- by painting it purple instead. I am not sure about this at all, it does have a distinct 80s tinge now, what with the glittery black woodwork, but I hear the 80s are cool again, and anyway, it's better than the 'apple white' it was before.
We are having a big roast to celebrate tomorrow (nuts for me, chicken for everyone else, and I've made mine already how organised is that), and competing with the paint fumes will be... wine.
I said Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND NINETEEN!), yet there is some very posh Chablis (well, fuck it, if you're going to do it at least make it worth it) chilling in the fridge. I did think about this very hard. I am still not 100% sure it's a good idea. But god, am I looking forward to it.
joella
I don't do Easter in the sense that people who go to church do Easter. I am far too lapsed a Catholic for that.
But I do do Lent (normally: crisps, this year: cheese -- though I have modified this to allow goat's cheese and sheep's cheese given that I am currently eating no cow's milk products at all as part of colon detox -- a kind of SuperLent). I would point out that I had already given up cheese for Lent before I was told to give up cow's milk -- Lent's not about cheating.
And in anticipation of Easter we have cleaned the house from top to bottom -- well, top and bottom, the stairs are still pretty dirty. My job was the kitchen and the shower room, and neither has been cleaner in recent memory. S has done one of her super-blitz jobs on the front room, the back room and the bathroom, and Miles got out of his job -- the dining room which happens to be a conservatory -- by painting it purple instead. I am not sure about this at all, it does have a distinct 80s tinge now, what with the glittery black woodwork, but I hear the 80s are cool again, and anyway, it's better than the 'apple white' it was before.
We are having a big roast to celebrate tomorrow (nuts for me, chicken for everyone else, and I've made mine already how organised is that), and competing with the paint fumes will be... wine.
I said Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND NINETEEN!), yet there is some very posh Chablis (well, fuck it, if you're going to do it at least make it worth it) chilling in the fridge. I did think about this very hard. I am still not 100% sure it's a good idea. But god, am I looking forward to it.
joella
Thursday, April 17, 2003
A.G.R.O.
One of the fabulous things about being sober is that I can follow the plot of 24. Ten o'clock on a Sunday night is prime sorrows-drowning time, so much of the first series was me going 'why did he do that?', 'is she the one that did that thing with the guy from earlier?' and 'have we seen him before is he a terrorist?'.
This series it's all different. I can even remember some of their names. That Kate Warner really gets on my nerves. (See?) And it's a race against the clock to get into bed by 10 on Sunday nights, to watch on the portable that's balanced precariously on the laundry basket for just this purpose.
So imagine my horror and disgust when this week there was no 24 because of the fucking GOLF. Is there *anything* sadder than watching golf on television? I once found myself watching an angling competition on television, which is probably even sadder than watching the test card, but then I was pretty stoned at the time -- and it was 3am. It was not 24 time.
This is not the first time golf has disrupted my life. In 1988, the Open was held at Lytham, where at the time I was an 18 year old with a lot of attitude. The whole town was taken over by large cars and wealthy people in bad clothes, you couldn't get into places or park anywhere and everything was reserved for someone who wasn't you.
It did bring some work with it, and I spent some evenings washing up in the kitchens of large houses being run for the duration by ex-chalet girls who brayed at the sight of the boy Glen, who I took with me a couple of times. They sent him straight off to do the barbecuing -- a man prepared to get his hands dirty was a wonderful find. Meanwhile I hacked at strawberries and avoided the wandering hands of clean on the outside filthy on the inside rich kids. And their dads. Nice.
Clearly, a statement had to be made. I had just got my 2cv, the first piece of the world to belong to me me me, and the boy Glen and I came up with A.G.R.O. -- the Anti-Golf Residents Organisation. We made signs with golf balls turned into CND signs and feminist symbols (as I recall, it's a touch hazy), stuck them to the car windows (not the safest move I have ever made) and drove round town with the roof off punching the air and shouting 'AGRO!'
I did feel a whole lot better.
I saw my little 2cv the other night. She lives about ten minutes walk away now, but it's the first time I've seen her since I sold her. She was all clean and shiny and had a new set of seats. My heart ached, but I know I did the right thing. It's hard being a grown up.
joella
One of the fabulous things about being sober is that I can follow the plot of 24. Ten o'clock on a Sunday night is prime sorrows-drowning time, so much of the first series was me going 'why did he do that?', 'is she the one that did that thing with the guy from earlier?' and 'have we seen him before is he a terrorist?'.
This series it's all different. I can even remember some of their names. That Kate Warner really gets on my nerves. (See?) And it's a race against the clock to get into bed by 10 on Sunday nights, to watch on the portable that's balanced precariously on the laundry basket for just this purpose.
So imagine my horror and disgust when this week there was no 24 because of the fucking GOLF. Is there *anything* sadder than watching golf on television? I once found myself watching an angling competition on television, which is probably even sadder than watching the test card, but then I was pretty stoned at the time -- and it was 3am. It was not 24 time.
This is not the first time golf has disrupted my life. In 1988, the Open was held at Lytham, where at the time I was an 18 year old with a lot of attitude. The whole town was taken over by large cars and wealthy people in bad clothes, you couldn't get into places or park anywhere and everything was reserved for someone who wasn't you.
It did bring some work with it, and I spent some evenings washing up in the kitchens of large houses being run for the duration by ex-chalet girls who brayed at the sight of the boy Glen, who I took with me a couple of times. They sent him straight off to do the barbecuing -- a man prepared to get his hands dirty was a wonderful find. Meanwhile I hacked at strawberries and avoided the wandering hands of clean on the outside filthy on the inside rich kids. And their dads. Nice.
Clearly, a statement had to be made. I had just got my 2cv, the first piece of the world to belong to me me me, and the boy Glen and I came up with A.G.R.O. -- the Anti-Golf Residents Organisation. We made signs with golf balls turned into CND signs and feminist symbols (as I recall, it's a touch hazy), stuck them to the car windows (not the safest move I have ever made) and drove round town with the roof off punching the air and shouting 'AGRO!'
I did feel a whole lot better.
I saw my little 2cv the other night. She lives about ten minutes walk away now, but it's the first time I've seen her since I sold her. She was all clean and shiny and had a new set of seats. My heart ached, but I know I did the right thing. It's hard being a grown up.
joella
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Little fluffy poo
Well, something is working, whether it's the strange diet or the many odd capsules I am swallowing every day or the vast quantities of water I am drinking. I have never had poos like this.
Why is poo such a funny word? I have been using it a lot lately, and remembered a hilarious game Miles and I invented on a long boring walk home some time last year.
We were drunk at the time, but it does work sober, and you can try it whenever you are bored. It's sensible to play with at least two, otherwise you make stupid noises and people stare.
You think of the name of a song, substitute one of the words with poo, and say it out loud. Simple as that. 'How much is that poo in the window?', 'Dead ringer for poo', 'Brown girl in the poo' etc.
Our favourite though was 'I want to hold your poo'.
joella
Well, something is working, whether it's the strange diet or the many odd capsules I am swallowing every day or the vast quantities of water I am drinking. I have never had poos like this.
Why is poo such a funny word? I have been using it a lot lately, and remembered a hilarious game Miles and I invented on a long boring walk home some time last year.
We were drunk at the time, but it does work sober, and you can try it whenever you are bored. It's sensible to play with at least two, otherwise you make stupid noises and people stare.
You think of the name of a song, substitute one of the words with poo, and say it out loud. Simple as that. 'How much is that poo in the window?', 'Dead ringer for poo', 'Brown girl in the poo' etc.
Our favourite though was 'I want to hold your poo'.
joella
Sunday, April 13, 2003
Looking after number two
This week, Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND THREE!) moved up a gear. In fact, it moved up my bum.
On Wednesday I went to see a quite severe yet rather glamorous ("I don't drink gin anymore because I just like it too much") nurse turned colonic hydrotherapist. She gave me a strong detox talking to, wrote a list of the things I am not allowed to eat for the next six weeks, and then got to work.
It wasn't quite what I was expecting. I mean, obviously I was expecting something involving tubing, warm water and slight indignity, but I did figure it would be a one off, a bit like getting your legs waxed. You go in, go through it, pay, leave, think 'why do I do this to myself', then think, 'oh, but it's worth it'. I didn't count on the full-on colon cleanse experience that I suddenly seem to have embarked upon. But apparently just washing out your bum does not a healthy colon make.
Instead, a healthy colon involves a spell of not eating wheat, or anything made from cow's milk, because these are hard to digest. Then it involves no alcohol -- this at least I know I can do -- but, far more frighteningly, no caffeine. Plus some herbs and some husky things and some Aloe Vera. It's all explained on the Cytoplan website.
And on top of all that I get four more 'colonics'. If you say it quickly it makes you think of tonics, which are good things and do not involve any poo.
I was wondering what do to with all the cash I am saving from not drinking. Instead of pissing it away I am sticking it up my bum.
joella
This week, Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND THREE!) moved up a gear. In fact, it moved up my bum.
On Wednesday I went to see a quite severe yet rather glamorous ("I don't drink gin anymore because I just like it too much") nurse turned colonic hydrotherapist. She gave me a strong detox talking to, wrote a list of the things I am not allowed to eat for the next six weeks, and then got to work.
It wasn't quite what I was expecting. I mean, obviously I was expecting something involving tubing, warm water and slight indignity, but I did figure it would be a one off, a bit like getting your legs waxed. You go in, go through it, pay, leave, think 'why do I do this to myself', then think, 'oh, but it's worth it'. I didn't count on the full-on colon cleanse experience that I suddenly seem to have embarked upon. But apparently just washing out your bum does not a healthy colon make.
Instead, a healthy colon involves a spell of not eating wheat, or anything made from cow's milk, because these are hard to digest. Then it involves no alcohol -- this at least I know I can do -- but, far more frighteningly, no caffeine. Plus some herbs and some husky things and some Aloe Vera. It's all explained on the Cytoplan website.
And on top of all that I get four more 'colonics'. If you say it quickly it makes you think of tonics, which are good things and do not involve any poo.
I was wondering what do to with all the cash I am saving from not drinking. Instead of pissing it away I am sticking it up my bum.
joella
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Victory for Kneely Chairs!
Back at the beginning of February I wrote about the chair fascism in my office, when my kneely chair was Banned. A man from the frighteningly named Posturite came to see me and brought me a chair which can do everything but make the tea, but upon which sitting is compulsory.
It was on trial, and I tried, I really did. But it gave me terrible neckache and made my legs feel heavy, and and and. I just can't work on chairs, I don't like them. And so today he came back with the nice but scary HR woman. He is taking it away and bringing me a kneely chair, only with a five point base so it is not illegal. I will look like a lunatic but I will not care.
Two months elapsed time, several hours of pain, several more of frustration, one lot of tears and many rants later, and I've finally got what I want. Which is almost exactly what I had before, but let's not go there.
joella
Back at the beginning of February I wrote about the chair fascism in my office, when my kneely chair was Banned. A man from the frighteningly named Posturite came to see me and brought me a chair which can do everything but make the tea, but upon which sitting is compulsory.
It was on trial, and I tried, I really did. But it gave me terrible neckache and made my legs feel heavy, and and and. I just can't work on chairs, I don't like them. And so today he came back with the nice but scary HR woman. He is taking it away and bringing me a kneely chair, only with a five point base so it is not illegal. I will look like a lunatic but I will not care.
Two months elapsed time, several hours of pain, several more of frustration, one lot of tears and many rants later, and I've finally got what I want. Which is almost exactly what I had before, but let's not go there.
joella
Monday, April 07, 2003
Earthling
I love my garden.
When I moved into the flat I shared with my Significant Ex, I had a kitchen of my own for the first time and I learnt to cook. I loved that flat, and I loved that kitchen. There wasn't a garden -- there wasn't even a balcony -- but I didn't really see the point of growing things, I had only just learnt to cook them.
Then when I left, I moved into the Flat On Top Of A Storage Building. That had a windswept little patio, on which S and I grew precisely nothing. We didn't even have a houseplant, though we did have a hammock. We were hedonistically utilitarian.
When we looked round houses, I just thought, right, yeah, garden, whatever, how far's the pub?
And then we moved in. And there was suddenly this whole extra outdoor room that I had no idea what to do with. I wish I'd taken photos of it now, it was like a little jungle. I had no tools, no knowledge of what anything was, nothing. And it kind of fell to me to work it out, because I seemed to care the most.
So I began my gardening life much like I had begun my cooking life five years earlier, by reading books and having a go. And now I can spend all weekend doing it. Miles comes out to help sometimes, and is a very good weeder, and even S has done a bit of digging.
This weekend I went to a plant fair with some of my planty friends. I bought a clematis (montana rubens, if you care) and an erysimum (a new kind called Apricot Twist, if you care), and I knew exactly where they were both going to go. I also know that lavender doesn't create new growth on old wood, I know that rosemary prefers poor soil, and I know that camellias shouldn't face east. Mine does, but I didn't plant it.
It is lovely to know that I still have room in my head for a whole body of new knowledge, and it's lovely to plan things and then see them happen. It is quite a lot like cooking in that respect, but everything takes much, much longer. I won't be a good gardener for a long time yet, but I'll get there one day.
There is also something quite profoundly calming and optimistic about it, especially at this time of year, when the sap is rising and everything is waking up. Last weekend was the first time I really went for it since the winter, and I realised that I could dig a lot longer and pull a lot harder than I could in October. It must use a lot of the same muscles as yoga. How very zen.
NB I am not premenstrual anymore, as if that weren't utterly obvious.
joella
I love my garden.
When I moved into the flat I shared with my Significant Ex, I had a kitchen of my own for the first time and I learnt to cook. I loved that flat, and I loved that kitchen. There wasn't a garden -- there wasn't even a balcony -- but I didn't really see the point of growing things, I had only just learnt to cook them.
Then when I left, I moved into the Flat On Top Of A Storage Building. That had a windswept little patio, on which S and I grew precisely nothing. We didn't even have a houseplant, though we did have a hammock. We were hedonistically utilitarian.
When we looked round houses, I just thought, right, yeah, garden, whatever, how far's the pub?
And then we moved in. And there was suddenly this whole extra outdoor room that I had no idea what to do with. I wish I'd taken photos of it now, it was like a little jungle. I had no tools, no knowledge of what anything was, nothing. And it kind of fell to me to work it out, because I seemed to care the most.
So I began my gardening life much like I had begun my cooking life five years earlier, by reading books and having a go. And now I can spend all weekend doing it. Miles comes out to help sometimes, and is a very good weeder, and even S has done a bit of digging.
This weekend I went to a plant fair with some of my planty friends. I bought a clematis (montana rubens, if you care) and an erysimum (a new kind called Apricot Twist, if you care), and I knew exactly where they were both going to go. I also know that lavender doesn't create new growth on old wood, I know that rosemary prefers poor soil, and I know that camellias shouldn't face east. Mine does, but I didn't plant it.
It is lovely to know that I still have room in my head for a whole body of new knowledge, and it's lovely to plan things and then see them happen. It is quite a lot like cooking in that respect, but everything takes much, much longer. I won't be a good gardener for a long time yet, but I'll get there one day.
There is also something quite profoundly calming and optimistic about it, especially at this time of year, when the sap is rising and everything is waking up. Last weekend was the first time I really went for it since the winter, and I realised that I could dig a lot longer and pull a lot harder than I could in October. It must use a lot of the same muscles as yoga. How very zen.
NB I am not premenstrual anymore, as if that weren't utterly obvious.
joella
Friday, April 04, 2003
Falafel
I have just been to the library and got out the Book of English Food by the rather splendidly named Arabella Boxer. It's about how and what the British ate between the wars, which is what interested me about it, that social history angle, although I am also on the lookout for good cake recipes since the appearance of cake tins in the kitchen following the birth of my sweet tooth.
But I mainly got it out for Miles, who likes traditional things. It has a whole chapter on Tea, in the sandwiches and buns sense of the word, and another one on Picnics. And I am sure he will look at recipes for Roast Rack of Lamb and Braised Oxtail and wonder how he ever ended up living with a vegetarian.
And indeed it would have been very difficult to be a vegetarian living in Britain between the wars. Not least (as I finally get to the point) because there was no falafel. And falafel is the food of the gods.
I can remember my first falafel. It was my first visit to Israel in 1980, also memorable for my first experiences of houmous, pitta bread, tahina, sunflower seeds, and Kinley, a fizzy orange drink made by the Coca Cola Company which I have never seen anywhere else in the world but which was bloody wonderful. These days you can buy falafel in supermarkets, but in those days you could only get it in the Middle East, and maybe in Middle Eastern delis, and we didn't have any of those where I grew up.
And it was like being shown a secret door into heaven. My sister, my dad and I took to hanging round the bus station at Haifa, where stalls would sell you a pitta bread with four or five hot little balls in it and you would fill the rest of the space up with five different kinds of olive, fourteen different kinds of pickle, some salad, some tahina and some chilli sauce. You would eat it far too fast and then do it again, until you felt sick.
Is there a more perfect food? Good for you, vegetarian, nay, vegan, super tasty, and you can do whatever you like with it. It's so wonderful that people fight over who thought of it first. I don't mind, just bring it on. I do have access to a Middle Eastern deli these days and very glad I am too.
joella
I have just been to the library and got out the Book of English Food by the rather splendidly named Arabella Boxer. It's about how and what the British ate between the wars, which is what interested me about it, that social history angle, although I am also on the lookout for good cake recipes since the appearance of cake tins in the kitchen following the birth of my sweet tooth.
But I mainly got it out for Miles, who likes traditional things. It has a whole chapter on Tea, in the sandwiches and buns sense of the word, and another one on Picnics. And I am sure he will look at recipes for Roast Rack of Lamb and Braised Oxtail and wonder how he ever ended up living with a vegetarian.
And indeed it would have been very difficult to be a vegetarian living in Britain between the wars. Not least (as I finally get to the point) because there was no falafel. And falafel is the food of the gods.
I can remember my first falafel. It was my first visit to Israel in 1980, also memorable for my first experiences of houmous, pitta bread, tahina, sunflower seeds, and Kinley, a fizzy orange drink made by the Coca Cola Company which I have never seen anywhere else in the world but which was bloody wonderful. These days you can buy falafel in supermarkets, but in those days you could only get it in the Middle East, and maybe in Middle Eastern delis, and we didn't have any of those where I grew up.
And it was like being shown a secret door into heaven. My sister, my dad and I took to hanging round the bus station at Haifa, where stalls would sell you a pitta bread with four or five hot little balls in it and you would fill the rest of the space up with five different kinds of olive, fourteen different kinds of pickle, some salad, some tahina and some chilli sauce. You would eat it far too fast and then do it again, until you felt sick.
Is there a more perfect food? Good for you, vegetarian, nay, vegan, super tasty, and you can do whatever you like with it. It's so wonderful that people fight over who thought of it first. I don't mind, just bring it on. I do have access to a Middle Eastern deli these days and very glad I am too.
joella
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Better, kinda
Not feeling quite so much full of vitriol today. I have done some yoga and drunk some herbal tea and walked round the garden looking at all that life bursting through demanding to be lived.
I retain an inner sneer, however, especially for those who avoid telling you something you may find hard to hear but will find out anyway, those who look you in the eye and lie to you, those who try and sell you things that they know won't do the job they purport to do, and those who are stupid enough to believe the hype and don't listen to you if you are not.
In other words, the manipulative, the cowardly and the occupants of Golgafrincham Ark B.
When I get my period (any minute, by the sounds of things...) I will collapse in a little heap of pain and deep reflection, but right now the moral high ground is All Mine.
joella
Not feeling quite so much full of vitriol today. I have done some yoga and drunk some herbal tea and walked round the garden looking at all that life bursting through demanding to be lived.
I retain an inner sneer, however, especially for those who avoid telling you something you may find hard to hear but will find out anyway, those who look you in the eye and lie to you, those who try and sell you things that they know won't do the job they purport to do, and those who are stupid enough to believe the hype and don't listen to you if you are not.
In other words, the manipulative, the cowardly and the occupants of Golgafrincham Ark B.
When I get my period (any minute, by the sounds of things...) I will collapse in a little heap of pain and deep reflection, but right now the moral high ground is All Mine.
joella
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
Not a nice person and stuff
There's a Eurythmics song called You Hurt Me (and I Hate You). I buy that sentiment. There are lots of unpleasant things that I *don't* do, but I do have the capacity to hate people, and I do use it. In fact, I can't stop it.
If I could edit my own psyche I would tone that bit down, because it can be quite painful, although I don't think I would take it out altogether. It's healthier to acknowledge these things and it's a fairly good survival tool in a world where you have choices. But it is a little tiresome sometimes. I do hate some people on my hate list a bit less over time, but my average grudge stretches into decades.
And today I hate pretty much everything, but I hate the people I hate in particular (NB these can also be people who have hurt me by hurting the world -- I *really* hate Thatcher, for example). Fuck off the lot of you.
joella
There's a Eurythmics song called You Hurt Me (and I Hate You). I buy that sentiment. There are lots of unpleasant things that I *don't* do, but I do have the capacity to hate people, and I do use it. In fact, I can't stop it.
If I could edit my own psyche I would tone that bit down, because it can be quite painful, although I don't think I would take it out altogether. It's healthier to acknowledge these things and it's a fairly good survival tool in a world where you have choices. But it is a little tiresome sometimes. I do hate some people on my hate list a bit less over time, but my average grudge stretches into decades.
And today I hate pretty much everything, but I hate the people I hate in particular (NB these can also be people who have hurt me by hurting the world -- I *really* hate Thatcher, for example). Fuck off the lot of you.
joella
Sunday, March 30, 2003
Saturday, March 29, 2003
The path to a salwar kameez
There's a shop just down the road from my house called SK Fabrics. I have often looked longingly through the window, but have never dared go in.
It sells fabrics, obviously enough, many of them fabulously embroidered and otherwise exotic. The problem is that I don't know what to do with fabrics. I have friends who know how to make clothes, curtains, whatever, can follow patterns, use sewing machines. I am not such a person. And I have felt doubly daunted because it's an Asian shop and is frequented by elegantly dressed Asian women buying fabric, it always seems, with unattainable know-how and confidence.
But today this all changed. My friend K is several months pregnant and summer is coming. She wanted a salwar kameez, but didn't have a clue how to make one happen, and was also too nervous to go in to SK Fabrics on her own.
So, having worked up to it via Bombay Emporium (ready-made Indian clothes, quite accessible as it also sells the kind of long floaty cotton skirts any self-respecting seventies child has found herself in at some stage in her life), we ventured into the world of fabric.
And I am very glad there were two of us. It was totally impenetrable at first -- what do you wear with what? How much do you need? Do they sell patterns? After a while four women came in together and began animatedly comparing different rolls of material in a language we didn't understand. K very bravely asked two of them if they knew anyone who could make her up a salwar kameez. Because we don't have a pattern, I added.
Oh no, there are no patterns, they said. Let me ask my sister over there, one of them added. Thanks, we said. And then for a good ten minutes we hung around, feeling increasingly bemused as the four women and the shopkeeper pulled out more and more rolls and talked and talked and talked and didn't give us another glance.
When we had looked at every single roll in the shop and were beginning to wonder if we should just sneak out, the shopkeeper asked us what we wanted. We're just, um, waiting for some advice from these ladies, I said. OH! they said and it all went off again for a while. Ask him! they told us, and sure enough, it turns out the shopkeeper knows a woman who will do it.
Then K tells him which fabric she likes, and he tells her this roll is for the shirt, this is for the trousers, and this is for the scarf. Okay, she says, but I don't think I need a scarf. He gives her a hard look and cuts her fabric for her shirt, her trousers and her scarf. He asks her some questions about neckline and sleeve length preferences, how tall she is and what size she is, and it's a done deal. After some prompting, he adds the fact that she's pregnant to the instruction. (Surely this is relevant when you are making clothes?).
It will be ready in two weeks. I can't wait to see it.
It feels like a whole new world has opened. I am no longer scared of SK Fabrics. I might even have a salwar kameez of my own one day.
joella
There's a shop just down the road from my house called SK Fabrics. I have often looked longingly through the window, but have never dared go in.
It sells fabrics, obviously enough, many of them fabulously embroidered and otherwise exotic. The problem is that I don't know what to do with fabrics. I have friends who know how to make clothes, curtains, whatever, can follow patterns, use sewing machines. I am not such a person. And I have felt doubly daunted because it's an Asian shop and is frequented by elegantly dressed Asian women buying fabric, it always seems, with unattainable know-how and confidence.
But today this all changed. My friend K is several months pregnant and summer is coming. She wanted a salwar kameez, but didn't have a clue how to make one happen, and was also too nervous to go in to SK Fabrics on her own.
So, having worked up to it via Bombay Emporium (ready-made Indian clothes, quite accessible as it also sells the kind of long floaty cotton skirts any self-respecting seventies child has found herself in at some stage in her life), we ventured into the world of fabric.
And I am very glad there were two of us. It was totally impenetrable at first -- what do you wear with what? How much do you need? Do they sell patterns? After a while four women came in together and began animatedly comparing different rolls of material in a language we didn't understand. K very bravely asked two of them if they knew anyone who could make her up a salwar kameez. Because we don't have a pattern, I added.
Oh no, there are no patterns, they said. Let me ask my sister over there, one of them added. Thanks, we said. And then for a good ten minutes we hung around, feeling increasingly bemused as the four women and the shopkeeper pulled out more and more rolls and talked and talked and talked and didn't give us another glance.
When we had looked at every single roll in the shop and were beginning to wonder if we should just sneak out, the shopkeeper asked us what we wanted. We're just, um, waiting for some advice from these ladies, I said. OH! they said and it all went off again for a while. Ask him! they told us, and sure enough, it turns out the shopkeeper knows a woman who will do it.
Then K tells him which fabric she likes, and he tells her this roll is for the shirt, this is for the trousers, and this is for the scarf. Okay, she says, but I don't think I need a scarf. He gives her a hard look and cuts her fabric for her shirt, her trousers and her scarf. He asks her some questions about neckline and sleeve length preferences, how tall she is and what size she is, and it's a done deal. After some prompting, he adds the fact that she's pregnant to the instruction. (Surely this is relevant when you are making clothes?).
It will be ready in two weeks. I can't wait to see it.
It feels like a whole new world has opened. I am no longer scared of SK Fabrics. I might even have a salwar kameez of my own one day.
joella
Thursday, March 27, 2003
The blogs of war
Ouch, sorry about that, just came into my head.
I've been in Manchester for a teambuilding extravaganza, and am not sufficiently wired to blog from locations with no PCs (note to self: earn more money so can have laptop). Have been pining a bit -- horrific war on, no means to say anything about it. I did see an internet cafe, but I was just too damn busy bonding.
Others are anyway saying far more interesting things. Salam Pax for one: unmonitored blogging from Baghdad. And the BBC news reporters for another -- somehow this feels more immediate and genuine than the relentless 24 hour news coverage, even though nothing of huge note is being said.
Mr B, I hope you are safe in Istanbul and not doing scary things on borders.
joella
Ouch, sorry about that, just came into my head.
I've been in Manchester for a teambuilding extravaganza, and am not sufficiently wired to blog from locations with no PCs (note to self: earn more money so can have laptop). Have been pining a bit -- horrific war on, no means to say anything about it. I did see an internet cafe, but I was just too damn busy bonding.
Others are anyway saying far more interesting things. Salam Pax for one: unmonitored blogging from Baghdad. And the BBC news reporters for another -- somehow this feels more immediate and genuine than the relentless 24 hour news coverage, even though nothing of huge note is being said.
Mr B, I hope you are safe in Istanbul and not doing scary things on borders.
joella
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Sun salutations
Advantages of getting up at 6.30 on a beautiful morning to go to yoga:
You feel madly virtuous and beatific,
Dog pose is for some reason easier first thing in the morning,
You get to do an hour of exercise, have a shower, eat poached eggs on toast and *still* get to work on time.
Disadvantages of getting up at 6.30 on a beautiful morning to go to yoga:
You get to find out that there's a war on two hours before you would have done otherwise,
You have to watch a mucho-mascara-ed blonde woman in a gas mask on Evil Sky News in the changing rooms rather than listen to lovely John Humphreys on the Today Programme.
joella
Advantages of getting up at 6.30 on a beautiful morning to go to yoga:
Disadvantages of getting up at 6.30 on a beautiful morning to go to yoga:
joella
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Enter Sandman
Another beautiful spring day, and today I am having just as much fun listening to Enter Sandman on Radio 6. Now on the surface of it, Metallica and the Grateful Dead don't have very much in common, but I have exactly the same desire to be driving down a B road in a 2cv punching the air where the roof normally is.
Instead I am sitting at my desk in headphones waving my arms in the air like a loon. My manager doesn't have many heavy metal moments, I don't think.
joella
Another beautiful spring day, and today I am having just as much fun listening to Enter Sandman on Radio 6. Now on the surface of it, Metallica and the Grateful Dead don't have very much in common, but I have exactly the same desire to be driving down a B road in a 2cv punching the air where the roof normally is.
Instead I am sitting at my desk in headphones waving my arms in the air like a loon. My manager doesn't have many heavy metal moments, I don't think.
joella
Friday, March 14, 2003
Box of rain
What a beautiful day it has been. The sun, the blossom in the trees, the wind, the daffodils.
And I am thankful for spring, but something is missing, and that something is my little 2cv. The first roof off drive of spring is a ritual we shared for many years, but this year Conrad gets that pleasure. That is better than no one getting it at all, but it's hard.
And so it was that I borrowed Miles's car to get to my leg waxing appointment at lunchtime. It can't touch a 2cv for convertible style and spring joie de vivre, but it does have a CD player, and that makes up for a lot. And the song that I played as I drove through Oxford with the wind as much in my hair as I could manage with a roof that has to stay on, was Box of Rain by the Grateful Dead (the link is to annotated lyrics from a guy at the University of Colorado -- surely an honour accorded to few other bands...)
I felt lots of things -- Box of Rain is one of those songs -- but most of them good. A great song for springtime. Play it loud.
joella
What a beautiful day it has been. The sun, the blossom in the trees, the wind, the daffodils.
And I am thankful for spring, but something is missing, and that something is my little 2cv. The first roof off drive of spring is a ritual we shared for many years, but this year Conrad gets that pleasure. That is better than no one getting it at all, but it's hard.
And so it was that I borrowed Miles's car to get to my leg waxing appointment at lunchtime. It can't touch a 2cv for convertible style and spring joie de vivre, but it does have a CD player, and that makes up for a lot. And the song that I played as I drove through Oxford with the wind as much in my hair as I could manage with a roof that has to stay on, was Box of Rain by the Grateful Dead (the link is to annotated lyrics from a guy at the University of Colorado -- surely an honour accorded to few other bands...)
I felt lots of things -- Box of Rain is one of those songs -- but most of them good. A great song for springtime. Play it loud.
joella
Cake in my tummy / toilets revisited
The pineapple upside down cake was a resounding success, even though I deviated from the recipe on the very first attempt (muscovado sugar instead of white, half self-raising flour instead of all plain, no glace cherries because they're gross) -- something I normally avoid. Recommended.
And Gez's boat has the most amazing toilet. He prefers men to piss into the canal, and you can see why -- the toilet is essentially a bucket of chemicals with a wooden casing round it, and he has to carry it down the towpath to a bucket-emptying place somewhere. It's also in the engine room, and the engine doesn't go, so the engine room is exactly at the outside world's ambient temperature. Last night that was pretty close to freezing, so when I stood up the whole bucket was steaming.
I went twice.
joella
The pineapple upside down cake was a resounding success, even though I deviated from the recipe on the very first attempt (muscovado sugar instead of white, half self-raising flour instead of all plain, no glace cherries because they're gross) -- something I normally avoid. Recommended.
And Gez's boat has the most amazing toilet. He prefers men to piss into the canal, and you can see why -- the toilet is essentially a bucket of chemicals with a wooden casing round it, and he has to carry it down the towpath to a bucket-emptying place somewhere. It's also in the engine room, and the engine doesn't go, so the engine room is exactly at the outside world's ambient temperature. Last night that was pretty close to freezing, so when I stood up the whole bucket was steaming.
I went twice.
joella
Wednesday, March 12, 2003
The Mingers
They live in Leeds. They are a punk band. And the shouty one at the front is my cousin Talia. I am awestruck.
Check them out. I wish I had been in a punk band when I was 21. I was angry enough, but not nearly musical enough. And not very punky either. It was all intense lyrics, swirly guitars, Newcastle Brown and dope in those days. *Sigh*
joella
They live in Leeds. They are a punk band. And the shouty one at the front is my cousin Talia. I am awestruck.
Check them out. I wish I had been in a punk band when I was 21. I was angry enough, but not nearly musical enough. And not very punky either. It was all intense lyrics, swirly guitars, Newcastle Brown and dope in those days. *Sigh*
joella
Cake in the oven
I get invited to dinner on Gez's boat. Sure, I say, would you like me to bring a pineapple upside down cake?
What is *happening* to me?
Gez says he would LOVE a pineapple upside down cake, so here I am, baking one. The last time I had pineapple upside down cake was some time in the late 70s, when we went on a family holiday to Ireland.
It was made by a great aunt of mine who lived, and still lives, in a post office. I got to play with the stamps. The whole house smelt of peat, which is what they used to burn on the fire. It rained a lot. My sister and I made a little town out of paper from a Richard Scarry book. And we had pineapple upside down cake.
It has lived at the back of my mind ever since and popped up occasionally, but I have never come within a mile of one since, and now I am baking one. Weird, weird, weird.
You get an interesting difference searching for recipes for pineapple upside down cake on Google.com and Google.co.uk (restricting to UK results). British recipes are based around golden syrup, flour and sugar (lots of sugar). American recipes mostly start with "take one pack of yellow cake mix".
Actually, is that interesting?
Oven beeping, me barking.
joella
I get invited to dinner on Gez's boat. Sure, I say, would you like me to bring a pineapple upside down cake?
What is *happening* to me?
Gez says he would LOVE a pineapple upside down cake, so here I am, baking one. The last time I had pineapple upside down cake was some time in the late 70s, when we went on a family holiday to Ireland.
It was made by a great aunt of mine who lived, and still lives, in a post office. I got to play with the stamps. The whole house smelt of peat, which is what they used to burn on the fire. It rained a lot. My sister and I made a little town out of paper from a Richard Scarry book. And we had pineapple upside down cake.
It has lived at the back of my mind ever since and popped up occasionally, but I have never come within a mile of one since, and now I am baking one. Weird, weird, weird.
You get an interesting difference searching for recipes for pineapple upside down cake on Google.com and Google.co.uk (restricting to UK results). British recipes are based around golden syrup, flour and sugar (lots of sugar). American recipes mostly start with "take one pack of yellow cake mix".
Actually, is that interesting?
Oven beeping, me barking.
joella
Monday, March 10, 2003
The political compass
Another site I found by leaping around different blogs ... the Political Compass. At first I thought it was American, as I got to it from the site of a man in Atlanta, but it's not. Which makes it a bit more interesting.
Anyway, I got annoyed at a lot of the questions, but I came out
Economic Left/Right: -6.00
Authoritarian/Libertarian: -6.62
I tried to be honest and say what I really think rather than what I would like to think or what I used to think when I was younger and the world was simpler. I came out near Tony Benn and nowhere near either Thatcher or Ayn Rand, and I couldn't be happier about that.
joella
Another site I found by leaping around different blogs ... the Political Compass. At first I thought it was American, as I got to it from the site of a man in Atlanta, but it's not. Which makes it a bit more interesting.
Anyway, I got annoyed at a lot of the questions, but I came out
Economic Left/Right: -6.00
Authoritarian/Libertarian: -6.62
I tried to be honest and say what I really think rather than what I would like to think or what I used to think when I was younger and the world was simpler. I came out near Tony Benn and nowhere near either Thatcher or Ayn Rand, and I couldn't be happier about that.
joella
Ashes to ashes
This weekend I went up a hill in Sussex with Miles and his sister, as they scattered their mother's ashes. She loved walking, it was the hill nearest her house, and there is a huge post there which was once part of a mill of some kind. So they will be able to go back to the exact same place, and see the exact same view.
It was extremely windy, which did lead to us all returning with bits of ash in our hair, but it really made the scattering something to behold. I almost wished I had a camera, but the picture of Miles leaping up in the air with the jar as the wind swept the ashes out over the countryside will stay with me for a very long time.
I asked my mother what she would like us to do with her. She was quite taken with the idea of being made into a diamond (see LifeGem -- only in America, right?) but we decided in the end that would be too risky. What if she got stolen? What if I lost her in a swimming pool? We would probably need two diamonds so my sister and I could have a bit each -- what if they were disappointingly small?
I like the idea of being scattered though. It's the way to go.
joella
This weekend I went up a hill in Sussex with Miles and his sister, as they scattered their mother's ashes. She loved walking, it was the hill nearest her house, and there is a huge post there which was once part of a mill of some kind. So they will be able to go back to the exact same place, and see the exact same view.
It was extremely windy, which did lead to us all returning with bits of ash in our hair, but it really made the scattering something to behold. I almost wished I had a camera, but the picture of Miles leaping up in the air with the jar as the wind swept the ashes out over the countryside will stay with me for a very long time.
I asked my mother what she would like us to do with her. She was quite taken with the idea of being made into a diamond (see LifeGem -- only in America, right?) but we decided in the end that would be too risky. What if she got stolen? What if I lost her in a swimming pool? We would probably need two diamonds so my sister and I could have a bit each -- what if they were disappointingly small?
I like the idea of being scattered though. It's the way to go.
joella
Friday, March 07, 2003
No Peace, No Sex
Not about toilets, but about other genital activity.
In the spirit of a bunch of ancient Greek sistas, women who are against the war are being encouraged to withhold sex from their pro-war partners, reports the BBC.
An interesting arty idea, but I am not sure how well the concept translates to the modern world -- didn't Pat Benatar warn us to Stop Using Sex As A Weapon? And shouldn't we always listen to Pat? But then, love is a battlefield...
joella
Not about toilets, but about other genital activity.
In the spirit of a bunch of ancient Greek sistas, women who are against the war are being encouraged to withhold sex from their pro-war partners, reports the BBC.
An interesting arty idea, but I am not sure how well the concept translates to the modern world -- didn't Pat Benatar warn us to Stop Using Sex As A Weapon? And shouldn't we always listen to Pat? But then, love is a battlefield...
joella
Thursday, March 06, 2003
PS on toilets
There was a rather snotty article about blogging in today's Guardian Online -- the author argues that blogs are only of value if they are contributing to the body of knowledge on a subject. Maybe I have found my niche, and from now on I will just blog about toilets?
joella
There was a rather snotty article about blogging in today's Guardian Online -- the author argues that blogs are only of value if they are contributing to the body of knowledge on a subject. Maybe I have found my niche, and from now on I will just blog about toilets?
joella
More about toilets
... and my childhood obsession with toilets seems to have stayed with me.
For example, a few years ago I went for a liquid lunch at Mezzo on Wardour Street with three of my more stylish friends. It was beyond posh, as far as I was concerned, so I immediately headed to the toilet.
Spotless, top-end design, lovely soft paper, lots of bottles of stuff to spray on yourself -- all making you feel like a Special Lady. *But* invisible sensor taps, so you look like an idiot unless you know how to use them (ie, you spend a lot of time having lunch in beyond posh places) and, worst of all, toilet attendant people! They give you a towel you don't really need because you've already surreptitiously wiped your hands on your trousers -- having spent so long looking for the taps you're buggered if you're going to look for the hand dryer as well -- and then there is the little tray on the side with pound coins in it.
Who takes their purse to the toilet?! Not me. But there are people who do, who kind of drop a little coin in as if it's perfectly normal. ARGH! So on the whole, Bad Toilet.
Then after lunch, the two of us earning a good living went underwear shopping, while myself and V sloped down the road to The Intrepid Fox and took up residence behind pints of Stella. Unsurprisingly, before long I found myself in the toilet.
And those toilets were something else. No locks (practically no *doors*), no seats, no paper, no cleaner since the last one died of distemper, fag burns everywhere and probably several grams of speed ingrained in the cracks in the cistern lids. But at least you weren't hassled by attendants, although someone did try and sell me some acid. Or was that in the place in Bath where the toilets were much the same? I forget.
I was profoundly struck (being quite pissed by this stage) by the schizoid nature of modern life, that one can find oneself over the course of an hour pissing in such vastly different environs.
And that is the thing I remember most clearly about the whole day. And many days. Sad but true.
And so it was that last night I found myself watching UK's Worst... Toilets! with an unhealthy level of interest.
But I was disappointed. The unisex toilets by the Westgate Centre car park are way fouler than anything they found, and somewhere in Britain they must still have something along the lines of Lytham's infamous Bog Island -- swampy underground toilets with ancient locks that take 2p and slam behind you like a cell door, and a big mildewed mirror that teenage girls use to perfect their smoke rings. They filled it in a couple of years ago, but it can't have been the only one.
No, I was not impressed with the quality of the research. If you want to search out bad toilets, you should consult a specialist.
And a bit of gender awareness would have been well placed as well. All that shit about 'people' urinating in city centres at night. All those temporary urinals that the Metropolitan Police have installed for 'people'. Come on. Piss pollution is a man thing.
I am beginning to scare *myself* here, but, as the man from the British Toilet Association said, after food and drink, toileting is the most important human need. It's time we gave it the attention it deserved.
joella
... and my childhood obsession with toilets seems to have stayed with me.
For example, a few years ago I went for a liquid lunch at Mezzo on Wardour Street with three of my more stylish friends. It was beyond posh, as far as I was concerned, so I immediately headed to the toilet.
Spotless, top-end design, lovely soft paper, lots of bottles of stuff to spray on yourself -- all making you feel like a Special Lady. *But* invisible sensor taps, so you look like an idiot unless you know how to use them (ie, you spend a lot of time having lunch in beyond posh places) and, worst of all, toilet attendant people! They give you a towel you don't really need because you've already surreptitiously wiped your hands on your trousers -- having spent so long looking for the taps you're buggered if you're going to look for the hand dryer as well -- and then there is the little tray on the side with pound coins in it.
Who takes their purse to the toilet?! Not me. But there are people who do, who kind of drop a little coin in as if it's perfectly normal. ARGH! So on the whole, Bad Toilet.
Then after lunch, the two of us earning a good living went underwear shopping, while myself and V sloped down the road to The Intrepid Fox and took up residence behind pints of Stella. Unsurprisingly, before long I found myself in the toilet.
And those toilets were something else. No locks (practically no *doors*), no seats, no paper, no cleaner since the last one died of distemper, fag burns everywhere and probably several grams of speed ingrained in the cracks in the cistern lids. But at least you weren't hassled by attendants, although someone did try and sell me some acid. Or was that in the place in Bath where the toilets were much the same? I forget.
I was profoundly struck (being quite pissed by this stage) by the schizoid nature of modern life, that one can find oneself over the course of an hour pissing in such vastly different environs.
And that is the thing I remember most clearly about the whole day. And many days. Sad but true.
And so it was that last night I found myself watching UK's Worst... Toilets! with an unhealthy level of interest.
But I was disappointed. The unisex toilets by the Westgate Centre car park are way fouler than anything they found, and somewhere in Britain they must still have something along the lines of Lytham's infamous Bog Island -- swampy underground toilets with ancient locks that take 2p and slam behind you like a cell door, and a big mildewed mirror that teenage girls use to perfect their smoke rings. They filled it in a couple of years ago, but it can't have been the only one.
No, I was not impressed with the quality of the research. If you want to search out bad toilets, you should consult a specialist.
And a bit of gender awareness would have been well placed as well. All that shit about 'people' urinating in city centres at night. All those temporary urinals that the Metropolitan Police have installed for 'people'. Come on. Piss pollution is a man thing.
I am beginning to scare *myself* here, but, as the man from the British Toilet Association said, after food and drink, toileting is the most important human need. It's time we gave it the attention it deserved.
joella
Wednesday, March 05, 2003
Toilets
My mother always tells people how, when we were kids, my sister would remember places by what she had to eat there, and I would remember them by the toilets. So it would be "mum, do you remember the really shiny toilet with the funny smell?" "Oh, you mean the ferry to Ireland" "yes, with the chips!"
Damn, this was going to be a really interesting toilet story but then I got Messengering with the lovely Ms Y and now it's time for bed, via the toilet with the nasty wooden toilet seat, I hate those.
tbc
joella
My mother always tells people how, when we were kids, my sister would remember places by what she had to eat there, and I would remember them by the toilets. So it would be "mum, do you remember the really shiny toilet with the funny smell?" "Oh, you mean the ferry to Ireland" "yes, with the chips!"
Damn, this was going to be a really interesting toilet story but then I got Messengering with the lovely Ms Y and now it's time for bed, via the toilet with the nasty wooden toilet seat, I hate those.
tbc
joella
Monday, March 03, 2003
Sober Girl
For the first few weeks of Year of Living Healthily (DAY SIXTY TWO! DAY SIXTY TWO!) I didn't do very much at all. Just Living Healthily was quite taking it out of me. Then I tried going to the pub a few times.
The first time I felt drunk and smoky even though I didn't drink or smoke, and I was late meeting Miles just as if I *had* been drunk. The second time I got bored straight away and couldn't get home fast enough. The third time I really enjoyed myself and had the pleasure of driving home afterwards rather than hanging around waiting for a late night bus. People are curious at lack of alcohol in one who is often found ordering a pint and a whisky at last orders, and it makes for a good conversation. So far, so good.
But then I live in soft Oxford, where much quiche is eaten, some of it vegan.
This weekend I went back Up North for the first time since Christmas. It was a bit different.
First off was a drink with my sister. What do you want, she said. A Kaliber please, I said. A what? she said. And she *works* in a pub. The person behind the bar had exactly the same reaction. Once we'd located them in the bottom corner of the fridge we were ok though.
Next was my lovely friend Mick. A Kaliber please, I said. I'm not fucking buying one of them, he said.
Then I went to a party. First up was a wine tasting. The only other sober person there was doing the spit-it-out thing, but I decided not even to do that, it would just be too tempting. So I sat in the corner with my Sugar Free Red Bull as the person next to me waved his glass at me, shouted "Get Pissed Sober Girl!" and gave me a Chinese burn. Luckily he drank for both of us and went to bed at half past nine, although he did, to give him credit, win the wine tasting (jointly with his girlfriend who was the best possible person to have at a party, whatever state you are in).
After that, I did enjoy myself thoroughly for several hours, went for long stretches without feeling like a freak, even danced a bit, feeling crushingly self conscious but reasoning that absolutely nobody else would notice (other sober person had long gone by this point) and the music was at that point too good to waste. I also did useful sober person things like collecting empties and wiping up the Triple Sec before anyone slipped in it.
By the time I went to bed (two o'clock, not bad I thought) I was the best sober person anyone had ever met, and they were all lovely too. I sensibly brushed my teeth, took my makeup off, read my book for a bit and went off to sleep (after one failed attempt when someone burst in, shouted GET UP! and left again) listening to grown adults throw themselves around downstairs to Fraggle Rock.
Boy did I feel pleased with myself the next morning.
But having said that, if there were no pissed people, there would be no parties, or at least, not anything like as good as that one was. So we can't all be sober, some of us need to be pissed. It's a dilemma, that's for sure.
joella
For the first few weeks of Year of Living Healthily (DAY SIXTY TWO! DAY SIXTY TWO!) I didn't do very much at all. Just Living Healthily was quite taking it out of me. Then I tried going to the pub a few times.
The first time I felt drunk and smoky even though I didn't drink or smoke, and I was late meeting Miles just as if I *had* been drunk. The second time I got bored straight away and couldn't get home fast enough. The third time I really enjoyed myself and had the pleasure of driving home afterwards rather than hanging around waiting for a late night bus. People are curious at lack of alcohol in one who is often found ordering a pint and a whisky at last orders, and it makes for a good conversation. So far, so good.
But then I live in soft Oxford, where much quiche is eaten, some of it vegan.
This weekend I went back Up North for the first time since Christmas. It was a bit different.
First off was a drink with my sister. What do you want, she said. A Kaliber please, I said. A what? she said. And she *works* in a pub. The person behind the bar had exactly the same reaction. Once we'd located them in the bottom corner of the fridge we were ok though.
Next was my lovely friend Mick. A Kaliber please, I said. I'm not fucking buying one of them, he said.
Then I went to a party. First up was a wine tasting. The only other sober person there was doing the spit-it-out thing, but I decided not even to do that, it would just be too tempting. So I sat in the corner with my Sugar Free Red Bull as the person next to me waved his glass at me, shouted "Get Pissed Sober Girl!" and gave me a Chinese burn. Luckily he drank for both of us and went to bed at half past nine, although he did, to give him credit, win the wine tasting (jointly with his girlfriend who was the best possible person to have at a party, whatever state you are in).
After that, I did enjoy myself thoroughly for several hours, went for long stretches without feeling like a freak, even danced a bit, feeling crushingly self conscious but reasoning that absolutely nobody else would notice (other sober person had long gone by this point) and the music was at that point too good to waste. I also did useful sober person things like collecting empties and wiping up the Triple Sec before anyone slipped in it.
By the time I went to bed (two o'clock, not bad I thought) I was the best sober person anyone had ever met, and they were all lovely too. I sensibly brushed my teeth, took my makeup off, read my book for a bit and went off to sleep (after one failed attempt when someone burst in, shouted GET UP! and left again) listening to grown adults throw themselves around downstairs to Fraggle Rock.
Boy did I feel pleased with myself the next morning.
But having said that, if there were no pissed people, there would be no parties, or at least, not anything like as good as that one was. So we can't all be sober, some of us need to be pissed. It's a dilemma, that's for sure.
joella
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