The joys of autumn

1. Scarves. I think I have finally become a woman who can wear scarves. I started to knit one last year, but made an utter pig's ear of it. When my mother came to stay, she took it away, unravelled it, reknitted it and sent it back. It's fabulous.

2. Quince. We have an ornamental quince tree in the front garden. I think what makes it ornamental is the shocking pink flowers in February (one of the joys of spring), but it is also a practical quince tree in that it has loads of quince on it. Thus far we have (shame on us) chucked them, but this year M says he is going to make quince marmalade. Or maybe quince paste, which goes so wonderfully with manchego cheese.

joella

Road trip!

Well, train trip, but I'm excited nonetheless. We're off to Manchester. Please let the train run on time. Please let it not piss down. Please let N&D be well and happy and please let us all have lots of fun.

back on Monday

joella

And in the Darkness...

... turn it up to eleven.

I am really, really taken with the Darkness album. I can't quite put my finger on why. I think it scratches the same itch that Bat Out Of Hell used to when I was a teenager.

Our new kitchen is deliciously, briefly, functional yet spartan. There is a CD player on the floor in the corner. I am cooking, drinking Gewurtztraminer and listening to I Believe in a Thing Called Love.

The rollercoaster's on its way up again.

joella

Arty pants

I do know a bit about art after all! I did this BBC art quiz and I got them all right!

Must count for something, no?

joella

Meg on Blair

I read Meg's blog at meish.org every now and again. I don't know her, but I like how she writes. It used to be at notsosoft.com, which is how I found it: Not So Soft is an Ani DiFranco album and I was searching on it.

Anyway... her post on Blair's speech yesterday is just wonderful.

joella

Bloody turn up, will you

The Ecuadorian government has started a campaign to encourage people not to be late for work.

I thoroughly approve. Can they do that over here? Especially for builders? Mike the kitchen man said they were a shower, and he wasn't wrong.

Grump, grump.

joella

Arrrggghhh

I had one of those weekends. House in chaos, everything smelling of white spirit, computer monitor not attached to computer, kettle on the stairs while the kitchen floor dries.

Got fed last night by some good, good people, but this did involve some strange Peruvian spirit, and though I skipped home I fear it was not the most sensible start to the week.

And today I have only one really important thing to do but I cannot get my head round it. I feel like I have a touch of Durkheim's anomie.

Or, as Bruce Springsteen put it, I might take a wrong turn and just keep going.

It'll be all right soon, probably.

joella

The Google Toolbar

I had the Google Toolbar installed many moons ago, then I got a new PC and never got round to reinstalling it, and then I forgot all about it.

And at home Google is my homepage, so it's no big deal. But at work my homepage is a set of useful links I put together for the last team I worked in, and Google is two clicks away. Or three, if you are not on the homepage when you think about it. Which is two, or even three, clicks too many when you use Google as often as I do.

I could have re-done my homepage, but I couldn't be arsed. I could have reset my homepage, but I would then lose all the other useful links (Favourites are for reference, not for everyday use, imo).

So I decided to go for the Google Toolbar again.

And what a tremendously useful thing it has become. It blocks pop-ups, unless you don't want it to. It auto-fills in forms, unless you don't want it to. It searches just within the site you're on.

It also lets you BlogThis! whenever you like. So I did.

joella

When I grow up I want to be an old woman

Went to see Belleville Rendezvous the other day. It is a surreal French animation which takes you to some strange old places.

I'm not, as I have said, always a great one for art, but there is a wonderful dog in it who behaves perfectly consistently however weird it gets, and it features the funniest corrective shoe in history.

And of course Madame Souza and the swinging, frog-eating Belleville Triplets themselves. Afterwards I said how wonderful it was to have a film -- albeit an animation -- where the four main characters were old women. How often does that happen?

Aha! someone pointed out: what about Calendar Girls?

No, no, that misses the *point*.

joella

80s revival in my head

There's a leather necklace that S and I bought together in about 1986 because we both wanted it but neither of us could afford it. We took turns wearing it, and then it ended up with me, and somehow I kept it.

And how glad I am that I did, because suddenly it looks fabulous again (how does that *happen*?). And Psychocandy sounds fabulous again. And I hate the government again.

Any minute now mine will be a pint of snakebite.

joella

Smell-o-vision

I have always been somewhat led by my nose, and am even more so as a non-smoker (I can smell a cigarette on a warm day at 100 paces).

Often this is great. I was just walking through Cornmarket in Oxford, a fairly dismal experience most of the time as they have been resurfacing it for years now, so there are hoards of people squeezing across tiny little walkways in bad moods and the smell drifts from KFC (very bad) to Lush (not much better).

But today the resurfacing had reached that crucial point where they have to lay asphalt. Oh, the smell of fresh asphalt. I could live on that smell. It reminds me, though I am not sure why, of long hot childhood summers. It makes me want to lie down and smell the road.

Other top smells of the week have included Sunday lunch coming out of the kitchen at the Marsh Harrier, mingling with the smell of fresh beer and the smell of the Observer to create something quintissentially British and great... and the smell I got when I opened my long lost dishwasher after I first used it yesterday: clean, shiny and nostalgic all at the same time.

But sometimes it is not great. I sat behind someone on the bus whose clothes had that smell you get when you leave them in the washing machine too long and then dry them badly. I cannot bear that smell. It is the smell of neglect and depression and no central heating. I would like to live in a world where nobody's clothes smelt like that.

joella

Miles shows off

I have been saying to Miles for *ages* that he should have a website, given that he does website development stuff for a living.

And now he's got one.

He said 'I don't want to just have a website. I want to do something that says I am a programmer but also creative'.

And he's done it (Press F5). I am dead impressed.

Though you can't actually use it to contact him or anything useful like that. Purist arty programmers don't make it easy for you to give them work.

joella

The bright side

Okay, it's better than marrying the wrong man in the wrong century. That was drunken hyperbole. The units are still horrible, but apparently they can be painted. And if that doesn't work we'll get new ones. We don't have to live with them.

And now we've got a window. And... bestest of all... the lump of metal and plastic that I have been dragging round Oxford with me for the last five years but unable to plumb in has ceased to be a very large piece of emotional baggage and become a dishwasher again! Hooray!

And the sink has a bit you can use for rinsing.

And we have a real oven.

And cupboards. And drawers. Two years we have lived with no kitchen cupboards or drawers.

A bit of shit brown fake wood can be dealt with. We will deal with it.

joella

Push pineapple shake a tree

The kitchen men están aquí.

We made our choices and they are doing their job. But something has gone wrong.

We hate our units. We don't hate the design, and we don't hate the concept, but we hate the delivery.

The doors are fine. The worktops are fine. But the units themselves are fucking hideous. How did we choose light oak? It's not light and it never saw oak. It is like a world without redemption. It is like marrying the wrong man in the wrong century.

I live in a world where this can be rectified. I have lived my life in preparation for this moment. Surely.

joella

Time to stand up and be counted

OK, way I see it, if you're reading this you either

a) know me and think I'm cool enough to have a blog worth reading
b) know me and think I'm a bitch trog from hell (in which case fuck off let's not waste each other's time)
or
c) don't know me from Eve but got here anyway

So.

Oh, bugger. I had a really good point, and then I went to the loo, and now I can't remember what I was going to say.

joella

S is for scary

For long boring car journeys, there is the poo game. But that doesn't help you get to sleep when your body clock is a bit screwed, so for that we have the alphabet game.

It's pretty simple, like all the best games. Think of a category (colours, animals, etc) then think of one thing from that category beginning with each letter of the alphabet in order.

X and z are obvious dodgy characters, but pretty quickly you come to hate j, k and n as well. The only category we have got all the way through is cars (thank you, Citroen Xsara!).

The other night, Miles said: let's do disasters. OK, I said. Avalanche.
M: Bloodbath
J: Ewww. Um, cyclone
M: Drought
J: Earthquake
M:Flood
J: G... g... genocide!

How can I be delighted to have thought of genocide? H, of course, is for Holocaust, and we stopped there before we horrified ourselves further.

joella

It's only rock and roll but I like it...

... like it, yes I do.

It was the Limitations' last night of the summer party yesterday, in a barn in Oddington. There were about 250 people there, including many of my favourite ones.

I wore a mini skirt for the first time in my life, and my 80s canvas biker jacket from the first time round. (I am beginning to regret chucking all my red and black plastic jewellery -- a casualty of moving house so many times).

We danced, we drank, we screamed for more. The band could do no wrong. The music was supposed to stop at 12.30 but didn't. The bar was supposed to close at one but didn't. I fell over on the way to the toilet at about three and decided to call it a night, but S was still dancing when Belinda called the police at five because she was stuck in her tent.

We had watermelon for breakfast and stopped at the Little Chef on the way home.

It was wonderful. Autumn is allowed now.

joella

Singing the blues to make trade fair

The US and the EU are ruining the lives of millions of poor farmers. The world's trade activists are decamping to Mexico right now to lobby the big guns at the World Trade Organisation Meeting in Cancun from 10th - 14th September.

Oxfam's Make Trade Fair campaign is going to be there and they have recorded a cow singing the blues to help them gather support... and that cow is my boyfriend.

http://www.maketradefair.com/bluecow.htm

He is very excited to be part of an email campaign, even disguised as a cow, and possibly even more excited that Jeremy has given him a mention...

joella

Reptile loving Finnish speaking billiard playing giant hairy woman WLTM...

Some time at the end of last year when I was drinking far too much I joined Emode, which is an online dating agency.

I didn't join Emode because I wanted to do any online dating, I joined because I was really really drunk. I think I got there via a quiz or IQ test from another site, and ended up registering in order to get my results.

My profile is a mixture of outright lies (I am 6'5", keep lizards, speak nine languages, live in Schenectady, NY) and the word 'Arse'. ArseArseArseArseArse is the answer to the sections 'How she's different', 'Who she's looking for', 'What you'd find in her bedroom' and 'Her hangouts' (hmmm).

And bugger me if I don't get an email every single week with people who match my profile. I can't even unsubscribe because I used an email address that I can receive to but not send from.

Either this is a perfect demonstration of the pointlessness of 'website personalisation', or there really are some weirdos out there.

Either way, not good. Note to self: only surf when sober.

joella

Poorly girl

I stayed at home today. I don't like doing that unless I'm indisputably ill, and to me a cold doesn't count, but I just couldn't get up.

Then I slept on and off until 2pm, when I woke up feeling a lot better, so I don't feel so bad about staying at home.

When I wasn't sleeping I read most of the Life of Pi.

Feeling humbled by a boy who managed to tame a tiger while feeling a lot worse than I was, I got up and cleaned my shower room.

If I am honest, this room only gets a proper clean about twice a year. It was filthy, and it has been getting me down.

I find I can only clean the shower when I am in the shower, and so it was that in my slightly feverish state I set to wearing only a pair of Marigolds and brandishing a bottle of bleach.

I had to have a bit more of a lie down afterwards, I don't think on balance it was a good idea. My shower is lovely and clean though.

joella

Small blue thing

I feel rotten today. And it's not an extra-long hangover from Saturday night, though I probably did deserve one for talking so much bollocks.

No, it's something more sinister -- mostly physical, a kind of heavy head, sore-ish throat, bit of sneezing, general fug, but accompanied by a feeling best described as restlessness combined with apathy, which I find quite unsettling. Like I would run away if I could be arsed.

I am hoping the psychological feelings are a side effect of the same bug that is causing the physical ones. I haven't got time for existential angst this month.

But maybe I don't have a choice in the matter. On Friday night I was at a Mick Thomas gig at Brentford FC. My friend Pete was there too -- I've known him for six years or so, but we only really see each other at gigs.

He was standing a couple of yards away from me down at the front, and at the opening bars of one song he came over and shouted in my ear: This one's called The Lonely Goth -- it might work for you.

Thanks a lot, I said, but you know what, he was right.

joella

W0nko drunk0

I have a fabulous train of thought that kind of knits together Mick Thomas, Kidlington Cricket Club and everything I hate about Julie Burchill.

I am a bit too drunk to expound it now, but I hope that writing this bit down will remind me tomorrow.

Last night I had another fabulous train of thought that I was sure I would remember today, but I don't.

Hence doing this.

Though explaining all this is surely irrelevant.

Go to bed joella you drunken fool.

Oh, okay.

Kitchen men cometh

Did I mention we have a big hole in the wall in our house? This is step 1 of phase 1 of the Road to a New Kitchen, aka (for the residents of this house) the Road Never Previously Travelled.

It is a terrifying road. The house as it stood when we bought it had a lousy kitchen. The type of kitchen that someone with Laura Ashley taste who doesn't cook might go for. I don't say 'might fit' because it isn't fitted. It's one wooden cupboard, a lot of twiddly shelves, a Belfast sink, a hob in the fireplace and wallpaper that looks like trellis. There isn't even an oven.

When we bought it we said, we will get the kitchen done. But we didn't have any money so we couldn't. We still don't have any money but two years have passed and somehow we can borrow more money without paying any more, because the house has gone up in value while interest rates have gone down.

I think this is evil, as we are basically getting ourselves into even vaster debt, but we took a leap for the sake of the kitchen. And now it's happening.

If we *had* had the luxury of money when we moved in, we would just have replaced the existing kitchen, but instead we had the luxury of time. And just before Christmas S suggested putting the kitchen in the long thin back room instead of the middle room it currently occupies.

A stroke of genius, but one whose execution involves turning French windows back into a normal window, and knocking an arch between the long thin back room and the conservatory which is a dining room.

And all we've got so far is a hole in the wall. A careful sequence of builders / carpenter / kitchen fitter / carpenter again / tiler (tbc) is all laid out, and this is what is so terrifying. At any point it could all go to shit, and we can't call the landlord.

However, today the cheque arrived from the new mortgage company. So at least we can pay for it. In many ways, that was the scariest part of all.

I know I'm not too young for all this, but I sure as hell feel it.

joella

Viva Student Food

An article in Saturday's Guardian about the trials of student cooking began:

Anyone you meet who's been to university can remember a horror dish to which they were regularly submitted by a well-meaning flatmate. It usually involved a combination of tuna, sweetcorn, condensed mushroom soup and crisps.

Replace sweetcorn with celery, and that was me! In fact, this dish (aka Tuna Celery Pasta Bake) was a comfort food staple in our household until pasta got the boot a few months ago.

At first I was ashamed. But then I was angry.

Surely we all need dishes like Tuna Celery Pasta Bake if we have mouths to feed on a budget or in a hurry? You get your protein, you get your carbohydrate, you get your veg -- at low cost, low risk and low mess.

I have options -- I can cook, I can afford 'proper' food -- but sometimes I *want* something that wouldn't win a Jamie Oliver award.

So I immediately declared Student Food Week. On Sunday I made curried baked beans with onions & mushrooms for breakfast. Lovely. We had them for lunch as well, with cheese on.

Last night I made Quorn shepherd's pie (main ingredient: Worcestershire sauce). Fantastic.

While that was in I baked a potato for my lunch today, thinking as I did so of Mr B, who as a student taught me the joy that Encona and lemon juice bring to tuna mayonnaise, so I made some of that as well.

And we had Fishy Eggy Ricy Thing for dinner tonight. I have been making this about once a fortnight for the last ten years. It's cheap, it's easy, it's good for you and it's bloody lovely.

So piss off food snobs.

Though we've got someone coming for dinner on Thursday. Miles is planning swordfish. I might have to go out for some SosMix.

joella

Communication breakdown

I recently bought a postcard which reads Men Are From Earth, Women Are From Earth: Deal With It.

This sentiment gets my wholehearted support. I get incensed by the idea that women and men are somehow so alien to each other that special tactics need to be employed to get messages across the divide. How patronising to us all, and how divisive.

But then as a nice middle class feminist who lives with a man who can cook and works for an organisation that mainstreams gender, maybe I would say that.

And every now and again, something happens that makes me wonder.

It goes like this. Miles's friend A is having a party, with some other people. Miles asks me if I want to go. I will know only a few people, and there is quite a high chance his ex-wife will be there, possibly knowing the same few people. It's not top on my list of ideal nights out.

But when you live with someone, you have to do these things sometimes, so I say I will go.

The day before, it transpires that A wants to play some live music, and has asked Miles and C, one of the few people I will know, to play too. And that Miles has said yes.

I say hanging around at said party without him is a completely different proposition from going to said party with him, and that my lukewarm desire to go has evaporated. In fact, to be blunt, if he is playing I am not going. And he should have figured that out.

Miles says yes, he should have figured that out. Maybe he shouldn't play.

A says he can't see what the problem is.

And behind that is a silent "therefore there should not be a problem".

I think he may be from Mars.

It was A's party so he got his gig. I stayed at home and curled my hair in readiness for the second party of the evening, M's 18th, where I also only knew a few people but they were all Earthlings.

joella

Two good art experiences in four days!

Not long after we got together, Miles said to me "you don't really like art, do you?"

I found this pretty offensive, but like many insults it's the ones with a hint of truth that sting the most. So I put my hands up -- I don't have a lot of time for a lot of art.

I hardly ever enjoy films, and when I do it's rarely for the cinematography. I was 20 before I went to an art gallery and that was only because I was stoned. I still can't be doing with anything painted before about 1930. At uni there was a picture lending service for students. I put up a poster of Blackpool and a selection of my favourite carrier bags. Poetry leaves me cold. And so on.

But having said all that I do have my moments, and don't try and tell me I don't, all right?

Moment #1: Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Don't tell me he's not art. Rest of film: pretty good for Hollywood -- half an hour too long, plastic cheese ending but top swashbuckling and lots of fun. Johnny Depp: divine.

Moment #2: The mural in the x ray waiting room at the Radcliffe Infirmary. Hospitals are depressing and smell. Waiting rooms with little natural light and dog eared copies of Bella magazine are doubly depressing because they are full of ill people waiting, and well people waiting for ill people.

So whoever commissioned Sarah Tisdall (who is the artist in question, as I later discovered) to turn this one into a Victorian greenhouse, complete with cats, dogs, clematis, palm trees, trompe l'oeil fountain and sky and more deserves a medal. It is a triumph of public art. More results like this.

joella

Mankind cannot live on meat alone

I am *loving* the Atkins backlash. I think it is an evil diet.

There is something obscene about rich people eschewing carbohydrates -- low impact food which keeps most of the world alive -- in favour of meat, the most environmentally costly food there is (even if you don't care about animal welfare), *in order to be thin*. Utterly 21st century, and utterly depressing.

However, nobody's going to come off a diet because it's bad for the environment, so I am also pleased that serious nutritionists are now pointing out nasty long term health effects.

And I enjoyed Victoria Coren's piece in yesterday's Observer. "Don't come running to us when you need a kidney." Fantastic.

Though I've seen Dirty Pretty Things: I'm sure rich-enough Atkins casualties will be able to get a nice healthy rice-fed one from somewhere.

joella

Managing malevolence

Say what you like about me, there are few people who hold a grudge better.

I know this is neither a desirable nor an attractive quality, and it's one I would dispense with if I could, but I've tried, I can't, and at times I can do nothing but rather guiltily admire the power of it.

Example #1

I was done down by someone a few years ago. Three years previously, she had given me a big vase for my birthday. It wasn't a particularly nice vase, but nor was it unpleasant. It was the kind of present you get someone when you feel you should get them a present but you don't really know what they like.

It started to bother me after we fell out. I only really kept it because she might notice if I didn't. I make a lot of effort with people's feelings on the whole, which I think is why I take it so badly when they piss on mine.

I thought about smashing it, but felt that would be a waste and I should give it to a charity shop. I never got round to it. And then when we moved, I found it a new home. It now sits in my room holding bits of junk and the carrier bags that I use as bin liners. This pleases me.

Example #2

A friend of mine gave me a plant, which was given to her by someone we both have grounds to loathe. She was going to chuck it, but I was about to buy a similar plant, so I said I would have it. Take it, she said, I don't want it. So I did.

And I love plants, but I can't love this one. I give it just enough attention to deprive it of a swift exit, but not enough so it thrives. I can't help it. It will die. I will kill it.

I think this is all quite healthy. I don't behave badly, there are no scenes, and nobody gets hurt. We all need pressure valves, right?

Cackle cackle

joella

Looking your age in old money...

When I got my hair done the other week, the woman who did the tinting asked me if I was a student.

This does still happen to me every now and again, and even though I recognise it's probably because I am a scruffbag (no offence to students intended) rather than because I radiate youth, I am rather flattered.

This morning however, I went to the Co-op to buy some So Good soya milk for my Rice Krispies. It costs £1.05. That will be a guinea please, said the man behind the counter. I gave him £1.10. A shilling change, he said.

What made him think I would understand that? I'm not that old!

But I did understand it, that's the sad part.

joella

Physician heal thyself...

I just went to Holland & Barratt to stock up on a few things. I know they are the supermarkets of health food shops, but still, you expect a certain outlook, don't you?

A helpful young man found me some cut price flaxseed oil capsules (which are to back bottom dealings as evening primrose oil is to front bottom dealings). Then he chatted to his colleague as he took the money.

"What are you having for lunch?" she said.
"Pot Noodle" he said.
"Not that curry one again" she said.

I feel so naive.

joella

Sprouting beans

The other week, I was admiring my colleague's lunch, which included several kinds of sprouting bean. I discovered she had sprouted them herself and was even more impressed.

It's easy, she said. Anyone could do it.

My first attempt didn't work too well, but it was with a batch of mixed beans. It got smelly before anything much happened.

This time, I used mung beans, and R's recommended method. And it worked! I can make beansprouts!

I am disproportionately excited about this. I think it's because I love beansprouts, but they're usually a disappointment. Now I can make my own it's going to be great.

I am feeling similarly buoyant about tomatoes, lots of which are growing in a hanging basket on our newly-stained-green shed. They taste just as tomatoey as the tomatoes you get in hot countries.

There'll be an allotment in me one day, I reckon.

joella

David Palmer can't be dead!

How did evil Marie a) get her hair looking like that with her hands chained to her waist and b) know that dappy Kate "wouldn't be safe out there". Is she higher up than we think?

How did they know that David P would be going out to press the flesh?

How long was the poison handshake plan in place for? He wasn't even the President ten minutes earlier. Bit of a long shot, no? When their other plan involved a cast of thousands.

What about all the other hands he shook after the poison one? Will all those people die too?

We went to a last episode gathering, which was a great way to do it -- wonderful synchronised gasps and applause -- but the plot holes come out faster when there are more of you...

Best bits:

David Palmer's 'You are all very bad people not to believe me, the wisest man who ever lived, but I let you off. All except you, ratbag Mike, you are fired' speech. Cool.

Jack: I need to test this, say something.
Sherry: I'm scared.
Jack: It's working.
Go Jack!

And Tony to slimy Chapelle: "So either fire me or get out of my chair".
Power to Tony!

How will I cope with Sunday nights now?

joella

Officially anxious

Last night I went to help with a research project into how people who have anxiety, depression or eating disorders process information. I volunteered as an anxious person.

I had to fill in a questionnaire first.

The researcher said "We are looking for people who are anxious but don't have an eating disorder. So first I need to check your answers to see if you are anxious enough."

I said "yes, I was worried about that."

I was anxious enough.

joella

I can do pictures!
This is the only thing I have had the energy to do all day!
I don't know why I can do this! I haven't upgraded though I have tried! It has been out of order for ages! Blogger seems to have done it for me!
Hooray!

joella

Black is the new brown

I normally get my hair done every 12 weeks or so. I say 'done' rather than 'cut' because these days it involves colouring as well, in fact the colouring is more important than the cutting. And more expensive.

I embarked upon the colouring route about two years ago, when the white hair began competing seriously with the black. This is a family trait on both sides, so it was to be expected, but nonetheless you'd think it could wait until you were well in your thirties, or start with your leg hair or something.

And of course once you start you can't stop. I now have nightmares about being kidnapped, held hostage for months, then rescued by Jack Bauer and splashed on front pages all over the world, to cries of "look at those ROOTS" from women everywhere. I have stocked up on headscarves just in case.

But I also got sucked into the any colour you like trap -- why stick to brunette when you can dazzle in any number of shades? Are you not worth it?

So I trooped off to the hairdresser's on Saturday with hair which was as dark as ever underneath but copper moving into dark orange moving into yellow on top and screaming black and white roots. Luckily they took charge.

And I am now very very dark. In fact darker than I am naturally, with just a hint of purple. The sort of colour that you can only carry off if you have very pale skin and there's a bit of an 80s revival going on. Hooray for being me now!

Oh, and I got a few highlights as well.

joella

Thatcher Thatcher pastie snatcher

The first thing I said when I woke up this morning was "Denis Thatcher stole my pastie!"

Where in my subconscious did *that* come from?

joella

Youth culture

I am a bit terrified. I have found out that my colleagues consider me to be a Youth Champion, and as a result I have to go to an all day brainstorm next week.

Well, I volunteered for the brainstorm (why?) but I didn't realise it made me a Y.C.

And it is in a pub. And there is a dress code, which is "fun and funky".

And I have to take an 'item of youth culture' with me.

This could be awful.

joella

Would the reverse be surprising?

Back in the mists of time I got a job as a reporter on a rather esoteric publication about the electronic information industry. I had to learn what that was (mostly telnet, private data networks and CD-ROM, from what I remember), but I also had to learn how to write.

At the time I was used to writing essays. Introduce the subject, look at both sides, come to a conclusion. On top of that, every sentence was a mile long, just to be sure every nuance was covered.

But Peter changed all that. He was a teacher turned journalist who set me writing things and then set about tearing them apart.

"A number of? A number of? What fucking number?" was one of his sayings, and one now I use myself at every opportunity. He also taught me that the first sentence is the most important, that the headline is even more important than that, and that many, if not most adjectives are pointless ("awardwinning", "leading" etc).

But my favourite Peterism was the one he used to tell if something is newsworthy, or indeed worth saying at all. You simply ask yourself: "Would the reverse be surprising?" If the answer is yes, then what you are reading is dross written by marketing people.

As an example, we recently did our first internet shop, and decided to use Sainsburys To You. The process was quite tedious but pretty well organised -- good interface, simple to use etc. So far so good.

But then the email arrived, which began: "You can sit back and relax while your order is carefully selected by our trained shoppers and delivered straight to your door."

Now ask yourself, would the reverse be surprising? "You can get stressed while a bunch of stuff is selected at random by idiots, thrown headlong into a box and dropped off at your house, or maybe someone else's, via Birmingham."

Who thinks this sort of stuff adds value to anything, that's what I want to know.

joella

How to find your tent at a festival

Navigate by landmarks, and then triangulate.

In our case, it was head down the main drag, turn left at the peace flags, then look for the white gazebo which lined up the fish kite with the toilets.

And that worked fine till the gazebo blew away.

Luckily a) none of the tents themselves did, b) we all found each other again eventually, and c) nobody had rain in their bed. But it wasn't the easiest of weekends to chill out.

Having said that, we all managed to have a fairly splendid time. Takes more than a bit of rain etc. Especially when you have waterproof trousers, some of your favourite people, hot spicy cider, bands like the Angel Brothers to stumble across, and the ever-fabulous Madras Cafe (thalis, samosas, mango lassis and all funds to Action Village India).

I wish I'd stayed out partying on Friday night though -- I was saving it for Saturday but then it was just too damn wet. There's a lesson there.

joella

Girls and boys

What we should have been doing this evening: packing for Womad, taking into account forecast inclement weather and any number of unexpected things that might happen (okay, that bit's just me).

Instead, one of us chose which CDs we were going to listen to on the journey (CD changer in boot, boot will be chocka, if going to listen to anything at all need to plan ahead and ooh the new Jane's Addiction album is just out), and the other of us baked a birthday cake for E, who is coming in from Paris on the train (not just any birthday cake, but Sylvia Plath's tomato soup cake to mark E's gift of The Bell Jar as birthday present twelve years ago).

No prizes for spotting male and female behaviour, eh?

joella

Headstand

I have just been to yoga. I did a headstand.

I did a headstand on Thursday morning, but I had some help and I thought it was a fluke. So tonight is the first time I have done a headstand on my very own.

I am totally Zen.

joella

Upcoming festival fun

Off to WOMAD on Thursday -- the weather forecast isn't great but it might work out by then that rain at WOMAD is Not Allowed. It hasn't rained the last four years, it's got no right to start raining now.

Still, I'd be lost without something to worry about.

Though there's more -- as token goers-down-early we seem to be taking a vast number of tents. This is of course lovely as it means we can camp with all our friends, but it does create stress of the many-tent-putting-up variety, as I never relax till they're all done.

At last count, there will be nine of us, in eight tents. No one can accuse me of only hanging out with couples. And ain't that a good thing.

Can't wait, campañeros y campañeras!

joella

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

pissed person

party tonight

richard & mopsa

they are 50

they are cool

they do fabulous on the party scale

they are an example to us all

and they are still together

big respect

joella

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kaftanesque

I bought a bright pink kaftan. But then I took it back.

joella

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

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