Lara Croft

Tonight we are blessed with Lara's presence. She comes over from Canada and eats and drinks with us. It is always a pleasure. One day she will be a famous film director and producer -- she is already a producer and cites Watcher in the Woods as one of her favourites.

She's not really Lara Croft, (although she is really Lara) but who would really want to be? But she makes Miles play the piano and would have made me play the flute if I had been able to find it. Shows how long it is since I have done anything more with music except put it on the CD player.

Hope she comes back again soon.

joella

Es la vida

Today Miles designed me a garden, to my specifications, for sure, but in a way I never could have managed. Right now, he is singing Fairytale of NY on the piano. Can't do that either. And Anthony came over for dinner. Only us as a household could do that.

On your own I don't think you can make the most of life. But you don't have to be a nuclear family to be happy. I like my weird little life, even though there is so much sadness around at the moment. We do what we do.

Oh, and Happy Birthday Sara P. May you live long and prosper.

joella

x

Mick, son of Mick

My lovely friend Mick lost his dad suddenly yesterday. I've known him forever but I can't be there cos I live here, and don't life suck shit sometimes. And I can't make the funeral, cos it's the same day as the memorial service for Mrs D, and that's where I both need and want to be. But this one goes out to one I do love, and my little sister will be there for both of us.

Thanks also to Roger and Pom, for surely the most Dynasty-like Boxing Day ever (think swimming pool, think jacuzzi, think balcony with view of Oxford, think Bloody Marys, which for some reason I can make better than Rog).

Thanks also and altogether to life, for having us.

joella

x

The joy of OX4

Today we have been mostly smoking and drinking. S and I had a good old weep at Jamie's passing on Enders, but some of that was undoubtedly displaced grief at other more real passings that we haven't cried out yet. Meanwhile Miles was cooking up a storm *and* getting Virgo with the fairy lights. We did touch festive, and I am full of love for my motherless housemates.

We did have a dodgy moment at around 6 when we realised we were going to run out of cigarettes. S was under the limit, I rode shotgun, and we ventured out into the dark in search of shops. And barely were we down the hill when we found one open. It furnished us with carcinogens but also butter and Coca Cola. What more can you ask of your neighbourhood on the most Closed day of the year? It quite made up for all those fucking burglar alarms going off in the small hours.

*And* I got a pair of tiger skin trousers (of course they're not real -- I had nut roast for dinner) and Claudia Roden's Book of Jewish Food.

Peace be with you.

joella

Prudence Little Kitten

Today (yesterday, but today, waking-wise) was Miles's mum's funeral. He did brilliant.

joella

The M55 forcefield

Have just returned from a family 'do' in Lytham St Annes, home of the parentals, who live these days in splendid style in a big house by the sea. It is a bloody long way, and Ms P (who was attending a similar -- in the 'comparable but not remotely the same' sense of the word -- 'do') and I did not enjoy the journey there or back one little bit. But you do these things because you want to be there, and because you can, and because when you get there the sea air and the big sky and of course the people make the journey worthwhile.

But it's a funny place. The last time I was up there I went out to the pub in my new red fleecy top, which I was convinced was a fine item of clothing for me, and which had been much admired Down South. But in the Queens I felt people were giving me funny looks, and having checked in the mirror for obvious faux pas, I eventually said something. Turned out this person assumed it was a Man U item of clothing, and he is resolutely Man City. Freaky.

I love the M55 because it is not a through road. You are only on it if you are going to the Fylde coast. We cheer as we pass the Lancashire sign on the M6, and we cheer again as we finally hit the M55. I remember one long Christmas haul up the country as a student, with Jus and Kath in Jus's blue 2cv. We sang "take me home M55, to the place I belong" and we felt it.

But we were returning, from Cambridge, Leicester and Brighton. We now live in Oxford, London and Germany. We were all back in June for Kath's wedding, and it was wonderful, and any of us might go back there for good one day. But if and when that happens, we will have been other places and done other things. Many people don't. It's like The Prisoner: there's some kind of forcefield round the place that bounces people back to shore if they ever try and leave, and it's like Rupert Thomson's Dreams Of Leaving: there's a whole mindset that stops them even thinking about it.

Lytham is certainly still home in a very important sense. But there is a whole world out there, much of it more accessible than it's ever been, and it's by getting out into it that you can put your own existence into some kind of context. We do not exist in a vacuum and we shouldn't live in one, not in Britain anyway. We should understand the consequences of our actions as individuals and as societies.

So come on Lythamites. Get global. Aim for escape velocity. At least get on the M6 once in a while.

joella

Something is lost, something is found

Today I am thinking about all the people I love who have lost a parent. Or both parents. My parents both fall into the latter category, as does Miles himself, but I myself fall into neither yet. Long may it last. My lovely friend N once said to me that the world was divided into people who have lost a parent and people who haven't (she has). I think she was right.

People can be divided in lots of ways. Those who have children, those who don't. Those who tend towards action, those who tend towards inaction. E and I, N and S, F and T, J and P. Believers and non-believers. Eaters of animals and vegetarians. Forgivers and forgetters, grudge holders and rememberers. (me: no children, inaction, ENFP, non-believer, vegetarian, grudge holder and rememberer).

All these last you can do something about. There are other things that you just are -- male or female, gay or straight or bi, black or white or Asian or Jewish or mixed race. These all matter too, naturally. (me: female, straight, white, a bit Jewish).

But losing a parent transcends both and everything. It's inevitable, if you live long enough, at least in this part of the world.

And this is the right way round. It's what should happen. Michelle Shocked once said that the secret to a long life was knowing when it's time to go, and somebody else said that everyone's got to go sometime, and they were both right, but when it fucking happens it's fucking awful.

I've just been reading Tennyson's In Memoriam:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

joella

Mrs D

A long day. Miles's mum died tonight. RIP Mrs D. Well done the Ds, both little and big, and the lovely hospice people. And if my lilies grow, they will have a purpose in life.

joella

Santa Claus is coming to town...

... which is nice, but I wish he'd come to my house. Early. About now. And stay till the 6th of January (even as a lapsed Catholic, I daren't keep my decorations up a day longer).

What am I on about? Those huge light-up Santas that people put on the outside of their houses, only not on our street. On our street, the best you get is a tasteful set of outdoor fairy lights, and most people settle for a nice holly wreath on the door. (Or nothing at all, but if you're a student and you're going home, or you don't do Christmas that's fine. I let you off).

Surely this is wrong! Surely the whole point is to have the biggest light up Santa in town? I have seen them in garden centres. I have loitered round parts of town where they have good clean Christmas lights competitions (Magdalen Road is doing very well this year -- the old stalwarts on the corner near the bingo hall have some stiff competition from a truly fabulous nodding snowman fired from inside like a hot air balloon further down the street).

I was lucky enough once to be in Varanasi for Diwali, the Festival of Lights. Do they sit around having tasteful minimalist fireworks? They Do Not. Instead, the whole town is like a war zone as people let off the biggest, loudest, bangiest firecrackers they can lay their hands on, and parade down the street with hats made of neon light tubes, accompanied by portable diesel generators. Way to go. More big light up Santas round here please.

joella

PS This is partly a plea to my housemates, who won't let me -- and S's bedroom is the one at the front, so she gets to dictate how many things are plugged in via her window.

PPS I should also point out that I went to school in Blackpool, where they do lights properly.

Happy birthday Dad!

That's it really.

joella

Double blogging

Oh, I do enjoy reading Scott's blog sometimes. I nearly didn't bother today, cos I assumed it would all be about bloody football, but no, it was about Online -- something I too have been thinking about all week...

I used to work with Scott in the house on the hill where Online was based -- I wasn't involved in organising it but my year too revolved round it, as I was a journalist on 'Europe's Leading Information Industry Monthly Publication', as the Marketing Department rather hopelessly branded it (some stiff competition for that accolade, I can tell you). Its usual 32 pages became 72 or 80 for the December issue, and my job was to get that to press on time, at the same time as the events team were working round the clock doing whatever it was they did, I have no idea, I was far too busy chasing filler columns from obscure German information scientists and trying to write knowledgeably about esoteric classification protocols and the virtues or otherwise of this big new thing called the World Wide Web.

And at the event itself, I would trail round trying to get news stories, which for my first Online was a bit like the blind leading the blind, as I would ineptly interview spotty youths in bad suits, they would trot out some brochure speak, I would record it on my wildly inadequate, brick sized tape recorder, take their business card and move on. Later I would try and transcribe said tapes, cringe at the inanity of my questions, which would be recorded perfectly, and have to turn the volume up to maximum to try and decipher their answers, which would be lost in background noise.

In subsequent years I became more accomplished, and also a bit better known, so I would get to talk to the big people and we would arrange to meet in civilised places like the press office. They had also invented mobile phones by then, which helped, and I qualified for a real dictaphone. In time, I became so efficient that I had time to scope out the stands which had no visitors (usually obscure Eastern European database companies who could only afford to send one person) and perform a valuable public service by interviewing them about anything they wanted to talk about. I never did take up that invitation to Finland.

But it was the nights that made it. In those days half the company would decamp to Hammersmith for the week, and come six o'clock the show would close and the receptions would start. And after endless surreal conversations in strange venues with members of the international Info Pro community, the staff would reture to the Dog and Bucket, or whatever the hotel bar was called, and things would deteriorate. For some reason, they let us sign for drinks -- very dangerous when you are 25 and underpaid. So nights would end with an almighty row, or someone falling asleep in your lap, or you finding yourself bouncing from wall to wall as you made your way down the corridor to bed.

And in the morning you would need to be up at some ungodly hour, and five people would ring to make sure you were awake, and you would take off the clothes you had slept in for three hours, stand under the glorious, lifesaving hotel shower for ten minutes, put them back on again and hope your eyes weren't really more red than white. Ten minutes later you would have a face off with a plate of hash browns that had been under a heat lamp for two hours, lose, and the fun would start again.

I nearly went this year, because I have a New Job as a Knowledge and Information Manager and I figured I should get myself up to date. But going as a punter would be just too, too weird. And I also fear its glory days are over -- everything's online information these days, innit? But I will always remember it fondly.

joella

Using the phone

My Significant Ex used to be thoroughly bemused by this phrase. About once a fortnight, maybe once a month, I would reach for my address book, a bottle of wine and an ashtray and say "I'm just going to Use the Phone". He would use the phone to call a specific person to find out a specific thing or make a specific arrangement, but Using the Phone is so much more than that.

The main thing is, you just kept calling people till you found someone who was in who was in the mood to chat, and then you had a proper conversation with them. And if they weren't in the mood, or they'd called you and you weren't, there was a distinct etiquette which allowed you to comunicate this, and you moved on. But it was a great way to stay in touch with your friends.

But it's kind of gone now, like letter writing before it, because now you get text messages and emails saying 'how are you?' and you can reply or not.But I think I might resurrect it as a New Year's Resolution. Last night I Used the Phone, and it was great. The Lizard, who's a teacher and never uses email, called me up and we talked for nearly an hour. Then I got the bug and called lots of other people. And *then* I embarked upon a real live letter, to Ms S who is jolly successful in Sydney. Okay, I am typing it rather than writing it (she won't approve) but I am going to put it in the real live post.

It's good to talk. But modern life is not all rubbish. I can check out people I would never know about via Friends Reunited, and you can even find out about Non-significant Exes by doing a little research. Who'd have thought Eddie would have ended up making beer in Kent?

And of course, anyone who wants to know about me can now read this. Not that many people do, mind.

joella

Non-specific aggression

... as opposed to non-specific anxiety, which I am also prone to. NSAnx (I just made that up, it's not like I use the word all the time, honest) is easy once you know what it is, you just go to bed, keep warm, read something mindless and wait for to go away. NSAgg (ditto) is a more dangerous beast and I seem to have had it for two whole days now.

I shouted at Miles this morning (he said "Can I give you a hint? Don't shout at someone who's giving you a lift to work in the rain"). I swore my way round the office and threw lots of stuff out because it was In My Way, including some perfectly useful notes that I then had to retrieve from the recycling, and I put the phone down on an admittedly irritating, but mostly just posh, woman who was trying to explain to me that my new shed might need to be sawn in half to get through the house but was insisting on having the exact dimensions of all the doors it would have to pass through before she could tell me for sure.

Then I went swimming to get some aggression out and ended up having an "if you splash at me I'll splash at you more" thing with the other guy in my lane (MY lane, I was there first). Who almost certainly didn't notice as he was just a guy doing front crawl and no man can do that without much splashing, no?

And why? I have no idea. It's a familiar feeling but I haven't had it for a while. I'm not premenstrual, or if I am there's a pretty hellish fortnight ahead. I'm not unusually stressed, except by any conversation including the word shed. It's cold and dark and miserable but it's been like that for months now and I should be used to it. And I'm not even miserable, I'm just angry as hell at nothing in particular.

Although I guess there's a lot going on. And I notice I haven't taken my Evening Primrose Oil for a week or so. Maybe that's the answer.

joella

Karma chameleon

It's funny the feelings you get from watching crap Monday night TV. Well, maybe it's not so crap. Got in a bit late after a post work drink with some lovely webfolk to watch the mighty Enders (hint, never tell the sub-crim barman that your wife's carrying another man's child, oh, but I do have more faith in vasectomies as a result) then this segued almost seamlessly into Airport - a programme I would never normally give the time of day but hey, it's nearly Christmas.

And it was an educational watch this evening. I was humbled first by the sheer dedication of Stuart (I think that's his name), who works in the Animal Something Unit -- the person they call when they reckon some poor creature's coming into Heathrow that perhaps shouldn't be. Watching him fight back the tears as he laid lots of dead chameleons to rest was quite sobering, although fortunately more alcohol was to hand.

But they don't die on a plane for no reason. Anyone who's thinking of getting a cute reptile for a pet, shame on you. And if you run a reptile sanctuary somewhere these guys are supposed to live, give this man a job! He Knows His Reptiles.

The illegal reptile story was cut with an illegal immigrant story, and that one was also well told, I think.

I have some natural sympathy with anyone who takes their chances on London as a place to make a better life -- not a place I'd choose, but then I have more of a choice. And once the fake credit cards and the fifteen different kinds of ID came out of the bin, I lost some of that sympathy. But not all of it.

Thank god for the BBC. They may not tell it like it is, but they do have a go sometimes.

joella

Harinder Veriah

I have just read the most incredible article in today's Guardian. It's by Martin Jacques, who I remember more for editing Marxism Today than for anything else, but it's not about that. It's about Harinder Veriah, the woman he fell in love with in 1993, the time they spent together and how she died in 2000. It's about love and loving someone and it's about the realities of racism in this world and how little you know about this if you're white, even if you think you do. It's an amazing piece of writing, and it made me ache inside.

joella

Fair Pay for the Fire Service!

My lovely friend and websites-for-a-better-world comrade John has just pointed me in the direction of www.fp4f.com. It's all about the demo in London on 7 December -- details, how to get there, spread the word etc. He says (and I couldn't say it better myself):

"The firefighters' demo was announced yesterday afternoon, and we had to design, and build the website in 24hrs, including buying in a domain name, email listserv & some widgets. A campaign site to build a network of demo participants and transport organisers - quite ambitious as it only has 7 days to make good!

Quite exhausted now, so would be very grateful if someone went to look at it... go on, please - it will make my weekend..."

joella

Drinking too much

I was pissed out of my head when I wrote that last one. And the one before. There's some real shit happening at the moment and it's difficult to work out what's a tellable story and what's it's just beyond the pale to write about in a public place, even preserving anonymity (not that many people are looking).

But I guess this is supposed to be about me me me, and I should have a go.

There are two situations making me angry. One is nothing to do with me directly. It involves the theory of polyamory. Viable lifestyle choice or a surefire way to fuck up all kinds of relationships? Evidence is pointing to the latter in my world at the moment. And in such a kind of predictable if tragic way.

I will stick to serial monogamy. Having said that, polyamorists do have some interesting ideas about gender neutral pronouns.

The other is something that did involve me. I felt I played an active part in something pretty sordid just by being there. Well, not even physically there, on another PC somewhere else in the world. I didn't start it, I didn't want it, I didn't encourage it.

And yet I still felt like a piece of shit afterwards. And my bestest friend S is feeling something similar. How can this happen? Why do we get put in a place where we feel angry and guilty at the same time? Why should women take responsibility for the behaviour of men?

joella

Oh, boys. Can't live with them, can't shoot them. Not in this country anyway. Now Andrew, he makes me angry, but he also takes me back to my roots. What's a girl to do? Keep the dialogue open, I guess,

joella

All the people we used to know
They're an illusion to me now
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenters wives
Don't know how it all got started
I don't know what they do with their lives
But me, I'm still on the road
Headin' for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point of view
Tangled up in blue.

can't say it any better than Bob.

joella

Well it all kicked off this evening. S receives an email to end all emails. Not a medium for use when angry (or drunk), but we all learn that one the hard way. Household pow-wow called me in from the garden and I ended up planting my Callicarpa in the dark with a head torch on. Not a sexy look.

Then, blimey, Enders! Whose is Laura's baby?? If it's Ian's I am going to be looking sidelong at Miles...

joella

Bugger. There I was trying to be sensible on a Monday, drink no vino, smoke no fags and get an early night. But then vile MSN Messenger tempted me... the new interface has a link to Zone games, where I found the evil CUBIS. You just can't play it without other vices to hand.

But now I am going to do the washing up. For a bit.

joella

Oh my head. Some of The Limitations were round last night, working up new songs for their gig. I was chez Ricardo, eating more curry and drinking fizz with J and my fine On the Line buddies.

Cath and I arrived back to a house full of mayhem... to which we added for an hour or so before Miles came down the stairs on his stomach and it was time to call it a night. This house was not designed to sleep seven but hey, we deserved a party after a great bit of shed demolition.

New one arrives next week, can't wait, how sad am I?

joella

Blimey, I'm full. Why? Well I have just been out for a fantastic curry chez Aziz on Cowley Road -- surely the best Indian/Bangladeshi restaurant in Oxford, which must make it one of the best in the country, since there is v stiff competition round here.

Also Aziz himself is a very charming man. He has known Miles (Mr D) for getting on 15 years, many of which were spent in their previous Botley-based lives. Hello Mr D he said the first time, without batting an eyelid, as if their joint transplantations from West to East Oxford were nothing remarkable.

And maybe they aren't. But tonight new ground was broken, as Miles asked Aziz along to his gig at the Zodiac on 7 December, and Aziz said he would come. 15 years later they may actually get to know each other a bit. Ain't life sweet sometimes.

joella

Still baffled by trying to publish by FTP. But in the meantime, thoughts for the day. If you're going to a pub quiz, brush up on your Greek gods and your birthstones.

And if you want your legs waxed and you live in Oxford, visit the lovely Elaine. I did her site from an out of date leaflet, so check prices first...

joella

Hmmm. Waiting for this to appear on my site rather than horrible blog site. Am web professional and yet find this difficult. How will my mother cope? Maybe it will be fixed tomorrow... and the sun will come out. But one hour later still no joy. Arse.

Big up to Scott, er, Justin Ruffles (read his blog) for pointing me in this direction. Will I be arsed or won't I? Nobody will care, at least not for a while.

Sylv is in the other room, watching Mulholland Drive. I know a place where she can find out what really happens...

joella