Seven Nation Army
There are many, many things to like about Jeremy's website. I always try to read her weekly strip, there are lots of clever things with photos, and she keeps a journal as well. She is an example to us all.
One of the things I like best about it is the mood/music stamps all her journal entries have. Wish I'd thought of that. If I had, today would definitely be Seven Nation Army. Very Very Loud. Times like this I'm glad we've got a keyboard amp in the house.
joella
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Friday, April 25, 2003
Miss Laetitia Cash
Would you take more than five items into the five items or fewer queue at Marks & Spencer? This, I have decided, is one of the great dividing questions of our times.
You see I never would, and I think people who do either can't read, can't count, or have an inflated sense of their own importance.
The five items or fewer queue (as distinct from the five items or less queue that you find in lesser supermarkets) is there for a reason. It is for people who are buying a few things in a bit of a hurry. There are lots of these people at lunchtimes and it makes sense to have a special queue for them so a) they don't get stuck behind people doing their weekly shop and b) the shop avoids long queues. Everyone benefits. Granted, five is a fairly arbitrary number, why not four or six, but it's generally accepted and it's a system that works.
Until people like Miss Laetitia Cash come along.
I was behind her, with two items. There were lots of people behind me, all with five items or fewer, as they are decent members of society and can read and count. She had six items, which she nonchalantly piled on the till. That I can just about live with. But then she disappeared off, bashing me with her sharp-cornered handbag as she went (I was probably a bit close to be honest, as I was giving her pile of six items a Hard Stare).
And, just as it was her turn and I was about to take her place, she arrived back with four smoothies, and added those to the pile. The assistant did look at them all and then look at her and then look at me, but she went ahead and scanned them, as I suppose good customer service people do, even if their customers do not extend the same degree of courtesy to their fellow human beings.
And *then* she produced a cheque book, and proceeded to pay with a very posh cheque from a private bank I had never heard of (which is how I know her name is Miss Laetitia Cash) -- surely the slowest way to pay that there is.
Having taken up more time than three standard transactions of five items or fewer and created a nice long queue of people on their lunch hour, she sauntered off.
I fart in her general direction.
joella
Would you take more than five items into the five items or fewer queue at Marks & Spencer? This, I have decided, is one of the great dividing questions of our times.
You see I never would, and I think people who do either can't read, can't count, or have an inflated sense of their own importance.
The five items or fewer queue (as distinct from the five items or less queue that you find in lesser supermarkets) is there for a reason. It is for people who are buying a few things in a bit of a hurry. There are lots of these people at lunchtimes and it makes sense to have a special queue for them so a) they don't get stuck behind people doing their weekly shop and b) the shop avoids long queues. Everyone benefits. Granted, five is a fairly arbitrary number, why not four or six, but it's generally accepted and it's a system that works.
Until people like Miss Laetitia Cash come along.
I was behind her, with two items. There were lots of people behind me, all with five items or fewer, as they are decent members of society and can read and count. She had six items, which she nonchalantly piled on the till. That I can just about live with. But then she disappeared off, bashing me with her sharp-cornered handbag as she went (I was probably a bit close to be honest, as I was giving her pile of six items a Hard Stare).
And, just as it was her turn and I was about to take her place, she arrived back with four smoothies, and added those to the pile. The assistant did look at them all and then look at her and then look at me, but she went ahead and scanned them, as I suppose good customer service people do, even if their customers do not extend the same degree of courtesy to their fellow human beings.
And *then* she produced a cheque book, and proceeded to pay with a very posh cheque from a private bank I had never heard of (which is how I know her name is Miss Laetitia Cash) -- surely the slowest way to pay that there is.
Having taken up more time than three standard transactions of five items or fewer and created a nice long queue of people on their lunch hour, she sauntered off.
I fart in her general direction.
joella
Thursday, April 24, 2003
Decaf soya cappuccino
My healthy bum regime currently precludes caffeine and dairy products, among other things. So on the whole I am avoiding coffee completely -- it's all too fiddly.
However, last night I was at the train station to meet my visiting Australian artist half-aunt, due in on the 18.18. Which, predictably enough for Virgin Trains, was running half an hour late. As it's a fifteen minute drive home, I decided to wait.
And I waited, and waited, and waited. After a while, the arrival time shifted ten minutes every ten minutes, so the train was always nearly here. I asked the information desk where it actually physically *was* about fifteen times, and each time they said which train, love? THE ONE I JUST ASKED ABOUT TEN MINUTES AGO WHICH IS NOW AN HOUR LATE AND HAS NO FIXED ARRIVAL TIME, I said. Oh, won't be long now, they said. It was like something out of a bad dream.
So I bought a magazine and decided I needed a coffee. I went to the coffee kiosk that all stations have but that nobody can ever remember the name of. I thought I'd just have a black decaf. But they did soya milk too. So I said 'decaf with soya milk please'. The barista reeled off a list of coffee styles, all of which are apparently possible with soya milk. Er, cappuccino, I said.
'Decaf soya cappuccino!' she shouted. 'You fucking what?' said the guy who had to actually make the thing.
When it came it tasted like fluffy eggboxes. Serves me right.
joella
My healthy bum regime currently precludes caffeine and dairy products, among other things. So on the whole I am avoiding coffee completely -- it's all too fiddly.
However, last night I was at the train station to meet my visiting Australian artist half-aunt, due in on the 18.18. Which, predictably enough for Virgin Trains, was running half an hour late. As it's a fifteen minute drive home, I decided to wait.
And I waited, and waited, and waited. After a while, the arrival time shifted ten minutes every ten minutes, so the train was always nearly here. I asked the information desk where it actually physically *was* about fifteen times, and each time they said which train, love? THE ONE I JUST ASKED ABOUT TEN MINUTES AGO WHICH IS NOW AN HOUR LATE AND HAS NO FIXED ARRIVAL TIME, I said. Oh, won't be long now, they said. It was like something out of a bad dream.
So I bought a magazine and decided I needed a coffee. I went to the coffee kiosk that all stations have but that nobody can ever remember the name of. I thought I'd just have a black decaf. But they did soya milk too. So I said 'decaf with soya milk please'. The barista reeled off a list of coffee styles, all of which are apparently possible with soya milk. Er, cappuccino, I said.
'Decaf soya cappuccino!' she shouted. 'You fucking what?' said the guy who had to actually make the thing.
When it came it tasted like fluffy eggboxes. Serves me right.
joella
Monday, April 21, 2003
pLeAsE dOn'T MaKe Me gO BaCk To wORk
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my job. First, I have a work ethic, and second, I can see the point of what I do. It's still working for the man to an extent, but it's a much nicer man than most. He is a force for good in the world, or at least he tries.
But I feel like I've been working forever. I want a big fat juicy break. I had four weeks in Guatemala last year and that was wonderful, but I was superstressed before I went and superstressed as soon as I got back, and that's the price you pay for being away for four weeks. This needs to change.
I've had four days off and I feel good. I am getting stuff done at a good pace, and if I just had a few weeks like this, just mooching, I am sure my world would be so much more manageable.
Or would it? Perhaps I tend to chaos rather than tending to order. Perhaps I use the fact that I work full time as a reason, when in fact it is an excuse. Perhaps I better get my ass back to work pronto just so I can do something useful.
joella
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my job. First, I have a work ethic, and second, I can see the point of what I do. It's still working for the man to an extent, but it's a much nicer man than most. He is a force for good in the world, or at least he tries.
But I feel like I've been working forever. I want a big fat juicy break. I had four weeks in Guatemala last year and that was wonderful, but I was superstressed before I went and superstressed as soon as I got back, and that's the price you pay for being away for four weeks. This needs to change.
I've had four days off and I feel good. I am getting stuff done at a good pace, and if I just had a few weeks like this, just mooching, I am sure my world would be so much more manageable.
Or would it? Perhaps I tend to chaos rather than tending to order. Perhaps I use the fact that I work full time as a reason, when in fact it is an excuse. Perhaps I better get my ass back to work pronto just so I can do something useful.
joella
Sunday, April 20, 2003
Pisshead (not)
Happy Easter!
Mayhem this morning -- everything bar the table from the dining room which happens to be a conservatory was squidged into the kitchen thanks to the purple painting going on yesterday. Then add two people who don't normally cook together and get them cooking together, with about four square inches of worktop free.
Something had to go, and it did -- Miles smashed a picture frame while negotiating his way to the pan cupboard. (Or just the cupboard, for our never-to-be-sufficiently-damned kitchen has only one, but that's another story.) Broken glass and food do not mix well. It was tense.
But it all worked out in the end, and six of us sat down to a splendiferous roast dinner only half an hour later than planned, and with it some of the aforementioned Chablis. Very, very cold, it was, very smooth, and very, very delicious. It was like revisiting a foreign country, where the waters are warmer and it's tempting to swim out into them, but you know it could turn stormy at any moment.
Ah, wine. So we got a bit drunk but not very. Everything was sparkly and giggly for a bit, and then our guests left and S disappeared with her Quiet Man, and I settled down for a little snooze.
And now it's all normal again, except I feel a bit lazy and crumpled round the edges. Which I guess I am.
So this evening, rather than heading out on the piss, I have been trying to resolve the Great Bathroom Dispute. S wants it blue, only blue is allowed, no other colours except maybe purple. I am happy with blue but want a contrasting colour for the woodwork, of which there is quite a lot. I have had enough of purple. I bought a print of Cherry Autumn by Bridget Riley to hang in there and want to use a blue from that with one of the orangey-pinks or orangey-yellows.
S maintains that blue and orange can never exist in harmony, and I am out to convince her that they can, as long as they are the right blue and the right orange. And I have discovered a fantastic feature on the Dulux website called MousePainter. You choose a room to play with, choose the photo that's most like your room, then try different colours of paint on the walls, the woodwork, the floor etc.
The colours are a bit off, but it's a lot better than squinting at colour charts and trying to imagine them all over your walls. You can also ask it to suggest coordinating colours, or choose only from certain ranges. This is what DIY websites should be about. I approve.
The version on the Dulux Australia site is called MyColour and is even better -- you can see what it's like at night as well as in the daytime, and the rooms are bigger. But the paint colours are different. Why is that? Do Australians actually have different colours or do they just call them different things?
On both though you can save your schemes to show your sceptical housemates, and print off a list of all the colours you need. Then, if you measure your room, you can pop over to the Wickes website and put in the dimensions, and it will tell you how many pots of paint you need.
I think that's enough DIY websites for one day.
joella
Happy Easter!
Mayhem this morning -- everything bar the table from the dining room which happens to be a conservatory was squidged into the kitchen thanks to the purple painting going on yesterday. Then add two people who don't normally cook together and get them cooking together, with about four square inches of worktop free.
Something had to go, and it did -- Miles smashed a picture frame while negotiating his way to the pan cupboard. (Or just the cupboard, for our never-to-be-sufficiently-damned kitchen has only one, but that's another story.) Broken glass and food do not mix well. It was tense.
But it all worked out in the end, and six of us sat down to a splendiferous roast dinner only half an hour later than planned, and with it some of the aforementioned Chablis. Very, very cold, it was, very smooth, and very, very delicious. It was like revisiting a foreign country, where the waters are warmer and it's tempting to swim out into them, but you know it could turn stormy at any moment.
Ah, wine. So we got a bit drunk but not very. Everything was sparkly and giggly for a bit, and then our guests left and S disappeared with her Quiet Man, and I settled down for a little snooze.
And now it's all normal again, except I feel a bit lazy and crumpled round the edges. Which I guess I am.
So this evening, rather than heading out on the piss, I have been trying to resolve the Great Bathroom Dispute. S wants it blue, only blue is allowed, no other colours except maybe purple. I am happy with blue but want a contrasting colour for the woodwork, of which there is quite a lot. I have had enough of purple. I bought a print of Cherry Autumn by Bridget Riley to hang in there and want to use a blue from that with one of the orangey-pinks or orangey-yellows.
S maintains that blue and orange can never exist in harmony, and I am out to convince her that they can, as long as they are the right blue and the right orange. And I have discovered a fantastic feature on the Dulux website called MousePainter. You choose a room to play with, choose the photo that's most like your room, then try different colours of paint on the walls, the woodwork, the floor etc.
The colours are a bit off, but it's a lot better than squinting at colour charts and trying to imagine them all over your walls. You can also ask it to suggest coordinating colours, or choose only from certain ranges. This is what DIY websites should be about. I approve.
The version on the Dulux Australia site is called MyColour and is even better -- you can see what it's like at night as well as in the daytime, and the rooms are bigger. But the paint colours are different. Why is that? Do Australians actually have different colours or do they just call them different things?
On both though you can save your schemes to show your sceptical housemates, and print off a list of all the colours you need. Then, if you measure your room, you can pop over to the Wickes website and put in the dimensions, and it will tell you how many pots of paint you need.
I think that's enough DIY websites for one day.
joella
Saturday, April 19, 2003
Cleanliness is next to godliness is next to drunkenness
I don't do Easter in the sense that people who go to church do Easter. I am far too lapsed a Catholic for that.
But I do do Lent (normally: crisps, this year: cheese -- though I have modified this to allow goat's cheese and sheep's cheese given that I am currently eating no cow's milk products at all as part of colon detox -- a kind of SuperLent). I would point out that I had already given up cheese for Lent before I was told to give up cow's milk -- Lent's not about cheating.
And in anticipation of Easter we have cleaned the house from top to bottom -- well, top and bottom, the stairs are still pretty dirty. My job was the kitchen and the shower room, and neither has been cleaner in recent memory. S has done one of her super-blitz jobs on the front room, the back room and the bathroom, and Miles got out of his job -- the dining room which happens to be a conservatory -- by painting it purple instead. I am not sure about this at all, it does have a distinct 80s tinge now, what with the glittery black woodwork, but I hear the 80s are cool again, and anyway, it's better than the 'apple white' it was before.
We are having a big roast to celebrate tomorrow (nuts for me, chicken for everyone else, and I've made mine already how organised is that), and competing with the paint fumes will be... wine.
I said Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND NINETEEN!), yet there is some very posh Chablis (well, fuck it, if you're going to do it at least make it worth it) chilling in the fridge. I did think about this very hard. I am still not 100% sure it's a good idea. But god, am I looking forward to it.
joella
I don't do Easter in the sense that people who go to church do Easter. I am far too lapsed a Catholic for that.
But I do do Lent (normally: crisps, this year: cheese -- though I have modified this to allow goat's cheese and sheep's cheese given that I am currently eating no cow's milk products at all as part of colon detox -- a kind of SuperLent). I would point out that I had already given up cheese for Lent before I was told to give up cow's milk -- Lent's not about cheating.
And in anticipation of Easter we have cleaned the house from top to bottom -- well, top and bottom, the stairs are still pretty dirty. My job was the kitchen and the shower room, and neither has been cleaner in recent memory. S has done one of her super-blitz jobs on the front room, the back room and the bathroom, and Miles got out of his job -- the dining room which happens to be a conservatory -- by painting it purple instead. I am not sure about this at all, it does have a distinct 80s tinge now, what with the glittery black woodwork, but I hear the 80s are cool again, and anyway, it's better than the 'apple white' it was before.
We are having a big roast to celebrate tomorrow (nuts for me, chicken for everyone else, and I've made mine already how organised is that), and competing with the paint fumes will be... wine.
I said Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND NINETEEN!), yet there is some very posh Chablis (well, fuck it, if you're going to do it at least make it worth it) chilling in the fridge. I did think about this very hard. I am still not 100% sure it's a good idea. But god, am I looking forward to it.
joella
Thursday, April 17, 2003
A.G.R.O.
One of the fabulous things about being sober is that I can follow the plot of 24. Ten o'clock on a Sunday night is prime sorrows-drowning time, so much of the first series was me going 'why did he do that?', 'is she the one that did that thing with the guy from earlier?' and 'have we seen him before is he a terrorist?'.
This series it's all different. I can even remember some of their names. That Kate Warner really gets on my nerves. (See?) And it's a race against the clock to get into bed by 10 on Sunday nights, to watch on the portable that's balanced precariously on the laundry basket for just this purpose.
So imagine my horror and disgust when this week there was no 24 because of the fucking GOLF. Is there *anything* sadder than watching golf on television? I once found myself watching an angling competition on television, which is probably even sadder than watching the test card, but then I was pretty stoned at the time -- and it was 3am. It was not 24 time.
This is not the first time golf has disrupted my life. In 1988, the Open was held at Lytham, where at the time I was an 18 year old with a lot of attitude. The whole town was taken over by large cars and wealthy people in bad clothes, you couldn't get into places or park anywhere and everything was reserved for someone who wasn't you.
It did bring some work with it, and I spent some evenings washing up in the kitchens of large houses being run for the duration by ex-chalet girls who brayed at the sight of the boy Glen, who I took with me a couple of times. They sent him straight off to do the barbecuing -- a man prepared to get his hands dirty was a wonderful find. Meanwhile I hacked at strawberries and avoided the wandering hands of clean on the outside filthy on the inside rich kids. And their dads. Nice.
Clearly, a statement had to be made. I had just got my 2cv, the first piece of the world to belong to me me me, and the boy Glen and I came up with A.G.R.O. -- the Anti-Golf Residents Organisation. We made signs with golf balls turned into CND signs and feminist symbols (as I recall, it's a touch hazy), stuck them to the car windows (not the safest move I have ever made) and drove round town with the roof off punching the air and shouting 'AGRO!'
I did feel a whole lot better.
I saw my little 2cv the other night. She lives about ten minutes walk away now, but it's the first time I've seen her since I sold her. She was all clean and shiny and had a new set of seats. My heart ached, but I know I did the right thing. It's hard being a grown up.
joella
One of the fabulous things about being sober is that I can follow the plot of 24. Ten o'clock on a Sunday night is prime sorrows-drowning time, so much of the first series was me going 'why did he do that?', 'is she the one that did that thing with the guy from earlier?' and 'have we seen him before is he a terrorist?'.
This series it's all different. I can even remember some of their names. That Kate Warner really gets on my nerves. (See?) And it's a race against the clock to get into bed by 10 on Sunday nights, to watch on the portable that's balanced precariously on the laundry basket for just this purpose.
So imagine my horror and disgust when this week there was no 24 because of the fucking GOLF. Is there *anything* sadder than watching golf on television? I once found myself watching an angling competition on television, which is probably even sadder than watching the test card, but then I was pretty stoned at the time -- and it was 3am. It was not 24 time.
This is not the first time golf has disrupted my life. In 1988, the Open was held at Lytham, where at the time I was an 18 year old with a lot of attitude. The whole town was taken over by large cars and wealthy people in bad clothes, you couldn't get into places or park anywhere and everything was reserved for someone who wasn't you.
It did bring some work with it, and I spent some evenings washing up in the kitchens of large houses being run for the duration by ex-chalet girls who brayed at the sight of the boy Glen, who I took with me a couple of times. They sent him straight off to do the barbecuing -- a man prepared to get his hands dirty was a wonderful find. Meanwhile I hacked at strawberries and avoided the wandering hands of clean on the outside filthy on the inside rich kids. And their dads. Nice.
Clearly, a statement had to be made. I had just got my 2cv, the first piece of the world to belong to me me me, and the boy Glen and I came up with A.G.R.O. -- the Anti-Golf Residents Organisation. We made signs with golf balls turned into CND signs and feminist symbols (as I recall, it's a touch hazy), stuck them to the car windows (not the safest move I have ever made) and drove round town with the roof off punching the air and shouting 'AGRO!'
I did feel a whole lot better.
I saw my little 2cv the other night. She lives about ten minutes walk away now, but it's the first time I've seen her since I sold her. She was all clean and shiny and had a new set of seats. My heart ached, but I know I did the right thing. It's hard being a grown up.
joella
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Little fluffy poo
Well, something is working, whether it's the strange diet or the many odd capsules I am swallowing every day or the vast quantities of water I am drinking. I have never had poos like this.
Why is poo such a funny word? I have been using it a lot lately, and remembered a hilarious game Miles and I invented on a long boring walk home some time last year.
We were drunk at the time, but it does work sober, and you can try it whenever you are bored. It's sensible to play with at least two, otherwise you make stupid noises and people stare.
You think of the name of a song, substitute one of the words with poo, and say it out loud. Simple as that. 'How much is that poo in the window?', 'Dead ringer for poo', 'Brown girl in the poo' etc.
Our favourite though was 'I want to hold your poo'.
joella
Well, something is working, whether it's the strange diet or the many odd capsules I am swallowing every day or the vast quantities of water I am drinking. I have never had poos like this.
Why is poo such a funny word? I have been using it a lot lately, and remembered a hilarious game Miles and I invented on a long boring walk home some time last year.
We were drunk at the time, but it does work sober, and you can try it whenever you are bored. It's sensible to play with at least two, otherwise you make stupid noises and people stare.
You think of the name of a song, substitute one of the words with poo, and say it out loud. Simple as that. 'How much is that poo in the window?', 'Dead ringer for poo', 'Brown girl in the poo' etc.
Our favourite though was 'I want to hold your poo'.
joella
Sunday, April 13, 2003
Looking after number two
This week, Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND THREE!) moved up a gear. In fact, it moved up my bum.
On Wednesday I went to see a quite severe yet rather glamorous ("I don't drink gin anymore because I just like it too much") nurse turned colonic hydrotherapist. She gave me a strong detox talking to, wrote a list of the things I am not allowed to eat for the next six weeks, and then got to work.
It wasn't quite what I was expecting. I mean, obviously I was expecting something involving tubing, warm water and slight indignity, but I did figure it would be a one off, a bit like getting your legs waxed. You go in, go through it, pay, leave, think 'why do I do this to myself', then think, 'oh, but it's worth it'. I didn't count on the full-on colon cleanse experience that I suddenly seem to have embarked upon. But apparently just washing out your bum does not a healthy colon make.
Instead, a healthy colon involves a spell of not eating wheat, or anything made from cow's milk, because these are hard to digest. Then it involves no alcohol -- this at least I know I can do -- but, far more frighteningly, no caffeine. Plus some herbs and some husky things and some Aloe Vera. It's all explained on the Cytoplan website.
And on top of all that I get four more 'colonics'. If you say it quickly it makes you think of tonics, which are good things and do not involve any poo.
I was wondering what do to with all the cash I am saving from not drinking. Instead of pissing it away I am sticking it up my bum.
joella
This week, Year of Living Healthily (DAY A HUNDRED AND THREE!) moved up a gear. In fact, it moved up my bum.
On Wednesday I went to see a quite severe yet rather glamorous ("I don't drink gin anymore because I just like it too much") nurse turned colonic hydrotherapist. She gave me a strong detox talking to, wrote a list of the things I am not allowed to eat for the next six weeks, and then got to work.
It wasn't quite what I was expecting. I mean, obviously I was expecting something involving tubing, warm water and slight indignity, but I did figure it would be a one off, a bit like getting your legs waxed. You go in, go through it, pay, leave, think 'why do I do this to myself', then think, 'oh, but it's worth it'. I didn't count on the full-on colon cleanse experience that I suddenly seem to have embarked upon. But apparently just washing out your bum does not a healthy colon make.
Instead, a healthy colon involves a spell of not eating wheat, or anything made from cow's milk, because these are hard to digest. Then it involves no alcohol -- this at least I know I can do -- but, far more frighteningly, no caffeine. Plus some herbs and some husky things and some Aloe Vera. It's all explained on the Cytoplan website.
And on top of all that I get four more 'colonics'. If you say it quickly it makes you think of tonics, which are good things and do not involve any poo.
I was wondering what do to with all the cash I am saving from not drinking. Instead of pissing it away I am sticking it up my bum.
joella
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Victory for Kneely Chairs!
Back at the beginning of February I wrote about the chair fascism in my office, when my kneely chair was Banned. A man from the frighteningly named Posturite came to see me and brought me a chair which can do everything but make the tea, but upon which sitting is compulsory.
It was on trial, and I tried, I really did. But it gave me terrible neckache and made my legs feel heavy, and and and. I just can't work on chairs, I don't like them. And so today he came back with the nice but scary HR woman. He is taking it away and bringing me a kneely chair, only with a five point base so it is not illegal. I will look like a lunatic but I will not care.
Two months elapsed time, several hours of pain, several more of frustration, one lot of tears and many rants later, and I've finally got what I want. Which is almost exactly what I had before, but let's not go there.
joella
Back at the beginning of February I wrote about the chair fascism in my office, when my kneely chair was Banned. A man from the frighteningly named Posturite came to see me and brought me a chair which can do everything but make the tea, but upon which sitting is compulsory.
It was on trial, and I tried, I really did. But it gave me terrible neckache and made my legs feel heavy, and and and. I just can't work on chairs, I don't like them. And so today he came back with the nice but scary HR woman. He is taking it away and bringing me a kneely chair, only with a five point base so it is not illegal. I will look like a lunatic but I will not care.
Two months elapsed time, several hours of pain, several more of frustration, one lot of tears and many rants later, and I've finally got what I want. Which is almost exactly what I had before, but let's not go there.
joella
Monday, April 07, 2003
Earthling
I love my garden.
When I moved into the flat I shared with my Significant Ex, I had a kitchen of my own for the first time and I learnt to cook. I loved that flat, and I loved that kitchen. There wasn't a garden -- there wasn't even a balcony -- but I didn't really see the point of growing things, I had only just learnt to cook them.
Then when I left, I moved into the Flat On Top Of A Storage Building. That had a windswept little patio, on which S and I grew precisely nothing. We didn't even have a houseplant, though we did have a hammock. We were hedonistically utilitarian.
When we looked round houses, I just thought, right, yeah, garden, whatever, how far's the pub?
And then we moved in. And there was suddenly this whole extra outdoor room that I had no idea what to do with. I wish I'd taken photos of it now, it was like a little jungle. I had no tools, no knowledge of what anything was, nothing. And it kind of fell to me to work it out, because I seemed to care the most.
So I began my gardening life much like I had begun my cooking life five years earlier, by reading books and having a go. And now I can spend all weekend doing it. Miles comes out to help sometimes, and is a very good weeder, and even S has done a bit of digging.
This weekend I went to a plant fair with some of my planty friends. I bought a clematis (montana rubens, if you care) and an erysimum (a new kind called Apricot Twist, if you care), and I knew exactly where they were both going to go. I also know that lavender doesn't create new growth on old wood, I know that rosemary prefers poor soil, and I know that camellias shouldn't face east. Mine does, but I didn't plant it.
It is lovely to know that I still have room in my head for a whole body of new knowledge, and it's lovely to plan things and then see them happen. It is quite a lot like cooking in that respect, but everything takes much, much longer. I won't be a good gardener for a long time yet, but I'll get there one day.
There is also something quite profoundly calming and optimistic about it, especially at this time of year, when the sap is rising and everything is waking up. Last weekend was the first time I really went for it since the winter, and I realised that I could dig a lot longer and pull a lot harder than I could in October. It must use a lot of the same muscles as yoga. How very zen.
NB I am not premenstrual anymore, as if that weren't utterly obvious.
joella
I love my garden.
When I moved into the flat I shared with my Significant Ex, I had a kitchen of my own for the first time and I learnt to cook. I loved that flat, and I loved that kitchen. There wasn't a garden -- there wasn't even a balcony -- but I didn't really see the point of growing things, I had only just learnt to cook them.
Then when I left, I moved into the Flat On Top Of A Storage Building. That had a windswept little patio, on which S and I grew precisely nothing. We didn't even have a houseplant, though we did have a hammock. We were hedonistically utilitarian.
When we looked round houses, I just thought, right, yeah, garden, whatever, how far's the pub?
And then we moved in. And there was suddenly this whole extra outdoor room that I had no idea what to do with. I wish I'd taken photos of it now, it was like a little jungle. I had no tools, no knowledge of what anything was, nothing. And it kind of fell to me to work it out, because I seemed to care the most.
So I began my gardening life much like I had begun my cooking life five years earlier, by reading books and having a go. And now I can spend all weekend doing it. Miles comes out to help sometimes, and is a very good weeder, and even S has done a bit of digging.
This weekend I went to a plant fair with some of my planty friends. I bought a clematis (montana rubens, if you care) and an erysimum (a new kind called Apricot Twist, if you care), and I knew exactly where they were both going to go. I also know that lavender doesn't create new growth on old wood, I know that rosemary prefers poor soil, and I know that camellias shouldn't face east. Mine does, but I didn't plant it.
It is lovely to know that I still have room in my head for a whole body of new knowledge, and it's lovely to plan things and then see them happen. It is quite a lot like cooking in that respect, but everything takes much, much longer. I won't be a good gardener for a long time yet, but I'll get there one day.
There is also something quite profoundly calming and optimistic about it, especially at this time of year, when the sap is rising and everything is waking up. Last weekend was the first time I really went for it since the winter, and I realised that I could dig a lot longer and pull a lot harder than I could in October. It must use a lot of the same muscles as yoga. How very zen.
NB I am not premenstrual anymore, as if that weren't utterly obvious.
joella
Friday, April 04, 2003
Falafel
I have just been to the library and got out the Book of English Food by the rather splendidly named Arabella Boxer. It's about how and what the British ate between the wars, which is what interested me about it, that social history angle, although I am also on the lookout for good cake recipes since the appearance of cake tins in the kitchen following the birth of my sweet tooth.
But I mainly got it out for Miles, who likes traditional things. It has a whole chapter on Tea, in the sandwiches and buns sense of the word, and another one on Picnics. And I am sure he will look at recipes for Roast Rack of Lamb and Braised Oxtail and wonder how he ever ended up living with a vegetarian.
And indeed it would have been very difficult to be a vegetarian living in Britain between the wars. Not least (as I finally get to the point) because there was no falafel. And falafel is the food of the gods.
I can remember my first falafel. It was my first visit to Israel in 1980, also memorable for my first experiences of houmous, pitta bread, tahina, sunflower seeds, and Kinley, a fizzy orange drink made by the Coca Cola Company which I have never seen anywhere else in the world but which was bloody wonderful. These days you can buy falafel in supermarkets, but in those days you could only get it in the Middle East, and maybe in Middle Eastern delis, and we didn't have any of those where I grew up.
And it was like being shown a secret door into heaven. My sister, my dad and I took to hanging round the bus station at Haifa, where stalls would sell you a pitta bread with four or five hot little balls in it and you would fill the rest of the space up with five different kinds of olive, fourteen different kinds of pickle, some salad, some tahina and some chilli sauce. You would eat it far too fast and then do it again, until you felt sick.
Is there a more perfect food? Good for you, vegetarian, nay, vegan, super tasty, and you can do whatever you like with it. It's so wonderful that people fight over who thought of it first. I don't mind, just bring it on. I do have access to a Middle Eastern deli these days and very glad I am too.
joella
I have just been to the library and got out the Book of English Food by the rather splendidly named Arabella Boxer. It's about how and what the British ate between the wars, which is what interested me about it, that social history angle, although I am also on the lookout for good cake recipes since the appearance of cake tins in the kitchen following the birth of my sweet tooth.
But I mainly got it out for Miles, who likes traditional things. It has a whole chapter on Tea, in the sandwiches and buns sense of the word, and another one on Picnics. And I am sure he will look at recipes for Roast Rack of Lamb and Braised Oxtail and wonder how he ever ended up living with a vegetarian.
And indeed it would have been very difficult to be a vegetarian living in Britain between the wars. Not least (as I finally get to the point) because there was no falafel. And falafel is the food of the gods.
I can remember my first falafel. It was my first visit to Israel in 1980, also memorable for my first experiences of houmous, pitta bread, tahina, sunflower seeds, and Kinley, a fizzy orange drink made by the Coca Cola Company which I have never seen anywhere else in the world but which was bloody wonderful. These days you can buy falafel in supermarkets, but in those days you could only get it in the Middle East, and maybe in Middle Eastern delis, and we didn't have any of those where I grew up.
And it was like being shown a secret door into heaven. My sister, my dad and I took to hanging round the bus station at Haifa, where stalls would sell you a pitta bread with four or five hot little balls in it and you would fill the rest of the space up with five different kinds of olive, fourteen different kinds of pickle, some salad, some tahina and some chilli sauce. You would eat it far too fast and then do it again, until you felt sick.
Is there a more perfect food? Good for you, vegetarian, nay, vegan, super tasty, and you can do whatever you like with it. It's so wonderful that people fight over who thought of it first. I don't mind, just bring it on. I do have access to a Middle Eastern deli these days and very glad I am too.
joella
Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Better, kinda
Not feeling quite so much full of vitriol today. I have done some yoga and drunk some herbal tea and walked round the garden looking at all that life bursting through demanding to be lived.
I retain an inner sneer, however, especially for those who avoid telling you something you may find hard to hear but will find out anyway, those who look you in the eye and lie to you, those who try and sell you things that they know won't do the job they purport to do, and those who are stupid enough to believe the hype and don't listen to you if you are not.
In other words, the manipulative, the cowardly and the occupants of Golgafrincham Ark B.
When I get my period (any minute, by the sounds of things...) I will collapse in a little heap of pain and deep reflection, but right now the moral high ground is All Mine.
joella
Not feeling quite so much full of vitriol today. I have done some yoga and drunk some herbal tea and walked round the garden looking at all that life bursting through demanding to be lived.
I retain an inner sneer, however, especially for those who avoid telling you something you may find hard to hear but will find out anyway, those who look you in the eye and lie to you, those who try and sell you things that they know won't do the job they purport to do, and those who are stupid enough to believe the hype and don't listen to you if you are not.
In other words, the manipulative, the cowardly and the occupants of Golgafrincham Ark B.
When I get my period (any minute, by the sounds of things...) I will collapse in a little heap of pain and deep reflection, but right now the moral high ground is All Mine.
joella
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
Not a nice person and stuff
There's a Eurythmics song called You Hurt Me (and I Hate You). I buy that sentiment. There are lots of unpleasant things that I *don't* do, but I do have the capacity to hate people, and I do use it. In fact, I can't stop it.
If I could edit my own psyche I would tone that bit down, because it can be quite painful, although I don't think I would take it out altogether. It's healthier to acknowledge these things and it's a fairly good survival tool in a world where you have choices. But it is a little tiresome sometimes. I do hate some people on my hate list a bit less over time, but my average grudge stretches into decades.
And today I hate pretty much everything, but I hate the people I hate in particular (NB these can also be people who have hurt me by hurting the world -- I *really* hate Thatcher, for example). Fuck off the lot of you.
joella
There's a Eurythmics song called You Hurt Me (and I Hate You). I buy that sentiment. There are lots of unpleasant things that I *don't* do, but I do have the capacity to hate people, and I do use it. In fact, I can't stop it.
If I could edit my own psyche I would tone that bit down, because it can be quite painful, although I don't think I would take it out altogether. It's healthier to acknowledge these things and it's a fairly good survival tool in a world where you have choices. But it is a little tiresome sometimes. I do hate some people on my hate list a bit less over time, but my average grudge stretches into decades.
And today I hate pretty much everything, but I hate the people I hate in particular (NB these can also be people who have hurt me by hurting the world -- I *really* hate Thatcher, for example). Fuck off the lot of you.
joella
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