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.
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Thursday, August 28, 2003
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
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
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
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
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
Sunday, August 24, 2003
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
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
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
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
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
Monday, August 18, 2003
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
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
Sunday, August 17, 2003
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
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
Friday, August 15, 2003
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
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
Thursday, August 14, 2003
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
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
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
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
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
Monday, August 11, 2003
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
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
Friday, August 08, 2003
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
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
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Monday, August 04, 2003
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)