Too big to think about

The first number I heard was 2000. On the 27th it was 10,000, and it's just going up and up and up. The reporters are getting in and the victims are getting out so there's more to see and hear; the bodies are being buried without identification before they rot and kill the living. Now they reckon 100,000 people died on Boxing Day. As many more might die from water borne diseases if they don't get clean water soon.

Apparently disasters in Asia have a greater psychological effect on people in Britain than disasters anywhere else. Sri Lanka, India, Burma and Malaysia used to be part of the British Empire. We have a significant South Asian population here in this country, and many of us have been on holiday to India or East Asia. The vast majority of the people who died were poor, but a third of the dead in Thailand were Western tourists, and lots more of us have been to the places which are now devastated. Housemate S was in the Maldives a few months ago; I have been to Thailand, Tamil Nadu and Penang. We've walked on those beaches.

And I don't know what to do with myself. September 11 was terrifying, but we knew it was the work of men. What can we do to prevent this sort of catastrophe?

Well... there are early warning systems, and there is making poverty history.
Hope we have the collective will to do both when the crying's over.

joella

Some things can't be denied part II

I nearly deleted the previous post, because it proved impossible to edit it to make any sense, but decided to leave it and write another one explaining it.

Essentially it was expressing my pleasure at reading Francis Wheen's book How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World, with its impassioned defence of rationalism of all kinds. He mounts a strong attack on post-modernist relativism, which I particularly enjoyed, not least because he is very funny.

It was also attempting to articulate my particular blend of feminism and rationalism, and finally respond to the enormous shock and grief I was feeling as the news about the Asian tsunamis rolled in and kept on rolling. Which linked back to the Wheen book's lampooning of those who deny that things (eg the Holocaust) have happened, and argue that any one account of history is as valid as any other.

But my main response to the news was to get extremely pissed and have a good cry, which is why what came out was such gibberish. Hope that's all clear now.

joella

Some things can't be denied.

Earthquakes. Floods. Pestilence. Poverty.

Let's not beat around the rapidly sinking, permanently salinated bush. Some things just are.

For many years I was an uncomfortable rationalist. It's not a discipline that sits easily with feminism (or at least with taking women seriously). As Cash's long-suffering missus says in the Shameless Christmas Special, clutching Debbie by the wrist as she sells her her first pack of tampons: 'NEVER FEAR THE ANGER'.

Right on, right on. We live in an uncertain world, and sanity has always been relative. One moment I can be raging, knife-brandishing and terrifying (yet terrified); the next pyjama-bound, bloody and whimpering (yet grounded). The world doesn't change, but I do.

Understanding this does not challenge science. It *is* science. And I felt a lot better about rationalism once I got to that point.

[lots more to say - but later, when I am more sober].

joella

Merry Christmas to all our readers!

jo and joella

Imagine the circumstances...

... under which, if you're a man, you might say to your girlfriend: "I wish you'd nag me more".

You can't? Well, it goes a little something like this.

You have a car. It's a Mercedes A Class, which you bought because it looked cute. It is generally very reliable, but if anything ever goes wrong with it you have to take it to the Mercedes garage, which is a) miles away and b) stunningly, breathtakingly expensive.

One of the main headlight bulbs goes. Several of the darkest weeks of the year go by, during which your girlfriend points out on a regular basis that the headlight has gone and that not to replace it is a) unsafe and b) illegal. She is particularly concerned that you do not try and do it yourself just before setting off on a long motorway drive on Boxing Day.

The manual says something like: if you insist you can try and do this yourself, but it's jolly difficult and we recommend that you take it to a Mercedes Benz dealership and pay through the nose for someone else to do it.

You decide to do it yourself. (You have, in fairness, done it yourself before.) You try, but it's quite dark and you get stuck trying to get the hatch off from inside the wheel arch. Days pass, and then it is Christmas Eve. Your girlfriend remarks several times over the morning that this is the last day that businesses are open before Boxing Day, and eventually gets her fingerless gloves on and says 'please can we do it now?'

[half an hour of crawling round on the pavement and swearing later]

The bulb you need is the only one that is missing from the spare bulb kit you bought from Halfords last time you needed a spare bulb.

You get on your bike and go to buy more from an auto spares shop. You come back. They don't work.

[quarter of an hour of being Really Pissed Off]

At 1.03 pm you ring the Mercedes garage. They shut at 1, because it's Christmas Eve.

Then you say to your girlfriend: I wish you'd nag me more.

She promises to try harder.

joella

Festive veggieness

I have long waxed lyrical about my nut roast recipe, and just recently (it being a traditional time of year) lots of people have been asking me for it. I can't remember who you all are but I know some of you will be reading this. So here goes: the perfect vegetarian option when most people are eating turkey. Or, as will apparently be the case chez nous this year, goose.

Ingredients
1 tbsp or so olive oil
1 onion, finely chopped
2 celery sticks, finely sliced
8 oz chopped mixed nuts (can be bought ready chopped in bags but these are mostly peanut and for special occasions I use hazelnuts, almonds and brazil nuts and bash in a tea towel with a hammer)
3 tomatoes, peeled and chopped (use real tomatoes not tinned - peel after first covering with boiling water for 10 mins)
6 oz fresh wholemeal breadcrumbs (rye bread works just as well)
salt & pepper
1 teaspoon mixed dried herbs
Up to 1 teaspoon chilli powder or large pinch of dried red chilli flakes
2 eggs, beaten

What to do
Preheat oven to 220C, gas mark 7, 425 F
Oil a 1lb loaf tin (this is quite a small one, but if you've only got a big one it will work ok too) and line the base with oiled greaseproof paper. (V important, or you'll never get it out of the tin in one piece).

Heat the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pan and sweat the onion and celery for 10 mins or so until soft but not brown. Turn off the heat. Add the nuts, tomatoes, breadcrumbs, salt and pepper, herbs and chilli. Mix really well then beat in the eggs. It should be soft but hold its shape: if too dry add more egg, if too wet add more breadcrumbs. Taste and add more seasoning if necessary (it tastes blander after cooking so if in doubt add a bit more. This goes for everything except the chilli, which tastes hotter after cooking).

Pack the mixture firmly into the loaf tin, cover with oiled aluminium foil and bake for 60-80 minutes. Remove foil, run a knife round the sides of the tin, place a plate on top and flip over. It should slide out, be slightly crumbly but with firm edges and can be sliced neatly.

Serve with roast potatoes, gravy and lots and lots of vegetables. And then see if people still think nut roast is boring and retro. I've never found anyone, carnivore or otherwise, who doesn't like it. Well, apart from the kid with the nut allergy.

joella

PS Recipe adapted from the Hamlyn All Colour Vegetarian Cookbook, published October 1988 and still (unlike most 1980s vegetarian cookbooks) worth having.

In the bleak midwinter

When did I last go to a carol service? I really can't remember, but it would have been at least 15 years ago, probably more.

I was tempted along to one tonight though, almost entirely because of its location. Bartlemas Chapel lies about 100m from the bingo hall on Cowley Road, yet exists as part of another world. It was built in the 14th century for a medieval leper hospital, is candle-lit and unheated, and can accommodate maybe 60 people, plus a small choir.

And it was beautiful. Anyone would have enjoyed it (though as a lapsed Catholic I would say that a bit of incense and some bell ringing would have set it off even better, and possibly warmed us up a bit too). It's the sort of event that non-religious people, or people of other religions, should go to too: it was clearly a Christian event but one which was benign, delicate and slightly mystical. (Apart from Ding Dong Merrily on High, which was pretty naff.)

Lots of the choir-only songs I didn't know at all, but it was quite disturbing to find that after all these years I still know all the words to O Little Town of Bethlehem. Not much chance of peace on earth in those parts these days, but still, it's a top tune.

joella

Things can only get lighter

Happy winter solstice!

This was taken at 16.30 today from my office window. As I had to hang out the window in sub zero temperatures to take it, I wanted to capitalise on the effort. So I made Christmas cards for my colleagues with it on. (Still suffering from the motivation problems, evidently).

It wasn't nearly as good as a card I got from A, who volunteers with us every Friday. This year's was a hand drawn post apocalyptic scene with a child being born under a railway bridge and a 'Hope in the midst of chaos' message. But I tried.

joella

Nearly a lost weekend

On Friday we went to see The G's (who are better than their website would indicate) at the Zodiac. It was a pretty mad night. They have bagpipes, they have guitars and bass and they have lots of drums. You love it or you hate it. I have seen them three times and loved them twice, and this was one of those. The noise was huge, everyone knew everyone else, it was quite druggy but not in an exclusive way, and all in all it was like a little mini festival in the middle of winter in the middle of a city at the end of a stressful week. My legs still ache.

Rather unwisely, we then went on to a party, where I suspect I was not quite as sparkling a conversationalist as I fancied myself, and where I probably smelt unattractively of sweat and stale beer. There was whiskey involved (D'oh!) and there was a shambolic walk home at some bonkers hour.

So Saturday was a bit of a DNS day. This is a useful new word I have learnt from Ms E: it stands for Dark Night of the Soul. In this context, it means stay in bed, feel bleak, get up, eat soup, bathe, go back to bed, read science fiction in the absence of anything else to read, feel bleaker.

Bleakness was compounded by rain. We had tickets for Your Song (local bands playing v short covers sets), again at the Zodiac, and we nearly didn't make it. But housemate S was up for it, and our nights out as housemates are rare these days, so off we went. It was v much worth it... in fact Sexy Breakfast's Hallelujah was worth the ticket price all on its own, and I was very happy to bump into Jeremy as people prepared to dance to Total Eclipse of the Heart are quite thin on the ground, and it's no fun on your own.

And the next morning it was sunny. Very, very sunny. M prised me out of bed and into a coat, scarf and gloves, and we went for a walk on Shotover Hill. My head was cleared and my lungs were filled with wintery splintery air.

You need to make space to recover. But without things to recover from, where would we be?

joella

I've been meaning to write about Firefox...

... for ages, but haven't got round to it. And now I don't have to, because somebody's kindly written an open Dear John letter to Internet Explorer.

I have one beef with Firefox, which is that I can't work out how to make it show ALT text when you hover over an image. I've a feeling it's probably because they are supposed to be ALT, not AND, and maybe I should TITLE images instead.

Hmm, have just searched and this is exactly the case. But if you do want to carry on writing bad HTML, there's a Firefox extension to support you. Neat-o.

joella

Not a problem at all?

I love the English language. It is sophisticated and intricate, and (when used properly) allows the drawing of delicate yet important distinctions. So it feels particularly annoying that one very important phrase is completely missing.

That phrase is the reply to the words 'thank you'.

In lots of languages this word is the same as the word for 'please', which seems sensible, and you do find non-native English speakers saying 'please' when you thank them for holding the door open or whatever. I don't think it's going to catch on, but it has the great advantage of providing acknowledgement without any great engagement.

The most standard English response -- 'you're welcome' -- has been hijacked by Americans, I feel, and is also a bit over the top if what you've been thanked for is something pretty low-effort, like passing the salt.

Even if it's not low effort, it can still fall short. I thanked someone for some advice the other day. It was good advice, but she said 'you're welcome', which, while I am not sure what else she could have said, kind of made it feel like I'd had a problem and she'd given me a solution. 'You're welcome' puts the bestower in a position of magnanimity, and the reality is rarely so straightforward.

In Spanish they sometimes say 'de nada' -- which I think translates best as 'think nothing of it'. It works well in Spanish. In English if you say that, or 'it was nothing' or something similar, the thanker can be left wondering why they bothered to thank you at all.

And lately I have found call centre and technical support people using 'not a problem at all'. I think this is supposed to convey an aura of professional service combined with just a touch of mateyness, but it doesn't work for me. I feel it should have been a little bit of a problem, or else I would have been able to sort it out myself. Where's the added value?

It would all be so much simpler if we just had an automatic response. No double meaning, no nuances, no scope for awkwardness. In Lancashire they quite often say 'you're all right', which is neutral and multipurpose and just a touch self-effacing. That works quite well. As does 'no worries', the Australian version, though it's difficult to say as an English person without sounding like an arse.

And I still don't get how a language as evolved as ours can have missed such an important trick. Maybe it says something about the contrariness of the Anglo-Saxon mindset.

joella

Dirty fast-tracker?

I guess there are some important questions at the heart of the Blunkett resignation -- eg: if you're performing competently at your job should you have to go because it turns out you're a bit of a dirty shagger* and you pulled a few strings?

But I find it hard to care. Because I don't like him. Good riddance. I didn't like Jack Straw either, and let's not even contemplate liking Michael Howard.

So I think a more interesting question is: is it possible to like a Home Secretary? If my mum was Home Secretary (for example), would I like her? Binge drinkers would be locked up, and those seeking UK citizenship would have to attend ceremonies swearing they would iron their pants.

As it stands, I can't see how it's a job that can bring out one's tolerant side. All you get to do is make rules that mean students will sit around smoking dope and calling you a fascist (this analysis might be expecting too much political awareness from students), and mean that Guardian readers, um, will sit around smoking dope and calling you a fascist.

And what sort of person does this job appeal to? An arrogant workaholic control freak. Is this the sort of man (I have just checked on the Home Office website and in 222 years there has not been a female Home Secretary) we want defining our liberty, in fact defining liberty full stop? I Don't Think So.

How do the Scandinavians do this? Surely there must be a liberal Home Secretary paradigm that we can tap into.

joella

*Strictly speaking, it's Mrs Quinn who is the dirty shagger of course, but the term can also occasionally be applied to those who conduct clandestine relationships with dirty shaggers.

Download blues revisited

I'm not even going to go into it. I'm just going to write this down so I read it occasionally and remember not to do it again. Bastards.

joella

The man from Londis

The staff in the local Londis -- basically our corner shop, though it's bigger than average -- are on the whole very friendly, especially considering that I must appear to live off Frascati and bombay mix.

There's a new guy working there -- and when I say new, I mean new. I think at least new to the city but quite probably to the continent. His English is pretty good, and he's always both polite and competent (which is more than can be said for a lot of the students who have moonlighted in there), but he has a direct turn of phrase that can be quite disconcerting.

The first time I met him he said "Where do you work?". I told him. He had never heard of the place, which is quite unusual in Oxford, not to say the UK generally, given that my employer has over 90% brand recognition 'on the street'.

"What do you do?" Um, I said, well, it's hard to explain. "What have you achieved?". Um, I said, and patched together something about on the whole reducing the sum of human misery rather than adding to it. (An oblique and unsatisfactory answer in this case, but this is one of the metrics I use when I look in the mirror).

He wasn't convinced but he wished me every success. The man from Londis, I feel, is the new Man on the Clapham Omnibus. I left the shop feeling that we really should get our communications sharpened up a bit.

Mind you, last night I dropped in and he said "How many children do you have?"

joella

It's started

I have to be honest (well, I don't *have* to be, obviously, but this exercise is a whole lot more pointless if I'm not): I bloody hate Christmas. I am sure there was a time when I didn't, but it was many, many moons ago. Christmas is for Christians, children and possibly other things beginning with Ch, like cheerful souls, charitable types and chutney manufacturers. It's not for me.

However, this year for the very first time we have M's progeny on Christmas Day. He is very excited. (We won't be watching much television this year, because you can't see it past the giant tree he insisted on buying.) And so I am making an effort. I *do* like baubles, so today we bought 80 of them. We then strung them on little bits of wire and cotton and hung them from the newly-augmented fairy lights in the back room.

I have to say, it does look lovely. But that does not mean I am prepared to play charades, ok?

joella

The Christmas letter

There's a glorious article in the Guardian today about those round robin letters that some people see fit to send to everyone they know at Christmas. I thought it was just me that hated them, but it seems I am not alone in my curmudgeonliness.

When I was little we used to get them from my cousin G in Canada. My parents may well get them still, for all I know. Cousin G is ginger and bearded. His wife is Chinese. Their kids look extremely weird. The letters accompanying the photographic evidence of this were typed with carbon paper on a curly-script typewriter. Even at a tender age this made me stick my fingers down my throat. Why am I supposed to care?, I would ask my mother. I hope you don't write all this shit about me and send it around the world in quadruplicate.

I think only people with children can do them properly. M and I have discussed doing one ourselves, along the lines of 'Another year sitting around binge drinking and lying in bed recovering. And here's a picture of us looking much the same as ever.' It doesn't work really, does it. (Though I guess we could send round mp3s of 1969 by the Stooges: "Another year for me and you, another year with nothing to do". Damn, I think that's quite a good idea.)

But then the real thing doesn't work really either. Somehow getting a letter that everyone and their uncle is getting is worse than getting no letter at all. You know it's only got the achievements in it, nobody tells you about their antidepressant consumption or their inner pain.

Eight years ago I remember M looking tiny, writing Christmas cards on his own for the first time after he left his wife. I am sure his sad little individual 'C and I have split up, um, happy christmas' scribbles were a better way of doing this than any in-depth photocopied missive (with photo of the divorce papers?) could have been. Some stuff you have to get one to one. Only the Queen's allowed a Christmas message. We care that people want to tell us stuff, not that stuff has happened. Us, not everyone. No?

joella

Party season

I've gone a bit quiet, but that's because I've mostly been out. Rather scarily, photographic evidence exists of my night out in housemate S's cowboy hat (left).

My evening began at a pre-party pub gathering at the bottom of my hill. I strode in the door in my hat (you have to stride, in a hat like that). The people I was meeting all had their hats tucked into their pockets or bags. I was a lone be-hatted figure as I walked up to the bar.

Um, a glass of white wine please, I said to the barman. Large or small? he said. Then he took a step back, looked at me sideways and said 'I don't really need to ask that question, do I?'

I guess my fate for the evening was sealed at that point. Ms E has kindly called it 'very entertaining' but I suspect the truth may be harsher.

joella

The future had better be female...

... because the present can be pretty depressing sometimes.

Medieval behaviour of the day award 1: Karl Lagerfeld, getting upset with H&M for daring to produce clothes he designed in sizes 14 and 16. Twat.

Medieval behaviour of the day award 2: Saudi Arabia, for announcing that women are not allowed to vote in the upcoming elections. There's no law against it (anymore), they just, well, can't. The men in dresses say so.

Whatever next. Celebration of a virgin birth maybe?

joella

I love the taste of anchovies in the morning

I was out late last night, work Christmas 'do'. Don't remember coming home, had to leap out of bed and check that I didn't leave housemate S's cowboy hat somewhere. (I didn't). Had to leap back into bed because leaping out of bed was so traumatic.

Dragged myself to the shower much, much later and then ate a piece of toast spread with Patum Peperium (surely one of the foods of the gods). If you are me, you accompany toast spread with Patum Peperium (a rare treat) with a glass of tomato juice. You fill your mouth with toast and then add the juice, and swoosh it all around till it's a big salty tomato-ey mush. It's a little mouthful of heaven in a hungover world.

joella

Monday Monday

Out too late last night, dancing to Tongue & Groove and drinking whisky.

Bus home, chips, watched The Net, laughed at telnet interfaces and cyberbob.

Late in to work. Feel foul. Big wobbly workload threatening to tip all over my head. Milk's on the turn and has got bits in it.

6Music is saving me by playing glorious Galaxie 500. Maybe I should just change my style.

joella

joella's got GMail!

A few months ago, Google asked me (via Blogger) if I wanted to sign up to the GMail beta. No, I did not, as I had read some bad things about it vis a vis data-mining and ad placement, and I am the sort of person who refuses supermarket loyalty cards on principle because I don't want anyone analysing (for example) my san-pro purchasing patterns and sending me vouchers for new things with wings every 28 days. No sirree. I have read The Handmaid's Tale and I have The Fear.

But three things happened to make me change my mind.

1. I have spent the last three days at the aforementioned Online conference, and I have engaged with new (and newish) technology for the first time in ages. I had already moved to Firefox (of which more another time) but I heard some very good things about GMail. Right, I thought, I'll have some of that.

2. Hotmail is shit. I have a very cool hotmail address because I registered in 1996, just after it launched and before spam (and MSN for that matter) existed. So I remain attached to it, but it's next to useless these days because of the sheer volume of crap that comes in. And I need a reliable personal email address, cos what if I leave my job? And I just don't really like Microsoft.

3. joella has had some good mail recently. Since she launched (over two years ago, which apparently makes me quite a veteran, hooray!) I've been using an old waitrose.com account, but - for excruciatingly boring reasons - I can only receive mail via it these days, I can't send. So if joella did get mail, the reply process was convoluted. Who needs convoluted?

Having resolved to sort this out, I was alarmed to discover that my invitation to GMail no longer existed. Fair enough, I suppose, but *then* I discovered that they are very sought after and lots of people want one. Dammit, I thought, that will teach me not to early-adopt.

But then I discovered GMail Swap ("Because people are nice") -- where those with invites can swap them for things they want, and those without can offer things up. And I was lucky. I found a nice person, and indulged my inner geek just a bit.

So. From now on, you can use joella (dot) blogger (at) gmail (dot) com

Roar!

joella

Security blanket

The first time I went to India I came back with two woollen shawls from the Himachal Pradesh State Emporium in Delhi. Ten years later, the red one was stolen while I was eating in Pizza Express, and I was heartbroken. But I still have the blue one, and I have given silent (I guess now not so silent) thanks for this many times, and at least three times this week.

1. On the Oxford tube on the way to the conference yesterday. Curling up on buses seems to expose kidneys to icy drafts, and I needed my actual coat for a blanket. So I wrapped my shawl twice round my middle parts and flicked the end up over my shoulder to scrunch into a pillow. Got off the bus and it was a scarf. Ace.

2. Waiting for Ms Y at Upton Park tube last night, I wrapped it around my head and most of my face. Not only keeps out the wind, it's very rare to get hassle if you've got your head covered. As she appeared through the gates it slid off like a hood, magically becoming a scarf again.

3. Just now watching Hard Spell, lying under it on the sofa with it tucked in round my feet. NB I was the best speller, but to be fair the contestants are all about a third of my age and I know more words.

What a garment. I can't wear shawls like Indian women can though, casually draped yet always elegant and never falling off. I try sometimes but mostly I fail, and it's a little humiliating to have your outer garment float into the traffic.

I used to want to be the kind of woman who could wear a scarf when it's not cold (the sort of woman who accessorises, always smells nice and never has visible roots.) I'm still not that woman, but I would happily settle for being one who could carry off a shawl.

joella

Q. How do the Red Arrows hang out their washing?

A. Online Information.

A long long time ago, M made that clue up for a cryptic crossword we put together for the December issue of Information World Review (the "official media partner of Online Information"). Nobody ever sent that crossword in. But then it was actually technically impossible, as we got the grid wrong. I never owned up to that.

And today I re-entered my past life, if only for three days, as I decided it was time I again passed through the Satanic Portals (as another ex-IWR writer put it) that lead to the Online Information conference. If you don't know, Online (as it is commonly known) is information management mecca. Gathered there every year are librarians from over 40 countries. You would not *believe* some of the knitwear.

I suffered two profound shocks to the system. One: getting up at 6 am. I don't care what anyone says, it's not natural. And two: being in Olympia without a giant hangover. I really don't think that's ever happened to me before. (More about why not from Justin Ruffles - you need to scroll to 07 December - for some reason I can't link to the exact post).

I learnt about ontologies and asked Jakob Nielsen a question. I then did a bit of networking and came home. I am So Grown Up.

joella

Begrudgingly approaching festive

Yesterday we hit the town on a Christmas shopping mission: get it done early and get it done fast and you don't end up haemorrhaging money on Christmas Eve with every other sadsack in town. It's a basic self-esteem essential as far as I'm concerned, especially as I despise the fact that I have to do it in the first place.

It went ok -- about halfway there I reckon -- and two hours later we were ready to party. We met up with A&L for a drink (at the same time sampling the Princess Anne-a-like crisps that Jonathan Crisp have got into trouble over. Recommended).

At six we went to watch the turning on of Oxford's alternative Christmas lights, a tree made from reclaimed bicycles by an artist whose name escapes me. Please don't let it be vandalised. It's very beautiful.

Then we went back for dinner and wine and a few round of a fantastic game called Set and more wine, and deciding to go home, and changing our minds, and more wine. So all I've done today is some laundry. But hey, don't underestimate the importance of clean pants. Especially my new low rise shorts: they have definitely got Most Favoured Pants status.

joella

Old dog. New tricks.

Ha! Just when I thought life couldn't get any better than porridge for breakfast and soup for lunch, here comes risotto for tea.

As a teenage vegetarian, I hated risotto. Together (though not literally) with stuffed aubergines, it was the thing that other people's mothers made me on special occasions to mark me out as a special needs friend. It was also a regular vegetarian option at college. In both instances it usually featured tinned asparagus, and usually made me want to heave.

I've had maybe one or two good risottos since -- those prepared by my friends H and V particularly stand out. But I have generally steered clear, working on the following received and learnt wisdom: risotto has to be star of the show. You can't do it in advance, for huge numbers of people, or as a second string dish to whatever the carnivores are eating. And I've never even thought about attempting it myself.

Until tonight. On Tuesday plumbing S and I had dinner with K, and she made the best risotto I've ever tasted, which featured courgettes, feta and smoked salmon. It was just fabulous. I was inspired to try and emulate it, and gave it a go this evening, to make M and housemate S feel good following our house meeting (these are usually kind of fraught). I didn't have the recipe but I'd talked to K, and I referred to techniques given by both Nigella and Nigel.

And it was glorious. Not quite as good as K's (I put the courgettes in a bit too early, and I did rush the end slightly as Blackpool had started, and I didn't want to miss the Best Thing On Television This Century) but I was v pleased, not least to have opened the door to a whole new culinary technique.

It could easily fall into the select list of bountiful yet accomplished dishes which I rely on to impress people who believe that no one as scruffy and meat-eschewing as me could possibly get anything reasonable on the table from scratch in 45 minutes.

If it does (and time will tell) it will be the third dish in my repertoire to rely on a combination of fish and rice to deliver. If you add M's excellent kedgeree, there's a pattern emerging somewhere.

joella

The joy of soup

I am a bit drunk, and am currently typing with the non-business ends of two tesco value pencils, one in each hand. It's quite fun. And quicker than you'd think.
We bought the tesco value pencils for the treasure hunt m did for our street fair in may 03, figuring we'd never get any of them back so we didn't want to spend much on them. I seem to remember they were 94p for 20 or something astonishingly cheap like that. And we still have quite a few so they have staying power too.

Tesco Value (I've moved back to typing with fingers so can manage intra-sentence caps) is an interesting sub-brand, and one I have pondered before. One of the Guardian's Guide to Youth columnists has argued that she can't buy it because its packaging is too ugly, but that's just an overpaid media babe talking. Or maybe I'm just getting older and care less about what people see in my basket.

For some things I personally find it unbeatable: salted peanuts (21p for 100g -- blindingly good value, tiny and salty -- almost like a delicacy in this world of the jumbo lo-salt nut); sparkling water (18p for 2 litres and from a real spring not a Dasani-style mains supply, pray, why pay more?); tinned new potatoes (20p a tin and perfect for spanish omelette on a Sunday morning); and my own personal favourite Tesco Value purchase ever, a lemon squeezer for (I think) 49p which is both a joy to behold and dead easy to use.

But for other things, no. No to Tesco Value smoked salmon, in fact to any Tesco Value fish product. No to Tesco Value sanitary towels. No to Tesco Value eggs, think of the hens. No to Tesco Value cheese.

Some things, you get what you pay for. Which (finally) brings me to soup. Soup is, if done well, one of the world's great underrated foodstuffs. But is is so rarely done well. Cup-A-Soup is verging on a crime against humanity, and 'value' tinned and packet soups aren't far behind. Even premium tinned soups (with the honourable exceptions of Heinz Tomato, which is a national institution, and Waitrose French Onion, which is better than I've ever managed myself) are poor man's food. Which is so very wrong, as soup is actually both cheap and easy to make.

But time-consuming, and there's the rub. So the best of all worlds is when someone else makes it fresh for you. This is an idea growing in popularity, and this week I have had fresh home made soup for four lunches out of four. Monday was vegan vegetable and dill at a groovy boho place near Manchester Piccadilly, and definitely the best. Tues-Thurs were from Taylor's deli, newly across the road from work, where the staff are preternaturally cheerful and the soup is delicious but maybe slightly posh. Tues: curried parsnip. Weds: broccoli and watercress. Thurs: Thai mushroom.

It's only matched by home made porridge for breakfast, and I've managed this -- courtesy of lovely oaty boyfriend -- three mornings out of four this week. What more wheat-free culinary delights (in line with bowel regime) could life bring?

joella

"More" than a "Snack"

Being utterly convinced that I am deeply unphotogenic, I tend only to take photos of myself when I am drunk. (At the risk of stating the obvious, this is because I cease to care that I am unphotogenic, rather than because I suddenly become better looking).

Being reasonably health conscious, I tend only to eat crisps when I am drunk.

Below, taken in the parental home on Saturday night following Queens chucking out time, therefore represents a supremely rare occurence: a series of crisp-eating self portraits.



And what's more, crisp-eating in bed: this is a long-term bad habit of mine which is generally in remission, as it's fairly unacceptable behaviour if you're sharing the bed with anyone. But I wasn't, and I was shitfaced, so anything goes.

The eagle-eyed crisp aficionado will spot that these are none other than Seabrook's Original, which are the finest crisps in the land. Made in Bradford, they are rare Down South, but very popular Up North -- the subject of debate on h2g2 and also (in most flavours) demonstrably Halal.

joella

Choose your battles

I had a colonic irrigation this lunchtime. In and of itself it was extremely successful. The Oxford sewage system experienced a temporary surge, and my bowel is fitter, happier and more productive.

But my therapist was incensed about a parking ticket she had unfairly received, which led to a rant about the country going to the dogs: immigrants, the evils of socialism, the perils of state education, and much, much more.

And I learnt a great lesson in life: you can't argue with someone when they're in charge of a tube stuck up your bum.

joella

Being a grown up

M has just said "wow. I'm doing the most grown up thing I know".

What's that, I asked.

"Missing the Simpsons in order to get food on the table."

I guess if you're a boy, that may just about be true.

joella

P(prandial)S: In his defence I should add that the food he got on the table was superb: Madhur Jaffrey's salmon curry, plus spinach and lentil dal, spiced cucumbers, rice and poppadums.

A vindication of the rights of foxes

(... with apologies to Mary Wollstonecraft).

My housemates are underwhelmed, but I am delighted. No more fox hunting! This was practically the first thing I ever had a political view on, the first law I ever wanted changed, and 20 years later it's happened. Could even be enough to get me to vote Labour again.

All through my teens I had pictures of foxes with their guts ripped out adorning my school folders and bedroom walls. People would occasionally express discomfort at this (along with the photos of the monkeys with electrodes in their brains and rabbits with shampoo in their eyes), which was of course exactly what I was after as then I could harangue them at length. If you're uncomfortable, do something. If you're not part of the solution you're part of the problem. And so on.

Over time I have switched my (declining) campaigning zeal away from animal rights and towards human ones, but I still believe. I don't eat animals, I don't buy products that are tested on them and I still argue whenever I get the opportunity that bloodsports are utterly inhumane and, moreover, utterly anachronistic in 21st century Europe. The Russians may still shoot bears from helicopters, the Spanish may still stab bulls with spikes as hordes cheer, but they won't forever.

John Rolls, the RSPCA's director of animal welfare, is quoted as saying "this bill is a watershed in the development of a more civilised society for people and animals".

I couldn't agree more.

joella

It's so funny how we don't smoke anymore

When I was a kid, my mum used to work nights. She would sleep in the day, and in the school holidays I used to go into Lytham with the housekeeping money, a shopping list, my little sister and a wicker basket on wheels -- the last two being deeply embarrassing appendages that I would attempt to disassociate myself from at every possible opportunity.

We would go to the butcher's, the greengrocer's, the baker's and finally Booths, where I would be careful to choose the middle queue, because that was Dorothy's till, and she would sell me the 20 Silk Cut No 3 (for my mum) and 20 Silk Cut No 1 (for my dad) that would be on the shopping list. I had a little note from my mum in her purse explaining that they were definitely for her and not for ten year old me.

Which was true. I didn't smoke my first cigarette until 5 November 1983, down a back alley in South Shore, Blackpool, with my friend Amanda and her dog Algie. The cigarettes were hers, they were called Kim and they were super slim and super cool, exactly not like me.

Thereafter I smoked sporadically -- JPS walking the dachshund in the woods, Consulate on the top deck of the 11A, Lambert & Butler in the toilets with housemate S (then schoolmate S). I have particularly fond memories of Saturday lunchtimes: I would take an early lunch from the bread shop where I worked, get my wages, buy 20 Regal King Size, go to the Elms Cafe and sit on my own, alternately drinking hot chocolate through a straw and smoking the adult fruits of my 15 year old adult labours. Economic independence is intoxicating.

I became a proper grown up smoker while living on Kibbutz Yagur after my A levels. I smoked in front of my parents in the Little Chef on the way back from the airport, and I never stopped.

Until I did stop. Fourteen years later, I gave up. And I now haven't smoked -- bar a few spliffs and some enthusiastic passive smoking every now and again -- for approximately 686 days and 23 hours.

Mostly, of course, I see this as a very good thing. But sometimes I miss it like crazy. Right now being one such time, and I am sure this is a side effect of hearing the news that smoking is soon to be banned in England in all workplaces and public places serving food.

I support this ban. I really do. I hate coming home smelling of smoke when I haven't had the (dubious, edgy) pleasure of smoking myself. And I know -- which is why I gave up -- that smoking is not big or clever. We shouldn't do it. We should all stop. There should be laws to help us instead of those really cool B&H ads they had in the 80s.

But oh, it makes me feel old.

joella

Postscript: Bhutanese teenagers don't have these pressures, I surmise. Go Bhutan!

Coping strategies

I really have had a bitch of a day, but for no reason I can put my finger on, which makes it even bitchier. I was underproductive and glum, and had a really *really* disappointing lunch. M&S sushi is horrible. I know it's horrible, so why did I buy it? I wasn't in a rush, I could have bought any number of fresher, tastier, cheaper things. It was subconscious reinforcement of the badness of my day, that's what it was.

I won't even go into my latest encounter with paid for downloading. Oh well, ok, I will. I tried to buy aforementioned Jolene from Big Noise Music, what with it being a good cause and not iTunes. They took my money, but didn't give me my mp3. I emailed in protest, and got the automated support email from hell back, all in HTML which cannot be rendered by legacy clunkware Lotus Notes which I am forced to use at work.

I printed it out thinking that might help and it was 20 pages long. I threw it in the bin and gave up.

So now I am having green beans from a tin for my tea. With fish fingers. I am listening to old media and I am going to have a traditional bath later on, in case the newfangled shower blows up or something.

joella

Fame for the 'pool

I sometimes tell people that I come from Blackpool. This isn't strictly true. I actually come from Lytham, which is about five miles down the road / round the coast from Blackpool. I say it partly because far more people have heard of Blackpool, and partly because I did go to secondary school in Blackpool, and consequently spent many teenage Saturdays 'up town' and many teenage nights in Very Bad seafront nightclubs with names like Sands. Part of me *does* come from Blackpool, as anyone who has caught me staring longingly at the big light up Santas in garden centres recently could testify.

So the odds were high that I would tune in to the first episode of Blackpool, the new musical murder mystery series from the BBC, which is set in an amusement arcade on Central Beach with a cast of paunchy Brylcreemed small time crooks and brassy women in expensive but slightly too small dresses. It took a bit of getting used to, but by the time Ripley the arcade owner and DI Carlisle the Glaswegian detective were singing along to These Boots Were Made For Walking I was hooked. I think it's going to shape up nicely, and Ripley's house has classic Blackpool interiors taste down to a T, so it's got that nostalgic edge as well. Perfect Thursday night viewing.

And as if that weren't enough, we caught the late show at the Phoenix cinema last night, which was The White Stripes: Live Under Blackpool Lights, a grainy, wonky film of what looked like an insanely intense gig at the Empress Ballroom in January this year.

What a band: who'd have thought two people could make so much noise? I would give anything to have a voice like Jack White's, let alone be able to play guitar like that. The version of Jolene nearly made me cry, so I am very happy to hear it's coming out as a single. Could this be the song I can finally find on iTunes? And what a venue: I saw the Stone Roses in the Empress Ballroom in 1989 and it blew me away. They filmed that as well. Which seems to confirm that there must be something about the place. You don't get legendary gig films shot in Basingstoke now, do you?

joella

God bless the Great British Public

...not for anything intrinsically cool, but for voting Will Young as Pop Idol over Gareth Gates.

OK, so that was, like, years ago, and any number of evil pseudo-democratic bollocks reality TV programmes have been shoved down our gullets since. I wasn't deliberately being tardy. I was just gleefully acknowledging that, while the judges clearly wanted Gareth (17 year old spiky haired doofus) to win, there remains something glorious about the Great British Public (GBP) that meant the 21 year old gay public schoolboy politics graduate got the vote.

What a great country we live in. I said it at the time, only quietly. And I say it again, only louder, because he has just narrated/headlined a fantastic hour-long documentary about runaway kids and the woefully inadequate services that exist to support them and their families. This is all, of course, part of Children in Need. When I am a plumber I will take two holidays a year: one will avoid Christmas and the other will avoid Children in Need. But both prompt those who would otherwise not bother to think of others to do so, so I can't be too vile about it. And it was a good documentary.

And one which I am sure Gareth Gates a) could never and b) would never have done. I am not happy about the power of celebrity, but I do see that it is a reality, and my woolly hat is off to Mr Young for using his power well.

joella

The skinny chez joella

I've been short of words recently, and those I've had have mostly been about music. This won't do: I must remember that Colin relies on me for insightful cultural analysis.

So.

1. The Corporation. Wait for the DVD. It's good, but it's far too long. Especially if (as of course you should) you see it in a small independent cinema with uncomfortable seats and stains on the carpet. But I learnt a lot from it, and I also found it strangely reassuring. I am not a freak. In fact I am the future. Well, actually India is the future. We should all move there now and never get on a plane or buy a share again. (NB I have got on many of the former but I have never bought any of the latter).

2. May all the gods in all the world please pull their fingers out to stop Middle East meltdown when they turn Arafat off, cos the Americans and the Israelis sure aren't going to. We all need this to work, people, but I don't have a great feeling about it, know what I'm saying?

3. Everyone's asking why French women don't get fat. I read about it in the Observer and the answer is because they eat fish and vegetables for lunch and they skip all other meals and replace them with black coffee and cigarettes. Then they have their picture taken next to a teeny tiny cake and give the rest of us a hard time. Oh, and they wear uncomfortable underwear, which serves as a kind of hair shirt reminder at all times.

4. If you are a lady (but not a French one) or simply like ladies things, I can recommend the low rise short, a new shape of pants. I am sure most women change their pant shape allegiance less often than they change their partner, which is already proven to be less often than they change their bank. But I am definitely considering making a change. They are comfy, they are flattering (unlike full shorts, which look like something you used to skive off athletics in), and there is minimal VPL. Though you will have to live with the fact that your pants are classed as outerwear in clubland and R'n'B videos.

5. Spooks is no good since Tom left.

(that's enough insightful cultural analysis - Ed)

joella

He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru

Last week I spoke to my mother on the phone while suffering from my horrible cold. Take it easy, she said. Don't be going out getting drunk. Of course not, I said.

Twenty four hours later M and I were jammed down the front of a splendidly unlikely theatre at the end of Hastings Pier, screaming at Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I am not quite sure that's what she had in mind.

I am rubbish at reviewing gigs, so I won't -- the Observer's done it here and the Times here, and there's bound to be some even more elaborate hyperbole in the next Q. Suffice it to say that it was easily in my top 10 of all live music experiences. He is a man at the peak of his powers, and we were right down the front.

Afterwards, we caught last orders at the charming Gritti Palace, a bar at the land end of the pier with benches and fairy lights outside, and sat in the mild sparkly darkness as equipment was trundled out and people in long black coats disappeared into the night. We stayed overnight in an underheated room with a squidgy bed and a sea view.

In the morning we had a (desultory, as it was never going to be me) argument about who should move the car. Twenty minutes later, M returned clutching the Guardian and telling me that as he got back to the hotel, there was Nick Cave getting into his car. What are the chances of that? Apparently he accepted compliments graciously and winced charmingly at the front page headline ("Four more years" - this was the morning after the US election) before driving off.

Took a detour via Battle and imagined lots of horses and chainmail and longbows, then drove home, feeling generally at peace with the world and listening to Abattoir Blues.

To paraphrase Stephen Fry talking about Noel Edmonds in quite the opposite sense:
A short word about Nick Cave: Yes.
A longer word about Nick Cave: Transcendent.

I'd be a microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan anytime. Hey, maybe I already am.

joella

iTunes schmiTunes

Legal download services are a bag of shit. All of them.

There are three tunes I want.

1. Beautiful, by Clem Snide. Only released on an EP, which costs £6.99 on Amazon. I only want the one tune. Can I find it anywhere? No. Well, yes -- on iTunes in the US. Which, in this brave new virtual world, won't sell me anything.

2. Don't stop movin' -- Beautiful South cover of the S Club 7 dancefloor ass-shaker. Can only get a Radio 2 session version of it, which is shite. Why? This is off a fucking chart album!

3. I love rock'n'roll -- Joan Jett's ultimate stomping party classic, which by some shocking oversight, I don't already own. Lots of Joan Jett songs on iTunes, but NOT THAT ONE. Why not? It's the only hit she ever had!

In the good old days of Napster / audiogalaxy / Kazaa I'd have had all those tracks within about 20 minutes. Now, what with copyright clampdowns and virus hell, you search all night with your 79p per track held out for the taking, and nobody wants it.

So far, this seems to be a new way of getting the kind of music you can buy in motorway service stations. That's not what we want.

joella

Cure for the common cold

Well, not quite cure, but close.

Go and see Kate Rusby, owner of the 'most beautiful voice in England', says the Guardian, on her website.

I can't swear to that, but she can't be far off. And what I can swear to is that she will remind you that you are British, and make you feel that being British is not such a bad thing to be.

While loving political (Billy Bragg) or modern British (Richard Thompson) or American (early Dylan) folk music, I never listen to traditional British folk music in the sense of putting it on at home or even seeking it out on the radio. But I do like it live.

I used to go to the Fir Tree in Oxford, before it was the Old Ale House before it became the Fir Tree again only not like it was before. Before, it was full of men in waistcoats with bits of tapestry on them who had their own tankards behind the bar. You would buy your pint, roll your roll-up, and squeeze yourself into a little chair at a little table. Then the folk music would start.

Mostly the musicians were older than me, in their 40s and 50s (I was at this time around 24 or 25). Lots of beards for the men and rather too much crushed velvet for the women. There were accordions and fiddles and songs of the rolling countryside and the sea.

Once, there was a rosy cheeked boy with curly blonde hair, an acoustic guitar and the voice of an angel. He and his sweetheart a-wandering would go. I fell in love, and had a recurring fantasy (part of the my non-spotless mind series) which involved me wearing long flowery skirts and cheesecloth and owning nothing but a hip flask and a chocolate brown labrador. Hand in hand (with the boy, not the dog) we would gambol through wild flower meadows, sleeping on beds of heather, like the Famous Five used to.

Of course, such fantasies were quickly dashed by both the reality of my life (pre-existing relationship with Significant Ex, reliance on mod cons like hot water and clean bedding) and the reality of the 1990s (unlikelihood of folky boy actually having capacity for commitment, access to hedgerows, labradors, etc).

So the dreams die, because of course they never really lived, but a small part of me will always be willing to take Richard Thompson up on whatever kind of offer he is willing to make.

But this is supposed to be about Kate Rusby. And there's a link -- she did cover RT's Withered and Died, and there aren't many better songs in this world. But mostly she played the trad stuff, and explained what each song was about, and why we should care. And I bought it all.

My favourite Kate Rusby song, though, is Our Town - which she wrote herself, about how you feel about where you grew up, about life now in where you grew up, which ain't necessarily what life's supposed to be like.

She didn't play Our Town, but she did play a song she wrote for her grandmother, who is still alive and who nursed her grandfather to an early death from respiratory failure caused by a working life spent down the mines. The original recording was with the colliery band: for various reasons they were unable to travel to Oxford so instead we had five members of the Coldstream Guards making an unforgettable brass section.

While not from mining stock, I come from that part of this country that was ripped into bits by the closure of the mines, by the end of heavy industry in Britain generally, and which has never recovered. Kate Rusby sang, the boys played their brass, I cried like a child.

And that's why I love folk music.

joella

Four more years?

I hand over my thoughts this morning to Vernon Gregory Little:

I sense a learning: that much dumber people than you end up in charge. Look at the way things are. I'm no fucken genius or anything, but these spazzos are in charge of my every twitch. What I'm starting to think are maybe only the dumb are safe in this world, the ones who roam with the herd, without thinking about every little thing. But see me? I have to think about every little fucken thing.

joella

Miz. Errr. Ubble.

It's November, the clocks have gone back, and I have got a cold. A sort of hover at the back of the throat and muzzy the edges of your faculties cold. The sort of cold that in a fair world you could take to bed, but in this one means you drag yourself into work and underachieve.

I read once that the South Koreans used to have a policy of menstrual leave: every menstruating woman could take a day off a month. I don't know if this had to be the first day of your period, or could be your own particular worst day of the month, but what an amazingly civilised thing to do. You will be no earthly use that day, so you might as well be under a duvet mustering the strength to venture back to the fray.

That's the sort of day I would like to be having.

They've stopped it now though. Can't fight progress, right?

joella

Whizz bang

I always go to the fireworks in South Park, so I never knew I could just stand on my Juliet balcony...

Nasty colds are good for one thing at least.

joella

Autumn moments




1. Moon rising, no stopping
2. Smiley face comfy tea under blankets
3. Jeepers creepers

joella

Tales of the unexpected 2

Later the same day, I think Go Eminem!

joella

Tale of the unexpected

Walking past Laura Ashley on my way into work this morning, saying to myself now that's a nice skirt, before stopping in horror and throwing arms in the air. Which was messy, given that I was carrying a double shot (not skinny, never skinny) latte at the time.

joella

Short of words today

I am incapacitated by sherry and emotion. So.



JP and PJ



Sunrise on the Oxford Tube

Normal service will be resumed at some point. Incidentally, the Radio 1 tribute ("Somewhere, someone's smiling down on us. In the meantime, here's Nirvana") knocks spots off the Radio 4 one. And it's not often I say that these days.

joella

Loss of a constant presence

Just seen on the BBC website that John Peel has died. M and I sent identical simultaneous messages to each other, and I am sure all over the country people are doing the same. But still it doesn't feel real.

Here come the emails, and there are some lovely tributes on the BBC website, including "I feel like a bit of my youth has died with him" and "The touchstone of cool for a generation ignored by daytime radio".

I'm gutted.

joella

Inscrutable

China. On the one hand people die in their thousands of a "strange disease" and the state does nothing. (Though in fairness, it is getting better.) On the other, researchers have state-of-the-art digital technology to help foster the panda population.

joella

We're all doomed

I had big plans for today. I was going to get up and get out in the garden, tidy it up for the winter. Then I was going to go into town, buy things I need, pick up the papers, maybe check out Modern Art Oxford.

But two things happened. First, I woke up with a hangover. I really didn't mean to, and I really didn't want to, but that's the thing with drinking, you start and then it seems like a great idea to carry on.

So the morning was spent reading Stump while curled up feeling small and gruesome: not a book I'd recommend wholeheartedly, but it has some funny bits and it certainly puts you off the booze.

And then just when I thought it might be safe to get up, it started raining. And it hasn't fucking well stopped. Hours, it's been raining for. There's a flood watch on the Cherwell, and most of north Wales seems to be under water already.

I could have done indoor things, like cleaned my room. But it's Saturday, and that's a Sunday job. So instead I have eaten lots of toast and am waiting for the roof to start leaking.

I've also been idly surfing. And I conclude that we must be thankful for the rain, because it leads us to things like this animation of Radiohead's Creep, which we surely would never have found in the sunshine.

I also revisited Nobody Here, to find this wonderful bed

joella

Friday night's gonna be all right

It didn't start too well.



But it got better.



joella

I don't have many clothes, and I have even fewer clothes that I actually like wearing. My 'core wardrobe', in fact, is a tiny collection of items from the last few Fat Face and Monsoon sales. If something's not there, it doesn't take me long to miss it.

And I haven't seen my orange top or my purple top for days. M, I said this morning, while burrowing through a pile of things I just couldn't bear to wear, do you have any of my clothes in your room?

Yes, he said. I am creating a new girlfriend, and I needed them for testing purposes.

I howled, and threw myself back under the duvet.

It's ok, he said, it's not going very well. I can't get the event handling mechanisms to work properly.

joella

Go west, life is different there.



Just got back from a work trip to Cardiff. The Travelodge was grim beyond belief: officious young man behind the desk who made us pay again even though we had prepaid ('I have no evidence'), a television that only got BBC2 (above left), smelly towels, one with blood stain, and a view of a 24 hour car park, with 24 hour lighting (above right). Nice.



*However* in mitigation, on the way into the office this morning, we discovered that here you can buy jelly spiders stuck onto chocolate biscuits, and other Hallowe'en delicacies in improbable colours.

It's like another country.

joella

Tune for an autumnal afternoon

The Beautiful South have done a lo-fi cover version of S Club 7's Don't Stop Movin'. I read about it yesterday and have just heard it on 6Music. It's gorgeous.

joella

Watching the UK Music Hall of Fame

Sunday nights are mine. M and housemate S have band practice, and I lie around doing any of a range of self-indulgent things, or, occasionally, tidying up my bedroom and sorting out my paperwork.

Sometimes this means watching comforting television, and I confess to being a fan of Midsomer Murders -- it ain't Morse, but then Morse is no more. Tonight I was annoyed to see that MM clashed with the showcase for the Eighties nominations for the UK Music Hall of Fame. Which to choose? The music that defined my defining years, albeit introduced by the unutterably irritating Jamie Theakston and commented on by (mostly) sappy celebs like Minnie Driver and Matt Goss, or murder and intrigue in benign English countryside?

I opted for MM, and was just settling in with some nice leftover Riesling when I flipped over in the first ad break to find the Smiths bit just finishing, and the Springsteen bit starting. How could I turn back? I *love* the Smiths, though I came to them late. And I *adore* everything Springsteen did from Born to Run to Born in the USA inclusive. And nobody's in, so I can sing along as loud as I like. Bonus. Midsomer can wait.


Joy Division. Ian Curtis. Love will tear us apart. I am suddenly sitting on the top deck of the 11A from Lytham to Blackpool smoking Consulate and listening to my chunky red Walkman. Why is the bedroom so cold?

joella

Quiche, Liebfraumilch and prog rock

On Friday night we had R&P round for dinner, plus Mr R-E with the bad back and housemate S, who, it turns out, is not leaving just yet. She sent us an email to tell us so.

But R&P are leaving. They are moving to Devon. That's what people do, round here.

I wanted to make prawn cocktail. I love prawn cocktail. M is a food snob, and argued that it was too naff. Somehow out of the resulting argument came the idea of having an entirely 1970s themed dinner. I get my prawn cocktail, M doesn't have to suffer the shame.

  

And it was a fabulous compromise, in its way. We had lots of German white wine with cheese and pineapple on sticks, followed by a three course feast: the best prawn cocktail I've ever eaten (recipe here -- but I used cold water prawns, far better for the purpose and the planet); Quiche Lorraine and Roquefort tart with flower-cut grilled tomatoes, a bean salad and a green salad; and an unexpectedly delicious Black Forest Gateau (recipe here -- though there was no way I could cut it into three layers, so we made do with two).

We were going to have coffee and After Eights, but everyone was feeling a little like Mr Creosote and the mint wafer would have set off all kinds of trouble.

On the soundtrack -- lots of prog rock, plus a bit of Roxy Music, some early Pink Floyd, and -- briefly -- Crystal Gale.

Fantastic. It was a great night and for a while we forgot how much we will miss R&P. But how come people weren't obese in the 70s? We used twelve eggs, two packs of butter, two pints of double cream, and a pound of sugar. It's taken me all weekend to recover.

Also, nobody drank the sherry. But I find myself developing a taste for it.

joella

Song for a rumbly tummy on a busy day

You are my lunchtime
My only lunchtime
You make me happy
When skies are grey
Pret tuna salad
How much I love you
Please don't take
My lunchtime
Away

joella

It's beautiful, it's Georgian, it's a city and it's got baths in it. Only they're shut. But never mind.

The photos:







The narrative: Driving to Bath the sky was autumnal and crazy. When we got there Mrs B had decanted one of Mr B's bottles of birthday port. I don't know anyone else with birthday port. It is a very cool thing to have. The next morning we walked into Bath down the canal. There are lots of antique shops and reclaim yards. The boys obligingly looked into an interesting mirror. Later we went to The Bell. You don't get pubs like this round our way anymore.

joella

Why is three days without wine my limit?

Jo says:
Are you working?
M says:
Kinda
M says:
Well, yes, but I could be distracted
Jo says:
Want to go out for the drink you didn't want to go out for last night?
Jo says:
Or one of us could do a 9.45 Londis run
M says:
Now, why did I think that was going to be what you were going to distract me with?
Jo says:
Or we could be sensible and make sure there are sheets on the bed
Jo says:
Which, currently, there aren't.
M says:
Ah. How about somebody runs Londisward and somebody makes the bed?
Jo says:
Bags I Londis! I made the bed last time.
M says:
Or we could try meeting up with Mr R-E, he of the worse back than mine.
M says:
But I suspect that might leave us both drunk contemplating an unmade bed.
Jo says:
Ring him quick and see
Jo says:
We could always make the bed together

joella

Bonkers as conkers

When I was growing up in Lancashire, conkers never even hit the ground, so sought after were they. I wasn't cool enough or tall enough so I never got any. But these days they are still lying on the ground a fortnight after falling. What is it with the youth of today? Well, I suppose schools making them wear safety goggles to play might have something to do with it. Looking like a dork is quite a powerful deterrent at age 8-11.

So I am relieved to see that the World Conker Championships are still going strong. But having said that, I am crap at conkers, and prefer to just carry them round in my pockets (I've got several 'lucky conkers' that have seen me through a lot).

Coming soon: a couple of great photos from a lovely weekend in the Beautiful Georgian City of Bath. However, I think I singlehandedly disproved the brand new theory that women are better at holding their drink. I am nursing an extended hangover which I now have to take to Manchester, like one of those Tamagotchis that demands attention while not actually improving your life in any way. Grrr.

joella

My non-spotless mind part 2

My latest malevolent daydream goes like this.

I am walking through the car park near where I work, minding my own business, admiring the autumn leaves on the trees, enjoying the sunshine and swinging my red umbrella.

Several teenage boys cycle past. One of them shouts something at me, and they all laugh. I don't know what it is, it is probably one of those made up teenage words that means 'you are ugly and ancient'. When I was a teenager, boys used to shout Moose! Not at me, though, as I was a teenager too. This is a treatment reserved for women in their 30s and 40s.

With the grace and accuracy of Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, I swing round, pressing the button on my umbrella handle. It telescopes out to its full length, while remaining furled, and I swipe the boy neatly round the head. He flies off his bike and lands in a heap. His friends crash into him and land in more heaps. I click my umbrella back and walk away.

In extended versions, I get caught and hauled in front of the boy's parents, who are middle class and angry and demand an apology and a new bike wheel. I say, yes, I apologise. Unreservedly. It was a completely unacceptable reaction and out of all proportion to his offence.

However, I add, this is not the first time I have had a teenage boy shout in my face from a bicycle. I know other women who have had teenage boys shout in *their* faces too. And I would put money on it not being the first time your son has shouted abuse at an adult woman. So you can see it as a collective outburst of rage against all such behaviour. You're lucky I didn't kill him.

As for the bike wheel, sue me.

I walk away again.

joella

My non-spotless mind

At certain times of month I am prey to recurring daydreams with a violent edge, which are alarming to experience yet somehow impossible to resist, as they have a subversive quality which I quite enjoy.

For example. I used to work for a little publishing company in a house on a hill. It was bought by a bigger publishing company, and gradually it became apparent that all decisions were being made by people sitting in offices in Amsterdam or, at best, in Soho. They knew nothing of the effects of these decisions on the daily lives of people in the house on the hill and nor -- an important lesson in life -- did they care. They did not give a shit about us. The only thing they gave a shit about was the bottom line.

Well of *course* they didn't care, comes the chorus. They were sales people in suits. But it did come as a bit of a shock, because I was young and idealistic, and I *did* care.

And the daydream went like this. I would stare out of my office window into the garden, and then suddenly I would run out the door, behind the hedge and take all my clothes off. Then I would run round and round the garden, leaping like a gazelle and shouting 'Arse to the lot of you! Arse to the lot of you!'.

The entire company would crowd round the garden facing windows, and my friends would be sent out to try and talk me down. I would ignore them, and carry on leaping and shouting. Eventually, Joan the receptionist would come out with a tranquilliser gun and shoot me in the buttock. She would then throw a net over me and drag me back behind the hedge where my clothes were.

I would of course get the sack, but my point would be made.

joella

Continuity

This is my favourite view in all the world, and has been for pretty much all my life. Now and again, we all need a big sky, if only to remind us how small we are.



NB. In real life, it's not as bendy as this -- I took it with the 'photo stitch' setting on the camera.

joella

Tasty tasty very very tasty

What a splendid dinner we had tonight. M cooked his best basmati, which is very very good, I made a rich yet sharp Thai green fish curry with bamboo shoots, peppercorns, cauliflower and asparagus, which totally exceeded expectations, as I haven't done one for years and the last one was crap, and we washed it down with possibly the best possible wine for the dish, a 1997 Riesling Kabinett. It was a taste sensation.

Ten years of knowing how to cook (me), at least double that (M), and the wine expertise of plumbing S, who advised on party wine (which we are still drinking) in Majestic: it does pay dividends sometimes. Thank god I don't have to put a ready meal in the microwave and crack a Spar lager anymore.

Not yet anyway... after doing better than usual at University Challenge we made the most of newly acquired BBC4 and watched Pensioned Off. Only a matter of time, surely.

joella

Waiting for a train



I can't remember who it was that first pointed out to me that public money spent on roads is called investment, while public money spent on the rail network is called subsidy. But it's a remark I remember every time I venture onto the West Coast line.

You can't blame the poor men and women who work for Virgin Rail and have to tell you that your train is running late, and -- when it finally arrives and you squeeze onto it -- that the shop is open in Coach D 'if you can get to it'.

You can't even blame their employers. You have to blame the government. Not especially this one, as even if they were *pouring* money into the rail network, (which they aren't) it would be near impossible to reverse decades of policy of prioritising short term profit over long term development.

But I still think they should be trying. The free market is never going be able to provide a decent national rail network. You have to be thinking long term, like the Victorians did. You have to be making investments whose returns will not be reaped for decades -- lack of which investments we are currently paying the price for. You have to be thinking about society as a whole, years into the future. Dammit, you have to have vision. And if the government can't have vision, who the hell can?

In the meantime the tracks warp round us and the unwashed hordes are herded from platform to platform in search of the last Sunday train south that's still moving. As four trains' worth of people squeeze into three carriages, I have a short term suggestion for Virgin Trains. Get rid of those stupid seat reservations. Everyone with a reserved seat sits in the first one they come to anyway, so people sitting in *their* seats worry that someone will come and complain at them, but even if they do, they have no intention of moving because there is nowhere else to sit.

So get rid of them all, they don't work and they piss us all off even more than we were already. And while you're at it, I suggest dropping nuts and drinks from hatches in the roof to stop people dehydrating and having blood sugar crashes because there are 725 people and their bags standing in between them and in-journey sustenance.

joella

21st caperberry girl

My name is joella and I am addicted to caperberries.

I seek out delicatessens wherever I go, and pay whatever they ask. I order them obsessively from online supermarket delivery services and complain when they substitute capers (NOT THE SAME. NOT NEARLY THE SAME).

I eat them direct from the jar with a fork, and, when all the big ones are gone, with a spoon. When they are all gone, I *drink the juice*.

Now I have said this, they will lose their power. Won't they? Isn't that what Freud promised?

joella

I work very hard, but I'm lazy

Many years ago I had a summer job packing Sheila Maid components into boxes for dispatch to high-ceilinged homes round the country. There was a lovely part time accountant, and occasionally the boss or a co-worker, but a lot of the time I was on my own.

I am generally fairly happy with my own company, and there were lots of different things to do -- assemble boxes, cut rope, fill and sand planks, wrap pulleys and rack ends in bubble wrap, tape everything down -- not to mention constantly trying to plan for optimum efficiency and minimum repetition. But still, a girl gets bored, and that summer I relied heavily on Radio 1 for company -- specifically Steve Wright in the Afternoon.

I knew all the catchphrases, all the posse, all the words to every song on the playlist every single week. Mr Angry, the Fish Filleter, the David Bowie 'tell us what the temperature *is*' impression, I loved them all. But my favourite bit was when they told us unusual facts. One day, they asked what was the average time that people in the UK get up in the morning.

Now, at the time, I would have slept till the afternoon given the choice, and when I had the choice, I often did. So my guess for the average UK getting up time (how young I was) was 10 am. I was astounded to be informed that it was actually A QUARTER TO SEVEN. So astounded that I still remember it.

I'm still not sure I believe it. M got up that early this morning (which is what made me think about it) but only because he had to get a train to London. He rang me when he got there to make sure I was up, and I only just was.

Am I a freak? Or is it the rest of the population that doesn't sufficiently appreciate duvet downtime?

joella

And another thing. Again.

Joella is nearly two years old, and I notice, as I browse the archives from time to time attempting to fill gaps in my consciousness, that she occasionally repeats herself. Hmmm. Maybe people only have a limited number of things to say. Her third year may be like a rock band's 'difficult third album'.

So forgive me if you've heard this before, but I have long held that everyone, as part of becoming a fully fledged member of society (citizenship training? national service?), should have to spend time working in menial jobs in a restaurant, a factory, a pub and a shop. I nominate these workplaces because they are places I have worked, and where people (some people, not all people) treated me like shit. There are other workplaces (hospitals, hotels, building sites [though I have worked on one of those, albeit briefly], lap dancing bars?) which could easily be substituted.

If everyone knew what these jobs were like to do, on a bad day, when you've been dumped, someone's thrown a sickie so you're understaffed, you've got period pain and you *still* have to smile at people and do as you're told, then people would, my argument goes, treat people doing these jobs much better. They would understand, because they had been there. No longer would you get people working on poverty issues (who, for example, insist on referring to 'poor people' rather than 'the poor') treating minimum wage workers as if they have a bit missing.

(Although if everyone had to do them, these jobs would largely be filled by people serving their time rather than those doing them for life. A bit like the Israel Defence Force, now I think about it. Woah, let's not go there.)

But my *new* point is, I would now add a professional development angle to this agenda. Specifically, if you are going to be a bus driver in Oxford, you should be made to cycle every route you are going to be driving, as part of your training. Several times -- including at rush hour, late at night, and in the rain. Maybe the drivers of the Oxford Tube and CityLink buses (and their airport equivalents) should be allowed to cycle just to the Park and Ride, rather than all the way to London, but otherwise there should be no exceptions. I am convinced that with such a regime they would not hurtle past me in such blase fashion. They may remain uninterested, but they would no longer be disinterested. Ha.

To stop myself disappearing up my own arse, I should add that I loved Tracey Emin on Room 101 last night. She's almost certainly been rude to waitpersons (as they are called in the US), and she confessed to having strafed the back of a taxi driver's neck while projectile vomiting, which would have pissed me off TILL THE END OF TIME. But alongside that, she has managed to go on television *and not remember till she saw the newspapers the next morning*, as, already shitfaced, she walked off the show in a huff to go drinking with her friends.

I do like her style.

joella

M's 50th in pictures

hover over for info















joella

Lots going on

Three memories of a very strange Saturday

1. Taking photos of a man up a tree with a chainsaw as he chopped bits out of the view from my bedroom.

2. Lending J the plumbing teacher a screwdriver so he could punch holes in SMcW's ceiling to stop it collapsing after an airlock righted itself unexpectedly and half a water tank emptied itself into the cavity. Thank god plumbing S and I called J the plumbing teacher rather than having a go ourselves. The secret of a long life is knowing when it's time to call someone else.

3. Watching AMcV leave tonight (having helped us drink our post-party sparkling wine surplus) with a sledgehammer in one hand and a Grateful Dead double CD in the other.

joella

Lunchtime weirdness

I really struggle at lunchtime, because I try not to eat wheat -- which rules out sandwiches, which make up 90% of what is available in the upmarket suburb I work in. Occasionally I get pissed off and have a sandwich, and am almost always disappointed. They are pretty over-rated foodstuffs.

However, anything which *doesn't* involve wheat -- jacket potato, sushi, non-pasta salad -- tends to cost a lot more than a sandwich. So, apart from those days when I bring my lunch, which are shamefully few and far between, I seem to spend ages wandering aimlessly between shops and eateries mulling costs and options.

Today I went for a Quorn cottage pie to go in the microwave and a bag of salad -- half to eat for lunch, half to take home. They came from the Co-op, which I try and support. But when I got back to the office I found that the cottage pie film was already open and it was all hard inside, and that the salad smelt of pickle and was mushy in the bottom of the bag.

I should have taken them back, but I was so dejected I just threw the whole lot in the bin and ate a few emergency oatcakes with the rest of yesterday's smoked salmon pate from M&S, which I try not to frequent, but which annoyingly delivers the goods far more reliably than the right-on Co-op next door.

My fair trade orange juice was good though, and then a colleague turned up and reminded me that we had arranged to go out for lunch with a consultant. Which I had completely forgotten.

So I guess it has all turned out for the best, in a funny kind of way. I may have paid for two lunches, but I only have to eat one. This is an improvement on a couple of weeks ago where I ended up eating twice.

joella

joella's life in photos (an occasional series)



1. Sanity in a bottle



2. This is hardcore

joella