Lost in translation -- and just plain lost

So on Friday night, M came to pick up his hungover small blue thing of a girlfriend, and tried unsuccessfully to cheer her up. But eventually she came round and suggested going out to the cinema. And off we went.

We went to the Ozone multiplex for the first time -- part of a very weird out of town middle of nowhere conglomeration which also includes a bowling alley, bars, a football stadium and a Holiday Inn. You can't quite believe anyone will be there at all, and suddenly there are people everywhere.

Where have they come from? And how come so many of them are so impressively unattractive? A lumpen group with unforgiving haircuts sat round a table in front of Shrek 2 cutouts. M jumped slightly when they got up, as if they might have been part of the display.

But the seats were comfy, there was loads of room, and the film we chose -- Lost in Translation -- was absolutely fantastic. I loved it.

The only bit I didn't love was when Charlotte was talking about not knowing what she wanted to do. I've tried writing, she said, but I hate what I write. And I've tried photography, but I'm just mediocre. And every girl goes through a phase of taking stupid photos of her feet and stuff.

This made my companion chortle mightily, as I have been doing exactly that ever since I got my new camera. And no doubt it much of it is both stupid and mediocre. But hey, I'm enjoying myself. Leave me alone.

For instance I do really like this photo. I took it while out doing my getting-determinedly-drunk thing on Thursday.

What I like best is that the slim beautiful couple are caught in A's vodka and cranberry juice, while my pint of lager got the lairy table.

Either way. Great film. Made me want to go to Japan while I'm still young enough to have wild nights out with someone who loves me.

joella

In recovery

On Thursday I did something I haven't done for aaaaages: I went out and determinedly got far too drunk. There were some complex reasons for this, and they're pretty much all work-related, and therefore boring, but someone in my old team inadvertently (probably) plonking the salary spreadsheet on the network for anyone to see was a large part of it.

Why, I raged to M on the phone, is the person doing the job I used to do getting paid shedloads more than I was? (And still am, but that's not the issue). Well, said M, probably because he's a man.

He's probably right. So I raged a bit more to my sympathetic and gender-aware colleagues, bought a lot of beer on the way home, drank some of it, and went out to the pub with my friend A to rage yet more while drinking yet more.

It's not that I don't like him, he's a really nice guy and he does a difficult job very well. And it wasn't the only shock -- there are people getting paid more than he does who don't visibly deliver anything like as much value -- but it's the fucking unfairness of it. It's the same job, more or less. It was advertised at pretty much the same salary that I was on. Loads of people applied for it. What's going on? If the job's worth that much why didn't they pay me that much?

Friday was 'work your proper hours' day. I interpreted this as 'sit at your computer in a hungover funk and do nothing for your proper hours' day. The bastards.

joella

--Resistance--is--useless--

Having spent a while exploring other early morning options (Radio 5 was recommended by a couple of people, but I seem to have thrown away the AM aerial for the radio in my bedroom) I have returned to the Today Programme. I just can't seem to get out of bed without it.

But the alarmist way they report things sometimes still pisses me off . This morning I was getting out of the shower when I heard that "childless couples are to get free fertility treatment".

It all sounded a bit Handmaid's Tale. I half expected to find men in white coats downstairs reading to frogmarch me to the hospital to have my NHS baby implanted... which would be a bit like NHS glasses, ugly and only for the poor and/or desperately uncool. It would never cope in a world of DKNY and Diesel babies, being speed-walked around in their off-road three wheeler buggies, learning Spanish from the au pair and eating pureed rocket.

So, like the Israeli citizenship that was once foisted upon me, I think I shall have to opt out. Where do I sign?

joella

Something I am loving, something I am hating.

Thing I am hating: PRINTERS.

They never work. Then you spend five days trying stuff and eventually they work for a bit, but then they stop again.

M bought me some paper to print digital photos on. Our printer isn't very good, but I thought it was worth a go. The instructions that came with the special paper were insanely daunting. But I am an adult, I use computers a lot, I have good photo software.

I set the size of the image. I set the size of the image canvas. I couldn't find a way to set the size of the paper in the printer but there is a way to do it and luckily M knew what it was. So an hour later all instructions had been followed to the letter. Did it work? Did it arse.

It hummed, it hawed, it pretended it was out of paper, then after some shoving and swearing and opening and closing of its lid it finally sucked it in, spat it out again, in, out, in, out and *then* deigned to make its little buzz buzz printing noise. Then it spat out an approximation of about a quarter of the photo at about half the size it should have been.

Absolute bastard hardware bastard bastard. *kick*

So it's time to call it a night and take to bed with the thing I am loving, which is the Regeneration Trilogy by Pat Barker. I'm on the middle one at the moment. They are amazing books, though they aren't much comfort when long dark teatimes of the soul come along.

joella

Yesterday's mamas

My favourite favourite song on the Scissor Sisters album is called Take Your Mama Out. It's up there on my soon-to-be-compiled-compilation of Some Of The Best Dance Tunes Ever (For 70s Children), which includes such lustrous numbers as Chain Reaction, Tainted Love, Unbelievable, Free Nelson Mandela, Freedom 90, The Only Way Is Up and Let Me Entertain You.

And it is, I think, a tune for 70s children, who became, in this country anyway, Thatcher's Teenagers. We gave the best years of our lives to Joy Division and Billy Bragg, and now it's time to reclaim disco.

It's (allegedly) about telling your mother that you're gay. Now, I am not gay, though some of my best friends etc. So I see it as being about having your mother accept you for yourself. And -- praise be, freak as I am -- I think my mother does.

So it's a song worth dancing to (and for) quite aside from the fact that's it's a rock arse tune in its own right.

Tonight we are quite exercised by mothers. My housemates have both lost theirs, many of my friends are becoming them, I am floating in a kind of distorted Britneyesque still have a mother won't likely become one ultra-modern reality.

Suitable songs for working this through:

Take your mama out -- Scissor Sisters
Always on the run -- Lenny Kravitz
Missionary man -- Eurythmics

Am sure there are others, but these will do for now.

joella

I can see clearly now the rain has come

Of course. Early or not, I should have worked out by now going out specially for Co-op Fair Trade Dark Chocolate, colleagues calling sections of my quarterly report 'unwarranted' (it bloody wasn't, but I'm over it) and slightly demented scrubbing of toilets, haranguing of housemates and hurling of laundry down the stairs can *only mean one thing*.

So for the last 24 hours I've been balancing anasthesia and sedation levels with careful administering of Nurofen Plus and Bells Scotch Whisky. Too far and you're dead, not far enough and you're curled up in a ball whimpering.

But get it right and the world is suddenly, briefly, benign. Look, the daffodils are out. And the crocuses. And the flowering quince flowers. And a lone, strange blue flower (right), in a pot by the wonky blue bench, that surely isn't due for months yet.

Aaaahh.

joella

PS The Scissor Sisters album has been on heavy rotation today ... and along with it I have been admiring Jeremy's photos from the gig last week.

Don't mess

I am feeling quite murderous today. No reason in particular, lots of things in general. Mostly, what I want to know is, why can't everybody be more like me? We would be low on marketing people and doorstep electricity salesmen (and for that matter theoretical physicists and people having babies, who are both actually quite useful) but at least everyone would SAY WHAT THEY BLOODY WELL MEANT AND DO WHAT THEY BLOODY WELL SAID THEY WERE GOING TO DO.

So. Better out than in, right?

joella

Everybody's making art or else expecting rain

As I have mentioned before (glad I checked, as I would have told the Robert Jones story again and wouldn't that have been sad), I hate Valentine's Day.

This year I decided to do something positive, and I went to visit the Weather Project at Tate Modern with my lovely London-dwelling friend S. And what a fabulous idea it was, I'd never been before. That big sun is awesome. You can see us in the middle of this photo (S is out like a starfish, and I am scrunched up next to her taking the photo):



The big sun is glowing to the right. And if you look below us to the left you can see a couple making the shape of a heart. Now that's a good Valentine.

joella

The joy of spring, tempered

It's gone 5.30 and it's not quite dark
My heart makes a little leap
Light is struggling through
Green spikes are appearing
We might be winning

Shame my tummy aches
That prawn curry last night
Was out of season

joella

This is about when shit goes pear shaped...

Without wishing to sound too much like a wanker, I don't do much 'light entertainment' television... in fact I'd rather gnaw my own arm off than watch anything with David Jason, Nick Berry or Leslie 'trout pout' Ash in it. (Unless I'm poorly, when I'll watch anything except So Graham Norton).

But I make an exception for a few things, most notably EastEnders, which I think is, on the whole, brilliant. I have often waxed lyrical about the skill of EastEnders scriptwriters, and there have been times in my life (fortunately not that many, but there are bound to be more) when the only thing that has kept me sane is the fact that for two hours a week I can immerse myself in a world where more shit happens.

Okay, there's the odd duff storyline, and a lot of stuff that would never really happen. And nobody watches television, and nobody goes to university except Michelle and she only got a third and how come she hasn't visited in ten years, and nobody has their own washing machine and everyone buys their wine from the pub instead of the Minute Mart, but hey, the characters are ace and the dialogue is unmatched.

But what I really love is the soundtrack. I love the way that in key moments the Queen Vic jukebox or the radio in the launderette become part of the script. You might easily miss it, but it's there if you want to pick it up, like the occasional self referential piss take or surreal moment -- like Jim taking the dead budgie back to the pet shop and the staff doing the Parrot Sketch and him not getting it.

Sometimes I think it's postmodern television in populist disguise, but then it only happens once in a blue moon, in fact seldom enough to be a surprise every time.

And tonight's was great. Tariq, motherless bastard half brother rejected by Ferreira family who have only just found out their dad was a dirty shagger, goes back to bedsit, puts on record by The Streets.

So far so good. There lies Tariq listening to Weak Become Heroes. Nice touch, I think to myself, (he is about to donate his kidney to Ronny Ferreira having run off from the fight where Ronny got stabbed in the first place thereby requiring a new kidney).

And *then* we close in on the line

Me and you are the same, known you all my life never known your name

EastEnders Music Moment! Very good, very good.

AND THEN he sits up, full of anger and pain, and pushes the needle down to gouge a groove in the record.

It jumps over and over again on the Weak Become Heroes refrain as he puts his head in his hands. But not on the whole line, just a second or two from the middle, so it sounds like

I'm here (scratch) I'm here (scratch) I'm here (scratch)

Bam Bam Bam Bamadamabambam!

Awesome

joella

Multiple birth survival strategy

Have I mentioned that all my friends are pregnant? Well, not all of them, obviously, as some of them are men. Oh, and not N anymore, as B arrived among us last week. (A girl! And an Aquarian! Could there be a cooler way to start life?)

And of course I have friends who've done it already, and friends who never will. But the critical mass is definitely heading in that direction, and it's a cause of some concern to me.

I am sure my friends' children will be as lovely as children can be, given that they are the children of my favourite people, have their genes and will be raised by them. But the fact remains that, try as I might, I Don't Much Like Small Children. In particular, I don't much wish to have my social life defined by their needs. Once they're old enough to set fire to things and show each other their bits, I'm all for them, but that's a different issue.

So, what to do? I've been worrying about this for a while, especially as my own preferences seem to be veering towards the dinner party end of the rock and roll spectrum since I stopped doing drugs and started having a proper kitchen.

But tonight I discovered the answer, or at least part of it. Go to gigs -- go to lots of them. Go just because you can, even though it's a school night. Go because you live down the road from an excellent venue where it's easy to get served and easy to find a place near the front where you can see.

Drink less beer than you used to when every night was a five pint night, but drink enough not to feel too aggrieved when someone bumps half a pint of lager over you.

And every now and then you will have a blinding, amazing, fantastic night out and feel horrified at the thought that you might have missed that gig.

Like tonight. Tonight, we saw the awesome Scissor Sisters. On a Tuesday.

It was M's idea... he'd heard Tits on the Radio and seen they were playing the Zodiac. I'd heard their disco version of Comfortably Numb in the Virgin Megastore and thought 'what the fuck is this'. So I said, ok, it's the night before plumbing, which is nearly as important as the night before Christmas, but hey, let's do it. And we bumped into Jeremy down the front during the support, and we stayed there, and it was the right place to be (as it usually is, unless everyone's Really Tall and Moshing).

And they rocked, and they disco-ed, and they funked, and they were altogether the only band I've seen in ages that made me forget I needed the toilet and was a bit thirsty, not to mention making me forget that I am pissed off with my job and in fact life in general (it's February, I know...)

Who needs to piss and drink and work when you can jump up and down to Jake Shears (surely the sexiest man in rock if you like your men skinny, fit as a butcher's dog and able to sing falsetto and dance at the same time) and Ana Matronic (surely the sexiest woman in rock if you like your women feisty, cool as fuck, feminist and voluptuous).

He is *lovely*. And so is she. Comfortably Numb was brilliant, but there were many other awesome songs, think kind of funked up Bee Gees with a hint of goth. It's like all the best bits of 80s dance music rolled into one with a slightly deranged edge. Marvellous.

And they're supporting Duran Duran on their next tour. I have never seen Duran Duran live. So maybe 2004 is the year. (Though maybe I'm a bit overexcited -- the NEC could never be as good as the Zodiac).

In short, the Scissor Sisters moved me. And they reminded me that America, for all its faults, is home to NYC, the coolest city on the planet by quite some margin. Only been once, must go again.

And it wasn't just us there -- it was sold out. I also bumped into several of my cooler colleagues and ex-colleagues. There is life out there, of course there is.

Got to bed by 01.00 because I am still a responsible member of society.

Thank the Lord for counterculture.

joella

PS Too many people on Atkins (as I have said before) -- never have I been to a gig where it was so farty down the front. Someone should tell these people that stink ain't cool.

It's a bike ting

I hate cycling. Something deep within me rages about the fact that it is the cheapest, healthiest and pretty much quickest way to get around town.

And yet undeniably it is -- and it also follows one of the guiding principles of feasible exercise -- it is something you can do while doing something you would have to do anyway (eg go to work).

I can only hold out against these arguments for so long, though I do give it my best shot:
1. can't cycle, it's raining
2. can't cycle, it's too windy
3. can't cycle, I'm premenstrual
4. can't cycle, I want to wear my red coat today (often coincides with 3)

But yesterday I had not a leg to stand on, not even the one with the slightly wonky knee that sometimes convinces me I can't cycle. So off I went. And later, home I came.

The last stretch of the journey home is especially foul, as it involves cycling up Cowley Road -- only a mild incline but one featuring vehicles driven exclusively by people who have never even seen a Highway Code Theory Test, never mind passed one.

You know that argument that goes that 80% of accidents happen within quarter of a mile of your house? If your house is just off Cowley Road that must be pretty much 100%. Every five yards a drunk cyclist with no lights meets a car with 17 people in it reversing into oncoming traffic while a bus careers past with two wheels up on a traffic island. Only more random than that.

And when I'm cycling (full stop, but *especially* when I'm cycling uphill) I have not an ounce of tolerance for anyone doing anything that makes my journey even an iota more difficult or dangerous. I'm already practically a saint for being so fucking environmentally friendly, I have lights and a helmet and one of those hideous glow in the dark belt things, so give me respect on the road, you bastards.

But no. Last night I was struggling along the home stretch swearing quietly to myself when I heard a car beeping. He was beeping at cyclists. Because there was not enough room for him to get past them on certain stretches of road, mainly those with traffic islands which have been put in to stop idiots speeding. He beeped me (I slowed down -- I do this in cars as well, but it doesn't win me any friends), he beeped the bike in front of me, and the bike in front of that. He was doing about 45, I reckon, on a road where 20 is pushing it most of the time. He was driving a BMW, but not a new one, one with a dodgy exhaust.

Then he screeched to a halt in front of bike #3, opened his door into her so she had to swerve, and got out. He was kind of short. He banged on the window of an Indian restaurant, shouted a bit, then decided to get back into his car.Bike #2 had safely passed, so he walked out in front of me.

The noise I wanted to make was that of a ship's foghorn or an air-raid siren -- something so earth-shatteringly loud that it would blow him against the wall and cause his nasty car to disintegrate on the spot. Never again would he mess with me or any other hard working cyclist.

What noise did I make?

ting.

Or rather ting ting ting ting ting.

He was terrified, I can tell you.

*arse*

joella

Pop queen comedy moment

Beyonce Knowles is having a good week. She also has a great name.

M's friend N said the other week, imagine if Beyonce married Mr Castle. Then she would be Beyonce Castle.

We found this very funny, and tried to tell the story to one of M's daughters.

Imagine if Beyonce was getting married, I said.

Yes, she said, the guy could say this is my fiancee Beyonce.

Even better.

joella

February existential blues

I've had a very sociable weekend. Had a fantastic dinner with friends on Friday night -- great food, lots of fun, but was feeling a bit manic after a shit week, and did cane the wine a bit, and then woke up feeling bleak on Saturday and I don't think a hangover was the only reason, as it hasn't really shifted, despite a meal out with The Band last night and friends for tea today.

Work *is* a bit shit at the moment, and it *is* February, the hardest of months (well, apart from August, I don't like August very much. Or November. But anyway.). So maybe that's all there is to it.

Or maybe I'm just having trouble after my hols, 're-entering' the real world, as someone put it. Maybe I want the real world to be different. Or maybe I want me to be different?

No, I'm ok with me, mostly. If I could be a morning person who loved to exercise, I would be happier, but on the whole I don't suffer from self loathing that often.

So it must be the world. Or living in this bit of it. Although it's better than most places.

Oh I don't bloody know. I just wish it would lift.

joella

Belated party debrief

Now I am in a better mood, I can report on Saturday's Civilised Drinks. The lighting was by fireglow lightbulbs (right) -- perhaps the tackiest element of the evening -- but as Party Girl, I stand by my Blackpool roots.

The wine (Rioja for red people and Viognier for white) was by Majestic, (better at wine than websites, double click fast to get back) as were the glasses. Ganesh was by himself, though incense was lit in his honour all night.

The fairy lights (right) were by my uncle J, who works for a Christmas light company, praise be. The Twiglets were by Jacobs, and the rest of the snacks were by Miles.

The music was by Windows Media Player (better at organising playlists than organising the files behind them) and massive speakers were by Eltax (better at massive speakers than websites: from theirs you might guess -- if you were terminally stupid -- that most of their customers are attractive young women. Like, sure.).

The photos were by Canon Ixus 400.

The guests were beyond compare -- though S (plumbing S, not housemate S) was sadly missed, as a tree blew down and blocked her driveway. Talk was intelligent and lively, personal space was respected, nobody was sick in the toilet.

I didn't quite get to throw everyone out at 1, as I had planned (working on the theory that nothing of value happens after 1am unless you are trying to pull), as that's when people started demanding to dance (left), but as predicted I can't remember what happened much after midnight. But I don't mind, because I was chilled out yet full of warmth all evening.

I cleaned the floor before the party *and* after, and other than that cleaning up was minimal. I am really nearly a grown up, surely. Next year I will expand this concept.

joella

Tap reseating super plumbing ladies r us

I hate my job at the moment. Too much on, too much stress, not enough people making decisions. Enough said, nobody likes a whinger.

But tonight, tonight we did get to plumbing. Very VERY annoyingly, all the men got there through the snow last week and none of the women did. We tried, we said. Cautious lady drivers, they said. Hrumph.

But we caught up I hope, and took lots of taps apart with spanners and screwdrivers and pliers. And stuck pipes together with SpeedFit. And changed the guts of a tap 'live', ie with water coming out of it.

I feel like I am getting out there and doing something useful.

joella