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