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
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
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
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
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
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
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
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Friday, December 24, 2004
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
... 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
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
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
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
Monday, December 20, 2004
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
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
Friday, December 17, 2004
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
... 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
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
Thursday, December 16, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
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
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
Monday, December 13, 2004
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
Saturday, December 11, 2004
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
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
Friday, December 10, 2004
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
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
... 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
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
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
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, December 06, 2004
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
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
Friday, December 03, 2004
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
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
Thursday, December 02, 2004
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
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
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