Nothing ever burns down by itself

You know, I should drink more wine and do less whining. The offspring duly arrived, as did plumbing S (so I could have someone of my own age to play with) and saxy C. The food was *great* - M's amazing eight-dish-curry-extravaganza followed by my first ever bread and butter pudding made with left over pannetone from Up North. And eight egg yolks. And half a pint of double cream. All accompanied by much Prosecco and Gewurtztraminer. Since knowing plumbing S I am strictly old world in my white wine taste.

But at the end of the day I'm still grumpy, and now they've all gone or gone to bed. I started the clearing up in a Bad Mood, but then I remembered Chumbawamba. And that we don't have any next door neighbours at the moment. As my dad would say, WAHEY MOHAMMED! And as I would say, every fire needs a little bit of help.


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joella

Three ships on Christmas Day...

Three ships on Christmas Day...
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Okay, I'm feeling marginally less grumpy now. Lytham was a very beautiful place to spend Christmas. We had a scary foggy walk back down the Green on Christmas Eve after a gorgeous dinner with N&D (photo on Flickr), and we went out for a lovely walk down the front on Christmas Day, witnessing the most amazing winter sunset.

I miss this view like crazy. And it was lovely to see my family. And we had lots of fantastic food and drink. But I don't miss living at home - it's a little too regimented, a lot too smoky and nobody would come for a walk with us. They see the view every day, so what's special about Christmas? Well, I said, it's a Christmas walk, that's what's special. But no. So it got surprisingly claustrophobic for a big house.

Now we are back home waiting for the offspring of M to arrive... two out of three are about four hours late, having been roped into NYE preparations by his ex-wife on the only day in the entire festive season they were due to spend with him.

Next year we are definitely going to be far far away. Well, I am anyway. Somewhere they don't have sprouts.

joella

the earth is moving

Today it took us SIX HOURS to get back from Lancashire. I hate travelling at Christmas. In fact let's be honest... I just hate Christmas. I love my family and I think spending time with them is both important and desirable, but why do it at Christmas? Why, when it comes to it, do anything at Christmas beyond renting a stack of DVDs, buying in a shedload of quality food and drink and unplugging the phone? That's what I'd really like to do.

Actually, even that's a lie. What I'd REALLY like to do is exactly what I did do two years ago, and that's head to another continent where Christmas doesn't mean all that much. And that's what I'm doing next year. M and I sealed the deal around junction 17 on the M6.

BUT there was a big mitigating factor this Christmas, which is that my lovely parents and my lovely boyfriend clubbed together for Christmas and birthday and GOT ME A LAPTOP. From which I am posting right now for the first time. From the sofa. In the living room. In my house.

Old news for many, but a life changing thing for me. joella could be entering a whole new era. Let's make like Madonna and sample shamelessly...

I'm so excited
And I just can't hide it
I'm about to lose control
And I think I like it

joella

Happy Christmas!

Happy Christmas!
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Mere self-pleasuring

Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

On Saturday night we went to see The Ice Garden, an exhibition which is part of Cape Farewell. Suffice to say, we're all going to hell, and it isn't going to be freezing over any time soon.

Actually, it doesn't quite suffice to say that, for we need to acknowledge that we are only human and we are limited in all kinds of ways, some beyond our control. For an eloquent elaboration, see Ian McEwan's piece on the Boot Room, written after his trip to the Arctic.

Later we saw the Quidams, but it was too chaotic and too cold for something which demanded significant whimsy to appreciate. Instead we went back for another pint of Rudolph's Revenge in the King's Arms, then on for a curry at the wildly psychedelic India Garden, where debate (on the environment, on trade justice, on all sorts) heated into a veritable mushroom cloud.

I need such debate at the moment, as I feel my political axes are shifting and I am not quite sure how or why. I am not even sure if I am becoming more or less radical, or more or less cynical. Funny times.

More beer, more art, more talking. That's what I need. (But isn't that mere self-pleasuring? -Ed)

joella

The end of the party

I have just emerged from the Work Christmas Do. I am pleased with myself for several reasons.

1. I went in the first place, as the sole representative of my team.
2. I paid attention to the dress code, and went in colourful carnival gear.
3. I did not mix my drinks, and stuck to Jack Daniels and soda all night.
4. I alternated said Jack Danielses with water, or at least crunched up the ice before ordering more Jack Daniels.
5. I tried to leave at midnight.
6. I accepted failure gracefully and stayed for another.
7. I *did* leave at 12.45.
8. I got a taxi home instead of walking as I was by myself and it is also Bastard Cold.
9. I didn't stop for chips.
10. I discovered potato cakes in the fridge that I had bought earlier at Tesco.

All in all, apart from the samba band that outstayed their welcome and the fact that nothing can change the reality that I have a team meeting at 9.30 tomorrow, it was a lot more successful than many previous Christmas Dos. In particular, I do not expect to wake up tomorrow with Unidentified Party Bruises.

joella

Secret magic

Magdalen College's Christmas tree
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Hidden behind gates in Oxford are many of the reasons for its greatness.

I am big on magic right now because I have *finally* finished Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell.

joella

Before I forget...

diamanda galas
Originally uploaded by Jeremy Dennis.

My ATP highlight was Diamanda Galas. Ms Y, sitting next to me, was not impressed, and quite soon wandered off in search of cider. M was also not sure. What do you like about her, he asked.

Well, I said, that's what it quite often sounds like inside my head. She's like walking down the middle of a main road late on a Friday night when you're out of your head.

Just because I don't do that anymore doesn't mean I don't want to sometimes. I must get myself some DG albums so I can walk down the middle of a main road in the privacy of my own room.

joella

Winter wedding in Paris

The happy couple
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

The bride was radiant in cherry red, and the groom wore grass green. What cool friends I have.

Other highlights of the weekend included following F (leader of Team Bellybutton, which constituted us, him and his small children) from the Eurostar to the hotel via the Centre Pompidou and the Restaurant Chartier; walking from E&W's flat to the Mairie in the 14th Arondissement with the wedding party (in fact we were one big wedding party); profiteroles and champagne for lunch while discussing Chinese neocolonialism in Africa with the splendidly elegant V; eating takeaway quiche (how v French) in the late afternoon stretched across a hotel bed with A drinking plonk out of toothglasses; listening to E&W's gorgeous opera singer friend singing songs of Lurve late at night in their flat with a tiny view of the Eiffel Tower if you stand on the right bit of the balcony... and walking back to the hotel in the early hours singing Billy Bragg songs for the non-delectation of the neighbours.

Sunday was quite grim thanks to all the above, with the exception of finding a bus to take us to the Gare du Nord so we could a) avoid the Metro with hangovers and b) see the Seine and other splendid sights in the beautiful benign winter sunshine. We also got a lovely bowl of buttery pasta and glass of vin rouge from C&F on return to Oxford.

I feel like a hungover fat dobber (carrying on last weekend's theme), but what a great way to end up with that feeling. What swell parties they both were.

joella

Return to Camber Sands

All Tomorrow's Parties
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr. Better viewed large.

ATP's Nightmare before Christmas was certainly a weekend to remember. In particular, we will remember not to drink Cava and Tabasco cocktails again, and the gin-soaked Jaffa cakes turned out not to be the best idea either. But there were many many fine experiences, some musical, some not.

Of which more later: gas bills, local newsletters, screen acres of email and plumbing classes all stand in between me and my urge to document... Meanwhile Jeremy's spooky black and white photos are lovely.

joella

The festive season starts here

Tomorrow we are off to the Nightmare Before Christmas. After a long term's plumbing and a couple of weeks best behaviour in New Job I feel I need to let my hair down and stop making sense.

We had an excellent chalet bonding/planning meeting last week, which was valiantly minuted by Ms Y, who has produced a detailed list of provisions and accessories and allocated them to people.

I therefore know that it is up to me to bring a cafetiere, celeb mags and Sos Mix, but that I need not worry about air freshener, iPod speakers, hairdryer, bath mat or Trivial Pursuit, for someone else is taking care of those.

Let's just hope it stops raining and goes back to being bleak midwinter, for that will be more fun on the beach...

joella

Something old, something new

In my New Job I am (among other things) managing the archivists, so today I went out to visit the archive. What an amazing place the archive is. There were press cuttings from the Biafran crisis, which apparently the BBC once borrowed by sending a taxi for them, T-shirts from the 1980s, a Christmas card drawn by John Lennon, minutes from the organisation's first ever committee meeting (lovingly restored by someone at the Bodleian in their spare time), and -- my personal favourite -- a file marked 'The Shoe Affair - 1969'.

What's this? I said. 'Ah, yes' they said. 'The Shoe Affair'.

I can't tell you what the Shoe Affair was, it's still a trade secret.

It was a good meeting. I know the importance of information, but it reminded me of the importance of history, and of provenance. It's a hard job though. There can be few archivists in the world who feel they are taken seriously enough.

I overstayed, and then left in a hurry to get back to the office for another meeting. Briefly stopped on the way at Bicester Village to get some lunch.

I *hate* Bicester Village. As one of my colleagues later put it, it is the apotheosis of capitalist evil. I didn't have that exact delightful phrase on my lips as I stomped past the outlet shops in search of Pret a Manger, but it did occur to me that Bicester Village is the exact polar opposite of an NGO archive.

It looks like Main Street USA, all anodyne wood-fronted store fronts with spotless walkways patrolled by security guards. Everyone shopping there has perfectly highlighted hair and this season's jeans and boots. You can hear the credit card debts Ker-CHINGing up the mountain of conspicuous consumption. Who needs yesterday? Who cares where and how these products were manufactured? Give me the latest colour and give it to me cheap. Cat fur? Not my problem, unless my bum looks big in it.

I took Wendy the GPS with me to help me find the archive. I took her out of the car when I went to get my lunch -- you can't trust these 4x4 drivers. As I stomped back to the car with my sandwich she was in my pocket saying 'find the nearest road. Find the nearest road'.

There are times when I couldn't agree with her more.

joella

Easy like Sunday afternoon

There's not much I like better than waking up late on a winter Sunday morning without a hangover. I squirm around in my own body heat, letting in little cold blasts of air just for the pleasure of warming them up. Then I stretch out and consider my options. Will it be a bath with sandalwood oil? Shall I lie here and read a bit more of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell? Shall I get up and do something useful?

This last option always seems to be a waste of time that should be savoured, so I read for a bit, do some thinking, offer thanks for the blessing of a boyfriend who brings me coffee on such mornings, and generally keep the cruel world at bay for as long as possible. Which is until I start to feel ashamed of myself for not getting up, so then I do.

Unlike hungover Sunday afternoons, which tend to be spent prone on the sofa with the Observer trying to combat feelings of self-loathing, non-hungover Sunday afternoons are a joy. I went to the tip! I bought bird food from the garden centre! I did some online Christmas shopping! I tidied my bedroom! And the living room! I made lots of coffee for M, who is painting his new room! I had a shower because I was too busy to have a bath!

Finally, I made a winter vegetable stew with a red wine sauce, which is bubbling away in the oven waiting for A, A and L to come over and help us eat it.

Sometimes I feel like a functioning adult.

joella

Men! Don't expect any help on a Thursday!

Threading steel pipe in plumbing class
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

At least not from me or plumbing S, for we are well busy subverting expectations.

This week we were threading the steel pipe it took us so long to hacksaw last week. After two and a half hours, when we were the only ones who hadn't finished, some of the boys came over and asked if we wanted a hand.

Ten years ago, I would have said no. But then ten years ago I wouldn't have been learning to plumb. And I have also learnt how to accept help gracefully if you need it and it's offered for the right reasons. It took me a while to reach that position, but I'm very happy I have.

joella

Womanising pisshead finally pegs it

I have a new job. For the next year I will be sitting in the goldfish bowl next to reception in the New Building. This has many advantages in terms of profile, space and proximity to sofas and filter coffee, but one major drawback: unless I wear blinkers I am constantly aware of the plasma screen in reception with its rolling news coverage.

I am thus acutely aware of how long it has taken George Best to die. 'Not dead yet', I've been shouting out every hour on the hour for the last two days.

Maybe I'm missing something, but I cannot understand why his shuffle off this mortal coil has generated so much media coverage. He was hardly the Pope, for god's sake (though I was no fan of his either).

I am interested in one thing though - did he wear out liver #2 as well, or are they going to be able to whip it out and give it to someone else? Legend lives on through liver: now that *would* be worth the headlines.

joella

Hang the Great British Public

In the early 1990s I accidentally lived in Andover for a year. It had home comforts in the shape of my parents, who accidentally lived there for seven years, but not much else going for it. Let's just say it's the only year of my life I have ever managed to maintain a gym membership.

In between flexing my pecs and digging a tunnel to civilisation I did manage to identify some drinking buddies. They were a strange bunch but they were prepared to drink with me, and so it was every Tuesday night we would find ourselves in the Railway Tavern, constructing a midweek hangover that would see us through till the weekend.

They were all boys apart from Rose, who wasn't out often as she was a single mother and the father of her child had gone back to Russia, or maybe never left Russia, the detail is sketchy now. There was Michael who periodically tried to get off with me, Owen who was always driving and drank five pints of lemonade, Richard who wore cowboy boots and smoked B&H and liked to move it move it, and Steve, who was big and loud and opinionated and worked in a video shop. He ended up having a thing with my Australian artist half aunt, and later still went back to college and did a degree in archaeology, but those are other stories.

We used to have fierce arguments, which would get fiercer as the night wore on, and would usually end with me and Steve thumping the table and yelling at each other. One such (as I finally get to the point, but I thought it worth setting the scene) was about Steve's 'if I ruled the world' approach to local democracy. Citizens would all have little voting consoles (a la 'Ask the Audience' in Millionaire). Their views would be canvassed constantly and there would be no need for politicians or indeed a judiciary. Legislation would be designed and justice meted out by the man in the street. It would be fair and swift and efficient.

Hang on a minute, I would say. The man in the street would bring back the death penalty. The man in the street would send all asylum seekers home. The man in the street would outlaw abortion. The man in the street would start burning witches again, given half a chance, and I'd be first on the pile. You're only going to get a fair hearing from the man in the street if you are Just Like Him.

And yesterday's revelation that a third of 2000 British people surveyed by Amnesty International believe a woman is partially or completely responsible for being raped if she has behaved flirtatiously could not prove my point more.

I could probably have predicted that attitude, but I was still shocked. What shocked me even more was that nearly half of the people holding this view were women. Women who never flirt, one presumes. Or who have ever been raped.

Representative democracy. It's the only way. The people have quite enough power sometimes.

joella

Raglan Road

I was inspired to do this by A Free Man in Preston. I don't know him, he doesn't know me. All we have in common is Preston itself. But I read his blog from time to time, and am introduced to / reminded of good tunes at the same time. Bargain.

I fell in love with this song when Billy Bragg released it on vinyl in 1990. To my knowledge his version has never been released on CD, so I still only have it on vinyl, and it's one of the few songs I downloaded from Napster before it went all Corporate. I would have paid 79p for it, I really would. It's better than Van the Man's version (I have never actually heard the original. I am not entirely sure whose the original *is*).

But no matter. This version is a beautiful thing. Enjoy it while it lasts, during these autumn days.

joella

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Let our bodies be twisted but never our minds

I spent most of last week frantically writing handover notes and doing other handover things, and am now at the end of the briefest of 'between jobs' interludes. Tomorrow I will have a new desk and a new job. Though I might end up sitting at my old desk as my new desk doesn't have a PC. It's all a bit strange.

In response to this (and as if I need an excuse), I have been having a very lazy weekend. Yesterday I read nearly all of the Guardian and then went out for a curry. Today I have read nearly all of the Observer and been to the laundrette. I read about the vocalists who have inspired Anthony (of the Johnsons). One of them is Alison Moyet. I immediately leapt up (well, 'leapt' might be pushing it) and put some on. He is right. What a voice she has. Why don't I listen to it more often?

I had Alf back to back on a C90 tape with Sade's Diamond Life. Hearing it again reminded me of summer holiday days painting N's bedroom when we were both about 16. We did every wall in a different pastel colour, which we mixed from cheap white paint and coloured poster paint, and she sang along and I wished I could.

It's good to have time to remember things.

joella

Talking DRM blues

Dear legal music download services

You are all absolute fuckers. If I buy music from iTunes I can't import it into Windows Media Player because it's in protected AAC format, which means I can't put it onto a CD EVEN THOUGH I'VE BOUGHT IT (I can't do this via iTunes because bastard iTunes is not compatible with my CD writer). If I buy music from Microsoft I can't put it on my iPod EVEN THOUGH I'VE BOUGHT IT because it's in protected WMA format so iTunes won't take it.

So I can listen to things at home on my computer. In one room. Jesus, reel to reel tapes were more bloody portable and convergent than that.

joella

Who says girls can't parallel park?

I will confess, I can't do it to the right. But I am shit hot to the left. Even in the dark.

joella

a bottle of whisky and a new set of lies

Christmas adverts really, really piss me off, especially when they are for compilation CDs targeted Straight At Me. There's one doing the rounds at the moment for an album called The Greatest Hits of Dire Straits and Mark Knopfler (or some combination of these words). I turn away with a sneer when I hear the bass line of Money For Nothing, but then it plays a little bit of Romeo and Juliet -- All I do is kiss you through the bars of a rhyme -- and I feel like a sixteen year old all over again and hey, I don't have that album on CD, maybe I should get it, and dream a little dream of lost boys.

Or maybe I should switch off the television set and go and do something less boring instead.

joella

Somebody's getting married...

Balloons at Emma's hen night
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

About seven years ago Emma bought Eurostar tickets to take her boyfriend for a weekend in Paris. A week before they were due to go, they split up. I had just split from my Significant Ex. Do you want to go to Paris for the weekend? she said. Too right, I said. We drank a lot of wine and I got a tattoo (occasionally pictured right).

Five years later she fell in love with a Frenchman and now she lives in Paris with him and their baby. Next month they're getting married; last night we went out to celebrate. Hen nights can be dreadful occasions (I recall a particularly bizarre one which featured a male stripper), but this one was lovely.

I especially liked drinking Ice Picks, cocktails featuring gin and champagne. As teenagers in Blackpool, ex-housemate S and I would drink Pick Me Ups - half a cider with a double gin. I see the Ice Pick as the grown up version of this. In fact it was a very grown up night all round. Well done Emma. Can't wait for the wedding...

joella

Art for art's sake

Tonight at the Pegasus: Horsehead

Would I have gone without an invitation from M's daughter C, who both performs and works there? No. Did I get something amazing from a bleak, 40s noir, freak-centred, puppetry performance? Yes.

Ain't life weird? And therefore sweet?

joella

PS The horse connection between this post and last is *entirely* coincidental.

Horse in The Hague

Horse in The Hague
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

I've been working in the Netherlands since Sunday. Work-wise, it was great -- hard work and frustrating in places but challenging, inspiring, interesting.

I was with a (what's the word for this?) lover of all things Dutch. She loves the cleanliness, the efficiency. Her glass is always half full when she is in the Netherlands.

I am not so sure. I am taken with the architecture and the waterways, and tulips are some of the finest of flowers, but equally I like a bath in my hotel room and I feel they overdo the sugar and the dairy products big time. Sour cream on a *pizza*? What is going on with that?

And I had the following grumpy exchange this morning, upon finding that you cannot buy a train ticket with a credit card. I had spent my last cash on a taxi to the station.

She: No cards.
Me: Why not? Am I in the wrong queue?
She: Cash only. All queues.
Me: How much is it to the airport?
She: 7.30
Me: Cash only? Euros?
She: Of course euros. You are in the Netherlands.
Me: Not for long.

Her English was better than my Dutch, of course, but still. I like a place where they acknowledge random illogicalities with a shrug.

On the way back from plumbing tonight I stopped (on my bike, going uphill) to let a car past coming down hill. Technically, it was my right of way, but that didn't stop him from swearing at me for causing him to slow down. Fuck you too! I yelled, and aimed a kick at his car in my steel toe caps. It felt good to be home.

joella

Spotted by Jeremy

brass plaque representing local culture
Originally uploaded by Jeremy Dennis.

I've noticed a couple of these 'celebrating local culture' plaques appearing on the newly upgraded Cowley Road pavements, but this one is quite something. Regeneration-tastic, I think the word is.

joella

Women! Don't expect any help on ...

... Monday, for that is the day the new Kate Bush album comes out, and normal rules of New Manhood do not apply. If you are very unlucky, you live with a man who is both a Kate Bush fan and a Nuts reader, so you might as well write next week off, but I would like to think that the two groups occupy entirely separate circles in the Venn diagram of British masculinity.

And talking of British masculinity -- what's going on with Grant Mitchell, getting duffed up by his girlfriend? What a splendid tabloid story -- hyper-tabloid? meta-tabloid? -- and a depressing reminder that the ladette has not yet left the building. Anything they can do, we can do, right? Lovely.

joella

November ain't all bad

Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Autumn is my favourite season. I have usually stopped saying this by November, when all is dark and cold and wet, but this morning was stunningly blue and splendidly crisp, and trees just don't look much better than this. My sumac tree is a pain in the arse most of the year, but its three glorious autumn weeks make up for it all.

I do feel for all SAD sufferers, because I know this time of year can be no fun at all. But I would not be without seasons myself, and on autumn I'm right with Barbara Ellen.

joella

Miles painting the skirting board

Miles painting the skirting board
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Some jobs need a Virgoan. I did the priming and the undercoat, but I knew my glossing would never withstand detailed scrutiny.

joella

A night for sore eyes

I should be down the Zodiac watching Four Tet. But I'm not. I'm instead sitting here with my hands spattered with gloss undercoat and my hair in a big handkerchief which my sister tells me makes me look like a chemotherapy patient. I tell her she can't talk, her appendix scar makes her look like she's got two belly buttons. There's definitely no gloves on round here today.

Suffice to say, I'm not really up to gigging company. And my eyes hurt. Not when they're open, but when I blink hard. I think this is from the dust from sanding.

We're at that horrible stage where all is devastation and you can't remember why you started this horrible mammoth task. With luck, by the end of tomorrow all will be clear.

joella

Days of wine and lentils

I don't understand how anyone can dislike lentils. They are the finest of pulses. Puy lentils are particularly fine, but I am fond of all kinds. This particular panful became last night's dinner: M's green and puy lentil dal with spinach, which we ate with rice, cucumber and mint raita, and tomato and red onion relish. It was a Top Tea.

Today my mother and impressively bescarred sister arrived to help paint the kitchen. Living so far away from them, I forget how my life may look to outsiders who are also intimates. My teetotal mother came with me when I popped out for milk while the dinner was in the oven. I said 'I'll just get a bottle of wine', and then hovered on the shop threshold thinking 'my god! I'm just about to take my mother into Classic Wines!'. (For those as don't know the area, this is the kind of off licence which usually smells of vomit and bleach).

M was relieved to hear that I got over any potential embarrassment and marched home with a litre of South African white. Litre bottles mean you can just drink the one between you, thereby keeping up appearances while still getting pissed. How sad is that?

And I've just realised that's two posts in a row about wine. Fortunately, I've got tomorrow off.

joella

Priorities, priorities

Yesterday, I managed to leave my purse in my bed. I don't remember putting it there, but somehow I did. I discovered its absence at lunchtime and called home, where M valiantly located it in the duvet so I didn't need to cancel all my cards.

My kind colleague S bought me some lunch. And then I found a fiver in my pocket. Great, I thought. Bus fare.

I worked quite late on my counter proposal, and set off for the bus stop in a stomp. Passed a garage on the way and decided I needed a bottle of wine IMMEDIATELY. Walked in and chose one and then remembered I didn't have my purse. Bugger. But hey, I've got a fiver! Bought wine.

Walked to the bus stop. Oh no! I've spent my bus fare on booze!

Walked home.

Drank wine.

Threw myself onto the bed and a little bank bag of 20p coins (laundrette money, and coincidentally just enough to have paid my bus fare) flew out of the turn up on my jeans and hit the wall.

Oh well.

joella

Come over here and say that!

It all gets better in the New Building. I get a hard time for quitting and then it turns out they were going to make me redundant anyway. There's something happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear.

But I now have the luxury of being able to write a counter proposal as someone who is (get me and my posh grammar) disinterested. I was tempted to write Just. Fuck. Off. but instead I am bashing the life out of my keyboard and using phrases like 'huge impact on the team's competence', 'complete lack of consideration of the obvious' and 'both top-heavy and insufficient'. Love it.

joella

Deaf as a post

Yes, I can safely report that last night's Fall gig was the perfect antidote to yesterday's angst. With Mark E Smith, appearance counts for nothing, it's all about NOISE. He shambled on stage looking like a low-rent hotel porter who's just finished his shift. I didn't know you could still *buy* trousers that bad.

First support were N0ught, who were wonderful, and second support were Resist, who were quite unspeakably bad. Think French and Saunders do goth ballads. Someone on the Fall messageboard wrote: "Jesus Christ. Resist are SHIT. Some kind of in joke one presumes." But I suspect they were just from Up North, where irony is thinner on the ground and PVC corsets and fishnets never go out of fashion.

But it was fun. And for our added entertainment there was Stripy Sock Girl, who was hammered before *anyone* came on stage and threw herself round the place like a deranged headbanger, doing high kicks and spitting beer at her friends before snogging them. She was a little bit captivating and a little bit excruciating and a little bit terrifying. I did feel sad for her when she got chucked out just before the band came on. On another night, in another place, I have been that girl.

I feel one Fall gig in a lifetime's probably enough, but it was a great night.

joella

Wearing badges is not enough

I spent two and a half hours in the hairdresser's yesterday. So if you know me and you see me you better notice the hair, ok? But I digress.

For about half of those two and a half hours I was reading celeb mags. (Kylie is being very brave. Kate Moss is in rehab in Arizona and also being very brave. Victoria Beckham isn't eating enough, but Romeo is sick and she's being very brave. Jennifer Aniston has made up with her mother but isn't over Brad yet and is still being very brave. Katie Holmes will have to give birth to her Scientology baby silently and without drugs so will have to be very brave.)

A substantial proportion of the female population reads these magazines every week. It's easy to argue that they are mostly harmless, but they did leave me feeling (as they always do) a little bit disgusted with myself and at the same time a little bit envious of those bodies, those clothes, that shiny lifestyle. And a little bit ashamed of feeling like that. Great.

Then I came home and read a really bloody depressing article in the Guardian about the male equivalents -- Nuts, Zoo and Loaded. It's all harmless fun you see. Men aren't so stupid that they can't tell the difference between Paris Hilton tied up in the nip and the women in their own lives. "It's pure escapism. They know real women aren't like that," said the editor of Loaded.

Yeah well of course they do, but doesn't it make them feel just a little bit shit about themselves? Just shit enough to not want to do it very often?

I think they're all a bit like speed. Cheap and rushy, but sapping of your life force in general and your more generous personality traits in particular.

As an antidote, I'm working through my Billy Bragg back catalogue. And later we're off to see the Fall. If that doesn't work, I'm not sure what will.

joella

Diversity in action

Came home late drunk and with munchies. Boyfriend already in, drunk and with munchies. No crisps in the house. Apologised for being so shortsighted as to walk past multiple chips merchants while wending home.

Having investigated every potential crisp-hoarding corner of the house, M stood on a chair in the conservatory so he could see into the middle room of the house next door.

"Have you got any crisps?"
"Or Pringles?"
"I know it's Ramadan but it is after dark."

I don't think they heard him. Thank the Lord.

joella

TUNE!

I have had Damian Marley's Welcome to Jamrock in my head for WEEKS now. Every time I see 'Welcome to GMail', Welcome to Waitrose, Welcome to anything with two syllables in, it kicks it off again. When this happens when I'm walking down the street I start to do a little skip in time with the beat. If I'm at my desk I move my chin backwards and forwards. People are starting to give me a wide berth. I downloaded the single from iTunes before the internet broke. I think I'll just have to go and get me the whole damn album.

joella

When Darcus met Joan

I started listening to Midweek yesterday. This is unusual in itself, as I generally find Libby Purves a bit shallow, luvvy and generally irritating. On top of this, three out of four of her guests -- Joan Rivers, Jackie Collins and Darcus Howe -- I find pretty unbearable, albeit each in their own special way.

But my interest was piqued by guest number four, plant photographer Andrea Jones, and I hung on in there until Darcus kicked in in his usual domineering ponderous style, at which point I said 'oh, shut *up*' and switched off the radio.

Wish I hadn't though, as it sounds like it all got a Lot More Interesting.

joella

Fade to grey

The New Building is grey. It has occasional 'hey! aren't we creative!' splashes of red ('warm breakout areas') and blue ('cool breakout areas') but the predominant colour in its palate is no colour at all, and this is compounded by the fact that you need written permission in triplicate from the Facilities Manager to put anything on the walls. So they also remain grey, except for small posters next to the desks of those brave enough to defy him. Plants are allowed, but only grey ones. (I made that bit up).

This had a kind of modern starkness in the summer, when the skies were blue, but today I look past the grey walls and through the grey blinds and out to heavy grey skies. In the distance is the grey BMW factory.

If it weren't for the red apple on my desk and my own (well M's) bright green cardigan I'd begin to wonder if someone had reset my brain. I think I'll play Paint it Black to cheer myself up a bit.

joella

Buying tools at the hospice

At the invitation of R&T we spent a very enjoyable but frankly quite surreal Saturday morning at Nettlebed Hospice, which every month hosts the mother, father, aunt and uncle of all charity jumble sales.

I had in fairness been forewarned by R, who explained that there are many sheds and outbuildings, and each has a specific function. There is the curtain shed, for example, and the record hut. But nothing can quite prepare you for the reality... hundreds if not thousands of people swarming through these incredibly beautiful grounds in the middle of nowhere frantically buying a million different kinds of tat. Second-hand duvets -- you just wouldn't, would you?

The sale is staffed by (mostly) elderly men and women in aprons, who spend much of the month accepting and sorting donated goods. Forks are separated from spoons, ribbon from elastic, shoes by size, books by genre and author, furniture by room. Then on the day they look sidelong at your selection and say '50p the lot, my dear'.

I bought some curly metal shelf brackets (£1) which can be used in the garden to hang lamps, bird-seed etc. I bought a right-angle measurer (there's another name for these) (50p) which I need for plumbing. I bought some hooks-and-eyes and some press-studs (10p) which I need for minor clothing repairs. And I bought some books (4 for £2.50, not sure how the maths worked there). There was a narrow escape over a mustard coloured armchair for a fiver, and a beautiful old lump hammer.

I couldn't face the clothing huts, as they were so busy they were working on a one in one out queue, and at one point I slipped away from the vase stall and went for a little sit in the gardens, which are stunning in an old country house Capability Brown sort of way, all mature trees and many shades of green.

On the way back in I passed a big metal cage against the wall. When I peered in I saw it was full of empty medical oxygen cylinders. All this mayhem is of course to raise funds to help the people upstairs die a good death. What an amazing country we live in.

joella

It goes a little something like this...

Woman who rarely gets headaches starts getting regular headaches at work. (This follows move to New Building, but she does not realise the link initially.) Headaches become particularly acute when using Dreamweaver to do website updates, as this requires fiddly detailed stuff and lots of squinting.

Woman notices her monitor is flickering rather a lot, and calls helpdesk. Helpdesk remove monitor, which is new and still under warranty, and replace with temporary (inferior standard) substitute.

Temporary substitute flickers too, only a bit worse. Woman calls helpdesk again. Helpdesk replace graphics card.

Temporary monitor still flickers. Helpdesk advise that problem is due to proximity of monitor to PC tower in New Building set up and advise replacement of monitor with TFT (flat screen) alternative. Helpdesk do not bring back original monitor, despite repeated requests.

Woman completes compulsory health and safety workstation assessment following move to New Building, noting flickering and marking workstation set-up as requiring management action. Woman prints off action sheet for discussion with manager.

Not completely convinced of direct link between flickering and headaches, and freaked out by increasing severity of headaches, woman also makes appointment at opticians to check glasses prescription.

Optician reports that eyesight has not deteriorated but asks if there has been any change in work set up. Woman describes Office Move and setup in New Building. Optician postulates that headaches are due to monitor on new desk being closer to woman than her eyes are comfortable with, thus causing stress headaches which are exacerbated by flickering and also pop up at weekends as eyes are stressed and tired, and advises getting a) TFT monitor which can be moved further away or b) getting special VDU glasses which have in-built 'prism' lenses.

Woman returns to work and proposes purchase of TFT monitor to manager, based on recommendations of helpdesk and opticians, and in order to address health and safety issue highlighted by (compulsory!) workstation assessment. Manager agrees.

Director refuses to sign off £150 purchase order for new monitor as woman is leaving team for another one round the corner once she has served out every nanosecond of her 12 week notice period and therefore her new manager should pay for it.

Woman decides not to update website until new monitor is purchased.

Nobody notices.

ENDS

So that kind of sums up a small but significant chunk of my workplace relations over the last six weeks. Next week, I predict this will happen:

Woman starts going home at 3.30 every day, announcing loudly "I am going home with a headache, caused by my faulty workstation set up and flickering monitor".

What are they going to do, sack me?

joella

The Blessed Virgin with miniature conifers

The Blessed Virgin with miniature conifers
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

And verily the Lord did say unto us: "More Aubretia!"

Lack of internet access has given me impetus to sort out some of last year's photos... I love this one. I spent many of my formative hours in this church in Lytham St Annes, although had run screaming by the age of 15.

Negotiating skills

I need to get better at negotiating. I'm tring to agree with my current boss when I can start my new job. My new boss says come soon come soon! My old boss says twelve weeks from the day we received your notice in writing. I say where's the red wine, because midweek obliteration is the only thing that's making sense to me at the moment.

joella

Rushing to the Hospital in Islamabad

I've realised how much I rely on the web to feel connected to what's going on in the world. I only had the TV and radio news this weekend to inform me about the earthquake in Pakistan, India and Afghanistan, and it was strange. I felt a lot more passive than (say) during the tsunami aftermath, where I scoured NGO websites, bbc.co.uk and individuals' blogs, looking for the human angle, reading different perspectives.

So I was pleased to get to a robust internet connection this morning. I am of course aware that in the scheme of things there are bigger things to worry about than my ability to look at Flickr, but I think first person reportage and commentary is one of the wonders of the web, and the world would be poorer without it.

Check out Rushing to the Hospital in Islamabad. Not sure if he took this himself, but it's an amazing photo.

joella

wot, no internet?

Something's badly up with our broadband. It comes, it goes. This weekend, it's mostly been gone, except briefly on Friday night when I was far too drunk to attempt to write anything. I've missed it. And I feel the need to be brief as it may go again at any moment.

So. Highlights of the last week:

(keyword Istanbul): bridges, skylines, bonito, meze, raki, minarets, ferries, rainbows, hammams, bloody Marys, menemem, Mr B, Z the cat

(keyword plumbing): solder, blowtorch

(keyword 'day job'): Xanadu, transliterature, Theodore Zeldin, Oxford Muse

Lowlights of the last week:

(keyword 'home improvements'): Carpet World, bathroom grime, PMT

joella

Crazy sky over Istanbul

We got off the tram after a rainstorm and there was an apocalyptic sunset to the west and a perfect rainbow to the east. It was like two alternative views of the future. Two minutes later, they'd both faded.

More tomorrow when the broadband's fixed... but I think on this weekend's evidence Turkey will be a great asset to the EU. Not so sure what's in it for them...

joella

Long weekend coming

Off to visit Mr B in the 'bul. I am very excited. And in need of a break. Sadly the parentals and little sister won't be meeting us for dinner as planned, as her major surgery has put the mockers on their hols.

But she's ok. We're all ok. Break out the meze!

joella

fwiw, the joella snapshot on TB's speech yesterday

"Britain is stronger, fairer, better than on 1st May 1997."

For the record, all else aside (and I know there's a lot), I do still believe that.

joella

The joy of stats

I think paying for blog stats is a bit sad, so I never have, and instead live with the basic SiteMeter info. Which until recently gave me number of visitors and their IP address and time zone but not much else. But hey, better than nothing.

However, they've recently improved things, and I now sometimes get 'referrer info', ie if people have linked through from somewhere, I now know where. This has mostly been a bit depressing (you would not believe how many people click through from Google Image Search to my photo of hardcore), but is sometimes hilarious.

For instance: today someone came through who was looking for photos of Laetitia Cash. She is a posh bint who pissed me off in M&S in Summertown about two and a half years ago (more here). I have not given her a thought since, yet it turns out that she is a) actually quite It and (more interestingly) b) recently stood for the Tories in Salford.

And came third. "What's the point in walking into a safe seat in Islington or Chelsea?", she reportedly said. I can't quite believe she really has an interest in Salford (there aren't many M&S food halls there) but hey, who's to judge. But I'd say learn some manners, love, and people might listen.

Both the fact that I may now get hits from people searching for "Laetitia Cash hardcore", and the perverse pleasure that I might get from this, are of course entirely incidental.

joella

Pedicure

Pedicure
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Ms Y and I took some time out this weekend and went to stay at a posh hotel in Tring which also has a spa. I was thoroughly exfoliated in a Clarins style (a style I could get used to...) and today I had my toenails painted. Parts of the experience were thoroughly bizarre (multiple wedding parties, many peacocks, eating in overheated and over-decorated function rooms, ordering the Observer and getting the Sunday Express) but others were splendid.

My favourite bits were sitting outside in a dressing gown in late September, sneaking in our own wine and bombay mix, and taking a stroll in the grounds as the sun went down armed with a book of matches and sets of Hopi ear candles. Someone's wedding photos are going to have a slightly surreal edge.

joella

... and in other news

... I've got a new job. Still in the same place, but in a different bit of it. I resigned this morning. My manager didn't really react, and I've had a weird day not knowing who knows and who doesn't. But the director's just come up and given me one of her famous hard stares and said 'you won't like it'.

So that's out in the open then. I don't think I've ever been so glad it's Friday...

joella

I sense a learning

[this title being a reference to Vernon God Little. No disrespect to my mother intended.]

I've been a little quiet this week. I've noticed that bloggers get quiet when really big stuff is happening. Few of us really do expose our bleeding hearts when the bleeding is hardest... perhaps because we rarely bleed alone, and some stuff it just ain't appropriate to share at the time.

So anyway. My little sister (also my only sibling) just nearly pegged it. Early Sunday morning, she awoke in biblical hellfire agony. My mother, who is a nurse and has witnessed much agony, reckoned it was probably her appendix. They took her to hospital. Four hours later they admitted her.

No, said the doctors, her appendix is not grumbling. It's probably a big urinary tract infection. They gave her some morphine and some antibiotics and said she could go home the next day.

Next day, more biblical hellfire agony, so antibiotics clearly not working. Hmm, said the doctors, might be a kidney infection. Scan her! said my mother. No need, said the doctors. More drugs.

Next day, more agony. Three days on morphine and something is clearly still very wrong. Eventually, after much maternal badgering, they scanned her. Well, said the doctors. There's a lot of fluid in her pelvis. It looks like she may have had an ovarian cyst which has burst.

Next day they started keyhole surgery to investigate and clear it up. Instead, they had to open her up and remove her... ruptured appendix. Four days *after* it ruptured. Because of the delay, she also has peritonitis. If we were Americans, we'd sue. Not sure what we'll do instead apart from stand in the corridors and scream 'you utter bastards why didn't you listen to her'?

As Bob Dylan says, sometimes you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

They moved her to a private hospital this morning so she can have some peace and quiet. She can't come home yet because she's still on IV drugs, but they tell me she's sleeping and ok.

joella

Death of a man with a mission

I was a huge admirer of Simon Wiesenthal, who died yesterday aged 96. By many accounts he was obsessed with his mission - to bring Nazi war criminals to account - but then we need obsessives in this world. Obsessives keep up the fight when everyone else has moved on.

We need to move on from the horrors of history if we are to evolve as human beings. There's a place for reconciliation, if only so there's a place to move onto. But there's a place for justice as well. We need people to say 'you may be old men now, but you are still accountable for your actions'. We need to keep caring about it, because atoning for the past is an important part of the future. And the present. There are abuses perpetrated daily by people who feel they are holders of power, so will never have to confront the survivors of those abuses.

And I admired Simon Wiesenthal for keeping on keeping on. Only a man who'd survived it could have done it, and many of those who'd survived it could think of nothing worse than devoting their lives to reliving it. I have never known any of my Jewish family Mention The War, but I know from lopsided family trees that many never survived it.

As the BBC obituary puts it:

... his dogged perseverance in hunting down those who had colluded in the most
barbarous of crimes made him a legend in his lifetime. He always claimed he sought justice not vengeance.

"I might forgive them for myself," he once said, "but I couldn't speak for the millions they killed."

joella

Halve's final gig

Halve's final gig
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Farewell, housemate S. Hope you have a lovely time dodging bears and jumping from the sky.

joella

Structural inequality

So plumbing S and I met up this morning in search of boots with steel toe caps. First of all we went to Blanchfords - an occasionally patronising, sometimes overpriced but usually ultimately successful experience. They had nothing under a size 8 (S and I are both about a size 5) - but they confidently sent us to the tool hire place over the way.

The tool hire place said 'Size 5? Who are they for?' We turned round together from our viewing of their display of large boots and said in tandem 'Us', and waved our perfectly normal sized (if you are a girl) feet in their general direction. One wonders who else we might have been buying for. Who doesn't buy their own safety boots?

They burrowed through the catalogue and said there was only one style available in size 5 and that we would have to order them specially. This boot is available in sizes 5-11 and in two colours, brown and honey (= light yellow). Just underneath this it said 'size 5 available in honey only'. Jokes were made about girls and honey. But not in a bad way. We decided however to try the army surplus store before we placed our order. 'Not much call for 5s' they said as we left.

But over at the Army Surplus we were in luck -- plumbing S got a brown pair in size 5 and I got a grey pair in size 6: no 5 in stock but I'm a big 5 anyway and with big socks 6 is fine. So we are legit, and allowed into the workshop on Tuesday.

But jeez, I ask you. And what would Ms Y do with her size 3s?

joella

Construction time again

I've started my plumbing course. My proper, grown up plumbing course. If we stick it out, in two years' time plumbing S and I will be qualified plumbers. Walking through the door was a fairly terrifying experience. We are, of course, the only girls -- not just in the class but quite possibly in the entire college.

But when we got shown round the workshop, with its tools and stash of copper pipe and alcoves where bathrooms will be built and special lead beating room, I did start to get excited. It felt a bit like the chemistry lab at school but on a grander scale, and I always liked being in there.

Saturday, we have to buy boots with steel toe caps. And then go and fix J's toilet for a bit of practice.

I hope I am brave enough for all this.

joella

Berliner = better

The new look Guardian is being hotly debated in the office today. Much to my surprise, the majority are against. But I love it. I have never been able to handle broadsheets, I think they discriminate against people with short arms. So I would buy the Guardian, but only read the front and the back and G2. Now I can read it all. And the new Guardian Egyptian font is very elegant, especially in its thin and delicate forms. So. Nice one, I say, and I look forward to being better informed.

joella

Aquarians and Virgoans

Although I think astrology is bollocks, I am proud to be an Aquarian. It is clearly the coolest star sign. But that's not my point. My point is, how many people know FOUR OTHER PEOPLE who have the same birthday as them?

I do. And I think that's a bit spooky, even though I have A-level maths and I know that the odds of this are not as high as they might first appear. (If I have a birthday on 27 January, the odds of another person having that birthday are 1 in 365 and a bit, and they remain so no matter how many people I meet who have that birthday. This is quite counterintuitive. And actually I think probably not true as I'm pretty sure spring is the most popular season for conception. But I digress).

The next most popular birthday day* for people I know is today. Happy birthday P, D and N! It's a bit of a bummer of a date for a birthday these days, but on the upside, people do tend to remember it.

joella

* actually, this ties with 23 July, and I did know three people with that birthday before I knew three people born today, so really that should win. But one of them did me down, so it only counts as a two-birthday day these days -- tying with 6 November, which now I think of it should have the edge as one of those birthdays is my sister's. Oh, it's a complicated world.

That cake in full...

It didn't win, but I am not bitter. Plumbing S's Somalia cake did, and deservedly so.

joella

On the table

We have a small dining room. Well, it's not even a dining room, it's a little conservatory on the side of the house, where we eat. It has an enormous table in it. I protested at the size of the table at the time of purchase, but a) I was not paying for it and b) both my housemates loved it and wanted it badly, so I gave in reasonably gracefully. It's a beautiful piece of furniture, but it belongs in a room twice the size.

It can seat eight, but usually seats two or three. It also (therefore?) collects crap. I was looking despondently down it this evening, and decided to count the number of things on it.

There was:
1. One metal pot stand with a half a pan of split pea dal
2. One half bowl of yoghurt
3. One bowl of aloo sag
4. Two dirty plates with cutlery
5. Two empty wine glasses
6. One pair of flip flops
7. One plant mister
8. One polystyrene box of basil, coriander and chive seedlings
9. One fleecy top
10. One newly baked cake still in its tin
11. Two towels
12. One pair of swimming trunks
13. One little rucksack
14. One fruitbowl containing five pears
15. One candlestick with no candle
16. One washbag
17. One wooden pot stand
18. One egg cup containing beads from a broken necklace
19. One tin of Water Hawk
20. One pen
21. One clothes peg
22. One pencil
23. One rubber
24. One sellotape dispenser, with sellotape
25. One thank you card
26. One book called 'Amusements in Mathematics'
27. One book called 'The Computer Music Tutorial'
28. One letter from a life insurance company
29. One newsletter from Abel and Cole
30. One letter from the Folding Sliding Door Company
31. One local newsletter
32. One Turkish tile
33. One map of Israel from the CIA World Factbook

Why can't we be cool and minimalist? There aren't even any children in the house. And I didn't even think about counting the things on the floor... thought the list would start with 'several thousand hairs'.

joella

Cake expectations

We're having a big party in the New Building on Friday. Staff were asked to sign up on the intranet if they wanted to come, register the potential attendance of their partner and/or children, and say if they would bake a cake to represent one of the countries that we work in. You could choose your country from a drop down list, or state 'No cake'. Stop laughing at the back.

I thought about this for a while. I decided to bake a cake for the UK, as this is the country I work on behalf of, as well as the country I live in, as well as a country with a good cake reputation. But it had already gone. I then thought about baking a cake for Zambia, but it is not a place famed for its cakiness and the flag is mainly green, which is not a great cake colour.

So I plumped for Israel and the Palestinian Territories. Can you think of a Palestinian cake recipe? No. Are they a cake shape? No. Is the use of a flag fraught with issues? Yes. Did I decide this was possibly the stupidest idea I'd ever had? Yes. Was this compounded by the news that the 'cake competition will be judged by the Director'? Yes. Competition? It wasn't a competition when I said I'd do it. Shall I pull a sickie on the day?

But then I found this Nigel Slater recipe for orange and honey polenta cake, and a chord was struck.

It goes a little something like this. When I was little and food still had seasons my Israeli grandmother used to send us a crate of Jaffa oranges over from Haifa every winter. My mum would store them in the garage, still in their crate and shredded paper and exotic perfumed oranginess, and my sister and I would sneak in and feel and smell them and think about when we would get to eat them. I don't really remember eating them, I just remember thinking about eating them.

I first went to Israel when I was 10, and I was overwhelmed by the dry warmth and the orange blossom scent in the air. My dad's cousin took us out in a jeep and I stood up in the back getting blown to bits by the hot wind. We stopped in an orange grove and he twisted a big orange off a tree and gave it to me. I held it like a huge jewel, not quite knowing what to do with it, until he gouged a hole in it with his thumb and told me to squeeze it into my mouth.

It was juicy and sweet and warm from the sun and like nothing I had ever tasted. The Jaffas in the crate in the garage never tasted this good, even though they tasted a hundred times better than any other oranges we ever got.

So I associate oranges with Israel, with sunshine and with youth and wonder. An orange cake is the cake to bake.

joella

Waiting for a train

I think retrospective Flickr'ing might finally do for my wrists, but I have added a few from Zambia because I never posted any at the time...

joella

Game over

I ran out of time

joella

It's all too beautiful

Once upon a time, many years ago, M said to me 'you don't really like art, do you?'. This was an unfair and untrue insult, and one which was born, I feel, of a slight public school snobbishness on his part. I like art, I said, I just don't like the wanky stuff you like. I think he may occasionally still feel slightly ashamed of himself.

But our worlds collided, as did those of many other people, at the weird and wonderful Power Plant installation at the Oxford Botanic Gardens. These are weird and wonderful in themselves by day, with their Victorian greenhouses and exotic planting set against classic Oxford architecture. But they are never open at night, so this this was something amazing.

Said the blurb (paraphrased):

Oxford Contemporary Music have teamed up with the University of Oxford Botanic Garden to ... transform the Garden into an extraordinary world of sound and light. For three nights only, you will be able to explore the garden in the moonlight. You can take a magical musical and visual journey amongst intriguing constructions and installations around the walled garden, water garden, plants and trees... combining sound, fire, pyrotechnics and light.

And it truly was a beautiful thing. There was no light but the light from the installations, and it was a magical place of huge glowing balloons deflating through harmonicas, non-epilepsy safe neon flickering, whoomfing fire lanterns playing midi tunes in the gunnera, little buzzing red firefly machines, banging gongs, live projected technicolour snail action and so much more, all lit by candles in paper bags and whirring smoke and light machines. It was like being out of your head in a slightly edgy but very safe underworld.

I just asked M if he would say the same thing about me and art now, and he said 'no... I wouldn't say you didn't like art... but I also think you're more open to it'. Maybe we each had something to learn from the other.

joella

Finally engaging with Flickr

It's not that I haven't wanted to, more that I just haven't got it together. Anyway, now I have... starting with a few from last weekend.



More as I get sorted at http://www.flickr.com/photos/joella/

joella

Aftershock

It's been horrifying watching the scenes of chaos and violence unfold in New Orleans. Bodies lying in streets running with raw sewage, people looting and shooting, fights for food and water amid the squalor of the Superdome. It's hard to believe this could happen in the world's richest and most powerful country.

There's also been an interesting reaction from some of the world's press -- storms like Katrina, it is being argued, are one of the side effects of global warming. The US is the world's worst offender in this by far, and the most resistant to reducing emissions. It's a 'warning from god', said Hong Kong's Ta Kung Pao newspaper.

Which is a pretty hardcore point of view, and just one of many. 'This is our tsunami', some American commentators have said. Wrong, says Alertnet. I buy that. But this isn't the time for US-bashing, and it's maybe a little too easy to forget that the people trying to feed children and care for the sick amid piles of human shit are not the rich white redneck SUV drivers we all love to hate, but overwhelmingly poor and black.

As in most natural disasters, those who are the hardest hit and who lose the most are those who are least well equipped to recover: the poor and vulnerable. The difference in the US is that some of the poor and vulnerable have guns, and are markedly harder to portray sympathetically on the television.

joella

In which rumours spread about the wildness of my weekend...

I just bumped into someone I haven't seen in a couple of months. She said 'I hear you're really hungover today.'

In fact, I am not hungover at all. I am recovering from a weekend which involved perhaps more alcohol than is advisable At My Age (or even At Anyone's Age). I felt a bit creaky and shit when I woke up and had a slight tummy ache. I did not cycle to work. And I have been whingeing a bit to colleagues.

But I would not like this to be interpreted as a giant hangover on a Tuesday. And in fact the weekend involved at least as many wholesome activities as toxic ones. There was swimming in the sea. There was 1980s Trivial Pursuit (thank you, Cliff Thorburn!). There was a salad which featured wheatberries. There was eBay education. There was origami (well, there was a book about origami). There was more scrambling up near-vertical surfaces than I would normally attempt. There were the top 10 pop videos of all time (according to ntl). There were sausage baps (Linda's for me). There was discussion of 16th century salt extraction processes.

The whisky was but one element of a splendid and multi-layered weekend experience.

Just wanted to make that clear.

joella

Off to the beach

It's been a hell of a long week in the Business Park.

On the plus side, I have cycled to work three days out of five: think this may be a personal record. On the down side I have had a depressing conversation about salad with the catering manager, who is himself pretty teed off that nobody told him the building would be full of people who like to eat salad.

I've also had call to use the aforementioned sanitary bins for the first time. Not only are the toilets so narrow that you have to park your butt cheeks against their shiny plastic sides, you can't actually open them if you are sitting on the toilet, as their lid meets the toilet lid in an entirely foreseeable yet completely overlooked way. So I've been spending time in the disabled toilets, which are, by contrast, so vast you have to be quite a good shot to hit the bin at all.

The skies are grey and the nights are beginning to draw in, and the resemblance of the building to a giant mothership in an alien land is becoming increasingly clear.

So to get over it, and for several other very good reasons, we're off to Swansea this weekend. Looking forward to windy walks on lonely beaches and much drunken discussion on the state of the nation. Cool.

joella

Farewell Londis

.. and the friendly men who worked in there and presided over its long, out of their hands, management-dictated decline with more dignity than most of us would have managed.

joella

Early adopter wobbles

I've been doing this internet thing for nearly eleven years now. I like to tell people that I knew a good thing when I saw it, but really it was just right place right time.

And loads of things have just got better and better -- think gmail, think blogging, think amazon, think online digital radio, think bbc.co.uk, think wikipedia, think photo sharing. We can create, we can access, we can communicate. It's a beautiful thing.

But I'm struggling with iTunes. And my iPod. In principle: near perfect. Your CD collection and extra downloaded tunes managed and manipulated through one interface and loaded in interesting, flexible ways onto different devices (players, CDs, websites) for different purposes. But it ain't working like that -- iTunes is awkward and difficult to customise, at least on a PC, and there's this nasty fascist thing where you can load music *onto* your iPod but not off it. At least, not easily. This wasn't the way it was meant to be. I am a decent and law abiding person and I do not wish to be locked down by corporate America.

I like iPodder though.

joella

Grumpy old Buerk

The middle class world is full of mildly disappointed women who fell somewhat for Michael Buerk's crinkly eyes as he delivered bad news nightly. But now it turns out he was an unreconstructed old school chauvinist all along, or, as Anna Ford put it, a 'miserable old bat'.

But is it interesting? Why should we care? Well, because he's also spectacularly wrong. This came through in an email from one of my colleagues:

I think it's highly ironic ... that Buerk's comments as reported in the Scottish press ran beside the headlines all this week of the cost to the public sector of equal pay claims [from women] - the conclusion of the two presumably is that women rule the world but do so for 40% less money than men did. A bargain I would have thought...

Couldn't have put it better myself.

joella

Swings and roundabouts

We left the house last night as it was getting dark, responding to A&L's invitation for a late drink at the Fir Tree. One of our neighbours has installed an industrial wheelie bin on the pavement, and the parking's beginning to fill up as the start of term approaches.

It's going to start feeling oppressive round here soon, I said to M. Maybe we should move somewhere where there aren't kebab boxes in the street, people don't break bits off trees and you can park outside your house. Hmmm, he said. I wonder what I would be like if I lived in the middle of nowhere?

We mused on this further on the way down the hill, hardly noticing a gradual build up of the kind of noise only really large machines get to make.

We swung round the corner onto Cowley Road and it was like something out of Mad Max. The road was closed -- they are raising its level as part of current beautification attempts -- but motorists were squeezing past the barriers and zooming down bits they shouldn't be. Between the cordons there were huge trucks pouring asphalt down onto the road, and big thumperumperers (note: not technical term) with their own floodlights packing it down ready for it to be steamrollered later. It was hot, the noise was immense, and the orange lights bounced off lots of grime-streaked men in fluorescent jackets.

In the middle of all this the Bangla Bazaar had decided to get itself a new window and door, and the staff were packing up in a shop with no front. Just round the corner, in the gap left when they knocked down the Akash, a guy with long grey hair sat cross-legged on the ground painting an anti-corporate mural on the wall.

By the time I got to the pub I'd remembered why it is I live here.

joella

Glimmer of hope?

It's not often these days I feel comfortable with my Israeli connection. Half my dad's family lives there and I've been there four times. The last time was in 1992 and there was a nasty scene at the border on the way in because of what turned out to be a computer error -- long story but I had trouble getting out and swore I would never return.

This has made it easier not to engage too much with what's happened since then, but I remain more involved than I like to think I am, and feeling that I should talk about it more than I do. If you can look at a situation from both sides you've got a rare point of view. Like people with rare blood groups who have more of an obligation to donate, maybe you've got more of an obligation to speak up.

Or maybe that's a load of old cack. But I am impressed with the Israeli government for de-settling Gaza, and I have my breath held that it doesn't get ugly. I believe that it should never have been settled in the first place but I can see that there are Israelis who don't think that, and it's a big step for Sharon to move them out. There's a long, long way to go, but longest journeys, single steps etc.

joella

Retro kettle

Sundays down the launderette are getting to be quite the thing -- buy a paper, have a quick drink in the pub while the washing's going round, stop off at Cowley Road's various delis for pickled vegetables and posh pasta. One drawback is that I'm not sure Ecover can hold its own in these circumstances. We may have to buy powder that kicks more arse.

Boiling water in a pan, on the other hand, has no appeal at all. Coffee made with it tastes like it's been spewed from the bowels of the earth. So I have purchased another kettle.



It was more painful a process than I had predicted. Our last kettle was stainless steel, but to replace it would have cost £60. *How much?* I didn't even know kettles got that expensive. You can get plastic ones for £15, but they look horrible and how long do they last? The last but one kettle was plastic and it rotted. And then, in Boswells (of course, thanks to L for sending me there) I found the retro kettle. Not retro in a premium marketed as retro sort of way, but retro in still making them like they have since the 70s sort of way.

It's shiny, it's metal, it's a beautiful shape, you plug a cord into in (which always feels safer to me than this cordless business) and it's almost exactly like the first kettle I ever learnt to boil. It was £29.99, and I am very happy with it. My housemates really don't seem to care either way, so it's a good job it was me who went out to choose it.

joella

Summer rain

Raindrops on the washing line yesterday as the garden gave thanks to the heavens

joella

*sigh*

I learnt something about myself yesterday, thanks to our brave new open plan world.

I did a big sigh at my desk, and my colleague R, with whom I used to share an office, came over. She said to the others sitting around us: 'one of these sighs is okay, but if she does three or four of them, it means she needs some attention'.

I always used to wonder how it was that R would say 'how's it going' at just the moment I needed to offload some fury or frustration. And now I know.

joella

Give John Prescott a medal

I've had a few issues with John Prescott in my time. He's unreconstructed but ultimately on the right side, and I always struggle with that combination.

Every now and again though he cuts through the New Labour crap so perfectly that I can forgive him pretty much anything.

Today he said to Omar Bakri Mohammed: "Enjoy your holiday - make it a long one", and one suspects there was a silent 'beardy weirdy' at the end of the sentence.

He is acting PM, so this is almost as good as Tony saying it, though of course Tony would never dream of saying anything so splendidly rude and splendidly funny. As the Aussies would say, beaut.

joella

Am I missing something important?

M and I are wondering if we should be worried that our friends are showing a tendency to borrow our clothes for fancy dress parties. Here's a recent example, but it's not the first time it's happened...

joella

So, farewell then, dirty shagger

I have this kind of sub-Tourettes thing. Every time I see Margaret Thatcher on television, I shout 'Bitch!'. I can't help it. For Robin Cook, it used to be 'dirty shagger!'. So I will miss him. And also remember him for one of the finest resignation speeches in history.

joella, aged 35 1/2

Consumer non-durables

N&D and baby C have just left. While they were here, the kettle went pop. And just before they arrived, the washing machine's status shifted from 'making far too much noise when going round' to 'not going round at all'.

I feel a bit put upon by my white goods -- it's only four months since the same thing happened to the dishwasher. Kettles don't cost that much, but this was a posh one -- it was housemate S's leaving present from her last but one job and I happen to know it cost £50. You'd expect more than four years from that. The washing machine belonged to M's mother, and he took it over after she died a couple of years ago as it was so much better than the one we had. Or so we thought.

We could get someone out to it I suppose. But then there's the fact that the tumble dryer is currently in the bathroom, where it Should Not Be. There's no room for it anywhere else, so my long term plan has always been to get a washer-dryer (I know they aren't very good at drying, but -- to apply the same logic as to getting a small TV -- this would mean that I wouldn't use it much, while having the option to use it if necessary).

Need to dwell on this for a while, while examining finances that have recently forked out for both a dishwasher and a television. So in the short term, it's back to the launderette. They've got higher tech since I last used one -- you now put little cards in them like in electricity meters at holiday parks.

And actually quite a pleasant experience -- the machines are about three times as fast as domestic ones, so we had two loads washed, home and out on the line to dry in hardly any time at all. Maybe we don't need a washing machine at all? We could do service washes like they do in EastEnders, and never have to encounter that nasty in-the-machine-too-long smell again.

joella

Girl I'm just a Ginsters for your love

I wrote a post last night but I deleted it this morning because it made No Sense At All. I can be very pompous when I am pissed.

I liked its title though: maybe it was hangover needs anticipation. There are few things that can take the edge off the hollow-to-my-soul feeling I woke up with, but a cheese and onion Ginsters is one of them -- preferably heated up in a petrol station microwave and eaten straight out of the packet.

Chicken flavour SuperNoodles can help too, or reheated cold pizza, ideally with anchovies. I think it's the combination of stodge and salt that's such a winner.

Sadly, none of these things could be sourced in the New Building and I could not get it together to go and forage in the real world. But I did manage to find a sofa to lie on for a little while.

joella

Welcome to a new kind of tension

It was pointed out this evening that I haven't talked about life in the New Building. I reminisced about our Staff Revue last Christmas, which was opened with an adaptation of Green Day's finest moment, entitled 'Business Park Idiot'. It's been running through my head all week.

On the positive side: I can walk to work (40 mins) or get one bus rather than two (£1 each way rather than £2.30 each way). There's a big Tesco five minutes' walk away. The toilets don't smell. The carpets don't raise hairballs when you rub them with your toe. Coffee is cheaper. The phones tell you who is calling. There is air conditioning. It is open plan so I see all members of my team every day.

On the negative side: it is in a business park where everyone drives and they have economised on pavement by only putting it on one side of the road, which is borderline lethal. There is no Lebanese takeaway and no delicatessen (as my friend S put it 'goddamn it, there's no crayfish on this business park'). The toilet cubicles were designed without taking into account the need for sanitary bins, and are so narrow that you graze your left buttock on said bins every time you sit down. The main colour in our daily palette is grey. The cafe's menu is designed for (and by?) people who like pub food. We are not supposed to open the windows but it is freezing if you don't. It is open plan so I see all members of my team every day.

I leave it to you to 'do the math'.

joella

Longlisting

I've spent the best part of two days longlisting for a post that had over 90 applicants. Here are some tips I can offer for free and for nothing.

1. Apart from what you got in your A-levels, nothing about your schooldays is of the slightest interest.

2. Explain how you meet the required competencies -- yes it takes longer to write your CV that way, but it means I will actually read it.

3. Don't use words like liaise unless you know how to spell them.

4. Don't write your entire application in lower case unless it is for a job sending text messages.

5. Don't attach a CV written in an obsolete wordprocessing package that takes ten minutes to convert into something readable.

6. Get a sensible email address, funkybutt.

joella

Ever fallen in love with someone...

... you had no justification at all to fall in love with?

I'm smitten with a man I just saw interviewed on Newsnight. I can't remember his name or his qualification for being on Newsnight. I can't even remember what he was being interviewed about. All I could look at were his hands waving around in just the way mine do when I am talking about something I care about: they move a bit too much and much too randomly, but with feeling. I looked at those hands and imagined all the other things they might do, and how they could probably never lie.

joella

Television wars are over!

I have long maintained two things. Firstly, that if I had enough money to, I would live on my own. Secondly, that I am glad I don't have that much money, because I believe living with other people is both good for the planet and good for the soul.

But you do end up with things like the television wars. When we moved in we had a small TV. This suited me, because I believe that if televisions dominate living rooms, they dominate lives. If watching it is a bit shit, then you watch less of it, which is good.

Both housemates aspired to a bigger one, but I would not spend money on this, and they did not want to buy one between them. Stalemate #1. Then free bigger one arrived, courtesy of housemate's boyfriends's grandad getting a newer bigger one and giving the old one away. I did not see this as an improvement, in fact from my perspective it was considerably worse, as it was a crap TV which regularly took ages to warm up and needed a lot of thumping, but it served for approx two years while we failed to agree on communal way forward.

We all went to Currys once.

Them: What about this one?

Me: No! It's too big.

Them: But it's only as big as the one we've already got.

Me: Yes, but I never wanted that one.

Stalemate #2.

Fortunately, recently three things changed. Firstly housemate S is leaving, so I only have to argue with M. Secondly, the big TV developed a habit of shrinking the middle of the picture, like someone had put a belt round it. In no way could this be deemed a quality viewing experience. Thirdly, prices of LCD TVs crept steadily downwards.

We bought one. It's slim and beautiful and sits elegantly in the corner. It looks hi-tech but not like something out of Men & Gadgets magazine. Somehow, it has a big enough screen for M and a small enough screen for me. We are both happy with the television we have. I never thought this would happen.

joella

Me a long way from the sea

I'm back now. But it will be a while before I forget what solitary Friday nights in a seaside town can feel like.

joella

Me by the sea

I'm Up North visiting the parentals. All is well: my dad is recovering well from his shoulder operation, and my mother seems still to be suffering no major ill effects from having smoked 20 a day for the last 40 years. In fact she's still fitter than I am. So same as it ever was, which is cause for celebration in itself, as it can't ever remain thus, one eventually realises.

However, it's Friday night, and their idea of fun is watching Independence Day on TV while drinking endless cups of Nescafe Decaf. This is a film which makes me want to heave combined with not nearly enough alcohol, so I applied some green eyeliner and headed out in search of company.

There were two possible options, Mick Son of Mick and my uncle, but the one pub I ventured into was Dante's Lancastrian Inferno, heaving with testosterone, alcopops and semi-naked women. You forget what it's like round here at the weekend, I swear. To be female and fully clothed is freakish enough on Christmas Eve - to be out in a jacket in July is tantamount to declaring yourself a feminist. Which can be a dangerous thing to do.

So I elbowed my way out of hell, bought myself a can of lager at Spar and went for a walk down the front. It was kind of drizzly, so I had the entire coast to myself. It was amazing. I sat on one of the sheltered benches by the lifeboat station, sipped my Heineken, watched the late July night draw in and felt exactly as I felt half my life ago when I used to do exactly the same thing as a teenager.

I had several advantages then: 1) I smoked, so could spend far longer sitting on a bench by myself without feeling like a spare part. 2) I had a dog, so had an excuse to be sitting on a bench by myself. 3) I was a teenager (see 2).

It somehow felt that this was not a grown up thing to be doing, which seems profoundly unfair. Where are the 35 year old women sitting on a bench by themselves on a Friday night of yesteryear?

joella

It's raining outside but I don't care

God I love sunflowers

joella

Solitary pleasures

I'm working at home today and I've got the place to myself. I've just sung along to John Denver's Annie's Song on 6Music while preparing my vegetarian frankfurter, mustard and gherkin sandwich for lunch. Some things you just don't enjoy if there are other people around.

joella

Take me dancing naked in the rain

It would have to be warm rain. And it would probably have to be dark. And I would definitely have to be drunk. But in the right circumstances, I'd be up for it if someone else was too.

In the absence of the right circumstances, you do what you can. Yesterday I went swimming in the rain with my friend E. It wasn't warm rain and we weren't drunk (and it was a public place so we of course weren't naked), but it was still lots of fun.

The pool was steaming in the cold air and we had it all to ourselves, which I love. When you don't have to worry about bumping into people you can focus on other things, and let your stroke take over your worries, so they get some of their edges rubbed off and when you get out things have settled in your head a bit even though you haven't really been thinking about them.

I should really find a way to swim in an empty pool more often. Or, of course, dance naked in the rain.

joella

End of an era

They're shutting down the systems at work in 15 minutes. Everybody down the pub, apart from the poor souls in 'Move Team' T-shirts who have to engage with 30 years of dust, cabling and paperclips.

Next time we come into the office, it will be in a Business Park and everything will be grey, apart from those bits which have been corporately coloured in. The day I started here five years ago I came past the 'cyber curtain' made of old CD-ROMs stuck together with sellotape and found a bunch of flowers on my desk from my new manager. I feel sad.

joella

Planarity

Check out this madly addictive game that I picked up via meish.org, whose author always seems to find the best games...

joella

three word newsbites

In today's throwaway world, sometimes you need quick opinions. So here we go:

1. The founder of the BNP is dead.
joella says: good fucking riddance

2. Orchestra goes silent over appointment of female lead
joella says: deal with it

3. Blood donors warned over vCJD
joella says: better to know

This is fun! More soon.

joella