It's all been a bit me me me recently. Maybe this is a side effect of having a week off to Get Things Done (not an entirely successful strategy, as each thing which gets done seems to generate ten more which need doing).
I have in fact been thinking about stuff a fair amount, but not in a particularly focused way. I find things circle round inside my brain for a while until I find a peg to hang them on.
This afternoon one appeared... I was wandering down Cowley Road, mainly wondering where to purchase mushrooms and clip frames as economically and efficiently as possible, but also marvelling at the manifestations of spring: volunteers clearing weeds in the churchyard, people climbing out of windows to drink on their rooftops, vans reversing down pavements with more verve than usual, police on bikes in high-vis polo shirts moving people along in a friendly fashion. The sun was shining right in everyone's eyes, and it was just the right side of chaos.
There was a Chinese man standing outside Boots. I thought he was a Big Issue seller. When was the last time you saw a Chinese Big Issue seller, I was thinking as I slowed down to buy one. "They are killing innocent people for organ harvesting," he said, and handed me a copy of the Epoch Times.
I put it in my bag and walked on. Twenty minutes later I walked back carrying clip frames and mushrooms, and he was still there, looking aware of his own insignificance, trying to give out his papers as the denizens of East Oxford hurried past with more important things on their minds.
My heart suddenly went out to him. Yes, I believe they *are* killing innocent people for organ harvesting. I pictured a tall black man standing next to him trying to give out a paper about the genocide in Darfur. Nobody would much bother about that either. We are all too busy living in our overloaded bubbles, and if we do stop to think about organ harvesting and genocide we become overwhelmed with a sense of our own impotence. So we don't much think about it.
I stood there on the street thinking, 'does this make me complicit in organ harvesting and genocide? And if it does is there anything meaningful I can do about it?'
I crossed over the road towards him, because I wanted to say something. But I had no idea what to say, so I didn't say anything. I did read the Epoch Times all the way through when I got home, if that counts for anything.
joella
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
Dirty shagging
God I'm disappointed in 'Two Shags' Prescott. I had a long debate with M this evening about why this is. I think it's fair to say that we disagree over the extent to which we feel that a politician's extramarital conduct is an indication of his/her trustworthiness as a politician.
I see it thus: male married neurosurgeon has affair. May not make him a nice man, but has near-zero bearing on his ability to operate on brains, and potential brain operatees don't much care either way. Male married cabinet minister has affair. Whole different ball game. You need to be either pretty simple (to believe that there won't be uber fallout when the media get hold of it, or to neglect to consider that this might happen) or totally dick-led (to realise that this will happen and not care).
And if it was just you it was going to fall out on and you were ready for it, Edward VIII style, then I guess it's none of my business. But what about Mrs Male Cabinet Minister? What of her humiliation? I know some couples have 'arrangements', in which case she might just be furious at indiscreet secretion, but in this case the man himself has described his wife as 'devastated', while the press has had a field day talking about her impenetrable barnet.
So, simple or dick-led, I'm less inclined to give his unreconstructed arse the benefit of the doubt from this point forth.
And, like a good feminist, I am equally disgusted with Shag #2. Pissing on someone else's chips is extremely bad form. It's fair enough to pick them over if they've been chucked in the bin or left out for the seagulls, but otherwise, leave alone. There are rules.*
In the interests of balanced commentary on this issue (and before anyone else does it for me), I will add that I did once get off with a married man. Let's call him Simon. The year was 1998, and I was not long split from my Significant Ex. It was May Bank Holiday, and I was Up North, hanging out with Mick the Builder (actually, to be fair, doing slightly more than hanging out with him, but that's another story) et al.
Simon was one of the et al. We were all in a pub on the Sunday evening, the beer was flowing, the music was pounding, it was warm and not yet dark. I was arguing some point or other, something to do with how hard it was to adjust to a new reality and how people were treating me differently, but I hadn't changed, it was just my life that had changed, and he suddenly looked at me hard and then kissed me harder.
For a moment I thought this was some postmodern response to my point and we would sit back and laugh, but then I thought hang on, this is Lancashire, he's just taking his chances. And then I thought, but hang on, he's *married*. With *children*. What's *happening*?
I should make it clear that I had fancied Simon for years. About ten years, in fact. He was (and still is) a solid, sexy, working man. I remember when his first child was born: I was about 20 and couldn't believe that any woman would willingly get pregnant - but thinking that if it came to it, you could do worse on the fatherhood front. And here I was, snogging him on a warm spring evening. I was pretty hammered, but all my alarm bells were ringing.
We all went back to Mick's flat where, several hours later, I attempted to engage him in rational debate about this (yes, I know I should have gone home, but there was another story going on too). He lifted me onto the side in the kitchen, positioned himself assertively and said 'I always fancied you, curly top'.
He may or not have meant it of course, but either way I had to call upon my inner Lisa Simpson in order to get myself out of there. He came too, using the 'walk you home' pretext, and we had another physical altercation in the middle of Lytham Green. Look, Simon, I said. You need to go home. Don't do this to me. Just do the right thing.
He let his bike fall to the grass, held me by the shoulders and said "Jo, I've spent my whole fucking life doing the right fucking thing".
Part of me wanted to get right down to it, hoping that hidden speakers would start playing early Bruce Springsteen albums by way of accompaniment, but most of me knew that I didn't want to be someone's Wrong Thing, for all sorts of reasons. So after another brief tussle I watched him cycle off into the mist. He never did walk me home. We are still on speaking terms though -- but we never speak of that encounter.
What was all that about? I was trying to say that it's hard to say no, but sometimes you have to, even if you're not a politician, but definitely if you are. And here endeth this evening's lesson.
joella
*This is a bad analogy (and I'm not even sure analogy is the right word) as there also needs to be a scenario where chips can make a break for freedom on their own, and seek out another hungry person to eat them all up. This is clearly moving into science fiction territory, and my word John Prescott would be a big bag of chips, but hey, it's late.
I see it thus: male married neurosurgeon has affair. May not make him a nice man, but has near-zero bearing on his ability to operate on brains, and potential brain operatees don't much care either way. Male married cabinet minister has affair. Whole different ball game. You need to be either pretty simple (to believe that there won't be uber fallout when the media get hold of it, or to neglect to consider that this might happen) or totally dick-led (to realise that this will happen and not care).
And if it was just you it was going to fall out on and you were ready for it, Edward VIII style, then I guess it's none of my business. But what about Mrs Male Cabinet Minister? What of her humiliation? I know some couples have 'arrangements', in which case she might just be furious at indiscreet secretion, but in this case the man himself has described his wife as 'devastated', while the press has had a field day talking about her impenetrable barnet.
So, simple or dick-led, I'm less inclined to give his unreconstructed arse the benefit of the doubt from this point forth.
And, like a good feminist, I am equally disgusted with Shag #2. Pissing on someone else's chips is extremely bad form. It's fair enough to pick them over if they've been chucked in the bin or left out for the seagulls, but otherwise, leave alone. There are rules.*
In the interests of balanced commentary on this issue (and before anyone else does it for me), I will add that I did once get off with a married man. Let's call him Simon. The year was 1998, and I was not long split from my Significant Ex. It was May Bank Holiday, and I was Up North, hanging out with Mick the Builder (actually, to be fair, doing slightly more than hanging out with him, but that's another story) et al.
Simon was one of the et al. We were all in a pub on the Sunday evening, the beer was flowing, the music was pounding, it was warm and not yet dark. I was arguing some point or other, something to do with how hard it was to adjust to a new reality and how people were treating me differently, but I hadn't changed, it was just my life that had changed, and he suddenly looked at me hard and then kissed me harder.
For a moment I thought this was some postmodern response to my point and we would sit back and laugh, but then I thought hang on, this is Lancashire, he's just taking his chances. And then I thought, but hang on, he's *married*. With *children*. What's *happening*?
I should make it clear that I had fancied Simon for years. About ten years, in fact. He was (and still is) a solid, sexy, working man. I remember when his first child was born: I was about 20 and couldn't believe that any woman would willingly get pregnant - but thinking that if it came to it, you could do worse on the fatherhood front. And here I was, snogging him on a warm spring evening. I was pretty hammered, but all my alarm bells were ringing.
We all went back to Mick's flat where, several hours later, I attempted to engage him in rational debate about this (yes, I know I should have gone home, but there was another story going on too). He lifted me onto the side in the kitchen, positioned himself assertively and said 'I always fancied you, curly top'.
He may or not have meant it of course, but either way I had to call upon my inner Lisa Simpson in order to get myself out of there. He came too, using the 'walk you home' pretext, and we had another physical altercation in the middle of Lytham Green. Look, Simon, I said. You need to go home. Don't do this to me. Just do the right thing.
He let his bike fall to the grass, held me by the shoulders and said "Jo, I've spent my whole fucking life doing the right fucking thing".
Part of me wanted to get right down to it, hoping that hidden speakers would start playing early Bruce Springsteen albums by way of accompaniment, but most of me knew that I didn't want to be someone's Wrong Thing, for all sorts of reasons. So after another brief tussle I watched him cycle off into the mist. He never did walk me home. We are still on speaking terms though -- but we never speak of that encounter.
What was all that about? I was trying to say that it's hard to say no, but sometimes you have to, even if you're not a politician, but definitely if you are. And here endeth this evening's lesson.
joella
*This is a bad analogy (and I'm not even sure analogy is the right word) as there also needs to be a scenario where chips can make a break for freedom on their own, and seek out another hungry person to eat them all up. This is clearly moving into science fiction territory, and my word John Prescott would be a big bag of chips, but hey, it's late.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
New age fruit loop week off weirdness
Oh, I'm a sucker for a tincture.
I'm not at work this week. I had five days left to take before May 15th (the end of my leave year) and I thought well, I can't afford to go away so let's instead get stuff off the to do list, do some spring cleaning, &c (as they say in old novels). It might make me feel less oppressed by life, I thought.
And it's not going too badly, though I have spent rather more time sitting staring quietly into the middle distance than is strictly conducive to clearing a to do list which does not feature this activity.
I've been to have a weep in Wantage. I've fixed the downstairs loo so it will now flush #2s. I've done a stupendous amount of wood glossing in the bathroom. I've been to the opticians and got some splendid new contact lenses. I've improvised a bike light holder from copper pipe and garden wire. I've been to London for a Peer Learning Exchange about Web 2.0 (actually that bit was work).
And I went to see my GP to talk about my headaches, not that I've had any this week as I have been well away from the New (*spit*) Building. I like my GP very much. She is broad of church and blue of stocking and generally well worth whatever enormous amount it is that she may or may not get paid.
I went expecting a prescription for headache pills and came away with a prescription for antihistamines. Thing is, I've had a blocked nose for most of the last five months, accompanied by snot of unusual colours. I hadn't made any link between sinuses and headaches, but my GP suggested that part of the problem might in fact be an allergic reaction to the fungicides they put in new carpets, the chemicals in new paint, and the varnish they put on new desks, especially when said toxins are pumped endlessly round the building via the new air conditioning ducts, failing to leave through the new windows which you can't open. They call it Sick Building Syndrome, but it's really Sick People Syndrome.
Jeez. It may be that sinus pressure resulting from chemical irritation is exacerbating headaches brought on by sensitivity to bright lights. I really have to get out of there.
Good luck fighting the forces of darkness, she said as I left.
Five minutes later, I found myself in Culpepers the Herbalist. Ten minutes after that I left clutching a brown paper bag containing some tincture of chamomile and plantain (£6.75) and some elderflower infusion bags (£2.75). The former, it says, has "been used for centuries for the treatment of catarrhal conditions". The latter is allegedly "used to help reduce congestion and ease nasal inflammation".
What on earth came over me? Do I really think a cup of yellowy green slightly slimy tea and thirty drops of the world's most expensive cordial is going to be more effective than an antihistamine?
I think this was my subconscious at work. The New (*spit*) Building is the office equivalent of eating Smash. We now know that instant food is not progress, it is obesity, diabetes and constipation in a packet. Instant buildings will one day have health warnings and traffic light labelling on them too.
But in the meantime part of me clearly yearns for a Robin of Sherwood-style world where fibres are natural and we all live off the land instead of putting Business Parks on them.
However my elderflower tea box also says "legend states that if you hide beneath the elder tree at midnight on Midsummer Night's Eve you will be able to see the King and Queen of fairies go by".
I NEEDED THIS TO BRING ME TO MY SENSES. Spare me the new age crystal fairy shit. I'm off to the pharmacy in the morning to get me some real drugs.
joella
I'm not at work this week. I had five days left to take before May 15th (the end of my leave year) and I thought well, I can't afford to go away so let's instead get stuff off the to do list, do some spring cleaning, &c (as they say in old novels). It might make me feel less oppressed by life, I thought.
And it's not going too badly, though I have spent rather more time sitting staring quietly into the middle distance than is strictly conducive to clearing a to do list which does not feature this activity.
I've been to have a weep in Wantage. I've fixed the downstairs loo so it will now flush #2s. I've done a stupendous amount of wood glossing in the bathroom. I've been to the opticians and got some splendid new contact lenses. I've improvised a bike light holder from copper pipe and garden wire. I've been to London for a Peer Learning Exchange about Web 2.0 (actually that bit was work).
And I went to see my GP to talk about my headaches, not that I've had any this week as I have been well away from the New (*spit*) Building. I like my GP very much. She is broad of church and blue of stocking and generally well worth whatever enormous amount it is that she may or may not get paid.
I went expecting a prescription for headache pills and came away with a prescription for antihistamines. Thing is, I've had a blocked nose for most of the last five months, accompanied by snot of unusual colours. I hadn't made any link between sinuses and headaches, but my GP suggested that part of the problem might in fact be an allergic reaction to the fungicides they put in new carpets, the chemicals in new paint, and the varnish they put on new desks, especially when said toxins are pumped endlessly round the building via the new air conditioning ducts, failing to leave through the new windows which you can't open. They call it Sick Building Syndrome, but it's really Sick People Syndrome.
Jeez. It may be that sinus pressure resulting from chemical irritation is exacerbating headaches brought on by sensitivity to bright lights. I really have to get out of there.
Good luck fighting the forces of darkness, she said as I left.
Five minutes later, I found myself in Culpepers the Herbalist. Ten minutes after that I left clutching a brown paper bag containing some tincture of chamomile and plantain (£6.75) and some elderflower infusion bags (£2.75). The former, it says, has "been used for centuries for the treatment of catarrhal conditions". The latter is allegedly "used to help reduce congestion and ease nasal inflammation".
What on earth came over me? Do I really think a cup of yellowy green slightly slimy tea and thirty drops of the world's most expensive cordial is going to be more effective than an antihistamine?
I think this was my subconscious at work. The New (*spit*) Building is the office equivalent of eating Smash. We now know that instant food is not progress, it is obesity, diabetes and constipation in a packet. Instant buildings will one day have health warnings and traffic light labelling on them too.
But in the meantime part of me clearly yearns for a Robin of Sherwood-style world where fibres are natural and we all live off the land instead of putting Business Parks on them.
However my elderflower tea box also says "legend states that if you hide beneath the elder tree at midnight on Midsummer Night's Eve you will be able to see the King and Queen of fairies go by".
I NEEDED THIS TO BRING ME TO MY SENSES. Spare me the new age crystal fairy shit. I'm off to the pharmacy in the morning to get me some real drugs.
joella
Monday, April 24, 2006
Crazy on the weekend
Crazy on the weekend
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
We went to a Finnish party on Saturday night, featuring salmiakki vodka (with salmiakki being serious salty liquorice). It was jet black and pretty fierce. There was also lots of lovely food and lovely company, but it's the vodka which did for M.
We sensibly left at 11, but then less sensibly dropped in on his friend M, who lives round the corner. He was very welcoming and gave us some wine, until I got the hiccups and M spilt his drink on the carpet, at which point we left, me clutching some bath taps he was going to throw away, so I could practise on them.
On the way home M tried to go to sleep on the pavement several times, and I had to wave my taps violently at him to make him get up. Eventually we got home (these are the journeys where you get your 10,000 steps for the day into half a mile) and I opened the front door.
M threw himself onto the hall floor (like this) and refused to move. I managed to lift up his feet so I could get the front door closed, but then I gave it up as a bad job. I left him a note though.
He still has a hangover.
We did recover sufficiently to attend a double fondue event at Jeremy's last night though, which was very fine. My only regret is that I didn't know in advance that there was going to be a chocolate fondue following the cheese one. If I had I would have donated my Lindt chocolate bunny, which could have been lowered in ears first, Fatal Attraction style.
Always next time.
joella
Friday, April 21, 2006
Just say no-bergine
I feel two food-related posts in a row is not good form, but hey, I like my food.
Unless my food is an aubergine. Aubergines were put on this earth to give us a foretaste of the foetid pustules of hell. I would rather eat my own toe cheese. I forgot this for a while, but fortunately my senses have returned.
I was never a fan as a child: aubergines were new to Britain in the 1970s, and, a bit like avocados, nobody quite knew what to do with them. Slimy, sludgy, bitter, nasty things they were, and as a teenage vegetarian in the mid 80s I had more than my share (more than *anyone's* share) of stuffed aubergines: the standard fall-back dish for the token veggie over for lunch / dinner / whatever. Nobody else was eating it, so nobody except me knew what a job it was keeping it down.
But the real killer aubergine experience came when I was 18, and working in a kibbutz kitchen during my year off. Most people didn't eat in the communal dining room but even so, the kitchens catered for 500+ people for breakfast and dinner. My favourite job was making the coleslaw: three crates of cabbages and a crate of carrots every day, shredded in a processor bigger than me. We mixed the dressing in a bucket.
The pans were basically vats: waist height stainless steel monsters which were emptied into huge plastic tubs by turning a big wheel. And one day, my job involved one of those vats full of steaming hot aubergines.
I was already steaming hot. We wore T-shirts, shorts and wellingtons in the kitchens, which were constantly washed down with jet-hoses. We used to wash ourselves down as well, because it must have been 45 degrees in there. There was a lot of sweat in the coleslaw that summer, put it that way.
And I really didn't want to deal with the aubergines, but I really didn't have a say in the matter. A group of three or four of us was assigned to squeeze the pulp out of the aubergines into a big steel bucket so they could turn it into baba ghanoush, that famous Middle Eastern delicacy that I had spent the previous month assiduously avoiding.
So you pick up a red hot aubergine, and you squeeze it like a big purple zit. PLOP! goes the stinky flesh and you chuck the skin away and repeat, pausing only to wipe the sweat from your brow and wonder what the hell you are doing here, you don't belong here.
Five or ten minutes in, and it feels like years. Then one of your comrades holds up the millionth aubergine, points it at you and smiles lazily. Don't you fucking dare, you think, but it's too late, he's squeezed it and your top half is splattered with steaming aubergine flesh. You fire one straight back and before you know it it's in your eyes, your hair, the back of your throat because he caught you laughing.
The stink hung around for days. The memory of it hung around for years. "I don't eat meat. Or aubergines. Or peas. But pea aubergines are fine" was my dietary line for aaages.
The damn things were briefly rehabilitated in the hands of a) M, who does a lovely fluffy Indian aubergine dish, and b) the Rice Box down the road, who do something amazing with them involving chilli, garlic salt and pepper. I was beginning to feel it had all been a phase.
But then I started accepting that they might be a normal part of daily life, and that really was a mistake. Last Thursday, I ate half of an aubergine pizza. I have no absolute proof positive that it was this which cause last Friday's miserable up-chuck runny bum, but every time I *think* aubergine at the moment, I get a stomach cramp. That's evidence enough for me. Ouch.
There are two in the fridge at the moment. I think I might have to ceremonially compost them, after farting in their general direction.
joella
Unless my food is an aubergine. Aubergines were put on this earth to give us a foretaste of the foetid pustules of hell. I would rather eat my own toe cheese. I forgot this for a while, but fortunately my senses have returned.
I was never a fan as a child: aubergines were new to Britain in the 1970s, and, a bit like avocados, nobody quite knew what to do with them. Slimy, sludgy, bitter, nasty things they were, and as a teenage vegetarian in the mid 80s I had more than my share (more than *anyone's* share) of stuffed aubergines: the standard fall-back dish for the token veggie over for lunch / dinner / whatever. Nobody else was eating it, so nobody except me knew what a job it was keeping it down.
But the real killer aubergine experience came when I was 18, and working in a kibbutz kitchen during my year off. Most people didn't eat in the communal dining room but even so, the kitchens catered for 500+ people for breakfast and dinner. My favourite job was making the coleslaw: three crates of cabbages and a crate of carrots every day, shredded in a processor bigger than me. We mixed the dressing in a bucket.
The pans were basically vats: waist height stainless steel monsters which were emptied into huge plastic tubs by turning a big wheel. And one day, my job involved one of those vats full of steaming hot aubergines.
I was already steaming hot. We wore T-shirts, shorts and wellingtons in the kitchens, which were constantly washed down with jet-hoses. We used to wash ourselves down as well, because it must have been 45 degrees in there. There was a lot of sweat in the coleslaw that summer, put it that way.
And I really didn't want to deal with the aubergines, but I really didn't have a say in the matter. A group of three or four of us was assigned to squeeze the pulp out of the aubergines into a big steel bucket so they could turn it into baba ghanoush, that famous Middle Eastern delicacy that I had spent the previous month assiduously avoiding.
So you pick up a red hot aubergine, and you squeeze it like a big purple zit. PLOP! goes the stinky flesh and you chuck the skin away and repeat, pausing only to wipe the sweat from your brow and wonder what the hell you are doing here, you don't belong here.
Five or ten minutes in, and it feels like years. Then one of your comrades holds up the millionth aubergine, points it at you and smiles lazily. Don't you fucking dare, you think, but it's too late, he's squeezed it and your top half is splattered with steaming aubergine flesh. You fire one straight back and before you know it it's in your eyes, your hair, the back of your throat because he caught you laughing.
The stink hung around for days. The memory of it hung around for years. "I don't eat meat. Or aubergines. Or peas. But pea aubergines are fine" was my dietary line for aaages.
The damn things were briefly rehabilitated in the hands of a) M, who does a lovely fluffy Indian aubergine dish, and b) the Rice Box down the road, who do something amazing with them involving chilli, garlic salt and pepper. I was beginning to feel it had all been a phase.
But then I started accepting that they might be a normal part of daily life, and that really was a mistake. Last Thursday, I ate half of an aubergine pizza. I have no absolute proof positive that it was this which cause last Friday's miserable up-chuck runny bum, but every time I *think* aubergine at the moment, I get a stomach cramp. That's evidence enough for me. Ouch.
There are two in the fridge at the moment. I think I might have to ceremonially compost them, after farting in their general direction.
joella
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Pickle juice for the vegetarian's soul
I bloody love gherkins, me. I've said it before, and I'll no doubt say it again.
The best ones I've ever tasted were home-pickled by my late Jewish grandmother. Proper Jewish gherkins are done in brine rather than vinegar, and hers were also heavy on dill, peppercorns, garlic and chilli. They were like heaven in a four inch crunch.
Had I had an iota of foresight as a 22 year old, when I last saw her, I would be blowing my unsuspecting friends' tastebuds out in her memory to this day. But you know what, I never got the recipe. And you can't get the cucumbers round here either, so maybe that's for the best.
The local Asian grocer carries a fine tinned kosher brine pickle, but it's slightly on the salty and yellow side. Jars are best. I mostly opt for Turkish pickles as they are sour and salty rather than vinegary and sweet, and Russian ones are also OK. I cruise the multiethnic delicatessens of the Cowley Road and make my pickle choices carefully.*
And so it was that after plumbing last night I came home to an empty house with a spring in my step and tuna-noodle-gherkin anticipation on my mind. It's a solitary pleasure, but I like to indulge my inner introvert when I get the chance.
Tuna: check. Noodle: check. Gherkin: fuck. It was a new jar, of a previously untasted Turkish brand, and I could not get it open.
I biffed the lid of the jar on the work surface, neatly, all the way round. I tried again. Nope. I ran the lid under hot water. Nope. I tried extra grip with a tea towel. Nope. I turned away so the jar would drop its defences and then threw myself at it unexpectedly and twisted so hard I pulled a muscle in my neck. Nope.
Repeated steps 1-4 above. Nada.
Got out my special plumbing pump pliers and had a go with them. Too small. Like my hands. Cursed stupid hands and stupid pliers.
Carried jar to front door, flung door open and wondered how many of my neighbours I a) know well enough to call on at 9.45 pm and b) are likely to have bigger hands and/or stronger wrists than me. Decided none in the immediate vicinity. Closed front door.
Put jar down, decided there had to be more to life than gherkins, and that they could be substituted with some of the fresh organic vegetables delivered only that morning. Rootled through veg box, emerged with courgette (any passing resemblance to a gherkin surely pure coincidence).
Said 'but I don't *want* a fucking courgette', and snatched up recalcitrant gherkin jar.
Final desperate wrench burst jar open, covering me and everything in the immediate vicinity with dill-saturated pickle juice while I shouted 'yes Yes YES' like that stupid shampoo advert. Maybe it just took her half an hour to get the lid off the bottle.
The gherkins were worth it. When M came home I recounted my exciting pickle adventures. Hmm, he said, I wondered what the smell was.
joella
* Another criterion is how useful the jar will be afterwards. Most of our storage jars still smell faintly of gherkins: fine for lentils, but slightly disturbing for sultanas.
The best ones I've ever tasted were home-pickled by my late Jewish grandmother. Proper Jewish gherkins are done in brine rather than vinegar, and hers were also heavy on dill, peppercorns, garlic and chilli. They were like heaven in a four inch crunch.
Had I had an iota of foresight as a 22 year old, when I last saw her, I would be blowing my unsuspecting friends' tastebuds out in her memory to this day. But you know what, I never got the recipe. And you can't get the cucumbers round here either, so maybe that's for the best.
The local Asian grocer carries a fine tinned kosher brine pickle, but it's slightly on the salty and yellow side. Jars are best. I mostly opt for Turkish pickles as they are sour and salty rather than vinegary and sweet, and Russian ones are also OK. I cruise the multiethnic delicatessens of the Cowley Road and make my pickle choices carefully.*
And so it was that after plumbing last night I came home to an empty house with a spring in my step and tuna-noodle-gherkin anticipation on my mind. It's a solitary pleasure, but I like to indulge my inner introvert when I get the chance.
Tuna: check. Noodle: check. Gherkin: fuck. It was a new jar, of a previously untasted Turkish brand, and I could not get it open.
I biffed the lid of the jar on the work surface, neatly, all the way round. I tried again. Nope. I ran the lid under hot water. Nope. I tried extra grip with a tea towel. Nope. I turned away so the jar would drop its defences and then threw myself at it unexpectedly and twisted so hard I pulled a muscle in my neck. Nope.
Repeated steps 1-4 above. Nada.
Got out my special plumbing pump pliers and had a go with them. Too small. Like my hands. Cursed stupid hands and stupid pliers.
Carried jar to front door, flung door open and wondered how many of my neighbours I a) know well enough to call on at 9.45 pm and b) are likely to have bigger hands and/or stronger wrists than me. Decided none in the immediate vicinity. Closed front door.
Put jar down, decided there had to be more to life than gherkins, and that they could be substituted with some of the fresh organic vegetables delivered only that morning. Rootled through veg box, emerged with courgette (any passing resemblance to a gherkin surely pure coincidence).
Said 'but I don't *want* a fucking courgette', and snatched up recalcitrant gherkin jar.
Final desperate wrench burst jar open, covering me and everything in the immediate vicinity with dill-saturated pickle juice while I shouted 'yes Yes YES' like that stupid shampoo advert. Maybe it just took her half an hour to get the lid off the bottle.
The gherkins were worth it. When M came home I recounted my exciting pickle adventures. Hmm, he said, I wondered what the smell was.
joella
* Another criterion is how useful the jar will be afterwards. Most of our storage jars still smell faintly of gherkins: fine for lentils, but slightly disturbing for sultanas.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Ruby wedding celebrations Up North
Nail varnish drying
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
My parents got married on 16 April 1966. It snowed.
Forty years later, the sun was shining brightly in a perfect blue sky, and I was frantically dabbing nail varnish onto their anniversary present.
I went right up to the wire as I spent Friday (allocated present finishing day) chucking up, for reasons which may have to do with takeaway pizza on Thursday night, but may be completely random.
But it got done, and it was a total score. I am dead chuffed, and very proud of my parents for managing to make marriage look like a natural state of being, something I have seen very few other people pull off.
The sun shone, Lytham was sparkly and crisp, we ate and drank and generally celebrated. Even the perma-tanned Daily Mail reading 4x4 driving nouveau riche Stepford couples with whom my home town increasingly seems to be stuffed only pissed me off a little bit. When I am queen they will be first against the wall, but I can wait. This weekend, there was more important stuff going on.
joella
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The restorative power of Doing Real Stuff
Labour of love
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
I cried in the toilets at work today. I haven't done that since they took my kneely chair away. I cried because I had a big headache brought on by an all day meeting under the bright lights, which additionally incorporated some fairly relentless haranguing right at the end. Eventually I said 'OK, OK, whatever' (to what I am now not quite sure as my head was thumping too much to write it down). Then I went to the far end of the building, and by a toilet where no one would know me I sat down and wept.
A little later I came home, mostly on foot, which helped, and decided what I was going to do about it. Medium term, I need to get out of a building which makes me miserable. Short term, I need to get a bit more hardline with the facilities people who don't want to change the lightbulbs because that makes it looks like it was their fault for putting them in. I made plans for both of these. I took some big drugs. I felt better.
A little later still I got out my emery paper and carried on filing the visible solder off the present I am making for my parents to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. Completing this task is about as feasible as getting all the Marmite out of the jar, and even more time consuming, but it's kind of therapeutic. Eventually I decided that one section was ready, then I buffed it up with steel wool and sealed it with clear nail varnish. Unsurprisingly, this was not the sealant recommended by any of the men who have offered me advice on this project, but it seems to be doing the job okay, and hey, if it doesn't I know how to get it off.
And after I got a little high on whatever it is in nail varnish that Smells So Good, I made some chocolate cornflake crispy cakes in an Easter stylee. Think Green & Black's 70% dark chocolate, think golden syrup, think butter, think mini eggs. See them here.
Basically, think making things. Making things is good. If you can make things, you can likely also mend things. If you can mend things, you are getting somewhere. You may not be part of the corporate bullshit universe. You may not have to stay in a bad place where they don't care how you are.*
joella
*I know there are lots of people who care how I am. I am talking here of the Man**
** Who need not be Male, but a) Working for the Person doesn't have quite the same malevolent ring to it and b) I can quote the stats which say he usually is.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Thoughts on sheets and shirts
I got a new bed sheet on Saturday, having shamed myself into it somewhat. The old one was faded fuchsia pink, the new one is a sort of lemon yellow with just a touch of green. (I do have two other sheets, one celery green and one dark blue, but the former is nearly worn through and looks it, and the latter is flat rather than fitted so is always the sheet of last resort). But the new one is lovely. I washed it and line-dried it before it went on the bed, and M ironed it. We were truly spoilt in a crisp and fresh sort of way.
I am also recycling the old one. Rags are very useful in plumbing class, and there are never enough of them. I have a hunch that teenage boys will be less likely to nick something that's faded fuchsia pink. If this proves to be true I will suggest they get some fuchsia pink screwdrivers as well.
In related environmentally friendly developments, I have had my needle and thread out tonight, mending M's favourite T-shirt. His new man skills don't extend quite as far as needlework, which means that even my very bad sewing attempts are generally appreciated. Said T-shirt is emblazoned with the slogan 'German Industrial Rock Terrorist', mind, so a tiny part of it might be to do with feeling that German industrial rock terrorists can't be caught mending their own T-shirts.
I'm quite happy to have the occasional stab at back stitch these days, but it was not always thus. I remember lying on a beanbag with my Significant Ex many years ago. We were both stoned out of our trees and listening to Nick Drake's Five Leaves Left... now an album whose every note is familiar but at the time it was all new and hopelessly romantic. Apart from one song, which I thought was about a man who lived in a shirt, as in he only had the one, probably because he was too boxed to go to the shops. He had a hole in his shirt, and he wanted the girl next door to come and mend it.
I sat bolt upright and said 'mend your own bloody shirt'. My Significant Ex started laughing at me and didn't stop for about half an hour.
It was of course Man in a Shed. And anyway, it was all metaphor, right? I never was any good at metaphor.
joella
I am also recycling the old one. Rags are very useful in plumbing class, and there are never enough of them. I have a hunch that teenage boys will be less likely to nick something that's faded fuchsia pink. If this proves to be true I will suggest they get some fuchsia pink screwdrivers as well.
In related environmentally friendly developments, I have had my needle and thread out tonight, mending M's favourite T-shirt. His new man skills don't extend quite as far as needlework, which means that even my very bad sewing attempts are generally appreciated. Said T-shirt is emblazoned with the slogan 'German Industrial Rock Terrorist', mind, so a tiny part of it might be to do with feeling that German industrial rock terrorists can't be caught mending their own T-shirts.
I'm quite happy to have the occasional stab at back stitch these days, but it was not always thus. I remember lying on a beanbag with my Significant Ex many years ago. We were both stoned out of our trees and listening to Nick Drake's Five Leaves Left... now an album whose every note is familiar but at the time it was all new and hopelessly romantic. Apart from one song, which I thought was about a man who lived in a shirt, as in he only had the one, probably because he was too boxed to go to the shops. He had a hole in his shirt, and he wanted the girl next door to come and mend it.
I sat bolt upright and said 'mend your own bloody shirt'. My Significant Ex started laughing at me and didn't stop for about half an hour.
It was of course Man in a Shed. And anyway, it was all metaphor, right? I never was any good at metaphor.
joella
Friday, April 07, 2006
Culture clash
We had a delegation of Chinese businessmen visiting the New Building this week. They were hosted by my colleague X, who is Chinese herself, and who asked Plumbing S to give a presentation about emergency work. Which she did, after they'd all walked round a bit videoing everything that moved and some things that didn't.
Plumbing S is an inspiring presenter, regularly moving people to tears and/or standing ovations, but she found this presentation quite hard going. First of all it was via a translator, which slows it all down a bit. Then her wireless 'wave in the air' mouse packed up, so she had to perch on the edge of the desk and use the fixed one. Various of them talked all the way through it in little groups, and they had no qualms about getting up and leaving the room in the middle, to answer calls of nature or calls of other kinds.
But she got there in the end. Any questions, she asked. There was only one -- one of them said to the translator "Why is the English woman sitting on the desk?" How spectacularly rude.
The translator didn't translate the question, but what nobody in the room knew is that the English woman studied Mandarin at Cambridge, and understood it anyway.
It would have been the coolest thing in the world to have replied in Mandarin: "Because that's how we give presentations in England. Why are the Chinese men talking at the back?"
But, having studied Mandarin at Cambridge, she knows a bit about face, so she didn't. Instead, they all had their photo taken with her (she's a bit of a babe, is Plumbing S) and everyone bowed.
joella
Plumbing S is an inspiring presenter, regularly moving people to tears and/or standing ovations, but she found this presentation quite hard going. First of all it was via a translator, which slows it all down a bit. Then her wireless 'wave in the air' mouse packed up, so she had to perch on the edge of the desk and use the fixed one. Various of them talked all the way through it in little groups, and they had no qualms about getting up and leaving the room in the middle, to answer calls of nature or calls of other kinds.
But she got there in the end. Any questions, she asked. There was only one -- one of them said to the translator "Why is the English woman sitting on the desk?" How spectacularly rude.
The translator didn't translate the question, but what nobody in the room knew is that the English woman studied Mandarin at Cambridge, and understood it anyway.
It would have been the coolest thing in the world to have replied in Mandarin: "Because that's how we give presentations in England. Why are the Chinese men talking at the back?"
But, having studied Mandarin at Cambridge, she knows a bit about face, so she didn't. Instead, they all had their photo taken with her (she's a bit of a babe, is Plumbing S) and everyone bowed.
joella
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Creaking at the seams
I feel like I am a hundred years old. I have taken advantage of the fact that it's a plumbing holiday to go plumb crazy. I have been out every night this week, having a lovely time but in a completely unsustainable way. I am tired to my very bones and soul.
An indication of this is the state of my bedroom. Not only is it full of hair and dustballs, there are half-emptied rucksacks and laundry baskets round the place and random installations of old newspapers, dirty socks, coffee mugs and what I call 'face wipey things'. It's kind of gross.
Grossest of all is the fact that a week or so ago I hauled myself across the bed and caught my toe in a little hole that had appeared in the sheet, making a satisfying ripping noise but leaving a much bigger hole. This hole has steadily grown and is now about a foot across, exposing the slightly dilapidated mattress protector. And yet the sheet remains on the bed. I don't want to deal with this, so I am going to bed as late as possible to make it easier to ignore it.
This is not the behaviour of a functioning adult. I keep slapping myself round the face and shouting Get A Grip! (which on reflection is probably not the behaviour of a functioning adult either). But somehow it's easier to get another glass of wine. Sheet schmeet. It's not like it's my side of the bed anyway.
joella
An indication of this is the state of my bedroom. Not only is it full of hair and dustballs, there are half-emptied rucksacks and laundry baskets round the place and random installations of old newspapers, dirty socks, coffee mugs and what I call 'face wipey things'. It's kind of gross.
Grossest of all is the fact that a week or so ago I hauled myself across the bed and caught my toe in a little hole that had appeared in the sheet, making a satisfying ripping noise but leaving a much bigger hole. This hole has steadily grown and is now about a foot across, exposing the slightly dilapidated mattress protector. And yet the sheet remains on the bed. I don't want to deal with this, so I am going to bed as late as possible to make it easier to ignore it.
This is not the behaviour of a functioning adult. I keep slapping myself round the face and shouting Get A Grip! (which on reflection is probably not the behaviour of a functioning adult either). But somehow it's easier to get another glass of wine. Sheet schmeet. It's not like it's my side of the bed anyway.
joella
Monday, April 03, 2006
Different for girls
At 3.30 on Sunday morning, I was in a bathroom in N5 improvising sanitary protection out of loo roll*. It had been a lovely evening, but I was tired and emotional in every sense. I was swearing gently to myself when I suddenly remembered a story I read last week on the BBC website, about how girls in Kenya often don't go to school when they get their periods because they can't afford sanitary towels. I looked at the big fluffy toilet roll I was holding and I burst into tears.
Tonight I had a little look at the gloriously jargon-ridden website of the Girl Child Network ("Gender mainstreaming in the Water and Sanitation sector, is silent on Menstrual management"). They have launched a campaign to provide 800,000 schoolgirls with sanitary towels and education on how to use them. I'll be buying my carton.
joella
If you find yourself needing to do this, and if you never do you are clearly more together than I am, my tried and tested method is as follows: wrap paper around the middle bit of your pants (I am trying to do this without using the word 'gusset') four or five times, then tear off leaving enough trailing to go round another couple of times. Then roll a loose sausage from another 4-5 sheets, and bind it in with the trailing piece. Pull your pants up as high as they will go, and cross your fingers. This should see you through till the newsagent opens in the morning.
Tonight I had a little look at the gloriously jargon-ridden website of the Girl Child Network ("Gender mainstreaming in the Water and Sanitation sector, is silent on Menstrual management"). They have launched a campaign to provide 800,000 schoolgirls with sanitary towels and education on how to use them. I'll be buying my carton.
joella
If you find yourself needing to do this, and if you never do you are clearly more together than I am, my tried and tested method is as follows: wrap paper around the middle bit of your pants (I am trying to do this without using the word 'gusset') four or five times, then tear off leaving enough trailing to go round another couple of times. Then roll a loose sausage from another 4-5 sheets, and bind it in with the trailing piece. Pull your pants up as high as they will go, and cross your fingers. This should see you through till the newsagent opens in the morning.
Very earthy, slightly low femininity
I'm such a sucker for online personality tests. I found this one, at PersonalDNA.com via a bit of Monday procrastinatory blog-skipping, and bugger me, it turns out I'm a
... or at least I was this morning. The site I came from (a friend of tomato's) is authored by a Freewheeling Artist, which sounds like a lot more fun. They don't have a list of the other options anywhere, maybe I will have to go back and do it again when I am feeling more spontaneous (slightly low) and less authoritarian (slightly high). Which might be on Friday afternoon - I've a lot to get through this week, dammit.
Still, I only have average trust, so maybe it's all bollocks.
joella
... or at least I was this morning. The site I came from (a friend of tomato's) is authored by a Freewheeling Artist, which sounds like a lot more fun. They don't have a list of the other options anywhere, maybe I will have to go back and do it again when I am feeling more spontaneous (slightly low) and less authoritarian (slightly high). Which might be on Friday afternoon - I've a lot to get through this week, dammit.
Still, I only have average trust, so maybe it's all bollocks.
joella
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