Fe Fi Fo Fun For Me

As a teenager, I was rarely without my Walkman (clunky, red, beautiful) while out of the house, and while in it I spent countless hours lying on my (acrylic, black, static-ridden) beanbag with my head in between the enormous fuzztastic speakers of my parents' Amstrad sound system (which they moved to my room when I was about 14 - at the time I thought this was an act of extreme generosity, but now I realise it may have had much more to do with not wanting to listen to Leonard Cohen on a Friday night). Either way... my ears, my space, my music.

Later in life, you share your music, you share your bedroom, you share your hard-won inner space. This is, arguably, the point of life -- to the point that ultimately you usually get round to sharing your genes, and the species moves on.

That sharing thing is totally great when it's working, but what happens to people who had all that space, all that privacy, and then gave it up for something that turns out not to be worth nearly so big a hill of beans?

In this particular scheme of things, I don't do so bad. I have a lot of time and space to call my own if I want to. Yet when you cohabit, somehow you often end up watching lowest common denominator television, cooking for assorted people you have in your life for random reasons, reading last weekend's Guardian Guide over and over again.

But tonight something good happened. M's children are still not speaking to him, our lodger was out on the town, there were no other social engagements. We had our mental and physical space to ouselves.

We also have new 'listening chairs' in the middle room. They are both from Ikea (and so cheap as chips) but -- and this is the really grown up bit -- they are NOT THE SAME. Because we are NOT THE SAME. I have gender-aware furniture. I rock.

And for the first time in many many years I turned down the lights, turned up the music and sat directly in between the speakers to optimise the listening experience.

Drink: Manzanilla, Famous Grouse, Tesco value sparkling water
Albums: Talk Talk: Spirit of Eden; Bevis Frond: Superseeder
Ambience: Fairy lights, house plants, tealights
Mood: Post-Simpsons, post-divorce, post-prandial

We could have done with some THC, but you can't have it all. I feel lucky to have most of it.

joella

Just say Pernod

Ye gods! What made me think it was a good idea to drink Pernod last night for last orders (clue: Q: 'what can you drink to follow a brandy?' A: 'Er, Pernod?') and then cycle four miles? five miles? seventeen miles? home in the rain. I feel like I've been filtered? filleted? something like that. I like the fact that you get it on ice with water in a pottery jug though. Feels kind of traditional.

joella

Brace yourself, Sheila!

This is the punchline to a bad joke I can't remember. But for a really bad joke, how about this. A woman walks into the dentist for an update on something complicated she needs to get done to avoid grinding her teeth away. Last she heard it was something to do with putting white fillings behind her incisors and grinding down a bit of one of her back teeth. The dentist has a cast of her teeth on some dental caliper type things and is moving them around and shaking his head mournfully.

There's no room in here, I think we might need to look at orthodontics, he said. What! I said. You mean, like, braces? BUT I'M THIRTY SIX. I had braces when I was FIFTEEN. That's what you do when you're FIFTEEN. You don't do it again when you're THIRTY SIX. What are you TALKING ABOUT.

Well, he said, they pulled your teeth in too far. We need to move them out again.

On the bright side, said colleague K, you'll lose loads of weight through only being able to eat soup for six months.

Seven-to-nine months actually.

The alternative is a night guard. Forever. Gross. Or grind them away and crown them and grind them away again. Great.

So watch this space. I may shortly be modelling the latest in train tracks.

joella

Art wash hair

Back in the summer of 1998 when M and I first got together his band were playing at a big garden party in a big garden up a big hill just outside Oxford. Idyllic in theory, but potentially terrifying in practice.

Will your scary ex wife be there? I said. No chance, he said. Really no chance? Definitely no chance.

The night before he said, oh by the way, I think my scary ex wife will be there. Right you are, I said, putting extra glitter in my armpits and painting my toenails black. Do you think she'll come and talk to me?

Of course not, he said. Really? I said. I really can't think of anything less likely to happen in the whole world ever, he said. There's just no way that will happen.

And so it was that while he was on stage singing Sympathy For the Devil his scary ex wife marched across the lawn towards me. Are you Jo? she said. Er, yes, I said. I'm M's scary ex wife she said (well, not quite, but you get the picture). Right, I said. He's a bastard, she said. At that moment in time (never before, rarely since), I agreed with her.

It's a line I've repeated sporadically since - like many things the comedy value grows as the terror recedes. And last night I laughed like a silent drain when M leant over at the beginning of Art Wash (NB beware v out of date website), an improvised dance / sculpture / music performance in a laundrette in Headington with a target audience of about 15, and whispered 'I don't *think* my scary ex wife will turn up'.

And lo, this time he was right. Instead we watched H struggling out of a wedding dress. I thought at one point she was going to shut herself in a washing machine (to wash that man right out of her hair?) but she told me later that they're not allowed to climb into the machines as it destabilises them.

There's something about laundrettes. And wedding dresses. And Indian summer evenings drinking Bombardier and nurturing allotment fantasies.

joella

Take your boyfriend out all night, show him what it's all about

Scissor Sisters @ Red Square
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

You'd think, if you'd gone to the bother of raising three children, with two of them being of the considerate and multi-tasking gender, that unless you had done unspeakable things (and possibly even if you had) you would get at least one birthday card.

Instead, M got one age 24 nothing at all, one age 26 Happy Birthday text message (possibly prompted by an email reminder from me) and one age 28 email detailing his failings as a father and a human being and offering adolescent analysis of the same (possibly prompted by the same email). And this for asking (the ex, not the children) the questions 'do you think what happened when we split up was unfair to me?' and 'If so, what are you prepared to do about it?'

My word, I was angry. But I guess this is a long game, and I have the advantage of being old enough to have worked out that two entirely contradictory versions of reality can each be internally consistent and therefore equally true for their creators. If you're outside those realities, you need to acknowledge both sides, and I guess this is the mountain that the children of divorced parents need to climb.

Meanwhile, I have a few questions. If they're not talking to him, do I call them if he has a road accident? A heart attack? If they *would* want to be called to his deathbed, would they not feel utterly wretched for not having made the effort to understand what's happening now *before* he pegs it? And if they would, why not try to understand it now? Maybe I'm naive, as my own parents are 40 years married, but I figure your time with them is scarce enough, don't waste it, unless you're really fucking sure that you never want to see them again. Even if you are sure, it ain't easy.

And M is of course having a far harder time of all this than me... so when I won tickets to last night's Scissor Sisters gig in Trafalgar Square I half expected that they would stay in their envelope and we would spend Saturday night on the sofa watching crap TV, drinking too much and contemplating our navels. Instead he said 'fuck it, I need to get out of this place', and we got on the train to London.

We visited the toy museum where M worked as a teenager, and then went on a Fitzrovian search for whisky macs - it was the worst possible day of the month for me to be walking miles and standing up for hours, and I find balancing Scotch and codeine the only way to go when stamina is required.

Then R&J joined us in Ragam, where we had the best dosai this side of the subcontinent, and we were ready.

And it was a blinding gig. Kylie introduced it, Jake danced his beautiful ass off, and the awesome Ana Matronic spoke the truth about music being the best therapy of all. We believed her, the guys who climbed into Trafalgar Square's fountains believed her, and a I'd wager a substantial chunk of Africa (this was a benefit for the Global Fund to fight TB, malaria and AIDS in Africa) believes her too. Filthy. Gorgeous. And, you know, necessary. Thank you, Sisters.

So that was last night. We got home at 2 only slightly grumpy. Tonight, I plan to bite my 10 mg of Temazepam in half and offer 5mg to M. We all deserve to sleep.

joella

Days of warm impermanence

Ok, so here's the skinny. I have QUIT MY JOB! I love my job in many ways -- indeed, if you had asked me 10 years ago what my perfect job might look like it wouldn't have been so far off this one -- but the fact is I need a new manager, so therefore I need a new job.

As Anne Robinson once put it, "You have to accept the treachery of the workplace. You cannot waste time discovering it daily.". I did my thinking, I had my therapy, formal and informal, and I decided to get the hell out. And I have.

Thankfully, I have not had to leave the organisation, which I also love, but not to the extent that I am prepared to make myself miserable for it. Circumstances conspired, stormclouds gathered, and I put my only smart shirt on this 9/11 and got myself a job which is a) higher up the food chain and b) part time. So in theory I will have more to fight with and less to lose. Should it come to that.

I am not intending that it will. I am intending instead to tighten my metaphorical belt, broaden my metaphorical horizons, and spend a broader chunk of my time engaging with the real world and the people who matter to me (specifically those to whom I commensurately matter).

And on that note, I sense that I am becoming a bit pissed and wanky so it's enough sherry for the dwarf and off to bed, as my dad would say.

joella

Afterthought: oh yeah, and I signed my resignation letter in purple ink.

Double VPL

Today I look a bit strange from behind as I am wearing my lucky pants. I have had my lucky pants since I was 14, and they have long since stopped functioning as actual pants: they don't stay up by themselves, and they have more holes in than the average Ann Summers offering. So, as I like a bit of substance in that department, I have to wear them with proper pants.

Last time but one I needed some luck I just stuck them in my pocket, figuring that that might do, but the result was something which appeared lucky, but in fact wasn't. Clearly it's important to wear them properly. So this time I did, over my normal pants, and I also blew three times on my lucky conker for extra luck.

And it appears that Thunderbirds are Go, the eagle has landed, one has flown over the cuckoo's nest, and normal sevice may shortly be resumed. Only better.

Details will follow when terms and conditions are agreed.

This is nothing to do with the massive storm brewing over M ... but I feel better able to support him, all thoughts of doing a runner have left, and I may even lend him my lucky pants for the duration.

As the Lizard would say, ROAR!!!

joella

Addicted to candour

After nine months working for someone who's either socially dysfunctional, misanthropic or just very, very rude, I am finding it easier to say what I feel when I am affected by her behaviour. The more I do it, the easier it is. I say it, I don't get struck down in flames. There's always payback, but the worst that can happen can't be worse than what already *is* happening, so hey, bring it on.

Many would say that I have never avoided confrontation, and in fact many have, but this always takes me by surprise: I have a reputation for frankness, but in fact I go to great lengths to present a diplomatic impression to the world.

So what I can surmise from this is... when I *do* take the gloves off, maybe I really can be a force to be reckoned with. And maybe I should do more of it. M is currently engaged in intimidating last chance saloon financial debate with his scary ex. She has told the offspring (when he explicitly asked her not to), which is a v below the belt move. I have always maintained radio silence with them on financials, and done my absolute level best to be friendly, likable and disassociated from all that nasty business. In fact, I clearly have an interest, and have been subliminally furious about the whole thing (details being inappropriate to share but suffice to say Homer Simpson could have got a better divorce settlement than M) for the last eight years. Now might be the time to disabuse the lot of them. I might come out of it single and stepchildless, but for fuck's sake, what are principles *for*?

Cackle. When I am an old woman I shall wear purple. If I bloody well feel like it.

joella

Nonstop weekend

Nonstop Tango at Klub Kakofanney
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

In classic work-hard-play-hard style, I had a big old weekend. Friday night was Nonstop Tango's first proper gig, at the Wheatsheaf's Klub Kakofanney (sp?). It was very very hot, and very very noisy, in a very very good way (the noise, not the heat. Could have done without the heat).

I was full of happiness for M, who was full of happiness for himself, and it was lovely to have so many people to have brief shouty conversations with and accidentally slop IPA over (sorry). Later featured going home instead of going on (grown up decision) and vast quantities of cheese and gherkin on toast.

In throwing myself whole-heartedly at Friday night (not that I'm really up to doing these things half-heartedly), I started Saturday with low energy reserves, and had completely forgotten that we were expected at a 60th birthday party in Acton. Which sounds scary, and in fact *was* fairly terrifying, as I knew not a single soul there, but was also held in a most beautiful house with gallons of fine wine flowing.

I took a photo in the toilet (must stop doing that) and made friends with the lone smoker, who turned out to be an interior designer who had advised on many of the house's more fabulous aspects. We admired each other's necklaces and generally got on, but later I found myself having my face stroked by her husband, who was shitfaced in the way I imagine Martin Amis would get shitfaced.

I remember us having a bit of a heated debate about something, and then I don't really remember much, but I did wake up with that vague 'did I disgrace myself or is this just normal hungover self-loathing' feeling.

What were we arguing about? I asked M. Well, he said, he called you a lady and you took offence.

Great. That one again.

joella