Playing catch up

Two months later, I've finally finished sorting through our photos from India. It feels like half a lifetime ago. These are a few of my favourites, but there are lots more on Flickr if you happen to like photos of India...





A couple of weeks ago I changed some kitchen taps for a graphic designer. In return he's going to tidy up some of my favourite digital photos and print them for me. Let's hear it for the no-cash economy!

joella

The discomfort of strangers

Yesterday I had to make a hungover trip to B&Q, which is tortuous at the best of times. I nearly had a funny turn by the power tools. But I am glad I made the effort, as by 9 o'clock this morning I was shut in a council house bathroom with J the plumber as he smashed up a cast iron bath with a sledgehammer. Without my new ear defenders, I would have been in all sorts of trouble.

I sprang down the stairs when the doorbell rang, as we were expecting the new bath any minute. Instead there was an electrician, who was working in another council house round the corner. It was a water leak that had stuffed up the electrics, could J come and have a look?

Some to-ing and fro-ing and authorisations later we got in the van and drove round there. The woman who lived there showed us to a downstairs room round the back, saying the leak was there, as indeed it was, but coming through the ceiling, so we went up to the bathroom. And I have never seen anything like it. Ever. The bath was full of junk, unused and unusable, the sink was filthy, the toilet was unspeakable, and the smell made my stomach lurch. The leak was on the cold supply to the toilet. We needed to turn off the mains.

Which meant going into the kitchen, which was through the living room. My eyes just got wider and wider. It was like being in an episode of Life of Grime. J was amazing, the tenant was clearly distressed at having people in the house, but he didn't bat an eyelid, just started moving things to look for the stop tap. The electrician caught my eye, smiled wryly and went outside for a smoke. I very nearly joined him.

He couldn't find the stop tap. It was like looking for a needle in a very grim haystack. 'I'll do it live', said J (which is a last resort approach which involves getting really bloody wet) and we went out to the van for hosepipes and spanners.

Back up in the bathroom, he took up the carpet by the toilet. Suddenly needing not to be looking in that direction, I turned round to face the wall, and saw the primary school uniform sweatshirts hanging up on coathangers. I stood there very quietly and tried really, really hard not to cry. I think I must have changed colour because J put his tools down and and came and put his arms round me. It's all right, he said, they've got a roof over their heads, they've got heating, they've got enough to eat. Shit, there's enough food down there to keep them all going for months.

I guess he's right. And now they don't have a leaky toilet, and their electrics work. And you can't force people to clean their houses. And I'm sure they love their kids. And I don't know what the answer is, or even what the question is. But I have this knot in my stomach and this smell in my hair. The second I am about to deal with via a long hot bath in my clean white bathroom. The first will take longer to go away.

joella

Multiple deprivation

I found out this week, via Meg, via Zoe Williams, via Loyd Grossman Sauces, that most British people a) have around four staple meals, the most popular being spaghetti bolognese, sausages and mash, chicken tikka masala and chilli con carne, and b) eat precious little else. I am not sure I trust the agenda of a readymade sauce manufacturer any more than I trust readymade sauces themselves, but even if it's only a bit true it's not a very cheery thought.

There are some staple meals chez joella, of course, and some of them - lentil soup, nut roast, celery-mushroom-pasta-bake, fishy-eggy-ricy-thing, tuna-noodle-pickled-vegetable - have been around for a decade or more. I also keep a jar of pesto in the fridge, which I eat with pasta and without shame.

But most of the time, we make it up, depending what we feel like, how much time we've got, who's in the mood to cook, what veg we have in, and what's in the fridge. Sometimes it's a disaster (I won't be doing those beetroot and sweet potato fritters again), but it's rarely out of a jar. And every time I buy a crap ready meal or eat rubbish takeaway food I curse a culture that can so shamelessly sell us something so utterly devoid of all the things food should have and so utterly full of all the things it shouldn't. Then I curse myself for being disorganised, lazy or drunk enough to be giving it stomach room. But now I think, how many people think this is normal?

I was in fact musing on this as I was bashing my leadwork around in plumbing class this week, when the subject of books came up. I have no idea how, given what followed, but it wasn't me who mentioned them first. The guy next to me said 'I never read books'. What are you talking about, I said. 'I reckon I've read two books in my life,' he said. I just looked at him. I think my mouth may have fallen open. Wow, I said. I think I'd die without books. I probably read about a book a week. I never stop reading. I have been known to read books by Andy McNab in the absence of anything else to read.

We looked at each other in mutual incomprehension for a few seconds, then got back to hitting things. But then I don't like football, so what do I know?

joella

I do like Mondays

... because at the moment, anything could happen. It's not the weekend, so karmically I can't get away with doing nothing at all, yet I don't have to get up and go to work. As yet there's no fixed thing that *should* happen, and what *does* happen is usually worth the energy.

This week I got up pretty early and went into college to commune with my lead welding by myself. Strictly speaking I was far from by myself, as the workshop was full of teenage boys damaging each other in Lord of the Flies type ways, but they were all first years, and haven't got to leadwork yet.

And it was great. Take the pressure off, and the technique comes together. Now where have I heard that before?

I left at lunchtime in driving hail, and went to pick up a few things from Tesco on the way home. While there I decided to buy some food to pad out the box for Asylum Welcome that I started with the food ex-housemate L left behind (plus some of the food ex-housemates S then K left behind before her). I had several 'Tesco Value or not?' dilemmas. I wouldn't buy Tesco Value penne, for example, but it is only 19p for 500g, compared to 35p for Tesco standard penne (which I would happily buy). So that's two people fed rather than one, so yes to Tesco Value. Tesco Value tuna fish though... I just couldn't. Soup: yes. Fruit cake: no. Tinned mandarins: yes. Tinned beans: no. And so it went. Uncomfortable, but strangely addictive.

And so it was that I pushed a much bigger trolley than usual out into the car park, where the hail had given way to sunshine with a knife edge wind. I loaded up into the back of the car, then looked around for the nearest trolley park. 'I'll take that for you my love', said a large middle aged man, appearing from my left with his own trolley to return. 'Oh, thank you, that's very kind', I replied.

Well you're probably busy with a family to feed, he said. I was about to say that I wasn't, but then I looked at my bags and though, hell, maybe today I am.

The Asylum Welcome cupboard, when I later got to see it, was damn near bare. I asked them if giving food was better than giving money. They said that there is never enough money, and if people give food it means they can spend their money on other things, like helping people get to hearings. It was a profoundly depressing experience in some ways, but somehow not one without hope.

Later again we went out to the Zodiac (or the Zod, as M insists on calling it now he is in a proper band) to see John Cale. Most gigs at the Zod are now 14+. I thought this was so teenagers can get in to watch their friends play, but now I realise it's so that 50-somethings can bring their kids along to watch rock legends. It was demographically fascinating - when we got in there was a crocodile of nicely dressed couples forming an orderly but utterly unsustainable queue at the bar, much to the bemusement of the bar staff. To make matters worse, all the men were drinking Guinness.

I think I was the sole 30-something in the place - most of my cohort seem to have shelved their gig-going selves for the duration of early parenthood and those that haven't were probably watching Travis at Brookes instead. How glad I was on Monday night to be bucking those trends. If I could have had Mr B and at least one of the FinnFans there too I would have been the happiest girl in town, for this was an awesome gig and when they happen, there are people I miss. Mr Cale's version of Heartbreak Hotel stormed right into my Desert Island Discs, and his red, black and white hair should be an inspiration to 65 year olds everywhere.

Modern licensing hours meant we were able to find a sofa to have a pint on afterwards, where I rambled at premenstrual length about food and politics and music and connections, and M smiled benignly at me because a) he is always a bit deaf after gigs and b) he'd just spent two hours six feet away from one of his all time art rock heroes.

So. Monday is a whole new day of the week. Wish I'd had this kind of Monday years ago.

joella

Flanning by numbers

If you were a British child in the 1970s, especially if you lived in an ITV rather than a BBC household, then the Phantom Flan Flinger will need no introduction. But for the benefit of others, he (or possibly she) was a masked figure dressed in black who appeared on Tiswas every Saturday morning to shove custard pies in the faces of famous special guests.

A simple concept, but an effective one, and one which the mischievous element at work adopted several years ago when Comic Relief came along. Basically, if you raise a minimum amount (this time, £25) then you can nominate a colleague to be flanned by the Phantom Flan Flinger on Red Nose Day. Those nominated don't (in theory) know who nominated them, and nobody (in theory) knows who the flanner is. If you can't bear the idea of being flanned, there is an opt-out, which is that you can match your nominators' donation.

Flannees, as you might expect, are usually directors, high-profile slightly annoying people, and extroverts. It's never going to be not edgy, given that we are not seven years old, but it's generally good-humoured.

Yet a couple of weeks ago people started sidling up to me and asking if I was going to nominate someone. Not anyone, someone. The first time it happened, my stomach flip-flopped at the thought. 'I couldn't,' I said. I would be doing it for Bad Reasons. Which maybe I could live with, so more importantly, what if they found out it was me?

A few days later someone fell into step alongside me and informed me sotto voce that there was a fund to which I could contribute if I wished. He gave me a name. I went to the cashpoint, and then to a desk in a corner of the building. 'I hear you are taking donations for a good cause', I said. She smiled at me, and lifted her keyboard to reveal a manila envelope, into which she slid my cash.

Friday dawned, and I was a little edgy. Would it come off? And are we *really* allowed to do this kind of thing? Rumour has it the manila envelope was pretty full. Like Murder on the Orient Express, it could have been any of our contributions that tipped the balance.

I didn't join the crowd outside, I didn't know what my face would do. But I did watch from an upstairs window, through my fingers. Then I watched a few more people so I could tell myself I was just, you know, watching. With everyone else. All in a good cause.

joella

Burning issues

Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

We went to Luminox last night. Oxford's Broad Street, normally one of the world's most picturesque car parks, was for three nights turned into a part medieval part post-apocalyptic scene featuring fire tubes made of metal stencilled with hieroglyphics, spotlit steam pumps, street lighting made from flaming buckets, and a smell reminiscent of places far, far away in time or space where fire is the only source of heat and light.

It was great. Everyone was hyper and happy, and although the only thing standing between the public and red hot metal was rings of sand and volunteer stewards in fluorescent tabards, all the St John's Ambulance teams had to deal with was a few cases of over excitement. As we left I wanted to have a big button to press which said 'More Public Art Like This Please'.

They are saying, however, that the money pit of the Olympics will drain the provincial left-field art installation pool bone dry. There will be Less Public Art Like This if we are to provide the world's athletes with cutting-edge table tennis facilities for two weeks in 2012. If this is indeed the case, it will be a great shame, and even if it isn't I am beginning to suspect that the whole thing is going to turn out to be a colossal waste of our hard-earned cash.

Spend more on large-scale ephemera, I say. It might not make the world a better place, but it will sure make it feel like it, and isn't that a good enough reason?

But before you do that, oh once brave new government of mine, spend it on food for the destitute. Asylum Welcome, our local organisation supporting asylum seekers and refugees emailed out an appeal this week for food donations* for asylum seekers who have had government support withdrawn and yet are not allowed to work.

I know budgeting is complicated, but it is morally incomprehensible to me that in modern Britain we can have a situation where all that stands between human beings and starvation is the goodwill of small charities and private individuals.

I am reminded of Princess Diana's famous comment when someone said to her that she needed to be aware of all the complicated political issues surrounding landmine laying and clearance. She apparently replied 'I don't see what's so complicated about children getting their limbs blown off'. I wasn't a huge fan of hers, but that was a genius statement. SORT IT OUT. That's what we pay you for.

joella

*For those local enough to do something about it, they are asking for tea and coffee, tinned fruit, tinned vegetables, pasta, rice, couscous, tinned fish, tinned meat, UHT milk, tinned soups, lentils and fruit cake. They can't take fresh food as they have no storage facilities, but working tin openers that you don't need would be very welcome.

A tale of two postcodes

Fitting a torpedo hot water cylinder in a mean part of town
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

This morning, I got up early to drive into deepest darkest Oxfordshire to hand tools to J the plumber while he changed a hot water cylinder for a housing association. I was proper work experience girl.

The plumbing side of it was interesting, and I learnt a lot. I cut some pipe and did some soldering and melted something I shouldn't've (which fazed J not one iota, and he patched it up beautifully).

But the human side of it was even more interesting. The sun was shining when we arrived, and the houses, set round a grassy common area, seemed cheerful and full of life.

Then J took a call from his wife while he was hacking away at the thin-walled copper in the airing cupboard (there was a copper shortage in the 80s and this was all local authorities could get) and said 'yeah, I'm out in Drugland'.

I thought it looked quite nice round here, I said, and he took me into the back bedroom and pointed out the window to where the neighbourhood changes. Two streets over, he said, and I wouldn't be taking you into those houses. He then told me some stories (he's not a big guy, but you really, really wouldn't mess with him) that I don't feel that comfortable repeating.

The teenage daughter of the house was sitting on Bebo downstairs, wrapped in a Playboy pink fleece blanket (wrong on so many levels) because the front door was open while we drained down the hot water and the central heating. She told us that they'd just been allocated another house, as they'd wanted to move ever since her mum got beaten up by one of the neighbours. They'll be moving in four weeks or so, but they've already packed.

It's shit round here, she said, it's all smackheads and single mothers. J asked her if she was doing her GCSEs, and she laughed and said she left school ages ago, she works in childcare.

I liked her, she seemed smart and together and focused. I wish someone would send girls like her off for a shit hot sixth form education. She'd go miles, I'm sure, given the chance.

J did a pretty tidy and thoroughly kosher job, though it's hard to know who would have cared if he hadn't (which gives me pause for thought given my previous rant about social housing which passes into private ownership). I helped tidy up, then headed back to a land where people separate their recyclables and add essential oils to their biodegradable washing liquid.

About an hour later, as I was eating sunflower seeds and drinking green tea, my mobile chirped. Did I want to come and check out a float valve replacement on a close-coupled cistern that was pissing water everywhere? Sure I did, and headed over to a privately rented flat in a part of town where they brought in residents parking so the nannies and the cleaners wouldn't have to compete with commuters for parking spaces.

We're talking Montessori Ashtanga wine cellar central. This is not just ladies who lunch, this is ladies who lunch and then go to the M&S food hall on their way home.

Having said all that, the plumbing in this flat was just as shit as the plumbing in the previous house, in an absentee-landlord-letting-agent-managed sort of way. It was functioning, and its worst excesses were largely hidden by the upmarket his-and-hers toiletries, but you really wouldn't need to be an expert to spot the bodges -- the best one was the basin in the bathroom, which had a hot tap on the right, not connected to anything, and a mixer tap on the left where the cold tap used to be, which was plumbed in but which was so badly fitted you could twist it round 180 degrees.

I am left, overall, with a philosophical question: if nobody actually cares whether you do a good job, and you will get paid the same amount whether you do one or not, is there any point in doing one?

Maybe I should listen to Adam Curtis and get busy, game-theory-stylee, focusing entirely on my own self-interest of making as much money as possible. But hang on, isn't having pride in one's work essential for self-esteem? Doesn't it pay long term societal dividends to make things look good and work properly? Or am I just hopelessly out of date?

joella

OX4D

The sun is in the sky oh why oh why would I want to be listening to a smug bint in a yellow dress?

Well no reason, of course, so instead, though feeling sad at bidding farewell to housemate L, now on her way back Up North, we spent a happy afternoon gardening to Supergrass while the sun hit the sky. The dogwoods are now pruned, the pittospermum (sp?) is now planted, the veg bed is now dug over and the laundry is now stiff with fresh air and the smell of sap rising.

Later I joined C&G for a late afternoon pint in the Marsh, which was extremely pleasant in itself *and* came with the added bonus of allotment-fresh leeks, which are this minute baking in the oven in time for Adam Curtis's latest documentary about the bleakness of the modern world. I believe every word he says, as a rule, but that doesn't change the fact that in the gaps, in the cracks, in the little spaces where there's no money to be made, I reckon modern (western?) Europeans are among the luckiest people who ever lived.

joella

I am woman, hear me... roar?

Happy International Women's Day! I've spent too much of this week in the pub already, and tomorrow I will be there again with a man I met on the internet, so instead I have celebrated as follows:

7 hours information management
3 hours oxy-acetylene welding
1 packet Koka Tom Yam noodles with tuna fish and Lebanese pickled cucumbers
1 large red snapper (like a Bloody Mary, but with gin)
1 episode of Skins

So it's more like hear me sigh gently, really, but I trust someone's roaring out there somewhere on my behalf.

joella

PS 6Music's Shaun Keaveny has just wondered whether it is ok to play Grinderman's No Pussy Blues on International Women's Day. Absolutely it is ok, this is Nick Cave respecting the fact that No Means No. Play it again!

Adult in need

I wrote this last night after too much sherry. Consequently it's at least half bollocks, but it's such a splendid rant I thought I would publish it after all.

There are no words to express how much I hate the annual do-gooder car crash sick bucket that is Children in Need. Contrary to popular belief, I do not hate children - I experience mild to moderate misanthropy some to most of the time, but I don't believe this extends to children any more than to people in general.

But nor do I think children are that special, wonderful or likable simply because they are children. They are vulnerable and relatively powerless, and both government and society should do their best to look after them and help them grow up safe and unexploited, but I get angry when damaged children grow into damaged adults and suddenly become part of the problem. There are at least as many adults in need as there are children, but they don't make such good television.

So every year gak-snorting, minion-abusing, eating-disordered adulterous fuck-ups (among others) get to take the stage and do low-rent cabaret for the great British television-watching public, who in return dig themselves a little deeper into debt. But it's all for the kids, as the people round here say when they advocate speed bumps, SUVs, armed response units, prep schools and other forms of middle class isolationism. And today (which is what catalysed this rant) we discover that Terry Wogan, cauliflower-eared Blarneyist extraordinaire, gets paid hard cash from our licence fees to curate this lowest common denominator bollocks. OK, not that much, in his scheme of things, but surely there's a law against getting paid for this kind of mawkish cack.

I feel for everyone who hits 20 feeling as lost as they did when they were 10. Which is most of us, but if you are unlucky (or lucky) enough to get classed as a child in need it's surely going to be worse coming of age to find that you're on your own now. Build me a path from cradle to... oh.

joella

Don't you bring me down today

It's Friday afternoon and I'm mapping business processes. Luckily, there's music. Here's my process mapping playlist -- not too fast, not too slow, not too uplifting, not too downbeat.

All Night Disco Party - The Brakes
Beautiful - Clem Snide
Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen
Boys Wanna Fight - Garbage
Breathless - Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds
Waltzing's for Dreamers - Richard Thompson
This Mess We're In - PJ Harvey feat Thom Yorke
Oh What a World - Rufus Wainwright
There is a Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths
No Surprises - Lee, Shawn
Animal - Ani DiFranco

Actually it is a bit downbeat. But in a visceral sort of way, which helps. And when it's finished I'm off for a pint of Discovery with a nice lady from Finland. Hooray!

joella