I got an email the other day from Tesco. They had noticed that I hadn't shopped online with them recently, and hoped they hadn't done anything to upset me. They asked me to let them know if they had, and as a goodwill gesture they would give me £10 off my next online-shop-over-£100-to-be-delivered-by-27-May.
And you know what, I nearly fell for it. I even had preliminary chats with ex-housemate S over whether we could split it. But a couple of days later I got my Tesco Clubcard statement in the post.
I never asked for a Tesco Clubcard. In fact, I have refused a Tesco Clubcard on many occasions. I do not want Tesco mining my data, however benignly they claim to do it and however many vouchers for V8 juice, Evening Primrose Oil and anchovies I might receive as a result. But if you shop online they give you a Clubcard *whether you want one or not*. Of course they do. They know where I live, they know what I buy. They want my soul. They're not having it.
So instead, I made a fifteen mile round trip to Waitrose and spent £115. That'll show them, I thought.
What an idiot. To be fair to me, it's getting on two months since I last did a supermarket shop, and to be fair to them, Waitrose are clearly at the less evil end of the supermarket scale. But ye gods, are they expensive. I recoiled in horror at a packet of ("Cave Aged") Gruyere which cost nearly Six Pounds and some pine kernels for Three Pounds Ninety Nine. But I spent a small fortune on Jersey new potatoes, another on 'wholesome' walnuts, and yet another on organic tampons. And don't even get me started on the caperberries.
Whichever hype you believe, you're still a sucker, I reckon.
joella
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Am I pregnant?
I found a link to this remarkable 'Am I pregnant?' quiz during a bit of aimless post-prandial blog-wandering.
I'm no expert, I thought to myself, but I'd bet good money that you can't actually find out if you're pregnant by doing an online quiz, unless one of the questions is 'is there a baby's head poking out between your legs?' and your answer is 'yes'.
If you click through, they tell you: "if you want to know if you are pregnant, you MUST take a pregnancy test". But then they offer you the 'Am I pregnant?' quiz anyway.
So I took it. There is no earthly way I could be pregnant, but it told me that "your chance of pregnancy is low, but you need to check a pregnancy test to be sure".
If I wanted even more pointless guidance, I could pay $4.95 for a personal e-mail response detailing the chance of pregnancy in my specific situation. Which would also presumably include a recommendation that I take a pregnancy test to be on the safe side.
I struggle to see how this is useful or indeed ethical. They should wipe the whole thing and replace it with a money-off coupon for a stick to wee on.
joella
I'm no expert, I thought to myself, but I'd bet good money that you can't actually find out if you're pregnant by doing an online quiz, unless one of the questions is 'is there a baby's head poking out between your legs?' and your answer is 'yes'.
If you click through, they tell you: "if you want to know if you are pregnant, you MUST take a pregnancy test". But then they offer you the 'Am I pregnant?' quiz anyway.
So I took it. There is no earthly way I could be pregnant, but it told me that "your chance of pregnancy is low, but you need to check a pregnancy test to be sure".
If I wanted even more pointless guidance, I could pay $4.95 for a personal e-mail response detailing the chance of pregnancy in my specific situation. Which would also presumably include a recommendation that I take a pregnancy test to be on the safe side.
I struggle to see how this is useful or indeed ethical. They should wipe the whole thing and replace it with a money-off coupon for a stick to wee on.
joella
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The female of the species
Last night, I Handed My Plumbing Folder In. All my assignments have been appropriately assessed, all my methods have been adequately stated, and all my achievements have been acceptably recorded. This one is my favourite.
So, I said to B the assessor, when will I be Qualified*? Well, he said, the IV (Internal Verifier) needs to approve your work, and then you'll get your certificate. That'll take a couple of months, though it might be a bit longer for you, because I've chosen your folder to send off to the EV (External Verifier).
Oh, I said. Is my folder special? (I have been pretty much top of the class in the theory stuff, but when it comes to the practical stuff I am precise-but-slow: average, really, if on the desirable side of average).
Well Jo, he said, not wanting to be sexist or anything, but you are a female.
Go on, I said.
Well, he went on, we've only had about 10 females get through the course. And you and S, you're about the only ones who've finished it on time and with no problems. You've done really well! Your folder is fantastic!
I squinted up at the light and thought back over the last two years. I decided to take this comment on my (unremarkable if you disregard my sex) performance in the sense in which it was intended. At one level I have found his combination of surprise and amusement quite hard to handle, but at another he has come along and used his (not inconsiderable) brute force pretty much on request whenever more brute force than I can muster has been required, and at yet another I believe his perceptions of women have genuinely, if slowly, shifted. You have to hold onto that.
I beamed at him. Thanks B, I said. Are you proud of yourself? he said. Oh yes, I replied. And I am. But one thing, I carried on, stop calling us females. We are women. If you're talking about human beings, female is an adjective. Lose the word.
I've been wanting to say that since September 2005. But I did at least say it. Some battles you can only fight when you know you've half won them: my pipework speaks for itself, and my knowledge of the Water Regulations is unmatched.
I don't know if any of this will make a difference to those women who come after me, but I like to think that Plumbing S and I softened the place up a bit. The whole atmosphere has a macho reek which will take some challenging, but to be honest that's far more down to the students than the teachers. B is one of a couple of them who didn't quite come to terms with our presence, but J the stores manager never seemed to have the tiniest issue with it, D the theory teacher toned down his jokes and never made us feel less than legitimate in the classroom (and also I think liked having people who always remembered their coloured pencils and did their homework), and BJ the leadwork teacher was old school courteous, called us ladies, and took extra time to make sure our welding was as neat as we wanted it.
For our part I think we handled ourselves well -- we laughed a lot but never giggled, we asked for help when we needed it but never expected special treatment, and we supported each other brilliantly. I was the one who remembered all the facts, made most of the decisions, and planned assignments meticulously, while S, in pink trousers and with pink flowery tools, got stuck in without a second thought. Between us we had it nailed, and we finished the course within a few hours of each other (her folder is in the photo because it's not quite ready to hand in yet).
Genderwise, I was heavily outnumbered at both school and university, but never at anything like this level. It had its dodgy moments, but on the whole it was a blast - there's nothing I like more than breaking moulds. Especially if you can do it without scoring cheap points.
joella
*Though I am not a properly Qualified plumber till I get my NVQ, and that's a different kettle of fish (and a different folder) altogether.
You can't have a cupboard if there ain't no wall
Ah, in late spring a young-ish woman's thoughts turn to Neil Young.
I don't really like driving except when I'm by myself, I more or less know where I'm going, the shadows are long, the traffic is light, the music is loud and the windows are down. Then I love it.
It was best of all when I still had my 2cv. There weren't many songs you could hear with the roof off and both cylinders roaring, but the ones that made it through were the best songs in the world. And one of my best tapes had Ragged Glory on one side and Nothing's Shocking on the other.
I parted with Cherry five years or so back, and I left the tapes with her - the rain used to drip through her cassette deck so I don't think they would really have worked in any other setting. But I still think driving is a time for the familiar, not for the strange, and for the epic, not for the fey.
Tonight I drove out into Oxfordshire after work to help fit a bath in a bungalow in Carterton. I was tired before I started, and completely knackered afterwards (though strangely manic once I got home, hence stupid late blogging). I should have resented it, or at least part of me should. But instead I got a perfect late May sky, with the sun shafting down through the clouds, framing half an hour of contemplation set to Neil Young's Unplugged.
Left me helpless, helpless, helpless.
But in a good way.
joella
I don't really like driving except when I'm by myself, I more or less know where I'm going, the shadows are long, the traffic is light, the music is loud and the windows are down. Then I love it.
It was best of all when I still had my 2cv. There weren't many songs you could hear with the roof off and both cylinders roaring, but the ones that made it through were the best songs in the world. And one of my best tapes had Ragged Glory on one side and Nothing's Shocking on the other.
I parted with Cherry five years or so back, and I left the tapes with her - the rain used to drip through her cassette deck so I don't think they would really have worked in any other setting. But I still think driving is a time for the familiar, not for the strange, and for the epic, not for the fey.
Tonight I drove out into Oxfordshire after work to help fit a bath in a bungalow in Carterton. I was tired before I started, and completely knackered afterwards (though strangely manic once I got home, hence stupid late blogging). I should have resented it, or at least part of me should. But instead I got a perfect late May sky, with the sun shafting down through the clouds, framing half an hour of contemplation set to Neil Young's Unplugged.
Left me helpless, helpless, helpless.
But in a good way.
joella
Monday, May 21, 2007
Weddings, eh?
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
I'm never quite sure what to make of them. This one was in the middle of the Peak District, and, being terminally stupid, we didn't factor either breakfast or lunch into our departure time. So we were running on a bottle of Lucozade and two packets of Frazzles by the time Wendy the GPS announced 'Destination!'. At this point we were a) clearly in the middle of nowhere and b) had 15 minutes to get to the church. There was swearing.
But we made it, much to my mother's relief. I will be writing to the Peak District council to suggest they trade off a bit of their outstanding natural beauty for a few road signs.
I do see why people get married, even if I can't imagine doing it myself, and it was a very beautiful setting to do it in - all around was bright, bright green, with super-sharp hills, a bright blue sky and big white clouds. It was like someone had turned up the contrast button. I am glad I wore red, I fitted right in. And the bride and groom genuinely seemed to be having the best day of their lives, which is as it should be.
But I still think 'the wedding' is a throwback ritual. The giving away, the bridesmaids, the hats, the men giving speeches. I've been to lots of weddings (some of them far more ostentatious than this one) and I can't help thinking they were designed for a different age. We haven't come up with many alternatives, though, apart from eloping or not bothering, so they carry on much the same.
Do you mind that I haven't done this, I asked my dad. The look he gave me told me all I needed to know.
joella
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Grinner on the roof
Grinner on the roof
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
How happy am I to have finished my leadwork? This isn't quite as big a grin as the one on the photo in the assessment folder, but still gives a fair indication.
As anyone who knows their way round a bending stick could attest, my leadwork isn't actually very good, unlike my pipework, which isn't bad at all. But I don't intend to do it ever again, so I don't really care. The best bit was getting to wear a special purple coat (seventeen sizes too big) and a welding visor. It reminded me of the white coats and safety specs we got to wear in the chemistry labs in the sixth form. I always felt cool in a lab coat.
In other news, check out this cat in an ambulance story. I love our public services.
joella
PS and (as a result) the best lolcat I've ever seen
Dig your own hole
I think I got flirted with last night. I say 'think' because a) I'm not sure I recognise the signs anymore and b) if that *is* what he was doing he got it very, very wrong.
He arrived late at my friend C's birthday dinner, and sat next to me at the end of the table. We established that we both knew C from university. Which was weird, as I'd expect to at least recognise someone I spent three years in the same college as, but if we did ever meet neither of us remembered it.
Hey, he said after a while, you know who you sound like?
Who? I said, hoping he wasn't going to say Victoria Wood.
Victoria Wood! he said.
You're not the first person to say that, I said (hello Charlie!). But I don't think I do.
No, she doesn't, said someone across the table. It's just they're both Northern, and there is otherwise a complete lack of accent diversity in this room. Exactly, I said. I sound more like Victoria Wood than anyone else here, but that does not mean I sound like Victoria Wood.
No, you do! he said, and nudged me. And if you were blonde, you'd look a bit like her as well.
*Thanks*, I said, in my best facetious voice. Don't get me wrong, I like Victoria Wood a lot, and I happen to think she's looking pretty good these days. But she is 53.
Well, he went on hurriedly, except she's fat and you're not.
Can we stop this conversation? I said.
I would have said this definitely wasn't flirting except later on he did touch me on the leg.
joella
He arrived late at my friend C's birthday dinner, and sat next to me at the end of the table. We established that we both knew C from university. Which was weird, as I'd expect to at least recognise someone I spent three years in the same college as, but if we did ever meet neither of us remembered it.
Hey, he said after a while, you know who you sound like?
Who? I said, hoping he wasn't going to say Victoria Wood.
Victoria Wood! he said.
You're not the first person to say that, I said (hello Charlie!). But I don't think I do.
No, she doesn't, said someone across the table. It's just they're both Northern, and there is otherwise a complete lack of accent diversity in this room. Exactly, I said. I sound more like Victoria Wood than anyone else here, but that does not mean I sound like Victoria Wood.
No, you do! he said, and nudged me. And if you were blonde, you'd look a bit like her as well.
*Thanks*, I said, in my best facetious voice. Don't get me wrong, I like Victoria Wood a lot, and I happen to think she's looking pretty good these days. But she is 53.
Well, he went on hurriedly, except she's fat and you're not.
Can we stop this conversation? I said.
I would have said this definitely wasn't flirting except later on he did touch me on the leg.
joella
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The Bear and baby
It's ok, he missed your hair, said ex-housemate S today as baby Tungsten chucked up over my shoulder in Modern Art Oxford. It's mostly on your top, your coat and your bag.
She took him off to change his nappy and I dabbed around in my hood with a Wet One, feeling a little squeamish but glad he's not on solids yet.
He is, however, teething, and really bloody grumpy. The best way to get around town was with one of us practising a range of silly walks involving the magic bounce factor, and the other manoevering the empty pushchair, which gradually filled up with surplus clothing, library books and tuna steaks. It's easier to plough into the ankles of teenagers who are blocking doorways and ignoring your 'excuse me please's' if you don't actually have the baby, and then the person who does can fall in behind. Neat.
The last purchase we had to make was a new plug for S's vacuum cleaner, and I directed her to Gill's the Ironmongers, one of my favourite shops. It's down Wheatsheaf Alley, and as she squeezed the pushchair past the scaffolding I said 'how about a quick half?'. Sure, she said, I'll meet you in there, so Tungsten and I wandered in, but the Wheatsheaf doesn't like babies and wouldn't serve me.
I'll see you outside the Bear, I said and we carried on up the alley. S arrived shortly afterwards and fetched beer. Maybe it was her lager going straight to his head but Tungsten fell asleep as soon as she'd fed him, and we sat there in the humid overcast afternoon and talked about old times. Which we don't do very often but I've had them on my mind recently.
First: I got an email a few weeks ago from E, who I went out with when I was 15. He was older than me (18, but that was a lot in the 80s) and I hadn't really been out with anyone before. Don't go there, said various well meaning people (including ex-housemate-then-schoolmate S), he's on the rebound and you'll get hurt. I have never been any good at listening to well meaning people but in this case they were right, in that I did get hurt, and I always assumed that he didn't really notice or care, and never gave me a thought thereafter. It was odd (but good) to find out 22 years later that there was a bit more to it than that. I am a little sad for my 15 year old self, who settled for less than she should've for a fair while afterwards, but happy to have the long view.
Second: my Significant Ex emailed me a few months ago asking if I'd sort out the photos from our relationship and send them off to be scanned so he can have copies. It's a fair request, but it's taken me a while to get round to it. I have maybe 100 packets of photos stored in a box in my room. They cover the period 1983 (when I first got a camera) to 2003 (when I first got a digital camera). I started the job last week, and it's been hard work on my back and on my eyes (are those tears? or just dust and grit?). So far I have divided the packets into three piles: 1983-1989 (pre-Significant Ex), 1989-98 (during) and 1998-2003. The 89-98 pile needs further sorting. The pre-89 pile is full of school photos, including many of S, (though only one of E, blurry, taken in the pub). Today she said 'I should get some copies of those'.
How times change. She is famous for keeping nothing, yet now she is the one with the baby. Another? I said, but as I came back with them (she was drinking halves, before anyone writes to the Breastfeeding Police) the heavens opened. I went into the pub and said 'can we bring a baby in here?'. Sure, they said, if you can get in through our 13th century door. There was about 2mm either side, and we parked up in the no smoking area, taking up about 80% of the available space and blocking access to the Gents.
When we emerged it was into what Mick the builder would call a terminal piss down situation. We had brief respite on the bus but then I made my farewells, pulled my still-damp-from-baby-sick hood up and leapt out into sheeting rain. It was pelting so hard that my normally extremely efficient Dutch trainers started leaking from the top. By the time I got home, every part of me that wasn't covered by my trusty North Face jacket was piss wet through.
I struggled slightly on the doorstep, and dropped my keys. M opened the door. I wasn't expecting him to be in. Hello! I giggled. I'm wet and drunk! So you are, he said, that's quite impressive for 5.30. I took off my wet clothes and put them in the washing machine, then fell asleep under a blanket on the sofa. He woke me up a couple of hours later with a glass of red and tuna steak au poivre. I'm still not sure what I did to deserve this.
joella
She took him off to change his nappy and I dabbed around in my hood with a Wet One, feeling a little squeamish but glad he's not on solids yet.
He is, however, teething, and really bloody grumpy. The best way to get around town was with one of us practising a range of silly walks involving the magic bounce factor, and the other manoevering the empty pushchair, which gradually filled up with surplus clothing, library books and tuna steaks. It's easier to plough into the ankles of teenagers who are blocking doorways and ignoring your 'excuse me please's' if you don't actually have the baby, and then the person who does can fall in behind. Neat.
The last purchase we had to make was a new plug for S's vacuum cleaner, and I directed her to Gill's the Ironmongers, one of my favourite shops. It's down Wheatsheaf Alley, and as she squeezed the pushchair past the scaffolding I said 'how about a quick half?'. Sure, she said, I'll meet you in there, so Tungsten and I wandered in, but the Wheatsheaf doesn't like babies and wouldn't serve me.
I'll see you outside the Bear, I said and we carried on up the alley. S arrived shortly afterwards and fetched beer. Maybe it was her lager going straight to his head but Tungsten fell asleep as soon as she'd fed him, and we sat there in the humid overcast afternoon and talked about old times. Which we don't do very often but I've had them on my mind recently.
First: I got an email a few weeks ago from E, who I went out with when I was 15. He was older than me (18, but that was a lot in the 80s) and I hadn't really been out with anyone before. Don't go there, said various well meaning people (including ex-housemate-then-schoolmate S), he's on the rebound and you'll get hurt. I have never been any good at listening to well meaning people but in this case they were right, in that I did get hurt, and I always assumed that he didn't really notice or care, and never gave me a thought thereafter. It was odd (but good) to find out 22 years later that there was a bit more to it than that. I am a little sad for my 15 year old self, who settled for less than she should've for a fair while afterwards, but happy to have the long view.
Second: my Significant Ex emailed me a few months ago asking if I'd sort out the photos from our relationship and send them off to be scanned so he can have copies. It's a fair request, but it's taken me a while to get round to it. I have maybe 100 packets of photos stored in a box in my room. They cover the period 1983 (when I first got a camera) to 2003 (when I first got a digital camera). I started the job last week, and it's been hard work on my back and on my eyes (are those tears? or just dust and grit?). So far I have divided the packets into three piles: 1983-1989 (pre-Significant Ex), 1989-98 (during) and 1998-2003. The 89-98 pile needs further sorting. The pre-89 pile is full of school photos, including many of S, (though only one of E, blurry, taken in the pub). Today she said 'I should get some copies of those'.
How times change. She is famous for keeping nothing, yet now she is the one with the baby. Another? I said, but as I came back with them (she was drinking halves, before anyone writes to the Breastfeeding Police) the heavens opened. I went into the pub and said 'can we bring a baby in here?'. Sure, they said, if you can get in through our 13th century door. There was about 2mm either side, and we parked up in the no smoking area, taking up about 80% of the available space and blocking access to the Gents.
When we emerged it was into what Mick the builder would call a terminal piss down situation. We had brief respite on the bus but then I made my farewells, pulled my still-damp-from-baby-sick hood up and leapt out into sheeting rain. It was pelting so hard that my normally extremely efficient Dutch trainers started leaking from the top. By the time I got home, every part of me that wasn't covered by my trusty North Face jacket was piss wet through.
I struggled slightly on the doorstep, and dropped my keys. M opened the door. I wasn't expecting him to be in. Hello! I giggled. I'm wet and drunk! So you are, he said, that's quite impressive for 5.30. I took off my wet clothes and put them in the washing machine, then fell asleep under a blanket on the sofa. He woke me up a couple of hours later with a glass of red and tuna steak au poivre. I'm still not sure what I did to deserve this.
joella
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Girls and boys
1. Boys.
I enjoyed David Baddiel's Whatever Love Means far more than I expected to. He's overtly a) alpha, b) Oxbridge, and c) Jewish, and I've never found that a particularly sympathetic combination in men, even though it's not so far from my own. On those grounds, I'd never normally have borrowed the book from the library, but I was in a tearing hurry and it was on the 'If You're In a Tearing Hurry' stand by the door, next to the books in Polish.
And it is a good book, especially if you remember the time and the place (which I do), and if you have ever been in a relationship with someone whose behaviour has baffled you unless you take a really uncharitable view of men (which I have).
So next time I was in there, in slightly less of a tearing hurry, I borrowed Time for Bed. I've read about half of it, and decided (and this is rare for me) that I won't finish it. I found someone else's bookmark in it, which is a sign that I am not the first person to make this decision.
Basically, it's the porn, and the porn-driven sex. I don't like either of these things, and reading about them in this level of detail makes me feel bleak. I feel this way about a lot of Hanif "there are some fucks for which a man would have his wife and children drown in a freezing sea" Kureishi, not to mention a fair amount of early Martin Amis. And I don't think what he's saying is important or interesting enough to wade through the wanking and arse-fucking, frankly.
M is slightly further ahead in the book than me (we sometimes end up reading the same copy of the same book at the same time which annoys both of us but does mean you get to talk about it quicker). I don't like what this book says about men, I said. I don't think it's true. Surely it's not true.
Er, um, well it is a bit, he said. But you don't have a collection of hardcore DVDs! I said. You don't have major pubic hair issues! You don't negotiate interactions with women like they come from another planet! Do you?
Well no, he said. But then I live with you. And you've always said yourself that you can't help what's in your head, you can only help what you do with it. Which left me simultaneously flattered and disappointed. V postmodern. You finish it, I said, then tell me whether you think I should. And we left it at that.
2. Girls.
I might be hard work, but I'm low maintenance. I'm a cheap date, I carry a bag big enough for all my stuff, I don't sulk much, and I provide a detailed list of what I want for my birthday (which these days can mostly be sourced from the Screwfix catalogue).
I've been getting my legs waxed every four weeks since I was about 25, because I can't bear to shave but I can't bear to leave them either, and I've been dying my hair every 12 weeks since I was about 30, because I had developed a Mallen streak and it wasn't a good look. I exfoliate because it makes me feel clean, and I've been moisturising since my sister bought me some for Christmas a few years ago, but apart from that, nothing. No nails, no highlights, no perming, no straightening, no tanning, no bleaching, no Brazilians, no working out, no tooth whitening, no Botox, no foundation, no implants, no chucking up. This is partly a political stance (beauty fascism = bad), partly because I can't afford it, partly because even if I could I'm not sure it would make *that* much difference except to people whose opinion I like to think I don't value, and partly because I Just Can't Be Arsed.
And so it was with significant misgiving that I went out on Friday to get my eyebrows shaped. I've never done it because it's another thing to keep on top of, but I've realised of late that a) pretty much every woman in the world has "managed eyebrows", plus quite a few men, and b) the older you get, the less straggliness you can get away with. I've had beauticians offer to do it for free, I've had my mother on at me about it for years, I've had friends mention it 'in passing'. I've ignored them all, but then I saw this photo of me at Jeremy's clocks-forward-barbecue. Shit, I thought, I look very sweet and all but I have *got* to sort my eyebrows out.
And on Friday, I did.
What do you normally do, asked the nice lady, get them waxed or have them plucked? They've never been touched, I said. What, she said, NEVER? Nope, I said (not strictly true, I got them plucked once as a teenager but they've been au naturel since c1984), do your worst.
She did something involving both waxing and plucking. It hurt. I look weird. But better, I think. And either I get better at inflicting pain on myself, or that's another ten quid a month on personal grooming. M didn't notice, bless him. Or my haircut. But that's so much better than the other way round. You do it to yourself, you do.
joella
I enjoyed David Baddiel's Whatever Love Means far more than I expected to. He's overtly a) alpha, b) Oxbridge, and c) Jewish, and I've never found that a particularly sympathetic combination in men, even though it's not so far from my own. On those grounds, I'd never normally have borrowed the book from the library, but I was in a tearing hurry and it was on the 'If You're In a Tearing Hurry' stand by the door, next to the books in Polish.
And it is a good book, especially if you remember the time and the place (which I do), and if you have ever been in a relationship with someone whose behaviour has baffled you unless you take a really uncharitable view of men (which I have).
So next time I was in there, in slightly less of a tearing hurry, I borrowed Time for Bed. I've read about half of it, and decided (and this is rare for me) that I won't finish it. I found someone else's bookmark in it, which is a sign that I am not the first person to make this decision.
Basically, it's the porn, and the porn-driven sex. I don't like either of these things, and reading about them in this level of detail makes me feel bleak. I feel this way about a lot of Hanif "there are some fucks for which a man would have his wife and children drown in a freezing sea" Kureishi, not to mention a fair amount of early Martin Amis. And I don't think what he's saying is important or interesting enough to wade through the wanking and arse-fucking, frankly.
M is slightly further ahead in the book than me (we sometimes end up reading the same copy of the same book at the same time which annoys both of us but does mean you get to talk about it quicker). I don't like what this book says about men, I said. I don't think it's true. Surely it's not true.
Er, um, well it is a bit, he said. But you don't have a collection of hardcore DVDs! I said. You don't have major pubic hair issues! You don't negotiate interactions with women like they come from another planet! Do you?
Well no, he said. But then I live with you. And you've always said yourself that you can't help what's in your head, you can only help what you do with it. Which left me simultaneously flattered and disappointed. V postmodern. You finish it, I said, then tell me whether you think I should. And we left it at that.
2. Girls.
I might be hard work, but I'm low maintenance. I'm a cheap date, I carry a bag big enough for all my stuff, I don't sulk much, and I provide a detailed list of what I want for my birthday (which these days can mostly be sourced from the Screwfix catalogue).
I've been getting my legs waxed every four weeks since I was about 25, because I can't bear to shave but I can't bear to leave them either, and I've been dying my hair every 12 weeks since I was about 30, because I had developed a Mallen streak and it wasn't a good look. I exfoliate because it makes me feel clean, and I've been moisturising since my sister bought me some for Christmas a few years ago, but apart from that, nothing. No nails, no highlights, no perming, no straightening, no tanning, no bleaching, no Brazilians, no working out, no tooth whitening, no Botox, no foundation, no implants, no chucking up. This is partly a political stance (beauty fascism = bad), partly because I can't afford it, partly because even if I could I'm not sure it would make *that* much difference except to people whose opinion I like to think I don't value, and partly because I Just Can't Be Arsed.
And so it was with significant misgiving that I went out on Friday to get my eyebrows shaped. I've never done it because it's another thing to keep on top of, but I've realised of late that a) pretty much every woman in the world has "managed eyebrows", plus quite a few men, and b) the older you get, the less straggliness you can get away with. I've had beauticians offer to do it for free, I've had my mother on at me about it for years, I've had friends mention it 'in passing'. I've ignored them all, but then I saw this photo of me at Jeremy's clocks-forward-barbecue. Shit, I thought, I look very sweet and all but I have *got* to sort my eyebrows out.
And on Friday, I did.
What do you normally do, asked the nice lady, get them waxed or have them plucked? They've never been touched, I said. What, she said, NEVER? Nope, I said (not strictly true, I got them plucked once as a teenager but they've been au naturel since c1984), do your worst.
She did something involving both waxing and plucking. It hurt. I look weird. But better, I think. And either I get better at inflicting pain on myself, or that's another ten quid a month on personal grooming. M didn't notice, bless him. Or my haircut. But that's so much better than the other way round. You do it to yourself, you do.
joella
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Head above parapet
This is an unfashionable thing to say, but I think Tony Blair's all right. I wish he wasn't such good friends with George W, who I think is very, very far from all right, and I think he made a colossal, irredeemable mistake with Iraq. But he made the Labour Party (which I have never joined but which I have always voted for) electable and he's kept it electable. And I think his heart's in the right place on many issues, domestic and international, even if I'd prefer it if he was an atheist (not least because if he was I don't think he'd be such good friends with George W). Basically, I think he *does* want to make the world a fairer place, and some of what he's done has had that effect. And I think the alternative's still worse, a whole lot worse, and those of us who can remember politics in the 1980s and early 90s shouldn't forget that.
He's also indirectly responsible for one of the best nights of my life, which I spent at the now legendary Billy Bragg gig at the Mean Fiddler in Harlesden on 1 May 1997. The sun came up, the birds began to sing, and light shone in on everything. (There were Class As involved too, but still).
joella
He's also indirectly responsible for one of the best nights of my life, which I spent at the now legendary Billy Bragg gig at the Mean Fiddler in Harlesden on 1 May 1997. The sun came up, the birds began to sing, and light shone in on everything. (There were Class As involved too, but still).
joella
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Selective engagement with the bottom-feeders of humanity
On the whole, I don't put myself through things that I know will just make me angry. I don't bother to read American Psycho, for example, or watch A Clockwork Orange, or listen to Beenie Man, or visit lap dancing clubs. People have occasionally argued that you can't say you hate something if you haven't actually read / heard / seen it, but on the rare occasions I have listened to them - like the time I went for a night out in Patpong or the time I watched Leaving Las Vegas - I have regretted it. I know about the evil that men do. I don't need to consume its cultural byproducts.
But I do engage with the causes and effects of things that make me angry, and that's different. We've only the one world, and the more you know it, the better you understand it. I don't think I could bear to confront the worst that humans can do to each other all day every day, but nor do I think it's viable to live in a bubble and pretend it doesn't happen. And sometimes it's just important to bear witness.
So I didn't turn off the interview with Nick Griffin that was on Radio 4 tonight as I was driving home, even though the very sound of his voice makes my innards twist. I listened to him saying that he no longer believes the Holocaust didn't happen, and then I listened to him saying that he no longer believes this because it's against the law to believe it. You could hear the sneer in his voice. I howled with rage and floored it through Blackbird Leys, which is exactly the kind of place the BNP targets. He is slug slime in human form. I would like to pour salt on him and watch him shrivel.
joella
But I do engage with the causes and effects of things that make me angry, and that's different. We've only the one world, and the more you know it, the better you understand it. I don't think I could bear to confront the worst that humans can do to each other all day every day, but nor do I think it's viable to live in a bubble and pretend it doesn't happen. And sometimes it's just important to bear witness.
So I didn't turn off the interview with Nick Griffin that was on Radio 4 tonight as I was driving home, even though the very sound of his voice makes my innards twist. I listened to him saying that he no longer believes the Holocaust didn't happen, and then I listened to him saying that he no longer believes this because it's against the law to believe it. You could hear the sneer in his voice. I howled with rage and floored it through Blackbird Leys, which is exactly the kind of place the BNP targets. He is slug slime in human form. I would like to pour salt on him and watch him shrivel.
joella
Monday, May 07, 2007
And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Pies
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
Something very dangerous happened this weekend. An idle thought of M's met a Nigel Slater recipe. Together they opened the freezer to find a block of puff pastry that I bought on a whim a few weeks ago, and unto us a pie was born.
We ate the pie for dinner with our visiting friend C, who could not have done a better job of appreciating the pie had he been Desperate Dan himself.
The pie was filled with cheese, leek, onion, potato and cream. It was fucking amazing, pardon my French. It was so amazing that the next morning we ate another pie almost just like it, but with extra broccoli inside to make up numbers and baked beans on the side.
We spent much of our constitutional walk the next day playing Fantasy Pie League. C's pie will feature feta cheese and spinach. And I fancy one with mushrooms in, like a giant mushroom vol au vent.
The pie possibilites are endless. Who knew it was so easy? All those years in my teens I spent fannying around with a toasted sandwich maker, I could have been making pies instead!
*However* (and this is where it gets dangerous) how long before small boys start pointing at me in the street and shouting 'who ate all the pies?'. At two pies a day, it might be Wednesday week.
Maybe I should buy some earplugs.
joella
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Lead in my pencil
'So you cut it there, and there,' said J the plumbing technician this evening, 'and then you put it up on the chimney and beat it vigorously'.
There must have been something in my expression, because what actually happened was I did the cutting, then held it in place while he did the vigorous beating part. Leadwork is so primitive. It really is about hitting metal with sticks.
I was very grateful for the help, it's the hitting with sticks bit I find most difficult. Cutting I got the hang of once someone introduced me to the left-handed snips, and my welding, on a good day, looks as it should.
It's odd isn't it, I said, that we spend weeks grappling with bending sticks and flat dressers and oxy-acetylene torches and shave hooks, then just as they stop feeling entirely alien in your hands you finish your chimney set and never touch the stuff again.
Well, he said, it's a dying art.
It is. It's dirty and heavy and poisonous and heavy and difficult and did I say heavy, but it's a remarkable material to work with. If you know what you're doing, you can make it do anything you want, as the rooftops of Oxford attest. Time was it was part of what plumbers did (the trade is named after it, after all) but now it's a specialist thing roofers do, and it just remains in plumbing courses for legacy reasons.
It will go soon, I expect, and I don't think anyone will miss it. But I guess I'm glad I've had the chance to have a go on it. Most of the time it makes you feel puny and/or all thumbs, but when you tap something round a corner and it goes exactly where it should, or you finish a perfect welded seam and lift your mask off like her out of Flashdance, you begin to see the point...
joella
There must have been something in my expression, because what actually happened was I did the cutting, then held it in place while he did the vigorous beating part. Leadwork is so primitive. It really is about hitting metal with sticks.
I was very grateful for the help, it's the hitting with sticks bit I find most difficult. Cutting I got the hang of once someone introduced me to the left-handed snips, and my welding, on a good day, looks as it should.
It's odd isn't it, I said, that we spend weeks grappling with bending sticks and flat dressers and oxy-acetylene torches and shave hooks, then just as they stop feeling entirely alien in your hands you finish your chimney set and never touch the stuff again.
Well, he said, it's a dying art.
It is. It's dirty and heavy and poisonous and heavy and difficult and did I say heavy, but it's a remarkable material to work with. If you know what you're doing, you can make it do anything you want, as the rooftops of Oxford attest. Time was it was part of what plumbers did (the trade is named after it, after all) but now it's a specialist thing roofers do, and it just remains in plumbing courses for legacy reasons.
It will go soon, I expect, and I don't think anyone will miss it. But I guess I'm glad I've had the chance to have a go on it. Most of the time it makes you feel puny and/or all thumbs, but when you tap something round a corner and it goes exactly where it should, or you finish a perfect welded seam and lift your mask off like her out of Flashdance, you begin to see the point...
joella
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Bad Person
I forgot my swipe card this morning. You can't get into the New Building without one, and if you forget it you have to sign a little book and get buzzed through the plexiglass. The lovely Front of House team never give you a hard time about this, but emails go round occasionally about all the extra work this generates for them when they already have tons to do, like buzz through people who don't have swipe cards at all and deal with random calls from the Great Global Public on the switchboard all day long. The people who write these emails are right. When I forget my swipe card I feel like a heel.
I had to go to the post room at lunchtime, which you also need a swipe card to get to. I asked my colleague, the gloriously named Spartaca, if I could borrow hers for ten minutes. Hey, I thought to myself as the door popped open, I'm Spartaca!
This thought kept me amused until I was nearly back at my desk, when I got waylaid once by someone wanting to talk about Kleinian psychotherapy and once by someone wanting to understand why she only had 24 hours to do the reading for a meeting I should have sent the papers out for last week. I talked anxiety and delivered apologies and sought solace (not found) in a pasta salad that clearly started life as a different meal on a different day.
And I forgot all about Spartaca's swipe card till I found it in my pocket after I got home. How shit do I feel now. How do you make it up to someone for leaving them having to wave plaintively at the security guard to get out and then having to sign the Book of Badness to get back in?
joella
I had to go to the post room at lunchtime, which you also need a swipe card to get to. I asked my colleague, the gloriously named Spartaca, if I could borrow hers for ten minutes. Hey, I thought to myself as the door popped open, I'm Spartaca!
This thought kept me amused until I was nearly back at my desk, when I got waylaid once by someone wanting to talk about Kleinian psychotherapy and once by someone wanting to understand why she only had 24 hours to do the reading for a meeting I should have sent the papers out for last week. I talked anxiety and delivered apologies and sought solace (not found) in a pasta salad that clearly started life as a different meal on a different day.
And I forgot all about Spartaca's swipe card till I found it in my pocket after I got home. How shit do I feel now. How do you make it up to someone for leaving them having to wave plaintively at the security guard to get out and then having to sign the Book of Badness to get back in?
joella
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Candle. Both ends burnt.
It's not often I get up at 8.30 on a Sunday morning, but that's what you do when you're convinced all the punts will be gone by 10.01. They weren't, but it was still worth getting there early.
Punting was in honour of E, W and little F, visiting us from Paris for the weekend. We also managed college sightseeing (New College garden! How have I lived here this long and never seen that before?), a walk in the country, the Boat Inn at Thrupp, smoked salmon in the garden, Nonstop Tango at the Wheatsheaf, Victoria sponge cake in Iffley Fields after lunch at the Victoria Arms, and gallons and gallons of vin rouge. I am *exhausted*.
This week: clean living, steamed vegetables, early nights. Honest. That's fizzy Ribena in the pint glass. It *is*.
joella
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