Me and Cherry, 1988

Me and Cherry, 1988
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

Basically, I'm not very photogenic. The camera does not love me. I have a wonky eye (occasionally pictured right) which looks fine, I like to think, in the flesh, but usually comes out squinty on film, and generally my face just doesn't work in repose. Some do, some don't. I've got used to it.

So going through 20 years of photos, as I did recently, resulted in a fair bit of wincing, especially during the 'microphone head' years when my hair was growing back after being shorn on a whim in the Imperial Hair Cutting Saloon in Bombay.

But I *love* this photo. It was taken when I was 18 and not long in possession of Cherry, my lovely 2cv. I was working on Dock Road in Lytham during the Christmas holidays, packing Sheila Maid components into boxes. Ex-housemate S was working with me for a few days, and I had the bright idea of doing a photo-story, called 'A Day In The Life Of Domestic Paraphernalia'. This was the first photo of the day. The photo story never happened, but I could perhaps redress that now.

What I love about it is that it has pretty much everything significant about my 18 year old self all in one photo. My 2cv, my Billy Bragg T-shirt, my dad's old suit jacket, my M&S grey cardigan, my CND badge, my spiral perm, my sign of Venus earring (just the one), my rather bleak part time job. The keyring is blank-side out, but on the other side it said 'The more I know about men, the more I like my dog'.

Capturing all of this was never the plan, and I like that even better. *And* it's slightly out of focus, as many of my favourite photos are.

joella

Galaxie 500 - Tugboat

Arse to the Spice Girls: this is the reunion tour I would cross continents to see.

Leftover-tastic

On Monday, feeling a touch vitamin C-deprived after the weekend, I made my current favourite pasta sauce, which incorporates tomatoes and char-grilled red & yellow peppers blitzed with onions, celery and garlic softened in posh olive oil. Oh, and some basil. It's glorious. I cooked a ton of pasta, so there would be leftovers, but there wasn't enough left over for another whole dinner. There's never enough, no matter how much I cook.

But there *was* enough for spaghetti omelette. Spaghetti omelette sounds gross but is actually about the tasty as things get. You beat up some eggs, add some chilli, some herbs, some anchovies (optional), mix in your pasta and fry. You can have it on its own, or with sauce, or with veg, or with anything really. You can eat it with your fingers in big crispy chunks, or cut it up neatly with a knife and fork. It's the best leftover dish ever in the world ever. Makes me want to eat nothing but leftovers, even as I see the logical impossibility of this.

The leftover sauce, we had for breakfast this morning, on slightly stale leftover bread. Tonight, I shall roast vegetables, in anticipation of tomorrow's lunch.

joella

Brains over brawn

The thing is, Jo, said Graham this afternoon, that bath's heavy and you're a girl.

The thing is, Graham, I said back, those are what you might call the constants in this equation. The variable is how we're going to get it down the stairs.

I used a few tricks I learnt on the canal this weekend watching 18-ton stern-steered narrowboats navigating into locks - "to me! to me!" -- only converted into three dimensions -- and wherever possible I said "and... slide!". Any five year old knows the fastest way down the stairs.

The bits that were't slideable did wipe me out rather, but the other trick is to do your panting out of view.

joella

Happy 40th Ms Y part 2

I know it's not the done thing to laugh at your own jokes, but I was thinking of Ms Y this morning and I remembered ms-y.xls, which I created for her many birthdays ago to celebrate her facility with a spreadsheet. And lo, it was still lurking in my personal files.

Friday night and the lights are low                                    
    Looking out for a missing row                                
        Consolidating her worksheet                            
            Formatting the cells                        
                She's in the mood for a chart                    
                    So she inserts some art                
                        She is the Excel Queen            
                            Young and sweet        
                                Only A1 * C13   

joella
                                   

Happy 40th, Ms Y

Here's the track listing of my special birthday compilation for Ms Y's impending canal-based fizz-quaffing rain-dancing celebrations. Because she's worth it.

Word Up! - Cameo
White Lines - Grandmaster Flash
Relax - FGTH
Praise You - Fatboy Slim
Only Living Boy In New Cross - Carter USM
Hung Up - Madonna
Don't You Want Me - Human League
Hippy Chick - Soho
Ghost Town - The Specials
Get Ur Freak On - Missy Elliott
Funkytown - Countdown
Freak Like Me - Sugababes
Dancing Queen (extended version) - ABBA
1999 - Prince

M is upstairs making *his* Ms Y-inspired compilation. If it beats mine I will eat my sou'wester.

joella

She said, 'I'm tired of the war, I want the kind of work I had before'.

Oh, I do love a bit of Leonard of a summer evening. I don't actually own this album, but I know every word of it, as I borrowed it on repeat for months and months from Blackpool Record Library in the mid-80s. My mother would come into my bedroom to find me lying on a beanbag in the dark burning joss sticks and intoning 'I stepped into an avalanche, it covered up my soul'. It was what you might call a solitary pursuit.

But who's to say they aren't the best kind sometimes? And I now keep coming across it on last.fm without even looking. My tags are its tags, my 'sounds likes' are its sounds likes, my 'also likes' take me there. It's quite spooky.

joella

More money than sense

Some people don't know they're born. A couple of weeks ago I heard about a rented house in Oxford where the tenant managed to drop her toilet cistern lid, smashing the basin, cracking the toilet bowl *and* damaging the bath. Impressive. J got the refit job, and last week passed it on to me. Start with the basin, he said, seeing as she's already had that off for you.

So this morning I got up, loaded my tools, my boots, my drill, my pipe benders and my various plumbing substances into the car, drove to Berinsfield to pick up the taps, connectors and isolation valves that J had left for me on top of the guinea pig cage; drove to the plumber's merchants to pick up a basin, a waste, a trap and a pedestal, drove to the letting agents to pick up the keys, and drove to the house in question.

Where I couldn't get in, because none of the keys fit. It turns out the tenant lost her keys, so got a locksmith out to change the locks, and didn't leave a copy with the letting agent. Oh, and then went back to the US on holiday, leaving a leaky pipe (presumably something disturbed by her bathroom smashing) dripping into the downstairs study. And her mobile number is unobtainable, maybe she lost that too.

What a spectacular waste of time and space she must be. The job sheet says 'please attend urgently'. Well I would, I said as I dropped the keys back, if I could get through the bloody door. I was extremely pissed off. But on the bright side I had a free day, and I will be able to occupy the moral high ground with the letting agents for at least the next couple of encounters. So I went to buy some posh French cakes and took them round to see my friend C, who conveniently lives round the corner from the letting agents and is home on maternity leave. Then I drove home. And now there's a sink in the shed. Thank god I didn't pick the whole lot up in one go, though I still haven't worked out how to get a bath into a car. J says I can borrow his Land Rover. I'm not sure how to get *myself* into a Land Rover. But I haven't told him that.

Moving on, I am wanting the new White Stripes album *a lot*. Which should pose no great logistical problem, but I tell you what does: does anyone have an mp3 or aac of Hippy Chick by Soho (released 1990, samples How Soon Is Now)? It's not on iTunes, it's not on allofmp3, it's not on last.fm, it *might* be on emusic but I never outstayed my free trial, it might be in a number of other places but none which don't look dodgy. I know Mr B has it, but I seem to remember that was vinyl... any thoughts?

Some brave new world this is...

joella

I never took the advice in that book

A couple of weeks ago, and apropos of nothing as far as I know, M asked me about the T-shirt that's been hanging on the wall since we moved into this house together in 2001. It's a badly-made, once-white garment bearing the following message (hand-painted, in block capitals):

"Don't saddle me with your ideals
And spare me all your guilt"

What *is* that quote, he said, and what did you mean by it? And why is it hanging on the wall?

I was hungover and sitting on the loo at the time, so it took me a while to explain. But the basics are as follows: it's a line from Billy Bragg's I Don't Need This Pressure, Ron -- one of the B-side tracks on 1985's Days Like These 12". I can (and did) quote the entire song by way of big-picture context, but that line was the one that I cared about most. 'Don't saddle me with your ideals' is a fairly obvious teenage feminist statement: I don't want to be part of your world, and watch me not be. 'And spare me all your guilt' is a bit harder to articulate. I'm still not sure what BB meant by it, but I'm not sure that matters. What *I* meant by it is perhaps best expressed by something Yoko Ono said on this week's Desert Island Discs: "My life is not about appeasing other people. My life is about being myself."

I painted it onto a T-shirt when I was about 17 because I wanted the world to know that this was how I felt. But it never really worked: every time I wore it out men would read it and say something along the lines of 'I wouldn't mind straddling you'. No, I would say, you haven't read it properly. So then they would stare at my breasts a bit harder. V quickly I realised that this T-shirt would only bring me grief, and I stopped wearing it. But I could never bear to part with it. I created it with the best of intentions. And it's hanging on the wall 20 years later because it's still true.

Fair enough, said M. I thought there must be a story behind it. I felt warm inside.

A few days later, I was sorting through photos upstairs when I heard Scholarship Is the Enemy of Romance playing loud downstairs. This could only be C, our new housemate, who has a sticker on her bike which says 'I'd rather be listening to Billy Bragg'. I've never lived with a Billy Bragg fan before. I grinned like a lunatic, knowing which track was coming up next, and ran downstairs to catch it -- I have it, obviously, but I don't think I've played it for about five years. 'So don't saddle me with your ideals, and spare me all your guilt', I sang from the middle room. 'For a poet with all the answers has never yet been built', she sang back from the kitchen.

Truth is stranger than fiction.

joella

Andy & Liz's wedding

I like the one of the photographer the best...more on Flickr here.




joella

And on the fifth day...

After a long and not terribly productive week, I thought a civilised dinner out might be in order: had we stayed in we would have grouched at each other, and I didn't want to do that. We ended up in Euphrates, eating meze (very good, though the whitebait was a mistake) and drinking Lebanese Arak (very good full stop), and discussing... abortion. How cheerful. But civilised in its way: we'd both (separately) listened to this week's Moral Maze, scheduled to mark the 40th anniversary of the 1967 Abortion Act (definitely worth a listen, incidentally: if only all discussion on the subject were so reasoned) and we both wanted to talk about it.

I still don't think we agree, though it's detail we disagree on (when and how), not fundamentals (whether), so I can live with that. And debate is healthy: if you don't get the odd brickbat thrown at your views from time to time you can't decide if they still stand up or not.

We stopped in at Videosyncratic to borrow The History Boys, then wandered back. By the time we neared home I was trying unsuccessfully to explain why, with the honourable exception of Closer to Fine, I can't bear the Indigo Girls. I *ought* to like them, I was saying, but it's just one minority cause too many. Environmentally aware lesbian folk songs about Native Americans, I can't do it. Please don't bury my heart at wounded knee! Bury it somewhere else! Well, said M, strictly speaking that's a Buffy Sainte Marie song.

She's even worse, I said. I hear a Buffy Sainte Marie album and I want to put on Led Zeppelin and eat liver! Add anal sex to that list, said M, and I'll buy you a copy. You're all heart, I said, and marched up the front path.

The film was fantastic, though I don't for a moment believe 18 year old boys from Yorkshire would ever be that comfortable with themselves, not even the cleverest ones in the school, not even in 1983. But it was very touching, very interesting and very, very funny.

Mrs. Lintott: And you, Rudge? How do you define history?  
Rudge: Can I speak freely without being hit?  
Mrs. Lintott: You have my protection.  
Rudge: How do I define history? Well it's just one fucking thing after another, isn't it?

Isn't it just.

joella
  

Open Garden

Jardin de joella 4
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

M is on the Events Committee of our local residents' association. I co-edit its newsletter. We are both slightly embarrassed to find ourselves community-minded in this way, but a) we have the skills and b) if you don't have small children you have to look for ways to meet your neighbours. So when the Open Gardens idea was mooted at a recent Events meeting, our names went down.

We worked like bastards to make our garden worth Opening. We weren't sure we had succeeded. About 30 people came to look at it today -- we had baby Tungsten round providing distractions, but people generally seemed to think we'd done ok with our 16 by 60 foot space.

A few people stood on the doorstep and said 'you're very brave to be doing this' before they'd even seen it. They were the ones who made us feel all right. And if you're reading this and you were part of the landscaping posse three years ago -- thanks: the terracing was the Most Admired. And rightly so.

joella

Bloodied but unbowed

On Wednesday, I did a full day's managing of information and then drove back to the bathroom of the ex-husband of Plumbing S to solder the new heating pipes and let the electrician in. J the plumber turned up at 10.30pm. The electrician left at 11.30. We were there till 1.30. I was starting to see things. I woke up at five panicking slightly, so I got up, got dressed and went back there. I did another 12 hours, then I left for my Plumbing Class Night Out (of which more later). It still wasn't finished. J the plumber went in later to sort out the final bits. He called it the bathroom from hell, and he should know.

What was so evil about the bathroom of the ex-husband of Plumbing S?

1. Incomplete basin: it needed legs, which it didn't have, so we had to build a frame. Also in a different place to the old basin, and once the frame was in the floor couldn't come up, so lots of jiggling round fitting pipes through little holes.
2. Incomplete basin taps: no fixing nut, no little grommet thing for the waste lever.
3. Crap basin waste: not enough thread for the S bend to seal, which meant the S bend washer had to be cut down with a hacksaw. Nice.
4. 'Non-applicable' WC - back to the wall pan with wall hanging cistern. J managed to fit it in the end but not before he'd threatened to take it back to the shop that sold it to the ex-husband of plumbing S and 'throw it through the fucking window and say "you fucking fit it"'.
5. Cheap and nasty pre-fitted siphon and float valve which pissed water everywhere and had to be taken apart and re-fitted.
6. Wall-mounted bath taps and shower bar which will need to be taken off for tiling (and the tiles are stone and about 10mm thick) but which had no fixings of their own so needed to be supported by rigid pipework. *You* try designing rigid pipework which can be moved back 10mm. It's not impossible but it's a pain in the arse.
7. P-shaped bath: needed to be installed exactly 542mm off the floor to accommodate the side panel. Floor was made of old, often-soaked and much messed about with tongue and groove chipboard which could in no way be described as either flat or level.
8. Heated towel rail which fit too close to the wall to take standard radiator valves, on a different wall to the original radiator.

And that was just the plumbing, never mind the electrics, which had the electrician by turns baffled and really bloody annoyed. It nearly killed me. At five to six on Thursday I came over all funny and realised my ability to hit things hard had been premenstrually enhanced. There was still no toilet. I rang J and said 'right, I'm off, there are some things a girl can't do in the garden'. 'How much do I owe you?' he said. 'A week in the sun,' I replied.

At home I threw all my clothes into the washing machine and legged it upstairs for painkillers, san-pro, a good scrub and a bit of mascara, then I jumped on my bike and headed off into town for my Plumbing Class Night Out. It was very strange but lots of fun, we went to the pub, then for a curry, then to the pub again. I was a bit manic, I fear, but I did get the chance to tell J the stores manager than it was terrifying at first and he was a big part of making it less terrifying. I also had the pleasure of seeing Plumbing S drinking a pint. I don't think she's ever done that before. I'm not sure she'll do it again.

We broke up at the Head of the River at 11.30 and I realised my back bike light wasn't working. I had also had four pints. I decided it was too risky to cycle through town. Also too risky to cycle down Abingdon Road and over Donnington Bridge. And I really couldn't be arsed to walk. I know, I thought, I'll go down the towpath.

I balanced at the top of the slope down onto it from Folly Bridge thinking 'now, is it sensible for a drunk woman on her own to cycle down the river at this time of night?'. Then I thought 'fuck it', released my brakes and swooped down into the darkness.

And it was magical. The river was as still as glass, the moon was out, the swans drifted by asleep in mid-stream. It was dark and silent and peaceful and warm and glorious. I started the day feeling tiny and anxious. I ended it feeling invincible.

joella

The poo most travelled

Warning: not for the squeamish.

Monday night and all day yesterday (and tonight and all day tomorrow) I have been / will be refitting a bathroom in a house recently bought by the ex-husband of Plumbing S. It's a much bigger job than I would take on by myself at this stage, but it came through J the plumber, who met the ex-husband of Plumbing S when he rodded out their drains one Christmas Eve. I think the ex-husband of Plumbing S would rather it was J the plumber doing the work (and based on experiences so far, so would I) but J the plumber doesn't work like that. He distributes, and he troubleshoots. Don't worry Jo, he said, you'll be fine.

He came over on Monday night to help me drain down the central heating system, and (literally) kicked out the bath and the WC while he was there. He left the basin and the radiator for me to remove, and I turned up by myself first thing yesterday feeling a bit nervous but ready for action.

I was balanced between two floor joists surveying the pipework and trying to decide what to do first, when I realised I really, really needed a poo. 'I'll just go to the...' Oh.

I did not know what to do. Poo in the garden and bury it (but he might dig it up, and I would always, always know it was there)? Drive home (not enough time)? Go in a bucket (only one bucket and it was already in use, and anyway *then* what would I do with it)? Knock on a neighbour's door (hello, you've never met me, but can I take a dump in your toilet Right Now)? What *is* the done thing in these situations? I really have no idea.

In the end I made a little nest of toilet paper where the toilet should be, and offered thanks to the gods for being well-practised at squatting. Then I carefully wrapped up my poo, which seemed twice as big as normal, but then I don't normally pick them up, put it in a carrier bag and put it in the car.

That wasn't such a good idea, as it was a hot day yesterday and later on I had to drive with my poo in the passenger stairwell all the way to the plumber's merchants and all the way back. When I returned I took it out of the car and put it down by the wheelie bin (but the wheelie bin was empty, and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving it lurking in there, it would surely give itself away).

So when I finally left for the day I scooped up my poo for its final journey, and drove as fast as I dared. There was no one in when I got home, thank goodness, so I was able to dispatch it in short order and deposit its bag in my own wheelie bin.

There has to be a better way. Maybe I should get a litte tin?

joella