And liberty she pirouette, when I think that I am free

I knew that M really wanted to go to this year's WOMAD -- we used to go every year, but it got more and more complicated, coordinating children (his) and friends (both of ours), and setting up camp proper festival style with gazebos and flags and inflatable sofas and many tents. By 2003 I felt like a project manager (which is not how I want to feel on my holidays) and then 2004 was a wet year, and I just couldn't muster the enthusiasm after that. This year he offered me a low-impact 'just the two of us and a tent like the old days' option. I still wasn't up for it, my opinions are like ocean liners: they take a long time to build and nearly as long to turn around, but then I looked at the line up (Peter Gabriel, Isaac Hayes, Baaba Maal, Sheila Chandra, Asian Dub Foundation, something folky with Billy Bragg in) and the site (a move from tightly packed city centre Reading to grounds of Malmesbury stately home) and said yeah, ok, let's do it.

So we bought tickets. And watched the weather forecasts with increasing alarm. M drove us to Wiltshire in torrential rain, while I threw all maps aside once it became clear that the road we should be taking was flooded -- the last direction I gave was 'follow those WOMAD Diversion signs', though I was still calm, having indulged in a rare Temazepam the night before, figuring I needed a decent night's sleep, and I wasn't going to get one if I didn't suppress my anxiety somehow.

And on the bright side (and there definitely was one)

• you could see what a beautiful site it could be if it wasn't ankle-to-knee deep in mud
• our tent held water, and -- more than that -- held us very well, as it always has done
• falafel, noodles, burritos, Madras Cafe thalis, Lulu's Cafe vegetarian breakfasts, and lots and lots of Gem by Bath Ales -- the finest beer I have ever drunk at a festival (Simon, more on this later)
  
• mud makes you feel ok about being a thirty-something person with a camping chair
• mud gives you licence to wee in a plastic pint glass in the middle of the night: who wants to confront something resembling the Somme in their pyjamas? (Hint to amateurs: if you think there's more than a pint in there -- and if you think there is, there almost certainly is -- then you'll need pelvic floor muscles that could stop a train. Wee half a pint, stop, pour it out the tent door, then do the rest. If you try to stop after a full pint, unless you have pelvic floor muscles that could stop a tank, you'll fail. And if there's one thing worse than trying to sleep with a full bladder, it's trying to sleep in your own wee)
  
• even in extreme circumstances, there are still WOMAD Moments. The best one for both of us happened at the same time, yet was not shared... it was when Peter Gabriel sang Solsbury Hill (this is not Friday's version, but I'll replace the link as/when one appears). I remembered a New Year's Eve many years ago that I spent with my Significant Ex (before he was my Significant Other), Mr B, his scary friend W, and a girl whose name I forget. Mr B lived in Bath in those days. We had posh drinks with his parents, and then he drove us up Solsbury Hill in his rickety mushroom-coloured Mini. We made a fire, took various drugs, drank various drinks and listened to music on one of those cassette players that you used to find attached to BBC Bs. I remember the buttons clunking as we turned the tapes over. It was fucking freezing. I don't ow what we were thinking. Hearing that song live, about 20 miles away from Solsbury Hill, down the muddy front, mired and squashed and laden with camping chairs but still sort of dancing, I did shed a tear. Halfway through, I looked up at M, to find him sobbing like a child. I asked him why later, and he was crying for times past too.
  

But ultimately, WOMAD for me is about the incidental, the serendipitous... lazy warm evenings lying on rugs drinking hot cider and listening to Cubans or Palestinians or Sri Lankans or Malians doing their stuff, and imagining a world where it was like this all the time. The best WOMADs are dusty and magical, and bring belief in the redemptive power of song. You'll never hear any of them again, but that's ok, there will be more next year. You can do yoga in the mornings, and sneak off for a shower in the middle of the night, to beat the queue and for the joy of washing in hot water under the stars.

And this year couldn't deliver any of that. Getting around was murderously hard work and there was little relaxing to be done except up by the tents (and even that was a bit edgy thanks to a spate of thieving). I salute the people who worked their arses off to keep the show on the road and the toilets clean, but it was hard going for audiences as well, and there were lots of things they simply couldn't manage to keep going -- the water points ran dry, the running order was all over the place, the main thoroughfares were constantly being churned up by tractors doing urgent things. Keep smiling! a nice woman said to me as I nearly fell over for the millionth time (note to self: too-big wellies come off easily - this is useful for gardening but shit for serious mud). I tried, but when the severe weather warning for Saturday night was relayed round the site, I realised that I wasn't having fun, and would be having even less if it rained another drop.

We negotiated. It's not an endurance test, I said to M. The difference between us is that he kind of thinks it is, that there is honour in seeing a muddy festival through. He didn't want to give up. I didn't want to spend another 24 hours wishing I was clean and/or could sit down, or another 24 hours worrying that the car would be bogged down in the slurry left by the wheel-spinning of wiser people than us. I just don't love world music that much.

It wasn't an easy decision, not least because we were tired and fractious when we were trying to make it, but we left early. We trudged out to the car with the last load, following the steady stream of fellow campers who had made the same decision. Bye bye WOMAD! said a little girl behind me, and I turned round to say my own goodbye. The gate we were leaving by had a big cardboard sign reading 'Welcome to WOMUD'. I knew then it was the right decision.

joella

Getting deeper

Oxford flood 2007_13
Originally uploaded by lenastrid.

The Waterman's Arms used to be my local when ex-housmate S and I lived on Riverside Road (not a desirable address at the moment, though we lived on top of a storage building so we were ok when it flooded, which it did, but not like this).

We were trying to get down the towpath on Sunday for an afternoon pint at the Waterman's, but the water was knee deep and we turned back. And now it looks like this...

joella

Sandbags at dawn

Sandbags at dawn
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

I was supposed to be doing some pipework in a pub in Abingdon this morning... J the plumber said 'can you get there by 7'? Sure, I said, not at all sure.

I was even less sure as the floodwaters rose across Oxfordshire... yesterday they closed the train station and the Botley Road in Oxford, and water levels on substantial chunks of roads Abingdonwards moved inexorably upwards.

So I was relieved to get a text from J just before midnight (I should have been asleep, but I fell prey to the new Harry Potter book): 'change of plan can you head to P in Long Wittenham x'. 'Ok will call a.m. x' I sent back.

A.m. came and the road to Long Wittenham was one of those under water. I called J and he said 'the road's clear to Berry (Berinsfield, where he lives), get over here and we'll take the Land Rover'.

So I did. And we did.

He grinned at me as I peered nervously out the window: the water was higher than the wheel arches, and Land Rover wheel arches are pretty high. You've never done this before, have you? he said.

When he's not plumbing, J does stuff for ERT Search and Rescue. If you're going to get yourself driven through floodwater, you want someone like him at the wheel.

I was glad to get home to my house up a hill, mind, where M correctly identified low-level oppression caused by broken washing machine, called Hotpoint and poked me with a stick until I agreed to go swimming with him. 20 lengths of crawl helped, and his macaroni cheese with garlicky greens helped some more.

I may occasionally give the impression that I don't like men, but really I think a lot of them are pretty cool.

joella

As good as *what* gets, exactly?

Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

What's wrong with *you*? said M as I stomped around while we were waiting for a bus the other weekend. Look at that fucking advert, I said. I resent having to stand near it. In fact I might boycott this bus stop till it's bloody well gone.

He looked at it for a while. Is it because you don't like sport? he said.

No it is not, I said. Well, maybe only obliquely. Look who has been playing sport. Look who's been keeping the cider cold while looking pretty in a tea dress. Look who's talking. Look who's not. Who's going to be washing those cricket whites, do you suppose?

Oh, he said. I should have spotted that, shouldn't I?

I'm going to send you back, I said, and order a Stepford boyfriend who will do a better job of picking up gender oppression messages in popular culture.

joella

Nice weather for slugs

I was aquaplaning to work yesterday, pressing random buttons hoping the rear windscreen wiper would come on (how often do you need to use that, eh? pretty much never) and twirling random dials trying to stop the windscreen misting up when a big orange light came on on the dashboard. Shit, I thought, I've just drained the brake fluid or something. This is no time to be breaking down, I'll drown if I get out of the car. I tested all the vital functions I could think of (brakes, lights, er, that's it), and proceeded in mild terror, trying my very hardest not to soak people waiting at bus stops with my backwash. It was a bit like negotiating a hovercraft. The light continued to glare at me.

When I got to work I parked up and dug out the user manual, hoping whatever was wrong wouldn't cost hundreds of pounds to fix, but fearing that it would, as everything that goes wrong with M's car costs hundreds of pounds to fix.

But I was in luck: the warning light in question turned out to be a 'drive carefully, it's pissing it down' light. How very useful, I'd never have worked that out for myself. My 2cv used to warn you of the same thing by dripping gently into your lap through the hole in the roof.

Later I learnt of children stranded in schools, unreachable villages and cancelled festivals, so I felt I had got off pretty lightly, but that didn't stop me getting furious when our student neighbours poached the taxi we'd booked to save us waiting damply at the bus stop laden with food for dinner with our friends C&G. Little bastards (our neighbours, not C&G). But we got there in the end, and it was dry when we left, full of curry and watermelon, a little stoned, and just in the mood for a stroll past Evenlode Tower. It's beautiful at night, whatever they say. The Blackbird at chucking out time is not beautiful (it's an unfulfilled ambition of mine to find someone willing to take me in there for a pint, but this may be one of those ambitions best left unfulfilled), but the bus stop opposite was only mildly intimidating, and even at that time of night you've never more than 10 minutes to wait for a bus. Cities are great.

When we got home, there was a slug party happening on the path. I think they were eating the entrails of a snail that had perished there previously. See that? I said (or maybe just thought, I was a bit out of it). That's what little boys are made of. Some of them grow up ok though.

joella

Fishing for strawberries

What I like about you, Jo, one of my friends said recently-ish, is that you're a constant in a changing world.

I considered how to take this, and decided that it was a compliment. I wouldn't say I don't change, but it's true that I evolve slowly. I think about things long and hard before I decide where I stand on them, and when I've decided where I stand, I stand firm until convinced otherwise. 

I prefer to wear things out than to throw them away. I have a pair of socks that I've had since I was 11. My lucky pants are 23 years old (and still lucky!), and I still wear a Lynx T-shirt ("it takes up to 40 dumb animals to make a fur coat, but only one to wear it") that was a 21st birthday present. I bought my green vegetarian Doc Martens in 1993 and they're still going strong.

I'm ridiculously brand loyal. I've had one mobile phone provider and three handsets (all Nokia) since 1995. I've never changed utility or landline provider, though that might change since the bastards have started charging me for the privilege of receiving a bill in the post. All my butter is Lurpak, all my washing powder is Ecover, all my lip balm is Blistex. I do my research, and when I find something I like, I stick with it. I had a minor panic on Tuesday when I tried to go to the Body Shop to buy some perfume (White Musk, since 1984 -- I've tried a few others but always go back) and it wasn't there any more (the shop, not the perfume -- but fortunately it's just moved round the corner).

I don't like waste and I try to see things through. I had my first car for 14 years. I generally finish books, and bottles of shampoo. I remember more than I let on. I never forget a favour, but I can hold a grudge forever. (The safest thing is not to meet me at all). The mainstays of my personal politics -- feminism, vegetarianism, socialism -- have changed very little in the last 20 years. When I was 17, I knew I would never get married, I knew I would never vote Tory, and I knew I would never eat steak. And I haven't.

That's not because I *wouldn't*, if that was the right thing for me to do. But it never has been. I think I was lucky, in that I more or less knew who I was a long time ago. I've grown older and grown up a lot, been more places, done more things, met more people, had more thoughts, tried more products, gained things, lost things, but nothing fundamental has changed. I don't see myself as a fixed point of reference, but I guess I can still be a place from which to take bearings. I think this is probably a good thing,

I learnt about a summer fruit thing you can do this weekend, but I've forgotten what it's called. You start it off with early season soft fruit, like strawberries: put them in a big pot, soak them in alcohol, like grappa, and put a weighted plate on top to squash them down. As the summer progresses, you add other fruit, in layers -- raspberries, cherries, plums etc, with more alcohol, and keep the plate on. By the end of summer you've added the blackcurrants, and you've got something that will give you boozy fruit all winter.

Maybe that's what I'm like. Maybe that's what we're all like -- the blackcurrants are the most visible bits, but the strawberries are still there underneath. 

joella

Don't go breaking my heart

Oops, too late.

Luckily, there's glue.

joella

Pause for thought that might save a life

Ghost bike
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

I saw this bike a few weeks ago, but I only found out why it's there when I saw Damian's photo of it.

It's a ghost bike, left as a memorial to the 22 year old cyclist who was killed following a collision with a lorry at this junction a few months ago.

Is this street art? Whatever it is, it's brilliant. I can think of at least two more people who have died in places I cycle past regularly -- the YHA near the train station, and the Elm Tree on Cowley Road -- who should have a ghost bike too. The first I just read about, the second I came closer to than I like to remember. But remembering is important.

joella

Wake up and smell the beer

Wake up and smell the beer
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

The smoking ban had been in force for six days before I went to the pub. I can't believe it took me so long. We were up in Lancs this weekend, and dropped into the Queens for last orders on Saturday night. I worked in the Queens many years ago, and it was scruffy, smoky, a bit druggy, a bit scary, and very, very loud. I loved it, but I was most of those things myself back then.

Two weeks ago, I would have said that it was still noisy and still smoky, but otherwise unrecognisable (about 10 years ago it had its guts ripped out, its heart covered in tasteful hardwearing fabric, and its soul laminated). Now it's just noisy.

It's weird. Good weird -- *very* good weird -- but weird nonetheless.

Woke up on Sunday and went out to check that it was still true. We met up with A Free Man in Preston and Girl on a Train in a pub which has great beer but which used to be like sitting in the bottom of an ashtray. Wow, said M, when we walked through the door, it smells like beer in here.

And indeed it did. We weren't worried it wouldn't last, so we stayed in there for a good three hours just to make sure. When we emerged, it was the only thing we *were* sure of. But in a good way.

I felt a bit ropey later. I blame it on the Moonlight.

joella

Codeine Queen

On days like today (the painters are in, and this month they're playing death metal), I'd be nowhere without codeine. What a marvellous drug it is. I normally take it over-the-counter strength in the form of Nurofen Plus, and it's one of the things, like pickled vegetables and ear buds, that I never let myself run out of. Yet this morning I couldn't find any anywhere. I was panicked. It was 8.20 am, I had a nine o'clock meeting with my manager, and I was curled up in a ball fighting tears and thinking dark thoughts.

M came to the rescue with Solpadol, which his GP prescribed him after he injured himself last month by driving a go-kart into a wall. I took two, wrapped myself in a very large cardigan and got on with it. Twenty minutes later, I was nicely spaced out, and I've been calm and floaty all day. I'm *never* this benign without chemical assistance. I can see how it might be habit-forming.

Shall I go home now? Yes, I think I shall. I'll just have another glass of Vimto first.

joella

"Getting rid of that 'just kidnapped' look"

The last time I cried during the Today Programme was when they were marking the 40th anniversary of the Six Day War.

More broadly, I have shed tears over the Situation In That Part Of The World, as I call it, on more occasions than I care to count.

One memorable one was in the toilets at Loughborough University after I danced to I Will Survive with a Palestinian colleague who had made a very long and difficult journey from Nablus to talk to us about trying to restore destroyed water supplies to households living under curfew.

Another was when I went to a talk given by a journalist writing about the Middle East for the Economist. The crux of his message was 'basically, it's completely fucked'. He didn't hold out any hope whatever, and he was pretty much right. I hadn't considered before that it might be hopeless, and it upset me a lot.

What did it for me on the Today Programme in question, however, wasn't the all-too-familiar back and forth of entrenched, furious, fundamentally opposing points of view. I dozed through some parts of it, shouted at other parts, tried to reconcile still others with what I've been told and what I've read. No, what did it for me was the last fifteen seconds, when they ended with a tribute to their colleague Alan Johnston and a wish for his safe release. It was one of those rare Today Programme endings that runs directly into the pips. I am sure they do them on purpose for extra poignancy. They usually work, and this one certainly did: I sobbed till I'd (temporarily) run out of sadness.

This morning I woke up to hear that he was on his way home, and that the tireless campaigning by his colleagues, and journalists everywhere, had got through to him via the World Service. It made me cry all over again. There were 28 days, give or take, between these two bouts of sobbing, so my reaction is perhaps not surprising, but they were all tears worth shedding.

And while the Situation In That Part Of The World still looks pretty fucking bleak, I am so happy they let him go. I bloody love the World Service. Nothing else comes close. Principled journalism is one of the few pinpricks of light in the darkness created when unstoppable forces meet immovable objects.

joella

Recovery position

Petunia, lobelia and pink Rioja
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.

On Saturday, we went to the last wedding of the season. The last wedding of *our* season, anyway. We were invited because I lived with the bride R (and the bridesmaid K) for a while just after I split with my Significant Ex, having answered an ad in Daily Information which read 'Sane, clean, Guardian-reading woman wanted: No wallpaper TV addicts please'. When I turned up to view the room they were playing Ani DiFranco and I loved them both immediately. It was the best place I could have moved to, and I loved living with them, and I love the fact that we are still friends nine years later. Additionally, R was marrying a genuinely lovely man. Additionally still, it was one of those weddings that you know will be ok because you know that the couple in question feel at least as ambivalent about the wedding industry as you do yourself.

When the invitation came, I thought it was very modern of a church hall to get itself licensed for a civil ceremony, but it turned out that they actually got married on the Friday in a register office, and what was happening was an exchange of vows and rings and a general (secular) celebration.

Still very modern, and utterly admirable. There was lots of wine, but we were also invited to bring our own (and the church hall in question was conveniently located 100 yards from an Oddbins selling splendid pink Rioja). There was a best man, but she was a woman. There were speeches, and the bride made one of them. The bridesmaid made another, which made me cry with laughter. There were vows about equal partnership, which made me cry for other reasons. There were flowers on the tables, and we were invited to take them home and plant them in our gardens (to save the bride and groom having to take them back to their own).

There was also bunting. You can't have too much bunting. And there was mucho, mucho dancing. I did myself a mischief during True Faith, and compounded it during Common People.

I wish we'd left by 9.30, which was the plan, and would have made a lot of sense, given that we'd been drinking since 3.30. But as it was we were still there when the lights went up, and stood uncertainly at the bus stop at midnight (or thereabouts), clutching plant pots and talking bollocks.

And three days later I am still feeling it. Sunday... forget it. Monday... misanthropic. Tuesday... venturing back into polite society.

This is another reason I've never got married. I'd be hungover for a week.