I left the room because nobody wanted to talk about poverty and faith and gender, and that's my topic of the day. I went to a seriously interesting talk about this (among many other things) at lunchtime, so in a way I started it, but it went off in its own direction and I was suddenly on the outside.
Housemate P was talking about faith. M was talking about maths.
But what happened, said P, before there was algebra?
There's always been algebra, said M. There might not have been anyone around to experience it, but it was still there. All of existence is numbers. Numbers is all of existence.
Heck. I shall go and tend the fire. *There's* something I believe in.
joella
Friday, November 28, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sloe business
A month ago, there were two litres of sloe gin, steeping, we said as we stabbed the sloes with forks, for Christmas. Now there is one litre.
I have no regrets. The sloe gathering was huge fun, and only minor injuries were sustained. Likewise the preparation. The end product, even with inadequate steepage, was glorious. No lives were lost, and many arguments were augmented.
No, the problem is as follows: I'd like to see if we can get more sloe gin out of the prematurely drained sloes, by adding more gin and more sugar to the empty (bar sloes) bottle. It's a high risk manoeuvre, but it might just work. M agrees the risk is high, and would like to spread it across both bottles: decant half the gin from the already steeped litre into the drained one, then add more sugar and gin to both. I would rather risk losing a litre of cheap gin (well, 750 ml, the rest is sloes) by adding sugar to it and have nothing else happen than compromise the quality of our remaining purple ambrosia.
What to do (given that there is still a month to go till Christmas)?
joella
I have no regrets. The sloe gathering was huge fun, and only minor injuries were sustained. Likewise the preparation. The end product, even with inadequate steepage, was glorious. No lives were lost, and many arguments were augmented.
No, the problem is as follows: I'd like to see if we can get more sloe gin out of the prematurely drained sloes, by adding more gin and more sugar to the empty (bar sloes) bottle. It's a high risk manoeuvre, but it might just work. M agrees the risk is high, and would like to spread it across both bottles: decant half the gin from the already steeped litre into the drained one, then add more sugar and gin to both. I would rather risk losing a litre of cheap gin (well, 750 ml, the rest is sloes) by adding sugar to it and have nothing else happen than compromise the quality of our remaining purple ambrosia.
What to do (given that there is still a month to go till Christmas)?
joella
Post-viral reality TV
Right, I said to M last night as we watched Survivors, if I get it first, fill the bath with cold water. And every pan in the house. Maybe we should get a water butt after all.
Jo, he said, it's television. It's not really happening.
Hmm, I said. OK, let's have another sloe gin.
Later, the ethnically diverse bunch of sensible women (apart from the one in shock) and aggressive men (apart from the little boy) that were left to carry on the human race stood on the fast lane of the M25 and wondered where to go.
Well somewhere with a well and a septic tank, obviously, I said. Like, duh.
Jo, he said.
OK, OK, I said. But you know, if J the plumber and M the Field Secretary have made it, I reckon we'll be all right.
joella
Jo, he said, it's television. It's not really happening.
Hmm, I said. OK, let's have another sloe gin.
Later, the ethnically diverse bunch of sensible women (apart from the one in shock) and aggressive men (apart from the little boy) that were left to carry on the human race stood on the fast lane of the M25 and wondered where to go.
Well somewhere with a well and a septic tank, obviously, I said. Like, duh.
Jo, he said.
OK, OK, I said. But you know, if J the plumber and M the Field Secretary have made it, I reckon we'll be all right.
joella
Sunday, November 23, 2008
No BNP near me
A request came round this week to join a 'working party' on the allotments this morning -- there was a chopped down tree to clear, and some hedging to plant. It was a glorious morning, so we girded our loins, rugged up and got on down there. I wasn't really sure what to do, but direction was provided, and pretty soon we were lopping and wheeling and dragging dead wood up the site and handing it over to a man who was building a bonfire with the look of someone who has been building bonfires for many years. It was amazing how quickly the tree was broken down and shifted, and then we started digging holes for hazel and buckthorn and spindle.
After a couple of hours, we knocked the dirt off our spades and began taking our leave -- M had offered housemate P a lift to the bus stop with his music gear, and anyway our lower backs were feeling the pinch. Well you can't go *yet*, said M the Field Secretary. We're just about to have a drink. And he produced a bottle of Southern Comfort which he proceeded to mix with hot blackcurrant squash from a giant Thermos and hand round in plastic beakers.
Southern Comfort was briefly my drink of choice, just after my vodka and lime phase. I decided it was cool, in the same way I decided that Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes were cool, and I drank it, and smoked them (on special occasions -- the rest of the time it was mostly Embassy Regal), until I moved onto beer and roll ups when I became a Proper Student.
I've hardly had Southern Comfort since, for the very good reason that it is pretty disgusting, but this was different. It was a hot sweet drink on a cold sharp day, stomping on the ground to keep warm, looking around and laughing with everyone taking the serious piss out of Joe Swift, and realising that I was the youngest and the smallest and the only female person there, and certainly (with the possible exception of M) knew the least about growing vegetables, but that this didn't, at that moment, matter one iota. Knowledge comes, and I can drag a chunk of tree with the best of them.
I set off home feeling warm of heart, muzzy of head and heavy of foot, as there was a massive clump of clay firmly attached to each of my wellies. There was a clear need for snacks, so I took a detour via the Best Samosa Shop In Town, a tiny, friendly Muslim-run newsagent on Magdalen Road where I made my purchases on the threshold because by the time I got there I was shedding mud with every step.
Then I poured a glass of white and spent a little while getting to know my enemy by perusing the leaked list of BNP members. Lancashire doesn't come out of it well, I have to say, and there is one on the street I grew up on, which is rather sad but not that surprising. But Oxford, for a city, doesn't do so bad. You can see the list on wikileaks, or for a neat graphic representation, which doesn't name names, check out BNP Near Me? You'd think, looking at that, that the centre of Oxford was completely BNP free, but scrutiny of the list reveals that there is one instance where the OX4 postcode has been typo-ed as OX41. A&L, he's on your street. Sorry about that.
But I'm looking on the bright side. The bonfire will be lit on the winter solstice, and there will be more Southern Comfort and stomping to do.
joella
After a couple of hours, we knocked the dirt off our spades and began taking our leave -- M had offered housemate P a lift to the bus stop with his music gear, and anyway our lower backs were feeling the pinch. Well you can't go *yet*, said M the Field Secretary. We're just about to have a drink. And he produced a bottle of Southern Comfort which he proceeded to mix with hot blackcurrant squash from a giant Thermos and hand round in plastic beakers.
Southern Comfort was briefly my drink of choice, just after my vodka and lime phase. I decided it was cool, in the same way I decided that Sobranie Cocktail cigarettes were cool, and I drank it, and smoked them (on special occasions -- the rest of the time it was mostly Embassy Regal), until I moved onto beer and roll ups when I became a Proper Student.
I've hardly had Southern Comfort since, for the very good reason that it is pretty disgusting, but this was different. It was a hot sweet drink on a cold sharp day, stomping on the ground to keep warm, looking around and laughing with everyone taking the serious piss out of Joe Swift, and realising that I was the youngest and the smallest and the only female person there, and certainly (with the possible exception of M) knew the least about growing vegetables, but that this didn't, at that moment, matter one iota. Knowledge comes, and I can drag a chunk of tree with the best of them.
I set off home feeling warm of heart, muzzy of head and heavy of foot, as there was a massive clump of clay firmly attached to each of my wellies. There was a clear need for snacks, so I took a detour via the Best Samosa Shop In Town, a tiny, friendly Muslim-run newsagent on Magdalen Road where I made my purchases on the threshold because by the time I got there I was shedding mud with every step.
Then I poured a glass of white and spent a little while getting to know my enemy by perusing the leaked list of BNP members. Lancashire doesn't come out of it well, I have to say, and there is one on the street I grew up on, which is rather sad but not that surprising. But Oxford, for a city, doesn't do so bad. You can see the list on wikileaks, or for a neat graphic representation, which doesn't name names, check out BNP Near Me? You'd think, looking at that, that the centre of Oxford was completely BNP free, but scrutiny of the list reveals that there is one instance where the OX4 postcode has been typo-ed as OX41. A&L, he's on your street. Sorry about that.
But I'm looking on the bright side. The bonfire will be lit on the winter solstice, and there will be more Southern Comfort and stomping to do.
joella
Monday, November 17, 2008
Willing to fight?
I bought the Guardian as usual on Saturday, having returned to the newspapers, if not the radio, with the Obama victory. I normally buy it, with a loaf of Polish bread, from our local Asian newsagents. This week though, I bought it in the Co-op, from the smiling young man of African extraction who usually makes a point of asking if I have any ID, and then laughing a lot, because from him I am usually buying wine.
But he wasn't smiling when I handed the paper over. 'Everybody wants to talk about Baby P', he said. There was nobody waiting behind me, and we both stood there together for a few moments, looking down at the photo of him on the front page. It felt like we should mark the unspeakable awfulness of it, but we didn't have a very good way of doing it.
To be frank, I felt much the same way about the Remembrance Sunday ceremony I attended the previous weekend while I was Up North visiting the parentals. My dad came out of the cafe opposite the War Memorial at about 30 seconds to 11, stayed for the two minutes silence and then disappeared back in. I lasted a little bit longer on either side, but not much. 'I didn't expect there to be so much God stuff in it,' I said as I squeezed back into the booth. And I didn't -- he did, which is why he timed his cheese toastie with such precision: he's done this before. Atheists want to do their remembering too.
To make matters worse it was the unchallenging yet somehow non-inclusive sort of God stuff that I find so non-comforting at funerals. Every self-important civic dignitary, committee member and general do-gooder in town was there, plus some embarrassed looking naval cadets, a sprinkling of elderly veterans and a truly awful brass band. But that was about it. Large swathes of the Great British Public, in fact, were largely unrepresented, maybe because they couldn't be arsed, but also because I suspect it would have been as irrelevant, or worse, a ceremony to the great majority as it was to me. And I think we should be able to do better than that.
I always buy, and wear, a red poppy, and when I can get hold of one I wear a white poppy too. When I was at school I used to buy two red ones and paint one of them with Tipp-Ex (which is quite sweet when I look back at it), because I had no idea where to get a white one. There still weren't any other white poppies on display in small town Lancashire last weekend. Can't say I'm surprised: to my mind, the white poppy is for the grey areas, and I didn't sense much desire to acknowledge those.
joella
But he wasn't smiling when I handed the paper over. 'Everybody wants to talk about Baby P', he said. There was nobody waiting behind me, and we both stood there together for a few moments, looking down at the photo of him on the front page. It felt like we should mark the unspeakable awfulness of it, but we didn't have a very good way of doing it.
To be frank, I felt much the same way about the Remembrance Sunday ceremony I attended the previous weekend while I was Up North visiting the parentals. My dad came out of the cafe opposite the War Memorial at about 30 seconds to 11, stayed for the two minutes silence and then disappeared back in. I lasted a little bit longer on either side, but not much. 'I didn't expect there to be so much God stuff in it,' I said as I squeezed back into the booth. And I didn't -- he did, which is why he timed his cheese toastie with such precision: he's done this before. Atheists want to do their remembering too. To make matters worse it was the unchallenging yet somehow non-inclusive sort of God stuff that I find so non-comforting at funerals. Every self-important civic dignitary, committee member and general do-gooder in town was there, plus some embarrassed looking naval cadets, a sprinkling of elderly veterans and a truly awful brass band. But that was about it. Large swathes of the Great British Public, in fact, were largely unrepresented, maybe because they couldn't be arsed, but also because I suspect it would have been as irrelevant, or worse, a ceremony to the great majority as it was to me. And I think we should be able to do better than that.
I always buy, and wear, a red poppy, and when I can get hold of one I wear a white poppy too. When I was at school I used to buy two red ones and paint one of them with Tipp-Ex (which is quite sweet when I look back at it), because I had no idea where to get a white one. There still weren't any other white poppies on display in small town Lancashire last weekend. Can't say I'm surprised: to my mind, the white poppy is for the grey areas, and I didn't sense much desire to acknowledge those.
joella
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Me, my dad, and Lytham windmill
Me and my dad
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
We were on our way to the second hand bookshop. The wind was like icy knives, the fighter planes were roaring over on their practice runs from Warton, and we were talking about the demise of Preston docks.
And then the sun came out. Sometimes I wonder, why would I want to be anywhere else?
joella
Friday, November 07, 2008
We have lift off! (Probably)
So BJ the plumbing assessor looked at my plasterboard chase photo, looked sideways at me and said 'are you left-handed?'.
Yes, I said.
Hmmm, he said. And then he signed it off.
So unless the small detail of it being the wrong type of wall is picked up by the IV (internal verifier) or the EV (external verifier), I have finished my NVQ.
Congratulations lass, he said, shaking my hand. Cheers, I said, grinning like an idiot.
He gave me a receipt for my folder. I shall stick that on the wall till the certificate arrives. I agreed to come back and have my photo taken for diversity purposes. A genuine woman! And a left-hander!
And now I'm off to Lancashire to connect with my past and convene with my kin. And raise a glass to the free world.
joella
Yes, I said.
Hmmm, he said. And then he signed it off.
So unless the small detail of it being the wrong type of wall is picked up by the IV (internal verifier) or the EV (external verifier), I have finished my NVQ.
Congratulations lass, he said, shaking my hand. Cheers, I said, grinning like an idiot.
He gave me a receipt for my folder. I shall stick that on the wall till the certificate arrives. I agreed to come back and have my photo taken for diversity purposes. A genuine woman! And a left-hander!
And now I'm off to Lancashire to connect with my past and convene with my kin. And raise a glass to the free world.
joella
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Interim review
What feels like a long time ago, but was probably about four years, I took a deep breath and walked into a plumber's merchants on a Saturday morning. 'I'd like a WC siphon please', I said, when the man behind the counter eventually looked over at me.
'Round or square'? he said.
Shit. I had no idea, as the thing I had in mind had kind of rounded bits and kind of square bits. I nearly legged it and never went back, but instead I blushed and said 'um, can I see them both?'.
It was a square one, most of them are. In fact I've only ever seen one round one and it was from the 1950s. The cistern was made from asbestos. I'm sure he knew that.
On Monday I went into see D, the plumber's merchant that J the plumber introduced me to. They've known each other since they were 10, and call each other 'Marmite mangler', which seems to me to be a 10 year old's insult if ever there was one.
All right? he said. What can I do for you today?
I need a WC siphon please, I said. Low level? he said. No, close-coupled, I said. And it needs to be kind of short. Eight inch two-part do you? he said. Perfect, I said. And a doughnut washer, please.
Rubber or foam? he said. Oooh, I said, I've only used the foam ones. What do you think?
I'd go for rubber, he said, you get a bit more give.
Rubber it is then, I said. (And he was right). In fact I got two, and am currently wearing the other one as a sort of 80s-style bangle.
I'm still waiting for the final photo opportunity that will seal my NVQ (I thought a plasterboard chase would do, but turns out it needs to be masonry). But nonetheless, there is progress.
joella
'Round or square'? he said.
Shit. I had no idea, as the thing I had in mind had kind of rounded bits and kind of square bits. I nearly legged it and never went back, but instead I blushed and said 'um, can I see them both?'.
It was a square one, most of them are. In fact I've only ever seen one round one and it was from the 1950s. The cistern was made from asbestos. I'm sure he knew that.
On Monday I went into see D, the plumber's merchant that J the plumber introduced me to. They've known each other since they were 10, and call each other 'Marmite mangler', which seems to me to be a 10 year old's insult if ever there was one.
All right? he said. What can I do for you today?
I need a WC siphon please, I said. Low level? he said. No, close-coupled, I said. And it needs to be kind of short. Eight inch two-part do you? he said. Perfect, I said. And a doughnut washer, please.
Rubber or foam? he said. Oooh, I said, I've only used the foam ones. What do you think?
I'd go for rubber, he said, you get a bit more give.
Rubber it is then, I said. (And he was right). In fact I got two, and am currently wearing the other one as a sort of 80s-style bangle.
I'm still waiting for the final photo opportunity that will seal my NVQ (I thought a plasterboard chase would do, but turns out it needs to be masonry). But nonetheless, there is progress.
joella
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
F**kin' A!
Nice work America! This is my favourite version of the song of the year. Be grateful I'm sparing you the Billy Bragg version, which is heartwarming but also kind of shit.
joella
joella
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Evening in America?
If evening in America is the end of the day that began with Reagan's Morning, then I do So Hope So. I am more excited than I expected to be, and more anxious than I'd like to be. I've had a Genius playlist based on Young Americans on all day, which I'm tempering now with a bit of Gil Scott Heron, and I'm wondering what time to set the alarm for. This might be the first time I turn on the Today Programme in weeks.
But I remember 1992, when we went to bed thinking we might have a Labour government, or at worst a hung parliament, and woke up to five years of John Major. I was teaching A level sociology in a crammer college in Oxford at the time. I walked around all day saying 'how can so many people be so stupid?', and being met with incredulous / condescending / outright hostile stares.
That was the day I realised three important things:
1. There are a lot of Tories in the world and they are not all older than me (they weren't even all older than me *then*)
2. I should have paid the damn Poll Tax and voted Labour. Instead I refused to join the electoral register and lost my vote. I've always wondered how many other people did exactly the same, and what effect our votes might have had.
3. People lie in exit polls. It had never occurred to me that you might vote one way and say you had voted another. I defend your right to do so, but it sucks.
So... it ain't over till the skinny black guy says Yes We Can. But the signs are good, the signs are good.
joella
But I remember 1992, when we went to bed thinking we might have a Labour government, or at worst a hung parliament, and woke up to five years of John Major. I was teaching A level sociology in a crammer college in Oxford at the time. I walked around all day saying 'how can so many people be so stupid?', and being met with incredulous / condescending / outright hostile stares.
That was the day I realised three important things:
1. There are a lot of Tories in the world and they are not all older than me (they weren't even all older than me *then*)
2. I should have paid the damn Poll Tax and voted Labour. Instead I refused to join the electoral register and lost my vote. I've always wondered how many other people did exactly the same, and what effect our votes might have had.
3. People lie in exit polls. It had never occurred to me that you might vote one way and say you had voted another. I defend your right to do so, but it sucks.
So... it ain't over till the skinny black guy says Yes We Can. But the signs are good, the signs are good.
joella
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Because I'm worth it
Last Friday I had a meeting with my mentor. He is someone I see every couple of months -- I explain what I'm trying to do at work and he picks gentle holes in it. I close the hole, and another one appears. After a couple of hours he says 'yes, that just about makes sense' and I leave feeling a bit tender but much happier. It's very therapeutic. And the idea is that I do a better job as a result, which is why NGO X is prepared to spring for an off peak train ticket to London and a sandwich afterwards.
Normally I try and combine this with another meeting in London, as by the time I've got myself back to the office it's hardly worth it, but last Friday I decided instead to take the afternoon off. I was on the South Bank, so I thought of the Hayward or Tate Modern, but those are default choices. I wanted to be intrepid.
Intrepidness also involves avoiding the Tube, so I decided to go somewhere I could walk to. I settled on the Imperial War Museum, which I don't think I've been to before (or if I have it was a long, long time ago). I got most of the way there by walking along the river, past the London Aquarium, which awoke my Blackpool nerve endings... water noises, chill wind, the smell of cheap food, hordes of disoriented people having organised fun a long way from home.
In the IWM cafe, I read my book about growing vegetables over a homity pie and a glass of red, which led to a conversation about the trials of clay soil and the joys of sweetcorn with an elderly couple with cut-glass accents. Turned out he owns a farm just outside Oxford. She lives in Chiswick. I suspect they were having an assignation.
I stumbled into a First World War trench on the way to the loo, which was interesting, but I still had Blackpool on my mind and it was a bit too reminiscent of the Gold Mine ride on the Pleasure Beach. Anyway, what I'd really come to see was the Holocaust Exhibition.
I've been to Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, and to the Anne Frank Museum in Amsterdam, and seen various films and read various books - most recently The Lost, by Daniel Mendelsohn (a hefty tome that I read in Finland and which M dubbed 'Jo's Bumper Book of Jews'). I've learned something from all of them. But the exhibition at the IWM is easily, far and away, the best thing I've ever seen, read, watched or listened to on the subject. It manages to combine the sort of historical analysis that can only happen from a reasonable distance with survivors' testimony that can only be gathered from living memories. I was in there for hours, and then, by the exit, I sat down and wept.
I started to wander through the In Memoriam exhibition about WW1 afterwards, which is also excellent, but I couldn't really take it in. So instead I wandered around the park outside for a while, then headed back over the river to meet my friend R after work. I did this by getting on a bus, and I was incredibly pleased with myself for managing to avoid rush hour Tube hell *and* get a great top-deck view all the way over Westminster Bridge and into Soho.
I was hoping I could persuade R into the Intrepid Fox, which I used to love. I wanted a shot of the legendary, terrifying toilets for my collection. But sadly, it is boarded up. We went instead to the gorgeous Busaba, and then to a strange little wine cafe on Lexington Street where we squeezed into the tiniest space imaginable and drank something exorbitantly priced but delicious while trying (and failing) not to bang our heads on the legs of ham swinging from hooks around the place. Not that it was a problem, we were too busy talking talking talking.
I couldn't avoid the Tube forever, and I used it to get myself to Paddington in time for the last sensible train back to Oxford. En route I checked my phone to find a text message confirming a rumour that I hadn't dared really believe might be true. I was hoping M would be up to help me celebrate, but figured I would probably, in my half cut state, be rather annoying company. But then halfway home I looked up at a familiar window, to see someone leaning out of it, surveying the street scene. It wasn't C, as I had expected, but his 17 year old daughter G, who invited me up. There was a little session going on, of the sort I almost never get to take part in these days. I wondered at the appropriateness of this, and then thought 'fuck it'.
So I got home smelling of smoke and pork, giggling a little and giddy with happiness. I"m guessing most people's Me Time won't look anything like mine, and I wouldn't try and persuade you that it should. But I would try and persuade you that it's worth taking some. The glow still hasn't quite worn off.
joella
Normally I try and combine this with another meeting in London, as by the time I've got myself back to the office it's hardly worth it, but last Friday I decided instead to take the afternoon off. I was on the South Bank, so I thought of the Hayward or Tate Modern, but those are default choices. I wanted to be intrepid.
Intrepidness also involves avoiding the Tube, so I decided to go somewhere I could walk to. I settled on the Imperial War Museum, which I don't think I've been to before (or if I have it was a long, long time ago). I got most of the way there by walking along the river, past the London Aquarium, which awoke my Blackpool nerve endings... water noises, chill wind, the smell of cheap food, hordes of disoriented people having organised fun a long way from home.
In the IWM cafe, I read my book about growing vegetables over a homity pie and a glass of red, which led to a conversation about the trials of clay soil and the joys of sweetcorn with an elderly couple with cut-glass accents. Turned out he owns a farm just outside Oxford. She lives in Chiswick. I suspect they were having an assignation.
I stumbled into a First World War trench on the way to the loo, which was interesting, but I still had Blackpool on my mind and it was a bit too reminiscent of the Gold Mine ride on the Pleasure Beach. Anyway, what I'd really come to see was the Holocaust Exhibition.
I've been to Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, and to the Anne Frank Museum in Amsterdam, and seen various films and read various books - most recently The Lost, by Daniel Mendelsohn (a hefty tome that I read in Finland and which M dubbed 'Jo's Bumper Book of Jews'). I've learned something from all of them. But the exhibition at the IWM is easily, far and away, the best thing I've ever seen, read, watched or listened to on the subject. It manages to combine the sort of historical analysis that can only happen from a reasonable distance with survivors' testimony that can only be gathered from living memories. I was in there for hours, and then, by the exit, I sat down and wept.
I started to wander through the In Memoriam exhibition about WW1 afterwards, which is also excellent, but I couldn't really take it in. So instead I wandered around the park outside for a while, then headed back over the river to meet my friend R after work. I did this by getting on a bus, and I was incredibly pleased with myself for managing to avoid rush hour Tube hell *and* get a great top-deck view all the way over Westminster Bridge and into Soho.
I was hoping I could persuade R into the Intrepid Fox, which I used to love. I wanted a shot of the legendary, terrifying toilets for my collection. But sadly, it is boarded up. We went instead to the gorgeous Busaba, and then to a strange little wine cafe on Lexington Street where we squeezed into the tiniest space imaginable and drank something exorbitantly priced but delicious while trying (and failing) not to bang our heads on the legs of ham swinging from hooks around the place. Not that it was a problem, we were too busy talking talking talking.
I couldn't avoid the Tube forever, and I used it to get myself to Paddington in time for the last sensible train back to Oxford. En route I checked my phone to find a text message confirming a rumour that I hadn't dared really believe might be true. I was hoping M would be up to help me celebrate, but figured I would probably, in my half cut state, be rather annoying company. But then halfway home I looked up at a familiar window, to see someone leaning out of it, surveying the street scene. It wasn't C, as I had expected, but his 17 year old daughter G, who invited me up. There was a little session going on, of the sort I almost never get to take part in these days. I wondered at the appropriateness of this, and then thought 'fuck it'.
So I got home smelling of smoke and pork, giggling a little and giddy with happiness. I"m guessing most people's Me Time won't look anything like mine, and I wouldn't try and persuade you that it should. But I would try and persuade you that it's worth taking some. The glow still hasn't quite worn off.
joella
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