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joella
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Lots going on
Three memories of a very strange Saturday
1. Taking photos of a man up a tree with a chainsaw as he chopped bits out of the view from my bedroom.
2. Lending J the plumbing teacher a screwdriver so he could punch holes in SMcW's ceiling to stop it collapsing after an airlock righted itself unexpectedly and half a water tank emptied itself into the cavity. Thank god plumbing S and I called J the plumbing teacher rather than having a go ourselves. The secret of a long life is knowing when it's time to call someone else.
3. Watching AMcV leave tonight (having helped us drink our post-party sparkling wine surplus) with a sledgehammer in one hand and a Grateful Dead double CD in the other.
joella
Three memories of a very strange Saturday
1. Taking photos of a man up a tree with a chainsaw as he chopped bits out of the view from my bedroom.
2. Lending J the plumbing teacher a screwdriver so he could punch holes in SMcW's ceiling to stop it collapsing after an airlock righted itself unexpectedly and half a water tank emptied itself into the cavity. Thank god plumbing S and I called J the plumbing teacher rather than having a go ourselves. The secret of a long life is knowing when it's time to call someone else.
3. Watching AMcV leave tonight (having helped us drink our post-party sparkling wine surplus) with a sledgehammer in one hand and a Grateful Dead double CD in the other.
joella
Friday, September 24, 2004
Lunchtime weirdness
I really struggle at lunchtime, because I try not to eat wheat -- which rules out sandwiches, which make up 90% of what is available in the upmarket suburb I work in. Occasionally I get pissed off and have a sandwich, and am almost always disappointed. They are pretty over-rated foodstuffs.
However, anything which *doesn't* involve wheat -- jacket potato, sushi, non-pasta salad -- tends to cost a lot more than a sandwich. So, apart from those days when I bring my lunch, which are shamefully few and far between, I seem to spend ages wandering aimlessly between shops and eateries mulling costs and options.
Today I went for a Quorn cottage pie to go in the microwave and a bag of salad -- half to eat for lunch, half to take home. They came from the Co-op, which I try and support. But when I got back to the office I found that the cottage pie film was already open and it was all hard inside, and that the salad smelt of pickle and was mushy in the bottom of the bag.
I should have taken them back, but I was so dejected I just threw the whole lot in the bin and ate a few emergency oatcakes with the rest of yesterday's smoked salmon pate from M&S, which I try not to frequent, but which annoyingly delivers the goods far more reliably than the right-on Co-op next door.
My fair trade orange juice was good though, and then a colleague turned up and reminded me that we had arranged to go out for lunch with a consultant. Which I had completely forgotten.
So I guess it has all turned out for the best, in a funny kind of way. I may have paid for two lunches, but I only have to eat one. This is an improvement on a couple of weeks ago where I ended up eating twice.
joella
I really struggle at lunchtime, because I try not to eat wheat -- which rules out sandwiches, which make up 90% of what is available in the upmarket suburb I work in. Occasionally I get pissed off and have a sandwich, and am almost always disappointed. They are pretty over-rated foodstuffs.
However, anything which *doesn't* involve wheat -- jacket potato, sushi, non-pasta salad -- tends to cost a lot more than a sandwich. So, apart from those days when I bring my lunch, which are shamefully few and far between, I seem to spend ages wandering aimlessly between shops and eateries mulling costs and options.
Today I went for a Quorn cottage pie to go in the microwave and a bag of salad -- half to eat for lunch, half to take home. They came from the Co-op, which I try and support. But when I got back to the office I found that the cottage pie film was already open and it was all hard inside, and that the salad smelt of pickle and was mushy in the bottom of the bag.
I should have taken them back, but I was so dejected I just threw the whole lot in the bin and ate a few emergency oatcakes with the rest of yesterday's smoked salmon pate from M&S, which I try not to frequent, but which annoyingly delivers the goods far more reliably than the right-on Co-op next door.
My fair trade orange juice was good though, and then a colleague turned up and reminded me that we had arranged to go out for lunch with a consultant. Which I had completely forgotten.
So I guess it has all turned out for the best, in a funny kind of way. I may have paid for two lunches, but I only have to eat one. This is an improvement on a couple of weeks ago where I ended up eating twice.
joella
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
I don't have anything to sell. What I do have is my bike and this absolute freedom to ride it wherever curiosity and speed demon take me to.
Big up to Mr B for directing me to the website of Elena, Ukrainian biker chick and ultimate ambassador for the argument that the English language doesn't have to be your mother tongue for you to be able to use it to great effect.
In Ukrainian language Chernobyl is a name for a grass, wormwood (absinth). This word scares holly bejesus out of people here.
She rides her motorbike into Chernobyl, takes photos and a radiation meter and tells the story of the place -- using few words, but every one worth reading.
24 hours later postscript. Elena is so good, I am wondering if in fact she is actually an artist not a biker ... her English is too perfectly kooky, her passion for motorbikes is too perfectly described, her story is too well told, the end note of kindergarten photos followed by neat contact details too much like a signature.
But why not? She may just be a natural story teller. Why be sceptical? Post modern life is rubbish.
joella
Big up to Mr B for directing me to the website of Elena, Ukrainian biker chick and ultimate ambassador for the argument that the English language doesn't have to be your mother tongue for you to be able to use it to great effect.
In Ukrainian language Chernobyl is a name for a grass, wormwood (absinth). This word scares holly bejesus out of people here.
She rides her motorbike into Chernobyl, takes photos and a radiation meter and tells the story of the place -- using few words, but every one worth reading.
24 hours later postscript. Elena is so good, I am wondering if in fact she is actually an artist not a biker ... her English is too perfectly kooky, her passion for motorbikes is too perfectly described, her story is too well told, the end note of kindergarten photos followed by neat contact details too much like a signature.
But why not? She may just be a natural story teller. Why be sceptical? Post modern life is rubbish.
joella
New worlds to conker
Yesterday, or was it Monday, was the official start of autumn, it said on the telly. This is the day in the year when all over the world day and night are the same length.
I never knew that day existed. Well, I had heard of the autumn equinox, but never knew what it actually was. I suppose if I had had a classical education I might have worked it out -- its etymology is pretty bloody obvious once you know.
Having said that, I have spent many hours wondering how it can be that in Oxford the days are shorter in the summer than in Lancashire, yet longer in the winter. I'm not very good at four dimensions, as anyone who's ever gone out with me could tell you. I can barely manage three.
Still, now I do know, and I shall celebrate it from now on. Turning points are special, and autumn is my favourite time of year. Our resident Antipodeans descend into SAD, but I get out my jumpers with glee. It is a time for optimism if you are me, though I am not sure why. As is spring. In fact, my top 4 months in order are:
1. September
2. October (till clocks go back)
3. April
4. March
This morning, I went swimming at the shiny new Oxford University swimming pool, then had a cup of coffee and set off cycling to work. And as if that weren't groovy and autumnal enough, as I met the main road I saw the first conker of the season shimmering against the gravel, and stopped to scoop it into the pocket of my fleece hoodie (autumnal garment of choice).
On the way home, it was a little chilly, so I pulled on my fingerless gloves, and a small yet significant part of my soul sang.
I think it can be summed up thus: my favourite days are those where fingerless gloves are desirable but not essential, where a little bit of central heating in the morning and evening takes the edge off the chill, but where it is still temperate enough to dry your clothes outside, especially when it's windy and they come in stiff and cold and smelling of weather.
Bring. It. On.
joella
Yesterday, or was it Monday, was the official start of autumn, it said on the telly. This is the day in the year when all over the world day and night are the same length.
I never knew that day existed. Well, I had heard of the autumn equinox, but never knew what it actually was. I suppose if I had had a classical education I might have worked it out -- its etymology is pretty bloody obvious once you know.
Having said that, I have spent many hours wondering how it can be that in Oxford the days are shorter in the summer than in Lancashire, yet longer in the winter. I'm not very good at four dimensions, as anyone who's ever gone out with me could tell you. I can barely manage three.
Still, now I do know, and I shall celebrate it from now on. Turning points are special, and autumn is my favourite time of year. Our resident Antipodeans descend into SAD, but I get out my jumpers with glee. It is a time for optimism if you are me, though I am not sure why. As is spring. In fact, my top 4 months in order are:
1. September
2. October (till clocks go back)
3. April
4. March
This morning, I went swimming at the shiny new Oxford University swimming pool, then had a cup of coffee and set off cycling to work. And as if that weren't groovy and autumnal enough, as I met the main road I saw the first conker of the season shimmering against the gravel, and stopped to scoop it into the pocket of my fleece hoodie (autumnal garment of choice).
On the way home, it was a little chilly, so I pulled on my fingerless gloves, and a small yet significant part of my soul sang.
I think it can be summed up thus: my favourite days are those where fingerless gloves are desirable but not essential, where a little bit of central heating in the morning and evening takes the edge off the chill, but where it is still temperate enough to dry your clothes outside, especially when it's windy and they come in stiff and cold and smelling of weather.
Bring. It. On.
joella
Monday, September 20, 2004
Rock. On.
I hope when I am 50 that I have as cool a party as M did. I suspect, however, that it is largely Different For Girls. But then, I have had many excellent birthday parties in my life, and I think this was pretty much his first. And possibly last, as impossible, I feel, to top.
The day started at 7.30, as we were expecting 20 people for breakfast. Having vowed not to drink on Friday night for this very reason, we nevertheless felt compelled to drink champagne with C the builder who really did nearly finish the patio, and then felt more compelled to just check the wine we'd bought for the night was ok really. So when I found myself mopping sand and gravel off the front path at 8 am in my orange pyjamas and Uggs, I did think 'How did I get here?'
However, a few Virgin Marys, some Bucks Fizz and a large portion of kedgeree later, I felt better. I only wish I'd had the time to change *out* of my pyjamas, as I am not sure they hit quite the right note.
We all had a little lie down after everyone had gone, but started evening preparations at about 4. It was a house party on a visionary scale, especially as we have quite a small house.
Highlights:
1. Turning the not quite finished patio to advantage: we filled the wheelbarrows with ice and used them as wine and beer coolers.
2. The Little Band (housemate S on vocals, C on sax, J on keyboards) playing on the half-a-patio, and all of us crowding outside to watch.
3. Finally reaping the full benefit of having an uncle who works for a fairy light company. This combined amazingly well with our home-sunk fence posts and washing line combo. I must buy that man a drink.
4. A vast bubbling pot of Sag Aloo and the biggest tower of poppadoms I've ever seen.
5. Glass hire. How civilised is that?
6. Gazebo. As above.
7. Fire bowl, plus plumbing S's inspired idea of burning herbs and spices for extra atmosphere. Though we now need more cloves and cinnamon, and the rosemary bush will never be the same again.
8. Friends who know how to party, how to dance, and when to go home.
9. A few who don't know when to go home, so keep you up till 5 and then remind you how glad you are that you don't smoke anymore by having to cycle to the 24 hour garage for tobacco.
10. Alternating sparkling wine with salty lime soda. Almost no hangover, though all motor functions still impaired.
There are photos, but I can't find the camera.
And I am very glad that in my youth someone taught me how to mop.
joella
I hope when I am 50 that I have as cool a party as M did. I suspect, however, that it is largely Different For Girls. But then, I have had many excellent birthday parties in my life, and I think this was pretty much his first. And possibly last, as impossible, I feel, to top.
The day started at 7.30, as we were expecting 20 people for breakfast. Having vowed not to drink on Friday night for this very reason, we nevertheless felt compelled to drink champagne with C the builder who really did nearly finish the patio, and then felt more compelled to just check the wine we'd bought for the night was ok really. So when I found myself mopping sand and gravel off the front path at 8 am in my orange pyjamas and Uggs, I did think 'How did I get here?'
However, a few Virgin Marys, some Bucks Fizz and a large portion of kedgeree later, I felt better. I only wish I'd had the time to change *out* of my pyjamas, as I am not sure they hit quite the right note.
We all had a little lie down after everyone had gone, but started evening preparations at about 4. It was a house party on a visionary scale, especially as we have quite a small house.
Highlights:
1. Turning the not quite finished patio to advantage: we filled the wheelbarrows with ice and used them as wine and beer coolers.
2. The Little Band (housemate S on vocals, C on sax, J on keyboards) playing on the half-a-patio, and all of us crowding outside to watch.
3. Finally reaping the full benefit of having an uncle who works for a fairy light company. This combined amazingly well with our home-sunk fence posts and washing line combo. I must buy that man a drink.
4. A vast bubbling pot of Sag Aloo and the biggest tower of poppadoms I've ever seen.
5. Glass hire. How civilised is that?
6. Gazebo. As above.
7. Fire bowl, plus plumbing S's inspired idea of burning herbs and spices for extra atmosphere. Though we now need more cloves and cinnamon, and the rosemary bush will never be the same again.
8. Friends who know how to party, how to dance, and when to go home.
9. A few who don't know when to go home, so keep you up till 5 and then remind you how glad you are that you don't smoke anymore by having to cycle to the 24 hour garage for tobacco.
10. Alternating sparkling wine with salty lime soda. Almost no hangover, though all motor functions still impaired.
There are photos, but I can't find the camera.
And I am very glad that in my youth someone taught me how to mop.
joella
Sunday, September 19, 2004
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Scratchy behind the eyes
Monday night: verrry strange hotel in Cardiff city centre, with incredibly friendly staff, the hottest water I've ever seen coming out of a tap (ran a bath, put too much hot in and couldn't get enough cold in to reach in and pull out the plug. Strange hopping and squeaking ensued), and a mad orange breakfast room with no windows and a dance floor. They did kippers though.
I stayed up for the Sopranos so didn't get to sleep till after midnight -- but was repeatedly woken by drunken hordes rolling around in the bus lanes on the main road outside. And this on a Monday. Also woken repeatedly by squeaky floorboards (this was not a posh joint), so all in all a bit bleary on return home after meeting.
Tuesday night: birthday celebrations, sparkling wine, up too late. Slept in own bed (good) but not for very long (bad).
Today: Pain in head. Squinted through a frustrating day at work. Definitely no joie de vivre. Oppressed by squalid living conditions enforced by final stages of garden renovation: ton of this here, ton of that there, bricks most everywhere, and then there's the MUD.
Off to bed to reflect on the human condition and muster inner strength for a weekend with two parties, both in this house. Eek.
joella
Monday night: verrry strange hotel in Cardiff city centre, with incredibly friendly staff, the hottest water I've ever seen coming out of a tap (ran a bath, put too much hot in and couldn't get enough cold in to reach in and pull out the plug. Strange hopping and squeaking ensued), and a mad orange breakfast room with no windows and a dance floor. They did kippers though.
I stayed up for the Sopranos so didn't get to sleep till after midnight -- but was repeatedly woken by drunken hordes rolling around in the bus lanes on the main road outside. And this on a Monday. Also woken repeatedly by squeaky floorboards (this was not a posh joint), so all in all a bit bleary on return home after meeting.
Tuesday night: birthday celebrations, sparkling wine, up too late. Slept in own bed (good) but not for very long (bad).
Today: Pain in head. Squinted through a frustrating day at work. Definitely no joie de vivre. Oppressed by squalid living conditions enforced by final stages of garden renovation: ton of this here, ton of that there, bricks most everywhere, and then there's the MUD.
Off to bed to reflect on the human condition and muster inner strength for a weekend with two parties, both in this house. Eek.
joella
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
He not busy being born is busy turning 50
M is 50 today. Happy birthday to him, and many congratulations on being such a splendid example of 21st century middle age. 50 is the new 40, 40 is the new 30, 30 is the new 20 and 20 is the new 10. There's no room left for 10 year olds, but they're all too busy being part of focus groups and having their IQ tested anyway.
Having said that, babies are still the new babies, so it's getting mighty crowded in certain cohorts. Meanwhile, Saga have to resort to ever more tragic tactics to attract people who actually *want* to identify as 50+.
Me, I've got a way to go, and I never feel old in this relationship -- one of the advantages of dating someone from a different generation. But it's still kind of weird. The late Aaliyah once said that age ain't nothing but a number, but hey, she was 15 at the time.
Hope I die before I get old, but hope 'old' means what I want it to mean, not what someone else thinks it is.
joella
M is 50 today. Happy birthday to him, and many congratulations on being such a splendid example of 21st century middle age. 50 is the new 40, 40 is the new 30, 30 is the new 20 and 20 is the new 10. There's no room left for 10 year olds, but they're all too busy being part of focus groups and having their IQ tested anyway.
Having said that, babies are still the new babies, so it's getting mighty crowded in certain cohorts. Meanwhile, Saga have to resort to ever more tragic tactics to attract people who actually *want* to identify as 50+.
Me, I've got a way to go, and I never feel old in this relationship -- one of the advantages of dating someone from a different generation. But it's still kind of weird. The late Aaliyah once said that age ain't nothing but a number, but hey, she was 15 at the time.
Hope I die before I get old, but hope 'old' means what I want it to mean, not what someone else thinks it is.
joella
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Patiotastic
This weekend, we have mostly been laying a patio.
More precisely, M has been laying it, as he is both stronger than I am and more fastidious. I have been mixing mortar. Loads of it. Getting on, in fact, for half a tonne of it.
This is because the stone we bought is real stone, and needs a full mortar bed rather than blobs on each corner and one in the middle. This is because real stone is not flat.
I wore gloves this time. But my back is killing me. I got round this last night by going out with some of my esteemed colleagues and drinking a lot of wine (good muscle relaxant, alcohol, I am told). Tonight I am just walking round like an old woman in pyjamas and a shawl, saying 'ow' a lot.
And it's raining and dark so it's hard to tell what it looks like, but I think we will end up being pretty proud of ourselves. In a middle class home-ownerish sort of way, I suppose. Still. The most enormous DIY project I can ever imagine undertaking neareth completion.
joella
This weekend, we have mostly been laying a patio.
More precisely, M has been laying it, as he is both stronger than I am and more fastidious. I have been mixing mortar. Loads of it. Getting on, in fact, for half a tonne of it.
This is because the stone we bought is real stone, and needs a full mortar bed rather than blobs on each corner and one in the middle. This is because real stone is not flat.
I wore gloves this time. But my back is killing me. I got round this last night by going out with some of my esteemed colleagues and drinking a lot of wine (good muscle relaxant, alcohol, I am told). Tonight I am just walking round like an old woman in pyjamas and a shawl, saying 'ow' a lot.
And it's raining and dark so it's hard to tell what it looks like, but I think we will end up being pretty proud of ourselves. In a middle class home-ownerish sort of way, I suppose. Still. The most enormous DIY project I can ever imagine undertaking neareth completion.
joella
Saturday, September 11, 2004
September 11
Completely by coincidence, just after I wrote on Thursday, M sent me a link to lyrics of some of the songs on Nick Cave's forthcoming album.
He is truly a master in this words business.
joella
Completely by coincidence, just after I wrote on Thursday, M sent me a link to lyrics of some of the songs on Nick Cave's forthcoming album.
I was just a boy when I sat down
To watch the news on TV
I saw some ordinary slaughter
I saw some routine atrocity
My father said, don’t look away
You got to be strong, you got to be bold, now
He said, that in the end it is beauty
That is going to save the world, now
He is truly a master in this words business.
joella
Friday, September 10, 2004
Cryptic note to self
I lost my mobile phone for a couple of days this week. It was in my bedroom all the time, I just couldn't find it. Anyway, when I did, there was a text from my sister, and also, I noticed, one from a number rather than a name -- ie someone who is not in my phone memory.
Expecting it to be spam, I opened it and it said:
Frogs and liquorice all sorts.
Weird, I thought, and checked the number. It was MY OWN NUMBER.
Scary, I thought, and checked the time. It had been sent at 2.08 am last Saturday morning.
Last Friday night we were having a big night out over at R & P's, and I did drink quite a lot. Maybe someone picked up my phone and did something deliberately freaky? But I am pretty sure we were home by 2, which means I must have sent this message to myself.
Why would I do that? And what can it mean?
joella
I lost my mobile phone for a couple of days this week. It was in my bedroom all the time, I just couldn't find it. Anyway, when I did, there was a text from my sister, and also, I noticed, one from a number rather than a name -- ie someone who is not in my phone memory.
Expecting it to be spam, I opened it and it said:
Frogs and liquorice all sorts.
Weird, I thought, and checked the number. It was MY OWN NUMBER.
Scary, I thought, and checked the time. It had been sent at 2.08 am last Saturday morning.
Last Friday night we were having a big night out over at R & P's, and I did drink quite a lot. Maybe someone picked up my phone and did something deliberately freaky? But I am pretty sure we were home by 2, which means I must have sent this message to myself.
Why would I do that? And what can it mean?
joella
Thursday, September 09, 2004
The bleakest of weeks
No, not me personally, I've got over the anomie in the usual fashion (the painters are IN). I'm talking about the rest of the mixed up muddled up shook up world. September's always going to be an odd month, I fear. Those clear, benign blue skies will forever remind us of planes slicing mercilessly into buildings, and this year, even as the profound subconscious effects of 9/11 recede, we have the acute horrors of Darfur and North Ossetia to process, not to mention the intractable ongoing inhumanity of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. And that was before the Australian embassy in Jakarta blew up this morning.
I keep staring at the photo from the front page of last Friday's Guardian, of a Russian soldier carrying a baby away from the school in Beslan. I have stared at it so much I took a photo of it (still on camera, lead is at work) -- the logic behind this escapes me, except that you chuck newspapers, and there is something enduring about this photo.
Not much can take the edge off that feeling of utter impotence combined with the side effects of knowing that one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. What could we be doing differently?
Music can help a bit -- tonight I have resorted, not for the first time, to The Bends Very Loud Indeed. And art can help a bit too. My virtual hat is off to Jeremy for her latest Weekly Strip. Beautiful.
joella
No, not me personally, I've got over the anomie in the usual fashion (the painters are IN). I'm talking about the rest of the mixed up muddled up shook up world. September's always going to be an odd month, I fear. Those clear, benign blue skies will forever remind us of planes slicing mercilessly into buildings, and this year, even as the profound subconscious effects of 9/11 recede, we have the acute horrors of Darfur and North Ossetia to process, not to mention the intractable ongoing inhumanity of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. And that was before the Australian embassy in Jakarta blew up this morning.
I keep staring at the photo from the front page of last Friday's Guardian, of a Russian soldier carrying a baby away from the school in Beslan. I have stared at it so much I took a photo of it (still on camera, lead is at work) -- the logic behind this escapes me, except that you chuck newspapers, and there is something enduring about this photo.
Not much can take the edge off that feeling of utter impotence combined with the side effects of knowing that one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. What could we be doing differently?
Music can help a bit -- tonight I have resorted, not for the first time, to The Bends Very Loud Indeed. And art can help a bit too. My virtual hat is off to Jeremy for her latest Weekly Strip. Beautiful.
joella
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
More malevolent subconscious
I have the same kind of relationship with my bicycle as Calvin (left), only I am an adult and therefore it's all a bit more sinister (or pathetic, depending which way you look at it).
Last time I was persuaded into riding it to work, it had mysteriously sprung a puncture. Back in the shed it went, as I deliberately have no cycle maintenance skills. However M gallantly fixed it last weekend, and moreover carried it over the cement pit, wheelbarrow, crouching builder and any number of other barriers to present it to me this afternoon as I tried to argue that there was no way it could possibly be accessible in current circumstances.
So I rolled up my trouser leg and bravely set off. And lo, about half a mile from work the chain fell off, so I had to walk the rest of the way. If I ride it again tomorrow, I fear for my life. Just wanted to make that clear.
joella
I have the same kind of relationship with my bicycle as Calvin (left), only I am an adult and therefore it's all a bit more sinister (or pathetic, depending which way you look at it).
Last time I was persuaded into riding it to work, it had mysteriously sprung a puncture. Back in the shed it went, as I deliberately have no cycle maintenance skills. However M gallantly fixed it last weekend, and moreover carried it over the cement pit, wheelbarrow, crouching builder and any number of other barriers to present it to me this afternoon as I tried to argue that there was no way it could possibly be accessible in current circumstances.
So I rolled up my trouser leg and bravely set off. And lo, about half a mile from work the chain fell off, so I had to walk the rest of the way. If I ride it again tomorrow, I fear for my life. Just wanted to make that clear.
joella
Monday, September 06, 2004
Today is brought to you by the letter P
Pesto. Specifically, green pesto. Doesn't have to be fresh, in fact I think I prefer the stuff in jars. When I am blue, I have been known to eat green pesto with a spoon. Probably shouldn't say that too loud. But tonight, being more just pensive (qv), I have been eating it on oatcakes.
Pensive. Current mood. Not feeling very healthy, have bad skin and bad guts, but see onset of autumn as an opportunity to do something about this. Better food, less drink, more physical activity. Just needs a plan (qv) and some will power.
Plans. I can't get by without these, though lists will do at a pinch. Currently need a plan for finishing off the garden, a shopping plan for meals that increase proportion of organic food consumed and avoid substances that Do Me Down, a holiday plan, a plumbing (qv) plan and an exit plan for housemate S, as she is leaving us.
Plumbing. Got to find someone to talk to who can give me some advice, to help me think it all through. A bit stalled at the moment, and time, like a leaky tap, is drip drip dripping away.
Paving. Went out looking for paving stones for the new patio area. Fell in love with the most expensive stone in the world, which has come by boat from India and has fossils in it. Why can't I like pre-formed concrete paving like a normal person? *And* you have to lay it in a special way. It's all so very complicated.
Peanut butter. Comforting squidged into celery sticks, sprinkled with salt and washed down with V8 juice.
Panic. Not big time, but in little moments. Think this is down to lack of Evening Primrose Oil, which my malevolent subconscious is neglecting to take. Must do better. Do not let malevolent subconscious win.
Pyjamas. Where I am headed right now. I have A Suitable Boy waiting for me in bed.
joella
Pesto. Specifically, green pesto. Doesn't have to be fresh, in fact I think I prefer the stuff in jars. When I am blue, I have been known to eat green pesto with a spoon. Probably shouldn't say that too loud. But tonight, being more just pensive (qv), I have been eating it on oatcakes.
Pensive. Current mood. Not feeling very healthy, have bad skin and bad guts, but see onset of autumn as an opportunity to do something about this. Better food, less drink, more physical activity. Just needs a plan (qv) and some will power.
Plans. I can't get by without these, though lists will do at a pinch. Currently need a plan for finishing off the garden, a shopping plan for meals that increase proportion of organic food consumed and avoid substances that Do Me Down, a holiday plan, a plumbing (qv) plan and an exit plan for housemate S, as she is leaving us.
Plumbing. Got to find someone to talk to who can give me some advice, to help me think it all through. A bit stalled at the moment, and time, like a leaky tap, is drip drip dripping away.
Paving. Went out looking for paving stones for the new patio area. Fell in love with the most expensive stone in the world, which has come by boat from India and has fossils in it. Why can't I like pre-formed concrete paving like a normal person? *And* you have to lay it in a special way. It's all so very complicated.
Peanut butter. Comforting squidged into celery sticks, sprinkled with salt and washed down with V8 juice.
Panic. Not big time, but in little moments. Think this is down to lack of Evening Primrose Oil, which my malevolent subconscious is neglecting to take. Must do better. Do not let malevolent subconscious win.
Pyjamas. Where I am headed right now. I have A Suitable Boy waiting for me in bed.
joella
Sunday, September 05, 2004
It's a thoughtless heartless world
You know, sometimes I can see the drivers behind parenthood. Life can indeed feel nasty, brutish and short.
Though thinking about it, Julie Burchill once said the same thing about sex. 'If you want a cuddle', she continued, 'get a puppy'.
As my father would say, "now you're talking my language, CJ". (I am not sure who CJ is, but never mind).
joella
You know, sometimes I can see the drivers behind parenthood. Life can indeed feel nasty, brutish and short.
Though thinking about it, Julie Burchill once said the same thing about sex. 'If you want a cuddle', she continued, 'get a puppy'.
As my father would say, "now you're talking my language, CJ". (I am not sure who CJ is, but never mind).
joella
Friday, September 03, 2004
Yo! Mo'Fo Ho!
We've got C the carpenter round with his building hat on. This is *great*, we like him and he seems to be just as meticulous outside as in. But he likes listening to 1Xtra, and, y'know, I don't.
There is some good stuff on it, but a lot of it is just kind of rubbish. Bumpy grindy R'n'B has always made me feel a bit queasy... it reminds me of when I worked in an office with a graphic designer who listened to nothing else, and by dint of his size and belligerence imposed it on everyone else as well. I once went in to ask him to change a headline and he was gyrating gently to a song which went 'I can go deep if you want me, I can go deep if you need me'. NO! I do not want you. Just fix the headline and turn this shite off.
And then there's all the stuff with revolting misogynist or homophobic lyrics. Get lost Beenie Man. I don't want to be part of your world. And we are not 'females'. We are women. OK?
And *then* there's the swearing. Now, I swear as much as the next person, in fact quite often more than the next person, but what's the point in swearing all the way through your record if that means half of it will be censored out so you sound like you've got a speech impediment? And radio-friendly versions are JUST AS STUPID. Oooh, aren't you big, you swear a lot but not in front of the kids or the BBC. Jeez.
But the last song was quite groovy reggae so I feel better now. I think I'll go make some coffee for C and me.
joella
We've got C the carpenter round with his building hat on. This is *great*, we like him and he seems to be just as meticulous outside as in. But he likes listening to 1Xtra, and, y'know, I don't.
There is some good stuff on it, but a lot of it is just kind of rubbish. Bumpy grindy R'n'B has always made me feel a bit queasy... it reminds me of when I worked in an office with a graphic designer who listened to nothing else, and by dint of his size and belligerence imposed it on everyone else as well. I once went in to ask him to change a headline and he was gyrating gently to a song which went 'I can go deep if you want me, I can go deep if you need me'. NO! I do not want you. Just fix the headline and turn this shite off.
And then there's all the stuff with revolting misogynist or homophobic lyrics. Get lost Beenie Man. I don't want to be part of your world. And we are not 'females'. We are women. OK?
And *then* there's the swearing. Now, I swear as much as the next person, in fact quite often more than the next person, but what's the point in swearing all the way through your record if that means half of it will be censored out so you sound like you've got a speech impediment? And radio-friendly versions are JUST AS STUPID. Oooh, aren't you big, you swear a lot but not in front of the kids or the BBC. Jeez.
But the last song was quite groovy reggae so I feel better now. I think I'll go make some coffee for C and me.
joella
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Who'd be brought up Catholic?
My housemate is pissed off with me big time.
This is because I said her six year old niece displayed, during her stay this weekend, behaviour of a flirtatious nature -- mostly revolving around tossing of long locks, hotpants, high sparkly clogs and the selective/elective nature of her communication.
I believe my observation is true, but not that she has any real kind of complicity in this. But I know that 6 year olds are aware of their powers, and that, even though they don't know this, some of those powers are sexual.
Of couse they are (my argument, which she rejects outright, runs). Kids play with sex, adults do sex. The key (duh) is knowing who is old enough, and otherwise sufficiently well equipped, to be doing what they are doing knowingly.
If they are not doing it knowingly, it doesn't mean they aren't doing it. And it is not fucked up to see it for what it is. It is only fucked up if you use that knowledge in an evil or exploitative way. Sex is not bad in itself (runs my argument).
Right? Sex, sexuality, sexual behaviour is not bad, or (Catholic postscript) if it is it's only bad in an original sin kinda way. We've got to move on.
Girls will be girls, and what I want is a world where girls *can* be girls without feeling bad about it. And that means all of us giving them the space to flex their danger muscles without pretending they're not there, no? Denial doesn't do any of us any favours.
joella
My housemate is pissed off with me big time.
This is because I said her six year old niece displayed, during her stay this weekend, behaviour of a flirtatious nature -- mostly revolving around tossing of long locks, hotpants, high sparkly clogs and the selective/elective nature of her communication.
I believe my observation is true, but not that she has any real kind of complicity in this. But I know that 6 year olds are aware of their powers, and that, even though they don't know this, some of those powers are sexual.
Of couse they are (my argument, which she rejects outright, runs). Kids play with sex, adults do sex. The key (duh) is knowing who is old enough, and otherwise sufficiently well equipped, to be doing what they are doing knowingly.
If they are not doing it knowingly, it doesn't mean they aren't doing it. And it is not fucked up to see it for what it is. It is only fucked up if you use that knowledge in an evil or exploitative way. Sex is not bad in itself (runs my argument).
Right? Sex, sexuality, sexual behaviour is not bad, or (Catholic postscript) if it is it's only bad in an original sin kinda way. We've got to move on.
Girls will be girls, and what I want is a world where girls *can* be girls without feeling bad about it. And that means all of us giving them the space to flex their danger muscles without pretending they're not there, no? Denial doesn't do any of us any favours.
joella
Monday, August 30, 2004
Bank holiday schmank holiday
Ah, the sound of an empty house.
Housemate S has had her sister, nephew and two nieces to stay since Thursday. Plus her Quiet Man. That makes for a pretty full house even if lines of communication are clear and things (who's doing what, who's in for dinner, etc) are discussed openly. And round here it's never that simple. Never underestimate the power of passivity.
M and I woke up on Sunday morning, looked at each other, thought 'well I'm not cooking breakfast for eight people', chucked some clothes on and hit the streets. There was a kind of teenage rebellion feeling to it, like trying to find a place to be together when you both live with your parents. We bought the papers, went to the pub for Sunday lunch, walked down strange footpaths in the rain, ended up in town looking for coffee and found ourselves in Modern Art Oxford.
Where we spend a good couple of hours in the cafe but also taking in Wherever I Am, one of the most moving exhibitions I've ever seen. Emily Jacir's Where We Come From (more info about it here) featured lots of places I have been... the view from the top of Mount Carmel brought tears to my eyes. So it was an unexpectedly friendly and interesting Sunday, compared to the one I might have had if I'd stayed at home. It's all relative(s).
Anyway, they've gone now. And there were some good surreal moments, like baking a pineapple upside down cake at the request of someone who turned out not to like pineapple (so it became a pear upside down cake), and M finding his piano keys covered in corks.
joella
Ah, the sound of an empty house.
Housemate S has had her sister, nephew and two nieces to stay since Thursday. Plus her Quiet Man. That makes for a pretty full house even if lines of communication are clear and things (who's doing what, who's in for dinner, etc) are discussed openly. And round here it's never that simple. Never underestimate the power of passivity.
M and I woke up on Sunday morning, looked at each other, thought 'well I'm not cooking breakfast for eight people', chucked some clothes on and hit the streets. There was a kind of teenage rebellion feeling to it, like trying to find a place to be together when you both live with your parents. We bought the papers, went to the pub for Sunday lunch, walked down strange footpaths in the rain, ended up in town looking for coffee and found ourselves in Modern Art Oxford.
Where we spend a good couple of hours in the cafe but also taking in Wherever I Am, one of the most moving exhibitions I've ever seen. Emily Jacir's Where We Come From (more info about it here) featured lots of places I have been... the view from the top of Mount Carmel brought tears to my eyes. So it was an unexpectedly friendly and interesting Sunday, compared to the one I might have had if I'd stayed at home. It's all relative(s).
Anyway, they've gone now. And there were some good surreal moments, like baking a pineapple upside down cake at the request of someone who turned out not to like pineapple (so it became a pear upside down cake), and M finding his piano keys covered in corks.
joella
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Your password will expire in n days
Our office network (or more strictly speaking the administrator thereof) compels us to change our log-in password every four weeks. Fair enough, I suppose, though I don't really see the point.
But what bugs me is that two weeks ahead of time you start getting messages when you log in, saying 'your password will expire in 14 days, would you like to change it now?'
No, fuck off, leave me alone, why would I want to change my password two weeks early? That would mean I have to change it twice as often, right?
So I click 'No', and continue to click 'No' every morning until the one where I'm not allowed to log in *without* changing my password.
Which, like so many of the small procedural things imposed on the average office worker, irritates me beyond all reason. When I worked in a small organisation I was able to stick my breasts out at the IT guy and get him to give me a permanent password. A moment of shameful behaviour for four years of being able to type 'turtle' every morning without thinking about it seemed worth it at the time.
But here, that is just not possible. There are Rules.
So what I really want to know, is what is the optimum day to change my password?
Changing it as soon as it asks (8 characters, typed twice, about 15 seconds, another minute or so over the next few days as you type the old one by mistake), let's say 4 minutes and 96 keystrokes a month. Changing it at the last opportunity (click 'No' and say 'fuck *off*' up to thirteen times, then as above), let's say 2.5 minutes and 61 keystrokes a month.
Hmm. If you can bear the irritation, it clearly pays to drag the experience out. But you are more likely to kill one of your colleagues, or at least offend those who only swear at Christmas, if you do.
joella
Our office network (or more strictly speaking the administrator thereof) compels us to change our log-in password every four weeks. Fair enough, I suppose, though I don't really see the point.
But what bugs me is that two weeks ahead of time you start getting messages when you log in, saying 'your password will expire in 14 days, would you like to change it now?'
No, fuck off, leave me alone, why would I want to change my password two weeks early? That would mean I have to change it twice as often, right?
So I click 'No', and continue to click 'No' every morning until the one where I'm not allowed to log in *without* changing my password.
Which, like so many of the small procedural things imposed on the average office worker, irritates me beyond all reason. When I worked in a small organisation I was able to stick my breasts out at the IT guy and get him to give me a permanent password. A moment of shameful behaviour for four years of being able to type 'turtle' every morning without thinking about it seemed worth it at the time.
But here, that is just not possible. There are Rules.
So what I really want to know, is what is the optimum day to change my password?
Changing it as soon as it asks (8 characters, typed twice, about 15 seconds, another minute or so over the next few days as you type the old one by mistake), let's say 4 minutes and 96 keystrokes a month. Changing it at the last opportunity (click 'No' and say 'fuck *off*' up to thirteen times, then as above), let's say 2.5 minutes and 61 keystrokes a month.
Hmm. If you can bear the irritation, it clearly pays to drag the experience out. But you are more likely to kill one of your colleagues, or at least offend those who only swear at Christmas, if you do.
joella
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
You know you're middle class when...
You've had too much Sauvignon Blanc for a Tuesday and you're clearing up after your stepchildren have been round for dinner. On finding you've run out of dishwasher salt you think 'fuck it' and use Maldon sea salt crystals instead.
And it's not the first time you've done it.
I am so ashamed.
joella
You've had too much Sauvignon Blanc for a Tuesday and you're clearing up after your stepchildren have been round for dinner. On finding you've run out of dishwasher salt you think 'fuck it' and use Maldon sea salt crystals instead.
And it's not the first time you've done it.
I am so ashamed.
joella
It's all relative
I may be feeling lethargic and a bit blue, but imagine the forbearance I would need if I was carrying my mother on an 'all-India pilgrimage'.
"He is a nice son but I am getting tired", she says.
joella
I may be feeling lethargic and a bit blue, but imagine the forbearance I would need if I was carrying my mother on an 'all-India pilgrimage'.
"He is a nice son but I am getting tired", she says.
joella
Monday, August 23, 2004
Garden update
As Mick the builder seems to be telling Winona the mixer (left), it's always more complicated than it looks. And ye gods, our garden even *looks* complicated, so imagine how complicated it actually *is*. Not to say expensive, and I don't just mean in bandages. And, currently, lethal. Small children and drunk people beware. Oh, and muddy as you like.
However, progress is being made, and while MTB is unable to return in a feasible timescale thanks to hellish weather Up North, we have realised that C the carpenter isn't just a carpenter and will be round at some stage to finish the walls. Fantastic!
Meanwhile, M and I got out there again, and as well as Mick's wall (being built above left), which is only slightly falling down, we now have a pond, a flat surface on which to lay paving which we compacted our very own selves, and round poles which we dug holes for and mixed concrete for which already boast washing line (goodbye horrible rotary dryer!) and may one day boast plants and lights in jam jars. All pictured above right. Cool, huh?
joella
The weatherman says it's raining
And he's not wrong. In fact, it's looking like a terminal piss down situation pretty much all week.
But the great British public don't seem to mind too much. I don't either. It can rain as much as it wants unless I'm a) camping (last weekend) or b) continuing wildly overambitious garden restructuring (this weekend). Most of the time I've quite enjoyed sitting here with my lamp on drinking soothing rainy afternoon cups of white tea.
joella
And he's not wrong. In fact, it's looking like a terminal piss down situation pretty much all week.
But the great British public don't seem to mind too much. I don't either. It can rain as much as it wants unless I'm a) camping (last weekend) or b) continuing wildly overambitious garden restructuring (this weekend). Most of the time I've quite enjoyed sitting here with my lamp on drinking soothing rainy afternoon cups of white tea.
joella
Friday, August 20, 2004
Prestige. Pain. Lacrosse.
I thought it was one of those spam messages that deliberately include hundreds of randomly generated odd words. But no, these were chosen deliberately -- in fact to advertise a lacrosse kit franchise. Ad text ran: Lacrosse. The only sport where beating your opponent means with sticks.
Sorry guys, you're not really selling it to me as a concept. Anyway, surely lacrosse is only really a game for girls at boarding schools?
joella
I thought it was one of those spam messages that deliberately include hundreds of randomly generated odd words. But no, these were chosen deliberately -- in fact to advertise a lacrosse kit franchise. Ad text ran: Lacrosse. The only sport where beating your opponent means with sticks.
Sorry guys, you're not really selling it to me as a concept. Anyway, surely lacrosse is only really a game for girls at boarding schools?
joella
Sometimes you *do* need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows
This week, I am mostly ranting. To be more specific, I have been ranting about the fact that some skills and experience are more valued than others by those who make big management decisions. For example, you wouldn't let someone do a heart transplant who'd only read a book about it, would you? It would be doomed to failure.
And you wouldn't have someone project managing the building of a skyscraper who had never project managed the building of at least a fairly tall building, would you? It would be doomed to failure.
So why then have people managing large internet projects who have no technical knowledge or in-depth understanding of the internet? The immediate answer is because the people who appoint them have no technical knowledge or in-depth understanding of the internet, and that is because those who *do* have technical knowledge and in-depth understanding of the internet don't have those skills valued appropriately. Somehow, people think that marketing people can manage internet strategy. I think this is mental.
I have ten years' internet experience, I realised the other day. At the end of 1994 I wrote an article about the internet which said (among other things) "The Web seems -- so far anyway -- to be more a hip way of advertising than a source of information with real commercial value.".
That has of course changed -- those were the days when you could only use the internet in the morning, before the Americans got up and ate up all the bandwidth -- but you still find people thinking that usability is detail that can be left to developer types, and content is detail that can be left to editorial types. And that's bollocks. All right?
Just needed to get that off my chest.
joella
This week, I am mostly ranting. To be more specific, I have been ranting about the fact that some skills and experience are more valued than others by those who make big management decisions. For example, you wouldn't let someone do a heart transplant who'd only read a book about it, would you? It would be doomed to failure.
And you wouldn't have someone project managing the building of a skyscraper who had never project managed the building of at least a fairly tall building, would you? It would be doomed to failure.
So why then have people managing large internet projects who have no technical knowledge or in-depth understanding of the internet? The immediate answer is because the people who appoint them have no technical knowledge or in-depth understanding of the internet, and that is because those who *do* have technical knowledge and in-depth understanding of the internet don't have those skills valued appropriately. Somehow, people think that marketing people can manage internet strategy. I think this is mental.
I have ten years' internet experience, I realised the other day. At the end of 1994 I wrote an article about the internet which said (among other things) "The Web seems -- so far anyway -- to be more a hip way of advertising than a source of information with real commercial value.".
That has of course changed -- those were the days when you could only use the internet in the morning, before the Americans got up and ate up all the bandwidth -- but you still find people thinking that usability is detail that can be left to developer types, and content is detail that can be left to editorial types. And that's bollocks. All right?
Just needed to get that off my chest.
joella
Thursday, August 19, 2004
In praise of Wales
Back in early 80s, there was that sad advert from the Welsh Development Agency for bringing your business to Wales. It had a Welsh male voice choir singing a song about all the businesses that were thriving in the land, and ended with the phrase 'made in Wales'.
Not the Nine O'Clock News delivered its own version of the ad... in fact three versions. I remember them all as if they were yesterday. There was 'Laid in Wales' (Rhonwen, Dilys, Glenda etc), 'Failed in Wales' (a litany of light industrial disasters), and (my own personal favourite) 'Made from Whales'.
It's been a troubled land, devastated by the closure of the mines and not helped in the public image stakes by the fact that we have all had a very wet holiday there. But maybe the times they are a changing. The Gower peninsula is, frankly, drop dead beautiful, and it's beginning to feel like provincial might one day be cool again. It wasn't so long ago that suburbs were aspirational, and house prices may be turning gentrifiers into pioneers once more.
And you could do a hell of a lot worse than live half an hour from Llangennith:
The good part is, it's inaccessible, empty, cheap and friendly. Most of the people we saw were people who live in South Wales having a grand old time in South Wales. Which (as someone who grew up on the coast herself) is how it should be.
The bad part is that City boy surfers have discovered that the Gower is just as close as Cornwall and much cheaper. Which is probably good for the local economy, but bad for those of us without SUVs and mountains of disposable income.
Still. In the meantime, it's fab. I don't even *like* the great outdoors and I loved playing out this weekend.
joella
joella
Back in early 80s, there was that sad advert from the Welsh Development Agency for bringing your business to Wales. It had a Welsh male voice choir singing a song about all the businesses that were thriving in the land, and ended with the phrase 'made in Wales'.
Not the Nine O'Clock News delivered its own version of the ad... in fact three versions. I remember them all as if they were yesterday. There was 'Laid in Wales' (Rhonwen, Dilys, Glenda etc), 'Failed in Wales' (a litany of light industrial disasters), and (my own personal favourite) 'Made from Whales'.
It's been a troubled land, devastated by the closure of the mines and not helped in the public image stakes by the fact that we have all had a very wet holiday there. But maybe the times they are a changing. The Gower peninsula is, frankly, drop dead beautiful, and it's beginning to feel like provincial might one day be cool again. It wasn't so long ago that suburbs were aspirational, and house prices may be turning gentrifiers into pioneers once more.
And you could do a hell of a lot worse than live half an hour from Llangennith:
The good part is, it's inaccessible, empty, cheap and friendly. Most of the people we saw were people who live in South Wales having a grand old time in South Wales. Which (as someone who grew up on the coast herself) is how it should be.
The bad part is that City boy surfers have discovered that the Gower is just as close as Cornwall and much cheaper. Which is probably good for the local economy, but bad for those of us without SUVs and mountains of disposable income.
Still. In the meantime, it's fab. I don't even *like* the great outdoors and I loved playing out this weekend.
joella
joella
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Three sides to the great British summer
1. Flash floods in Cornwall. My favourite quote was from a man on the Today programme saying 'well we realised it was serious when we saw our fridge freezer float past'. That's the spirit.
2. Madame Tussauds introduces a Brad Pitt waxwork with a strokable chest and squeezable bum. I am not sure about this. What's next, a fuckable Kylie?
3. Billy Bragg is to rewrite 'I vow to thee my country', to be debuted at the Labour Party Conference. A little bit Elton, a little bit earnest, a little bit just plain excruciating. Probably.
joella
1. Flash floods in Cornwall. My favourite quote was from a man on the Today programme saying 'well we realised it was serious when we saw our fridge freezer float past'. That's the spirit.
2. Madame Tussauds introduces a Brad Pitt waxwork with a strokable chest and squeezable bum. I am not sure about this. What's next, a fuckable Kylie?
3. Billy Bragg is to rewrite 'I vow to thee my country', to be debuted at the Labour Party Conference. A little bit Elton, a little bit earnest, a little bit just plain excruciating. Probably.
joella
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
You are what you wear
Until yesterday, I had a lovely necklace. I got it in Israel when I was 10. It was dark brown shell type beads with some white and some gold, hard to describe but I loved it very much and have worn it sporadically for over 20 years.
I put it on yesterday morning and got the bus to work. About 10.30 I went to the toilet and when I came out I noticed in the mirror that it had gone. It could be anywhere, only it's not at work and it's not at home, so I think I have to accept that it has gone. I was sad.
I walked home mournfully from the bus stop, thinking of my shell necklace and all the things it had seen me through. I had been thinking of getting it re-strung, why didn't I?
Housemate S opened the door and rolled her eyes at me. Skipping round the kitchen was M, wearing a Gay Dad T-shirt and a pair of thermal long johns.
He wanted to be comfy, he said, after getting rain-soaked on his bicycle. Fair enough, said S, but he looks like the last chicken in the shop.
She had a point, but there's a lot to be said for comfy old things. And you miss them when they're gone.
joella
Until yesterday, I had a lovely necklace. I got it in Israel when I was 10. It was dark brown shell type beads with some white and some gold, hard to describe but I loved it very much and have worn it sporadically for over 20 years.
I put it on yesterday morning and got the bus to work. About 10.30 I went to the toilet and when I came out I noticed in the mirror that it had gone. It could be anywhere, only it's not at work and it's not at home, so I think I have to accept that it has gone. I was sad.
I walked home mournfully from the bus stop, thinking of my shell necklace and all the things it had seen me through. I had been thinking of getting it re-strung, why didn't I?
Housemate S opened the door and rolled her eyes at me. Skipping round the kitchen was M, wearing a Gay Dad T-shirt and a pair of thermal long johns.
He wanted to be comfy, he said, after getting rain-soaked on his bicycle. Fair enough, said S, but he looks like the last chicken in the shop.
She had a point, but there's a lot to be said for comfy old things. And you miss them when they're gone.
joella
Friday, August 13, 2004
Off to the beach
Yes, this weekend we are going Camping. In Wales. But they say the rain will stop soon. I have a big bag of dressings for the various leaking parts of me, and some of my dad's old shirts to keep the sun off my new skin. Timing could be better, let's put it that way.
But hey, the company will be good and I do like to be beside the seaside.
joella
Yes, this weekend we are going Camping. In Wales. But they say the rain will stop soon. I have a big bag of dressings for the various leaking parts of me, and some of my dad's old shirts to keep the sun off my new skin. Timing could be better, let's put it that way.
But hey, the company will be good and I do like to be beside the seaside.
joella
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Absolutely shitfaced
When you're bleedy and sad, absolutely shitfaced is the only way to be. You (one? I don't think I'm well educated enough to use 'one' but it would sound better) are truly drunk yet supremely benign -- a very rare combination, in fact only possible for half the drinking population on one night a month. And discount those who are pregnant, ain't bled yet or are post-menopause... so we are talking one chance in about 100 that any member of the population could be currently feeling like me. And only maybe half of them will be so that's like 1 in 200. Wow.
You 199 people are missing out. All is groovy.
joella
When you're bleedy and sad, absolutely shitfaced is the only way to be. You (one? I don't think I'm well educated enough to use 'one' but it would sound better) are truly drunk yet supremely benign -- a very rare combination, in fact only possible for half the drinking population on one night a month. And discount those who are pregnant, ain't bled yet or are post-menopause... so we are talking one chance in about 100 that any member of the population could be currently feeling like me. And only maybe half of them will be so that's like 1 in 200. Wow.
You 199 people are missing out. All is groovy.
joella
Oh dear
First law of shopping: never, but never, buy clothes -- especially shoes -- when you are premenstrual. You will wake up the next morning all bleedy and sad, shriek with horror and have to take them back.
Why? Because what you have bought will be a) red, b) shiny or, in the case of E's exemplary premenstrual trainer purchase, c) both.
I know this, and yet I went to the Fat Face sale on my way into work this morning. Now I think about it, they *did* have some red trousers, which I made a beeline for immediately, but they didn't have them in my size. Lord be praised.
But I did buy a top with a big flower on it. And some trousers. And now I daren't open the bag.
joella
First law of shopping: never, but never, buy clothes -- especially shoes -- when you are premenstrual. You will wake up the next morning all bleedy and sad, shriek with horror and have to take them back.
Why? Because what you have bought will be a) red, b) shiny or, in the case of E's exemplary premenstrual trainer purchase, c) both.
I know this, and yet I went to the Fat Face sale on my way into work this morning. Now I think about it, they *did* have some red trousers, which I made a beeline for immediately, but they didn't have them in my size. Lord be praised.
But I did buy a top with a big flower on it. And some trousers. And now I daren't open the bag.
joella
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Injury update
Over the last week I have peeled off the dressings on my right arm every night and seen something different from the night before.
From blisters full of clear stuff to blisters with bits of gloopy stuff to blister skins to the most amazing collection of scabs I have ever had in my life to bright pink shiny new skin. All at different rates -- I still have the last two in some fairly dramatic patterns, and I'm still keeping it covered up -- mostly because of the sun but also because otherwise I would just pick it all day and have to start all over again.
The ability of the human body to regenerate is amazing. And it is a clear demonstration of the power of a working immune system. I dread to think what would happen to an immuno-deficient person with cement burns.
Mick the builder is back in contact. Onwards!
joella
Over the last week I have peeled off the dressings on my right arm every night and seen something different from the night before.
From blisters full of clear stuff to blisters with bits of gloopy stuff to blister skins to the most amazing collection of scabs I have ever had in my life to bright pink shiny new skin. All at different rates -- I still have the last two in some fairly dramatic patterns, and I'm still keeping it covered up -- mostly because of the sun but also because otherwise I would just pick it all day and have to start all over again.
The ability of the human body to regenerate is amazing. And it is a clear demonstration of the power of a working immune system. I dread to think what would happen to an immuno-deficient person with cement burns.
Mick the builder is back in contact. Onwards!
joella
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
All tomorrow's pasties
Okay. I am thinking of going on a diet. With M. I don't believe in diets in the conventional (WeightWatchers, SlimFast, F-Plan, Atkins) sense, and possibly not in the GI sense either, but I am moving quite strongly in that direction.
Mainly, of course, because I am a bit of a dobber at the moment, and so is my boyfriend. Unprecedentedly on his part, as he comes from the school of scrawn - less so on mine, as I come from the lair of lard.
But - and I can't stress this enough - I don't want to be thin. I was built for comfort, I wasn't built for speed, and I am fine with that. I have only once in my life been thin, and that was after six months budget backpacking in Asia including a week on a drip in hospital, itself following ten days of keeping nothing down. I had no choice *but* to be thin, but my body put up a spirited fight nonetheless.
The world wants women to be thin, at least, the developed world does. And I do feel that, of course. But I have long and successfully maintained that it's better and healthier to fight the self-esteem battle and enjoy your food than to starve yourself or chuck up and be physically admired but miserable.
If you have appetites, it does come down to that. Not everyone does, but there are a lot of hungry miserable women out there who would be a bouncy 14-16 if they only let themselves.
But all that aside, I could do with losing a bit, and so could M. We would feel better about ourselves and each other, I think, and I might even get back into my lucky jeans (my lucky *pants* on the other hand have no elastic left so I could get into those even if I was the size of a house).
And what's appealing about the GI diet is that it's a different way of eating, good for energy levels, balancing of blood sugar and promotion of healthy bowels, heart and other parts. I shifted my eating habits quite drastically last year after I went to see the Bum Lady (much less wheat, much less dairy) and I have definitely got healthier as a result. This seems like a kind of natural progression: anything based around lots of veg can't be bad.
Can it?
joella
Okay. I am thinking of going on a diet. With M. I don't believe in diets in the conventional (WeightWatchers, SlimFast, F-Plan, Atkins) sense, and possibly not in the GI sense either, but I am moving quite strongly in that direction.
Mainly, of course, because I am a bit of a dobber at the moment, and so is my boyfriend. Unprecedentedly on his part, as he comes from the school of scrawn - less so on mine, as I come from the lair of lard.
But - and I can't stress this enough - I don't want to be thin. I was built for comfort, I wasn't built for speed, and I am fine with that. I have only once in my life been thin, and that was after six months budget backpacking in Asia including a week on a drip in hospital, itself following ten days of keeping nothing down. I had no choice *but* to be thin, but my body put up a spirited fight nonetheless.
The world wants women to be thin, at least, the developed world does. And I do feel that, of course. But I have long and successfully maintained that it's better and healthier to fight the self-esteem battle and enjoy your food than to starve yourself or chuck up and be physically admired but miserable.
If you have appetites, it does come down to that. Not everyone does, but there are a lot of hungry miserable women out there who would be a bouncy 14-16 if they only let themselves.
But all that aside, I could do with losing a bit, and so could M. We would feel better about ourselves and each other, I think, and I might even get back into my lucky jeans (my lucky *pants* on the other hand have no elastic left so I could get into those even if I was the size of a house).
And what's appealing about the GI diet is that it's a different way of eating, good for energy levels, balancing of blood sugar and promotion of healthy bowels, heart and other parts. I shifted my eating habits quite drastically last year after I went to see the Bum Lady (much less wheat, much less dairy) and I have definitely got healthier as a result. This seems like a kind of natural progression: anything based around lots of veg can't be bad.
Can it?
joella
Monday, August 09, 2004
The importance of being idle
I got a great deal of pleasure from an article in Saturday's Guardian about the value of doing nothing. I can't find it on the Guardian website, but then I haven't looked very hard.
I do nothing as often as possible. Sometimes it isn't in a good way, and I feel low and lazy and guilty. But often it is exactly what the doctor would (I think) order: as I have said to boyfriends past and present, I need my space.
This Sunday was a great example. I did nothing. I am not sure I even got dressed. It was too hot to go out and I am still bandaged anyway so the sun is no fun. Instead, I paid off a large chunk of my sleep debt and did lots of thinking, while occasionally wandering to and from the washing machine (some activities can be done while having your space -- I think they may vary from person to person, but washing is one of mine).
As I am a bit poorly I also read a very bad book, that housemate S had purchased at an airport but couldn't even read on holiday. I did learn that Puerto Rico was a US territory, and I didn't know that before, but I could have done without the author (thinly veiled as narrator) telling me that at least three times, pointing out that most people don't know. Still, it's a self-esteem booster, reading a bad book, sometimes.
On the down side, builder Mick son of Mick is incommunicado. This is worrying. But if I hadn't tried to get hold of him, I wouldn't know this. I should have listened to my inner sloth.
joella
I got a great deal of pleasure from an article in Saturday's Guardian about the value of doing nothing. I can't find it on the Guardian website, but then I haven't looked very hard.
I do nothing as often as possible. Sometimes it isn't in a good way, and I feel low and lazy and guilty. But often it is exactly what the doctor would (I think) order: as I have said to boyfriends past and present, I need my space.
This Sunday was a great example. I did nothing. I am not sure I even got dressed. It was too hot to go out and I am still bandaged anyway so the sun is no fun. Instead, I paid off a large chunk of my sleep debt and did lots of thinking, while occasionally wandering to and from the washing machine (some activities can be done while having your space -- I think they may vary from person to person, but washing is one of mine).
As I am a bit poorly I also read a very bad book, that housemate S had purchased at an airport but couldn't even read on holiday. I did learn that Puerto Rico was a US territory, and I didn't know that before, but I could have done without the author (thinly veiled as narrator) telling me that at least three times, pointing out that most people don't know. Still, it's a self-esteem booster, reading a bad book, sometimes.
On the down side, builder Mick son of Mick is incommunicado. This is worrying. But if I hadn't tried to get hold of him, I wouldn't know this. I should have listened to my inner sloth.
joella
Friday, August 06, 2004
Damp Friday thoughts
It's as warm as blood in my office. Warmer. I am beginning to digest my own internal organs. There's a sort-of-working fan pushing soupy air around, the window only opens a crack and the blinds are broken. It's like working in the 70s, but with less cheesecloth.
The only saving grace is my office-mate's little plug in water feature, a kind of Zen trickle over stones. It totally contravenes Health and Safety (unlike requiring people to work with sweat dripping into their eyes) but it makes it feel a little cooler, and also reminds me to go to the toilet regularly.
I couldn't go outside for lunch because I've got second degree burns already (duh!), so I am stuck here till I can squelch to the bus stop and let the weekend take over. I am going to take C's advice and spend it in the freezer section of Tesco's.
joella
It's as warm as blood in my office. Warmer. I am beginning to digest my own internal organs. There's a sort-of-working fan pushing soupy air around, the window only opens a crack and the blinds are broken. It's like working in the 70s, but with less cheesecloth.
The only saving grace is my office-mate's little plug in water feature, a kind of Zen trickle over stones. It totally contravenes Health and Safety (unlike requiring people to work with sweat dripping into their eyes) but it makes it feel a little cooler, and also reminds me to go to the toilet regularly.
I couldn't go outside for lunch because I've got second degree burns already (duh!), so I am stuck here till I can squelch to the bus stop and let the weekend take over. I am going to take C's advice and spend it in the freezer section of Tesco's.
joella
Thursday, August 05, 2004
The wonderful world of Womad
A bit late this -- thanks to injuries and a home PC which reboots for fun just as you are putting the finishing touches to your masterpiece, which (of course) you haven't saved.
But as is often the case (she says, determinedly looking on the bright side once more), the thing you end up with on the third attempt is often better than the thing you would have settled for first time round.
Anyway. Without further ado, here are some Womad Moments.
Left-right, top-bottom
1. joella in big shades lying by the river
2. glow bracelets
3. festival pint
4. M and anonymous girl in amazing blue-pink coordination outside Manic Organic
5. Golden Pride Children's Choir from Tanzania
6. flags by night
7. the ever-sumptuous Madras Cafe
8. David Byrne does Hannibal Lecter
9. steward watching over us from Golf tower
10. speaker fairies on the main stage
11. the shadow of Jim Moray on the Village Stage
I haven't posted the photos of camping, but will send them to those featured. Suffice it to say it was immeasurably enhanced this year by inflatable sofas courtesy of Ms Y and a 7th birthday party featuring a pinyada/gazebo combination.
We were loving it loving it loving it.
joella
A bit late this -- thanks to injuries and a home PC which reboots for fun just as you are putting the finishing touches to your masterpiece, which (of course) you haven't saved.
But as is often the case (she says, determinedly looking on the bright side once more), the thing you end up with on the third attempt is often better than the thing you would have settled for first time round.
Anyway. Without further ado, here are some Womad Moments.
Left-right, top-bottom
1. joella in big shades lying by the river
2. glow bracelets
3. festival pint
4. M and anonymous girl in amazing blue-pink coordination outside Manic Organic
5. Golden Pride Children's Choir from Tanzania
6. flags by night
7. the ever-sumptuous Madras Cafe
8. David Byrne does Hannibal Lecter
9. steward watching over us from Golf tower
10. speaker fairies on the main stage
11. the shadow of Jim Moray on the Village Stage
I haven't posted the photos of camping, but will send them to those featured. Suffice it to say it was immeasurably enhanced this year by inflatable sofas courtesy of Ms Y and a 7th birthday party featuring a pinyada/gazebo combination.
We were loving it loving it loving it.
joella
Monday, August 02, 2004
You live, you learn
OK, so I am well pissed off with my suppurating right hand (though the left is nearly better, apart from some splodgy red marks).
However, I have learnt a lot about treating burns, and in particular have discovered the fabulous Jelonet. What a great product. Ditto Tubigrip.
I have also learnt how to drain blisters with sterile needles (gross) and have used many of the components of the first aid kit I purchased in 1992 to go travelling. M has learnt how to wash a girl in the bath and how to get clever with dressings and micropore tape.
All useful life skills, no? Got to look on the bright side. And I can type again with all but two fingers... hooray!
joella
OK, so I am well pissed off with my suppurating right hand (though the left is nearly better, apart from some splodgy red marks).
However, I have learnt a lot about treating burns, and in particular have discovered the fabulous Jelonet. What a great product. Ditto Tubigrip.
I have also learnt how to drain blisters with sterile needles (gross) and have used many of the components of the first aid kit I purchased in 1992 to go travelling. M has learnt how to wash a girl in the bath and how to get clever with dressings and micropore tape.
All useful life skills, no? Got to look on the bright side. And I can type again with all but two fingers... hooray!
joella
Saturday, July 31, 2004
ow ow ow ow ow ow
Everything hurts My cement burns woke me up at 6, I rang NHS Direct at 7.30, and was sitting in A&E on their advice by 8.30.
By 10 (having understood that cement burn plus sunburn = Bad News) I had been discharged and walked in the door at home with two arms bandaged up to the elbow and one in a sling. Mick the builder quivered. Please don't tell your mother, he said, she'll fucking kill me. I reckon she'd kill me too, that's why I rang NHS Direct rather than her (she is a nurse, but from the fierce Old School).
He barrowed sand through. I read my book. I will survive.
joella
Everything hurts My cement burns woke me up at 6, I rang NHS Direct at 7.30, and was sitting in A&E on their advice by 8.30.
By 10 (having understood that cement burn plus sunburn = Bad News) I had been discharged and walked in the door at home with two arms bandaged up to the elbow and one in a sling. Mick the builder quivered. Please don't tell your mother, he said, she'll fucking kill me. I reckon she'd kill me too, that's why I rang NHS Direct rather than her (she is a nurse, but from the fierce Old School).
He barrowed sand through. I read my book. I will survive.
joella
Friday, July 30, 2004
Post I am determined not to have to edit in the morning
Cement can burn you. It can really hurt. Doing thirteen mixes of concrete is not at all bad (I am told by Mick the builder, who knows about these things), especially if you are a girl. But it will send you to the pharmacist after two days and he will tell you to wear gloves. Which will get you called a girl, but, I guess, in a good way.
joella
Cement can burn you. It can really hurt. Doing thirteen mixes of concrete is not at all bad (I am told by Mick the builder, who knows about these things), especially if you are a girl. But it will send you to the pharmacist after two days and he will tell you to wear gloves. Which will get you called a girl, but, I guess, in a good way.
joella
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
What a wonderful world
Mick the builder is here. At the moment he is in the other room having an intense grass-fuelled debate with M about obscure Philip K Dick books. Earlier, he and I went out for beers -- at the Eagle & Child so he could indulge his Tolkien obsession, and then at the Turf so I could indulge my Oxford one. We walked back along Queens Lane and he admired the brickwork.
Tomorrow, I am due to get up at 7.30 and then learn how to mix concrete. I am steadily earning my passage off Golgafrincham Ark B.
joella
Mick the builder is here. At the moment he is in the other room having an intense grass-fuelled debate with M about obscure Philip K Dick books. Earlier, he and I went out for beers -- at the Eagle & Child so he could indulge his Tolkien obsession, and then at the Turf so I could indulge my Oxford one. We walked back along Queens Lane and he admired the brickwork.
Tomorrow, I am due to get up at 7.30 and then learn how to mix concrete. I am steadily earning my passage off Golgafrincham Ark B.
joella
Monday, July 26, 2004
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Low level anxiety caused by low lying cloud
After work today, and after calling the builder's merchants to order supplies for Mick the builder for next week, and after buying snacks and drinks for seven or is it eight, and after finding plastic flowers from somewhere at S's instruction, I am off to Womad.
Theoretically, it is all under control. I was ordered out of the advance party because I get too stressed, so when I turn up there the posse should be firmly encamped and all I have to do is chill out. How lovely the advance party are.
And the weather forecast isn't too bad. So what am I worried about? Well, the sky was the colour of a seasick elephant this morning, and it's still cloud cloud cloud as far as the eye can see. Last year it pissed down, and I didn't like it. Well, it's in the hands of the gods now. Back on Monday.
After work today, and after calling the builder's merchants to order supplies for Mick the builder for next week, and after buying snacks and drinks for seven or is it eight, and after finding plastic flowers from somewhere at S's instruction, I am off to Womad.
Theoretically, it is all under control. I was ordered out of the advance party because I get too stressed, so when I turn up there the posse should be firmly encamped and all I have to do is chill out. How lovely the advance party are.
And the weather forecast isn't too bad. So what am I worried about? Well, the sky was the colour of a seasick elephant this morning, and it's still cloud cloud cloud as far as the eye can see. Last year it pissed down, and I didn't like it. Well, it's in the hands of the gods now. Back on Monday.
joella
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
I love a (posh) man in (high ranking) uniform
A fire alarm at Glasgow airport had hordes of the great unwashed hanging out on the pavement in the drizzle whinging about pints of Stella left half undrunk. Once the all clear was given, there was a huge queue for the (heightened) security clearance -- lots of random bag checks, shoe-sole examinations etc.
Quite understandably, we never got to find out why the alarm went off, but in these post 9/11 days it doesn't take much to get you looking sidelong at other people's shoes and giving bearded men (even ginger ones with kilts on) hard and slightly paranoid stares.
Cue Captain Charm, with a voice like cut glass: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to flight BA 123 to London Heathrow. Slight delay in take off this evening, for which sincere apologies, but apparently there is 'high demand' to land at Heathrow this fine evening. High demand, that's what it says on this piece of paper in front of me. Now I'd argue that there's always high demand, so perhaps another runway might be in order, but no, we are British so we will jolly well make do with what we've got.
"I am not flying myself this evening, you instead have the immeasurable privilege of being flown by my co-pilot (insert posh girl's name here), whom actually I am rather annoyed with because she's better at landing than I am and she eats chocolate in the cockpit without offering me any. Anyway, it's bound to be an absolutely splendid flight as soon as those air traffic control people decide to be reasonable and let us get on with it. And now over to the frankly exceptional cabin crew who will I am sure meet every expectation you could possibly have. Trust me."
And trust him I did. Seconds later, the estuarine tones of the head of cabin crew came over the intercom, annoucing the safety demonstration in similarly light -- quite probably similarly manufacturedly light -- mood, but he just couldn't compete. When you find yourself in times of trouble, you want a grown up public schoolboy with stripes on his sleeves to make you feel all right.
All that breeding, all that training. There's a lot to be said for accomplished posh boys. They'd never come up with anything as vulgar as 'shock and awe'. Not that they need it with their advanced combination of mild disbelief, stiff upper lip, consummate skill and artful understatement.
And what's more, he was right. The landing was superb: in over the east of London, gentle low cruise along the Thames checking out the sights, and a touchdown you almost didn't feel. She really knew what she was doing. Which seemed a fitting end to an interesting day arguing the finer points of gender equality work. Of which I am glad, as until that point I was feeling remarkably politically incorrect with my unashamed appreciation of her colleague.
joella
A fire alarm at Glasgow airport had hordes of the great unwashed hanging out on the pavement in the drizzle whinging about pints of Stella left half undrunk. Once the all clear was given, there was a huge queue for the (heightened) security clearance -- lots of random bag checks, shoe-sole examinations etc.
Quite understandably, we never got to find out why the alarm went off, but in these post 9/11 days it doesn't take much to get you looking sidelong at other people's shoes and giving bearded men (even ginger ones with kilts on) hard and slightly paranoid stares.
Cue Captain Charm, with a voice like cut glass: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to flight BA 123 to London Heathrow. Slight delay in take off this evening, for which sincere apologies, but apparently there is 'high demand' to land at Heathrow this fine evening. High demand, that's what it says on this piece of paper in front of me. Now I'd argue that there's always high demand, so perhaps another runway might be in order, but no, we are British so we will jolly well make do with what we've got.
"I am not flying myself this evening, you instead have the immeasurable privilege of being flown by my co-pilot (insert posh girl's name here), whom actually I am rather annoyed with because she's better at landing than I am and she eats chocolate in the cockpit without offering me any. Anyway, it's bound to be an absolutely splendid flight as soon as those air traffic control people decide to be reasonable and let us get on with it. And now over to the frankly exceptional cabin crew who will I am sure meet every expectation you could possibly have. Trust me."
And trust him I did. Seconds later, the estuarine tones of the head of cabin crew came over the intercom, annoucing the safety demonstration in similarly light -- quite probably similarly manufacturedly light -- mood, but he just couldn't compete. When you find yourself in times of trouble, you want a grown up public schoolboy with stripes on his sleeves to make you feel all right.
All that breeding, all that training. There's a lot to be said for accomplished posh boys. They'd never come up with anything as vulgar as 'shock and awe'. Not that they need it with their advanced combination of mild disbelief, stiff upper lip, consummate skill and artful understatement.
And what's more, he was right. The landing was superb: in over the east of London, gentle low cruise along the Thames checking out the sights, and a touchdown you almost didn't feel. She really knew what she was doing. Which seemed a fitting end to an interesting day arguing the finer points of gender equality work. Of which I am glad, as until that point I was feeling remarkably politically incorrect with my unashamed appreciation of her colleague.
joella
Monday, July 19, 2004
Underwhelming e-experience
I am killing time at Heathrow Terminal 1. Decided to experiment with one of those email and internet kiosks you see next to payphones these days. Hmmm. First of all I couldn't get into Hotmail (3 minutes wasted) , then getting into Blogger took several more minutes, as I watched my 15 minutes running steadily out in the helpful countdown in the corner. You can't open another window to try loading something else, so you just have to stand there like a lemon.
[next day, at home]
So I managed to save to draft by accident, then I tried to publish, and waited another three minutes watching the spinning IE globe, then my money ran out. I decided not to try again: a pound of my hard-earned cash and 15 minutes of my ever decreasing life for 87 words does not seem like good ROI to me.
joella
I am killing time at Heathrow Terminal 1. Decided to experiment with one of those email and internet kiosks you see next to payphones these days. Hmmm. First of all I couldn't get into Hotmail (3 minutes wasted) , then getting into Blogger took several more minutes, as I watched my 15 minutes running steadily out in the helpful countdown in the corner. You can't open another window to try loading something else, so you just have to stand there like a lemon.
So I managed to save to draft by accident, then I tried to publish, and waited another three minutes watching the spinning IE globe, then my money ran out. I decided not to try again: a pound of my hard-earned cash and 15 minutes of my ever decreasing life for 87 words does not seem like good ROI to me.
joella
Sunday, July 18, 2004
hEY YA!
Hey, the Blogger interface is all different! THa'ts not a fair thing to do to a driunk person.
I've had a lovely weekend so far, fixed some plumbing (still dangerously at 100% success rate, can only go downhill) and then splendid meal out with A&D eating veggie Chinese food that M doesn't agree with, being fake (eg fake duck, fake chicken etc, despite being Chinese tradition *and* um somehitng else I can't remember).
oh arse. did write something interesting about OutKast, about urban vs rural, about life generally, but the fucking PC rebooted, as it does all the time at the moment.
Could be just as well. time to go to bed and enjoy having it all to myself (M away being a rock star by the sea).
joella
Hey, the Blogger interface is all different! THa'ts not a fair thing to do to a driunk person.
I've had a lovely weekend so far, fixed some plumbing (still dangerously at 100% success rate, can only go downhill) and then splendid meal out with A&D eating veggie Chinese food that M doesn't agree with, being fake (eg fake duck, fake chicken etc, despite being Chinese tradition *and* um somehitng else I can't remember).
oh arse. did write something interesting about OutKast, about urban vs rural, about life generally, but the fucking PC rebooted, as it does all the time at the moment.
Could be just as well. time to go to bed and enjoy having it all to myself (M away being a rock star by the sea).
joella
Thursday, July 15, 2004
Grumpelstiltskin
Recipe for a grumpy Thursday:
Several glasses of white wine
Sudden onset period pain
Three pints of Stella
Two Nurofen Plus
One very late night
Shake up together and then leave to settle.
Around lunchtime, a hot vegetable samosa can be added, followed by a laughably inadequate cup of Ayurvedic Detox herbal tea.
Can I go home yet?
joella
Recipe for a grumpy Thursday:
Several glasses of white wine
Sudden onset period pain
Three pints of Stella
Two Nurofen Plus
One very late night
Shake up together and then leave to settle.
Around lunchtime, a hot vegetable samosa can be added, followed by a laughably inadequate cup of Ayurvedic Detox herbal tea.
Can I go home yet?
joella
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Tactical fish soup
A long long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, someone taught me how to make fish soup. It came originally, I believe, from a Sainsbury's recipe card, which she adapted, and I have adapted it in turn.
It is based around white fish -- as good as you can find -- tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil and fresh herbs. It takes about an hour to cook and fragrant steam fills the house as you all get hungrier.
I turn to it often when M's daughters come round. It is splendid yet hard to cock up, helping me appear both bountiful and accomplished. Every woman should have such a dish at her disposal.
joella
A long long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, someone taught me how to make fish soup. It came originally, I believe, from a Sainsbury's recipe card, which she adapted, and I have adapted it in turn.
It is based around white fish -- as good as you can find -- tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil and fresh herbs. It takes about an hour to cook and fragrant steam fills the house as you all get hungrier.
I turn to it often when M's daughters come round. It is splendid yet hard to cock up, helping me appear both bountiful and accomplished. Every woman should have such a dish at her disposal.
joella
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Love and marriage
... go together like a horse and carriage, they say. Which don't often go together these days, let's face it, but we all still love a good wedding. Public displays of optimism, says my uncle, himself a married man.
And the one we went to on Friday was a genuinely lovely one, celebrating a relationship no one could but wish to see stay the distance. Watching the bride's father, down from the North East, looking at C with a huge smile on his face as he started his speech and saying 'My bonny daughter...' was a heart warming moment, and I felt a little pang that my sister and I have thus far (and quite possibly permanently) deprived our own father of the opportunity to do the dad thing at a wedding.
Weddings are also hugely social and generally pretty drunken. Acquaintances are made and renewed, but equally fights may be had, and rifts born or buried. This particular one saw M and my Significant Ex talking for the first time in over six years... something I wouldn't have predicted and which all parties had to work at to handle well. But I think we all did (both work at it and handle it well).
Similarly, the hen night saw me engaging with two people I hadn't spoken to for nearly as long. One of them (let's call her A) was friendly -- certainly friendlier than I expected -- the other (B) was Frosty the Snowman. The one who was friendly was the one I had done the falling out with, the chilly one was the one who fell out with me. Which was interesting... I would have expected A to have residual pissed-offness with me for being a cow and B to be feeling that time had gone by and how much could it really matter anymore.
As with international relations, the aggressor is usually the aggrieved with big guns and an attitude, and it's up to the underdog to disarm them by behaving in a civil and non-inflammatory fashion. And if you refuse to disarm under these circumstances (as I have been known to in my time), you sure have some issues.
So big up to A and to M for being, in their different ways, the grown ups of the piece, and to Significant Ex and (if I may) to me, for going with the flow, as far as we were able anyway. And to C&D for having the optimism to get married in the first place and drag us all into the same place at the same time quite simply because what we have in common is holding them in high regard. Oh, and to the Lemon Tree -- what a wonderful venue.
There was more wonderfulness about the weekend, but I have to get myself to bed -- the last few days haven't been noteworthy for their surfeit of sleep, and I think I owe myself eight hours before I even attempt to work...
joella
... go together like a horse and carriage, they say. Which don't often go together these days, let's face it, but we all still love a good wedding. Public displays of optimism, says my uncle, himself a married man.
And the one we went to on Friday was a genuinely lovely one, celebrating a relationship no one could but wish to see stay the distance. Watching the bride's father, down from the North East, looking at C with a huge smile on his face as he started his speech and saying 'My bonny daughter...' was a heart warming moment, and I felt a little pang that my sister and I have thus far (and quite possibly permanently) deprived our own father of the opportunity to do the dad thing at a wedding.
Weddings are also hugely social and generally pretty drunken. Acquaintances are made and renewed, but equally fights may be had, and rifts born or buried. This particular one saw M and my Significant Ex talking for the first time in over six years... something I wouldn't have predicted and which all parties had to work at to handle well. But I think we all did (both work at it and handle it well).
Similarly, the hen night saw me engaging with two people I hadn't spoken to for nearly as long. One of them (let's call her A) was friendly -- certainly friendlier than I expected -- the other (B) was Frosty the Snowman. The one who was friendly was the one I had done the falling out with, the chilly one was the one who fell out with me. Which was interesting... I would have expected A to have residual pissed-offness with me for being a cow and B to be feeling that time had gone by and how much could it really matter anymore.
As with international relations, the aggressor is usually the aggrieved with big guns and an attitude, and it's up to the underdog to disarm them by behaving in a civil and non-inflammatory fashion. And if you refuse to disarm under these circumstances (as I have been known to in my time), you sure have some issues.
So big up to A and to M for being, in their different ways, the grown ups of the piece, and to Significant Ex and (if I may) to me, for going with the flow, as far as we were able anyway. And to C&D for having the optimism to get married in the first place and drag us all into the same place at the same time quite simply because what we have in common is holding them in high regard. Oh, and to the Lemon Tree -- what a wonderful venue.
There was more wonderfulness about the weekend, but I have to get myself to bed -- the last few days haven't been noteworthy for their surfeit of sleep, and I think I owe myself eight hours before I even attempt to work...
joella
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Take a look around you, boy
Last night, we curled up under a blanket and started watching the awesome Our Friends in the North series on DVD, courtesy of Oxfordshire County Libraries.
One of the tracks on the soundtrack of episode 1 was Eve of Destruction by Barry McGuire, a song which hits me right in the soul. Like many protest songs, I heard it first at university, 20 years after it was written, but those were days of protest too (Thatcher, Poll Tax, student loans) and passions were high.
But it hit me even harder because I had recently followed a link to Bloggerheads: The Parting Shot (for Bush the fascist and Blair the appeaser), which uses the same song to protest about Iraq. (And very poetically -- there is something to be said for Flash animations sometimes.)
But what to do with these hit in the soul feelings? At least in the 60s people still believed in politics. I'm not so sure we do anymore.
joella
Last night, we curled up under a blanket and started watching the awesome Our Friends in the North series on DVD, courtesy of Oxfordshire County Libraries.
One of the tracks on the soundtrack of episode 1 was Eve of Destruction by Barry McGuire, a song which hits me right in the soul. Like many protest songs, I heard it first at university, 20 years after it was written, but those were days of protest too (Thatcher, Poll Tax, student loans) and passions were high.
But it hit me even harder because I had recently followed a link to Bloggerheads: The Parting Shot (for Bush the fascist and Blair the appeaser), which uses the same song to protest about Iraq. (And very poetically -- there is something to be said for Flash animations sometimes.)
But what to do with these hit in the soul feelings? At least in the 60s people still believed in politics. I'm not so sure we do anymore.
joella
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Holiday snaps
Feeling a bit better. Strange hen night receding, work going surprisingly well, household pow-wow scheduled, Mick the builder definitely coming to do the garden walls. Amazing what a couple of sober days can do for a girl.
Meanwhile, three views of Madeira -- a beautiful place if one aimed more at Generation Blue Rinse than Generation X.
View from the pool
Groovy pink and purple plants in the wonderful Botanical Gardens
Splendid Baileys-and-view after dinner with S on her birthday
joella
Feeling a bit better. Strange hen night receding, work going surprisingly well, household pow-wow scheduled, Mick the builder definitely coming to do the garden walls. Amazing what a couple of sober days can do for a girl.
Meanwhile, three views of Madeira -- a beautiful place if one aimed more at Generation Blue Rinse than Generation X.
View from the pool
Groovy pink and purple plants in the wonderful Botanical Gardens
Splendid Baileys-and-view after dinner with S on her birthday
joella
Sunday, July 04, 2004
The restorative powers of miso and lychees
I've not been in the best of moods since I got back from Madeira. Partly work, partly household dysfunction, partly a majorly hectic week socially. This last is not a bad thing in itself, but if you have the relationship with alcohol that I do then work pressures and household dysfunction create a mental environment where moderation flies out the window. The result is that I've been either drunk or hungover for days. It's not good for the body or the soul.
It reached a peak last night with a hen do that I was kind of ambivalent about. I am kind of ambivalent about hen dos in general, and I was doubly ambivalent about this one -- nothing to do with the imminent marriage, as the couple in question seem very happy together, very much in love and very compatible. No, it was more to do with the gathering itself, which caused me some discomfort. Not sure I can go into it briefly, and not sure I want to go into it at length, but the very brief version is that I drank too much, then went on to another party and drank more.
Basically, for the third night in a row I went to bed with my contact lenses still in.
Luckily, I had nothing planned today. Well, we had a picnic invite, but it rained so it wasn't too hard to miss. I decided not to put myself in a situation where I would come up wanting. Instead, I stayed in bed all day finishing Maps for Lost Lovers, and that was the best thing I could have done.
Around 11 M brought me a cup of miso soup. It is the kind of stuff you feel could sustain life all on its own. I love it. So I began to feel that I might be normal again one day. Around 8 I got dressed and went across the road to the final social engagement of the weekend, which was wine and dessert with some neighbours. I went for the lychees. I don't think I've ever had one before except out of a tin and they were fabulous. For modern day hangover cures, look east.
I meant to avoid the wine but that turned out to be impossible. So I won't wake up tomorrow with that gorgeous feeling of sobriety after excess, but I will hopefully have enough about me to get through the day with at least a semblance of panache rather than groaning lightly and spending too much time in the loo because at least no one talks to you there.
I must remember to buy a freak flag so I can fly it.
joella
I've not been in the best of moods since I got back from Madeira. Partly work, partly household dysfunction, partly a majorly hectic week socially. This last is not a bad thing in itself, but if you have the relationship with alcohol that I do then work pressures and household dysfunction create a mental environment where moderation flies out the window. The result is that I've been either drunk or hungover for days. It's not good for the body or the soul.
It reached a peak last night with a hen do that I was kind of ambivalent about. I am kind of ambivalent about hen dos in general, and I was doubly ambivalent about this one -- nothing to do with the imminent marriage, as the couple in question seem very happy together, very much in love and very compatible. No, it was more to do with the gathering itself, which caused me some discomfort. Not sure I can go into it briefly, and not sure I want to go into it at length, but the very brief version is that I drank too much, then went on to another party and drank more.
Basically, for the third night in a row I went to bed with my contact lenses still in.
Luckily, I had nothing planned today. Well, we had a picnic invite, but it rained so it wasn't too hard to miss. I decided not to put myself in a situation where I would come up wanting. Instead, I stayed in bed all day finishing Maps for Lost Lovers, and that was the best thing I could have done.
Around 11 M brought me a cup of miso soup. It is the kind of stuff you feel could sustain life all on its own. I love it. So I began to feel that I might be normal again one day. Around 8 I got dressed and went across the road to the final social engagement of the weekend, which was wine and dessert with some neighbours. I went for the lychees. I don't think I've ever had one before except out of a tin and they were fabulous. For modern day hangover cures, look east.
I meant to avoid the wine but that turned out to be impossible. So I won't wake up tomorrow with that gorgeous feeling of sobriety after excess, but I will hopefully have enough about me to get through the day with at least a semblance of panache rather than groaning lightly and spending too much time in the loo because at least no one talks to you there.
I must remember to buy a freak flag so I can fly it.
joella
Friday, July 02, 2004
Too old for this
Out drinking last night, celebrating the visit of L, who was our tour guide in India, and perhaps also drowning subconscious sorrows at the end of my plumbing course.
Then a two hour meeting this morning about something horrible and technical. And I can't do it, my brain isn't working, I want to be snuffleuppacussed under a duvet with a copy of Hello magazine and some Robinson's barley water.
And a massive weekend approaches, will I survive?
Need a Zen injection.
joella
Out drinking last night, celebrating the visit of L, who was our tour guide in India, and perhaps also drowning subconscious sorrows at the end of my plumbing course.
Then a two hour meeting this morning about something horrible and technical. And I can't do it, my brain isn't working, I want to be snuffleuppacussed under a duvet with a copy of Hello magazine and some Robinson's barley water.
And a massive weekend approaches, will I survive?
Need a Zen injection.
joella
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Backski
The hotel did have internet access, but it was unutterably overpriced and mostly not working.
Having said that, it all felt so jetset. Oxford to Gatwick, Gatwick to Madeira, stay in posh hotel for a week (incidentally getting kisses from Italian rock star, but that's not for now), back to Gatwick, *change planes* for Glasgow, drink leisurely pints in (okay not exactly jetset Premier Lodge) hotel bar and sleep the sleep of the recently holidayed in preparation for a big meeting today.
Meeting over, experience the joy of BA self-service check-in -- sometimes technology really does change the world for the better -- then buy splendid bottle of Tobermory whisky in tax free shopping as homecoming present. Take off belt to avoid beeping the security thing and invoking unpleasant search procedures, nearly home now so don't bother putting it back on.
Get to Heathrow, hang around for holiday bag which is gloriously and unprecedentedly pretty much first onto the carousel, dump onto trolley and skid hilariously down ramps and round corners arriving breathless but just in time for the airport bus back to Oxford, while lesser travelled mortals are still blinking at the hopeless Heathrow signage and wondering if it's safe to take off their flight socks yet.
Arrange for M to pick me up round the corner from the St Clements bus stop. Feel generally supremely in control of things.
Get off bus, retrieve high-tech bag which is essentially a rucksack with straps which zip away. Decide not to unzip them, as only have to heft bag round the corner.
Three steps later, as bus is pulling away, unbelted trousers slip down a bit too far, catch on sandals, left ankle slips over sideways... hop... hop... bag held funny, hop.. stagger... falling in slow motion... crash.
Suddenly, I am sitting in a puddle of expensive single malt.
And of course, someone I know is right behind me.
Arse.
joella
The hotel did have internet access, but it was unutterably overpriced and mostly not working.
Having said that, it all felt so jetset. Oxford to Gatwick, Gatwick to Madeira, stay in posh hotel for a week (incidentally getting kisses from Italian rock star, but that's not for now), back to Gatwick, *change planes* for Glasgow, drink leisurely pints in (okay not exactly jetset Premier Lodge) hotel bar and sleep the sleep of the recently holidayed in preparation for a big meeting today.
Meeting over, experience the joy of BA self-service check-in -- sometimes technology really does change the world for the better -- then buy splendid bottle of Tobermory whisky in tax free shopping as homecoming present. Take off belt to avoid beeping the security thing and invoking unpleasant search procedures, nearly home now so don't bother putting it back on.
Get to Heathrow, hang around for holiday bag which is gloriously and unprecedentedly pretty much first onto the carousel, dump onto trolley and skid hilariously down ramps and round corners arriving breathless but just in time for the airport bus back to Oxford, while lesser travelled mortals are still blinking at the hopeless Heathrow signage and wondering if it's safe to take off their flight socks yet.
Arrange for M to pick me up round the corner from the St Clements bus stop. Feel generally supremely in control of things.
Get off bus, retrieve high-tech bag which is essentially a rucksack with straps which zip away. Decide not to unzip them, as only have to heft bag round the corner.
Three steps later, as bus is pulling away, unbelted trousers slip down a bit too far, catch on sandals, left ankle slips over sideways... hop... hop... bag held funny, hop.. stagger... falling in slow motion... crash.
Suddenly, I am sitting in a puddle of expensive single malt.
And of course, someone I know is right behind me.
Arse.
joella
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Offski / tapski
Well, I am about to go on jolly hols with my parentals and sister. I have lots of books and summer skirts and am hoping I can get a pedicure.
Also utterly exhausted: after a long night on Stella-then-red-wine (WHY?) I got up early to finish fitting a garden tap for M&A with plumbing S. This involved us first drilling a hole through an outside wall with the most enormous drill I have ever seen. First we both held it, then we took turns. It was exhilarating but my arms are still shaky.
The tap itself is a tiny bit skew -- all to do with distance from the wall -- but we can fix that another time. What's important is that it works perfectly. No leaks, no drips, we even earthed it. Who'd have thought it. We rock.
Anyway, back in a week unless you can blog in Madeira. Which, thinking about it, you probably can. You can blog most places these days...
joella
Well, I am about to go on jolly hols with my parentals and sister. I have lots of books and summer skirts and am hoping I can get a pedicure.
Also utterly exhausted: after a long night on Stella-then-red-wine (WHY?) I got up early to finish fitting a garden tap for M&A with plumbing S. This involved us first drilling a hole through an outside wall with the most enormous drill I have ever seen. First we both held it, then we took turns. It was exhilarating but my arms are still shaky.
The tap itself is a tiny bit skew -- all to do with distance from the wall -- but we can fix that another time. What's important is that it works perfectly. No leaks, no drips, we even earthed it. Who'd have thought it. We rock.
Anyway, back in a week unless you can blog in Madeira. Which, thinking about it, you probably can. You can blog most places these days...
joella
Friday, June 18, 2004
Illiterate as well as fuckwitted
M and I popped into Londis this evening to pick up some beers and the Friday Guardian on the way to get takeaway Chinese for a houseful. While hovering round the newspapers, I caught sight of the Daily Mail.
The headline read:
One in 5 children grow up with no fathers
No. No. No. One in five children grows up with no father. The subject of the sentence is the one child, not the five, and one child has one father, on the whole. Naturally, I didn't read on to find out what pearls of wisdom the Daily 'family values' Mail chose to impart about this heinous situation.
But I guess you should expect nothing more from a rag aimed at pea-brained bigots.
I'm listening to Long Hot Summer by the Style Council on vinyl. I want an Embassy Regal and a little transparent lighter with hearts embossed on it to spark it up with.
joella
M and I popped into Londis this evening to pick up some beers and the Friday Guardian on the way to get takeaway Chinese for a houseful. While hovering round the newspapers, I caught sight of the Daily Mail.
The headline read:
One in 5 children grow up with no fathers
No. No. No. One in five children grows up with no father. The subject of the sentence is the one child, not the five, and one child has one father, on the whole. Naturally, I didn't read on to find out what pearls of wisdom the Daily 'family values' Mail chose to impart about this heinous situation.
But I guess you should expect nothing more from a rag aimed at pea-brained bigots.
I'm listening to Long Hot Summer by the Style Council on vinyl. I want an Embassy Regal and a little transparent lighter with hearts embossed on it to spark it up with.
joella
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Stand up for your pipe bending rights
In all fairness, plumbing doesn't often get macho. At least, our plumbing class doesn't -- though this is largely down to the skill of our teacher Jonathan, who manages a rare combination of being as macho as a man can be while simultaneously having a gentle and gender-aware side. It's quite a killer.
Yesterday, we bent 22mm copper pipe. And you would not *believe* the number of 'bender' jokes that were made. Better a girl plumber than a gay plumber be. (And heaven forfend there should be a gay girl plumber... in fact I'm not sure plumbing pupils know that there really are gay girls)
I was told I had "inappropriate footwear". I did. And I had inappropriate upper body strength too -- and not in a too much of it way. But I made the most of both my footwear and my upper body, and the pipe bent, dammit.
I got a round of applause after it, and I felt it was deserved.
There's a lot of media fuss about posh plumbers at the moment but I think it is just that -- fuss. It's not a nice or an easy job. I quite like that about it, but I've always enjoyed a challenge. Plumbing S and I have already had enquiries from masters of wine and Lima residents...
joella
In all fairness, plumbing doesn't often get macho. At least, our plumbing class doesn't -- though this is largely down to the skill of our teacher Jonathan, who manages a rare combination of being as macho as a man can be while simultaneously having a gentle and gender-aware side. It's quite a killer.
Yesterday, we bent 22mm copper pipe. And you would not *believe* the number of 'bender' jokes that were made. Better a girl plumber than a gay plumber be. (And heaven forfend there should be a gay girl plumber... in fact I'm not sure plumbing pupils know that there really are gay girls)
I was told I had "inappropriate footwear". I did. And I had inappropriate upper body strength too -- and not in a too much of it way. But I made the most of both my footwear and my upper body, and the pipe bent, dammit.
I got a round of applause after it, and I felt it was deserved.
There's a lot of media fuss about posh plumbers at the moment but I think it is just that -- fuss. It's not a nice or an easy job. I quite like that about it, but I've always enjoyed a challenge. Plumbing S and I have already had enquiries from masters of wine and Lima residents...
joella
Salty deep aching stuff
Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby
edgy and dull
and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my soul
Somehow I don't think Bruce Springsteen was writing about waking up in the middle of the night with the kind of period pain that sinks its teeth in slowly while you drift in and out of anxious, panicky dreams, leaving you exhausted from crying halfheartedly at the pointless terror of it all, and bruised from adopting increasingly unsustainable curled up positions involving balancing abdomen on balled fists.
But it's the best description of it I've ever come across.
joella
Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby
edgy and dull
and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my soul
Somehow I don't think Bruce Springsteen was writing about waking up in the middle of the night with the kind of period pain that sinks its teeth in slowly while you drift in and out of anxious, panicky dreams, leaving you exhausted from crying halfheartedly at the pointless terror of it all, and bruised from adopting increasingly unsustainable curled up positions involving balancing abdomen on balled fists.
But it's the best description of it I've ever come across.
joella
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Garden update
We are blessed with fabulous friends. In four days we went from Strange Garden on Slope via much digging (below left) to curvaceous grooviness (below right) which is ready for Mick son of Mick to come and build walls round. Much respect.
In the process, we filled a skip (left), and that's not including all the earth that got barrowed up the garden for the terraced patio. It was unbelievable. Later, we took everyone out for curry, much to the delight of Mr Singh in the Star of Asia. It was a fantastic weekend, though I am still aching in strange places.
joella
We are blessed with fabulous friends. In four days we went from Strange Garden on Slope via much digging (below left) to curvaceous grooviness (below right) which is ready for Mick son of Mick to come and build walls round. Much respect.
In the process, we filled a skip (left), and that's not including all the earth that got barrowed up the garden for the terraced patio. It was unbelievable. Later, we took everyone out for curry, much to the delight of Mr Singh in the Star of Asia. It was a fantastic weekend, though I am still aching in strange places.
joella
Monday, June 14, 2004
Mega mega multicultural thing
We did so much goddamn digging on Saturday that we has the whole of Sunday afternoon to go to the Cowley Road Carnival. And it was the best antidote to the BNP and UKIP I could have imagined. M recorded the audio on his groovy new minidisc recorder -- have to investigate audio files on Blogger... Meanwhile here are some photos.
joella
We did so much goddamn digging on Saturday that we has the whole of Sunday afternoon to go to the Cowley Road Carnival. And it was the best antidote to the BNP and UKIP I could have imagined. M recorded the audio on his groovy new minidisc recorder -- have to investigate audio files on Blogger... Meanwhile here are some photos.
joella
Friday, June 11, 2004
Biggus Diggus
Ever since we moved into this house, I've wanted to do something drastic to the garden. Well, not *quite* since we moved in -- it took a few months for me to work out what a garden was *for*, and a few months more to understand that it was mine to do what I wanted with.
All months since then have been enriched by having a garden to play with, but it's never been quite right, because although I have learned a lot -- the importance (as in plumbing) of Having The Right Tools, what's a weed and what's not, how big things get, what will and won't live through winter, why you should never buy plants mail order, that things which say on the label that they need sun really do need sun, that to be good at planting you need to understand time (the first time in my life I have accepted that there are more than three dimensions) -- it's still the garden of the previous occupant.
She was a woman who had plenty of money and plenty of taste, but that taste was Laura Ashley gets off with Willam Morris with a few extra frilly bits and neo-Grecian touches on the side.
Robust was not her (though class was and I thank her for a fabulous loft conversion). The garden has always been deeply impractical, with steep steps near the house leading to uphill long thin lawn with ivy-ridden beds too narrow or shady to be healthy and crumbling brick paths. I have always longed to do something drastic, and since I discovered the joys of ferns and hostas in a shady garden last year, I've wanted to start by digging out the lower third of the garden, which is, for most of the year, both damp and dark.
It always seemed a low priority for M (and indeed housemate S, who has been heard to say that she would concrete the lot given the chance), but something's changed. M and I are best as a team when I (Aquarian, implementer) really really want something to happen but don't have the skills to create the plans and I badger him (Virgoan, mathematician, artist) to design it.
And we've really started it now. There's a skip outside, M's been at it all yesterday and most of today, C's been digging like a man possessed, I've been measuring up sacrificial flowerbeds, we've had construction consultancy and reality checking from a man who knows stuff we don't, and the formidable Mick son of Mick is on course for doing the building of walls and laying down of stones next month, enthusiastically if not ably assisted by us.
And we have assorted friends and relatives coming to dig for victory over the weekend -- demonstrating admirably that you don't need football fans (as they are all 'busy') to shift several tons of clay -- our rare blend of gentle sensitive loving girls and boys will get the job done nicely.
Progress so far:
Exhibit A (left) -- view from my room a month ago.
Exhibit B (right) -- two days post-skip
joella
Ever since we moved into this house, I've wanted to do something drastic to the garden. Well, not *quite* since we moved in -- it took a few months for me to work out what a garden was *for*, and a few months more to understand that it was mine to do what I wanted with.
All months since then have been enriched by having a garden to play with, but it's never been quite right, because although I have learned a lot -- the importance (as in plumbing) of Having The Right Tools, what's a weed and what's not, how big things get, what will and won't live through winter, why you should never buy plants mail order, that things which say on the label that they need sun really do need sun, that to be good at planting you need to understand time (the first time in my life I have accepted that there are more than three dimensions) -- it's still the garden of the previous occupant.
She was a woman who had plenty of money and plenty of taste, but that taste was Laura Ashley gets off with Willam Morris with a few extra frilly bits and neo-Grecian touches on the side.
Robust was not her (though class was and I thank her for a fabulous loft conversion). The garden has always been deeply impractical, with steep steps near the house leading to uphill long thin lawn with ivy-ridden beds too narrow or shady to be healthy and crumbling brick paths. I have always longed to do something drastic, and since I discovered the joys of ferns and hostas in a shady garden last year, I've wanted to start by digging out the lower third of the garden, which is, for most of the year, both damp and dark.
It always seemed a low priority for M (and indeed housemate S, who has been heard to say that she would concrete the lot given the chance), but something's changed. M and I are best as a team when I (Aquarian, implementer) really really want something to happen but don't have the skills to create the plans and I badger him (Virgoan, mathematician, artist) to design it.
And we've really started it now. There's a skip outside, M's been at it all yesterday and most of today, C's been digging like a man possessed, I've been measuring up sacrificial flowerbeds, we've had construction consultancy and reality checking from a man who knows stuff we don't, and the formidable Mick son of Mick is on course for doing the building of walls and laying down of stones next month, enthusiastically if not ably assisted by us.
And we have assorted friends and relatives coming to dig for victory over the weekend -- demonstrating admirably that you don't need football fans (as they are all 'busy') to shift several tons of clay -- our rare blend of gentle sensitive loving girls and boys will get the job done nicely.
Progress so far:
Exhibit A (left) -- view from my room a month ago.
Exhibit B (right) -- two days post-skip
joella
Lesser of several evils
I didn't vote Labour in the European elections, I couldn't. I am one of the millions who 'drubbed' them (as Radio 4 is rather quaintly putting it) because of the heinous Iraq fuck up. I voted for the Respect Coalition (website here, weird spoof website here), not because I particularly wanted to but because I desperately wanted to vote a combination of anti-war and the nearest thing I could find to the opposite of the BNP, and that seemed to be the best option.
But I did vote Labour in the local elections, contrary to my own expectations. And the reason I did was on the strength of a statement from John Reid, following the furore over his comments (which I paraphrase) that smoking is one of the few pleasures poor people have access to, and that calls for a smoking ban are part of a middle class obsession with telling other people what's good for them.
I'm not saying I wholeheartedly endorse his view, but I do think it was a brave contribution to the debate. Unsurprisingly the media went crazy, and he issued the following statement:
Now *that* is a sentiment I cannot imagine coming from a Tory politician, and it caused me to reflect on all the small ways that Labour councils and Labour governments -- yes, even this one -- listen more and take fairer decisions than the Tories ever do or did for just long enough to put my Xs in the Labour boxes.
I saw Billy Bragg play three times during the 1997 election campaign. His line then was 'New Labour may only make an inch of difference, but it's an inch worth living in'.
It feels more like a millimetre at the moment, but you've got to figure the alternative's still worse.
joella
I didn't vote Labour in the European elections, I couldn't. I am one of the millions who 'drubbed' them (as Radio 4 is rather quaintly putting it) because of the heinous Iraq fuck up. I voted for the Respect Coalition (website here, weird spoof website here), not because I particularly wanted to but because I desperately wanted to vote a combination of anti-war and the nearest thing I could find to the opposite of the BNP, and that seemed to be the best option.
But I did vote Labour in the local elections, contrary to my own expectations. And the reason I did was on the strength of a statement from John Reid, following the furore over his comments (which I paraphrase) that smoking is one of the few pleasures poor people have access to, and that calls for a smoking ban are part of a middle class obsession with telling other people what's good for them.
I'm not saying I wholeheartedly endorse his view, but I do think it was a brave contribution to the debate. Unsurprisingly the media went crazy, and he issued the following statement:
"We want everyone to live a healthy lifestyle but not everyone lives in the same circumstances. If we wish to change people's habits we will often have to help change the circumstances in which they live."
Now *that* is a sentiment I cannot imagine coming from a Tory politician, and it caused me to reflect on all the small ways that Labour councils and Labour governments -- yes, even this one -- listen more and take fairer decisions than the Tories ever do or did for just long enough to put my Xs in the Labour boxes.
I saw Billy Bragg play three times during the 1997 election campaign. His line then was 'New Labour may only make an inch of difference, but it's an inch worth living in'.
It feels more like a millimetre at the moment, but you've got to figure the alternative's still worse.
joella
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Evil thoughts on a hot night in Oxford
Whatever I had, I think M has come down with. He is lying in bed not able to cope with the world at all. Last night he went up about three hours before I did. All evening I had heard noise from back gardens, but it was only when I went upstairs that I realised it was all coming from one group of people, who were braying loudly in that alcoholic posh way I remember so well from university.
The room was like an oven, but when you opened the doors at the end (it has one of those balconies that you can just about stand on) you got deafening shrieks and bass howling and ra ra ras. And my poor boyfriend was lying there in airless darkness because he couldn't bear the noise that came with the breeze.
And it was gone midnight. I went outside and shouted 'Hey! Loud people! Can you keep it down please!'
Nothing. So I shouted again 'Oy! Loud people! Keep it down please!'.
Nothing. I went back in, closed the door. Too, too hot. Opened the door. Posh screeching.
So I went out again and yelled 'Oy! It's fucking Monday! Shut up shut up shut up!'
I think they heard that, but it didn't work for long.
M went downstairs to sleep. I opened the doors and the skylight and fumed.
Then the idea came to me. I would go out to the shed, get the ladder, prop it up against the hedge, get the hose and soak the bastards! On the blastiest setting it would surely get across the two intervening gardens, plop down on their nasty little gathering and get their spliffs wet.
Got my pyjamas on and went down to recruit M as helper -- ladder a bit wobbly you see.
Jo, he said, I think you're a bit drunk.
Well, that trampled on *my* flower so I went back upstairs and actually they did quieten down fairly soon after.
But how much fun would that have been? There's still a while to go before the end of term, maybe I'll get another chance.
joella
Whatever I had, I think M has come down with. He is lying in bed not able to cope with the world at all. Last night he went up about three hours before I did. All evening I had heard noise from back gardens, but it was only when I went upstairs that I realised it was all coming from one group of people, who were braying loudly in that alcoholic posh way I remember so well from university.
The room was like an oven, but when you opened the doors at the end (it has one of those balconies that you can just about stand on) you got deafening shrieks and bass howling and ra ra ras. And my poor boyfriend was lying there in airless darkness because he couldn't bear the noise that came with the breeze.
And it was gone midnight. I went outside and shouted 'Hey! Loud people! Can you keep it down please!'
Nothing. So I shouted again 'Oy! Loud people! Keep it down please!'.
Nothing. I went back in, closed the door. Too, too hot. Opened the door. Posh screeching.
So I went out again and yelled 'Oy! It's fucking Monday! Shut up shut up shut up!'
I think they heard that, but it didn't work for long.
M went downstairs to sleep. I opened the doors and the skylight and fumed.
Then the idea came to me. I would go out to the shed, get the ladder, prop it up against the hedge, get the hose and soak the bastards! On the blastiest setting it would surely get across the two intervening gardens, plop down on their nasty little gathering and get their spliffs wet.
Got my pyjamas on and went down to recruit M as helper -- ladder a bit wobbly you see.
Jo, he said, I think you're a bit drunk.
Well, that trampled on *my* flower so I went back upstairs and actually they did quieten down fairly soon after.
But how much fun would that have been? There's still a while to go before the end of term, maybe I'll get another chance.
joella
Friday, June 04, 2004
Remember them
It's the 15th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre. Eleven years ago, on the fourth anniversary, I was in Beijing. We went down to the Square -- well, you would, wouldn't you -- making good use of the vast cycle lanes that cross the city and trying to avoid getting legs splattered with the yellow phlegm that people hawk constantly because of the pollution.
And... nothing. Apart from a slightly higher than usual police presence, it could have been any other day.
We cycled back to the hotel and put on the TV, to see protests and commemorations all over the world, particularly in Hong Kong.
It was u n r e a l. I couldn't process how I felt at all. It just made me want to weep and then get drunk. Which is what I think I did.
joella
It's the 15th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre. Eleven years ago, on the fourth anniversary, I was in Beijing. We went down to the Square -- well, you would, wouldn't you -- making good use of the vast cycle lanes that cross the city and trying to avoid getting legs splattered with the yellow phlegm that people hawk constantly because of the pollution.
And... nothing. Apart from a slightly higher than usual police presence, it could have been any other day.
We cycled back to the hotel and put on the TV, to see protests and commemorations all over the world, particularly in Hong Kong.
It was u n r e a l. I couldn't process how I felt at all. It just made me want to weep and then get drunk. Which is what I think I did.
joella
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Mirror mirror on the wall
Who is the most suburban of them all?
I fear sometimes it may be me. Had the fabulous L and A round tonight (not 'L&A', though they have been several times), and I fear I fretted a little too much about the coordination of the coffee cups and saucers.
Though my concern was that they should under no circumstances actually match, so maybe that counts in my favour.
And who could fail to take pleasure in M's red and yellow tomato salad with green basil leaves on white plates?
But it's fair to say that the line between sense of occasion and Abigail's Party-esque corn on the cob holders is a thin one, and one I was not brought up knowing how to walk.
joella
Who is the most suburban of them all?
I fear sometimes it may be me. Had the fabulous L and A round tonight (not 'L&A', though they have been several times), and I fear I fretted a little too much about the coordination of the coffee cups and saucers.
Though my concern was that they should under no circumstances actually match, so maybe that counts in my favour.
And who could fail to take pleasure in M's red and yellow tomato salad with green basil leaves on white plates?
But it's fair to say that the line between sense of occasion and Abigail's Party-esque corn on the cob holders is a thin one, and one I was not brought up knowing how to walk.
joella
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
My contribution to sustainable development
An email update from OneWorld popped in while I was eating my Pret Vegetarian Sushi. I feel very smug.
joella
An email update from OneWorld popped in while I was eating my Pret Vegetarian Sushi. I feel very smug.
joella
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Gritting teeth
I can't decide which is the more irritating: having a housemate who thinks Big Brother is worth watching in the first place, or having one who turns over to it while you go out of the room briefly during the 10 o'clock news, then sniggers to her boyfriend when you walk back in and turns it back over.
It's going to be a long summer.
joella
I can't decide which is the more irritating: having a housemate who thinks Big Brother is worth watching in the first place, or having one who turns over to it while you go out of the room briefly during the 10 o'clock news, then sniggers to her boyfriend when you walk back in and turns it back over.
It's going to be a long summer.
joella
Monday, May 31, 2004
Sounds from the deckchair
The wind rustling the leaves of the sycamore tree... I hate it because it is a big weed and spreads its evil seed absolutely everywhere, but it is still a tree and belongs to next door anyway.
The shed door banging gently... I haven't locked it and it doesn't stay shut. A radio which is on a few doors down... beep beep beep beep beep BEEP for five o'clock but nothing else is distinct.
Kitchen noises through an open window, tonk tonk tonk as someone bangs a spoon on a metal pan after stirring it. The crunch of shoes as one of next door's students comes out into the garden... he has a mobile conversation which his housemates can't hear but I can though he can't see me, there is a big hedge between us.
Birds singing, lots of different kinds, I should know which is which, like trees, but I don't. A sudden loud flapping straight overhead as two of them leave the tree and fly over the house and away.
Milk bottles clattering and a back door closing. A kind of muffled banging, someone using a tool maybe, but not one they are that adept with. Tenderising meat?
The thwack of rope against the tall pole in the garden of our weird and not very pleasant three doors down Landrover-driving neighbour. I used to think it was a flagpole but I asked him once why he had a flagpole in his garden and he told me it was a radio aerial.
Diddle ooo doo diddle oo doo diddle ooo doo dar Hello? Another mobile conversation but this one's on the other side and it's not in English. I think it's the father of the Asian family next door but one. Diddle ooo doo hello there he goes again. No, it's not him, it's one of his friends.
More cooking noises, a grater, a fridge opens and closes.
Cars driving too fast up or down the hill then stopping... there's only room for one on that road. Crackly gravel as they come slowly down our street. Women laughing, car doors slamming.
A football being kicked, but only by one person.
Really faintly in the distance, a lawnmower.
Fly buzzing past my ear.
Fence creaking.
Window being shut.
Church bells. Weird, it's not a Sunday.
Three tiny biplanes roar over like something out of history, what's the occasion?
SQUEEEEak, it's our back door, C is coming out for a smoke. Next door have just put on Wonderwall. Time to get the washing in and retreat.
joella
The wind rustling the leaves of the sycamore tree... I hate it because it is a big weed and spreads its evil seed absolutely everywhere, but it is still a tree and belongs to next door anyway.
The shed door banging gently... I haven't locked it and it doesn't stay shut. A radio which is on a few doors down... beep beep beep beep beep BEEP for five o'clock but nothing else is distinct.
Kitchen noises through an open window, tonk tonk tonk as someone bangs a spoon on a metal pan after stirring it. The crunch of shoes as one of next door's students comes out into the garden... he has a mobile conversation which his housemates can't hear but I can though he can't see me, there is a big hedge between us.
Birds singing, lots of different kinds, I should know which is which, like trees, but I don't. A sudden loud flapping straight overhead as two of them leave the tree and fly over the house and away.
Milk bottles clattering and a back door closing. A kind of muffled banging, someone using a tool maybe, but not one they are that adept with. Tenderising meat?
The thwack of rope against the tall pole in the garden of our weird and not very pleasant three doors down Landrover-driving neighbour. I used to think it was a flagpole but I asked him once why he had a flagpole in his garden and he told me it was a radio aerial.
Diddle ooo doo diddle oo doo diddle ooo doo dar Hello? Another mobile conversation but this one's on the other side and it's not in English. I think it's the father of the Asian family next door but one. Diddle ooo doo hello there he goes again. No, it's not him, it's one of his friends.
More cooking noises, a grater, a fridge opens and closes.
Cars driving too fast up or down the hill then stopping... there's only room for one on that road. Crackly gravel as they come slowly down our street. Women laughing, car doors slamming.
A football being kicked, but only by one person.
Really faintly in the distance, a lawnmower.
Fly buzzing past my ear.
Fence creaking.
Window being shut.
Church bells. Weird, it's not a Sunday.
Three tiny biplanes roar over like something out of history, what's the occasion?
SQUEEEEak, it's our back door, C is coming out for a smoke. Next door have just put on Wonderwall. Time to get the washing in and retreat.
joella
Fine weather for books
I think I'm better. I'm certainly better in the relative sense of the word, and I'm hoping I'm better in the absolute sense. I've been very sensible since Friday: eating well (well, aside from a cheese and onion pasty on Sunday morning), not drinking too much, sleeping vast amounts, reading reading reading.
I've just finished The Debt to Pleasure by John Lanchester, which, to be honest, was a struggle. I loved both Mr Phillips and Fragrant Harbour, so I was expecting to love this, but I didn't. I dragged myself through it, because on the whole I like to finish books, but I couldn't bring myself to care what happened.
Part of this might have been because lying next to the bed, gleaming plumply at me, was Barbara Trapido's Frankie and Stankie , sent to me by the gorgeous V. I wanted to read it as soon as it arrived but I had some notion of saving it for my holidays. But I couldn't... the challenge now is not to read it too fast. She also sent me Maps for Lost Lovers, which I didn't allow upstairs in the hope that it would make it to the shady side of a swimming pool in a few weeks' time.
But I had reckoned without our new deck chairs. They belonged to M's late mother, but since winter they have been in my shed. Yesterday we got them out and set them up. All I have ever done in our garden is garden: I feel like I've discovered a whole new way to read. If you have a blanket over your knees, it doesn't even have to be sunny. Why didn't I think of this before?
joella
I think I'm better. I'm certainly better in the relative sense of the word, and I'm hoping I'm better in the absolute sense. I've been very sensible since Friday: eating well (well, aside from a cheese and onion pasty on Sunday morning), not drinking too much, sleeping vast amounts, reading reading reading.
I've just finished The Debt to Pleasure by John Lanchester, which, to be honest, was a struggle. I loved both Mr Phillips and Fragrant Harbour, so I was expecting to love this, but I didn't. I dragged myself through it, because on the whole I like to finish books, but I couldn't bring myself to care what happened.
Part of this might have been because lying next to the bed, gleaming plumply at me, was Barbara Trapido's Frankie and Stankie , sent to me by the gorgeous V. I wanted to read it as soon as it arrived but I had some notion of saving it for my holidays. But I couldn't... the challenge now is not to read it too fast. She also sent me Maps for Lost Lovers, which I didn't allow upstairs in the hope that it would make it to the shady side of a swimming pool in a few weeks' time.
But I had reckoned without our new deck chairs. They belonged to M's late mother, but since winter they have been in my shed. Yesterday we got them out and set them up. All I have ever done in our garden is garden: I feel like I've discovered a whole new way to read. If you have a blanket over your knees, it doesn't even have to be sunny. Why didn't I think of this before?
joella
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