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

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

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

What a night. Need to recover powers of speech.

joella

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to start thinking about living healthily again




joella

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

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

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