i-want-more

Back in a bit

2011-09-17T16:10:00.003Z

I suppose this is it. I'm aware that my updating of this blog has been pretty sporadic this year, and this will continue for the forseeable future. I am now heavily pregnant: all I want to do is sleep. It's like my body is shutting itself down in advance of the main event. Fair enough too. We are as ready as we'll ever be for our new arrival, as far as it's possible to be ready for a new human being...it's bewildering but it's also an adventure.

Giving up work was wonderful. Since then I've seen Lol and Baby Freya, Bee, DL, The Wandering Ms Doyle (all the way from the Antipodes) and Lucy. We are due to see TL and his lovely girlfriend tomorrow. I've been doing a lot of laundry.

While I'll still be functioning on Twitter and email until the birth, I'll be back to this once D-Day has been and gone.

Stood by the bus stop with a felt pen

2011-08-11T11:21:00.000Z

We have moved. I was very sad to leave the flat, but I am adjusting to our new home pretty quickly and all seems to be well. There is plenty of DIY to be getting on with, none of which I can actually do, so poor old JJ has his work cut out.

In the meantime, London appears to have gone back in time to 1981. I am not very coherent on social and political matters at the best of times (echoing what The Man Who Fell Asleep just said on Twitter: "I am swinging violently between knee-jerk right-wing anger and wet-blanket, liberal empathy. I will probably settle somewhere in the middle"). However, talk of rioters being "feral rats" makes me uncomfortable.

I think we are probably reaping the whirlwind of underfunding youth services for years. A contributing factor is surely the consumer revolution that has taken place in the last fifteen years or so: we are seemingly obsessed with designer goods and gadgetry. Hence, seeing a shop, kicking the windows in and and taking the fancy stuff you want for free seems in some way justifiable.

Having said the above, I am keen not to excuse the actions of the people who have been smashing up our towns and cities (and lest we forget, killing people). Let's not forget that the riots began when a peaceful demonstration about a man's death in Tottenham was highjacked on Saturday. I was furious to see some of our town's finest heading into Kingston on the 371 with empty holdalls on Tuesday night, hoping, I suppose, for a bumper haul. I suspect the only thing they came back from town with was a thick ear, given the heavy police presence. Some of those kids couldn't have even been 13.

Where was it said that we are generally 20 years behind America? It's getting on for 20 years since the LA riots, which at least seemed to be actually about something rather than just wholesale smash and grab.

That's enough of that. Like I said, rarely coherent.

Honey, let my ghost linger

2011-07-19T17:50:00.005Z

More time off. This is because I didn't want to swamp the blog with talk of the pregnancy. But we've been through all this before, of course. I have been genuinely busy - I've far too much to do for someone so slow and large, in fact.

I will say this, on the pregnancy front. The baby goes mental for sugar. It had a rave in there when I ate some Reeses Peanut Butter Cups a few days ago. I imagined it was like Bez, lolloping about with a pair of tiny maracas and a blissed-out look on. Anyway.

We are moving in a week and a half. We've been living in this flat for almost ten years, so I have mixed feelings about going. This was our first home, and it is a lovely place. We have good neighbours, it's accessible (but not so accessible that it is expensive) and I get to use the PC while looking out onto trees.

However, it's just no longer practical. It's not a great spot for a small human. The rooms are bitterly cold in the winter, unbearably hot in summer. We are two flights up, which is killing me when I get home every evening, and I have ten weeks (maybe more) to go of lugging my peanut butter'n'chocolate-loving hitcher about.

We are moving to a house. It has a couple more rooms than we are used to. It's less than a mile away, a bit closer to the Thames. I'm looking forward to it, but not, all at the same time. Possibly this is because it's all happening when I am so slow and large.

Life meanders along, heavily and deliberately. My Mum's birthday came and went, and while there was a moment or two of sadness, I treated it as a day like any other. I was spared the weeping and wailing, which was appreciated. We went to a family BBQ. We attended a glamorous wedding reception in Chelsea at which we danced to our favourite Northern number ever. We saw Bridesmaids, which was funny but also sweetly sad.

So there you have it. [And not a word about the hacking scandal either. Oops!]

Beyond the sea

2011-05-31T16:28:00.005Z

Another gap.

We've returned from a week in Dorset. It was utterly peaceful, with nothing to fill the days but eating cakes and scones from Leakers Bakery and watching the brilliant Homes Under the Hammer (I mean that sincerely: it's addictive viewing). We even got to see The World's Greatest Dog (and her accompanying human), which was a special treat. We laughed our arses off when a wave splashed her, which was rather cruel of us...she spent the rest of the walk casting a wary eye at the sea.

I also filled my head with many things Fey: her autobiography, Baby Mama and 30 Rock season 4. While we're on the subject, I happened upon this today: someone has transcribed every single line that Tracy Jordan has ever said in the series (eg, “Frank, for all your hard work, please accept this set of solid gold nunchuks.”)

Other stuff is happening. There's a move on the cards (subject to contracts), and a heck of a pile of attendant paperwork to complete. On the baby front, I'm growing steadily larger and each morning brings another frustrating rifle through the one drawer of clothes I fit into. My back pain seems to have gone, which may be because of the acupuncture I've been having, or maybe not. I'm hanging in there.

The next few weeks are busy. More electronic music/Jarvis, another wedding reception, a weekend away, a couple of catch-ups with some notables, and GEORGE CLINTON speaking at the British Library. No, I didn't dream that. It really is happening.

I see your picture, it's the same old frame...we meet again

2011-05-12T19:46:00.000Z

This evening, I'm going to type a few words about my mother.

It's a year ago today since she died, and tomorrow is the official anniversary. It's not been a great week. But you know - I don't want to feel sad all the time. I'd like to remember my mum at her sarcastic, witty best, and not be weeping and wailing. That does nobody any good, after all. Letting misery define you is not the best idea (I wish I could go back in time and tell the 17 year old me this) .

Anyway, I'm sure she would be pleased to hear that the baby is doing well (my 20 week scan was this afternoon), and that I don't intend to lie face down on the carpet all day tomorrow, weeping. The first anniversary was always going to be the toughest. But life continues on, as well it should.

You've taken the fun out of everything

2011-04-19T17:54:00.006Z

I'm aware it's been a little while. Thing is, I don't want to do that whole "I'm pregnant, this is what's happening to me in minute detail" thing. Just as the wedding happened largely offstage, I think that the whole baby thing shall too. No-one really wants to hear about my physiological curiosities, how large I'm getting, and how often my sleep gets interrupted by weird dreams/shooting pains. That's what Twitter is for. [Joke.]

The hayfever has been plaguing me again, and I can't take anything for it (apart from a nasal spray). This has been a pain, and it has also stopped me from doing stuff.

However, we did spend last weekend with the family in Devon. We had a lovely time. It was nice to see everyone, but it was bloody exhausting, and I came back needing more time off to recover from the time off.

Dog bulletin: Bella has taken to jealously guarding the tortoise (little Daphne) on her first trips into the garden. The footage of the dog snapping and snarling at anyone who approached the tortoise pen was both funny and faintly disturbing - as was the video of her trying to pick Daphne up in her mouth. Not ideal for Daphne. Yet again, Bella is confused about what puppies actually look like. I can't quite believe that she thinks hard shells are regular attire for canines, but hey ho.

Round the Horne and into the stratosphere

2011-04-04T14:23:00.007Z

Bit of a review-type post.

Last week we saw the last in the run of the Horne Section at the Lyric on Shaftesbury Avenue. We enjoyed ourselves so much at the first one that we wanted to go again, and this time, the line-up was too good to miss.

We got to see that dangerous idiot Tim Key once more, with a couple of different poems this time (including one about a milkmaid crapping in a cemetery. Lovely). He also did a duet/lousy dance routine with Alex Horne on How do you like your eggs in the morning? and a loungey version of the Leningrad song that he closed with last time around. There was also some plate spinning (strangely mesmeric) and some outstanding beatboxing from a guy called Shlomo.

Two other acts appeared. Tom Basden was first on after the interval, and I wasn’t prepared for how sweet he was (or indeed, how handsome). He did a couple of fun, light little songs. I am officially a fan. The main event of the evening was Harry Hill, though. I haven’t seen him live since 1992, at a comedy night at university. He was unlike anyone else I’d ever seen do stand up. He did a routine of non-sequiteurs and running gags, jokes that meandered about going nowhere that made sense about half an hour after the set had finished…he was great.

He opened his set with a Smiths classic, which segued into Ernie by Benny Hill – a near perfect marriage of both style and tone of songs. Again, the running gags were in evidence (*holds mike cable up to front row audience member* “Go on, Jaws! Bite the cable! Put us out of our misery!”). The set was a blur, all I can really remember is being bent double with laughter, the tears rolling down my face. He ended the set by doing a number on his ukulele. It was a fantastic end to the evening, and indeed the run.

On Friday night we went to see Will Gregory’s new opera Piccard in Space. We saw bits of this debuted last year. It's about a physicist who goes to the stratosphere in a balloon (true story). It suffered a bit of a mauling from some critics on the Friday morning, but I avoided the reviews and went along with relatively low expectations.

It wasn’t all brilliant - it had patchy moments - but on the whole it was fun, endearingly daft, with lovely orchestration and some engaging turns from the leads. Put it this way, at £15 a ticket you can’t really go wrong, and the Queen Elizabeth Hall is a supremely comfortable and well-appointed venue. As our companion Mr Herriett pointed out – how on earth do you break even with a production like that, when you have to pay a full concert orchestra, conductor, choir and six leads? It’s surely impossible. But of course, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. Why should the pursuit of art be about the pursuit of money?

I salute Will Gregory for having the brass neck to try it, and to the Southbank Centre for bothering to put the show on in the first place. We are extremely lucky to have such an establishment in this country, and we should make the very best use of it before our esteemed government decide to pick it to bits.

At last: some actual news

2011-03-29T17:02:00.002Z

Yes, you read it right. Actual news. Here we go.

I've been bullshitting about nothing happening. There has been stuff happening. That stuff mainly revolves around my body going absolutely nutso, because I'm pregnant. Again - yes, you read that right. I am 14 weeks today. So there you are.

The early days were horrific and passed in a blur of extreme nausea. Regular readers will know I am averse to vomiting, so I haven't actually been physically sick at any point. Which has been a big relief. This was mainly down to a steady diet of digestive biscuits.

I'm not going to go all STFU Parents if I can help it. Not yet, anyway. I'm the person I always was, but with a slightly firmer pot belly, as flab turns to baby. I think I'll leave this post on that charming image, and save my other updates for later this week.

Working for the man

2011-03-14T15:50:00.005Z

Last week was a bit of a mess. At work, a modest pay rise was followed less than 24 hours later by some rug-pulling news, namely that I was to be moved from one team to another to work under a manager that I cannot stand. It wasn't the best feeling and I must admit to being petulantly angry and faintly upset at the whole thing at the time.

This week, I'm over it. The weekend had enough in it for me to remember what my real priorities are: home life, friends. [Y'know. That stuff.] So, equilibrium has returned and I'm ready for what this week is going to chuck at me.

I love a band in uniform

2011-03-04T14:23:00.010Z

Because I have nothing much to report in my life at present, I thought I'd chuck in a random blog post that's not really about anything just for amusement and to keep my mind and keyboard active.

I love it when a band wear matching outfits. I really do. I don't know why this should be the case...

My first ever band crush when I was a kid was The Monkees. I dug them primarily for the burgundy shirts with the buttons on. You know the ones. Now, I love late-period Monkees as much as anyone with a bent for the psychedelic does, but the early days is a pinnacle for me. Some of the greatest pop music ever performed in matching shirts and jeans. Yes.

In the mid-90s, I fell in love with The Make Up. They were an insanely stylish bunch, and vastly talented, with the genius Ian Svenonious (a man once described as part PG Tips chimp, part James Brown) at the helm. They liked to wear fitted suits with nehru collars in block colours like grey, canary yellow or white, or satin shirts and ties, as pictured.

In the mid-late 90s I became briefly obsessed with Dexy's Midnight Runners in their bobble hats/donkey jackets phase. This was maybe as much to do with the songs as the look. [I didn't enjoy the raggle-taggle gypsy dungarees look from Too-Rye-Aye quite as much, though.]

I still appreciate a band who make a bit of an effort with the way they dress, like MGMT.

However, having said all of the above about uniforms and matching up, some of the best bands and artists are unreconstructed scruffs. I'm thinking, of course, of the peerless Kim Deal, who makes dressing like a mechanic look downright wonderful, which is why I've been straining to emulate her for almost half my adult life. 'Making a bit of an effort', which is code for "for god's sake, can you ditch the thrift store t-shirts for once in your life?" is monumentally hard work for me. I've never got the dressing like a grown-up thing right.

This post went nowhere, eh. Never mind.

What does March bring? A 40th birthday party, a trip to Devon, the final show in the Horne Section run, and last but not least, the world premiere of Piccard in Space. it's gonna be a good month, I can feel it in me waters.

Let's just have some fun, etc

2011-02-22T14:15:00.001Z

Hmm. Bit of a gap there. After a fun-packed opening six weeks to the year, things slowed down last week.

The last evening out I had was a couple of weeks back, when I went to see Nick Mohammed, Jonny Sweet and Adam Buxton do a show at the Tabernacle in London's trustafarian epicentre, Notting Hill. I'd never been to the Tabernacle before, and I must say...I liked it. It's like a really upmarket arts centre with an efficient restaurant attached (well, I say efficient: it took longer to order the food than it did to receive it, which was a bit strange).

The gig itself was pretty good: Nick Mohammed performed a feat of memory as his character Mr Swallow, which raised a couple of smiles. Jonny Sweet slayed me with a shortened version of his show Let's just have some fun (and learn something for once), which is about the HMS Nottingham. Sounds like an unlikely topic for a routine, but it was just brilliant.

I've been a fan of Adam Buxton for a long old time now, since his appearances on Takeover TV in the early 90s, through to The Adam and Joe Show and then the brilliant Saturday morning radio show on 6music. Buckles is a lovely chap, slightly shorter in real life than you might think, and very hirsute. He was genuinely funny. To my mind, one of the best bits of his set was a set of Frankie Boyle cracker jokes he'd written (you can imagine the content).

He had what are known in the business as some enormous technical fuck ups, which ate into about 15-20 minutes of his time. (That's Macs for ya.) This was a shame - the Tabernacle has a strict curfew so there was no way of just adding the time on at the end of the set. He was properly embarrassed and even offered to do an extra (free) show for anyone who felt short-changed. To be honest, the crowd were all behind him, so I'd be surprised if anyone was genuinely disgruntled about the problems.

Since then, life has been quiet. It has been nice to have a bit of time off from the relentless parade of FUN! But there will be more jollity very soon.

Brand new Key

2011-02-09T13:06:00.007Z

A fair amount to report. Working backwards:

PL and his young lady were in London for the weekend, down from Manchester. A few of the old guard were out to greet them, in a pub called The Easton, which couldn't decide if it was a gastropub or not. I caught up with TS and PM about their work and the conversation turned to friendship. We chatted about friends falling away (a matter I know I've discussed here before but can't be arsed to find a permalink to). I agreed with PM that our ever-decreasing circle of pals is simply a matter of the cream rising to the top.

Devon, to Nephew #2's wedding to the lovely R. What a lovely day we had. It was a pity that the weather wasn't a bit more cheerful, but at least there was no rain. We also saw most of the rest of the family over the course of a couple of days, and of course, the Greatest Dog in the World was delighted to see us and even sat on my lap, which is quite a rare event.

The end of January I saw The Horne Section at the Lyric, which was a delightful evening out. The Horne Section are basically a jazz comedy performance party, which makes them sound abysmal, but bear with me. They are a group of talented musicians fronted by tall, gap-toothed comedian Alex Horne. Some highlights of the evening: the band doing a morris dance version of Single Ladies, Tim Vine firing out hundreds of puns and playing drums on The Girl from Ipenema, Mark Watson doing a cheeky song about being on a bouncy castle, a brass band doing Bohemian Rhapsody in an oompah style, and a bald man climbing inside a balloon.

And of course, there was Tim Key. Where to start? He is a shambolic weirdo genius, and simply has funny bones. Many of his poems are too filthy to repeat. He did an appalling one about two characters from Wind in the Willows becoming involved in a sordid affair (final line: "Rat kept winking at Toad across the courtroom"). He balanced a bottle of beer on a cymbal (and made it look easy), gave the band impossible directions ("could you make what you're playing sound more...mathematical?") and ended his set by performing a song by Russian punk band Leningrad. Wonderful.

To Clapham, nightlife hellhole of SW London, to TL's surprise 30th birthday party. Some good company, even though the evening was short.

2011's social whirl continues.

Don't make a move til I say action

2011-01-27T16:34:00.003Z

Today, I sat and watched my latest televisual adventure. I've been doing bits and pieces of presenting work for my job, either as the person delivering a podcast (warm mellifluous tones, with just a hint of West Country/lisp) or being the person saying "Hello and welcome to COMPANY NAME'S video presentation about another scintillating health and safety hot topic". The above might not be The One Show, say, but I have to be honest readers, I'm a frigging natural on camera.

As an unrelated point, I also found myself giving an old chum gardening advice via email today.

I was thinking, maybe I could carve out a niche for myself as a sort of indie Alan Titchmarsh, or a more scary Kim Wilde? It's a thought.

It’s educational!

2011-01-19T15:50:00.002Z

2011’s going out trend continues.

Saturday: to Borough Market, Southwark Cathedral’s Refectory (to catch up with CH and eat a marvellous scotch egg), then on to Dulwich to the Picture Gallery. Dulwich has three stations, one of which is about fifteen miles from the Gallery. Guess which one we chose to alight at first…

Norman Rockwell is an acquired taste. So much of what I saw at the exhibition was utterly cheesecakey. I can’t deny that it had an astonishing quality to it, but it didn’t move me. There was a wall crammed full of his covers for Picture Post, but the gallery was too crowded for me to really spend any time looking at them. Instead, I went out into the general gallery and studied the Reubenses and van Dycks and Rembrandts, and found myself drawn into this fabulous portrait of Sir John Soane.

It also occurred to me: how have I never been to Dulwich before? Even on a grey, freezing day, it was as gorgeous as Hampstead (but without the arseholes).

Monday saw a lovely but long-overdue trip to the boozer with Merv. Which was about bloody time.

Last night we went to see Dan Maier do his talk Ideas Man: The Stranger Notions of Francis Galton. Galton was a Victorian polymath and scientist. He had some properly good scientific ideas (including work in fingerprinting, meteorology and [whisper it] eugenics), but also some very odd ones: these included Arithmetic by Smell and a categorisation of the size of women (six categories from ‘Thin’ to ‘Prize Fat’). Other matters he concerned himself with were dog whistles, an estimation of whether all of the world’s gold would fit in his house (conclusion: it would, in fact it would completely fit in his dining room, with space to spare), and the killing a number of exotic animals through carelessness. Find out more about Galton here.

The remainder of this week: a band, some gastropub action, and a sleepy weekend (I hope).

I also just wanted to comment that I was sad to hear about the death of Trish Keenan of Broadcast. I’m not qualified to discuss her work – I don’t know enough about her. However, it’s clear that she was a warm, wonderful human being who was loved by a lot of people, and it’s always sad when one of those slips away.

Shine a light

2011-01-12T08:58:00.000Z

I've been using a light box over the past week or so. It was a chance purchase (of sorts). By that, I mean I bought it on a whim, following a chance comment that JJ made about a month before Christmas about seasonal depression.

Twenty minutes each morning, I switch the light on and angle the light at my face. It's no bigger than a paperback, but jesus, is it bright. I think it's working, so far. It used to take me until about 10.30 to wake up most days (that's a full two hours after arriving at work, not good), but now I feel...well, it's hard to explain, really. Somewhere between awakeness, alertness and...er, something else.

That went nowhere, didn't it? Perhaps I'll post about the light again in a few weeks. If you're interested in lightbox-based anecdotes as well as other inanities, subscribe to my tweets. You won't regret it. [PS, you might regret it.]

Anyway. There are lots of plans afoot at the moment. Oh, the drinks evenings that are cluttering my diary, darlings! It's the most I've been out of the house in months on end. We are booked up to see The Horne Section at the end of this month. I'm considering going to see Janelle Monae once more.

Of course, what I really want is a holiday. Having just watched Rich Hall's extremely funny and clever programme about the Dirty South, I am hankering for Memphis, while simultaneously eyeing our friend's photos of her home in Costa Rica with a gimlet eye. So, that's Elvis or coffee. Both are wonderful and essential things, in my opinion.

Expensive shit

2011-01-07T09:06:00.006Z

The all-new positive me has had a bit of an up-and-down week thus far. I was craving routine so was looking forward to returning to work, away from the piles of food, bad TV and the relentless Call of Duty: Black Ops. The rosy glow wore off within two hours.

By the time I left work and was on the train into town to see DH and KF, I was at a very low ebb. South West Trains frequently used to reduce me to tears when I used them for my daily commute, but something about the cold, overlit carriage on Tuesday evening took me to the edge of a very gloomy place. Anyway. We met in a chain pub on High Holborn, the pub I spent my 30th birthday in (and coincidentally, in exactly the same seat. I know how to have a good time. Yeah). Thankfully the two young folk quickly got me out of my bad mood, especially when the conversation turned to wedding reception playlists, one of my specialist subjects.

Wednesday night was Fela! night. Yes, that's Fela! As in Streetcar! Regular readers of this blog will be aware I have a well-documented hatred of the genre of musical theatre, owing to an over-long stint as a member of the electrics team on a long-running West End musical. Fela! was different though. We got seats for a tenner each, so we couldn't really quibble with that. I was fully prepared to go home at the interval if it was shit.

Luckily, it wasn't. Neither was it the most fully-realised piece of drama I've ever seen - the first act was waaaaay too long, and too slow to set the scene. However, the music was great. So that's a win for Afrobeat.

On Winter Hill

2011-01-04T12:36:00.003Z

2011 started inauspiciously. We went to Leith Hill, which is in the middle of nowhere in Surrey, for a walk on New Year's Day. It was freezing cold, and there was virtually no visibility once on the hilltop.

The days that have followed have been strangely flat. In fact, although Christmas on the whole was largely enjoyable, it was very quiet.

However, it's the fourth of the month today, I've returned to work (the routine I have needed has returned and I'm, whisper it, enjoying it to some extent) and I am trying to be positive about what lies ahead.

This seems to be a general theme with me..."I was trying to be positive"..."I started out feeling OK about things, then quickly abandoned ship". Well, I am absolutely giving it my best shot this time. This month sees some drinks with old friends, a bit of culture, a bit of comedy, and maybe some visits, and I am frantically emailing everybody I have ever met about getting together (apologies if you're already sick of my over-keen emails).

2010 was the tedious wallflower year. 2011 won't be. I'm determined.

I'm saved, I'm saved

2010-12-20T11:21:00.003Z

2010, well. It's not been the best of years. I could attempt a round-up of the past few months, but it wouldn't be much fun to read (or to write, come to that). Read the entries back and have a little wallow all of your own.

In short...

Albums (enjoyed): MGMT, Deerhunter, Janelle Monae, Doves.
Albums (disappointed by): LCD Soundsystem (save Drunk Girls). Hot Chip.
Song of the Year: Tightrope by Janelle Monae.
Runners-up: Flash Delirium by MGMT (channelling Cups and Cakes-era Spinal Tap). Revival by Deerhunter.
Books (enjoyed): mainly the work of David Sedaris (the old cliche: I laughed, I cried). Wolf Hall.
TV (enjoyed): anything with Charlie Brooker. Mad Men. Corrie (especially tram crash week). Peep Show. We Need Answers. This is England 86. Getting On. And many more.
Inexplicable teenage crush: Tim Key.

I have relatively high hopes for next year. It surely can't be as bad as this one? Festive greetings to you, dear readers. Kiss kiss.

Chilled to the bone and five miles to home

2010-12-06T12:30:00.004Z

I've written before about my love of the magazine Smash Hits.

Smash Hits saved my life.

There you go, I've said it.

As a kid, growing up a mile outside a village that didn't have much going for it, it was hard to see how I was ever going to make it out. A love of pop music provided me with a ready-made escape route. That so, I eagerly awaited every issue of Smash Hits and would pore over every detail, even about bands I had no real interest in. The writing was funny and sharp, with the hacks unafraid of take the piss out of their pop star subjects where it was needed. However, it was more than just a music magazine to me.

I suppose there was a turning point of sorts, and that was the Jesus and Mary Chain. One of their chaotic live performances was covered in Smash Hits, and I became utterly enthralled about 18 months before I had even heard anything by them. That gloriously blasphemous name, the backs to the audience thing, the riots...it was just perfect. Years later I would read about how this was misreported in the press and carefully stage-managed by Glasgow's self-styled Malcolm McClaren, but to be honest, it makes very little difference to me what really happened. JAMC made me imagine a world that was different to the one I was in. From that point on, it was all about getting to that place.

Recently, the blog Like Punk Never Happened was brought to my attention (neatly enough, by the commenter on my 2006 blog post). Brian scans in an issue every fortnight and releases it 30 years to the day after its original publication. I urge you to check this out. It's a brilliantly worthwhile thing, especially for those of us who lost our back catalogues of ver Hits in parental purges, house moves, teenage revisions of history or general fits of pique.

Just like before, I'll be reading each issue carefully, and waiting patiently for the next one to appear.

In other news - Janelle Monae was wonderful in concert last night. I must say, I wish more pop stars would claim to be time-travelling androids from the future, and spare us from more talent show dreck.

It was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor

2010-12-03T10:27:00.006Z

I had an odd experience yesterday. While looking for some family history information, I found a diary that I updated infrequently between 1990 and 1992.

It was a mortifying read. Just like most teenagers, the 18-year old me was a frightfully self-centred, hormonal bore. What was bizarre was that the Big Event of 1990, the death of my father, was never mentioned. Not wanting to be doomy on the page? Or a brazen attempt to shut it out entirely? The latter, I think. No wonder it took me so long to come to terms with it. On the plus side, there was a mention of a couple of friends who remain friends to this day (they are still around, and one even reads this from time to time).

I look back at the time I've spent writing this blog and I hope that I don't return to it in 20 years and want to curl into a ball at what I've said on here. Although it's inevitable that I will.

Let's face it, writing a diary is an essentially solipsistic pursuit. You can't help but reflect on yourself, because you can't get into anyone else's head to report what they are thinking. We get older, we move on, we change, and we don't like to be reminded that we were gauche, silly or had poor judgment. Not that I can say that I have ever completely stopped being gauche and silly, and as for my judgment...I have my moments.

In the past I've spoken on this blog about editing myself carefully here, which was something I didn't manage back then. And if that ain't the biggest signifier of growing up, I don't know what is.

Hit the North, Parts 1 and 2

2010-11-29T11:10:00.013Z

We are hurtling towards the end of the year at speed, and it's been busy. Work brings budget machinations and planning for next year; home has brought projects of varying kinds. We now have new carpets, replacing the stuff that has been down since we moved in, which was moth-eaten, threadbare and filthy to varying degrees: our new floor-covering appears to have warmed the place up very slightly, although I did spend five minutes chipping ice off the inside of the bedroom windows this morning...

We have been getting out and about at last. We spent a lovely weekend in the gorgeous home of toocool and R, which was splendid, and sampled what Birmingham had to offer. Brum has changed radically since I was last there in 1991 (for a Fuzztones concert at Edwards No.8, with support from ZuZu's Petals. Ouch, that dates me). For the better, I should add. We had a splendid time, which variously included curry, a drink in a fine local, a whole lotta chat and some napping (some of us are getting on a bit).

I spent some time with Mrs Hall at the Cockpit Arts Open Studios, which was a pleasant Friday afternoon diversion. Then, to Manchester, which was cold and frosty and packed with people (We have never had it so good, apparently). We caught up with a few notables (PL, TL and their respective partners). At a tiki bar in the Northern Quarter, I was served a flaming cocktail in a pint pot, which was a first for me, I must say. We also briefly caught up with Mr and Mrs Green in slightly less boozy/flammable circumstances the next day. Again, this was great, if long-overdue.

This week - Janelle Monae! Hooray.

I can't remember a worse time

2010-11-15T13:43:00.009Z

On Friday night I went to a wet and windy City to meet up with DC and his lovely missus M post-honeymoon. I have skipped mentioning their wedding (which occurred a few weeks back) on this blog. It was fun, is all you need to know. We discussed getting chatted up by strip club barmen (him), the merits of the most recent MGMT album (me), the dearth of decent British TV (him) and being heartbroken about Charlie Brooker's marriage (me).

Last week brought the news that Pulp will be reforming for some gigs this year. At this point, I'm going to admit that I never bothered with seeing them live the first time around. So I won't be going to them play next year.

Going to see reformed bands is always a gamble.

Jane's Addiction
I don't know what possessed me, to be honest. I saw them twice in the height of their indie fame in the early 1990s at small venues, and they gave absolutely blinding performances on both occasions. Quite why I didn't leave well enough alone is anybody's guess. I saw them at the Hammersmith Apollo/Odeon/Carling Apollo/Horlicks Odeon or whatever it was called that week: an error in itself. These two things should tell you how bad the gig was. Firstly, a cover of 'Wild Thing'. Secondly, Dave Navarro's Louis Vuitton guitar strap. As a final insult, the merchandise stall had Jane's Addiction knickers on sale. I will neither forget nor forgive this.

Mudhoney
Worth it, if nothing else, for the breakdown in the middle of 'In 'n' Out of Grace'. They weren't bad. Neither were they brilliant.

Iggy and the Stooges
Admittedly, I had never seen them in the 1970s (bit difficult, what with their classic Scala gig happening around the same time as my being born). But they were superb. I'm pleased I made the effort to see them before the sad demise of Rock Action. *Takes hat off, bows head, observes a minute's silence*

The Pixies
I first saw them in 1990, I think (around the same time as Bossanova). They were a bit of a shambles, albeit a charming one. My friends up on the balcony noticed that the set list had loads of songs crossed off it. I came away feeling a bit let down. Not so at their comeback at Brixton Academy, which was awesome. The only false note was sounded by the support act: a magic act by the drummer, David Lovering. But hey, you can't have everything; where would you put it?

My Bloody Valentine
Loud, disorientating and amazing, first time. Loud (but less painful, owing to earplugs), disorientating and amazing, second time.

And that's all. Any advance on that, readers?

Not with a bang

2010-11-10T10:11:00.001Z

I had a post half-written but I've since scrapped it. It was mainly about the mood I'm in at the moment. I might come back to that later. But first, here's a brief interlude.

On Saturday night we spent time over with Mrs and Mrs Crimmings. Mrs is an old pal of mine from the worst job in the world. They invited us over with a couple of other mates to enjoy some food and fireworks. Both were excellent, but especially the fireworks.

I think it's been about 30 years since I last stood in a garden watching fireworks. I recall my Dad getting a small box of Standard fireworks, which were incredibly expensive, and he set up a display next to our coal bunker. [I also have a vague memory of him nailing something to our garage, which was made of asbestos panels, but let us gloss over that detail.] Without fail, almost every single firework failed to light, or fizzled out. That was the late 1970s/early 80s for you. We all felt like we'd been swindled.

Not so this time. We had more fireworks than we knew what do do with, so we split them into two batches. They were awesome, mainly because they were for medium-sized firework displays and we were in a small suburban garden. At one point the fireworks shot themselves directly at us - oops. It was uproariously funny, although I imagine we'd have been less amused if any of us had been disfigured.

It was a real tonic of an evening.

So, back to my mood. It'll be six months since Mum died this week. Here's some things I've learnt this year.

1) No matter how shit I've felt, I've been amazed at how resilient I am when I'm forced to be. In the week or so following Mum's death I was overcome with what felt like almost superhuman mental strength. I sat calmly in interviews and meetings and didn't break down. I functioned to a far superior level than I usually do. As time has gone on, this feeling has evaporated somewhat, but I can still pull it out of the bag when I need to.

2) Despite the above, the slightest thing will set me off. An ancient coffee stain on our carpet was yesterday's thing. Something catches you off-guard, and before you know it, you're a wreck.

3) Time doesn't really heal. I think that with the passing of time, you find the best coping strategies, and you wear them like a piece of armour. There are a million and one ways to deal, you just pick what suits you best. I'm not sure that I can even explain how I do it.

In the meantime, life continues and re-adjusting to the world is still a main priority.

It's so lonely on a limb

2010-10-28T11:43:00.006Z

Well, it would appear that my social network fun is over. Despite having a pseudonym (of sorts), all it took was someone tagging a photo of me for the penny to drop, and my cover was blown.

To be honest, it's surprising that this didn't happen sooner. The irony is, I almost removed myself from the site three weeks ago, having gotten really hacked off with it all of a sudden. I didn't get around to it, so I suppose this is a lesson that I shouldn't procrastinate.

I think I'm going to have to suck it up and add the person. Then remove myself.

That's entertainment

2010-10-19T13:46:00.005Z

It's been a while since I posted on the blog while ill. It's been an exceptionally healthy year for me, which is astonishing, considering everything I've been through. However, I suppose there had to come a point when my body would decide to call it quits. So I'm sat sweating in the back bedroom, with aching kidneys, hoping that I can get back to normal soon.

The past few days have been beautifully autumnal. I wish I was out walking through the leaves right now. As it is, I'm so feeble it's as much as I can do to shuffle about the flat. Being up here amongst the trees does wonders, though. As much as I want to feel sorry for myself - and I do, a bit - I keep looking out and remembering how lucky I am.

Anyway. There was something I wished to say about Simon Pegg.

I bought Mr Pegg's book Nerd Do Well last week. I've long been a fan of his work, so thought I would enjoy the book. Well, I don't know what I was expecting exactly, but it came up a little short in my estimation. And the following extract from an early chapter actively pissed me right off. Not a good start.

To set the scene: Pegg is talking about TV reality and talent shows, and how The X Factor isn't so different from New Faces, on which his father appeared in the 1970s.

The X Factor isn't a million miles from Channel 4's nineties car-crash magazine show The Word, hosted by Terry Christian, in which people desperate to appear on television would eat bulls' testicles and lick pensioners' armpits as part if a segment poignantly entitled 'The Hopefuls'. The makers of contemporary talent shows know there will always be a supply of hopefuls, whose need for facile validation far outweighs their fear of public failure as a means of attaining the moment of exposure they feel entitled to. In light of this conveyor belt of catastrophe, Warhol's famous prediction seems overly generous.

As many of you will know, I was one of these desperate for fame individuals that Pegg describes above, having appeared on The Hopefuls as a fresh-faced 21-year old in 1994. So, allow me to pick the above statement apart.

1) I'm not sure that you can compare The X Factor to The Word. One is a money-making machine first, and a TV show second. The other was an utterly shambolic late night TV show, in which anything could (and often did) happen. That's not to say that The Word wasn't flawed - it was, in many ways. So is The X Factor, but I'd rather not get into that here.

2) To some extent, I agree that there will always be a supply of people to populate TV reality/talent shows. However, it's key to remember this: when I was on The Hopefuls, there was absolutely nothing on TV that compared to it. If I was much cleverer than I am, I could sit and argue about how the segment of the show tried to deconstruct the idea of what was acceptable viewing, or what fame in itself actually is. But if I'm being honest, it was silly, and mindless, and that was the fun of it. That's essentially it. I did it for nothing more than the sheer bloody fun of it. I didn't do it because I was desperate for fame or recognition. Come on. How could I ever think that behaving in such a deliberately disgusting way could get me either of those things? I wanted to make my friends, peers, family, teachers, whoever, laugh their arses off. How is this so different to the ambitious Mr Pegg, deciding to become a performance poet to make himself stand out from the crowd while in his first year of University? I didn't go on to make a career out of licking cottage cheese out of a fat man's bellybutton - so how was I desperate for fame, exactly? I clearly wasn't as desperate for it as Mr Pegg was...

3) I wasn't settling for public failure to expose myself, and I didn't feel that I was entitled to fame. Likewise - there are many people who have appeared on reality/talent shows for nothing other than they wanted to have fun. We're back to that concept again - enjoying yourself.

4) I often joked that my appearance on The Word was my "fifteen seconds of fame". Using Warhol to prop this flimsy argument up is a teeny bit obvious. And from where I'm standing, Warhol loved the idea of people having their fifteen minutes, so it doesn't follow that his "prediction" is "overly generous". Seconds or minutes, it's a moot point.

5) "In light of this conveyor belt of catastrophe..." Jesus - how melodramatic is the opening of that sentence?! [Well, actually, compared to his later deconstruction of the Star Wars films, during which I almost yawned myself to death, this is actually quite lively stuff.]

As usual, my meanderings are neither well-reasoned nor coherent (I blame the Lemsip wearing off), but let me finish by saying this. It simply doesn't follow that ordinary people who appear on TV are looking for fame or validation. Some of them are simply doing it for the hell of it. Our lives are pissy and drab and miserable...why the heck shouldn't we entertain ourselves? If other folk can't manage it, why the hell shouldn't we have a try?

He spilled his guts all over the stage!

2010-10-11T13:07:00.003Z

Can it be so? Head-On, my favourite music biog ever (and one of my favourite books, full stop), to be made into a film?

If you don't know what I'm talking about, shame on you. Run to your library, take this book out and read it forthwith.

We are entranced

2010-10-07T12:55:00.004Z

The restorative power of music strikes again.

Yesterday evening, I went to the Southbank Centre to a concert of electronic classical music, with JJ, Mr and Mrs Johns and DL for company. The definition was vague enough for the programme to contain some genuinely bonkers things, as well as some more mainstream bits and pieces, including film music from Spellbound and The Day the Earth Stood Still. Mucho theremin action, one of which was played by the great-niece of Theremin himself, and the other by the lady who does 99.9% of the other theremin work in the UK, including the theme to Midsomer Murders. One of Jonny Greenwood's recent pieces of modern classical music was played, which I was underwhelmed by.

After the interval, Will Gregory of Goldfrapp debuted five movements from an opera that he's currently writing. And it blew my tiny mind. Essentially, it was six/seven synths and an orchestra, and it sounded immense. It's hard to describe just how moved I was - I suppose it would come down to this. Gregory has an ear for pop, he writes great melodies. There was a sense of construction and progression that was absent from the work by Greenwood. Comparing the two directly, the piece by Greenwood felt avant garde for the sake of it, whereas Gregory's music wasn't trying to be odd, yet was genuinely refreshing and unusual. At one point during the last movement, I found my eyes inexplicably filling with tears, but it wasn't sadness, for a change. Sheer joy, I think.

I am excited about seeing the opera next year. That's something I never thought I'd say in my lifetime.

And Jarvis was compere - he was great.

Last weekend was my first wedding anniversary and thoughts, of course, turned to what we were doing a year ago. It's been a year of extreme highs and lows. It's clear that I need to start having fun if I can, to try to tip the balance a little. If I can continue having evenings out like last night, at interesting events in good company, all shall be well soon enough.

A house is not a home

2010-10-01T10:33:00.002Z

As far as I can tell, we no longer own my Mum's house, as of about half an hour ago.

The past few days have been stressful and a little sad (I won't go into the leaking radiator that was discovered on Wednesday evening), but on the whole, I am pleased to see the back of this particular plot of land and pile of bricks and mortar.

With luck, we can all begin to move on soon.

From despair to where

2010-09-23T08:27:00.002Z

A long silence, I know. Back from holiday, I struggled to adjust to real life and fell into a bit of a deep funk - and not in a Parliament kind of way.

Port Isaac is a pretty special place, still, despite the attention it gets because of a popular ITV prime-time drama series. The last time I was there would have been in the mid/late 80s, I think. We were in the harbourside pub and the fishermen had just accidentally caught a huge leatherback turtle in their nets.

No turtles this time...just a big old slate-covered house with a steep garden. It's been a while since I have slept so well - we did a lot of walking, so I felt pretty healthy, despite the vast amounts of tasty Cornish ice cream I consumed. I did feel rather sad while I was there, occasionally. North Cornwall was our most popular holiday spot through the 80s, so being there reminded me of family holidays, and of course, my parents.

Back in real life, the house sale appears to be drawing to a close, and I hope that contracts will be exchanged very soon. I am beginning to find the whole thing rather a drag. This weekend I'll be helping to clear the place out, which is going to be tough, but better now than later.

At home: yet more plumbing hell! We are having to totally destroy our bathroom flooring to get at the source of a leak that is damaging our neighbours' ceiling. Not. Happy.

Take your job and shove it

2010-08-20T08:26:00.000Z

Following a bit of negotiation, Mum's house is sold [subject to contract]. If everything goes to plan (dare I dream that it will?), we'll be exchanging within a matter of weeks. So, the weight of the house sale has been lifted from me, for now. There's still some outstanding paperwork to consider. There I was, thinking that everything was accounted for and under control: the DWP really has outdone itself in managing to confuse the issue completely, and in quite an offensive way, which is super. I'll be giving them a bit of a talking-to next week.

The problem now will be dealing with her Mum's remaining possessions. This isn't something that anyone is looking forward to.

I've been catching up with more old friends, last night with Team CMINT, as they are sometimes known. Stories of life in the City at my old workplace were told, most of them terrifying. I've never been so pleased to leave any job, it just amazes me that there are still people who manage to show up to work and carry out their duties there, particularly when the atmosphere is so poisonous.

The Corporate City Life wasn't for me.

But then again, most jobs aren't for me.

Mine is a generation of people who were given little to no career advice. At school, I was told I'd go to college to do A levels, which I dutifully did. At college I was told to apply to Higher Education to do a degree. Again, I went along with it. At no point did I question the choices that were put before me, at no point did I consider that there might be another way.

I'm convinced this lack of advice is why most people of my age are such a bunch of whining sissies when it comes to work. Seemingly trapped in jobs that we consider it beneath us to do; finding ourselves working for an incompetent boss; unable to see what to do next, terrified that we'll end up in the gutter if we decide to give two fingers to our job.

I'm a fully paid-up whining sissy. I don't so much dread work as not really much care for it. I'm unable to take what I do seriously, because it's not what I want to do. But, when it comes down to - I have absolutely no idea exactly what it is that I want to do. And I haven't since I was a little girl (job of choice: author. I write a diary on the internet. Oh the irony).

Fact is though, change is coming. By this time next year, I want to be doing something different; if not, I want to be well on my way there. The time for copping out is gone. No more whining.

Oh god how I love to hate

2010-08-09T10:04:00.006Z

...and suddenly, I was transported back to 1991.

Last Friday night I was out in Spitalfields with an old chum, Mr Johns. We first met on the bus from Cullompton to Exeter in our first week at 6th form college...if you're looking for detail, I think we may have bonded over the possible merits of The Wonderstuff's upcoming album release, Hup. I'd love to apologise for that, but I can't remember anything about the abovementioned album. However, I do remember Miles Hunt. I rest my case.

Topics of conversation included the things you get offered in the gents toilets at London clubs, flats and flatmates of yore, Primal Scream (specifically why Bobby Gillespie should stop making records right away), and the genius of MGMT.

Anyway, fat was chewed, chins wagged, tactical sandwiches/Twixes bought, and tentative plans to go and see Mudhoney in October were made, in an effort to relive ye golden days of grunge.

Mum's house has had an potential offer put in on it, and there's lots to think about. My poor head can barely take it. Last night I sat about the flat, wishing that everything would miraculously be made easy for me, while JJ tested our stereo system with the first Goldfrapp album [which, to my mind, is still the best they've done]. This lyric jumped out:

I'm wired to the world, that's how I know everything
I am superbrain
That's how they made me

That's how they made me, indeed.

My kith and kin

2010-07-30T10:35:00.002Z

Lots has happened, yet nothing has, this is the way things seem to go. The holiday relaxation wore off really quickly. I am hating being back at work full time. I don't miss having 40% less pay, however. Swings and roundabouts, eh.

Last weekend was a time of intense DIY and cleaning, getting Mum's house ready to go on the market. I have never seen the place as my home. It's just as well that we aren't dealing with our long-mourned family home, the house Mum moved from 9 years ago. Had she still been living there, we'd all have fallen out by now, having to change the locks every ten minutes, or attempting to live in caravans in the garden. Bricks and mortar, funny how we get so attached to them.

The family is all getting pissed off with each other. We aren't good at spending time together. Being with them is like being locked in a car travelling from John O'Groats to Land's End, with no chance of a toilet/petrol break. There's an awful lot of teeth-gritting going on. We do our best, but I can't help but feel that this will change once Mum's affairs are tied up and finished.

On the plus side, much quality time with The Dog, who went crazy with excitement when we arrived, slept on our bed (verboten in my Mum's house) and rubbed her head in fox poop while out walking, which necessitated her having a swift bath, which nobody enjoyed.

Lots of other bits and bobs I could carp on about here but I don't really see the point...so in short, I've been going out and doing more, catching up with people over drinks, and organising my next holiday (Cornwall, in September).

Living for weekends, missing Mum and The Dog and wondering how things are going to turn out - that's essentially what's preoccupying me at the moment.

You can't get a grip if there's nothing to hold

2010-07-11T06:02:00.005Z

I've been putting this off for a while, so I'm going to launch in.

In reverse order:

We went to a house party for the Clouses, who are moving back to Austin. Boo for the UK, hooray for Texas.

We both came back from our holiday with stinking colds and deafness in one ear (an incredibly steep ascent into Gatwick will do that to your hearing).

We went on holiday to a hotel outside Albufeira on the Algarve. The hotel was nowhere near anything, which was excellent, and on the one day we decided to catch up with civilisation, we ran away whimpering (Albufeira is full of Brits). Our hotel was near two perfect beaches, so we did a lot of paddling. To be honest, my holiday mostly consisted of me sleeping, watching Fox, eating, sitting about and feeling miserable. Not vastly different from being at home.

I had to deal with the day that would have been Mum's birthday. It was my last Monday off under my part-time regime and I was in a peculiar mood, so took the bus to Hampton Court, where I sat about feeling immensely sad. Instead of getting the bus back to Kingston, I took the boat. Mum loved doing the boat trip the last time she came to stay. There are many more days like this to come and I suppose it could have been worse (I might have ended up at home lying in a darkened room). Unfortunately, that doesn't make me feel much better.

We went to Becky and Dai's fancy dress wedding party (me as Velma from Scooby Doo, JJ as Tommy Cooper). It was a fun time marred by our having to stay in the hottest hotel room in the world: I woke up at 2.30 in the morning, convinced that my organs were cooking inside my body.

I dealt with a pile of the necessary death-related stuff - solicitors, banks, estate agents. I almost wish it wasn't the case, but I seem to be able to switch on the business brain every time. Someone has to take charge; it may as well be me.

That's it really. Things just continue on. I'm back at work full time as of tomorrow, which fills me with dread. I wish I could say something positive like "I feel like I've turned a corner" but I haven't, and I probably won't, for months yet.

Time's tide will smother you

2010-06-14T07:05:00.000Z

I'm still at sixes and sevens, which is entirely to be expected. I find associations in the smallest things. Now and then it hits me - both my parents are gone. It's an odd feeling. Some days I'm fine, others start badly and get steadily worse. My sleep is frequently interrupted with vivid dreams of my Mum. I find that the days I dream about her, I'm worse.

On Friday I went up to town for the day and got the 521 through the city to London Bridge. This was harder than I thought it would be, because being in Central London makes me think of both of my parents, as well as the many years I spent living and working there. In fact, as I was travelling along High Holborn, I realised that it was 15 years to the day that I had first moved up to London. This made me feel even sadder.

I'm continuing with my part time working pattern until the end of June. The amount of paperwork relating to a death is staggering, so this is just as well. I'm getting things done, which is a small consolation. We've booked a holiday - I plan to do nothing bar sit about, read and sleep. No sightseeing, no activities, nothing. Relaxation doesn't come easily to me but I am determined to force myself to take things easy.

The Dog, thankfully, remains a source of joy to us all and has settled into her new life and home. She has two cats to love (sadly for her, this isn't reciprocated). She sees the children a lot, and she has adopted two small angora rabbits as her own. My initial thought was - oh god, she wants to snap their necks - but she thinks they are puppies. She's never seen a rabbit before, and she's never had puppies of her own, so she's decided that they are baby dogs. Fair enough. She's also slimmed down: no more Rich Tea biscuits for breakfast. [There's my tip to all you dieters.]

For every happy hello, there will be goodbye

2010-06-01T16:02:00.003Z

It's hard to know where to start, if I'm honest. The last few weeks have been a blur, and I have to admit that I'm finding it difficult to express exactly what it is that I'm feeling at the moment. I'm also keen not to have a nervous breakdown over the internet. Not on a blog, anyway. That's what Facebook appears to be for.

Three weeks ago today we were hurtling down a motorway to be by her bedside. Two weeks ago today I was wandering her house, cleaning; something that couldn't be done properly all the while she was ill. A week ago today we were returning from Devon on the day after her funeral.

Mum was terribly ill, and looking back at what I've written on this blog, I had a very clear idea of what her illness meant and the seriousness of the outcome. However, it still came as a shock to me that she couldn't cling onto life any longer. She had fought so hard all her life, I think I just assumed she'd keep fighting. I spent some time talking to her in the hospital and telling her not to linger for our benefit, yet still her death came as a surprise.

The thing that hits me more than anything else is that there is a void where she used to be. She used to dominate proceedings, in every sense of the phrase. I find myself thinking "I must ring her to tell her about..." or "when we next visit, we'll do...". It's so hard. I just feel...well, lost, I suppose is how I feel.

So, I keep busy. Ringing up insurance companies, writing thank you letters, calling her old friends to break the news. Thing is, there's going to come a time when there are no more calls to make or letters to write, and I'll need to face up to the fact that she's gone.

All things must pass

2010-05-20T10:09:00.003Z

Mum died a week ago today.

I am devastated, there's no other way to put it. Part of me was convinced, I think, that she would go on forever. But I also knew that she was in pain, and she no longer wanted to fight.

It's so hard to think of a world without her.

You can never go home again

2010-04-29T17:43:00.000Z

It would appear my yearly torment, seasonal hayfever, has returned once more to blister the skin on my nose and lips, and generally conspire to make my nights a miserable, wheezing, sleep-free zone.

Strangely, my torment is lessened while I'm in Devon. A different kind of pollen there, perhaps? There's not much I can do except tough it out for the next few weeks.

My time in Devon continues. Last weekend I had JJ to help me and between us we achieved some serious gardening. Mum seems as happy as she can be, given what she is going through. The Dog continues to help to keep me level when I'm by myself. Her need for food, attention and playing are a good distraction to have and I'm grateful for her being there. Having said that, she has realised that I will take her out for an impromptu, middle-of-the-day walk, if she yaps in a squeaky and annoying manner at me for long enough. The cheeky little tyke.

Walking the dog around the village I grew up in has been strange. It's unfamiliar. I grew up in a house that was nearly a mile out, and it has expanded a lot in the fifteen years since I left. Houses were built, then more houses were built on the fringes of the estates, and so it went on.

So, the streets of the village are unfamiliar, and many of the faces are too. I'm not saying that this is a bad thing. Just as my family arrived as cockney aliens in the 1960s, a whole series of new people have arrived and taken root. Yet while in the post office on Monday, I saw an old lady who was an old lady when I was small - this must make her about 95 now. I conferred with Mum, and she agreed that this was the case.

My primary school still stands in the same spot. The white, long, one-floor (quasi-modernist) main building with full-length windows that I spent my classes in has been surrounded by new, red-brick blocks. The old school used to leak if there was too much rain, a bit like the flats on the estate we live on. Perhaps that's why I feel so fondly towards the white, glass boxes that get built on Grand Designs - I liked my school, it was a white box with big windows.

Sometimes, on my wanders, I think "That's where they had a swimming pool in the garden" or "I remember the girl who lived in that house" or "I wonder what happened to them?".

But I don't think too hard, if you know what I mean. Forward, in all directions, now.

For the wings of the Doves

2010-04-13T13:39:00.005Z

I'd like to discuss my recent enjoyment of the band Doves.

Before I go any further, I should explain that I know next to nothing about the band. I couldn't pick them out of a line-up. I gather that they are a couple (possibly three?) middle-aged Mancunian gentlemen. Many years ago they used to be a one-hit-wonder type band called Sub Sub and I used to enjoy their one big hit at our university indie disco. Anyway, as Doves, they've been steadily releasing singles for the past ten years, many of which I've never heard, only on adverts or Match of the Day montages.

Last week I decided to buy their "best of" album, on the strength of their most recent single. It isn't half bad. Anthemic, yet introspective. On the doomy side, I'd say. But by god, they're melodic. They have a real way with a tune, and go for chord progressions and modulations that nobody else would. When they're acoustic, they remind me of my teenage faves, All About Eve. However, at points I've found myself wincing and thinking oh god, Coldplay.

I honestly have no idea if this band are well-received critically, or if they are widely hated by most people. Maybe they are one of those outfits that nobody ever thinks about. Perhaps you could let me know? Not that I really mind what anyone else thinks. Put it this way, on a regular three-hour car journey you need something big and expansive in the background, and Doves are it. Nice one, Doves.

Next week: U2.

[Joking.]

Notes on living in a listed building

2010-03-29T14:33:00.007Z

I live in a block of flats that is Grade 2 listed. This is because the estate we live on is of special architectural interest. This sounds posh, doesn't it...

When we first clapped eyes on our flat some nine years ago, it was love at first sight. We liked the estate from the exterior. When we were house hunting, we often drove down the street wondering what it was like to live here. Through a combination of factors (a broken collar-bone; a day off work to go to an anniversary party; a sale fallen through; the particulars of the flat posted to me when I happened to be at home to find them) we arranged a viewing and put an offer on the place within five minutes of walking into it.

This flat is extraordinary for a number of reasons that you don't really care about. I've loved living here. But there are snags.

When you're listed, there come a number of things that you need to be aware of and numerous rules to abide by. For example, if we wanted to install laminate flooring (we don't), the terms of the freehold prohibit it. If I wished to hang our laundry in front of our windows (I don't), the terms of the freehold prohibit it. The latter is one of the dafter rules in the book, but this gives you a flavour - there are many more.

Then there's the maintenance, which we pay a hefty quarterly charge for. We have soft wood window frames, which are a nightmare. Once every seven years we have our external window frames examined for rot and replaced by carpenters. This process is like pulling teeth. Broken glass, crappy paint jobs and a slapdash attitude prevails. The listing means that this estate is stuck with the soft wood, until the place falls into decay, presumably rotting from the window frames out. [I've not even touched upon the work that is needed on the interior window frames. Just the thought of that makes me break out in a cold sweat.]

Also - we have a flat roof. Freezing in the winter! Boiling in the summer! And likely to spring a leak just when you don't expect it!

A couple of people who live here love it to an obsessive degree, poring over the original architectural features and generally acting like unofficial curators. That's fine, it seems like a funny sort of hobby to me, but whatever floats your boat. My own view is that I'm not living in a museum. It's my bloody home, thanks.

This ramble leads me to make a statement of fact. I've enjoyed living in my place in the trees. It's gorgeous here in the spring and the autumn, especially when it's clean and tidy (rare). But we're both beginning to think about more space, and neither of us want to endure another winter here. So, the work begins to move on.

As birds we dream of the sky

2010-03-22T17:13:00.004Z

Another weekend in Devon. Yesterday afternoon, I persuaded Mum that we should drive down to the coast for a bit of a look at the sea (with the proviso that we wouldn't get out of the car). She agreed, much to my amazement, so off we went.

We went to Exmouth, the nearest seaside town. It's a place that holds some fond memories for me, because I spent a lot of time there with friends and my ex while I was at college. We parked down at the far end, near the cliffs, and watched numerous dogs and children tearing about on the sand. We felt a little bit guilty, having left the Greatest Dog in the World at home, but I didn't fancy her trying to get under my feet/brake pedal while I was on the motorway. Next time I'll take an assistant with me who can put her in a headlock in the back. We ate ice creams and Mum wore JJ's wraparound driving sunglasses, and looked like an elderly female version of The Fly, which was momentarily strange.

I've been taking the Dog out for at least two walks a day, and I've been enjoying listening to the birds chirp and hop about. I think we're all longing for spring - two legs, four legs, winged and beaked alike.

My new regime is hard, which I was prepared for, but it has also made me realise how much time I've been wasting. It's clear that things won't be the same after this is all over, in more than one respect.

It's just the same old show

2010-03-04T10:39:00.000Z

I won't be the only person bemoaning the proposed closure of BBC 6Music on a blog or in tweets this week, so what I have to say here isn't particularly original or sparkling. But I feel it is worth writing about.

We bought a DAB radio back in 2006 with 6Music in mind, and in the main, it hasn't let us down*. I've spoken before about the amazing Adam and Joe show, which has provided plenty of laugh out loud moments while doing the chores on a Saturday morning. I'm not sure that I ever wrote on here about the incendiary Russell Brand Sunday morning show (before it moved to Radio 2, the rest is history), which used to reduce me to helpless tears of mirth week in, week out. I know he is an acquired taste, but by golly, that show really gave a glimpse into his mind. Of course, there's also Stuart Maconie's mighty Freak Zone, home of the esoteric ramblings of Professor Justin Spear.

Some are already starting to shout conspiracy about the leaking of the report and view that the suggested closure has been stage-managed specifically to increase listening figures for both 6 and the Asian Network. This is entirely possible. It does seem bizarre that two supposed "niche" stations which have no real commercial equivalents have been earmarked for closure.

Anyway, enough conspiracy theorising, back to real life.

This was the first week of my new part-time working regime. I used my first ever Monday off to have a budget facial at a student beauty salon (which doesn't sound so good, but I can assure you was fantastic. It was advertised as relaxing, and it was - I came out of the salon feeling more chilled than I'd been in an age). From there I went to the van Gogh exhibition, which was good, but impossibly crowded. A mooch about the West End later, I met up with JJ and Mrs Hall (followed later by Mr Hall) and we had a chat over some food. Splendid.

Back to Devon tomorrow to look after Mum, this time via the medium of trains. I wish myself luck!

* I should qualify that statement with two words: George Lamb.

And you may ask yourself, well - how did I get here?

2010-02-11T14:14:00.002Z

Relatively recently, I threatened to jack the blog in, then backed down almost immediately. I was behaving a bit like the people who post on their Facebook status: "well that's it i'm leavin FB tonite, gettin a bit sick of all the BS written on here by IDIOTS c ya". The following day their status generally says "well i changed my mind LOL i didn't want to give in to bullying so hear i am back again". In other words, I was being a berk. I'm not jacking this in, it's been too long in the making.

However, posting is beginning to become difficult, for a couple of reasons.

I've established in previous posts what's going on with my Mum's health. There are certain inevitabilities tied to terminal cancer with the passing of time, and I'm sure that there is no need for me to spell out the details. I'm going to be around less, too. If I'm honest, things have been getting grim. When there is less to smile about, there is less to post.

That's not to say that I am down in the mouth, because I'm not. Obviously, some days are better than others. But, you know, there's a tough time ahead, so I'm making the best of the good times now.

Mucha muchacha

2010-02-01T12:09:00.004Z

My love for Mexican food will probably result in an untimely death, perhaps from a surfeit of smoky black beans, or hardened arteries from skip-loads of quesadillas. JJ and I went back to Wahaca on Friday night for the fastest meal ever. Arrived at table, 5.25. Finished food and cocktail, 5.55. I should note that this was a petite dinner, by our standards.

On a related note, Mr Hall was ill on Friday, owing to what was described to us by Mrs Hall on Saturday evening as a "bad burrito". We both responded, in unison, "there is no such thing as a bad burrito". Mrs Hall went on to make us a delicious dinner (classic French, I should add, no guacamole in sight).

I still feel battered and sad from last weekend. I'm not sure what I can do to overcome this feeling. I am too dull to have any vices at all. Drinking bores me. I'm trying hard to limit my intake of food, so that I don't end up like the Goodyear blimp. I love strong coffee, but too much makes me jitter and jerk. Exercise is something I try to enjoy, but I am hard-wired to hate it. And there is absolutely no way that I am going to throw myself into my work. I can't imagine anything more pointless.

So that leaves me with thinking, which is the source of all my problems in the first place.

Strange days

2010-01-27T11:33:00.004Z

The weekend was spent caring for my mother and being reminded of the 20 year anniversary of an enormous, life-changing event. The irony didn't escape me when I found myself in Devon on this major anniversary, doing exactly what I did 20 years ago to the day/hour/minute - not sleeping, worrying my head off and crying, albeit about a mile and half up the road from where I was before.

I was also reminded that it is possible to be practical and deal with stuff that you're not expecting at short notice, when you are forced to. My sleep was interrupted by Mum frequently - she needed help to do things, and I gave it to her. I was also disturbed by The Dog at one point, who jumped onto the bed and gawped at me like a furry apparition, the first time she has ever come into the bedroom at night. They say that dogs are sensitive to serious illness and I suppose this was proof. [Then again, she was just as likely to have been wanting a biscuit. There's no way of knowing.]

I should be clear and say that I am neither seeking, nor expecting pity. Life goes on and as ever, we all find ways to cope and deal with what we've been given. Sleep deprivation is something I don't deal with very well, so it's an opportunity to learn. I'm not a wreck, even though I know what's coming. I'm not sure as yet if that's more or less comforting than what happened with my Dad.

The city's ripped backsides

2010-01-15T15:50:00.002Z

I did try to write a blog post about the last decade just recently. I gave up. It's impossible. I suppose that the larger bits and bobs of my life for the last (getting on for) five years are captured here on this blog...although there needs to be some awareness that there are a lot of things that I either glossed over briefly, half-explained, or never spoke of.

Here's a quick thing.

A decade in numbers
Four jobs (five, if you count the part-time family history research one).
Two homes - urban drama near King's Cross station (the place that I like to think was the actual flat above a shop mentioned in this song); in the suburbs, in Ham.
Two great-nephews and a great-niece.
Two fabulous voyages to the United States of America (numerous voyages to the Continent).
One partner/husband.

That's ten years, in essence, yet it doesn't really do them justice. I'm aware that I blinked and missed bits of it. Perhaps I need to be less of a passenger in future.

Back to the present. Off out in town tonight for the first time this year for a drink and some fried food with DL and some of the other usual suspects. I'm looking forward to it. So another decade begins.

It's nothing special

2010-01-03T15:10:00.008Z

*A brief foreword: I lost half of this post because Blogger signed me out, so if this seems a little pissed-off in tone, that's why.*

Incredible. I can't quite believe where the last ten years have gone. I recently had to shut my Hotmail email address (post-hacking) and was astounded when I noticed it had been set up in September 1999.

Let's tackle 2009 before we tackle the decade, though, eh.

2009 - in short
A bit of a big one in the grand scheme of things. I got married to my long-term (and some would say, long-suffering) partner JJ. At the same time as I was planning our wedding, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. So all the jollity has been tempered rather. I am feeling pretty sad, yet the last six months have been amongst the best times I've ever had. The irony doesn't escape me.

Still, what is life if it isn't full of ephemeral stuff to get you through the laffs and the tears?

Music
I think I said a year ago that it I hadn't been able to settle to new stuff. Many of this year's top albums I have never heard, and probably never will. A few songs caught my ear and made me smile: Poker Face, Single Ladies, Heavy Cross, Heads Will Roll. The 80s came back again, which is a bit boring when you can remember the music in (frankly) autistic-levels of detail from last time around. I also liked Stereolab's most recent album, which will be their last. Typical.

Films
In the Loop, for sure. I saw this in a packed Curzon Soho and I honestly thought I was going to cough up my lungs with laughter at one point. My favourite Malcolm Tucker line: "I will hound you to an assisted suicide...".
Also, Anvil! The Story of Anvil, which has to be one of the funniest and heart-warming films I think I've ever seen. Favourite scene: the wedding reception. I watched this on a plane and was shuddering silently with laughter, the tears pouring down my face - the stewardess was quite concerned.
Moon was also superb, with a great central performance or two from Sam Rockwell.
Definitely not Burn After Reading, which had I not been on a aircraft at the time, I think I would have walked out of. Bilge.

TV
3o Rock, Mad Men, The Wire...so much great telly this year.

Untimely departure
The one, the only Lux Interior.
"I've been to the mountain, it was just a big hill"

Teenage crush of the year
Out in front by about nine miles, Charlie Brooker (despite the fact that he frequently makes me look like a lunatic on public transport, when I'm laughing out loud at his newspaper column). And Richard Armitage, surely the only sane reason to watch Spooks.

That's it for now, readers,: I wish all three of you a happy new year.

Whatever and ever, amen

2009-12-21T09:48:00.003Z

Wish I had time to write a proper blog post, but I have about a month's worth of work to procrastinate about over the next two days. Instead, have a link to the Christmas-iest song ever written.

Five parts ELO, four parts Paul McCartney, one part Val Doonican.

Happy Christmas everybody.

Something's gone wrong again

2009-12-14T11:29:00.003Z

Why is it that the shit stuff always seems to happen in December?

After a very pleasant evening out on Saturday, we arrived home to a note from our downstairs neighbours to say that they had discovered water dripping through a light fitting outside their bathroom. One expensive visit from a plumber later, we discovered that the bathtub that was put into our flat about three years ago has been an accident waiting to happen - incorrectly plumbed in, and a mess in general.

Job one on the list is to track down the perpetrators of the crime and take them down to Chinatown. Never piss off a person who is good at admin, like me. I have already planned out a systematic and comprehensive business-ruining drubbing that involves two local councils and Trading Standards.

Job two, infinitely less fun than part one, is to find a competent plumbing firm that would be able to fix the problems for us. This will take several hundred pounds, I estimate - that's not to mention the cosmetic stuff that will need doing as a result of the works, and the sheer bloody inconvenience of having no bath or shower available to us during the coldest week of the year thus far.

One word: bastards.

Same as it ever was

2009-12-09T09:52:00.008Z

I had a post all written up and ready to go about the family argument that broke out last week, but I figure that all you need to do is go back about three years or so here and read the posts relating to the event known as Tablegate. There isn't much point in posting about round two here, because it's almost identical.

Put it this way, there's not much chance of a game of football in no man's land this Christmas.

The season has started early with my work party last night. I'm tired and a little queasy today, but to be honest, that's how I feel most days. The days of me going out on a works do and ending up blotto are long gone. I pace myself carefully, watch what I say and leave before I disgrace myself. Not a bad philosophy to have, and one I wish I had employed earlier in my life.

Down through the years my relationship with The Booze has changed. It's gone from being my beloved partner in crime to an acquaintance that I'm ambivalent about seeing, because I have nothing left in common with it.

A pal once accused me of being a control freak for not getting drunk. I suppose that's a factor. But the over-riding thing that stops me from overdoing it is that I'll do anything to avoid vomiting.

Yes! Yet another emetophobe!

You've taken the fun out of everything

2009-11-26T11:20:00.006Z

I am reading Bit of a Blur by Alex James. I really enjoy these type of books. James is an interesting man. I once encountered him in the cloakroom queue at The Laurel Tree while at Blow Up, the popular indie/mod revival club night that was once the toast of London.

Blow Up was fun. It was always heaving with people, some of them proper scenesters, some of them common-or-garden punters up from the burbs, like me. The toilets used to block, overflow and run down the stairs like a particularly foul water feature. You could feel the floor in the upstairs room sagging dangerously while you were dancing. Occasionally you'd spot some minor indie royalty (Steve Diggle out of The Buzzcocks?!) and you'd feel thrilled that you were a mere 750 yards from the very centre of the universe, The Good Mixer on Inverness Street.

To reverse back a bit to Blur, Alex James wasn't the only member of said band that I encountered in the 1990s. One evening, when I was working at the theatre, I spied Damon in the Upper Circle. You couldn't really miss him. His gangly legs were sticking awkwardly out into the aisle. All of Blur are very tall men, they're like the polar opposite of the Small Faces...but I digress. At the time, I was confused that one of the country's biggest pop stars should be watching a West End musical.

Anyway, the poor bloke looked really bored. I decided to go and say hello to him before the start of the second act. I said something like "I'm a big fan" (reader, I know you have an impression of me as a cynic, but I genuinely was - Blur were at their best at this point) and asked for his autograph. He obliged, and asked me, "Exactly how much longer does this thing go on for?". I responded that the whole musical was three hours long, and to be honest, it would be better if he cut his losses, because it didn't get any better. He took my advice and left twenty minutes later.

My meeting of minds with Mr Albarn took place post-Parklife, but pre-Great Escape. A little while later, I read somewhere that Damon had planned the latter album to be a musical. I seem to recall, although it's some years since I've heard it, that it's a bit of a concept album about getting the success you crave and being alienated and unable to cope with it. Boo hoo!

So, what Damon was doing that evening was research, pure and simple. You can't knock him for that.

You won't get far in a cable car

2009-11-16T17:42:00.004Z

Another pause, then a post. I was really hoping to get to write more, but things have been catching up with me.

We've been spending time paring our flat/lives down, walking in Richmond Park, recovering from the working week. Nothing serious, but that doesn't mean things aren't serious. There's a distinct lack of making plans. Something inevitable is coming, and it's approaching at speed, and there is nothing any of us can do to halt it. Things have been bleak, so it's been monumentally hard to be positive.

That being so, I caught up with some saved-up telly over the weekend, most notably the recent documentary that was made about Edwyn Collins and his recovery from a double-brain hemorrhage. This was moving, but not a downer: Grace, Edwyn's missus, claims that she knew that he was beginning to recover when he started being argumentative once more. This sounds familiar.

I also took in a hilarious and coruscating episode of Curb your Enthusiasm that made me cry with laughter. Misanthropic worldviews are always worth a go as far as I'm concerned (especially when they take me out of my own), so I am reading the new James Ellroy and marvelling at the lunacy and sheer scariness of the plot.

Just thought I would leave you with a piece of writing that is close to poetry, courtesy of Charlie Brooker. This made me laugh heartily today, but there's something so utterly mournful about the way it's written, that it makes me want to shed yet another tear.

On 3D television:

...the possibilities are potentially endless. And when they're tired of 3D, they can move on to the fourth dimension, Minkowski spacetime, and broadcast shows in which you stare into the past and future simultaneously, witnessing every moment in history at every location in the universe, bathing your eyes in eternity, entering a state beyond joy or sadness, innocence or wisdom, gradually coming to realise that your soul is woven into the celestial fabric binding everything together, and you experience a sense of love and belonging so profound it resonates through every atom in your being, rippling outward to caress every atom in creation.
At which point your TV cuts to a 3D Morrisons commercial.

Straight back down to earth

2009-11-03T08:23:00.003Z

I'm aware that it's been a bit of a while, and I fully intend to get back into this. The problem is time, and work. Y'see, there was a time back along when I had time at work to cock about. [Well, I didn't really have time, I just made time out of the periods when I should have been actually working.]

Since returning from getting married, there has been nary a second spare to do any personal admin at all, because I have been moved into a job on the online side of things. On the plus side, I am having to use my brain slightly more now, so the days don't drag. Not that they dragged before...especially when I was organising a wedding. There was plenty to be getting on with then.

Anyway, I give it six weeks in the new job before I have things running my way and the usual torpor has set in.

Going back to the wedding organising...I find that there is an enormous gap left by this and it makes me realise how much I fool myself. I love a project and it's my main aim in life to make things happen. Now that there is very little to do, I am a bit bereft, adrift. According to the bridezilla social network this is a common theme for people coming out of a period of wedding planning. Plus, the wedding was a handy way of pretending that my other problems didn't exist. Now I no longer have the excuse, so I have to face up to my mother's illness.

On a lighter note, I have been enjoying life. Despite what I have written above, I am not wandering around with a little black cloud over my head. We've been going out, seeing people and trying not to use the changing weather as an excuse to sit about, eat too much and do nothing. Autumn is absolutely the best time of year and the (very gradual) change of season has been a delight to watch.

Matrimonial fears: unfounded

2009-10-28T18:07:00.005Z

As promised.

All the people I love are here; all the people I love are drunk

2009-10-12T19:05:00.000Z

Here we are, on the other side of getting married. Feels good so far!

The day before the wedding was tense, and I spent the day in an extremely anxious state. I won’t go into detail but put it this way, I spent the whole day cursing why we hadn’t just got married abroad.

The wedding day itself went without a hitch – apart from my mobile phone going missing for a few hours (dropped in the back of the cab following the ceremony, recovered later in the day). Our wedding meal was superb. I made an off-the-cuff quip in our short speech about having eaten so much that I couldn’t wait to get out of my control pants, which made everybody fall about laughing (unintentional humour is a speciality of mine). Everyone appeared to have a good time, even those who have had real troubles recently. My Mum was cock-a-hoop and was on excellent form all day.

Sister #4 and Small Monkey #3 had spent the day before making us a wedding sponge cake, which was a lovely gesture. I was given a horseshoe by Sister #2, which used to be attached to my Dad’s shed (she spent two days sanding the rust off it).

Our short post-wedding break (I struggle with the term honeymoon) was lovely and took in some of the best bits of Dorset. On Saturday night, we whooped it up in Central London with 130 mates until the early hours, which was absolutely brilliant. I had the best time and feel very lucky that we both have such a great set of friends.

I hope to post some pics of the happy times soon.

I did it my way

2009-09-30T16:27:00.002Z

This is my last post before I head to the South West to get hitched. It's been an interesting road to get to this point, full of diversions and unexpected things: despite all that, right at the moment, I'm seriously tired and looking forward to my holiday (Dorset, for those of you who may be wondering).

I'll be seeing you all on the other side, where we are going to show East Central London how to party.

Usually drink, usually dance, usually babble

2009-09-21T10:46:00.002Z

I've emerged smiling into the new week. This is quite something. I think it's a combination of being illness-free (well, apart from the spot on my face that feels like I'm growing an extra head) and also seeing all and sundry on Saturday night for food/booze/dancing.

My night out, then. Yes. It was an absolute riot, albeit a very polite one. The vast meal we ate (an absolute banquet, with starters, cocktails, mains, desserts, coffees AND service charge for just over £25 a head - a stone-cold bargain for central London) offset the very strong tequila-based drinks, so by the time we got to the dancing we had all sobered up. That didn't last long. Before the night was out, I found myself dancing to The Cult. Now that hasn't happened to me in a while. Or at least, it's never happened to me in the same half hour as dancing to Wearing my Rolex.

To sum up, it was great fun, the group was just the right size, and I feel incredibly lucky to have such a great bunch of friends.

Say I'm your number one

2009-09-18T11:17:00.000Z

The back pain subsided and was replaced almost immediately with a cold. I now have kidney pain, which is less debilitating than back pain, but it’s making me jumpy, because I have a big weekend planned. I’m having a hen-do of sorts, that will involve copious amounts of tequila-based drinkery, copious amounts of Mexican food, and copious amounts of dancing at Buttoned Down Disco.

Last weekend I went to Devon. It was not the best of times, but there’s no sense going into detail here.

I wanted to post here to a part of a music blog called Freaky Trigger, called Popular. The latter reviews every number one record since the 1950s. I’ve been reading for about a year or so and have been contributing comments to the entries that I find most interesting. My comments aren't insightful or funny, I just enjoy chipping in. I’m sure you’ll spot me if you know my Twitter handle.

Popular has now reached the period of music that I love most of all, the mid-1980s. Such richness, such diversity, such pomposity, such hair. Each new entry transports me back to that time. Given that this period coincides with me at my most exposed (newly at secondary school/hating it; family troubles; general pre-teenage confusion about everything), the songs aren't always a pathway back to feelgood.

Two weeks to go then.

*sharp intake of breath*

Of backs and birds

2009-09-10T13:11:00.000Z

I'm hanging in there, still, but this time with back pain.

Back pain. It screws things up like nothing else. At present, whenever I move, it's like I'm a shop window dummy being pushed around on a trolley. Any sudden movement is out, any bending or shifting is a chore. Thankfully, I managed to sleep last night, otherwise I'd have been all over the place today.

I got into the flat about an hour ago, and since then have been pottering around in unbending, robotic way. I heard a rustling sound, like someone eating crisps, but shrugged my shoulders and figured it was my downstairs neighbour, or a nearby child crinkling up some plastic, or some curtains brushing against something.

I just went into the bedroom to check on something, when I heard the rustling again. Then I saw it - a scruffy-looking Blue Tit fledgling. It must have flown into the flat via our bathroom window. At any rate, the poor wee thing was panicking and terrified, so I quietly opened up the window and let it out. Clearly starving, the bird flew straight to the nearby cherry tree to eat some catkins.

I find my interactions with things in the world unsettling sometimes.

Because we live at tree-height, we have a good opportunity to watch birds. The Blue Tits are always good entertainment, because they seem to hang about together in a vast, cheeping gang. Often, there will be thirty or forty hanging about in the same tree, hopping from branch to branch, fronting up to one another like a bunch of teenagers.

My encounter with the bird reminded me of the work of artist Emily Sutton. She embroiders the most beautiful bird ornaments/sculptures. I'm a huge fan of these things, although I'm not sure I need a tiny embroidered bird in my already cluttered life.

Digging your scene

2009-09-01T09:49:00.005Z

The last few days have been busy, which has been both blessing and curse. I feel a lot less numb, as described in the post below, and am now beginning to feel a faintly euphoric (some might say neurotic) force propelling me forwards. Some of this feeling has to do with my wedding day being less than five weeks away, and some with my growing acceptance of what's happening with my Mum.

Another thing that is pushing me is the letter we received from our allotment association to tell us that our plot is not up to the accepted levels of cultivation. This means that we need to tidy it up, and fast, or they will take it away from us.

Following some intense negotiations over the past week with JJ over whether we shouldn't just admit defeat and give the plot up, we set about doing some serious work yesterday evening. Ninety minutes of intense shearing, hacking and raking later, it's looking much better already, and we are both feeling more positive about what we can achieve. It helps that we picked and ate some of the most delicious french beans we've ever grown yesterday. It is worth it...it's just a lot of work. We have to consider exactly how much time we can commit over the coming weeks and months, and we may still need to consider relinquishing some or all of the plot.

Like most things, a degree of planning is needed. Luckily, planning is what I am good at.

We spent Friday night to Monday morning in Devon catching up with my Mum and the family, and it went well. Mum seems relatively chipper, but she has her moments (don't we all). One regret is that we hadn't timetabled seeing my three great-nephews and I know that they are upset about this. According to Sister #4 one said "they are always too busy these days to see us") . They aren't aware of my Mum's condition: they have an inkling that something isn't right, but they are too young to be told the full story at the moment.

This week and next I am planning to keep things quiet and low-key. I have to start learning to apply make up for the wedding, which is an alarming prospect. I wear the stuff about once a year, and never with much success. So it's going to be a steep (and as I'm discovering, expensive) learning curve.

Fortunately gone

2009-08-24T15:00:00.000Z

For the last few days, I feel a bit like I’m not actually in my own body, instead that I’m watching myself act out a sequence of banal tasks for an unknown puppet master.

On Thursday afternoon, after leaving work, I received the news that I was both expecting and dreading. My mother has stomach cancer. We have no idea how long she’ll live (nor does she and she’s happy with that). The only surgical procedure available is too risky for them to try. We’re unsure as yet if there are treatment options – even if there are, the chances of her agreeing to them are slim.

I coped pretty well with the news, initially.

However, this weekend I went from resigned to relaxed to furious to desolate to upbeat, and many other emotions between these. I am literally all over the place, yet I’m not functioning anywhere. Instead, I’m numbly carrying on, neither noticing nor caring about much of what’s going on in front of me. Understatement of the year so far: it’s not great.

Left to my own devices

2009-08-19T08:59:00.004Z

At the end of this week and all of next I am going to be the original social firefly (do any of you remember the cutesy sounds of Blast Off Country Style?). Having a number of distractions to take my mind away from the big things that are happning in the background is a comfort, and I think having a reason to leave the flat and be with people may just save me.

Like many outwardly well-organised people, I have to very work hard at keeping things together. I get distracted easily by things and put things off constantly. As a child, I was messy and never finished projects, finding myself distracted all the time by books and imaginary worlds. I recall quite clearly my parents once coming into our living room and waving a hand in front of my face to snap me out of whatever reverie I was stuck in.

Now I'm older, I try a bit harder to be together. I wouldn't say I was whimsical, but I do have a scattergun approach to life and (especially) work. Procrastination plays a huge part and if it weren't for the lists, spreadsheets and hundreds of post-it note reminders, very little would get completed or recalled.

I was about to say that the above was a flaw, but actually, it's not. A flaw would be an addiction to fruit machines, or something worse. Our brains can only contain so much stuff and it's inevitable that some of this should need to be pushed out, at the expense of other things. My once crystal-clear memory is becoming ever more fuzzy. There would have been a time when I would have lamented that, but I'm now much happier to let things go.

More test results are due tomorrow, and life is probably going to barge in once more.

The reflected sound of everything

2009-08-12T08:12:00.003Z

Well, it's been a strange week. I am feeling a bit numb. Over the next week my Mum faces a CT scan and a second set of tests. Afterwards, we may know what stage things are at.

I was in Devon at the weekend, trying my best to stay composed and to be useful. In the most part, this was a success. Mum was actually way more lively and looked far better than when I last saw her, ironically: the blood transfusion and the copious amounts of vitamin B12 she has been given have certainly helped in the short-term.

There were, and are still, occasions on which I let the sadness get the better of me, but I figure that is allowed. I am still finding reasons to smile (use of the In the Loop-ism "meat in the room", for example) and y'know, things have been worse.

Change and decay in all around I see, part 308

2009-08-05T07:52:00.005Z

Late on Monday afternoon Sister #4 phoned through with the news that Mum's hospital tests had shown up a serious stomach ulcer. Initial suggestions are that it's either an extremely rare type of ulcer that isn't cancerous, or a more regular type of ulcer that is cancerous.

So, not great news, exactly. More tests are pending. I'm not vastly confident that it isn't cancer. I am off to Devon at the weekend and I am fully aware that it's going to be pretty tough.

I've already enjoyed a grim chuckle, which I suppose is good (?). I spoke to Mum on Monday night and she was saying, "the Doctor said he couldn't guarantee that I was going to make it to your wedding" while in the background my sister was shouting, "HE SAID YOU'RE GOING TO BE FINE!" (I know the latter to be true, because my sister had told me this ten minutes earlier).

I think she's got plenty of life in her yet.

Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be Kate Bush

2009-07-28T08:01:00.008Z

That was the shortest sabbatical of all time! My, it's fun to be capricious/moody.

I haven't recovered either physically or emotionally yet from the dash to Devon a couple of weekends ago, and to be honest, it's going to take some time. I am being realistic about my mother's illness. I'm refusing to believe, as some are, that she is going to suddenly rally and return to being that brusque/loveable creature that she once was. The fact is, she is frail and weak, and I think she has been lying to us about how she really feels for months.

To those of you with elderly parents: never accept the phrase "I'm fine".

I am hopeful that Mum's treatment will improve now that my four sisters have paid a visit to her GP. It can be hard to disagree with one of us, let alone four. One of my sisters also told the GP that if he was very unlucky and messed up again, that he'd also be blessed with a visit from me.

Regardless, I'm shell-shocked. This is not especially helpful, as there is a lot to do in general as well as for the wedding, and numerous other things also have to be slotted in (chores, the allotment, work - in that order). So I'm feeling a touch ragged at present.

On to other things. Nephew #2 and his fiancee R arrived on Saturday. We went with them to the Globe Theatre to see Troilus and Cressida on Sunday. It was the first time I'd been to the Globe in ages and it was fun, even thought we were standing/it drizzled the entire time. Given that the two young lovers are named in the title of the play, you might expect it to be a tragic tale of love. And...it isn't. It's a tragic tale of war. Kind of. Anyhoo, it was entertaining enough, there were lots of fellas stripped to the waist wearing tiny skirts, as well as Matthew Kelly. [He was pretty good, actually.]

In other news, I am trying to find a venue for our wedding party in London. This has been tougher than I thought it might be. I have a shortlist (short being the operative word) and am due to have a bit of a sneaky mooch around some of the places on Friday with my homegirl Mrs Hall. The response to my initial enquiries from some of the venues has varied from curt to couldn't give a shit to very friendly. I find it amazing that a simple, clear, two line email can elicit such a wide range of replies.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, goodbye

2009-07-20T13:12:00.003Z

I think it's time to take a bit of a break from this for a while.

I've noticed that I have nothing much to post here and that has been demoralising. Not discussing the wedding was a conscious decision, as the last thing I wanted to do was appear to be some kind of ludicrous nuptials-obsessed crazy woman with nothing else to talk about. I can't avoid the wedding, and it's getting increasingly close (ten weeks away), and it seems that (just like blogging) it is a thief of time.

Also, this weekend we ended up back in Devon again, because my mother was hospitalised with severe anaemia. This was a bit of a shock. She should have been getting more frequent blood tests but wasn't - her haemoglobin level was half what it should have been. I could rant on for paragraphs about how badly her healthcare has been handled, but I'm saving that for my complaint to the primary care trust.

I'm exhausted after a weekend of driving, hospital visiting, listening intently, saying the right things, cleaning up, laundry and being on the telephone. If nothing else, it's made me realise what Sister #3 has been going through for the past few years and I have resolved to do more with my mum than I have done in recent times - specifically, to visit more often and to do more to help when I'm there. Quite how things are going to work out is anyone's guess, but I can no longer take the view that out of sight = out of mind.

What I don't want to do is end up posting pointless crap on here about how terrible everything is and how tired I am, because frankly, who cares about that? Self-pity is simply that - about the self, not others.

The change will hopefully do me good, and with luck I'll return here in better shape, more inclined and inspired to write and record.

Speed of life

2009-07-14T12:53:00.002Z

Sorry things have been so quiet.

My weeks seem to be passing in a blur, and the weekends even faster. I seem to be perpetually running about, chasing things, doing chores. I'm not complaining, as such - I just can't believe the speed in which things seem to be zooming past.

A couple of Sundays ago we had a picnic for JJ's landmark birthday, which was a lot of fun. We saw lots of folk we hadn't seen in ages and it was a beautiful day for it. It's made me a little determined to have a packed diary of get-togethers this summer. All of which, of course, will lead to time whizzing past even faster.

This past weekend was spent in Devon, taking care of my (rather ill) mother and doing more wedding-related things, like handing official pieces of paper to assistant registrars. The room in which we're getting married is faintly municipal, a bit like a library reading room that's been stripped of the microfiche readers and periodicals. I don't mind this: it feels welcoming and familiar, in a way that most libraries do.

Nephew #2 and his betrothed are visiting soon, which I'm looking forward to, and plans include going to the Globe for some Shakespearean action. It's been ages since I was last there and I'm looking forward to it, even though the production has Matthew Kelly as a cast member.

Jackson, redux

2009-07-01T08:22:00.000Z

This says what I wanted to say, only more articulately.

Without him, Timberlake is nothing

2009-06-26T15:27:00.010Z

As a pop fan, I would like to make a brief comment on the death of the self-styled King of Pop.

Michael Jackson's legacy, as far as I'm concerned, are the songs Don't stop til you get enough and Can you feel it. With the latter, it's to do with the tubular bells/timpani and the chord sequence. An astonishing piece of work.

I stopped giving a chimp called Bubbles about him in the 80s, when Bad came out. I remember cringing at the song I just can't stop loving you, which was just...well, weak...and Dirty Diana of course, which all the heavy metal guitaring in the world can't save from being cringeworthy. It all seemed so mannered, in a way that his earlier work didn't. By the time Bad had been released, I had given over my life to The Smiths and The Cure. Jacko didn't figure.

There were the stunts, of course. Oxygen tents. Floating a gigantic statue of himself down the Thames. Singing the Earth Song at the Brits, and having Jarvis waggle his arse at him. Dangling his kid over a balcony. Marrying Lisa-Marie Presley (and not living with her). Altering his face to look like Liz Taylor, and ending up looking like a melted version of his sister Janet. And the many allegations, of course.

That aside, and crazy weirdness aside, he was one of a kind (he was the original Michael Jackson, if you see what I mean). Hum this song and remember him before he went rubbish.

Back in the real world...cor, innit sticky? Living in our flat is a bit like being a boil-in-the-bag haddock fillet. As long as I'm outdoors, all is well. I'm thinking of constructing a bivouac down at the allotment.

You have to put the death in everything

2009-06-23T08:26:00.004Z

Summer is properly here, which is excellent. On Sunday night I took a walk down to the allotment to pick blackcurrants, and was pleasantly suprised with the haul - in an hour, I picked just over over a pound [I work mainly in Imperial]. The only problem with blackcurrants is that to make them palatable, you have to cook them with a ton of sugar. This is generally fine, but I am trying to shift some of my excess weight: so the chances for me to eat crumbles and delicious pies every other day are reducing.

I did my fruit picking while listening to the sound of either a) a remarkably good Rolling Stones cover band or b) the actual Rolling Stones, drifting across the river. I'm unsure which.

The weekend itself was a bit of a wash-out, as JJ had been ill for the majority of the week, and he was pretty feeble until Sunday morning, when he was suddenly galvanised to get well by a trip to town to see David Mancuso do his thing. Primarily, I spent my time doing jobs that I had been putting off for ages, like cleaning limescale off of bathroom tiles. The glamorous life, indeed.

It's a landmark birthday for JJ this week. He is pretty sanguine about it. This whole getting older/decaying thing is inevitable, and I think it needs to be approached with a light heart. The topic of death was never tiptoed around in our household. In fact, my parents used to row on a frequent basis about who would go first. Looking back, I suppose that this was pretty odd, and it didn't exactly prepare me in any way for my father's sudden and untimely demise. But it at least put the subject out there in the real world.

The title of this post is from Wake up Boo, of course, a song which on the face it it is a happy romp, but it has some depressing lyrics. The song begins with a jolly "Summer's gone!", after all. I tip my hat to Martin Carr.

I don't know why I went off on this tangent, but why not, eh.

Too many dicks on the dancefloor

2009-06-15T14:41:00.006Z

Welcome to post number 250! Wooooo!

Life continues on in the same kind of fashion. Most of my updates are nuptials-related, and so won't be appearing on this blog. I'm sure if you are desperate for information that you'll ask me!

We've been out and about visiting, worked on the allotment and laughed hard at the Flight of the Conchords episode with the Australian girlfriend Keitha ("What about your children? They'll be aberrations!" "That's Aboriginies"). At Ham Fair, our yearly opportunity to watch a companion dog show and buy home-made jam, we both got sunburnt. I've started watching this year's Big Brother.

So far, so early summer.

Move along please!

2009-06-10T07:44:00.006Z

Good news, everybody! I have found a venue for blogging about my wedding. It's a members-only community for mental women, I mean brides-to-be (I prefer the term "future wives", which puts me in mind of an early-to-mid-period Bowie song). So that means I won't have to bore you here. The only thing I'd like to add at this point is that the date is 2nd October. Oh yeah. We don't hang about here. Ya know it.

Back in the real world, all is relatively well. The post-holiday buzz is just beginning to wear off, which is a shame, but it had to happen sometime. My mind appears to still be riding a cable car around San Francisco, as my standard reaction to most things is "oh well, never mind, that's fine".

It's a institute you can't disparage

2009-06-05T10:30:00.002Z

Since we've been back, things have been a bit of a whirlwind. We're looking to get wed in late September/early October. Currently, I am up to my eyes in venue suggestions, proposed expenditure spreadsheets and half-formed ideas about outlandish bridal attire.

I don't feel stressed at the moment, but I probably will soon. I'm not exactly a Bridezilla type, but given some of the stuff that is already being said to us by all sorts of parties, it's possible that I may lose my rag/smash up a large Japanese city soon.

Strangely enough, for a hardened cynic, I am very pleased and excited to be getting married. I never thought I would feel like this. That either goes to show that a) I don't know myself particularly well or b) I still have the capacity to be surpised.

I will try not to let this blog become too wedding-sodden. Shout if you feel I'm chuntering on too much.

Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

2009-06-05T08:02:00.005Z

The final leg of our journey took us to New York City.

I should preface the following paragraph with this statement: I am not especially finickity, hygiene-wise. Neither am I very tidy. However, there is a difference between a bit untidy and dirty.

Upon arrival at our hotel room, I noticed quite quickly that something wasn’t right. After some inspection of the little kitchenette area of our room, I discovered some mouse droppings on the worktop. Down to reception we went. We couldn’t be moved that evening because the hotel was full, but we were promised a new room the following day. Despondent, we traipsed to the nearest cinema for something to do to get us out of our depressing environs.

On arrival, we made a split-second decision that cost us dearly. Instead of going to see Wolverine, we chose Angels and Demons. I can’t really be bothered to type much more than this about it: utter shit. Ewan MacGregor presumably took a role in it to finance another motorbike ride in some developing countries with that posh idiot mate of his. Pah! As our hotel room was so grim, we weren’t really inclined to walk out. I left the cinema feeling annoyed and disconsolate. The holiday had been going quite well up to this point, could it get any worse?

Thankfully not. Our hotel room was changed, and the rest of the week was blinding.

It was very hot while we were there - that Lovin' Spoonful thing makes total sense.

Fun stuff: we took a three hour boat-trip around Manhattan in the blazing sunshine. This was much more fun than I thought it would be, primarily because we had a very funny and knowledgeable guide. We saw yet more art. We ate a picnic in Central Park in the blazing sunshine. We wandered around Williamsburg, and soaked up the hipster vibes. We went to the Top of the Rock to see the city from 70 floors up.

Some things we did a lot of: thrift store shopping, and eating at the Chipotle Mexican Grill. On the former, we were depressed at not being able to find what we christened Thrifty Street from last time (a run of about five thrift stores somewhere on the Lower West Side). It wasn’t all bad though, as I managed to pick up a red version of the ‘Get dirty for god – go lay a brick/Teen missions’ t-shirt that JJ has in navy blue (from his time in the US 20 years ago). On the latter – I LOVE MEXICAN FOOD. It’s official. If I could eat burritos every day from now until the end of time, I would.

Our final night in the US was crowned with a drink or five with DC and his lovely girlfriend. Russian cocktail bar + mediocre food in Nolita + 1980s themed cocktail bar in Chelsea = a bit tipsy.

I was gutted to leave, but strangely elated to arrive home. We returned to a UK battered by MP expenses scandals and Britain's Got Talent. It seemed like a strange and unusual place. Which I suppose it is...

Viva Las Crazy

2009-05-29T14:23:00.003Z

I arrived in Las Vegas with a heavy heart. It had been difficult to leave San Francisco. On the flight, we knew we were with a party crowd, because they cheered when the pilot made the announcement that we were making our descent, when we touched down, and again when the seatbelt sign went off. Arriving at our hotel (which is still considered to be the largest in the world, I gather), I was confronted with a technicolour riot of unhinged excess. I don’t quite know what it was that I was expecting – after all, this is Las Vegas we’re talking about here, not Bognor.

Once I adjusted to the insane, searing heat, people drinking two- and three-feet long receptacles full of cocktails (some of which came with their own carrying strap, some of which came in unusual shapes, eg the Eiffel Tower) and the sight of people gambling at 6 in the morning, I started to grudgingly enjoy myself.

We wandered about in some of the hotels, all of which have their own theme of sorts going on. Bally’s theme appeared to be “quiet desperation”. One of their main draws is the “dealertainers” at the tables: lookalikes employed to be croupiers. Now that’s a weird career for you. The only one we really saw was a Joan Jett-a-like. I’m guessing there isn’t a vast amount of work for Joan Jett impersonators, so this left me feeling faintly sad. Harrah’s and the Imperial Palace were two more of old-school style casinos. At the latter, we went to a vintage car museum, where we met a Southern gentleman in a Stetson. He talked to us about hunting, and used the word varmint. That’s one of my favourite words in American English. Result.

We mooched about a Greenwich Village street scene in New York New York. We wandered through a facsimile fifteenth arrondisement in Paris. We went to see the dancing fountains of the Bellagio, which sounds like the lamest thing in the world, until you see it. And we wondered how it’s possible to fill three floors of a shop with M&Ms-related ephemera.

While in Vegas, we did two rather big things. We saw one of the Great Natural Wonders of the World. Then we saw the Grand Canyon.

What can be said about Tom Jones that hasn’t been said before? Nothing: aside from he is the exact same colour as chicken tikka masala. Tom sang and gyrated for 90 minutes with nary a break, as women of a certain age shimmied in the aisles. He was flirting with all of them. As we were but 15 feet from the stage, this got really embarrassing after a while. I have three favourite Tom Jones numbers, none of which he played: the theme to Thunderball, his version of Spinning Wheel and his version of Proud Mary. Typical. Despite this, he was worth seeing.

The Grand Canyon. This was amazing, and I can’t really sum it up in words, so I’ll post up a couple of the best photos I have soon.

One thing I like about Vegas is the fact that it’s a pretty democratic place to be. Everyone is on the same level. You can be the richest person in the world, or a day-tripper with fifteen bucks in your pocket, and you’ll be treated the same. It can be hard to tell who is well-heeled and who isn’t when the dress code is flip flops, beach wear and sunglasses, after all.

However, there's lots about Vegas that I didn't like. I've already gone on long enough, so here endeth the lesson.

Next: New York

Living just enough for The City

2009-05-27T17:46:00.009Z

It's time for me to try to document what I did on my holidays into three concise, not-windbaggy-at-all blog posts. Tricky, but here goes then.

[Disclaimer: there is quite a large piece of news at the end of this post, so if you find travelogues tedious, skip to the end.]

I spent my time in San Francisco bedazzled. I kept finding myself looking at beautiful, sun-drenched vistas and muttering to myself, "bloody hell, I'm in California!". It really does do that to you. In a flash, things that Europeans have in their minds when they picture the West Coast are there in reality - enormous roads/cars, surfing, palm trees, the heat haze, tanned bodies...millions of sushi restaurants...

Lots of people talk about how foggy San Francisco is. Well, we barely saw any of this famous fog. The weather was clement the entire time, warm and sunny. So up yours, Mark Twain.

Our first full day blew away those jet lag cobwebs. In the morning we did a Segway tour of SF. I really didn't feel like walking ever again once I had been on a Segway - it's just infinitely better. Especially on hills. Our genial guide Johannes gave us a great start in The City: which is the only name that native San Franciscans use (never Frisco). We then hopped on the Caltrain down to San Carlos to see the Lough-Stevens family for a barbeque. Later in the week, we went to Greens with the family, a gourmet vegetarian restaurant with a view of the Golden Gate bridge.

The following day there was a bit of wandering about to get our bearings, and then a jaunt out to Oakland to the famous Yoshi's to see Brian Auger's Oblivion Express. We had hoped to see Cornelius and Deerhoof (who are a local band!) but the gig was cancelled - at the same time we realised that Auger was playing. He is an old fella now but he's still got it.

We did what all good tourists should do and went to the Haight (via a bus ride through the Tenderloin, which was how I'd imagine a live action version of The Wire to be. As my young friend says, it's "the most hilariously-named ghetto in the world"). I'm sad to say I found the Haight depressing. It's a bit like Camden, only crapper. There were lots of real casualties sitting about looking pitiful. That's is perhaps one of the downsides of The City: there is very little support for those with mental health issues (many of which are self-medicating with drugs). So there is an edge of unpredictability. I know you get that in London, to a certain extent - but our flawed social care system is surely better than nothing at all.

One of the weirder sights we saw was at the bottom of Powell Street, where we saw a man with a dog. On the dog's back was a cat. On the cat's back was a rat. The dog was ambling along. All three animals were behaving like this was the most normal thing in the world. I nearly fell off the pavement in surprise.

Being lovers of art, as all good citizens of the world should be, we spent some time in museums looking at art: specifically, SFMOMA and the de Young Museum. I preferred the latter, with it's brutalist architecture and gorgeous setting in the Golden Gate Park.

We also did what everyone who goes to The City should do - go on a tour to Alcatraz. We went in the evening, which is generally judged to be the best time to go. It was eerie - there's no two ways about it. The audio tour, which is something I usually resist partaking in, was really evocative and very touching at points.

We decided to get a ferry to Sausalito, primarily because JJ admires the Grover Washington Jr song of the same name. Wow, what a place. It's like the SF version of Whitstable. Really posh and gorgeous. We spent a pleasant few hours, drinking Anchor Steam Beer. That evening, we took the cable car uptown to The Tonga Room, a tiki bar of some note. We drank cocktails and listened to the covers band belt out dancefloor fillers. The band play from a raft in the middle of a lagoon. Every half an hour, a "thunderstorm" breaks out, complete with rain and lightning. It's certainly a bit naff, but ferchrissakes, what better way to round off a holiday?

So, winding back a few days, following our trip to SFMOMA, we sat in Yerba Buena Gardens and JJ asked me if I would like to get married. I'm very happy to say that I said yes.

Which is probably another reason why I'll always love The City.

Next: Las Vegas

You’re about as easy as a nuclear war

2009-05-05T11:10:00.008Z

Since I last posted, the usual stuff has been occurring (work, home, etc) but all with a holiday countdown continuing in the background like the clock in the bunker in Lost, which is the one thing keeping me awake.

I went to the cinema to see the hilarious In the Loop with DL, PL and JJ. So many funny lines (two of my favourites: “Oi! Thick white duke!” and “I will hound you to an assisted suicide”). That evening, as we were waiting outside the Palace (which now has a giant shoe on the canopy to denote the arrival of Priscilla the musical, which makes me think of the IT Crowd Work Outing episode), we were approached by a gentleman in a grey suit who invited us to join a semi-secret flashmob advert for a mobile phone company in Trafalgar Square. We had to turn him down about ten times before he got the hint and moved on. It turns out that the singer Pink was at said flashmob. I think we made the right decision there.

I also spotted a young chap wearing a Scheinhardt Wig Company t-shirt. This is a smart joke from 30 Rock (in which, NBC are a subsidiary of said wig company). Given that we are going up to the Top of the Rock, I plan to make a feverish pilgrimage to the NBC gift store to snaffle some fabulous/ridiculous merchandise. Example: a mousemat featuring the Liz Lemon quote: ‘Hey nerds! Who has two thumbs, speaks limited French, and hasn’t cried once today? This moi!”

On Saturday night I was out at the Notting Hill Arts Club for Future World Funk, the night hosted by Hackney Globetrotter. He was in customary good spirits, but even more so, as he has recently announced his engagement to Boogaloo Koo. This is great news. The venue was full of young, pretty and moneyed folk. One unusual sight was three gents in their early 20s, dressed like they had stepped off a Duran Duran album cover: all three were wearing light coloured suits and ties. One even had perfectly neat, highlighted 1980s hair. It was quite a sight and it was momentarily confusing. I suppose it goes to show that things really do go in 20-year cycles…although, of course, the early 80s is now nearly 30 years ago. Shucks. It feels like yesterday.

I was saved by old times

2009-04-24T07:40:00.005Z

It would appear that this past week happened and it barely registered. I've been putting in one of my great shop-window dummy performances during the day, where on the surface I appear to be engaged, but in fact, my mind is several thousand miles away.

The US trip has really really taken hold of me. I am now two weeks away from flying out and it's the only thing that I can concentrate on: my mind is swimming with preparing, itineraries, plans. I'm aware that this probably makes me sound like some kind of sub-Hilton dunderhead, rather than a woman in her mid-thirties with half a brain.

Oh yes! I have remembered something that I did last week. I went out for DL's 40th birthday celebrations. DL himself was suffering from a really bad cold, so spent most of the time drinking hot whiskey. Yes - hot whiskey. He eventually admitted defeat and went home at about 9.30, leaving the rest of us to it (he had been in the pub since 12.30, so he did very well). It was a very pleasant evening.

Prior to that, I spent a couple of hours in Selfridges with Mrs Hall looking at expensive toiletries and clothes that we had no intention of buying. Those are usually the best kind of shopping trips: all of the fun, none of the stress.

Words are very unnecessary

2009-04-17T12:56:00.005Z

Apologies for the silence. I tried to post something earlier in the week but failed to feel happy enough with it to click the "publish post" button.

Last weekend, I returned from my time away in Devon feeling melancholy, for a number of reasons that are too boring to recount here. Despite that, it was a good visit. I saw plenty of family and even some friends this time - one of them long-lost. I know I mentioned him in the early days of this blog, but cannot be bothered to find the permalink. Sorry.

What else has happened?

I started my annual cycle of hayfever misery two weeks ago. It's still causing me a fair degree of discomfort, but the many inhalers and nasal sprays I was prescribed are helping. I threw out the antihistamines that gave me vivid dreams and am using an over-the-counter brand: no more gore-soaked nightmares for me.

I went to see Fifty Dead Men Walking. This was fine, neither brilliant nor bad.

I've been watching lots of superlative US television: Mad Men, 30 Rock and The Wire.

On the latter:

I am fully aware that it has taken me years to get to this, despite friends and family bugging me in a well-meaning sort of way, as well as the excitable cluckings of Mr Brooker (whose word is approximately 95% law, as far as I am concerned), I resisted, mainly because I couldn’t find the time. Also, if I’m honest, I didn’t want any more DVD box sets hulking about the flat. You know how it is, you settle in for a guilty 90 minutes’ worth of soaps on a Monday night and find yourself glancing at the bookshelf, where 630 hours of top-quality viewing glowers down at you, like a disappointed elderly aunt who has just caught you breaking wind at a funeral.

Anyway, I’m at the climax of season one, watching on terrestrial TV via the magic of a hard disk recorder. At present, I am doing my best to drink every detail in. I am also indebted to the subtitles, because some of the dialogue is tough to follow. Thank you, my failing hearing!

That's all for now. Coming soon: I get even more excited about going to the USA (three weeks to go).

I wear the clothes that make you cry

2009-04-03T08:00:00.005Z

Today is my last day at work for ten days. To say I'm looking forward to the break is an understatement. It also appears that my hayfever is back with a bleedin' vengeance, perhaps some time away will help this (unlikely, but I can dream).

Also - I am having my hair dyed this evening, which I always look forward to.

I'm a late convert to hair colouring. Having had dark brown hair since I was small, it was a shock when I started to go properly grey a couple of years ago (although I had been in possession of a Mallon streak since I was 18 or so, a Morticia Addams-style stripe at the back of my head.). I put off using dye, because I was concerned about the toxins it might introduce into my body. So I tried henna, which was a horrifying experience that will never be repeated. Put it this way: I will never wear something on my head that makes me gag in the name of vanity again.

Following this, all green credentials flew out of the window, and off to the salon I trotted. Sure, it is expensive, but I'd rather pay someone than have JJ as my personal Nicky Clarke, swearing and shouting like a man possessed as dye runs down my face and coats every surface in our bathroom.

I offset the expense of my hair by wearing some quite shabby clothing. This works out quite well for me. I'm not good at dressing smart, although I do scrub up relatively well when I need to. Now that the recession is here I am thinking of putting at least one smart item of clothing on eBay, so I can make money to buy more shabby clothing. Result.

Lunchbreak odditude #1

2009-04-01T12:29:00.004Z

First in a periodic series.

Lady at a bus stop with tattoo of the name 'Danny' on her left foot. [Thought this may have been a clever allusion to Daniel Day-Lewis/My Left Foot. Checked right foot to see if that was called 'Simon' or something similar. It wasn't.]

Deeply tanned/freckly lady wearing a pair of day-glo pink gladiator jelly sandals. [This made me double-take.]

Anyone would think summer was here. I am categorically not a foot fetishist.

Pop molecule

2009-03-27T10:14:00.007Z

I forgot to mention the subtle brilliance of the new Stereolab album in my last post. So, I thought I would mention it this time around. The sound of tomorrow (and yesterday), now.

It's been a while since Stereolab were one of my bands of choice, but, as the LCD song (almost) goes - I was there. I was there in 1993. I can recall first seeing them live in a tiny basement in Kingston upon Thames, at the suggestion of Mr Justin Spear (friend of the band and their tour DJ). I used to spend all of my spare money on records in the shop he worked in at the time. [He was my pusher, if you like.] At that gig, I bought Stereolab's first album, Peng!

Stereolab were a real turning point for me in my musical taste. They plugged me into krautrock, easy listening, French pop...given that I had been immersed in the outpourings of Kurt, Courtney, Thurston and Kim for some time, they felt light, enjoyable, refreshing. They were doing something a bit arty, but they didn't alienate you while doing so. They definitely weren't being cooler than thou: it felt like they wanted you to join in.

I went to more of their gigs, later. At one point, they even went Top 40. This felt amazing...a moment when something I genuinely loved crossed-over into the mainstream. Their most famous song, French Disko, includes some of the most incredibly smart lyrics ever to grace the charts*, along with a groovy, Neu!-like backing track. Clever and danceable - that's a rare combination.

When I lived on the Cally Road, I would occasionally see the Lab's second singer/keyboardist/guitarist Mary Hansen dashing about. She was tall, striking and had odd taste in clothing, so you couldn't miss her. I was always way too scared to approach her, of course. I remember hearing the news that she had been run over and killed while cycling and being absolutely gutted. She was just 36 years old.

A little while after that...well, as is sometimes the way, I got bored with them. It happens. Luckily, thanks to toocool, I have been reminded that I perhaps shouldn't have written this band off after all. Tomorrow is already here, indeed.

*********

Meanwhile, back in the now...it often seems to happen that after you have a great weekend, the week that follows is a downer. So this week has proved to be. Oh well. Here comes another weekend, so no matter.

* apart from the following couplet from The Sweetest Girl by Scritti Politti: "And politics is prior to the vagaries of science/She left because she understood the value of defiance". Which is just wonderful.

Tomorrow is already here

2009-03-23T09:49:00.010Z

This weekend was a veritable feast of friends. We had visits from two folk, toocool and TL. We saw toocool not once, but twice, which was bloody great. As someone who lives in her head quite a lot - I just edited that from "occasionally" - I sometimes need reminding that being solipsistic doesn't help. Hell isn't other people.

I got to talking about friends with both of my visitors this weekend, mainly about how it's funny who you lose and who you keep. Facebook has helped me, marginally, but hasn't been good for everyone. Some people you are meant to lose; some you might not want to lose, but you do anyway; some you have to lose. That's the way things go and it's no bad thing...

I drank some wine and some brandies, laughed a lot, felt really cheerful, did a bit of work on the allotment, and enjoyed the sun. Plus, I listened to the amazing and rare artifact Denim Take Over, which is absolutely brilliant. Its like, da da da, we're a novelty band...

Rent a flat above a shop...

2009-03-19T22:03:00.004Z

Google Streetview has launched, and today I found my old home on it.

The walls had Christmas cake-artex finish throughout, which made falling down the stairs painful (I still have the scars), and the living room was painted mental-home orange. The door still has the 62 on it that Mrs Hall made at work.

I had some happy times there.

Before I lived in the flat, it was the home of Steve Mackey from Pulp.

Every time I hear Common People, I like to think that the "flat above a shop" that is referenced is this place. Actually, when I see the video I like to sing "I wanna live like Sadie Frost/sleep with all the people at the bus stop/take loads of drugs and make bad films..." etc.

Wrong, yes. Slightly funny, perhaps.

Have you ever had it blue?

2009-03-16T10:04:00.006Z

Last week's "excitement", captured here for your pleasure.

Belbury Youth Club at Shunt Vaults
I went along to this Ghost Box-hosted event with JJ and DL, and was happy to catch up with both NB and KS too. A couple of observations:

Shunt Vaults is an astonishing venue. I don't think I've been anywhere like it since...well, since ever. It's a series of arches attached to London Bridge station. As you walk in, you're confronted with the overwhelming smell of mould, which immediately gets into the back of your throat. It is atmospherically lit (in other words, dark), and vast inside. I fell in love with it and am now looking for any excuse to get along to the place again.

As for the content of the evening itself, it was OK. We were hindered in that we got there far too early and had no dinner beforehand (which necessitated a trip back up to the surface to get supplies in. Becuase we were in a train station, food options were limited: it was pasties/crisps or nothing). As such, we were hungry and a bit bored for the early part of the evening. By the time Broadcast appeared to improvise over a short film, I was feeling a bit hysterical and commented to NB that I would kill to hear Funky Town instead.

Following Broadcast, we stuck around to hear some music, including the theme tune to Teddy Edward and a moog version of Son of my Father. Then we all made like a banana, and split.

Watchmen
I enjoyed this, on the whole. It was shonky at points, but enjoyable.

A couple of things jarred:
The embarrassing sex scene, which was more graphic than it needed to be, and for the choice of music in the background (old Len croaking Hallelujah. Incongruous).
The wigs, particularly Ozymandias's effort. I couldn't take my eyes off the line of glue around his forehead.
Ozymandias himself. One-dimensional, compared to the other turns.

Good stuff:
The performances were pretty solid, on the whole. Dr Manhattan was appropriately blank. Rorschach was well-realised.

The usual stuff that annoys me at the cinema every time annoyed me this time: the late start and the incredibly loud incidental music (which at one point made me jump out of my seat).

So what else is new? Ennui, mainly. Eight weeks to my holiday.

We must repeat (OK LET'S GO!)

2009-03-10T08:39:00.006Z

I have almost returned to the land of the living from a half-life that was a heavy cold. This started the weekend before last, but decided to emerge once more last Wednesday, turning me into a sniffling, feverish, sleepy dolt. As I've not been ill for a while, it was a bit of a shock.

It wasn't all bad. I caught up with some stuff I'd been hoarding on the DVR (30 Rock, Mad Men etc) and did some top staring out of the window.

Prior to getting ill, the swimming went well, if slightly less well than it could have done owing to a blocked nose, which made breathing underwater slightly more difficult than usual. Off to my class again tonight and I think it's going to be the same thing once more.

On Sunday we had DL and the Bell round for lunch. A shoulder of lamb, a banoffee pie, four bottles of wine and some brandies later, we set the world to rights. It's certainly cheaper and more fun than psychotherapy, even if it does give you a hangover the day after.

I am half-enjoying the Twitter phenomenon. I enjoy reading posts by the people who are being followed by the people I'm following almost better than following them, if you get me? I am already finding myself whizzing past Stephen Fry's posts. He is a national treasure but I am beginning to find him annoyingly chipper. Give me misery every time.

This week, it's culture ahoy, but I don't want to ruin a possibly gorgeous, review-heavy next post by giving too much away.

[Who the fuck do I think I am, Dickens?]

Why don't you go where fashion sits

2009-03-02T13:43:00.006Z

Following my review of the Brits, here is a dissection of the NME Awards (sponsored by Shockwaves, the people who once produced the best hairspray ever, Hard Rock. For this, I salute them).

Dear god, what a shambles.

Firstly, the live performances. I keep hearing how fabulous Glasvegas are, and it’s hard to agree with that when they can turn out such a shite cover of Suspicious Minds, complete with a self-consciously kooky posh girl wailing away in the background (Florence, of and the Machine, apparently). Another band wheeled on the dancing girls, presumably to disguise how utterly pedestrian they were (I can’t even remember their name).

The Boosh picked up an award for best TV show despite not having a series out in 2008. That goes to show the power of product placement – dropping the NME’s name into a comedy routine is a smooth move. The most casual mention of a band/product by Noel Fielding has a million edgily-haircutted teenagers reaching for their pocket money. [Which makes me wonder, can the Boosh’s popularity be linked in some way to the Kings of Leon’s inexplicable rise to fame? Ask me about them another time, reader – I had the misfortune of seeing their first ever London show. JJ’s verdict at the time: “like the Eagles”]

I was relieved that MGMT got some awards, because they are fun, at least. Also pleased that Richard Ayoade got the nod twice (he directed both the best DVD and the best video). Charlie Brooker looked awkward and dropped the c-bomb. Love your work, mister.

Aside from that, Oasis named as best band. Godlike genius award given to the Cure. Did the last 15 years not happen? I will be the first to admit that in the past I have liked/followed both of these bands, but to say that both are past their best is a very polite way to put it.

The Brits made me depressed, but the NME awards left me feeling that it surely can’t be long before the bloated corpse of British popular music is fished out of the canal. Although, with luck, the NME will be dead first. Hmmm.

Onto other matters. Last week Niece #4 came to stay with her fiancé, M. We enjoyed having them around the place and the flat felt a bit empty once they had gone. I love having guests. Please feel free to visit, one and all.

It occurred to me this morning as I was waiting for the bus into work in the sunshine that this time last year I was finishing up at the City job.

When I was a bit younger, dates of things starting and finishing always seemed very significant. After a school play/French exchange I would find myself thinking “three weeks ago I was preparing for the first performance” or “two weeks ago I was on the beach at Deauville”. For years after break-ups with boyfriends I would find myself getting a chill on the dates in question (particularly in the lean years, 1992-1996, when I had nothing better to do than feel sorry for myself, virtually unaware that there was a world outside my bedroom). On reading this back, I sound faintly autistic. That is probably a fair assessment.

These days, very few dates mean much. But perhaps I should make more of a big deal about the anniversary of leaving, because it was a major turning point. Few things in life will ever feel as depressing or bad as that job did. Simply not being in it should be worth putting a top hat and tails on and tap-dancing about every day of the week.

A little fear of drowning

2009-02-25T20:11:00.004Z

I have never been a confident or proficient swimmer. There are many things that have contributed to this state of affairs: I never had swimming lessons as a child (actually, no-one I knew did). Aged six on a beach in North Cornwall, I was dragged into the sea by an undertow, which left me terrified of drowning. I’m not what is known as “body confident”, so have always made excuses not to bear flesh. My breathing is shallow and I have bad posture (two dead giveaways that I’m asthmatic).

So I have swum (after a fashion) in the past, but I knew it was a less than graceful effort. If water splashed onto my face, I became panicky. My back and neck would ache like hell afterwards.

A couple of years ago there was an article in Time Out about a swimming technique called the Shaw Method, which was founded by an ex-professional swimmer. He retired from the sport after a serious neck injury and devised this method, using the basic principles of the Alexander Technique as a starting point. He argued that most swimmers were, at best, swimming inefficiently and at worst, causing themselves long-term injury to their necks and backs through poor technique. This way of swimming was also ideal for non-swimmers or for those with a fear of water. I classed myself in both of those categories. Recently, the idea of trying to swim properly occurred to me again, and I booked onto a ‘confidence building’ course.

Last night, I found myself in a tiny (and very warm) swimming pool in Swiss Cottage at my first Art of Swimming class. The other students’ reasons for fear of water were very similar to mine. Within an hour, I found myself gliding from one side of the pool to the other with my face entirely submerged. I've never managed to do that before.

It’s early days and I’m not going to get complacent: this is just week one of five (I’m having to miss one class owing to another commitment, much to my chagrin) – however, I came out of the class yesterday feeling really amazed at what I’d managed to achieve.

Che Guevera and Debussy to a disco beat

2009-02-19T11:19:00.003Z

Just wanted to review some stuff briefly.

Films

Little Miss Sunshine this made me plotz. Rick James!
My Architect I was concerned this would be a dry documentary: not so. Genius workaholic runs three families, builds only a handful of buildings (and a metal ship that becomes a concert stage) that are blindingly brilliant, dies alone in mysterious circumstances. Son pieces his father's life back together on film. Very touching.

TV

Mad Men good to have this back. The women in this show, while treated as chattels, are drawn in a far more three-dimensional way than most other series on TV. Gorgeous detailing in the production design. Oh, for a mid-century modern home...hang on, I already live in one.
The Brits pleased Coldplay won nothing. Switched over at Estelle and Ting Tings collaboration, all out of tempo and toe-curlingly bad. Katy Perry winning when she was up against Beyonce and Santogold, that was just wrong. Pet Shop Boys did a pretty good medley but the inclusion of Lady Gaga (mauling both the Dusty vocal, and the coda of West End Girls) was not necessary. Especially as she was stood in a stupid, mannered position and appeared to be dressed as a piece of willow pattern china. FFS!!! Although her appearance did make me feel favourably disposed towards Brandon Flowers, which is a genuine first for me.

Technology

Twitter I gave in and joined up. Still feeling my way around. Find me at www.twitter.com/misschillydisco

Life is unfair

2009-02-11T15:25:00.002Z

Over the weekend I read two books, The Suspicions of Mr Whicher and Bad Vibes: Britpop and my Part in its Downfall.

The former was about a Victorian country house murder. I picked it up because the maiden name of one of my grandmothers was Witcher, a very close derivative. It was quite an interesting read, and more of a social history than a crime story, I'd say. For instance, it described what it was like to be a policeman in Victorian London. This was (by sheer chance) of interest to me, because it turns out that an ancestor of the aforementioned grandmother had a brief career in the early Metropolitan Police.

The latter book chronicles Luke Haines's life from 1992-1997. For those of you who don't know of him, Haines is the lead singer of bands such as The Auteurs and Black Box Recorder. I must admit I have very little exposure to The Auteurs…however, BBR’s first effort and the Baader Meinhof record (Haines’s funk concept album about 1970s terrorism(!)) feature on my mp3 player, and are two albums that I don’t immediately skip past if I get them on shuffle.

The book is an absolute hoot. It reads like fiction, and for all any of us know, it is fiction (sure, bits of it could probably be corroborated, but why let facts get in the way of a good story?). Targets for his rage include Justine Frischmann ("a drag"), early tour-mates Suede (Brett Anderson's early lyrics are dismissed as "pseudo bumboy") and Blur. When described by Momus as "the Adolf Hitler of Britpop" Haines responds that he feels that Damon Albarn would be better disposed to that particular title.

It's well worth a read if you are a fan of misanthropy, or have ever fantasised about mouthing obscenities at Chris Evans.

Life is short, filled with stuff

2009-02-05T13:49:00.018Z

I have just heard news that Lux Interior, singer of The Cramps, has died.

The Cramps were Lux and his wife Poison Ivy, with various folk appearing in bit-part roles. The story went that they met when he picked her up while she was hitch-hiking, and that she was wearing odd-coloured contact lenses (a great story, but lord knows how embellished). And what a fierce couple they made too: the man was literally a colossus, towering over the mikestand, about 6'7" in spike heels, and Ivy cool as hell with flame red hair.

Their songs mainly covered drugs, sex, serial killers, sex, werewolves, sex, wigs, oral sex and surfing. A large proportion were old garage punk classics that they dusted off and claimed as their own.

Shows frequently descended into anarchy. The Cramps kicked ass in a way that bands half their age were afraid to do: Lux chugging wine from a bottle that he'd put between his teeth, smashing the bottle, then shredding his spandex trousers with it; Lux wearing one of Ivy's boots on his face; Lux singing while lying on the floor, looking up Ivy's mini-skirt.

The Cramps saved me. I was listening to goth nonsense in the late 1980s and was *this close* to losing my sense of humour for good. Luckily, I had a friend who made me a tape of the best of their output and...boom...that was it. They were trashy, dumb, weird, funny, clever and goddamn catchy. All of the things I have ever wanted from music, in essence. Hundreds of imitators have come and gone, of varying quality (The Birthday Party; The Horrors), but nothing really came close to the real thing.

I am heartbroken, but I can't imagine how terrible Ivy must be feeling, and I'd like to extend my sympathy.

The world is going to be a much less weird and sleazy place without Lux: more's the pity.

Oh and here comes the part where I break down and cry…

2009-02-03T13:50:00.003Z

The over-arching theme of the past few days has been bizarre illness (and - whisper it - SNOW). My lip has been swelling up in a Leslie Ash “trout pout” manner (it have been afflicted with this a couple of times in the past, but never within a couple of days before): I assume that I am allergic to something. It's horrible.

On Friday I came home from work feeling nauseous and faintly depressed. I’d been at a company presentation at 9am that morning where lots of buzzwords were used, such as “enrichment” – which I can only assume is this year’s replacement for that awfully confusing, Dickensian word “improving”. I spent the time looking blankly at the presentation on the screen, wondering what else I could do for a living. Still none the wiser about that…with luck, some inspiration will come my way soon. My policy of trying to ignore what’s going on between the hours of 8.30 and 4.30 works out quite well for me in general, but I wonder if I can sustain it long-term? [Rhetorical question.]

The weekend was infected with this general malaise. Nothing of note was achieved or decided, aside from some exciteable devouring/post-it noting of a Las Vegas guidebook (our trip to the US is booked and paid for, I am thankful for this).

Yesterday it was snow-a-go-go! Neither of us went to work and instead went on a walk to Richmond Park via the Ham Common woodlands, which was great. The remainder of the day was taken up with some of those tasks that have been on the to-do list for aeons, like fixing the towel rail in the bathroom and completing the scarf that I started knitting for JJ about 3 years ago. He should really look upon that as an early birthday gift.

I note that Kate Winslet has going on again about how she difficult she finds awards ceremonies. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Here’s a thought: if you find it so hard, don’t attend. I'll vomit if I have to see her turn the waterworks on once more.

Another year with nothing to do

2009-01-20T13:44:00.001Z

The weekend started well with a trip to my local boozer of old, the Rugby Tavern in Bloomsbury, for some birthday drinks. It was great to catch up with some folk I hadn’t seen in a while. Plans and schemes for more get-togethers were put in motion.

Saturday evening found us in a pub in the dark back streets of Stockwell to celebrate another birthday: this time a landmark one for Mr NB. He was hosting a 60s-themed fancy dress do. The journey to the party was harrowing: we got a black cab from Vauxhall station that was being driven by someone who clearly didn’t have the Knowledge. Upon arrival, we quickly found Messrs. JW and KS in the bar. The latter was dressed up as Charles Manson, which is quite the best fancy dress outfit/concept I think I’ve ever seen. One female guest was in full Thelma from Scooby Doo garb, another great idea. NB himself looked like a White Panther, all enormous jewfro and MC5 t-shirt.

The week started badly with news of draconian measures being brought in with other teams in our department regarding timekeeping, internet and mobile use. I suppose it may be time for me to stop posting on here during work hours. Pah.

A couple of things that I was meaning to post here last week:
I'm sad to report that our friend Ms Harrison lost her battle with cancer the Sunday before last.
The day after I received this piece of news, I was called by Sister #3 to say that she had received confirmation that she didn't have cancer, after a recent scare.

I've felt a mixture of relief and sadness, which is never a terribly comfortable sensation.

Half-full, half-empty...half-nelson

2009-01-12T19:24:00.005Z

Those of you who know me (I estimate that accounts for 99.5% of the readers of this blog) will know that I'm a pessimist by nature. I find it hard to look on the sunny side. For me, behaving in an optimistic manner requires a force of will not unlike that of Sisyphus - or for those of you not accustomed to classical allegories, like trying to enjoy Bitches Brew by Miles Davis.

[Ironically, I was an extremely optimistic manager of people, always mindlessly thinking the best of them. This lead to a huge amount of stress and misery for me in the past. Managers tend to be either a) credulous and fluffy or b) always under the impression that the staff in their employ are stupid, lazy and greedy. I'm in the former category, deffo. But I digress.]

Pessimism is the way I'm built. I was actively encouraged in this endeavour by my father, who was a great pessimist. I think he came to be that way from a veritable cavalcade of disappointment (a couple of those including being unable to go to art school owing to his family's grinding poverty, and having five female children).

Imagine my surprise, when lately I've been wheeling out jolly old me. Compared to my usual January glooming, I've been veritably Bob Fosse-ing it up, all day long. Why is this?

Put simply, I've never before sat next to someone more miserable than myself. In comparison to the colleague to my left, I'm a proper chirpy chops. So, being positive has suddenly become my life's work.

Plus, it's fun to be contrary.

Time for living

2009-01-09T16:27:00.001Z

Back again.

As ever, I won’t be making resolutions, because they always get ditched in mid-January. Instead, I have one over-arching philosophy: to get out, do more and say yes to things instead of making excuses not to do them. It’s not unreasonable to find something to do in London once a week, so that is what I’m going to aim for.

A couple of musings:

This morning, during one of those blank moments, I looked out of the window and noticed a plane taking off. That made me think wistfully about the United States again.

I was saddened to lose my work colleague Ms King yesterday. She has been a stalwart since my arrival in my current job and I’m going to miss her.

Despite the loss of Ms King, work continues to be a low priority in the grand scheme of things.

I have an iron constitution. I remain untroubled by the various bugs doing the rounds. Perhaps I’m tempting fate a bit by saying this, but so what.

Happy New Year one and all.

Your high-heeled jams and your rock n roll! Your mother is a bitch called rock n roll!

2008-12-22T14:21:00.007Z

I’m in a peaceful office. Barely anyone is speaking, there’s just the occasional clack of a keyboard. For the next two days my main aim will be to wind down in preparation for the break. I might squeeze some work in, if I feel like it.

Since I last posted, not a huge amount has happened aside from I had some early Xmas/belated birthday drinks in Trader Vic’s. It was a lovely evening, with plenty of people dropping in for some booze. My bar bill was enormous, as expected, but it was worth it. I had two different cocktails, the Scorpion (a bit tart) and a couple of Peachtree Punches (sweet and creamy). I won’t list the attendees, but hasten to add that I was pleased to see my nearest and dearest.

What’s next is a jaunt to Devon for Xmas, for family time spent mucking about with the kids, eating some great food and sleeping a lot. It may be a short while before I appear on the internet again.

In true December style, it’s list time.

2008 – in short

The main event
I left my terrible City job in March. This was the boldest, scariest thing I had done for years, yet at the same time, it was the easiest decision I’ve ever made. It proved to me that I wasn’t dead inside, which I had suspected for some prior to handing in my resignation. Also proof, if it were needed, that money does not equal happiness: I now earn considerably less and am generally happier and healthier than I have been in years.

Music
It’s been a bit of a funny year for this. I just couldn’t settle to new things this year. I have been reading the top ten lists in all the magazines, and don’t recognise any of the albums. Oh dear. However, I enjoyed the MGMT record lots, because it is ludicrously overblown*. It includes some of the most delightful and off-kilter chord sequences/modulations that any pop album has had for years and years. This is not the cool choice. But fuck cool, I like it.

Films
As above, I didn’t go to the pictures much this year. I enjoyed Juno. And Kung Fu Panda. Again, not cool.

TV
The IT Crowd. Each season improves upon the last, they are surely the Anti-Boosh. [Having said that, I loved the Mighty Boosh documentary on BBC3 this year.]
Heroes Season 3, first half. Which is a good thing, considering that Season 2 was so bad.
Flight of the Conchords. I was a very late convert to this, but it’s up there with the best. Looking forward to the next season.
The Big Bang Theory. A better than average traditional US sitcom.
Pulling. This extremely funny and near the knuckle sitcom has not been re-commissioned. For shame, BBC3!
Spooks
Summer Heights High
Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe
While we’re on the subject, I wish I could say Dead Set, but I watched forty minutes and it scared me shitless, so I had to switch it off. Sorry, Charlie.

Untimely departure
Nick “Sandy” Sanderson of Earl Brutus
“Will you talk to me for a fiver, cos I’m English, and you hate me?”

Timely departure
Bush/Cheney. See you, lads!

Gig of the year
I haven’t been to many this year: probably a cross between Dengue Fever and My Bloody Valentine. Notable: Fucked Up (twice).

Letdowns of the year
Fujiya and Miyagi live. So boring, I began to feel like wallpaper.
Yellow Magic Orchestra live. I fell asleep.

Following the herd...
Facebook. I’m managing a football team on there, which is pointless in the extreme. I’ve also gained an insight into other people’s tedious minutiae. As if my own tedious minutiae wasn’t enough!

Teenage crush of the year
Recently usurping the multi-talented, brooding Yorkshireman Julian Barratt, the fruitily-voiced Matt Berry. In contrast to these gentlemen, I have recently been finding Zachary Quinto’s buff, unibrow/vest acting in Heroes unusually stirring.

Obligatory comment about The Wire
While I’d love to devote weeks of my life to watching The Wire, essential viewing though it is, I just can’t. To be honest, I have too much other stuff to be getting on with.

Happy rest of 2008, see you in 2009. xxx

* I've always had a fondness for over-produced albums (one of my favourites? Cupid and Psyche 85 by Scritti Politti, an album that glitters like a cubic zirconia in a tin mount).

Gratuitous plug

2008-12-13T22:44:00.001Z

A rather lovely C86 tribute song from my pal Pandaman. Lovely stuff.

Hey hey, glad girls!

2008-12-12T09:23:00.005Z

If you're browsing here, you're in Dublin, and you're reading this on 12th December 2008, I just noticed this post on Graham Linehan's blog. I would imagine that this would be a fantastic way to spend tomorrow afternoon.

Guided by Voices were introduced to me by somebody I have lost touch with. They are the one thing that I would thank him for, if I could bring myself to speak to him.

Back in the 90s I had a pal who insisted that GBV were a joke played on the music industry by the journalists at Melody Maker (my mate was the lodger of a journo whose name rhymes with Speverett View for a time). That's obviously hogwash. They have the capacity to make me smile every time I hear them. In many ways, they are the perfect band.

Check them out here.

So much to answer for

2008-12-09T20:54:00.005Z

Last stop on our stop-start 2009 tour of England's North, Manchester.

As we drew into town on the train, I managed to completely miss The B of the Bang, despite JJ pointing it out to me for about five minutes ("there it is. where? there it is. where? there it is." etc). The break got off to an inauspicious start, with a stomach bug/food poisoning flooring me on the Friday night/Saturday morning. From there, it got better, luckily.

Manchester is a lot like London in many ways. For example, it is full of some gorgeous old grand buildings, and some of the worst architecture I've ever seen. Ugly mid-1980s high-rises jostle for space next to vast Victorian palaces of wealth. Like many towns of note these days, it has introduced a German Christmas market. Why the vogue for these things? It's just an excuse to eat bad meat products, as far as I can tell. There are many ways in which Manchester differs to London, of course. The people are friendlier, for starters.

One observation that I made quite quickly was, when men are good-looking in Manchester, they really are. I don't usually look twice at men when I'm at home, but on at least three occasions I was dumbfounded by some high-cheekboned, tousle-haired Manc lad. Of course, for every cutie there's ten crew-cutted monkeys in hooded tops. [Just like London, then.]

We checked out the rather good city art gallery, going straight to the ubiquitous Lowrys. Also a rather good exhibition of Holman Hunt's work (including no less than three versions of The Light of the World).

The main reason we went North was to go to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, outside Wakefield. The train journey from Manchester to Leeds across the Penines was just, well, breathtaking at points. I was pleased that we woke up early and could take this in. The landscape reminded me a lot of Devon. At Leeds station, we saw the ex-Deputy Prime Minister wandering about on the platform, no Jag in sight. On arrival in Wakefield, our cab driver, Kez, was bemoaning the fact that just as Wakefield has gotten around to agreeing to a major facelift to the town centre, that the country is staring into an economic abyss. A fair point.

The park was fantastic. The weather was crisp, clear and cold, not a cloud in the sky. Sculpture is a funny thing, it's not as immediate as paintings on a wall - it leaves you feeling quizzical. We went to check out the Isamu Noguchi stuff, which was pretty cool, but the pieces I enjoyed most were a series of Hepworth sculptures on a hillside.

Following a good trapise about, one of the best Sunday lunches ever, and the first time I've ever eaten a Yorkshire pudding while in Yorkshire. Hoorah!

On Monday we headed off to the Imperial War Museum North. Here's a piece of trivia for you. All public buildings now have to display energy certificates to show how much they use in the way of resources. This new building has a worse energy rating than the "old" war museum in South London. I have to say, it was a truly ungainly space, badly designed, sitting on the fringe of an industrial estate, with the most shocking transport links (we ended up at the Trafford Centre by accident because we thought it would be obvious when we arrived at the museum: it wasn't). The exhibits were thought-provoking, but it was essentially disappointing.

Sadly, no pilgrimage to Salford Lad's Club for me. Next time...

Waffley versatile

2008-11-24T16:22:00.009Z

Laughs, courtesy Charlie Brooker. Worth reading the comments that follow, if only for the person who admits to getting the potato waffle jingle stuck in her head. That particular tune haunts me, too.

[Did anyone catch him doing the dance routine on last week's Screenwipe? It left me unable to breathe.]

I've been experiencing this type of problem again just recently (the insomnia, not the wearing a pair of knickers as an eye mask thing).

Last night, a tiny (but deep) cut on my right index finger conspired to give me a restless night's sleep, in partnership with a repeated line of one of Joanna Newsom's rather more mannered vocals. The passage in particular sticks in my mind because she sings the word "meteorite" in exactly the same way that Dick Van Dyke might. Or moight, as the case may be. You can imagine how pleased I was to hear that looping about in my brain in the early hours. Put it this way, in comparison, I would have killed for the 'hope it's chips' jingle.

Anyway, my tiredness had a slightly unwelcome side-effect this morning when I went for a routine blood test. I had fasted for twelve hours, on instruction - so I'd had no breakfast. After an unsuccessful attempt at getting blood out of my left arm, the nurse tried the right, whereupon the top of my nose began to throb, my vision went blurry and everything sounded underwater.

Here's a short list of things that I generally go out of my way to avoid doing (in order):

Vomiting
Passing out
Failing to have breakfast

So, two out of three ticked off the list this morning. It's been about ten years since I last fainted. I was pretty embarrassed at flaking in front of nurses, for some reason...yet who better than healthcare professionals to have an episode like that with? I tried to persuade them I was fine when I clearly wasn't - luckily they aren't easily fooled (by that point I think I may have been cross-eyed, a dead giveaway if ever there was one).

Enough of that.

Rewinding a bit, I was also cheered on Friday evening by a new series of the mighty IT Crowd, in particular the bizarre vocal inflections of Matt Berry. I loved Roy's t-shirt, too.

Why the long face?

2008-11-23T18:47:00.005Z

Soundtrack: Ys by Joanna Newsom

It's cold outside, I've had some comfort food and Joanna Newsom is playing, it's properly Wintertime, if you'll pardon the pun.

A dusting of snow this morning, leaves collecting in mushy piles in the gutter, clear grey skies. I always figured that I liked this time of year because it was when I was born. Not sure if that works, exactly, but there may be something in it.

I spent today wandering Kingston with Mrs Hall. From here, the year gets properly busy. A good thing, I think.