This advertising campaign for Calendar Girls has been upsetting me. June Brown, aka Dot Cotton, covered in cherry bakewells, aged 82, is not an image that would get me rushing to buy tickets for a West End show. And much as a despise the ageism prevalent in our media, well... it's just a lot, isn't it? I think what I find particularly disturbing is the level surface that appears to be her chest, which made me first wonder if it was just her head stuck on a mannequin's body and then made me consider the possibility that she'd had a double mastectomy, which would certainly be a brave concept for an octogenarian photo shoot, but possibly not quite suitable for cheery family fun at the theatre... In my news, the spot went down but not quite enough. And the date was fun but not quite enough. This afternoon, I have goosebumps and I'm very tired. And that, I believe, is all.
Friday, 30 October 2009
Cherries and June [needs work]
This advertising campaign for Calendar Girls has been upsetting me. June Brown, aka Dot Cotton, covered in cherry bakewells, aged 82, is not an image that would get me rushing to buy tickets for a West End show. And much as a despise the ageism prevalent in our media, well... it's just a lot, isn't it? I think what I find particularly disturbing is the level surface that appears to be her chest, which made me first wonder if it was just her head stuck on a mannequin's body and then made me consider the possibility that she'd had a double mastectomy, which would certainly be a brave concept for an octogenarian photo shoot, but possibly not quite suitable for cheery family fun at the theatre... In my news, the spot went down but not quite enough. And the date was fun but not quite enough. This afternoon, I have goosebumps and I'm very tired. And that, I believe, is all.
Thursday, 29 October 2009
Once a gossip girl...?
I love my boss. He had to take the exam for UK Citizenship today, so that he can extend his visa. I don't know if you've tried to take the test but it is actually quite tricky in places. A lot of it is basic stuff that you would pick up through living here, but there are some historical dates/questions about Hansard that are harder. My boss was taking a practice test the other day, invited me in to his office to see how I did, and was gobsmacked when I got 22 out of 24 questions right. As was I. Anyway, then yesterday, this other guy asked Percy if the test was hard, and Percy said, "It is hard if you haven't revised - lots of history and strange facts."
"So I wouldn't pass if I tried?" he asked.
"No, you wouldn't pass. Jane did, but she is the exception."
Brilliant. Making me feel good while the other guy feels sick that he's been beaten by a PA. Mwah ha ha.
In other business... Somehow I doubt I will ever be naturally highbrow. I logged on to the Guardian's website this morning to check the news, and dutifully scrolled through stories about the economy and conflicts abroad. Then my eye was lassoed by an article called 'The Wisdom of Boybands'. My mouse shot over and opened the page and I devoured its contents like an emaciated hyena let loose in a butcher's. In shameful contrast to the articles about serious news, in this piece, the names were all familiar to me - Nicky from Westlife? Yep, interviewed him several times. Tony Mortimer? Lit his cigarette at the Ivor Novello awards when I was given special permission to come up to London for them while I was at boarding school. Simon Webbe from Blue? Yup. He used to know me as 'the posh bird'. Richie from Let Loose? I bought Crazy for You on CD single from Kiosks in Calne when I was 15, and we made a mix tape for Nessa when we paused the CD in the break between the first chorus and the second verse, and left the tape running, and then tried to get her to sing the beginning of the second verse really loudly and embarrass her. The only one I wasn't so familiar with was one of the Jonas Brothers, but even then, I'd recognise them in a line-up no problem.
Even worse, it's not like I now scoff at their opinions. I know there are more important things to be worrying about, but I genuinely never knew that Louis had fired Westlife twice for mucking about before they made the big time. And I really enjoyed reading what Tony Mortimer had to say about the fact that his ex-bandmates are still touring with his songs. I was following these people during my most formative years. Peter Mandleson, Alistair Campbell, IPPR, Afghanistan, immigration, nuclear disarmament, global warming and third world debt were all around in the eighties and nineties too - I just didn't give a monkey's. And now I'm wondering if it's too late. The vocabulary is still a struggle. Reading Prospect magazine takes weeks out of every month because I would rather stare into a stranger's shoulder on the tube than read a fascinating exploration of the use of neuroscience in developing political ideology. And then I notice a gossip piece about Cheryl Cole in someone else's London Lite and I get butterflies because I am so desperate to know what she's alleged to have been doing.
Should I give in? The siren calls emanating from the trashy, dangerously confidence-slashing women's media are powerful but I've fought them for several years, earnestly trying to boost my general knowledge through continued non-fiction book buying and a complete refusal to read Heat except while in hairdressers'. To relent now, to admit defeat by politics, seems like a shame. But we only live once. No one ever lay on their deathbed saying, "I wish I'd spent more time learning about the conflict in Darfur." Actually, maybe they did. But somehow, I don't think those will be my last words. More likely? My predictions are as follows:
1. "Ow."
2. "Morphine."
3. "Promise me you won't remarry."
4. "Can you pass me that bit of garlic bread?"
"So I wouldn't pass if I tried?" he asked.
"No, you wouldn't pass. Jane did, but she is the exception."
Brilliant. Making me feel good while the other guy feels sick that he's been beaten by a PA. Mwah ha ha.
In other business... Somehow I doubt I will ever be naturally highbrow. I logged on to the Guardian's website this morning to check the news, and dutifully scrolled through stories about the economy and conflicts abroad. Then my eye was lassoed by an article called 'The Wisdom of Boybands'. My mouse shot over and opened the page and I devoured its contents like an emaciated hyena let loose in a butcher's. In shameful contrast to the articles about serious news, in this piece, the names were all familiar to me - Nicky from Westlife? Yep, interviewed him several times. Tony Mortimer? Lit his cigarette at the Ivor Novello awards when I was given special permission to come up to London for them while I was at boarding school. Simon Webbe from Blue? Yup. He used to know me as 'the posh bird'. Richie from Let Loose? I bought Crazy for You on CD single from Kiosks in Calne when I was 15, and we made a mix tape for Nessa when we paused the CD in the break between the first chorus and the second verse, and left the tape running, and then tried to get her to sing the beginning of the second verse really loudly and embarrass her. The only one I wasn't so familiar with was one of the Jonas Brothers, but even then, I'd recognise them in a line-up no problem.Even worse, it's not like I now scoff at their opinions. I know there are more important things to be worrying about, but I genuinely never knew that Louis had fired Westlife twice for mucking about before they made the big time. And I really enjoyed reading what Tony Mortimer had to say about the fact that his ex-bandmates are still touring with his songs. I was following these people during my most formative years. Peter Mandleson, Alistair Campbell, IPPR, Afghanistan, immigration, nuclear disarmament, global warming and third world debt were all around in the eighties and nineties too - I just didn't give a monkey's. And now I'm wondering if it's too late. The vocabulary is still a struggle. Reading Prospect magazine takes weeks out of every month because I would rather stare into a stranger's shoulder on the tube than read a fascinating exploration of the use of neuroscience in developing political ideology. And then I notice a gossip piece about Cheryl Cole in someone else's London Lite and I get butterflies because I am so desperate to know what she's alleged to have been doing.
Should I give in? The siren calls emanating from the trashy, dangerously confidence-slashing women's media are powerful but I've fought them for several years, earnestly trying to boost my general knowledge through continued non-fiction book buying and a complete refusal to read Heat except while in hairdressers'. To relent now, to admit defeat by politics, seems like a shame. But we only live once. No one ever lay on their deathbed saying, "I wish I'd spent more time learning about the conflict in Darfur." Actually, maybe they did. But somehow, I don't think those will be my last words. More likely? My predictions are as follows:
1. "Ow."
2. "Morphine."
3. "Promise me you won't remarry."
4. "Can you pass me that bit of garlic bread?"
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
[insert headline other than 'A Spot of Bother' here]
You know that I must be going on a date with someone I either quite like or quite like the sound of, when I become liberally sprinkled with spots. The highlight of these is a corker right below my left eyebrow, which was agony yesterday morning. I tried to be grown up and leave it alone, but then gave in to temptation after yesterday's gym session and attempted to go in for the kill by squeezing it. The Failed Squeeze: surely the most irritating act in personal hygiene, serving only to make the area more red, more angry, more painful and more likely to create issues requiring a trip to A&E. Following this disappointment, I took the only course open to me - the Vigorous Squash, where I tried to dissipate the bulk of the matter with firm rubbing. This appeared to work temporarily, but I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror to find that the area around my eye had been inflated by some mean bicycle-pump-wielding fairies while I slept, so that I now have difficulty opening it fully, and any sort of unexpected eyebrow raises that happen when I inadvertently indicate enthusiasm are now followed by a dramatic wince. I now look as though I'm doing a suspicious face at all times. There are 26 hours until I meet the guy. I can only hope that things improve a fraction before then.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
I don't like writing, I just do it to avoid going to the gym
I am in some degree of shock about A.A. Gill. Not that I ever thought he was a flawless character - rather, it was his arrogance and swagger that made him so appealing. But "I wanted to know what it felt like," is an acceptable justification for smoking cannabis, or getting in to a bath filled with warm maple syrup. It is not an acceptable justification for harming another creature, let alone killing a baboon for no other reason than to experience the sensation caused by the act of killing. If he'd eaten the baboon, I wouldn't have minded nearly so much. But he didn't want to eat it, he just wanted to kill it, in all its harmless, defenceless glory. Sure, it's 'just a baboon'. It's not like he tried paedophilia. But I find his behaviour gross and I no longer want to marry him. I'm sure Nicola, his life-partner and the mother of his children, will sleep easier at night as a result.
Sorry for the slight hiatus in LLFF - I really have been quite lost looking of late. It's all been a bit much, to the extent where I had to curtail a perfectly pleasant social engagement on Saturday afternoon so that I could go home and re-don my velour. Last Thursday I went out to see Dizzee Rascal in Brixton, an event that warrants an extensive blog entry in itself. Points of note were a) EVERYone was white. That must have been weird, no? To be a black guy, pretty urban, grown up in South London, come back to your turf to play a gig, and most people who feel your music are of a completely different demographic? Or is it just that concert-going is a white thing to do? It surprised me, anyway. b) I couldn't understand a single thing he said, which made me feel weird and old. Lucy and I tried to interpret the lyrics to each other. At one point, I came up with something like 'I don't wanna be a cyborg' which sounded reasonable but wasn't, I don't think, accurate. c) Two boys flicked my ponytail repeatedly so we had to move. Well, they weren't boys, and we didn't have to move. They were men, and I chose to relocate, because it was distracting. d) I danced like I haven't danced for literally years. The perspiring began almost immediately and it was clear that staying unsweaty was absolutely out of the question, so I gave into it and danced my trainers into the tacky, beer-stained ground. My t-shirt was soaked, my hair was plastered to my head, and it was fantastic.
On Friday I met up with Lilly from choir and we sat atop an open-topped bus to film an ad for a mobile phone company. We sat on the bus, without food or 'convenience stops' for about six hours. Our role in this pantomime was to be a guy's backing vocalists, so we sang and harmonised obediently, ignoring the cameras, shaking our percussion (no euphemism intended) and smiling at strangers. After an hour or two, my hangover became quite unfunny but, meh, you know, I was there, there wasn't really time to go home before I had to leave to come out again for the evening, so I just stayed where I was, getting more and more grumpy, as the bus drove us around London and we wooped and waved at passers-by. And I tried to smile at the production crew, but they just weren't engaging at all, and initially I thought they just didn't like me, but then I realised that they saw me as one of a herd of tragic idiots who are either a) unemployed or b) have (more worryingly) taken a day off work to sit on a bus with strangers, all in the name of what will be a maximum of 1.5 seconds' screen time. And I thought "You know, you're right. I did this for the experience, to see what it was like. But I've got the idea now. I'm going." So I got off the bus, went to the UK's first Anthropologie, where it appears they have carelessly forgotten to change the price-tags from dollars into pounds, and then had my fringe trimmed.
On Friday night, I went to see Singalonga Sound of Music in Leicester Square with about twelve people from choir, and laughed so much I was nearly sick. It was an exceptionally fun night. Highlights were Rob, whose gran had made him a fantastic pair of lederhosen especially for the occasion and the fact that Harry was also in lederhosen, but not a pair he'd bought for that night - no, he had them already and, it emerged, these were actually his spare lederhosen. His favourite pair stay at his friend's house in Austria. Extraordinary.
On Saturday morning I woke up and my body spoke to me clearly and firmly. "Stop," it said. And I realised I had no energy left. So I stopped. Well, I still went to the Tate Modern to look at the big black box (verdict: good) and met a boy and we went for a drink, but it was all in the afternoon and I didn't have any alcohol and then I went home and rested.
Sunday was my choir concert so the day was filled with tension and drama, and we rehearsed and performed and it was all OK in the end, although there was very nearly a crisis when one of the hook-on straps of my corset-topped catsuit pinged off as I executed perhaps my third handclap of a very vigorous gospel number, and I wondered whether the audience were going to get a bit more than they bargained for, but fortunately things stayed mostly in their intended places and I escaped without too much humiliation. After the concert, we all went to the pub and 'let off steam', and I was just about to go home at about 11, when a wizened man came up and said in a Texas accent, "Are you Jane?" and I said, "Yes." He said Grania had sent him, he'd bumped into her by her bike outside, and she'd said I could help him. "What with?" I asked. He explained that he was writing a book called 1000 Strangers, where he asks 1000 strangers the same four questions. So quick, you can do it too and beat him to the publishers. Anyway, the four questions were:
1. If you could be anywhere, right now, where would you be?
2. Who do you most admire?
3. If you had one wish, what would you ask for?
4. What do you fear?
I was drunk and it was quickfire. I said:
1. Japan.
2. Anyone who has a goal, sets out to do it and then achieves it.
3. A secular world.
4. Early death.
Yesterday, Grania and I compared notes. Her answers were:
1. Right here.
2. Someone who strives to make a difference.
3. A magic carpet.
4. Loneliness.
OK. I think that's enough for you to be getting on with.
Sorry for the slight hiatus in LLFF - I really have been quite lost looking of late. It's all been a bit much, to the extent where I had to curtail a perfectly pleasant social engagement on Saturday afternoon so that I could go home and re-don my velour. Last Thursday I went out to see Dizzee Rascal in Brixton, an event that warrants an extensive blog entry in itself. Points of note were a) EVERYone was white. That must have been weird, no? To be a black guy, pretty urban, grown up in South London, come back to your turf to play a gig, and most people who feel your music are of a completely different demographic? Or is it just that concert-going is a white thing to do? It surprised me, anyway. b) I couldn't understand a single thing he said, which made me feel weird and old. Lucy and I tried to interpret the lyrics to each other. At one point, I came up with something like 'I don't wanna be a cyborg' which sounded reasonable but wasn't, I don't think, accurate. c) Two boys flicked my ponytail repeatedly so we had to move. Well, they weren't boys, and we didn't have to move. They were men, and I chose to relocate, because it was distracting. d) I danced like I haven't danced for literally years. The perspiring began almost immediately and it was clear that staying unsweaty was absolutely out of the question, so I gave into it and danced my trainers into the tacky, beer-stained ground. My t-shirt was soaked, my hair was plastered to my head, and it was fantastic.
On Friday I met up with Lilly from choir and we sat atop an open-topped bus to film an ad for a mobile phone company. We sat on the bus, without food or 'convenience stops' for about six hours. Our role in this pantomime was to be a guy's backing vocalists, so we sang and harmonised obediently, ignoring the cameras, shaking our percussion (no euphemism intended) and smiling at strangers. After an hour or two, my hangover became quite unfunny but, meh, you know, I was there, there wasn't really time to go home before I had to leave to come out again for the evening, so I just stayed where I was, getting more and more grumpy, as the bus drove us around London and we wooped and waved at passers-by. And I tried to smile at the production crew, but they just weren't engaging at all, and initially I thought they just didn't like me, but then I realised that they saw me as one of a herd of tragic idiots who are either a) unemployed or b) have (more worryingly) taken a day off work to sit on a bus with strangers, all in the name of what will be a maximum of 1.5 seconds' screen time. And I thought "You know, you're right. I did this for the experience, to see what it was like. But I've got the idea now. I'm going." So I got off the bus, went to the UK's first Anthropologie, where it appears they have carelessly forgotten to change the price-tags from dollars into pounds, and then had my fringe trimmed.
On Friday night, I went to see Singalonga Sound of Music in Leicester Square with about twelve people from choir, and laughed so much I was nearly sick. It was an exceptionally fun night. Highlights were Rob, whose gran had made him a fantastic pair of lederhosen especially for the occasion and the fact that Harry was also in lederhosen, but not a pair he'd bought for that night - no, he had them already and, it emerged, these were actually his spare lederhosen. His favourite pair stay at his friend's house in Austria. Extraordinary.
On Saturday morning I woke up and my body spoke to me clearly and firmly. "Stop," it said. And I realised I had no energy left. So I stopped. Well, I still went to the Tate Modern to look at the big black box (verdict: good) and met a boy and we went for a drink, but it was all in the afternoon and I didn't have any alcohol and then I went home and rested.
Sunday was my choir concert so the day was filled with tension and drama, and we rehearsed and performed and it was all OK in the end, although there was very nearly a crisis when one of the hook-on straps of my corset-topped catsuit pinged off as I executed perhaps my third handclap of a very vigorous gospel number, and I wondered whether the audience were going to get a bit more than they bargained for, but fortunately things stayed mostly in their intended places and I escaped without too much humiliation. After the concert, we all went to the pub and 'let off steam', and I was just about to go home at about 11, when a wizened man came up and said in a Texas accent, "Are you Jane?" and I said, "Yes." He said Grania had sent him, he'd bumped into her by her bike outside, and she'd said I could help him. "What with?" I asked. He explained that he was writing a book called 1000 Strangers, where he asks 1000 strangers the same four questions. So quick, you can do it too and beat him to the publishers. Anyway, the four questions were:
1. If you could be anywhere, right now, where would you be?
2. Who do you most admire?
3. If you had one wish, what would you ask for?
4. What do you fear?
I was drunk and it was quickfire. I said:
1. Japan.
2. Anyone who has a goal, sets out to do it and then achieves it.
3. A secular world.
4. Early death.
Yesterday, Grania and I compared notes. Her answers were:
1. Right here.
2. Someone who strives to make a difference.
3. A magic carpet.
4. Loneliness.
OK. I think that's enough for you to be getting on with.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Griffin v. Rascal
Tonight, the leader of the British National Party is going to appear on the BBC's Question Time. This has caused a furore. Some people think the party is illegal, and shouldn't be given a forum by the BBC. Other people think that it is not up to the BBC to decide who gets a forum on national television, and that since the BNP has two elected representatives in Europe and many thousands of supporters over the UK, they have earned the right to appear on QT. I think the BNP is gross but until they have been found guilty of a crime (and I do believe they are guilty of inciting racial hatred, among other things), I think they must be heard in the same way as any other revolting group. My love of freedom of speech is far greater than my fear of the BNP.
My friend Luke has two tickets to be in the audience at QT tonight, and asked me to join him. I was sorely tempted, but I already have tickets to go and see Dizzee Rascal play at the Brixton Academy. There is some degree of irony involved in this situation, as I used to encourage Luke to become more politically motivated, while he used to bemoan my seriousness. Now he'll be spending this evening discussing freedom of speech, while I'll be dancing like a mofo in front of a black rapper whose controversial songs include charming numbers such as 'Pussyhole' and 'Suk My Dick'. And while there's everything wrong with spending money to see a sexist, it's just a bit of hypocrisy that I'd rather not think about, because his beats are raw, aiii?
My friend Luke has two tickets to be in the audience at QT tonight, and asked me to join him. I was sorely tempted, but I already have tickets to go and see Dizzee Rascal play at the Brixton Academy. There is some degree of irony involved in this situation, as I used to encourage Luke to become more politically motivated, while he used to bemoan my seriousness. Now he'll be spending this evening discussing freedom of speech, while I'll be dancing like a mofo in front of a black rapper whose controversial songs include charming numbers such as 'Pussyhole' and 'Suk My Dick'. And while there's everything wrong with spending money to see a sexist, it's just a bit of hypocrisy that I'd rather not think about, because his beats are raw, aiii?
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Janus-faced?
If I were absolutely honest, this is what my online dating profile would say:
"I can come across confident and opinionated, which I think puts some men off; although you boys all SAY you want a girl who's passionate, funny and independent, someone who knows her own mind, you all seem to end up with someone coquettish and insecure. Anyway, the truth is, confident or not, I want to give and receive love and affection as much as the next mammal. I'm pretty happy on my own but as the nights draw in, thoughts of putting my mittened hand inside someone else's become more alluring. Plus it'd be nice to get a boyfriend so that I don't have to think about what to do on New Year's Eve.
I promise to be a good girlfriend. I'll look after you and make your life better than it was before you met me. I have excellent taste in cultural activities, film, music, food and clothes, and am skilled at pretty much every element of girlfriendom apart from playing things by ear and tolerating tardiness. If you're late, I reserve the right to go into a big strop until you apologise, when it will all be fine. I don't hold grudges. And other than that, for the most part I'm up for pretty much anything. I'm a good cook and I buy amazing presents, I'll never ever cheat on you and I will be a brilliant mother. I am quite pretty in places and know how to dress to flatter the less perfect parts of my anatomy. You'll feel pleased when you're meeting me at a nice restaurant and I walk in all glammed up with a big smile. And in a few months or years, we can go travelling for a bit around Asia, and then we can have babies. You could go out with one of the other girls on this site instead but really, they're no better than me. We're all as sexy and lovely and screwed up as each other. So if I sound roughly OK, then send me a mail. You need to be taller, cleverer and quirkier than I am, and not take life too seriously, but I don't give a monkey's about your pay packet or your CV, although my parents might."
My actual profile says this:
"Why should you get to know me?
Oh, I rock. I'm lovely. Really.
I write, I take good photographs, I love good music, I like eating out and drinking wine. In short: I have exactly the same qualities as 99% of the other girls on this site, but I'm fractionally funnier, fractionally cleverer and a lot more lovely. Plus I smell delicious, and my obsession with quality bed linen is important.
Oh, I could go on. But then where would the fun be? You know next to nothing about me, but there's only one way to find out more. And I'm worth a punt. Definitely.
My ideal match:
At the risk of sounding like I'm writing a covering letter, I am passionate, honest, and I always try to see the funny side in a crisis. Those are all qualities I'd like to find in the man who steals my heart. And if you can sing in tune, and spell, and you're fit as a butcher's dog, that'd be great. Somewhere in the Venn diagram intersection of Nick Drake, Simon Cowell and Jimmy McNulty would be mint."
Weirdly, I think the honest one is better. Maybe I'll swap them.
"I can come across confident and opinionated, which I think puts some men off; although you boys all SAY you want a girl who's passionate, funny and independent, someone who knows her own mind, you all seem to end up with someone coquettish and insecure. Anyway, the truth is, confident or not, I want to give and receive love and affection as much as the next mammal. I'm pretty happy on my own but as the nights draw in, thoughts of putting my mittened hand inside someone else's become more alluring. Plus it'd be nice to get a boyfriend so that I don't have to think about what to do on New Year's Eve.
I promise to be a good girlfriend. I'll look after you and make your life better than it was before you met me. I have excellent taste in cultural activities, film, music, food and clothes, and am skilled at pretty much every element of girlfriendom apart from playing things by ear and tolerating tardiness. If you're late, I reserve the right to go into a big strop until you apologise, when it will all be fine. I don't hold grudges. And other than that, for the most part I'm up for pretty much anything. I'm a good cook and I buy amazing presents, I'll never ever cheat on you and I will be a brilliant mother. I am quite pretty in places and know how to dress to flatter the less perfect parts of my anatomy. You'll feel pleased when you're meeting me at a nice restaurant and I walk in all glammed up with a big smile. And in a few months or years, we can go travelling for a bit around Asia, and then we can have babies. You could go out with one of the other girls on this site instead but really, they're no better than me. We're all as sexy and lovely and screwed up as each other. So if I sound roughly OK, then send me a mail. You need to be taller, cleverer and quirkier than I am, and not take life too seriously, but I don't give a monkey's about your pay packet or your CV, although my parents might."
My actual profile says this:
"Why should you get to know me?
Oh, I rock. I'm lovely. Really.
I write, I take good photographs, I love good music, I like eating out and drinking wine. In short: I have exactly the same qualities as 99% of the other girls on this site, but I'm fractionally funnier, fractionally cleverer and a lot more lovely. Plus I smell delicious, and my obsession with quality bed linen is important.
Oh, I could go on. But then where would the fun be? You know next to nothing about me, but there's only one way to find out more. And I'm worth a punt. Definitely.
My ideal match:
At the risk of sounding like I'm writing a covering letter, I am passionate, honest, and I always try to see the funny side in a crisis. Those are all qualities I'd like to find in the man who steals my heart. And if you can sing in tune, and spell, and you're fit as a butcher's dog, that'd be great. Somewhere in the Venn diagram intersection of Nick Drake, Simon Cowell and Jimmy McNulty would be mint."
Weirdly, I think the honest one is better. Maybe I'll swap them.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Jane has a brilliant idea
Well, that was an experience. It's a quiet Tuesday in the office and, having eaten at my desk, I had an hour's lunchbreak to kill. Usually I'd go to the gym or the pub, but I have a pilates class after work so the former wasn't necessary, and the latter didn't appeal as it would have involved going on my own, and my alcoholism isn't quite at those levels yet. My next thought was that I should go look around some shops - it's payday, after all - but I don't need any clothes. In fact, I am the opposite of a person who needs clothes. I should be shedding them, snake-like, as I walk along - not consuming more, so I stayed away.
What I really wanted to do, I reasoned, was fall asleep in a comfortable armchair for an hour. I considered Starbucks, but wasn't keen as a) it's Starbucks, b) I don't like coffee and other hot drinks didn't appeal following the daily mouth-burning event with my EAT soup, and c) I was once cold in a Starbucks and have since tarred them all with the hyper-active air-conditioning brush. And all the while, the obvious solution was becoming clearer and clearer, despite the attempts of my rational mind to push it away. "There's somewhere you know," my dark side was whispering. "It's nearby and toasty warm... It's free... You won't have to spend £4 on an unwanted beverage... And you can nod off to your heart's content... No one will laugh at you if you dribble. No one will mind if your head lolls forward. A private sleeping chamber, just for you..." Finally, there was no use fighting. I am logical, if nothing else, and this was the Best Option. And so here, in the centre of one of the greatest cities on earth, with money to burn and time on my side, I spent today's break... in the loo.
And it was warm, and free, and I kipped for 43 minutes. I'd set my alarm to wake me up, but in the end, even though I had been entirely undisturbed by the noise of people coming and going, it was the sound of what must have been a shire horse weeing in the next door cubicle that was my final wake-up call. I stretched my legs, endured a minute or two of powerful but energising pins and needles, straightened my clothes and walked the 20 yards back to my desk, feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and like I'd saved approx. £65, which is probably what I would have spent, had I hit the shops. Ah me. If only all of life's quandaries had such efficient and cost-effective solutions.
Next time on LLFF: in lieu of a summer holiday, Jane spends a week living in a skip near Croydon.
What I really wanted to do, I reasoned, was fall asleep in a comfortable armchair for an hour. I considered Starbucks, but wasn't keen as a) it's Starbucks, b) I don't like coffee and other hot drinks didn't appeal following the daily mouth-burning event with my EAT soup, and c) I was once cold in a Starbucks and have since tarred them all with the hyper-active air-conditioning brush. And all the while, the obvious solution was becoming clearer and clearer, despite the attempts of my rational mind to push it away. "There's somewhere you know," my dark side was whispering. "It's nearby and toasty warm... It's free... You won't have to spend £4 on an unwanted beverage... And you can nod off to your heart's content... No one will laugh at you if you dribble. No one will mind if your head lolls forward. A private sleeping chamber, just for you..." Finally, there was no use fighting. I am logical, if nothing else, and this was the Best Option. And so here, in the centre of one of the greatest cities on earth, with money to burn and time on my side, I spent today's break... in the loo.
And it was warm, and free, and I kipped for 43 minutes. I'd set my alarm to wake me up, but in the end, even though I had been entirely undisturbed by the noise of people coming and going, it was the sound of what must have been a shire horse weeing in the next door cubicle that was my final wake-up call. I stretched my legs, endured a minute or two of powerful but energising pins and needles, straightened my clothes and walked the 20 yards back to my desk, feeling refreshed, reinvigorated, and like I'd saved approx. £65, which is probably what I would have spent, had I hit the shops. Ah me. If only all of life's quandaries had such efficient and cost-effective solutions.
Next time on LLFF: in lieu of a summer holiday, Jane spends a week living in a skip near Croydon.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Poor me, I've had it too easy
I've been delaying writing this because I felt like there was so much to tell. But then, as always happens, with a bit of objectivity, it becomes clear that none of the stuff I thought was important was actually very interesting at all. Nonetheless, for the sake of completeness, I'll record that, on Thursday I went to see Pixar's Up, in 3-D at the IMAX, and it really was as wonderful as everyone else has said. I have nothing to add to the thousands of other reviews, except that I want a talking dog. I cried within about three minutes of it starting and again at the end, and laughed my highly unflattering glasses off in between. Go. See. It is good. I defy you not to giggle uncontrollably at the Rotweiller.
On Friday I was all nervous because I was filming a thing for a thing. I'd spent a fair bit of time over the past week writing the thing for the thing, and I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. I love writing LLFF, but this was a bit different, there was a strict brief, and it was fun. So I went and read out the thing in front of the camera, standing on a green background, and there was a bit of laughter, which was gratifying. Then Justin and I went to Stephen Fry's book launch, and then on to a party given by the stars of the popular Channel 4 programme, Peep Show. I was so excited about this that I could barely contain myself. And I met the stars and that was fun. But what was awful was that, in addition to my friend Justin being invited to this party (as he knows one of the stars professionally), I also, unexpectedly, bumped into two other people I knew there. This was deeply depressing. It is a cool party. I know I am only one degree of separation away from the party, but that one degree is a gulf three times the size of the known universe. One of the people I knew was a guy from Uni, who now edits the Comment section of The Guardian. And the other was my friend Ben who works with Charlie Brooker. And so Charlie Brooker was there too, and Caitlin Moran, two people whose columns in national newspapers make me laugh with irritating regularity. And there I was. A PA in a bank. I USED to be an entertainment writer. And I'm sure in future I'll be something else. But right now, I'm a PA in a City bank, and when anyone asks me what job I do, I say, "I'm not telling you."
And it's so annoying, because my job has lots of perks. The salary, for one. The fact that, without it, I wouldn't have my flat, the purchase of which is probably the single most life-changing thing I've ever done. The fact that I get to arrive at 9 and leave at 5, on the dot, every single day. The fact that I never, ever think about work after 17:01. The fact that my boss is really very funny and easy to work for. And the fact that I have lots of time to trawl the internet looking for all the fun cultural stuff that I cram into my plentiful time off. Basically, my job rocks.
Except it doesn't, because it's not intellectually challenging and I'm assisting corporate greed, and there are no possibilities for promotion. And I want to be invited to the Peep Show party, not as Justin's plus one, but on my own merits. So I have to do something extraordinary. I can't just write any old book, or any old column. It has to be way more unusual, way more authoritative, way more cutting edge than even this blog. I know. And it pains me to face up to this, but I'm about as cutting edge as a sofa. My life is mainstream. I grew up in the mainstream. I loved chart pop - and still do. I like hanging out in pubs and nice restaurants. I like linen sheets and my iPhone and The X Factor. But, as I've grown older, I've also been aware of the dangers of the mainstream. My MA taught me a lot about consumerism and the way that culture can be co-opted as a means of control. There was never any danger of me turning into a genuine Marxist, but I found it interesting, and I gained an appreciation of the counter-culture. I stopped liking pop music quite so much. I bought more vintage clothing, partly because I really like it, partly because the synthetic fabrics don't require ironing, partly because I wanted to look individual, and partly because it's a way of recycling, cutting out the sweatshops. I moved out of South West London and now I go out in Hoxton with all the other hipsters, to bars that are strip joints Mon-Fri and turn into happening fifties venues at the weekends.
So far, so normal. But my problem is, most people I seem to be dancing with in Hackney are in their early 20s. They rejected the mainstream in their teens. I look at my competition on The Guardian's dating site and there are girls on there aged 23 who have a favourite South Korean film director, and list obscure Serbian photographers as among their most powerful influences. How the hell did they get to be so quirky so young? At their age, I was still going to see Britney Spears at Wembley Arena. OK, the tickets were free, but I can't deny I was excited. Always similarly gobsmacking were the number of people who were really very politically engaged when I was doing my BA. I could barely have explained what government did; they were up in London campaigning against atrocities in the third world while I was getting annoyed not to be invited to Jamie Double-Barrelled's party at Wedgie's. And of course, by the time they're my age, their tastes, their opinions are all so much more established. These are the people who are running the media and the think tanks while I'm write about make-up and boys and wishing I was less vacuous and more worthwhile without actually knowing what I can do about it. I am trying to fly the nest, I feel like I'm just about to burst out, but my little wings just aren't quite strong enough yet. If I'm very lucky, I'll be about 40% as good as Charlie Brooker by the time I die.
So what's left for me in the meantime? My old guilty pleasure: the mainstream. I could write a popular chick lit novel, surely? Or try to get a column in a major women's mag, and write about 69 Sexual Positions You NEED To Try Tonight! I could even attempt to get this blog published. But... whimper... it's not what I want to be known for. I don't WANT to be mainstream. I want to make a DIFFERENCE. Stamps foot. And that kind of middle-of-the-road activity certainly won't get me invited to the Peep Show party. So for now, I'll carry on revising, try to get as clever as possible. Maybe one day I'll have the editorial authority, the time and the talent that means I'm able to write about clever things like the recent super-injunction in a pithy, irreverant fashion. But in the meantime, you'll have to make do with me whining on about my absurdly fortunate life and telling you what films to see. Soz.
On Friday I was all nervous because I was filming a thing for a thing. I'd spent a fair bit of time over the past week writing the thing for the thing, and I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. I love writing LLFF, but this was a bit different, there was a strict brief, and it was fun. So I went and read out the thing in front of the camera, standing on a green background, and there was a bit of laughter, which was gratifying. Then Justin and I went to Stephen Fry's book launch, and then on to a party given by the stars of the popular Channel 4 programme, Peep Show. I was so excited about this that I could barely contain myself. And I met the stars and that was fun. But what was awful was that, in addition to my friend Justin being invited to this party (as he knows one of the stars professionally), I also, unexpectedly, bumped into two other people I knew there. This was deeply depressing. It is a cool party. I know I am only one degree of separation away from the party, but that one degree is a gulf three times the size of the known universe. One of the people I knew was a guy from Uni, who now edits the Comment section of The Guardian. And the other was my friend Ben who works with Charlie Brooker. And so Charlie Brooker was there too, and Caitlin Moran, two people whose columns in national newspapers make me laugh with irritating regularity. And there I was. A PA in a bank. I USED to be an entertainment writer. And I'm sure in future I'll be something else. But right now, I'm a PA in a City bank, and when anyone asks me what job I do, I say, "I'm not telling you."
And it's so annoying, because my job has lots of perks. The salary, for one. The fact that, without it, I wouldn't have my flat, the purchase of which is probably the single most life-changing thing I've ever done. The fact that I get to arrive at 9 and leave at 5, on the dot, every single day. The fact that I never, ever think about work after 17:01. The fact that my boss is really very funny and easy to work for. And the fact that I have lots of time to trawl the internet looking for all the fun cultural stuff that I cram into my plentiful time off. Basically, my job rocks.
Except it doesn't, because it's not intellectually challenging and I'm assisting corporate greed, and there are no possibilities for promotion. And I want to be invited to the Peep Show party, not as Justin's plus one, but on my own merits. So I have to do something extraordinary. I can't just write any old book, or any old column. It has to be way more unusual, way more authoritative, way more cutting edge than even this blog. I know. And it pains me to face up to this, but I'm about as cutting edge as a sofa. My life is mainstream. I grew up in the mainstream. I loved chart pop - and still do. I like hanging out in pubs and nice restaurants. I like linen sheets and my iPhone and The X Factor. But, as I've grown older, I've also been aware of the dangers of the mainstream. My MA taught me a lot about consumerism and the way that culture can be co-opted as a means of control. There was never any danger of me turning into a genuine Marxist, but I found it interesting, and I gained an appreciation of the counter-culture. I stopped liking pop music quite so much. I bought more vintage clothing, partly because I really like it, partly because the synthetic fabrics don't require ironing, partly because I wanted to look individual, and partly because it's a way of recycling, cutting out the sweatshops. I moved out of South West London and now I go out in Hoxton with all the other hipsters, to bars that are strip joints Mon-Fri and turn into happening fifties venues at the weekends.
So far, so normal. But my problem is, most people I seem to be dancing with in Hackney are in their early 20s. They rejected the mainstream in their teens. I look at my competition on The Guardian's dating site and there are girls on there aged 23 who have a favourite South Korean film director, and list obscure Serbian photographers as among their most powerful influences. How the hell did they get to be so quirky so young? At their age, I was still going to see Britney Spears at Wembley Arena. OK, the tickets were free, but I can't deny I was excited. Always similarly gobsmacking were the number of people who were really very politically engaged when I was doing my BA. I could barely have explained what government did; they were up in London campaigning against atrocities in the third world while I was getting annoyed not to be invited to Jamie Double-Barrelled's party at Wedgie's. And of course, by the time they're my age, their tastes, their opinions are all so much more established. These are the people who are running the media and the think tanks while I'm write about make-up and boys and wishing I was less vacuous and more worthwhile without actually knowing what I can do about it. I am trying to fly the nest, I feel like I'm just about to burst out, but my little wings just aren't quite strong enough yet. If I'm very lucky, I'll be about 40% as good as Charlie Brooker by the time I die.
So what's left for me in the meantime? My old guilty pleasure: the mainstream. I could write a popular chick lit novel, surely? Or try to get a column in a major women's mag, and write about 69 Sexual Positions You NEED To Try Tonight! I could even attempt to get this blog published. But... whimper... it's not what I want to be known for. I don't WANT to be mainstream. I want to make a DIFFERENCE. Stamps foot. And that kind of middle-of-the-road activity certainly won't get me invited to the Peep Show party. So for now, I'll carry on revising, try to get as clever as possible. Maybe one day I'll have the editorial authority, the time and the talent that means I'm able to write about clever things like the recent super-injunction in a pithy, irreverant fashion. But in the meantime, you'll have to make do with me whining on about my absurdly fortunate life and telling you what films to see. Soz.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
I went to the cinema
I'm still cold and still grumpy, so it is rather fitting that last night I went to see a film called Rage. I've done the stupid thing of reading other people's reviews about it, so I doubt that anything I write here will be particularly original or insightful, but for what it's worth, I really recommend it. The premise is straightforward - a young student is using his mobile phone to video interviews with people in the fashion world. You never see or hear the interviewer - but you see the people he's interviewing in glorious block colour, the heads of Judi Dench, Lily Cole, Jude Law, Eddie Izzard, Steve Buscemi and others filling the screen as they confide (suspiciously quickly) in their young protege. So that's it: one hundred minutes of talking celebrity heads. Along the way, someone gets killed (off screen) and the plot thickens a touch.
The issues covered read like a liberal schoolkid's Things To Discuss list: immigration, hypocrisy in the fashion world, celebrity, the media, power, inequality, gender, sexuality, eating disorders, racial stereotypes, literature, crime, ageing... and while none of the topics is explored in enough detail to be in any way fresh or enlightening, there is weight in numbers, and the overall sense is of someone trying to make a deeply political film who can't decide which messy situation to confront, so ends up sticking them all in the pot. It's a bit of a shame, as any of the messages would have been argued more powerfully had they been more in the spotlight. Consequently, Rage can be cliched at times - the fashion designer, Merlin, was an absurd caricature, and in other gripes, Judi Dench's 10% US accent was 85% distracting, and even she appears to lose the will to maintain it at several points. But what irritated me most was the fact that the characters on screen were replying to questions asked by the interviewer - but you couldn't hear him. If he's meant to be taping the whole thing on a mobile phone, both voices would be clearly audible. A petty issue, but one that continued to grate throughout.
Still, there is no denying that Rage breaks visual and structural barriers. The director flew around the world to shoot each actor individually over two days, and the HD results look fantastic, even if the scenes on their own aren't ground-breaking in content. The script was excellent in places, as are the introductions to each segment, where the student appears to type out, in real time, what we're about to witness: his self-edits are pleasantly revealing. And, of course, there's Jude Law, who was annoyingly brilliant as a beautiful Russian cross-dresser called Minx. Like Dame Judi, he was distracting - but for different reasons. I tried to memorise his incredible eye make-up for my own future reference but I don't think I'll ever be as beautiful as he was. Sigh.
Anyway, this isn't Time Out, you'll make up your own minds - but if you're interested, it's on at the BFI at the mo. Get your asses down there. Or don't. Makes no odds to me what you do with your life. Wasters, the lot of you. I'm off to get some Minstrels.
The issues covered read like a liberal schoolkid's Things To Discuss list: immigration, hypocrisy in the fashion world, celebrity, the media, power, inequality, gender, sexuality, eating disorders, racial stereotypes, literature, crime, ageing... and while none of the topics is explored in enough detail to be in any way fresh or enlightening, there is weight in numbers, and the overall sense is of someone trying to make a deeply political film who can't decide which messy situation to confront, so ends up sticking them all in the pot. It's a bit of a shame, as any of the messages would have been argued more powerfully had they been more in the spotlight. Consequently, Rage can be cliched at times - the fashion designer, Merlin, was an absurd caricature, and in other gripes, Judi Dench's 10% US accent was 85% distracting, and even she appears to lose the will to maintain it at several points. But what irritated me most was the fact that the characters on screen were replying to questions asked by the interviewer - but you couldn't hear him. If he's meant to be taping the whole thing on a mobile phone, both voices would be clearly audible. A petty issue, but one that continued to grate throughout.
Still, there is no denying that Rage breaks visual and structural barriers. The director flew around the world to shoot each actor individually over two days, and the HD results look fantastic, even if the scenes on their own aren't ground-breaking in content. The script was excellent in places, as are the introductions to each segment, where the student appears to type out, in real time, what we're about to witness: his self-edits are pleasantly revealing. And, of course, there's Jude Law, who was annoyingly brilliant as a beautiful Russian cross-dresser called Minx. Like Dame Judi, he was distracting - but for different reasons. I tried to memorise his incredible eye make-up for my own future reference but I don't think I'll ever be as beautiful as he was. Sigh.
Anyway, this isn't Time Out, you'll make up your own minds - but if you're interested, it's on at the BFI at the mo. Get your asses down there. Or don't. Makes no odds to me what you do with your life. Wasters, the lot of you. I'm off to get some Minstrels.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Age: something other than a number
Singles nights are just a women's magazine article waiting to happen, so to avoid cliche I will describe it as I think a man might.
Arrived. Met some women. Most were alright looking. Some were nice. Went home.
That, essentially, was it. Grania and I had too much Dutch courage and I left without noting down who I liked, so the exercise was fairly pointless as a means of seeing anyone again, but it was very funny and made me feel vaguely alluring, which is, of course, excellent. I'd do it again.
Highlights were Grania winning Blind Hate, me persuading a boy to steal me a shot of Kaluha from behind the untended bar and then giggling compulsively when he was caught by the seriously unamused barman, and a gargantuan Russian who brought the room's average age up by about 30 years, who lived in Reading and worked for himself selling what I thought was "car insurance" and what Grania thought was "currency". It was very noisy. I knew that one of my favourite guys was a fair bit younger than me, but when I discovered he was 23 I must have looked crestfallen, as he said, "Is that below your cut-off?" and I admitted that 28 was below my cut-off. He looked shocked that I was so prescriptive, but when I explained that I wouldn't mind getting married and starting to have babies in the next 3-5 years, his eyes darted away, his jaw set into a tension lock, and after visibly gulping, he agreed that perhaps we were at different life stages. During Speed Hating, a guy told me that he hated malaria, as he'd recently caught it in Tanzania, and then proceeded to lay into the 'terrible' Tanzanian health service. When his minute was up, I then ranted about how much I hate boys who are ill, and that just because the term 'man flu' is a bit funny, it doesn't make it acceptable for every male to walk around sniffing and coughing the whole time. Ill men are boring and annoying and people should just get better in private. Those trying to bring out the Florence Nightingale in their ladyfriends should bear in mind that we may nurse you better but we won't fancy you. Make your choice. The poor boy looked a bit shocked but I told him this was all for his own good. He'll thank me for it one day.
So. Still single. Still free. Still quite young. High five.
Arrived. Met some women. Most were alright looking. Some were nice. Went home.
That, essentially, was it. Grania and I had too much Dutch courage and I left without noting down who I liked, so the exercise was fairly pointless as a means of seeing anyone again, but it was very funny and made me feel vaguely alluring, which is, of course, excellent. I'd do it again.
Highlights were Grania winning Blind Hate, me persuading a boy to steal me a shot of Kaluha from behind the untended bar and then giggling compulsively when he was caught by the seriously unamused barman, and a gargantuan Russian who brought the room's average age up by about 30 years, who lived in Reading and worked for himself selling what I thought was "car insurance" and what Grania thought was "currency". It was very noisy. I knew that one of my favourite guys was a fair bit younger than me, but when I discovered he was 23 I must have looked crestfallen, as he said, "Is that below your cut-off?" and I admitted that 28 was below my cut-off. He looked shocked that I was so prescriptive, but when I explained that I wouldn't mind getting married and starting to have babies in the next 3-5 years, his eyes darted away, his jaw set into a tension lock, and after visibly gulping, he agreed that perhaps we were at different life stages. During Speed Hating, a guy told me that he hated malaria, as he'd recently caught it in Tanzania, and then proceeded to lay into the 'terrible' Tanzanian health service. When his minute was up, I then ranted about how much I hate boys who are ill, and that just because the term 'man flu' is a bit funny, it doesn't make it acceptable for every male to walk around sniffing and coughing the whole time. Ill men are boring and annoying and people should just get better in private. Those trying to bring out the Florence Nightingale in their ladyfriends should bear in mind that we may nurse you better but we won't fancy you. Make your choice. The poor boy looked a bit shocked but I told him this was all for his own good. He'll thank me for it one day.
So. Still single. Still free. Still quite young. High five.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
No, I don't come here often, you cretin
Autumn has definitely hit London - it's cold outside, my office is arctic, my feet have frostbite and I am grumpy like a Disney dwarf on Day Three of cold turkey. I am in that mid-place between health and illness, where I am constantly convinced I can feel a sore throat coming on, yet one never quite develops, and I have an omnipresent headache looming on the horizon of my skull, not yet debilitating but enough to make me consider desperate measures such as having a nap on the floor of the loos, using my gym towel as a cover and my trainers as a pillow. What is definitely making my condition quantifiably worse is the ominous presence of tonight's activity, a singles event I am attending with Grania called Down With Dating, where there are ironic anti-date events such as Blind Hate and Speed Hating. I am feeling about as coquettish and attractive as a pre-menstrual sabre-toothed tiger so can say with confidence that the Hating part will probably be fairly easy for me. I do not, however, expect to leave the event overwhelmed by offers from possible suitors. Growl. Stupid me and my stupid gung-ho "Let's go to this, Grania, it'll be fun" stupid attitude. Growl growl growl. STAY AWAY FROM ME.
Monday, 12 October 2009
You can't stand under my umbrella
On Friday night I went out in Waterloo with Kate and we had a lovely time, but when we were nearing the station at the end of the night, I remembered that I had left my new umbrella under the table in the restaurant, and I couldn't quite be bothered to run back and get it, and I looked at Kate and I could tell that she didn't want me to go back and get it, and I totally caved in to my own laziness and unspoken peer pressure and didn't go back. And I look back now and I am ashamed at myself. It was a really nice umbrella - not interesting in pattern, but good quality and pleasingly slim. It had cost £9.95 and I'd used it thrice. I have other umbrellas, but such waste is unacceptable. I deserve to be poor and get wet.
On Saturday I met up with my parents and we went for a walk and tried not to discuss politics at lunch, and then I went on a date with a guy who I won't be seeing again. I know you'll want details, gannets that you are, but there's really not much to say. He was wearing a velvet jacket and a good retro shirt, and jeans and dirty Converse, and my mother would have sent him home but I thought he looked great. He was very funny (and presumably still is) but I don't want to marry him and I'd be gobsmacked if the feeling isn't mutual, if not even more vehement on his side. On Sunday, Emily came over and we watched a lot of TV, and then she left and I watched more. The X Factor was splendid, marred only by Simon Cowell's assertion that "there's nothing wrong with pole dancing." Then I went to bed and today I feel like death.
So there you have it. I may or may not be funnier tomorrow. You'll have to check back and see.
On Saturday I met up with my parents and we went for a walk and tried not to discuss politics at lunch, and then I went on a date with a guy who I won't be seeing again. I know you'll want details, gannets that you are, but there's really not much to say. He was wearing a velvet jacket and a good retro shirt, and jeans and dirty Converse, and my mother would have sent him home but I thought he looked great. He was very funny (and presumably still is) but I don't want to marry him and I'd be gobsmacked if the feeling isn't mutual, if not even more vehement on his side. On Sunday, Emily came over and we watched a lot of TV, and then she left and I watched more. The X Factor was splendid, marred only by Simon Cowell's assertion that "there's nothing wrong with pole dancing." Then I went to bed and today I feel like death.
So there you have it. I may or may not be funnier tomorrow. You'll have to check back and see.
Friday, 9 October 2009
Thinking man's malt loaf
As you can't fail to have noticed if you've been concentrating, I have a Master's degree in English Literature. I talk about this all the time, because I generally assume that people think that I'm stupid because I'm a girl and I can't back up any of my opinions with statistics because I have numeracynesia and can't remember anything except song lyrics. My MA was a brilliant thing to do, I loved it and I briefly learned lots. But after it finished, I still felt, well, not paranoid, but like I'd only just scratched the surface of General Knowledge. And, three years after I graduated, I still have the sense that I'm pedaling frantically to catch up - my geography still sucks, my concept of world history is vastly improved but still shameful, my British history is patchy at best, my economics is woeful although less so having worked in a bank for 2.5 years, my understanding of politics is as easily penetrated as a 17 year old slapper on pills, and my literary insight is best summed up by the fact that I recently re-read a book without realising.
But last night, in a swing of Copernican proportions, the power balance shifted into my favour when I went to a three-hour-long Brecht play, armed with no prior experience of Brecht whatsoever bar a cursory glance at his Wikipedia page in the afternoon, yet I understood the plot, found it enjoyable and thought-provoking and I didn't fall asleep. OK, sure, it was well-directed and well-acted, and the questionably modern translation was suspiciously easy on the ear, but doesn't that mean I am slightly brainy? I think I must be. At one point in the interval I was cross-referencing it with Beckett. Ness and I even managed to critique some elements of it, deciding that the music, far from giving us a jolt or jarring with the rest of the play, fitted in so nicely that it didn't really serve its purpose. Get us! We were criticising the music because we liked it, because it didn't make us uncomfortable enough. Looking back on it now, it's a bit like when you re-read one of your university essays and have a kind of out-of-body experience, because you can't remember ever learning about that topic, let alone being able to write so coherently and convincingly on it. Anyway, for what it's worth, Mother Courage and Her Children was a great watch - not perfect, but fascinating all the same, and I'd recommend it, if only to prove that there's more to Fiona Shaw than just playing the woman with caviar on her face from Three Men and A Little Lady. Ah, popular culture, I cannot resist thee. I feel comfortable around you. We belong. I nuzzle up to you and we spoon. Brecht sits outside in the wingbacked chair, doing sudoku.
But last night, in a swing of Copernican proportions, the power balance shifted into my favour when I went to a three-hour-long Brecht play, armed with no prior experience of Brecht whatsoever bar a cursory glance at his Wikipedia page in the afternoon, yet I understood the plot, found it enjoyable and thought-provoking and I didn't fall asleep. OK, sure, it was well-directed and well-acted, and the questionably modern translation was suspiciously easy on the ear, but doesn't that mean I am slightly brainy? I think I must be. At one point in the interval I was cross-referencing it with Beckett. Ness and I even managed to critique some elements of it, deciding that the music, far from giving us a jolt or jarring with the rest of the play, fitted in so nicely that it didn't really serve its purpose. Get us! We were criticising the music because we liked it, because it didn't make us uncomfortable enough. Looking back on it now, it's a bit like when you re-read one of your university essays and have a kind of out-of-body experience, because you can't remember ever learning about that topic, let alone being able to write so coherently and convincingly on it. Anyway, for what it's worth, Mother Courage and Her Children was a great watch - not perfect, but fascinating all the same, and I'd recommend it, if only to prove that there's more to Fiona Shaw than just playing the woman with caviar on her face from Three Men and A Little Lady. Ah, popular culture, I cannot resist thee. I feel comfortable around you. We belong. I nuzzle up to you and we spoon. Brecht sits outside in the wingbacked chair, doing sudoku.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Bliss? I think not.
Yes, yes, I know. I should just drop it. If I was mature, I'd let it go. But I'm a 32 year old only child, and further to my mother calling me ignorant, my father has now - without directly jumping on the 'my daughter is a moron' bandwagon - kindly pointed out that it is "possible to be both intelligent and ignorant".
Now. Back up there, Sparky. I'm pretty sure I'm right here, but I'll just check on the off-chance... no, I'm right. Ignorance, as defined on The Internet, is "the state or fact of being ignorant; lack of knowledge, learning, information, etc." I think it's fair to say that the Venn diagrams of ignorance and intelligence don't seem to have much intersection. I suspect my father would say, therefore, that it is possible for one to be intelligent in one field , e.g. about pop music of the late Eighties and early Nineties, while being ignorant in another, e.g. the Conservative party or the value of living in Putney. And maybe he's right. But I think it's fair to say that I've done enough research on both Putney and the Tories to know that I'm not going to change my mind about them in a hurry. And I know that the opinions I hold on both subjects are not unusual.
So - my mother thinks I'm wrong about Cameron, and wrong about Clapham. And I think I'm right. And we both think we are intelligent beings, and that the other one is fundamentally wrong. And we can't both be right - the Conservative party is either going to make Britain great again, or it's not; and Clapham is either populated by blinkered idiots or rammed full of Lovely Young Men I Should Be Marrying. So if we can't both be right, at least one of us must be wrong. But of course, ultimately there is no such thing as objective truth: our own truths are created by the unique circumstances of our surroundings. Anyone, therefore, who tries to impose their own truth on another is fighting a losing battle. My mother is right to like Clapham, and I am right to dislike it. Our decisions are the best decisions for us.
Still, it's hard to be called ignorant, especially by a parent, especially as an only child. Even if that child is in her thirties. I've put a lot of work into the conclusions I've drawn, from my atheism to the dress cut that best flatters my figure, to which boy to kiss, which party to vote for, which bus to take, and which borough of London to live in. I've made my choices for logical reasons. They suit me. My parents have made their choices too, and I may think they're wrong, but - crucially - I don't think they're ignorant. Believe it or not, I am of the live-and-let-live persuasion. My parents have drawn the same conclusions as most of the parents I know. They've made up their minds and they're sticking to them. And that's good - parents should be stuck in their ways. Contrary to what I wanted when I was 14, trendy parents who wear skinny jeans and smoke are actually not that desirable. Give me my mum's tapered trousers and my dad's 'I wear a tie while mowing the lawn' austerity any day. I love them as they are - but if they even hint that I'm ignorant again, I'll do a Macaulay Culkin and divorce them, and the only thing they'll know about me is what they read on this blog. See how they like them apples.
Right. I'm off to the theatre to watch 190 minutes of Brecht. Pray for me.
Now. Back up there, Sparky. I'm pretty sure I'm right here, but I'll just check on the off-chance... no, I'm right. Ignorance, as defined on The Internet, is "the state or fact of being ignorant; lack of knowledge, learning, information, etc." I think it's fair to say that the Venn diagrams of ignorance and intelligence don't seem to have much intersection. I suspect my father would say, therefore, that it is possible for one to be intelligent in one field , e.g. about pop music of the late Eighties and early Nineties, while being ignorant in another, e.g. the Conservative party or the value of living in Putney. And maybe he's right. But I think it's fair to say that I've done enough research on both Putney and the Tories to know that I'm not going to change my mind about them in a hurry. And I know that the opinions I hold on both subjects are not unusual.
So - my mother thinks I'm wrong about Cameron, and wrong about Clapham. And I think I'm right. And we both think we are intelligent beings, and that the other one is fundamentally wrong. And we can't both be right - the Conservative party is either going to make Britain great again, or it's not; and Clapham is either populated by blinkered idiots or rammed full of Lovely Young Men I Should Be Marrying. So if we can't both be right, at least one of us must be wrong. But of course, ultimately there is no such thing as objective truth: our own truths are created by the unique circumstances of our surroundings. Anyone, therefore, who tries to impose their own truth on another is fighting a losing battle. My mother is right to like Clapham, and I am right to dislike it. Our decisions are the best decisions for us.
Still, it's hard to be called ignorant, especially by a parent, especially as an only child. Even if that child is in her thirties. I've put a lot of work into the conclusions I've drawn, from my atheism to the dress cut that best flatters my figure, to which boy to kiss, which party to vote for, which bus to take, and which borough of London to live in. I've made my choices for logical reasons. They suit me. My parents have made their choices too, and I may think they're wrong, but - crucially - I don't think they're ignorant. Believe it or not, I am of the live-and-let-live persuasion. My parents have drawn the same conclusions as most of the parents I know. They've made up their minds and they're sticking to them. And that's good - parents should be stuck in their ways. Contrary to what I wanted when I was 14, trendy parents who wear skinny jeans and smoke are actually not that desirable. Give me my mum's tapered trousers and my dad's 'I wear a tie while mowing the lawn' austerity any day. I love them as they are - but if they even hint that I'm ignorant again, I'll do a Macaulay Culkin and divorce them, and the only thing they'll know about me is what they read on this blog. See how they like them apples.
Right. I'm off to the theatre to watch 190 minutes of Brecht. Pray for me.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
DetennnnnSHUN
I despair. I really, really do. As if the Shadow Chancellor's announcement that the Conservative government will save a whopping £7 billion over the course of their first term, while capping public servants earning more than £18k (less than the average UK wage), when Britain's debt currently stands at approx. £800 billion and we're paying more in interest than on education and policing combined, wasn't laughable enough, now they're offering every school the 'chance' to go private and they're going to bring in soldiers to police the classrooms. Oh, and they're going to demand ties. Apparently ties will change everything. I struggle not to spit out my lunch. They wore ties on Grange Hill, for god's sake, and I don't remember that school being a hive of discipline.
I suppose there's a part of me that should be relieved: maybe this wave of non-policies will mean that the Tories aren't such a shoe-in next May as they'd boasted. But the anger towards Brown is unrelenting (understandably). And the vast minority would be prepared to gamble their nation with a party as unprepared for government as the LibDems. As usual - but more fervently than ever - I don't think any of them deserve to make decisions on my behalf. I hate ID cards. I hate big business. I hate privatisation. I hate the death penalty. I hate big government. I hate red tape. I hate war. I love the NHS. I love euthanasia. I love state education. I love variety. I love freedom of speech. I love equality. I believe in the carrot, not the stick. I believe the children are our future. I believe when I fall in love with yooooooooooou it will be forever. Meh, whatever. The whole system's gone to pot. There's no point getting my knickers in a twist about it. [Untangles underwear and thinks about haircuts instead].
I suppose there's a part of me that should be relieved: maybe this wave of non-policies will mean that the Tories aren't such a shoe-in next May as they'd boasted. But the anger towards Brown is unrelenting (understandably). And the vast minority would be prepared to gamble their nation with a party as unprepared for government as the LibDems. As usual - but more fervently than ever - I don't think any of them deserve to make decisions on my behalf. I hate ID cards. I hate big business. I hate privatisation. I hate the death penalty. I hate big government. I hate red tape. I hate war. I love the NHS. I love euthanasia. I love state education. I love variety. I love freedom of speech. I love equality. I believe in the carrot, not the stick. I believe the children are our future. I believe when I fall in love with yooooooooooou it will be forever. Meh, whatever. The whole system's gone to pot. There's no point getting my knickers in a twist about it. [Untangles underwear and thinks about haircuts instead].
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Msery
Apologies for delay. Something's rotten in the state of Janemark. Am working on it though.
Meanwhile...
I am a feminist. I believe that women and men are equal (but different) and should be treated as such. Taken to its logical conclusions, such beliefs can upset people. They can even upset me, from time to time. For example, I really don't approve of engagement rings. Why should I be tagged as 'taken' when the boy is still gallivanting around, ring-free? But then, if I stick to my guns on this one, I don't get a pretty piece of jewellery. Which would be sad. Then again, being anti-engagement-rings on principle might not be the only reason I don't get one. Hmmm.
Changing my name, and thus my identity, after marriage is another one. I actually like my surname. Plus I am the last in a bloodline, an only girl, and that feels a bit sad. Then again, I do like the idea of sharing a name with my husband. I just don't see why it should be his. My only solution is that both people, upon entering into a marriage, choose a new surname. I'd go for Awesome. Jane Awesome. Has a certain humble charm to it, I think.
Anyway, in a similar vein, I freaking HATE the Miss/Mrs/Ms situation and it's been getting more and more irritating as my life's gone on. Why on earth should someone who doesn't know me be able to tell whether I'm married or not from my NAME?! It is so outrageous that I can't believe it still happens. My own name, every letter I receive, indicates that I'm unmarried. Every time I'm cold-called, every time I have to tell people my title, they find out my current relationship status. No wonder we all feel like branded failures if we're single.
Of course, for those who want to opt out, there is Ms. And Ms is the least good alternative to anything ever. Worse than margerine for butter. Worse than Diet Coke for Coke. Worse than fruit for a Chicken Royale. For a start, no one knows how to say it. Whenever I try and pronounce it, I end up feeling like I've lost the ability to make vowel sounds. And the person on the end of the phone always double checks, as if I've just said that my name is Vagina, so I have to go through the humiliation a second time. Secondly, for all that it was created as a relationship-status-neutral term, it is not remotely devoid of associations. If you call yourself Ms, you're basically saying 'I'm in my mid-thirties, unmarried, and livid about it.' Of course, there may be some married women, or happily single women, who still choose to use Ms. But I bet they are few and far between. Grumble grumble grumble. No alternative. Only thing for me to do is rant about it here. Grumble grumble grumble. God I wish it would stop raining.
Meanwhile...
I am a feminist. I believe that women and men are equal (but different) and should be treated as such. Taken to its logical conclusions, such beliefs can upset people. They can even upset me, from time to time. For example, I really don't approve of engagement rings. Why should I be tagged as 'taken' when the boy is still gallivanting around, ring-free? But then, if I stick to my guns on this one, I don't get a pretty piece of jewellery. Which would be sad. Then again, being anti-engagement-rings on principle might not be the only reason I don't get one. Hmmm.
Changing my name, and thus my identity, after marriage is another one. I actually like my surname. Plus I am the last in a bloodline, an only girl, and that feels a bit sad. Then again, I do like the idea of sharing a name with my husband. I just don't see why it should be his. My only solution is that both people, upon entering into a marriage, choose a new surname. I'd go for Awesome. Jane Awesome. Has a certain humble charm to it, I think.
Anyway, in a similar vein, I freaking HATE the Miss/Mrs/Ms situation and it's been getting more and more irritating as my life's gone on. Why on earth should someone who doesn't know me be able to tell whether I'm married or not from my NAME?! It is so outrageous that I can't believe it still happens. My own name, every letter I receive, indicates that I'm unmarried. Every time I'm cold-called, every time I have to tell people my title, they find out my current relationship status. No wonder we all feel like branded failures if we're single.
Of course, for those who want to opt out, there is Ms. And Ms is the least good alternative to anything ever. Worse than margerine for butter. Worse than Diet Coke for Coke. Worse than fruit for a Chicken Royale. For a start, no one knows how to say it. Whenever I try and pronounce it, I end up feeling like I've lost the ability to make vowel sounds. And the person on the end of the phone always double checks, as if I've just said that my name is Vagina, so I have to go through the humiliation a second time. Secondly, for all that it was created as a relationship-status-neutral term, it is not remotely devoid of associations. If you call yourself Ms, you're basically saying 'I'm in my mid-thirties, unmarried, and livid about it.' Of course, there may be some married women, or happily single women, who still choose to use Ms. But I bet they are few and far between. Grumble grumble grumble. No alternative. Only thing for me to do is rant about it here. Grumble grumble grumble. God I wish it would stop raining.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Vindication
OK, so the Claphamite turned up last night wearing... wait for it... I don't think there's a drumroll long enough... Hush Puppy loafers, khaki chinos, a white shirt, a navy blue, round neck, very-chunky-knit Ralph Lauren jumper with a red polo player, and NOVELTY CUFFLINKS. In Clapham.
You couldn't make it up. Except you obviously could because it is so unutterably predictable.
Since I wrote the blog entry about Clapham and Putney, my mother has called me 'ignorant' and 'immature' and said that it is wrong to judge people based on where they live, and that I will grow out of these opinions. The conversation ended with me being unable to speak due to the conflict between my immediate desire to launch a counter-attack so brutal that it would all end in tears and my certainty that that wouldn't be a Very Nice Thing to do to the woman who made me into the charming young lady you imagine before you today.
Suffice to say, I think she is wrong. Just to add fat to the flames, now I'm judging people on where they live AND what they wear. And for absolute clarity, I'd like the record to show that I WILL NEVER GROW OUT OF THESE OPINIONS. It is wrong to judge people on where they live or what they wear, which is why I went on the freaking date in the first place, and why I didn't run away as soon as he walked up to me. But, on this occasion, I could not have been more right. He was precisely what I expected. And we're not going to get married.
People love Clapham and Putney because they're safe and predictable. There are lots of other people there who think Just Like Them. They wear their Ralph Lauren to be part of a club, a club whose motto is 'I am safe, predictable, casjual, I like yachts and I'm pretty wealthy'. One day, I too may want to live somewhere safe and predictable. I don't have a problem with that. That's actually bollocks: I dread that day with every nucleus in my body. But the fact remains that it might happen in future. The key words there are the final two. My real beef is with anyone who chooses to buy property somewhere safe and predictable when they are in their mid-20s. And it is my right to have serious beef with that. It's not ignorant or immature to have beef with someone who shuts down from all life has to offer when they are still childless and free from almost every possible responsibility. As beef goes, that is some deeply patronising beef, sure. But it's NOT ignorant beef. Argh. I'm angry. I was very ANgry with my mother. [Deliberate misquote from a film, mum, don't worry your pretty lil' head further].
And breathe.
You couldn't make it up. Except you obviously could because it is so unutterably predictable.
Since I wrote the blog entry about Clapham and Putney, my mother has called me 'ignorant' and 'immature' and said that it is wrong to judge people based on where they live, and that I will grow out of these opinions. The conversation ended with me being unable to speak due to the conflict between my immediate desire to launch a counter-attack so brutal that it would all end in tears and my certainty that that wouldn't be a Very Nice Thing to do to the woman who made me into the charming young lady you imagine before you today.
Suffice to say, I think she is wrong. Just to add fat to the flames, now I'm judging people on where they live AND what they wear. And for absolute clarity, I'd like the record to show that I WILL NEVER GROW OUT OF THESE OPINIONS. It is wrong to judge people on where they live or what they wear, which is why I went on the freaking date in the first place, and why I didn't run away as soon as he walked up to me. But, on this occasion, I could not have been more right. He was precisely what I expected. And we're not going to get married.
People love Clapham and Putney because they're safe and predictable. There are lots of other people there who think Just Like Them. They wear their Ralph Lauren to be part of a club, a club whose motto is 'I am safe, predictable, casjual, I like yachts and I'm pretty wealthy'. One day, I too may want to live somewhere safe and predictable. I don't have a problem with that. That's actually bollocks: I dread that day with every nucleus in my body. But the fact remains that it might happen in future. The key words there are the final two. My real beef is with anyone who chooses to buy property somewhere safe and predictable when they are in their mid-20s. And it is my right to have serious beef with that. It's not ignorant or immature to have beef with someone who shuts down from all life has to offer when they are still childless and free from almost every possible responsibility. As beef goes, that is some deeply patronising beef, sure. But it's NOT ignorant beef. Argh. I'm angry. I was very ANgry with my mother. [Deliberate misquote from a film, mum, don't worry your pretty lil' head further].
And breathe.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
The Mask
On the tube last night, I was standing in the corridor between the two rows of seats, and a bit grumpy not to have a chair of my own, when one of my favourite things happened: a woman began to apply her make-up. This is like my favourite kind of reality TV, happening live, in glorious technicolour, right in front of me. Of course, women putting their make-up on in public is not cool. I don't like it in principle. But sometimes time restrictions mean it has to be done, and as a spectator sport it shits all over rugby. I would rather watch a woman putting on her make-up on the tube than have an obscenely good looking boy to stare at in her place.
So I adopted my 'I'm not staring at you' face, which involves angling my book carefully, and looked more closely. This woman was really pretty, and had excellent skin, but was wearing too much foundation. Her eye make-up was impressively applied, even and natural. Then she got out her Touche-Eclat, drew two pale lines underneath her eyes and started to rub it in. At this point, I looked up for an instant, and noticed a guy further down the corridor. He was staring at Make-up Woman, agog. He was in his late twenties, very sweet, with spiky blond hair. I don't think he could have been more transfixed if he'd been watching a turquoise cat knitting a beret while singing Oklahoma! in a beautiful tenor.
And I realised, once again, just how odd it all must seem to the uninitiated. So for the benefit of my male readers, here is a quick insight into the contents of my make-up regime. Item 1, foundation. Flesh coloured product that attempts to even up the skin tones. Without this, I would look marbled, streaky, creased and possibly diseased. Item 2, Touche-Eclat. Having used this for several years, I am still not convinced this actually does anything, but it is a supposed miracle product that allegedly contains light-reflecting particles that reduce the appearance of dark circles. Since my mental state generally leaves me fairly sleep deprived, I normally have bags that could double as handy pouches for stolen cars, so I assume it's better safe than sorry. Item 3, blusher. This is the one pretty much everyone gets - a flush of red on the cheeks clearly adds to a healthy glow. But it's not all simple: too much and you look like Aunt Sally from Worzel Gummidge, too little and you look anaemic. The danger is palpable. Item 4, eyeliner. Again, fairly obvious - dark lines around the lashes make the whites of the eyes look brighter and the eye appear more defined and thus more striking. Risky to apply on the tube but, in my case, crucial; the second most vital item in my arsenal, after foundation. Item 5, mascara - to make lashes long and lustrous, opening up the eye and adding contrast. In my opinion, pretty useless without eyeliner, but that's just me. Item 6, lipstick. This can basically go one of two ways - red, to draw attention to the mouth, or pale, to make the mouth blend in more with the rest of the face, thus making the eyes the main feature. I tend to go for the latter as I think I look a bit whorey with dark lips, but it certainly suits a lot of girls. Each to their own.
So. Those are my six basics. Not many items, and a fairly standard routine for me - but infinite combinations for each woman. Watching how someone else uses their tools - whether they've gone for a powder or a liquid foundation, matte or normal finish, and whether they apply it with a brush or their fingers, patting it or smoothing it - it's all endlessly fascinating. And just when you think it can't get any more interesting, they get out their mascara and start to apply, adopting their version of the eye-bulging, lip-stretching gurn that is so pointless given that one's eyes do not open more than one millimetre further when our mouths are gaping (I've checked). The gurn is too good to be true and my personal highlight of the whole procedure. Yesterday's was particularly gruesome - the heretofore attractive woman turning into a taut gargoyle that shocked her blond admirer, who looked relieved when she finally packed away her equipment. I remember a similar look of astonishment on an ex-boyfriend's face when he watched me transform myself a while ago. I wonder if, for boys, they'd rather not understand - too much of an insight, like learning about tampons and vaginal tears. Ah well. Too late. And even if you'd rather not have read the above, fear not - that is only scratching the surface. We haven't discussed primer, eyeshadow, bronzer, Lipcote, lip liner, lip gloss, that green stuff some people put on to counteract rosacea, eye make-up base, liquid vs. kohl eye liner and hundreds of other intricate processes that can affect us ladies, should we choose to accept it. But no matter what your level of comprehension, here is one fact you can have for free, just for paying attention: if you ever hear a girl saying she hasn't ever worn foundation, be aware that every other girl in the room wants to stab her.
So I adopted my 'I'm not staring at you' face, which involves angling my book carefully, and looked more closely. This woman was really pretty, and had excellent skin, but was wearing too much foundation. Her eye make-up was impressively applied, even and natural. Then she got out her Touche-Eclat, drew two pale lines underneath her eyes and started to rub it in. At this point, I looked up for an instant, and noticed a guy further down the corridor. He was staring at Make-up Woman, agog. He was in his late twenties, very sweet, with spiky blond hair. I don't think he could have been more transfixed if he'd been watching a turquoise cat knitting a beret while singing Oklahoma! in a beautiful tenor.
And I realised, once again, just how odd it all must seem to the uninitiated. So for the benefit of my male readers, here is a quick insight into the contents of my make-up regime. Item 1, foundation. Flesh coloured product that attempts to even up the skin tones. Without this, I would look marbled, streaky, creased and possibly diseased. Item 2, Touche-Eclat. Having used this for several years, I am still not convinced this actually does anything, but it is a supposed miracle product that allegedly contains light-reflecting particles that reduce the appearance of dark circles. Since my mental state generally leaves me fairly sleep deprived, I normally have bags that could double as handy pouches for stolen cars, so I assume it's better safe than sorry. Item 3, blusher. This is the one pretty much everyone gets - a flush of red on the cheeks clearly adds to a healthy glow. But it's not all simple: too much and you look like Aunt Sally from Worzel Gummidge, too little and you look anaemic. The danger is palpable. Item 4, eyeliner. Again, fairly obvious - dark lines around the lashes make the whites of the eyes look brighter and the eye appear more defined and thus more striking. Risky to apply on the tube but, in my case, crucial; the second most vital item in my arsenal, after foundation. Item 5, mascara - to make lashes long and lustrous, opening up the eye and adding contrast. In my opinion, pretty useless without eyeliner, but that's just me. Item 6, lipstick. This can basically go one of two ways - red, to draw attention to the mouth, or pale, to make the mouth blend in more with the rest of the face, thus making the eyes the main feature. I tend to go for the latter as I think I look a bit whorey with dark lips, but it certainly suits a lot of girls. Each to their own.
So. Those are my six basics. Not many items, and a fairly standard routine for me - but infinite combinations for each woman. Watching how someone else uses their tools - whether they've gone for a powder or a liquid foundation, matte or normal finish, and whether they apply it with a brush or their fingers, patting it or smoothing it - it's all endlessly fascinating. And just when you think it can't get any more interesting, they get out their mascara and start to apply, adopting their version of the eye-bulging, lip-stretching gurn that is so pointless given that one's eyes do not open more than one millimetre further when our mouths are gaping (I've checked). The gurn is too good to be true and my personal highlight of the whole procedure. Yesterday's was particularly gruesome - the heretofore attractive woman turning into a taut gargoyle that shocked her blond admirer, who looked relieved when she finally packed away her equipment. I remember a similar look of astonishment on an ex-boyfriend's face when he watched me transform myself a while ago. I wonder if, for boys, they'd rather not understand - too much of an insight, like learning about tampons and vaginal tears. Ah well. Too late. And even if you'd rather not have read the above, fear not - that is only scratching the surface. We haven't discussed primer, eyeshadow, bronzer, Lipcote, lip liner, lip gloss, that green stuff some people put on to counteract rosacea, eye make-up base, liquid vs. kohl eye liner and hundreds of other intricate processes that can affect us ladies, should we choose to accept it. But no matter what your level of comprehension, here is one fact you can have for free, just for paying attention: if you ever hear a girl saying she hasn't ever worn foundation, be aware that every other girl in the room wants to stab her.
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