You get off the bus where Lower Sloane Street meets Royal Hospital Road. Immediately, your eardrums reverberate with the unselfconscious braying of people who are fully comfortable in their surroundings. They are laughing and wearing sensible footwear. You walk into the grounds of Chelsea Hospital and hand over your ticket. Stretching far in front of you is a wide tree-lined avenue, with rows of temporary shops set up on each side. On the tarmac between the shops is a thrusting river of rich people. They stream forward, collecting items in their wake like driftwood: paintings of flowers, paintings of fruit, secateurs, hanging baskets, ergonomic foam kneelers, candles, bunches of lavender, Hunter wellingtons, socks for Hunter wellingtons, seeds, watering systems, commemorative mugs, commermorative trays, commemorative aprons, state-of-the-art garden furniture and Pimm's.
To the west of this heaving flow of consumption is the main event: a vast marquee surrounded by outdoor exhibits. The show gardens are each about the size of a tennis court and apparently cost around £250,000 to put together. The winning one is sponsored by The Daily Telegraph. It is rubbish. Well, what you can see of it is rubbish. It is impossible to get too close as the posh rich flower-lovers who look at displays are slightly more burly and aggressive than the posh rich flower-lovers who like to shop. They get to the front, where there is a rope, and they stand and take photos and chat to the design team about concepts. But they do not move on. It is not like being in a crowded gallery, where people are aware that others are trying to see and so adopt a conveyor-belty shuffle. At Chelsea, once you are in your patch, you stand there, by the rope. Perhaps they are waiting for Blur to do a quick set, although this is unlikely in The Telegraph garden as there is no room to swing a labrador. It is full of weird rusty metal sculptures, water features, cacti, bad furniture and wildflowers. It looks like a child has gone into Homebase, picked up one of everything, and then told her autistic next door neighbour to organise them all. It is incoherent and thus unrelaxing. This sense of pressure is augmented by the volume of be-wheelchaired elderly women. There are hundreds of them, their heads lolling, their knees under blankets, brought out for the day, pushed by upbeat Australian carers. You wonder whether this is what this is what your life will be like in sixty years.
The best garden is made by a man called Tom Stuart-Smith. In his photo he is wearing a brown corduroy blazer, a white shirt, and a navy blue jumper. He did not go to school at a comprehensive in Blackpool. He has won a gold medal every time he's exhibited at Chelsea. He is clearly a Very Good Gardener. There are a lot of wild flowers, things that look like cow parsley, mixed in with more angular urban shapes. It's a nice mixture - but there's not so much variety that it becomes hectic. The colours are mainly green, purple, yellow and white. There are some bulbous hedges on the right hand side that are a bit out of place, and some more rusty metal, which is clearly very in at the moment. It's good. There are some invited guests wafting around among the show gardens, quaffing champagne out of real glasses and acting as if this is their actual land. It is annoying on several levels.
The crappest garden is the most expensive one, worth £19 million. It is called The Ace of Diamonds. It is not loads of really expensive plants, as you might expect. It is loads of really mediocre plants, surrounded by white gravel. Strewn in the white gravel are huge gems the size of bisected tennis balls - sparkling blue sapphires and fat emeralds. It looks like someone nicked the Queen's jewellery box and tripped over while escaping through SW3. It is impossible to overstate what a waste of £19 million it is. There are nineteen million better ways to spend that money. You move on, huffing lightly.
The marquee in the middle is full of people who spend their ENTIRE LIVES thinking about plants and flowers. It is a strange experience, like suddenly stumbling across a collection of people who think that collecting different types of staple is a perfectly normal activity. There are amazingly straight lupins - lupins are gross, naff, phallic flowers, but getting them to be straight is apparently a task worthy of someone's time - and carrots that start out normal at the top but have really, really, really long thin ends, as if they're made out of plasticene and someone's got a bit carried away stretching them. There are some gorgeous bonsai trees but the organisers haven't positioned them very sensitively as it is impossible to set up that hilarious photo where you stand behind one and it makes you look like a giant. There are some roses but they don't smell much these days as the new breeds are apparently less diseased but less scented as a consequence.
Around the edge there are more displays - courtyard gardens where the Green & Black's sponsored one is jungle themed. They had a special jungle inhabitant shipped over specially to advise on the correct architecture of a hut made of banana leaves. It is gross. Not the hut. The 'let's bring over a native' yuckness.
And then there are the marquees filled with people drinking more champagne and more Pimm's. It is now nearly 8pm and you are staring enviously at their booze but cannot justify spending £9.50 on your own glass. Eventually you find yourself flagging and leave the grounds. It is good to have seen what all the fuss is about but you don't think you belong in that crowd. And for that you are grateful. As you read your book about South Africa the next morning, you are sickened by the account of a teenage girl's rape. Some people grow poker straight lupins and others rape children. Others sit at a desk and do nothing of note. You put your head in your hands.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Thursday, 27 May 2010
Problems? Yep. Solutions? Not so much.
FFS. The news in this country may be one of the most free on the planet, and I do count us lucky, but seriously, when The Guardian editor picks this as a recommendation, I do despair. Seriously? This is what is important right now? Which decade healthy, happy, becoupled women should choose to get up the duff? ARGH.I'm emailing a guy at the moment who's an education journalist and briefly hinted at my feelings of depression re. the academies situation. He said he'd always assumed the Tories would get in, so he's been thinking of it as a depressing reality for months now - but he agreed that it is an appalling idea. This from someone who comments on education policy for his full-time job.
And now I'm reading a book - a brilliant book, mind - about South Africa, called Ways of Staying by Kevin Bloom, a Jewish South African whose liberal nature struggles to come to terms with the murder of his cousin. I didn't understand the title at first, but turns out it's about how to remain in a country when, all around, there are so many signs that you should leave. The writer is enviably observant, putting in crisp details about, for example, interviewees' hand gestures and plate management, all of which paints an extraordinarily vivid picture. The country's certainly beautiful, and certainly interesting, but... I'm getting the picture that it's a dark, bloody mess. We're discussing it next week at book club, and with several members of our group connected personally to SA, I fear it may be a fairly feisty evening. I will take my mace.
My fictional husband is going to cheat on me. Africa's crumbling. The global economy's a disaster. China's human rights are appalling. The middle east is as corrupt as it's possible to be. Pakistan is bubbling. Iran has The Bomb and isn't scared to use it. The UK is moving into a new era of educational segregation. There is awful stuff happening in Jamaica. And I still firmly believe that all we can do is work to collapse the gap between rich and poor. Poverty in itself does not drive people to violence and other crimes. Inequality does. I read about South Africa and feel sick to think of all us Western tourists driving from airconned hotel to fenced-in restaurant when there's so much darkness and hatred a stone's throw away. But it's here too. The violence is not as bad, thankfully, but the envy, the anger is here too. The difference is, we haven't been colonised recently. Not since the Romans.
But am I working to collapse the inequality gap? Erm. No. Far, far from it. And instead of confronting this, I wiggle my big beak further down into the sand and enjoy the feelings of the hot grains moving in between the feathers on my neck and head.
Anyway. So the macro state of affairs is all a bit depressing. In happier (micro) news, from inside the Bubble of Denial... I learned how to play Don't You Want Me by The Human League at ukulele class last night, my mail-order tent arrived and Glasto is less than four weeks away. Phew.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
A cornucopia of issues
So I'll update you on my existence and then we can cover this heartbreaking academies project and other hellish current affairs developments.
Friday night I went to see the Chemical Brothers (or as my 26 year old companion Chris insists on calling them, 'The Chems') at The Roundhouse. Last time I saw them perform live, I was eighteen and had told my parents I was staying the night at my friend Daisy's house but in fact we went to a Prodigy gig at Brixton Academy and took speed that our druggy friend Nick had put in a bottle of Ribena for us because we didn't want to snort it. The Chems were the support act but we'd drunk our Ribena too early and I was completely mental during that forty minute gig and then basically started aching and being tired during the main set. The next day I felt like my bones were eroding and Daisy and I compared notes about how horrific our comedowns were, but in retrospect I'd taken about half a gram of speed dissolved in a sugary drink, a combo which was about as likely to get me high as a Tracker bar. I think I was just unfit and six hours of dancing had given my body a shock. ANYWAY. Fourteen years on and the Chemical Brothers have a lot less hair and, personally, I think their music is a bit less exciting than it was when I first listened to Exit Planet Dust or whatever it was called. But it was a brilliant gig all the same, even without the alleged benefit of speed or Ribena - lots of dancing, lots of holding arms aloft to interfere with the amazing laser shows, lots of spilled pints and excitement about Bono's back injury that was possibly (at that point) going to exclude U2 from headlining at Glasto. Come on Bowie.
Saturday morning I was my own middle-class nightmare as I was awoken at 7.30am by the delivery man from Ocado, and proceeded to make my own garlic bread for the countryside gathering that lots of us went to and cor was it lovely. Old friends, hay bales to sit on, delicious food, Pimms and champagne in the sun, laughing, chinese lanterns after dark... a magical time and a blast from the past. Hungover and giggling uncontrollably on Sunday, work and choir on Monday, work and work-sponsored wine tasting last night - we tried bottles from Greece, Georgia, Italy and France and it was interesting. Apparently wine is thought to have originated somewhere around Georgia in 6000 or 7000 BC. Amazing. More interesting was the conversation I was having with my colleague before we sat down. I'd pointed out a guy from our floor who was also at the tasting, and indicated that he was thought to be a bit of a player. My colleague, let's call him Mike, said that didn't surprise him at all. Mike is in his early fifties and has been married nearly thirty years, and he told me that having a black-and-white attitude to infidelity is fairly naive. My jaw dropped.
"Do you mean that cheating is the norm?" I asked.
"I have no idea," he answered. "But it can't be a deal-breaker. Men are ruled by their pants. If it's going to be the end of your marriage if he fools around with another woman on a drunken night out, then you're going to find it hard going."
"Hang on," I said. "You're telling me that I have to be prepared to put up with infidelity if I get married?"
"I've never cheated, but I think it's not practical to say you will end a 25 year marriage on the basis of a one night mistake."
"Obviously I know he'll want to shag another woman at some point, possibly hourly," I said, just to show that I'm not too much of a purist. "And I'll meet other guys I find attractive too. But I've always hoped that, if he finds himself wanting to sleep with someone else, he'll come to me and tell me, and either we deal with it or we decide to break up."
"It's a nice idea, but I think your standards are impossibly high," Mike said. "These things are - normally - not premeditated. The guy gets drunk, goes home with the wrong person, wakes up remorseful - and just because of that, you're going to end a 25 year marriage, with three kids involved? It's not justified. No one is perfect."
"But that's just such a bad attitude. If he does it once and gets away with it, what's to stop him doing it again, over and over? I see what you mean, that ruining 25 years for one shag seems over the top, but if you can't trust him, then surely the things that make a marriage fun are mostly destroyed? And that's the worst bit - once you've been lied to once, once you've been made a fool of, your next relationship is affected too. You become paranoid and insecure, and having once been a laid-back cool girl, you move to be a divorcee with three kids who can't trust anyone else. Just because your stupid husband fancied a shag with someone else. The cheating moment itself may only last ten minutes but the effects are long-lasting..." Mike looked at me sadly - he clearly understood my point of view but still thought I was being hopelessly unrealistic. I felt totally powerless. And a bit sad. Really quite sad, actually. My first long term relationship ended because I was sorely tempted to cheat on my boyfriend. I didn't though - I spoke to him about it and we agreed that neither of us were happy, and we broke up. If my husband of 25 years wanted to cheat, I'd hope he would come and talk about it with me. But I guess if it just pops up out of nowhere, he's unlikely to phone me from the cab he's taking back to her house, with her kissing his neck as he explains his predicament. Meh, I dunno. I just hate the whole thought of infidelity. It really makes me feel sick. Desire to sleep with someone else I'm fine with - but actually going through with it, and lying to the person who's been there for you for the past quarter of a century... I just can't see how I should be laid back about that prospect. And that whole argument about men being rule by their pants, it's pathetic. It may be true, but it's pathetic. Women have just as strong a need to be loved and flattered and fancied. Maybe the chemicals are different and men genuinely can't control their urges. But I don't believe that's true of all of them. Some of them are honourable enough to keep it in their pants. I won't get married until I find one like that. And I refuse to be grateful if he is. Fidelity should be a given, not an unexpected bonus. Conversing with Mike was unexpectedly depressing. Glad (in many ways) that I'm not married to him.
In other news... It's my country's economy that's going down the pan, but I did laugh when I read this extract on The Graun's website, detailing some very-much-predicted issues with the Conservatives' budget in yesterday's Queen's Speech:
'Osborne was forced to abolish child trust funds altogether after the Tories overestimated savings that could be made on the basis of advice from the Whitehall efficiency experts, Sir Peter Gershon and Dr Martin Read. Gershon had said that £1bn of the £6bn cuts would come from savings in government IT projects, while up to £1bn would come from a recruitment freeze across the civil service. The Treasury said yesterday that IT had produced savings of £95m, less than 10% of the amount initially identified, while the recruitment freeze would produce savings of £120m, slightly more than 10% of the amount estimated by Gershon in that area.
Labour had lampooned a two-page document produced by Gershon during the election campaign outlining his efficiency savings. Liam Byrne, the shadow chief secretary to the Treasury, said tonight: "We warned the Tories that their plans were wrong. Now they're having to break both parties' manifesto promises and wipe out child trust funds because they wouldn't listen."'
I've no problem with child trust funds falling by the wayside, but it does show that complex descriptions of proposed financial savings made by a party while in opposition should pretty much always be taken with a shedful of salt.
Meh, no energy to carry on typing - suffice to say, this new academies drive by the Tories (and, yes, the LibDems) is exactly what I feared most - schools being run outside the jurisdiction of the local councils, ostensibly to free up teachers from national red tape: a good aim but a terrible solution. Academies are privately funded by businesses or individuals - how can this fail to create a massive disparity between different schools in different areas? It also opens things up for a plethora of faith schools. Agh. It's a disgrace, seriously. I can't even really believe it's happening. The whole thing makes me massively disappointed and LIVID with the LibDems for sanctioning such a lot of bollocks. I'm still glad I voted for them, because the vaguely-hinted-at referendum on AV in 2011 will mean the next election is slightly fairer than it would have been, had the coalition not been formed. But the Labour leadership candidates look pretty uninspiring at the moment so right now I really have no idea who I'll be voting for in 2015. With the education system going down the pan thanks to a 'solution' that will make the existing postcode lottery situation look like a pleasant dream, this country might be so freaking scary that I might not even be here next time around. Grumpy grumpy.
Friday night I went to see the Chemical Brothers (or as my 26 year old companion Chris insists on calling them, 'The Chems') at The Roundhouse. Last time I saw them perform live, I was eighteen and had told my parents I was staying the night at my friend Daisy's house but in fact we went to a Prodigy gig at Brixton Academy and took speed that our druggy friend Nick had put in a bottle of Ribena for us because we didn't want to snort it. The Chems were the support act but we'd drunk our Ribena too early and I was completely mental during that forty minute gig and then basically started aching and being tired during the main set. The next day I felt like my bones were eroding and Daisy and I compared notes about how horrific our comedowns were, but in retrospect I'd taken about half a gram of speed dissolved in a sugary drink, a combo which was about as likely to get me high as a Tracker bar. I think I was just unfit and six hours of dancing had given my body a shock. ANYWAY. Fourteen years on and the Chemical Brothers have a lot less hair and, personally, I think their music is a bit less exciting than it was when I first listened to Exit Planet Dust or whatever it was called. But it was a brilliant gig all the same, even without the alleged benefit of speed or Ribena - lots of dancing, lots of holding arms aloft to interfere with the amazing laser shows, lots of spilled pints and excitement about Bono's back injury that was possibly (at that point) going to exclude U2 from headlining at Glasto. Come on Bowie.
Saturday morning I was my own middle-class nightmare as I was awoken at 7.30am by the delivery man from Ocado, and proceeded to make my own garlic bread for the countryside gathering that lots of us went to and cor was it lovely. Old friends, hay bales to sit on, delicious food, Pimms and champagne in the sun, laughing, chinese lanterns after dark... a magical time and a blast from the past. Hungover and giggling uncontrollably on Sunday, work and choir on Monday, work and work-sponsored wine tasting last night - we tried bottles from Greece, Georgia, Italy and France and it was interesting. Apparently wine is thought to have originated somewhere around Georgia in 6000 or 7000 BC. Amazing. More interesting was the conversation I was having with my colleague before we sat down. I'd pointed out a guy from our floor who was also at the tasting, and indicated that he was thought to be a bit of a player. My colleague, let's call him Mike, said that didn't surprise him at all. Mike is in his early fifties and has been married nearly thirty years, and he told me that having a black-and-white attitude to infidelity is fairly naive. My jaw dropped.
"Do you mean that cheating is the norm?" I asked.
"I have no idea," he answered. "But it can't be a deal-breaker. Men are ruled by their pants. If it's going to be the end of your marriage if he fools around with another woman on a drunken night out, then you're going to find it hard going."
"Hang on," I said. "You're telling me that I have to be prepared to put up with infidelity if I get married?"
"I've never cheated, but I think it's not practical to say you will end a 25 year marriage on the basis of a one night mistake."
"Obviously I know he'll want to shag another woman at some point, possibly hourly," I said, just to show that I'm not too much of a purist. "And I'll meet other guys I find attractive too. But I've always hoped that, if he finds himself wanting to sleep with someone else, he'll come to me and tell me, and either we deal with it or we decide to break up."
"It's a nice idea, but I think your standards are impossibly high," Mike said. "These things are - normally - not premeditated. The guy gets drunk, goes home with the wrong person, wakes up remorseful - and just because of that, you're going to end a 25 year marriage, with three kids involved? It's not justified. No one is perfect."
"But that's just such a bad attitude. If he does it once and gets away with it, what's to stop him doing it again, over and over? I see what you mean, that ruining 25 years for one shag seems over the top, but if you can't trust him, then surely the things that make a marriage fun are mostly destroyed? And that's the worst bit - once you've been lied to once, once you've been made a fool of, your next relationship is affected too. You become paranoid and insecure, and having once been a laid-back cool girl, you move to be a divorcee with three kids who can't trust anyone else. Just because your stupid husband fancied a shag with someone else. The cheating moment itself may only last ten minutes but the effects are long-lasting..." Mike looked at me sadly - he clearly understood my point of view but still thought I was being hopelessly unrealistic. I felt totally powerless. And a bit sad. Really quite sad, actually. My first long term relationship ended because I was sorely tempted to cheat on my boyfriend. I didn't though - I spoke to him about it and we agreed that neither of us were happy, and we broke up. If my husband of 25 years wanted to cheat, I'd hope he would come and talk about it with me. But I guess if it just pops up out of nowhere, he's unlikely to phone me from the cab he's taking back to her house, with her kissing his neck as he explains his predicament. Meh, I dunno. I just hate the whole thought of infidelity. It really makes me feel sick. Desire to sleep with someone else I'm fine with - but actually going through with it, and lying to the person who's been there for you for the past quarter of a century... I just can't see how I should be laid back about that prospect. And that whole argument about men being rule by their pants, it's pathetic. It may be true, but it's pathetic. Women have just as strong a need to be loved and flattered and fancied. Maybe the chemicals are different and men genuinely can't control their urges. But I don't believe that's true of all of them. Some of them are honourable enough to keep it in their pants. I won't get married until I find one like that. And I refuse to be grateful if he is. Fidelity should be a given, not an unexpected bonus. Conversing with Mike was unexpectedly depressing. Glad (in many ways) that I'm not married to him.
In other news... It's my country's economy that's going down the pan, but I did laugh when I read this extract on The Graun's website, detailing some very-much-predicted issues with the Conservatives' budget in yesterday's Queen's Speech:
'Osborne was forced to abolish child trust funds altogether after the Tories overestimated savings that could be made on the basis of advice from the Whitehall efficiency experts, Sir Peter Gershon and Dr Martin Read. Gershon had said that £1bn of the £6bn cuts would come from savings in government IT projects, while up to £1bn would come from a recruitment freeze across the civil service. The Treasury said yesterday that IT had produced savings of £95m, less than 10% of the amount initially identified, while the recruitment freeze would produce savings of £120m, slightly more than 10% of the amount estimated by Gershon in that area.
Labour had lampooned a two-page document produced by Gershon during the election campaign outlining his efficiency savings. Liam Byrne, the shadow chief secretary to the Treasury, said tonight: "We warned the Tories that their plans were wrong. Now they're having to break both parties' manifesto promises and wipe out child trust funds because they wouldn't listen."'
I've no problem with child trust funds falling by the wayside, but it does show that complex descriptions of proposed financial savings made by a party while in opposition should pretty much always be taken with a shedful of salt.
Meh, no energy to carry on typing - suffice to say, this new academies drive by the Tories (and, yes, the LibDems) is exactly what I feared most - schools being run outside the jurisdiction of the local councils, ostensibly to free up teachers from national red tape: a good aim but a terrible solution. Academies are privately funded by businesses or individuals - how can this fail to create a massive disparity between different schools in different areas? It also opens things up for a plethora of faith schools. Agh. It's a disgrace, seriously. I can't even really believe it's happening. The whole thing makes me massively disappointed and LIVID with the LibDems for sanctioning such a lot of bollocks. I'm still glad I voted for them, because the vaguely-hinted-at referendum on AV in 2011 will mean the next election is slightly fairer than it would have been, had the coalition not been formed. But the Labour leadership candidates look pretty uninspiring at the moment so right now I really have no idea who I'll be voting for in 2015. With the education system going down the pan thanks to a 'solution' that will make the existing postcode lottery situation look like a pleasant dream, this country might be so freaking scary that I might not even be here next time around. Grumpy grumpy.
Friday, 21 May 2010
I Didn't Die On Wednesday Either
I've been having a lot of very interesting talks recently. It's been a fascinating couple of weeks and actually, I think it's healthy to go through these career crises every now and then. It's made me remember how lucky I am and how much I've got.
I'm not going to stop writing. But, on the basis of the conversations I've had, I don't think I'm going to plough a huge amount of effort into doing it as my full-time job. I think I'd rather do something else. I mean, sure, there are many people the world over who I'd give my right arm to interview. And many fascinating stories I'd love to tell. But getting a secure job doing that - I'm just not sure that's possible. And I know I need security. Much as I'd love to be one of those fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants gals who doesn't know where the next ten quid is coming from, I'm just not that person. I've got gig tickets to afford, and mortgage interest to pay off. The people I know who have that kind of lifestyle are either independently wealthy or happy being skint and insecure. Clearly I'm neither.
So, if writing's out as a career (unless anyone has some specific suggestions as to how I can make that work), then it's got to be something else. I've got an idea and it's going to require some sacrifices. But all in good time. There's no rush. I'm happy enough right now. I do need to start saving as whatever I do next will involve a paycut. In the meantime, I'll be right here, plugging away and enjoying myself as much possible.
Last night I went to KaraUke at Bloomsbury Lanes. No one else wanted to bowl, so Grania and had a lane to ourselves, an unusual opportunity to focus on our technique and become Good At Bowling. We improved significantly but didn't quite reach that elusive goal of being officially, empirically Good. Then we talked to Chris and his friends, drank wine, and got up on stage to sing The Shoop Shoop Song in front of a band of ukuleles to a surprisingly enthusiastic crowd dancing below us. It was a good night. I also saw Sara for an early evening pub visit. We had a lovely time and a tramp told the table next to us a joke. Q: Why couldn't the drummer get into his house? A: Because of his high hat. I got 20p out to give to him but he didn't come back to us, so then I gave it to a different tramp who was trying to sell us the Big Issue. He didn't tell us a joke but he did look like he might drop dead any minute. Hopefully he spent the 20p on some nourishing fruit and vegetables.
Bonne weekend, Faithful. Jusqu'a lundi.
I'm not going to stop writing. But, on the basis of the conversations I've had, I don't think I'm going to plough a huge amount of effort into doing it as my full-time job. I think I'd rather do something else. I mean, sure, there are many people the world over who I'd give my right arm to interview. And many fascinating stories I'd love to tell. But getting a secure job doing that - I'm just not sure that's possible. And I know I need security. Much as I'd love to be one of those fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants gals who doesn't know where the next ten quid is coming from, I'm just not that person. I've got gig tickets to afford, and mortgage interest to pay off. The people I know who have that kind of lifestyle are either independently wealthy or happy being skint and insecure. Clearly I'm neither.
So, if writing's out as a career (unless anyone has some specific suggestions as to how I can make that work), then it's got to be something else. I've got an idea and it's going to require some sacrifices. But all in good time. There's no rush. I'm happy enough right now. I do need to start saving as whatever I do next will involve a paycut. In the meantime, I'll be right here, plugging away and enjoying myself as much possible.
Last night I went to KaraUke at Bloomsbury Lanes. No one else wanted to bowl, so Grania and had a lane to ourselves, an unusual opportunity to focus on our technique and become Good At Bowling. We improved significantly but didn't quite reach that elusive goal of being officially, empirically Good. Then we talked to Chris and his friends, drank wine, and got up on stage to sing The Shoop Shoop Song in front of a band of ukuleles to a surprisingly enthusiastic crowd dancing below us. It was a good night. I also saw Sara for an early evening pub visit. We had a lovely time and a tramp told the table next to us a joke. Q: Why couldn't the drummer get into his house? A: Because of his high hat. I got 20p out to give to him but he didn't come back to us, so then I gave it to a different tramp who was trying to sell us the Big Issue. He didn't tell us a joke but he did look like he might drop dead any minute. Hopefully he spent the 20p on some nourishing fruit and vegetables.
Bonne weekend, Faithful. Jusqu'a lundi.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
I Am Not Dead
Well, obviously I might be. I might have a heart attack five minutes from now and then by the time you read this I might be out cold on my sofa. But if that happens, know that there would have been worse places to die. And at least I'm 50% in velour, so you'd know I'd been cosy in my final moments. Of course, you could be reading this blog in sixty years, by which time I will almost certainly be dead, or at least wishing I was from the safety of my padded room, and you will be looking at LLFF as a valuable historical artefact, wondering at us old fuddy-duddies who used to think that typing with fingers was normal and getting married was a sensible idea. Hmmm. If I were bored I'd analyse the fact that, when challenged to think of two things we all do now that will become outdated soon, I came up with typing and monogamy. Don't know what that says about me. But anyway, I'm not bored. Or dead. No. I am alive and semi-busy. And I've just faced up to the fact I should probably write a will at some point.
So anyway. I haven't written since last Friday, and the reason is that I have been having a meltdown. The snake has stayed away, but I have been going a bit mental in other ways. The China/sabbatical/career break thing got me thinking, and then I started thinking about my future, which is obviously never sensible at the best of times, and then I started thinking about writing as a career, and then I worked quite hard at turning the blogs I wrote when I was in Finland into an article of sorts, and then this evening I went to meet a guy I know who works at The Guardian to talk about jobs and ting. It was really helpful, in that it confirmed that I probably shouldn't go back into journalism or writing. I mean, there's writing work there. But I don't want to be freelance (the snake looooves irregular working hours, financial instability and extended periods of time spent home alone) and I don't want to write about shit the whole time.
I think it's time for something new. New new new new new. But not yet. Right now I'll just stay where I am. But one day I'll do something else.
Good. Glad we've got that sorted out then.
What I was thinking was the civil service. But then I have to take scary exams and stuff, and I tried them before and failed miserably. I know one person who passed them and countless people who failed them. Anyway. I was also thinking of property development, but that's just selfish and stupid. Plus it's freelance and financially unstable and involves extended periods of time spent alone. Stupid snake, hampering my property development possibilities.
Meh. I dunno. I'll be fine.
What else is news? On Friday night I went to Sir John Soane's Museum in Holborn, and was ashamed that I'd never been there before in my 32 years, but delighted that London really is the gift that keeps on giving, and glad that I hadn't gone until I was old enough to be truly appreciative. They were open for a special candlelit tour, complete with complimentary sparkling wine, and it was fascinating. The Hogarths were every bit as amazing as I'd hoped, and bloody Nora if that gallery isn't the coolest thing ever. I'd tell you all what I'm talking about in a bit more detail but I don't want to ruin the surprise for my mum. Sunday I went to see Showstopper! at the Udderbelly, a temporary performance space shaped like a gigantic upside-down purple cow near the London Eye. What will they think of next? The venue is great, and the show was excellent - an eighty-minute improvised musical with a fantastically funny cast that made me really annoyed that I'm not quite good enough at singing or being funny to join in. I will return and growl in quiet jealousy on at least one other night before the run ends in June. I've done other fun stuff too, but tonight I'm taking it easy, skiving off my uke class, eating Coco Pops and doing laundry. Mmmm. Coco Pops. Might be time for that second bowl.
So anyway. I haven't written since last Friday, and the reason is that I have been having a meltdown. The snake has stayed away, but I have been going a bit mental in other ways. The China/sabbatical/career break thing got me thinking, and then I started thinking about my future, which is obviously never sensible at the best of times, and then I started thinking about writing as a career, and then I worked quite hard at turning the blogs I wrote when I was in Finland into an article of sorts, and then this evening I went to meet a guy I know who works at The Guardian to talk about jobs and ting. It was really helpful, in that it confirmed that I probably shouldn't go back into journalism or writing. I mean, there's writing work there. But I don't want to be freelance (the snake looooves irregular working hours, financial instability and extended periods of time spent home alone) and I don't want to write about shit the whole time.
I think it's time for something new. New new new new new. But not yet. Right now I'll just stay where I am. But one day I'll do something else.
Good. Glad we've got that sorted out then.
What I was thinking was the civil service. But then I have to take scary exams and stuff, and I tried them before and failed miserably. I know one person who passed them and countless people who failed them. Anyway. I was also thinking of property development, but that's just selfish and stupid. Plus it's freelance and financially unstable and involves extended periods of time spent alone. Stupid snake, hampering my property development possibilities.
Meh. I dunno. I'll be fine.
What else is news? On Friday night I went to Sir John Soane's Museum in Holborn, and was ashamed that I'd never been there before in my 32 years, but delighted that London really is the gift that keeps on giving, and glad that I hadn't gone until I was old enough to be truly appreciative. They were open for a special candlelit tour, complete with complimentary sparkling wine, and it was fascinating. The Hogarths were every bit as amazing as I'd hoped, and bloody Nora if that gallery isn't the coolest thing ever. I'd tell you all what I'm talking about in a bit more detail but I don't want to ruin the surprise for my mum. Sunday I went to see Showstopper! at the Udderbelly, a temporary performance space shaped like a gigantic upside-down purple cow near the London Eye. What will they think of next? The venue is great, and the show was excellent - an eighty-minute improvised musical with a fantastically funny cast that made me really annoyed that I'm not quite good enough at singing or being funny to join in. I will return and growl in quiet jealousy on at least one other night before the run ends in June. I've done other fun stuff too, but tonight I'm taking it easy, skiving off my uke class, eating Coco Pops and doing laundry. Mmmm. Coco Pops. Might be time for that second bowl.
Friday, 14 May 2010
The omens
I had a couple of hours to kill after work yesterday before I was due to meet my date. Normally I would go to the gym, or shop, but yesterday I was ex-freaking-hausted so I went home and had a nap, like the true hipster I am. When my alarm went off, I got out of bed with resentment, made myself look as pretty as I get, and set off for the agreed place of rendezvous: a pub in Battersea.
I took a seat on a bus. After another couple of stops, a man got on and tried to buy a ticket with a five pound note. The female bus driver said she didn't have enough change so she couldn't let him on. He said it was OK if she didn't have change because he was going to take the bus to its final stop, and that somewhere in between here and there, she'd get some change from another passenger and could give it to him then. She said no, that she wasn't allowed to do this. He said that was ridiculous. She stood her ground. At this point, I was kind of on the side of the guy. It was his risk to take: if she didn't get change, he'd lose out, not her. But then he got angry. In a strong West Indian accent, he started shouting, "Why you gotta treat me like dis? Make me embarrassed in front of all dese people? I got money! I'm a grown man. I'm givin you dis money. Take de money and you give me change later. I'm married. I got six children. Don' make me look bad here. I ain't gettin off dis bus, lady. I got my money." I took his point, but he was being a bit too shouty. The driver turned off her engine. Clearly, we were not going to move. Another bus pulled up behind us. I dinged the bell, several of us disembarked and we got on the bus behind. The joys of a travelcard.
Moments later we arrived at a bus station from where I was planning to catch another bus. I walked to the appropriate stop. There was a huge crowd there. I looked in the direction they were all looking. The entrance to the bus station was cordoned off and an ambulance was parked there. No buses were going to get through. I started wondering if these signs were from Cupid, telling me to turn back.
Then I saw a guy I'd dated last year. It was unmistakeably him, standing there with his same arrogant, self-satisfied face on, still urgently requiring a slap. He had his iPod on and was carrying an overnight bag. I was immediately staggered that I'd ever thought, even for a milisecond, that he was attractive. I mean, he was breathtakingly not good enough. The power of my brain to tell me I fancy someone when I patently do not will never fail to amaze me. All because he'd had a few poncey articles published in Time Out, one of which said that some element of a shit play we went to see was 'Lynchian'. I am a dick. It made me cringe and then laugh. Meanwhile I hurried to hide behind a bus stop partition, desperate for him not to see me. He clearly saw me: I was wearing a huge yellow flower in my hair and clippy cloppy high heeled date shoes. Thankfully he ignored me too. God even thinking about him now makes me feel a bit sick. Yuck.
The first bus had had to stop unexpectedly. The third bus was not able to reach the stop and collect me. And a hideous spectre from my past had reared up to haunt me. Plus the boy I was meant to be meeting had only ever been borderline appealing over email. The temptation to run home, don my velour and eat popcorn was stronger than a tightly-woven rope, the thickness of a giant's neck, made of steel threads and coated in superglue, but I knew it would be terrible to cancel at such short notice. Bravely, I tottered on towards the next stop, where we had been told we'd be able to pick up a diverted bus. Suddenly the 344 was visible in the distance. I knew I had to sprint. I took off. And then I saw a distinctive overnight bag beside me, and realised that I was, momentarily, engaged in a race with Mr Time Out. In his so-last-year battered Converse, he easily overtook me, but we both made it onto the bus. I went upstairs, he stayed down. And that was the last I saw of him. Until we both got off at the same stop, stepping down onto the pavement in unison. I can't imagine two people wanting to acknowledge each other less. I've never walked away from anywhere so fast.
Heart still in shock after my Olympian sprint, Beyonce-style in stilettos, I entered the pub. I couldn't see my date. I scanned more thoroughly. There was a guy in the corner I hoped was him, but knew it wouldn't be. I texted my date. "Either you're not here, or you are here and look nothing like your photos." A few minutes later, I heard the door open. He looked exactly like his pictures. And he was late. His excuse was that he'd come from his parents' house where he is 'staying temporarily' and they'd left him a note saying 'Please feed the cats and tidy your bedroom.' This was not the most erotic start to an evening. Then he suggested cheating in the pub quiz. The last time I saw someone cheating in a pub quiz - in fact, they weren't even necessarily cheating, they were just using their phone, possibly to send a harmless text message but also potentially finding out an answer - I shouted out "CHEATING!" and pointed at the cretin across the bar. The people I was with wanted to murder me, so intense was their embarrassment, but I didn't care. That's how much I don't like cheaters.
He was a nice guy though. On the list of Things I Want To Kiss, he was probably above 'The Pavement Outside Tottenham Court Road Tube Station' and some way below 'Louis Walsh'. Doubtless he felt similarly unmagnetised by me. Nonetheless, despite a total lack of chemistry, we spent a happy evening together, came fifth in the pub quiz and went home our separate ways. I am tired today.
I took a seat on a bus. After another couple of stops, a man got on and tried to buy a ticket with a five pound note. The female bus driver said she didn't have enough change so she couldn't let him on. He said it was OK if she didn't have change because he was going to take the bus to its final stop, and that somewhere in between here and there, she'd get some change from another passenger and could give it to him then. She said no, that she wasn't allowed to do this. He said that was ridiculous. She stood her ground. At this point, I was kind of on the side of the guy. It was his risk to take: if she didn't get change, he'd lose out, not her. But then he got angry. In a strong West Indian accent, he started shouting, "Why you gotta treat me like dis? Make me embarrassed in front of all dese people? I got money! I'm a grown man. I'm givin you dis money. Take de money and you give me change later. I'm married. I got six children. Don' make me look bad here. I ain't gettin off dis bus, lady. I got my money." I took his point, but he was being a bit too shouty. The driver turned off her engine. Clearly, we were not going to move. Another bus pulled up behind us. I dinged the bell, several of us disembarked and we got on the bus behind. The joys of a travelcard.
Moments later we arrived at a bus station from where I was planning to catch another bus. I walked to the appropriate stop. There was a huge crowd there. I looked in the direction they were all looking. The entrance to the bus station was cordoned off and an ambulance was parked there. No buses were going to get through. I started wondering if these signs were from Cupid, telling me to turn back.
Then I saw a guy I'd dated last year. It was unmistakeably him, standing there with his same arrogant, self-satisfied face on, still urgently requiring a slap. He had his iPod on and was carrying an overnight bag. I was immediately staggered that I'd ever thought, even for a milisecond, that he was attractive. I mean, he was breathtakingly not good enough. The power of my brain to tell me I fancy someone when I patently do not will never fail to amaze me. All because he'd had a few poncey articles published in Time Out, one of which said that some element of a shit play we went to see was 'Lynchian'. I am a dick. It made me cringe and then laugh. Meanwhile I hurried to hide behind a bus stop partition, desperate for him not to see me. He clearly saw me: I was wearing a huge yellow flower in my hair and clippy cloppy high heeled date shoes. Thankfully he ignored me too. God even thinking about him now makes me feel a bit sick. Yuck.
The first bus had had to stop unexpectedly. The third bus was not able to reach the stop and collect me. And a hideous spectre from my past had reared up to haunt me. Plus the boy I was meant to be meeting had only ever been borderline appealing over email. The temptation to run home, don my velour and eat popcorn was stronger than a tightly-woven rope, the thickness of a giant's neck, made of steel threads and coated in superglue, but I knew it would be terrible to cancel at such short notice. Bravely, I tottered on towards the next stop, where we had been told we'd be able to pick up a diverted bus. Suddenly the 344 was visible in the distance. I knew I had to sprint. I took off. And then I saw a distinctive overnight bag beside me, and realised that I was, momentarily, engaged in a race with Mr Time Out. In his so-last-year battered Converse, he easily overtook me, but we both made it onto the bus. I went upstairs, he stayed down. And that was the last I saw of him. Until we both got off at the same stop, stepping down onto the pavement in unison. I can't imagine two people wanting to acknowledge each other less. I've never walked away from anywhere so fast.
Heart still in shock after my Olympian sprint, Beyonce-style in stilettos, I entered the pub. I couldn't see my date. I scanned more thoroughly. There was a guy in the corner I hoped was him, but knew it wouldn't be. I texted my date. "Either you're not here, or you are here and look nothing like your photos." A few minutes later, I heard the door open. He looked exactly like his pictures. And he was late. His excuse was that he'd come from his parents' house where he is 'staying temporarily' and they'd left him a note saying 'Please feed the cats and tidy your bedroom.' This was not the most erotic start to an evening. Then he suggested cheating in the pub quiz. The last time I saw someone cheating in a pub quiz - in fact, they weren't even necessarily cheating, they were just using their phone, possibly to send a harmless text message but also potentially finding out an answer - I shouted out "CHEATING!" and pointed at the cretin across the bar. The people I was with wanted to murder me, so intense was their embarrassment, but I didn't care. That's how much I don't like cheaters.
He was a nice guy though. On the list of Things I Want To Kiss, he was probably above 'The Pavement Outside Tottenham Court Road Tube Station' and some way below 'Louis Walsh'. Doubtless he felt similarly unmagnetised by me. Nonetheless, despite a total lack of chemistry, we spent a happy evening together, came fifth in the pub quiz and went home our separate ways. I am tired today.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Filler
I have nothing to say. Sorry. But tonight I'm going on a date, and, given past form, I'm sure there'll be some new material tomorrow. In the meantime, here are some things you can do in the absence of LLFF:
- Take a moment to appreciate the wonders of existence.
- Be thankful that you are not five stone heavier than you are now.
- Stare out of the window for a bit.
- Eat some malt loaf.
- If you've been to China, Vietnam and/or Cambodia, jot down some helpful bullet points for me to consider as I try to decide where I'm going.
- Write my first award-winning novel/non-fiction work of unquestionable brilliance for me and send it to me as a Word document so that I can adapt it into my own unique style for submission to publishers and agents the world over.
- Have a really good stretch.
- Memorise the names and faces of everyone in the new cabinet for future pub quiz victory/dinner party smuggery.
- Make my day: tell a friend about LLFF.
- Drink some water. You know you should.
- Write a thank-you letter. I'm sure there's one you owe.
- Phone your mum and tell her you love her. If you don't have a mum, tell your dad. I don't mean tell your dad that you don't have a mum. I'm presuming he knows that. Tell him you love him, you fool. If you don't have a dad or a mum, then give yourself a big hug. Parents are amazing; not having them must suck. I high five you.
- Do some pelvic floor exercises.
- List three things about yourself that you think are amazing. Then bask in your own brilliance.
- Love me always.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Breath of fresh air?
It's been an unforgettable few hours for British politics. The pendulum of public opinion has swung from left to right for decades. Now we have a bit of both, and frankly, no one knows whether or not it'll be a fantastic experiment or a hideous mess. So I'm going to hold fire with my opinions until we get some fallout - at least for the next hour or so, anyway. I will say that I do want it to work, even though that may mean that I one day have to praise members of the Tory party. But we'll see.
In the absence of a gripping liveblog updating me on the coalition discussions every six seconds, I now have almost nothing to do [see doodle]. In my personal life, the snake has beaten a retreat along with Gordo. I got up this morning, did yoga and washed my hair, a series of actions that have a similar level of signifcance to a perfectly normal, healthy person going on a weeklong intensive detox in Bali. After two days of no make-up, greasy hair and no exercise, I now feel like a new person. A new person who still hasn't heard from the short guy but who's now deleted his number and stopped worrying about it. I'd texted him yesterday morning telling him he wasn't flirting nearly enough and then, when I didn't receive a reply, texted him again yesterday evening saying, and I quote, 'Meh. Lame. I'm replying to the magician.' Pathetic? Sure, but it made me feel better.
Now I'm sitting here researching the Chinese visa application process and trying to distract myself so that I don't go back to the vending machine for a second packet of crisps. Nothing funny is happening here, although it may amuse you to hear that, in a vivid display of karma's sizeable powers, I (possibly unfairly) wiggled my way onto the rammed tube this morning, ukulele on my back, and then, smugly in position, had to endure the frankly unendurable morning breath of the businessman to my left for around 45 seconds. I wasn't sure whether I'd rather smell it or breathe through my mouth and then inhale the particles, but neither of us could move our heads due to space restrictions so I was forced to adopt a mix 'n' match combination procedure. He was presumably unaware of the solid bulkiness of his emissions, but they were eye-wateringly pungent, suggestive of a thick, yellow coating on the tongue like cranberry-flecked Cathedral City from weeks of coffee and dairy. I can't pretend to know his motives, but the man was unquestionably anti-toothpaste. Thankfully I was able to rotate approximately 80 degrees at the next station but I did notice that the hand that he was using to grip onto the safety rail was wearing a wedding band. Pity that woman, readers. If ever there was a justification for separate beds, he was it.
In the absence of a gripping liveblog updating me on the coalition discussions every six seconds, I now have almost nothing to do [see doodle]. In my personal life, the snake has beaten a retreat along with Gordo. I got up this morning, did yoga and washed my hair, a series of actions that have a similar level of signifcance to a perfectly normal, healthy person going on a weeklong intensive detox in Bali. After two days of no make-up, greasy hair and no exercise, I now feel like a new person. A new person who still hasn't heard from the short guy but who's now deleted his number and stopped worrying about it. I'd texted him yesterday morning telling him he wasn't flirting nearly enough and then, when I didn't receive a reply, texted him again yesterday evening saying, and I quote, 'Meh. Lame. I'm replying to the magician.' Pathetic? Sure, but it made me feel better.Now I'm sitting here researching the Chinese visa application process and trying to distract myself so that I don't go back to the vending machine for a second packet of crisps. Nothing funny is happening here, although it may amuse you to hear that, in a vivid display of karma's sizeable powers, I (possibly unfairly) wiggled my way onto the rammed tube this morning, ukulele on my back, and then, smugly in position, had to endure the frankly unendurable morning breath of the businessman to my left for around 45 seconds. I wasn't sure whether I'd rather smell it or breathe through my mouth and then inhale the particles, but neither of us could move our heads due to space restrictions so I was forced to adopt a mix 'n' match combination procedure. He was presumably unaware of the solid bulkiness of his emissions, but they were eye-wateringly pungent, suggestive of a thick, yellow coating on the tongue like cranberry-flecked Cathedral City from weeks of coffee and dairy. I can't pretend to know his motives, but the man was unquestionably anti-toothpaste. Thankfully I was able to rotate approximately 80 degrees at the next station but I did notice that the hand that he was using to grip onto the safety rail was wearing a wedding band. Pity that woman, readers. If ever there was a justification for separate beds, he was it.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Shang, hi?
So I know the comments section at the bottom of each of these posts is often fairly barren. I have a few loyal people who have managed to sign up and say things in public, but the vast majority of my feedback comes from those who know me in Real Life, who seem happy to tell me in person, but not so happy to write it for the World To See. Either way, I bask like a lioness in the sun when people say nice things about LLFF - along with whiskers on kittens, it is one of my favourite things - and yesterday was a good day, when four or five different and highly respected friends contacted me to say how much they'd enjoyed my witterings, and how nice it was to see me sounding so perky.
The irony is, I spent this morning in tears at my desk, the snake coiled round my feet.
I went on that date on Sunday night, and when I got home we texted briefly. He said I was amazing and mentioned 'next time'. Then we texted a bit yesterday morning, but the speed of his responses sounded the Gong of Warning. It became clear that he wasn't that keen. And the annoying thing was, I hadn't been that keen either. I mean, he was really really funny. But I guess the sexual chemistry I felt could have had more to do with wine than I'd admitted previously. And he is as laid back as it's possible to be - to the point where, given a choice between two date venues, he genuinely doesn't care which one we go to, which is all fine and dandy, especially because I do obviously have an opinion so then we just get to do what I want and everyone's happy, right? Except that is a recipe for unmitigated disaster in relationship terms. I of all people need a leader, not a follower. I dunno. I didn't think he was perfect, sure, but I certainly didn't think he was perfectly awful, either. And he'd been so persuasive about how much he'd liked me, really ladling on the compliments, and then... poof!
GASP. Maybe the magician has made him vanish.
That is surely it.
But anyway, for whever reason, he's stopped texting me, and he's still on the dating website checking in regularly, so he's a) still alive and b) surfing around for other options. And, I mean, obviously that is fair enough, in that I am doing it too, and have a date coming up this Thursday. But still. It's this gaping chasm between a) my friends, who always say "I don't understand why you haven't been snapped up," and b) boys I fancy, who always say, "I don't want to see you ever again."
And so then I sit here and think - hmmm. That's the first date I've been on since my confidence took a beating in late February. And now I feel like shit again. Why do I keep on dating if it keeps giving my confidence a beating? And then I think: well, because I want, ultimately, to be in a relationship - because love is the best feeling on earth and, like pretty much everyone I know, I'd love to experience it. And then I think: well, that's fine, but we all know you can't look for love, and maybe you're just not occupied enough in the rest of your life and you're hoping too hard for love and coming across as desperate. And then I'm like: but hang on, how could I do any more? I'm basically so Ms Extra Curricular that I annoy myself with my smuggery, what with choir last night and uke tomorrow and late night museum tickets on Friday and Capital Ring on Sunday and god knows what else lined up for the coming months. But then we all know that merely being busy doesn't mean you're happy. But then what else could I do to make myself more happy and satisfied with my existence? I have wonderful friends and family. I'm deeply fortunate to be pretty much fit and healthy (snake excepted). I love my hometown. What else can I do? Maybe it's time for a break... I could go away for a bit. Change of scene. Writing opportunity... I've been talking about that for months. Maybe I should finally put my money where my mouth is and actually book something. But then... could doing that jeopardise my job? What if I go away and then whoever is covering for me ends up being better at my job than I am (e.g. by not spending all day writing blog entries) and they don't want me back? But then my job could end suddenly anyway. It certainly won't last forever: I need to confront what will happen when I leave. I should line up other options. Maybe if I went away for a couple of months, I could write while I was away and then I could start putting a safety net in place for Life After This Job. But then I read that and laugh, and think, for goodness' sake, moron, who ever heard of using writing as a safety net? Writing is about as safe as Gaza. Don't risk your security. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Don't you forget about me. But then... security is so... stable. I'm 32, with no kids, no relationship, an affordable mortgage and some savings. Why not go away? Go to China for two months, explore, have some adventures, come back and see what happens? And then I'm like: that's freaking terrifying. I hate rocking the boat, it feels grim. I'm a control freak. I like controlled fun: medium sized waves and lifejackets, not tsunamis and kayaks. But then... maybe the medium waves and the lifejacket is a bit boring. Maybe I'm feeling stifled. And then I was, like, ooh, my boss has just walked in, and before I knew it I was asking him about a sabbatical, and he said that it definitely could be doable, and now it looks like I'm going to China for eight weeks in September and October this year. All because some moronic short boy from Hull didn't text me back.
Madness.
The irony is, I spent this morning in tears at my desk, the snake coiled round my feet.
I went on that date on Sunday night, and when I got home we texted briefly. He said I was amazing and mentioned 'next time'. Then we texted a bit yesterday morning, but the speed of his responses sounded the Gong of Warning. It became clear that he wasn't that keen. And the annoying thing was, I hadn't been that keen either. I mean, he was really really funny. But I guess the sexual chemistry I felt could have had more to do with wine than I'd admitted previously. And he is as laid back as it's possible to be - to the point where, given a choice between two date venues, he genuinely doesn't care which one we go to, which is all fine and dandy, especially because I do obviously have an opinion so then we just get to do what I want and everyone's happy, right? Except that is a recipe for unmitigated disaster in relationship terms. I of all people need a leader, not a follower. I dunno. I didn't think he was perfect, sure, but I certainly didn't think he was perfectly awful, either. And he'd been so persuasive about how much he'd liked me, really ladling on the compliments, and then... poof!
GASP. Maybe the magician has made him vanish.
That is surely it.
But anyway, for whever reason, he's stopped texting me, and he's still on the dating website checking in regularly, so he's a) still alive and b) surfing around for other options. And, I mean, obviously that is fair enough, in that I am doing it too, and have a date coming up this Thursday. But still. It's this gaping chasm between a) my friends, who always say "I don't understand why you haven't been snapped up," and b) boys I fancy, who always say, "I don't want to see you ever again."
And so then I sit here and think - hmmm. That's the first date I've been on since my confidence took a beating in late February. And now I feel like shit again. Why do I keep on dating if it keeps giving my confidence a beating? And then I think: well, because I want, ultimately, to be in a relationship - because love is the best feeling on earth and, like pretty much everyone I know, I'd love to experience it. And then I think: well, that's fine, but we all know you can't look for love, and maybe you're just not occupied enough in the rest of your life and you're hoping too hard for love and coming across as desperate. And then I'm like: but hang on, how could I do any more? I'm basically so Ms Extra Curricular that I annoy myself with my smuggery, what with choir last night and uke tomorrow and late night museum tickets on Friday and Capital Ring on Sunday and god knows what else lined up for the coming months. But then we all know that merely being busy doesn't mean you're happy. But then what else could I do to make myself more happy and satisfied with my existence? I have wonderful friends and family. I'm deeply fortunate to be pretty much fit and healthy (snake excepted). I love my hometown. What else can I do? Maybe it's time for a break... I could go away for a bit. Change of scene. Writing opportunity... I've been talking about that for months. Maybe I should finally put my money where my mouth is and actually book something. But then... could doing that jeopardise my job? What if I go away and then whoever is covering for me ends up being better at my job than I am (e.g. by not spending all day writing blog entries) and they don't want me back? But then my job could end suddenly anyway. It certainly won't last forever: I need to confront what will happen when I leave. I should line up other options. Maybe if I went away for a couple of months, I could write while I was away and then I could start putting a safety net in place for Life After This Job. But then I read that and laugh, and think, for goodness' sake, moron, who ever heard of using writing as a safety net? Writing is about as safe as Gaza. Don't risk your security. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Don't you forget about me. But then... security is so... stable. I'm 32, with no kids, no relationship, an affordable mortgage and some savings. Why not go away? Go to China for two months, explore, have some adventures, come back and see what happens? And then I'm like: that's freaking terrifying. I hate rocking the boat, it feels grim. I'm a control freak. I like controlled fun: medium sized waves and lifejackets, not tsunamis and kayaks. But then... maybe the medium waves and the lifejacket is a bit boring. Maybe I'm feeling stifled. And then I was, like, ooh, my boss has just walked in, and before I knew it I was asking him about a sabbatical, and he said that it definitely could be doable, and now it looks like I'm going to China for eight weeks in September and October this year. All because some moronic short boy from Hull didn't text me back.
Madness.
Monday, 10 May 2010
Thirty two year old dog; new trick
So it's very quiet in my office - all I can hear is the hum of Sky News next door, which has been reporting the BREAKING NEWS about the election, which is that ABSOLUTELY NOTHING HAS BEEN DECIDED. Across the road, a pneumatic drill or similar has just started doing its thing on the Crossrail site works, but other than that, it's been pretty silent here all day. That said, I can hear something else: a soft moaning, interspersed with the occasional sob. At first, I couldn't work out the sound's source. It was so plaintive, so sad, and every time I heard a new moan, I felt a stab of pain for its owner, who was clearly in some discomfort. Eventually, I realised what has been making the noise all morning. My liver.
After a heavy night on Thursday, a relatively quiet one on Friday, and another major assault on Saturday, the last thing I should have done yesterday is headed out, fully hungover, on a date, which of course entailed compulsory Dutch courage from the moment we met at 15:30 hours until we parted company at around 23:30. How people can meet for the first time over coffee I have no idea. Anyway, it was fun, but today I feel like it would take a seven or eight year detox to give my body a chance to recover. To assist it, I ate a bacon sandwich for breakfast and a tuna sandwich for lunch - the latter included a healthy five slices of cucumber and is thus surely bringing me back up to prime fitness levels. Just to gild the lily, I drank a berry smoothie and now rival Usain Bolt for optimum muscular power. My internal organs, however, require some further work.
The guy I met was on his first ever internet date (allegedly), and basically slipped up at every hurdle with impressive panache, telling me that he'd lined up dates with other women (massive faux pas - although obviously everyone is seeing several people, and we all know that they know we are too, the great game is to pretend you are only interested in whoever is seated across the table) and, having examined the Popular List for the first time on my iPhone, asked if I would take a new profile photo of him to improve his chances. I reminded him that this was not ideal flirting etiquette. He agreed, but then a few minutes later said that one of the men on the Popular List looks like a guy he knows from Hull who was taken to court on a rape conviction. I said that, again, this possibly wasn't the best first date chat. Later, I was at the climax of my story about the guy who vomited all over himself on the tube, when our food arrived. So really, it was probably about even in the end. Ultimately, I did like him quite a lot - he is the first guy who's ever made me cry with laughter twice in one evening - but he has plenty of flaws I can focus on if he decides he doesn't like me too. Plus I was so tipsy at the end of the night that, en route to the loo, I saw a dark haired guy in a nice overcoat standing alone by the bar, holding a pack of cards. I asked him if he could do magic. He replied that he could. I told him emphatically that I hate magic. He proceeded to do some amazing amazing card tricks. I got progressively enraged. He gave me his number. I went to the loo. So that's a first: picking up a guy while on a date with someone else. I'd be disgusted with myself if I wasn't so impressed.
After a heavy night on Thursday, a relatively quiet one on Friday, and another major assault on Saturday, the last thing I should have done yesterday is headed out, fully hungover, on a date, which of course entailed compulsory Dutch courage from the moment we met at 15:30 hours until we parted company at around 23:30. How people can meet for the first time over coffee I have no idea. Anyway, it was fun, but today I feel like it would take a seven or eight year detox to give my body a chance to recover. To assist it, I ate a bacon sandwich for breakfast and a tuna sandwich for lunch - the latter included a healthy five slices of cucumber and is thus surely bringing me back up to prime fitness levels. Just to gild the lily, I drank a berry smoothie and now rival Usain Bolt for optimum muscular power. My internal organs, however, require some further work.
The guy I met was on his first ever internet date (allegedly), and basically slipped up at every hurdle with impressive panache, telling me that he'd lined up dates with other women (massive faux pas - although obviously everyone is seeing several people, and we all know that they know we are too, the great game is to pretend you are only interested in whoever is seated across the table) and, having examined the Popular List for the first time on my iPhone, asked if I would take a new profile photo of him to improve his chances. I reminded him that this was not ideal flirting etiquette. He agreed, but then a few minutes later said that one of the men on the Popular List looks like a guy he knows from Hull who was taken to court on a rape conviction. I said that, again, this possibly wasn't the best first date chat. Later, I was at the climax of my story about the guy who vomited all over himself on the tube, when our food arrived. So really, it was probably about even in the end. Ultimately, I did like him quite a lot - he is the first guy who's ever made me cry with laughter twice in one evening - but he has plenty of flaws I can focus on if he decides he doesn't like me too. Plus I was so tipsy at the end of the night that, en route to the loo, I saw a dark haired guy in a nice overcoat standing alone by the bar, holding a pack of cards. I asked him if he could do magic. He replied that he could. I told him emphatically that I hate magic. He proceeded to do some amazing amazing card tricks. I got progressively enraged. He gave me his number. I went to the loo. So that's a first: picking up a guy while on a date with someone else. I'd be disgusted with myself if I wasn't so impressed.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Electile dysfunction
Well. The fat lady is still doing her warm-up arpeggios - this fight is by no means finished - but it's nonetheless possible to draw some conclusions. What is certain is that, of the three losers last night, the LibDems are the biggest. They really didn't do very well at all under the circumstances, and my mood has moved from shock to disappointment. After a ridiculously positive campaign and a set of expectations that were hovering somewhere around the ozone layer, the party led by Nick Clegg actually lost seats on the night.
There are many possible explanations for what happened - one, of course, is that voters simply don't agree with LibDem policies - but with the election figures as they were, I find it extremely hard to get too worked up about any individual party's successes and failures. Now, more than ever, our electoral system is surely shown to suck in an extraordinary way.
One third of the electorate didn't vote at all. Out of the 65%-ish percent of people who did vote, only one in four voted for the Tories. Yes - they have the most seats and they got more votes than any other single party, but, as one poster on The Guardian liveblog wrote, Cameron has "about as much of a mandate as Osama Bin Laden."
The constituency boundaries being as they are, with a bullying media and only the marginal seats getting any attention, it is understandable that the majority of voters feel that only one of two parties had any chance of winning. Our system does not support more than two parties.
The Liberal Democrats came third, winning 23% of the popular vote. If that percentage was transferred proportionally to the number of seats, they would have won 149.5 seats out of the available 650. How many did they win under our present system? 57. Fifty freaking seven.
Labour won 29% of the popular vote, which should have earned them 188.5 seats - not the 258 they've got. And the Tories won 36.1%, which should have earned them 234.65 seats - not 306.
Electoral reform simply must happen for our national politics to have any hope of being taken seriously by the electorate in the future. I fear, however, that Clegg will do a deal with Cameron, who will promise some sort of vote on proportional representation - and then spend the next few months campaigning against it, with the Murdoch juggernaut behind him every step of the way. I believed that last night was a real chance for us to signal that we wanted things to be different in the future. Frustratingly, the majority of the electorate don't seem to agree with me - or, at least, they don't share my optimism that systemic change is even possible. In this dense swamp of bubbling shit, however, one thing is clear: for now, we've done all we can. This afternoon, I emailed all senior LibDem MPs to encourage them not to wimp out. You can do the same if you have a minute. But from this point on, I can only sit and wait. It'll be an interesting few days while our country's political future is thrashed out by men in suits behind closed doors, and, when they present us with their conclusion, we can accept it, or we can fight. But until then, we can lie around feeling tired and hungover. I am very good at that indeed.
Fallout from my election night party:
There are many possible explanations for what happened - one, of course, is that voters simply don't agree with LibDem policies - but with the election figures as they were, I find it extremely hard to get too worked up about any individual party's successes and failures. Now, more than ever, our electoral system is surely shown to suck in an extraordinary way.
One third of the electorate didn't vote at all. Out of the 65%-ish percent of people who did vote, only one in four voted for the Tories. Yes - they have the most seats and they got more votes than any other single party, but, as one poster on The Guardian liveblog wrote, Cameron has "about as much of a mandate as Osama Bin Laden."
The constituency boundaries being as they are, with a bullying media and only the marginal seats getting any attention, it is understandable that the majority of voters feel that only one of two parties had any chance of winning. Our system does not support more than two parties.
The Liberal Democrats came third, winning 23% of the popular vote. If that percentage was transferred proportionally to the number of seats, they would have won 149.5 seats out of the available 650. How many did they win under our present system? 57. Fifty freaking seven.
Labour won 29% of the popular vote, which should have earned them 188.5 seats - not the 258 they've got. And the Tories won 36.1%, which should have earned them 234.65 seats - not 306.
Electoral reform simply must happen for our national politics to have any hope of being taken seriously by the electorate in the future. I fear, however, that Clegg will do a deal with Cameron, who will promise some sort of vote on proportional representation - and then spend the next few months campaigning against it, with the Murdoch juggernaut behind him every step of the way. I believed that last night was a real chance for us to signal that we wanted things to be different in the future. Frustratingly, the majority of the electorate don't seem to agree with me - or, at least, they don't share my optimism that systemic change is even possible. In this dense swamp of bubbling shit, however, one thing is clear: for now, we've done all we can. This afternoon, I emailed all senior LibDem MPs to encourage them not to wimp out. You can do the same if you have a minute. But from this point on, I can only sit and wait. It'll be an interesting few days while our country's political future is thrashed out by men in suits behind closed doors, and, when they present us with their conclusion, we can accept it, or we can fight. But until then, we can lie around feeling tired and hungover. I am very good at that indeed.
Fallout from my election night party:
- Forty people can, it turns out, fit in my flat
- They don't eat as much as you'd think but it is definitely better to have too much food than not enough
- They open bottles of wine when others are already open, leaving you the morning after with around six or seven half-full bottles to drink and a degree of time pressure. I accept this challenge
- In the battle of the cups, all 15 of the LibDems were used, 14 Tory, 13 Green and - in a surprise and humiliating defeat, 8 red Labour cups remain untouched
- The taller you are, the more likely you are to be interested in the election and thus stand closest to the TV, preventing those who are shorter from getting involved. This is some sort of Darwinian process that continues to ensure that the weakest are not able to govern
- Do not serve crumbly brownies on cream carpet - unless, of course, you particularly want a cream carpet covered in sticky crumbs of brownie. If that is your goal, carry on with the certainty that you are doing precisely the right thing
- In a night of loss, there was one clear winner: the Black and Decker Dustbuster
- People who bring flowers are excellent
- Whatever happens with the election fallout, my friends rock and my seat appears to be safe
Thursday, 6 May 2010
I got the blues...
Well kids, things aren't looking too good for those of us on the left. But I tried my best, and that's all a gal can do. The nail in the coffin for me arrived early this afternoon when someone who I actually know told me, without any hint of embarrassment, that she got up prepared to vote LibDem and then, on the way to the polling station, saw no signs for them, so voted Tory. In a Tory/Labour marginal. I felt a bit like crying when I read her email. Additionally, I've been having a heated email debate with a guy in my office who is convinced that it is possible to vote Tory because you believe that the Tory party are the best party for the majority of UK citizens, whereas I'm arguing that no one could possibly believe a Tory government would benefit the majority of UK citizens, and that it is always a selfish vote. Of course, people are perfectly entitled to vote selfishly, and under a fair system, they arguably should (if everyone voted selfishly, we'd get the government that most of us wanted) but the problem is that our electoral system is not fair at the moment. If the Tories got in after we reform the voting system, then I'd be fine with it. Not ecstatic, but I'd bow to the majority. As it is, most people in the UK do not vote for the party that ends up governing us, whether it's Tory, Labour, or anyone else, and I think that's a crock of shit.
ANYWAY. It's a disappointing day, but I'm set to watch the results dribble in with a number of other people who will feel similarly disappointed. So that should help a bit. That and the VATS OF WINE I will be drinking. See you in the next government.
ANYWAY. It's a disappointing day, but I'm set to watch the results dribble in with a number of other people who will feel similarly disappointed. So that should help a bit. That and the VATS OF WINE I will be drinking. See you in the next government.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
The Final Countdown
Hmmm. No idea what's going on at the moment but I appear to have lost my blogging mojo. I'll tell you what it is, though - it's that I keep not writing it. Like exercise, the less you do it, the more you hate it. And, at this time in particular, I should be writing.
Because - deep breath - I really do believe that this is an extraordinary time for British politics. I'm sorry. I know you want to hear about my dating mishaps and the spots that mysteriously appeared on my left buttock last week. But this is urgent. I am greatly fearful that there will be a Tory government in a day or two - not only fearful because I don't think they are the best party to run the UK in the short term (although I really don't think they are) but because I am convinced that this election presents an opportunity to change the political system to something representative, and alter things for the better in the long term. Even if I were a potential Tory voter, I wouldn't want them to win tomorrow.
Just think of all the benefits a truly engaged electorate could bring to Britain. How different things would be if everyone cared about their society, everyone believed they had a voice and everyone believed their vote would matter and their opinion would be heard. I'm not saying that some form of proportional representation would create that society overnight. But I am saying that a continuation of this deeply-flawed FPTP system will guarantee that the vast majority of the electorate remain distant, unengaged and resentful for the forseeable future.
I live in an 'ultra safe' Labour constituency, which means that, according to the Voter Power Index, my vote is actually worth 0.6 of an actual vote. And that's true for the vast majority of us. Since less than 20% of constituencies are marginal, eight out of ten votes cast tomorrow are pretty much irrelevant. Eight out of ten people in Britain aren't being heard.
Depressed? You're right. It's a disgrace. And this is the only way I can think of for us to make it change. Please - if you can, vote to make a difference. Keep the Tories below the 300-odd seats they need to form a government and let's not miss the best chance our generation has ever had to make a better, fairer system for the whole of the UK.
Yes, you're right, the economy's fucked. Labour made some bad choices, George Osborne is still midway through puberty and the LibDems are very new to this game (although Cable isn't). The economy is going to be fucked whoever comes out on top tomorrow night. Analysts today announced that the UK is going to be in a worse financial state than Greece by the end of this year. The short term is going to be bad. So let's at least do what we can for the long term.
Go on. Do the right thing. Vote tactically and keep the Tories out. And tell everyone else to do the same thing. 40% of the electorate are apparently still wobbling. I know it's much more fun when I write about walking round without realising there's a penis drawn on my face in indelible marker (NB this has not yet happened) but this is a huge opportunity and I feel like I have to do my best.
Right. Best done. Rant over.
What have I been up to... Friday night I went to the ICA with Emily to see Vote Afghanistan!, a documentary about last year's rigged elections, which made me feel simultaneously hopeless and
buoyed, since at least we're not the only deeply misguided country out there. Brothers and sisters of Kabul - big shout out from London town! We'll all be ignored together!
Oh, sorry, I was meant to stop ranting.
Saturday night was excellent - Grania and I went to Islington to see beatboxer-extraordinaire, Beardyman, whose brilliance cannot be overstated. He was funny, politically engaged and supremely good at his job: what more can one ask? I stood there agog, playing my favourite 'identify the sample and cheer knowingly to impress other concert-goers at the speed at which you recognised it' game and trying not to stare too much at the pneumatic drill dance that the young couple were doing to my right, the boy spooning the girl and jacking up and down as if on a miniature and diesel-powered tandem pogo stick. It was a bit rank.
Sunday I took it easy with my parents and chewed the fat (and delicious flapjacks) at Alex and Ben's before trying to get an early night and failing. Monday I was fed and wined to perfection at Sara's. Yesterday I went to see Counted?, which tried its best but didn't manage to elevate itself above an educational schools play. I wish everyone in schools were shown it - it would be brilliant. But as it is, the half-full audience were mostly converted anyway and I felt like they were wasting their breath. And, possibly, our £22. The intellectual zenith for me occured when the main character asked another what his vote was worth, on a scale of one to ten. The guy said it was worth about seven. The main guy asked what was worth more? And I thought about it, and really, democracy - if you can get it - is so important, isn't it? Almost more than anything else in life. It hit home. And then I realised I was a bit sleepy after my Wagamama's dinner so I had a bit of a snooze.
I'm off shortly for uke fun and must go smother my currently-annoyingly-sensitive-and-slightly-stingy-for-no-clear-reason face in make-up, so I'll have to leave you with love. Vote well, my British amigos. The moment has come. And yeah, obviously we're going to have five years of shit Tory rule come Friday morning - make sure you can live with yourself for the next half decade.
OK. I really will shut up now.
Because - deep breath - I really do believe that this is an extraordinary time for British politics. I'm sorry. I know you want to hear about my dating mishaps and the spots that mysteriously appeared on my left buttock last week. But this is urgent. I am greatly fearful that there will be a Tory government in a day or two - not only fearful because I don't think they are the best party to run the UK in the short term (although I really don't think they are) but because I am convinced that this election presents an opportunity to change the political system to something representative, and alter things for the better in the long term. Even if I were a potential Tory voter, I wouldn't want them to win tomorrow.
Just think of all the benefits a truly engaged electorate could bring to Britain. How different things would be if everyone cared about their society, everyone believed they had a voice and everyone believed their vote would matter and their opinion would be heard. I'm not saying that some form of proportional representation would create that society overnight. But I am saying that a continuation of this deeply-flawed FPTP system will guarantee that the vast majority of the electorate remain distant, unengaged and resentful for the forseeable future.
I live in an 'ultra safe' Labour constituency, which means that, according to the Voter Power Index, my vote is actually worth 0.6 of an actual vote. And that's true for the vast majority of us. Since less than 20% of constituencies are marginal, eight out of ten votes cast tomorrow are pretty much irrelevant. Eight out of ten people in Britain aren't being heard.
Depressed? You're right. It's a disgrace. And this is the only way I can think of for us to make it change. Please - if you can, vote to make a difference. Keep the Tories below the 300-odd seats they need to form a government and let's not miss the best chance our generation has ever had to make a better, fairer system for the whole of the UK.
Yes, you're right, the economy's fucked. Labour made some bad choices, George Osborne is still midway through puberty and the LibDems are very new to this game (although Cable isn't). The economy is going to be fucked whoever comes out on top tomorrow night. Analysts today announced that the UK is going to be in a worse financial state than Greece by the end of this year. The short term is going to be bad. So let's at least do what we can for the long term.
Go on. Do the right thing. Vote tactically and keep the Tories out. And tell everyone else to do the same thing. 40% of the electorate are apparently still wobbling. I know it's much more fun when I write about walking round without realising there's a penis drawn on my face in indelible marker (NB this has not yet happened) but this is a huge opportunity and I feel like I have to do my best.
Right. Best done. Rant over.
What have I been up to... Friday night I went to the ICA with Emily to see Vote Afghanistan!, a documentary about last year's rigged elections, which made me feel simultaneously hopeless and
buoyed, since at least we're not the only deeply misguided country out there. Brothers and sisters of Kabul - big shout out from London town! We'll all be ignored together!
Oh, sorry, I was meant to stop ranting.
Saturday night was excellent - Grania and I went to Islington to see beatboxer-extraordinaire, Beardyman, whose brilliance cannot be overstated. He was funny, politically engaged and supremely good at his job: what more can one ask? I stood there agog, playing my favourite 'identify the sample and cheer knowingly to impress other concert-goers at the speed at which you recognised it' game and trying not to stare too much at the pneumatic drill dance that the young couple were doing to my right, the boy spooning the girl and jacking up and down as if on a miniature and diesel-powered tandem pogo stick. It was a bit rank.
Sunday I took it easy with my parents and chewed the fat (and delicious flapjacks) at Alex and Ben's before trying to get an early night and failing. Monday I was fed and wined to perfection at Sara's. Yesterday I went to see Counted?, which tried its best but didn't manage to elevate itself above an educational schools play. I wish everyone in schools were shown it - it would be brilliant. But as it is, the half-full audience were mostly converted anyway and I felt like they were wasting their breath. And, possibly, our £22. The intellectual zenith for me occured when the main character asked another what his vote was worth, on a scale of one to ten. The guy said it was worth about seven. The main guy asked what was worth more? And I thought about it, and really, democracy - if you can get it - is so important, isn't it? Almost more than anything else in life. It hit home. And then I realised I was a bit sleepy after my Wagamama's dinner so I had a bit of a snooze.
I'm off shortly for uke fun and must go smother my currently-annoyingly-sensitive-and-slightly-stingy-for-no-clear-reason face in make-up, so I'll have to leave you with love. Vote well, my British amigos. The moment has come. And yeah, obviously we're going to have five years of shit Tory rule come Friday morning - make sure you can live with yourself for the next half decade.
OK. I really will shut up now.
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