Le weekend

I'm so inspired by yesterday's class that I feel I should write everything in alphabetical sentences or useg a complex web of unexpected adjectives, but I only have about six seconds to write this before it's 5 o'clock and perish the thought that I might stay at my desk a microsecond longer than I am contractually obliged to. (Dangling preposition caused me problems there - any suggestions? 'a microsecond longer than that to which I am contractually obliged'? Goodness).

First on the recap list is Friday's Nick Drake tribute concert at the Barbican, which was emotional and wonderful and all sorts of other special things. My £15 restricted view seats weren't remotely restricted and it was one of those rare occasions where you actually feel like you have been undercharged. The orchestra was absolutely superb while the guest singers ranged from odd to seminal - a jazz singer called Krystal something was so extraordinary I felt as though I had witnessed something truly genre-defining. She was followed by the lovely Teddy Thompson, who ambled on stage and said, 'Well, that was good,' and then rolled his eyes, despairing at how to follow such a unique talent. Scott Matthews was really brilliant too, but what the different interpretations really highlighted was how much Drake's breathy, ramshackle voice was part of the recordings' collective soul - plonk another vocalist, however talented, on top of the still-perfect orchestrations and all you're left with is a yearning that it was Nick singing, not the newbie. For that reasons, the songs which were most different from the originals worked best, as the gap between then and now was celebrated rather than mourned. It was an extraordinary gig, and an honour to hear long-time Drake bassist, Danny Thompson. Leaving the building and strolling through the Moorfields Highwalk with Ses in the dark, weaving through that most fantastic complex on our way back to the tube, with those beautiful melodies ringing in our ears... London... you win again.

Argh, six minutes til deadline, the rest must be brief. A lovely weekend, filled with old friends, good food and wine on Saturday night and self-improvement and shopping on Sunday - I can't really concoct a more perfect recipe for a 48 hour period. I did cringe at this depressing symbol of modernity (left), proving that the overheard lyrics to Rihanna's first number one are more powerful than the in-house spellcheck at H&M, Covent Garden. But really, if that's all I can think of to complain about, then I'm doing pretty well. And now Monday's over, I'm off to choir, there's theatre tomorrow, ukulele on Wednesday, rolling with the homies on Thursday, girlie love-in on Friday, retro partying on Saturday and bracing walking on Sunday to come. Plus I am about to go to Boots and buy a new eyeliner which for some reason has given me butterflies. I am a consumerist whore and should be locked up.

No time to talk about the Cameron poster and I'm sure you've all seen it by now but cor blimey some of the efforts have been hilarious. Please enjoy here. God bless the internet. Ooh pants I'm late.

Rivetting

The news hasn't been making me smile much of late, but one of the comments in the online Guardian this morning did make me giggle, as the poster said that Labour and the Tories are so similar that there's not a "hare's breath" between them. I LOVE it when people make sense of things in their own head. The idea that s/he'd heard someone saying a 'hair's breadth' and thought that the breath of a hare would be, of course, so thin as to provide an ideal metaphor for similarity between two items is - if I may be forgiven for being enormously patronising - adorable. I think I may have mentioned before that my friend Eva had a charming interpretation of the lyric in Paula Abdul feat. MC Skat Kat's Opposites Attract which should be rapped, 'Nothing in common with this trust, I'm like minus, she's like a plus - one going up, one coming down but we seem to land on common ground.' Eva thought it was, 'I'm like a miner, she's like a bus,' and using the 'one going up, one coming down' moment, had made perfect sense of it all. On a different level, I used to think that it was some sort of coincidence that British judges were called Justice, and that a lot of ambitious mothers had been trying to determine their child's future by calling them appropriate names to make their CVs more likely to be selected from the pile. I also love the common slip-up 'fine toothcomb' which makes me think of very delicate people refusing to brush their teeth but instead choosing to comb them with a tiny silver implement, a bit like a miniature nit comb but, well, finer.

Much as I enjoy these linguistic nuances, I get the feeling that other people want to stab me in the eyes for my smug know-it-all-ness. And I do understand their irritation. But really, I'm only trying to help. Across the road from my office, the sign outside Bagel Mania has read 'Chilly con carne' for several months. Yesterday, I happened to walk by when a Maniac (surely the employees' name for themselves?) was cleaning the sign, so I thought I'd mention that there was a spelling mistake lower down. She looked at me as if I had just asked if she wanted to drink dog sick. "It's quite funny," I said with jollity, trying to show her that I knew it was all a bit of light-hearted banter. "You've written chilly with a y! That means it's cold! Brrrr!" As I caught myself rubbing my own upper arms in a bad charade, I knew that I must commit suicide for the benefit of society. No one likes a clever dick.

Lesson learned - but only for about 17 hours. This morning, Kate sent me an email saying she was 'rivetted' by something and I replied that it sounded like she was being fastened down with metal pins. I couldn't help myself. And I justified it too: what, I reasoned, would happen if Kate were writing to someone important and made such a terrible gaffe? But then I took a deep breath and reminded myself that no sane person gives two hoots about spelling mistakes, and that most sensible people will surely see my pedanticism as a petty little pseudo-religion which is created to make adherents feel like part of a community, cultivating a failing Other so that they can feel superior to someone. Of course, inevitably, the tiny community is full of petty-minded pseuds with nothing better to do than correct people's spelling and grammar. And I'm one of them. Urgh. I need a new hobby.

Slave to the rhythm

Despite almost 32 years of evidence to the contrary - and, believe me, no one was more shocked than I to find out the truth - it has emerged that I Am Cool. For on Saturday night, I attended the UK Beatboxing Championships Final and I had a motherfucking brilliant time. (Note: if, like me, you are a fan of beatboxing, you will know that you have to say motherfucking before every single motherfucking thing you say. That's what the motherfucking kids are doing.) What was even more motherfucking cool than the abso-motherfucking-lutely incredible beatboxing was the fact that in the motherfucking hiatus between the first and second rounds, some motherfuckers in the audience started an impromptu motherfucking dance-off! A genuine one, with everyone standing around watching, wearing a face that said "I could obviously dance as well as this too, I just can't be motherfucking bothered right now." I was well impressed. Since then I've been hanging out with my motherfucking parents and tonight I have motherfucking choir practice.

Rubbish mnemonics

OK, I don't think these are mnemonics exactly because I think mnemonics are made up to help you spell things, and these are things made up to help you remember other things more easily. But whatever they're called, they're rubbish. The first one is the American 'Spring forward, fall back' which is meant to help you remember the clocks situation. And the second is to help you differentiate between stalagtites and stalagmites - and it's something to do with pulling up your tights versus holding on with all your might. My problem with both of these mnonomics is that they are both shit. In that they are both fully flexible. I can spring back or forward. In theory, of course, depending on my hangover situation. And, as illustrated by the drunk man on the escalator the other night, it is equally possible to fall in both directions. So how, pray tell, is that supposed to help me remember which goes with which?

Similarly, as far as I have been aware up to this point, tights can be pulled both up and down, and while it is of course conceivable that one might hold on with all one's might, it is also surely an option to push up with all one's might. I will concede that it is not often that I am called upon to differentiate between a stalagtite and a salagmite, and really the only time I seem to come up against them is during school trips to Wooky Hole in Wiltshire, which I'm assuming won't be happening much for me any more, since I'm 31. But the spring forward, fall back thing is frustrating, not least because even if I remember which way round it goes, it still doesn't really help me work out what the hell is going on. I mean, if the clocks have gone forward, what does that mean? What would be really useful is a mnonomic to warn us which one is the rubbish one that means getting up an hour earlier than usual. This information is at my fingertips at the moment, because it's just happened. So, I can tell you that Spring is bad for fans of sleep, while Autumn is good. OK, it's not that catchy, but at least it tells you what you need to know.

While I'm ranting, what is this about? In a development that I noticed this morning, it appears that Gmail has left every single folder heading capitalised, except 'inbox'. Now, I'm as flexible and easy going as the next person (provided that next person is highly strung to the point of physical rupture), but why not have some consistency with the labels? All lower case, while being grammatically questionable, would at least have been more attractive. But surely I have more important things to be worrying about?

You'd think so, wouldn't you? Well, what's been happening. I've been in prime self-distraction mode so as to prevent myself from moping. Friday night I met up with Emily and we bought make-up and had a fun dinner. We bumped into an old school friend in Primark at about 8pm and were mocking our own tragic lifestyles whereby the friend hadn't been hounded by anyone at all to do anything social that evening, and I made her feel better by saying that my phone had only rung once that day, about 15 minutes earlier, and it was Emily trying to find me among the vest tops. Saturday was spent repainting my kitchen in Red Stallion 2, a colour I chose approx. 76% because I liked the colour and 24% because the name was persuasive. Sunday was our choir concert which went better than expected and I enjoyed the apres-sing drinks in Shepherd's Market so heartily that I got all the way to the bus stop before realising I'd left my handbag in the pub. Last night I went to see the world premiere (not sold out) of In Search of Beethoven with my dad at the Barbican. It was good but the director made all the talking heads look into the lens, which I found disconcerting. And, as a recent Tweet revealed, I learned conclusively that I don't really like Beethoven's music - with the exception of a few adagio movements. Still, it's good to know these things. Now I'm going to buy more self-help books and then I'm off for dinner with Justin. Could be worse.

"Lost Looking For Fish: the world's best occasional blog!"

Do you know what I hate? When B-grade companies, in a desperate attempt to make their pathetic attempts at marketing appear more persuasive, put every inane untruth in a pair of inverted commas. The shoddy-looking chiropodist down the road from my office who claims to be "A haven of health" has clearly realised that no-one would believe such an absurdity if it wasn't surrounded by those all-validating quotation marks. "London's best bagels!" proclaims a local eaterie, entirely failing to mention which culinary mastermind or boiled bread lover has tested every single bagel in the capital before settling on a winner using a perspex clipboard and a complex system of multiple choice and pi. "A holiday you'll never forget" - what about after a head injury? And who's making this claim? What is their version of unforgettable? A fortnight at Guantanamo would certainly stick around in the memory but it's not necessarily something I'd rush to use my Air Miles on...

It must be true, suggests the punctuation, because someone has said it out loud. Sneaking into our subconscious like crack, the speech marks suggest that a third person - perhaps, egad! a celebrity or someone intelligent enough to form an actual opinion - has opened their lipglossed mouth and voiced their thoughts; surrounded by speech marks, suddenly what was previously just an annoying boast has magically been transformed into an objective and plausible fact. Readers, it sends me into sweats of rage. Honestly, it's a miracle I can write about it without requiring sedation, but I risk my health so that you, too, will start noticing this modern punctuatory irritant and choose to remain doggedly unpersuaded by it. Smokes and mirrors, ladies and gentlemen - that's all it is. And it's up to us to resist temptation. Consumers of the world, unite against this trickery! Do not fall for this falsity! Unaccredited quotations do not equal truth! "Jumping off a cliff is brilliant!" Hello? Anyone?

All change

Now that I'm a resident Sarf Londoner, I no longer have to commute for 65 mins each morning and night, via bus and Hammersmith and City Line, to reach my place of work. Now I simply walk a few paces from my front door, hop aboard a Northern Line tube and, theoretically in less than 20 mins after departure, I should be ensconsed at my desk, slouched down in my uncomfortable office chair, counting the minutes until I can leave to go home.

However, I have now commuted into the City several times from my new abode and the reality is a little bit more... fragranced. The Hammersmith and City line may have been slow but I always got a seat. This Tuesday I had to wait for six packed Northern Line trains to go past before I found one I could squeeze on. And when I say 'squeeze', I mean 'get my feet on the step, lever myself in using the handrail, duck my head to avoid the doors, categorically do not catch anyone's eye for fear of being stabbed or shot using a silencer, where no one would realise that I was dead until we reached London Bridge and the train emptied a fraction, leaving me unpropped and allowing my still-sweaty corpse to crumple to the ground'.

Then on Wednesday, at precisely the same time and for no discernable reason, the carriage was pleasantly empty and I even nabbed a seat after Kennington. Today was somewhere between the two extremes - still full as a fat man after a buffet but a little bit less aggressive. One thing's for sure, I am determined to get on the first tube home at 5pm today - it's all go at the flat and being at work is tantamount to torture. I will pour myself into any available space, disregarding the clucks of irritation from any nearby passengers who boarded the train at an earlier stop and are therefore allegedly justified to resent me for trying, like them, to get home. Yesterday, I admit, I did slightly take the piss, slotting myself on board a more-than-max-capacity train at 5.15pm while carrying my sizeable orange leather handbag, an overnight bag, a gym bag and a large carrier from Robert Dyas containing awkwardly shaped items including a largeish plank of wood affixed with several coat hooks. The guy opposite me shook his head in an exasperated manner, exhaled loudly and said 'What are you doing?' in the tone of a disappointed parent. I apologised and explained that I was hoping to get home and that the next train was not for a further five minutes. An older couple sympathised with me and even though I know that the rush hour tube is a free for all, I felt rude and selfish for crowding him.

Talking of Sarf London, as opposed to South, Laura told me a story about her boyfriend's 6-year-old daughter who has grown up in Dagenham, Essex, and who was writing about her weekend for a school project. Describing a trip to the park, she wrote that she'd been on the swings and the 'randabat', never having realised that this fun playground activity was named fairly straightforwardly because it goes round and about. Being able to spell what one hears is a massive part of writing so the young gal should be publicly congratulated - and then perhaps laughed about behind her back. Laura didn't manage this last part, chuckling openly in front of the confused child, and was reprimanded firmly.

George W. Bush is on TV. God he's thick.

Sunday summary

There is a unique type of moment when I'm sitting amongst a large and intimidating group of people and I realise that, in a few seconds, I will put my hand in the air and ask a question. My heart - thankfully fairly unnoticeable and reliable at all other times - will seem to shift north around five inches, coming to a halt at the base of my neck. Lodged in its new position, it will start to contract and expand with terrifying force and velocity, giving me the sensation that an angry racehorse is trying to kick its way out of my body through my sternum. Simultaneously, the blood will rush through my ears, my face will redden and I will be unable to hear anything except the pounding hooves. The sensation is not pleasant but I will be powerless to resist the pull towards my question, for once the process has begun it will not cease until it has reached a satisfactory conclusion.

I went through just this involuntary cycle on Thursday night when I went to see Tony Benn speak in Bloomsbury. He really is incredibly inspiring and made me feel fairly small for doing so relatively little to change the existing status quo. He mentioned that he'd left Parliament to concentrate on politics and that he now spends his time campaigning for several issues about which he feels particularly passionate. I asked him which of these he felt was most important and he said, 'It has to be peace, doesn't it. Because without that, everything else shrinks into the background.'

On Friday I was disgruntled when my boss clarified that the amount he was giving me as a bonus was, in fact, in Euros, not Sterling, wiping a third off the figure I'd been expecting. But later I laughed when I realised that an hilarious and select group of items are supplied by 'mongers': cheese, fish, iron and doom. The English language really is fantastic.

On Saturday I decided that the price difference between B&Q and Homebase is entirely justified. Dad and I went to B&Q first to buy my paint and various other sundries. After standing for several minutes, unassisted, at the paint mixing desk, we were eventually startled when a tiny, young, male helper appeared in front of us with more gaps than teeth in his mouth. When we asked for a meagre 5 litres of paint, he informed us chirpily that our request was impossible as, due to a computer error, they didn't currently have any in-store. We drove to Homebase which, after the apocalyptic hell of B&Q, seemed like an oasis of order created by Capability Brown. Everything was serene and efficient, there was a surplus of paint, a helpful assistant with excellent dental work and a 10% off deal.

Last night I had a blast from the past, attending a dinner party in west London with a few schoolfriends and their boyfriends. One needs to be a fairly serious Trivial Pursuit fan to insist upon playing with the old board and the new questions, but I was in the company of fellow obsessives. The if-you-knock-the-piece-of-pie-out-of-the-holder-by-accident, you-lose-it-forever rule was invoked, as was a new (to me) condition, that, once all six pieces of pie have been collected, you 'parachute' straight to the middle for the final countdown. I loved the use of the term parachute. Once at the centre, we played the standard 654321 method, where in your first go, your team must answer all six questions on one card correctly to win the game. If this fails, at your next turn you must answer five correctly to win, then four, then then three until a victory is reached. We were playing girls against boys and I'm pleased to say that we won comprehensively in an extremely irritating fashion by eventually working out the answers after several minutes of intense and wide-ranging discussion. 'Was it Japan? No, no - South Korea. No, I'm sure it was Germany. Ooh, no, it was Spain, I remember we did it in Middle IV.'

Now I must go for a run to clear my head and thin my thighs, then to Hammersmith buy a bathroom sink and some taps, then to the flat, then back here for American Idol. And tomorrow, the painting begins. I'm genuinely not sure I can handle the excitement.