Happy Christmas, one and all. Sorry I'm late. It's been a strange few days and I am now trying to help my parents use their three-year-old vinyl-to-mp3 USB turntable, unopened until today, but the software that came with it is so appalling that I challenge its designer to use it without wanting to drag the stylus over his own retina after a handful of seconds. As a sample of the aforementioned crapness, how's this: it installs a handy shortcut icon on your desktop but will double clicking it open the programme? No it will not. How about right clicking and selecting 'Open'? No. How to open the programme? It is impossible - unless you uninstall it and reinstall it from the CD-Rom. Then it works. Oh how handy. I am now listening to Judy Collins' Greatest Hits through the tinny bass-free computer speakers for approx. the sixth time as it has taken several attempts to know if we're recording successfully. My mum is doing sudoku on a sofa a few feet away and keeps absent-mindedly breaking into a tremulous warble before abandoning it, saying, 'Oh, this used to be one of my favourites.'
My latest attempt to record Side B started crackling wildly so I stopped the recording after forty minutes, only to find that there was no record of it on their PC. I have now given up, something I don't find easy but which must be done in order to preserve the functional state of my parents' laptop - the alternative is putting it on the floor and then repeatedly jumping up and down on it in my Fitflop boots until it admits, out loud, that it is at least six thousand times less user-friendly than a Mac.
Vinyl-ripping aside, I have now reached the long-longed-for stage of Winterval where my duties are over. On Christmas Eve the three of us went to the Albert Hall for a carol concert, where we were joined by two of my parents' friends who I've not met before. Seven people came for lunch on the Day Itself, making ten in total. Then yesterday we went to a pub on the river to meet another (much larger) family and then walked back to their house for lunch. It's all been lovely and festive and fun and there have been many laughs, particularly from my dad's ecstatic and near-constant use of his new Britain's Got Talent judges' buzzer, but there's always a sense of relief when all the socialising is over and you know you can don your jeans and your unflattering jumper and not be polite to anyone for the next hundred hours.
But every year, the euphoria fades after around nine minutes and I am soon left feeling listless, yet with a list of things to do and a hangover. This year's list includes a) teaching myself how to transfer vinyl to my parents' PC, a fairly bearable task that pales into heaven beside task b), teaching my parents how to transfer vinyl to their PC, which may as well be labelled Inevitable Armageddon. Since I haven't yet managed to complete stage a), I've been spared stage b), but still feel like I've let the side down. Countless others complaining about the shit software online won't console my parents, who've been gestating this project excitedly for a long time, desperately keen to ditch the records to create valuable storage space for their burgeoning collection of old bedside lamps, blankets and Eighties skiwear. I had also allocated these days to: writing, learning how to use my sewing machine, practicing my ukulele and clearing out my Gmail inbox - a selection of chores that wouldn't be misery-inducing, except that my parents are constantly boiling, fanning themselves dramatically and opening the back door to encourage a through draft, so today I have been wearing Rudolph socks, fur-lined boots, jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, cashmere jumper, scarf, beret and fleece, but have still been freezing since dawn and am unable to do anything except lie around under a blanket and moan gently. I mooted returning to my flat but I think my mother is disappointed. I'd be happy to stay longer except I don't really want to.
Like I say, it's been a strange few days. I love Christmas and on the surface, Winterval 2010 has been splendid, but recent changes within have meant that I'm definitely more aware than I used to be of my solitude - and by that I mean that separateness that exists whether you're with close friends in a crowded room or on your own in an empty flat, a fact that wouldn't be changed by the addition of a boyfriend, twins or a short-haired Dachshund. In the past, I've distracted myself with going out, planning future evenings out, chatting on the phone to people about times I've gone out in the past and times I am planning to go out in the future, writing about going out, fancying boys, or telling myself that I wouldn't be alone forever. Now something massive has shifted and I've accepted that my old denial wasn't getting me anywhere. In some ways, we're all on our own - married with babies or not - and I have to like it or lump it rather than search endlessly for distractions. Such a Copernican shift, intangible though it is, is proving a little tricky. Ideally, I'd learn how to see our psychological isolation as a good thing rather than as ultimate proof that life is a crock. Somehow I have to come to terms with it rather than feeling that I'm being massively negative and buzzkillish - but in this, I don't think I'm alone: I can't imagine that I'm the only person who views the fact of their own psychological solitude with a sense of shame, and the fact of others' with pity. Right now, it seems to me cruel that we are genetically social creatures, and that the furtherance of our species relies on us being physically and emotionally connected at the deepest level, but that, from the moment our existence begins to the moment it ends, we are the only people in our heads and will forever be the only person who lives our life. Hunter S. Thompson had sensible things to say on the subject (below) - I just hope I get there soonish. Maybe Christmas isn't the easiest time to learn:
"We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and - in spite of True Romance magazines - we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely - at least, not all the time - but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness."
Showing posts with label Mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mother. Show all posts
Monday, 27 December 2010
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Six days in April
Rage. I've done it again: left writing my blog for so long that I am now overwhelmed with information and feel as though I should split it up under subheadings. Maybe I will.
Cocksuckgate
Last Thursday morning I phoned my mother just before I got to the airport, to say goodbye and reassure her that I had not yet died, an almost-daily ritual for which she seems to be grateful.
"Oh, Jane, I'm glad you called," she said, solemnly. "I was just about to email you." She sounded close to tears.
"What's wrong?" I asked in a high-pitched voice that indicated my panic.
"Your... your blog, Jane..." she said. I wasn't much the wiser.
"What about it?"
"Dad and I... we're both... shocked."
"What about?"
"I can hardly say it... You used the word..." (I tried to scan my memory of what the offensive item could possibly be) "...cocksucker."
I roared with laughter.
"So?!" I asked. Mum was not reassured.
"It's awful, Jane," she said. "So vulgar. So... unfeminine."
"Really? Worse than fucking?" I asked.
"Oh god, yes," she said, emphatically. "So much worse than fucking."
I told her that I believe this is a generational difference, but she seemed so gobsmacked by my labelling the volcanic ash as something that fellates that I felt it necessary to do a straw poll on arriving in France. I asked around twenty people in their early thirties, none of whom felt that a cocksucking volcano is any worse than a fucking volcano. Of course, we all agreed that fucking and cocksucking are both vulgar and unfeminine, so mother, you are indeed correct on that point. But for any of my mother's friends, or indeed any others, who read this blog and feel that she has failed in her parenting duties as a result of my free use of profanities, I apologise. Only the good bits of me are a reflection of her, i.e. my skin that tans, my love of birds and my US citizenship. Everything else is my dad's fault.
France
So I went to France for Emily's wedding and it was one of those cominglings of beautiful people and beautiful surroundings and beautiful emotions and beautiful food that made me simultaneously joyous and painfully and continually aware that, of the youth contingent, and as a fairly normal size 14 gal, I was the fattest female there by about nine stone. I kid you not. I genuinely reckon I could have got three of the other wedding guests into each leg of my jeans. There were literally miles of smooth, slim, tanned thighs on show, and the men's eyes were, naturally, out on stalks. I could have collected the drool and irrigated southern Africa for a month.
To distract myself, I forwent my wheat ban and ate baguette, and I sunbathed and met tiny ponies. It was all going rather well until I got dressed up on Saturday afternoon for the wedding, and had one of those rare moments when I looked in the mirror and thought I had managed to make myself look momentarily bearable. To celebrate, I asked Kate to take some photographs of me outside for posterity. She snapped away for a minute or so and said she'd got some good ones. I retrieved my camera and looked at the screen. In the (approx.) six minutes since I'd put on my make-up in the bathroom mirror, the circumference of my face appeared to have inflated by around an inch. I briefly became convinced that I was the victim of a cruel pre-wedding allergic reaction but then I double-checked with Kate, who assured me that the photo was, in fact, normal and that I was looking at a picture of What I Look Like. This could not be true. Desperate for a second opinion, I showed Christianne the mutant image and was sorely disappointed at her distinct lack of horrified gasps or attempts to shield my eyes from the appalling aberration. On the contrary: it appeared that the grotesque image before me was not only fairly representative but actually flattering. Shortly afterwards, we got in the car and drove to the wedding, the other three girls chattering happily as I tried to come to terms with the realisation that I look utterly, utterly different to what I thought and that my fictional version was much prettier.
Of course, the weekend was not all about me. We had a fantastic few days in and around Mirmande, made all the more precious as the volcano had done its best to keep us away, and I made new friends and passionately loved my old ones. The bride was stunning, the groom's speech was excellent, the venue was magical, I didn't fall over on the dancefloor, the lunch the day afterwards was dreamy, my skirt didn't blow up in the wind and reveal my pants, the band were crush-worthy and best of all, I managed to get a mild tan which, as Kate continually stated, will "set us up" for the summer. Here's hoping.
Election 2010
What is weird is that I have voted. I posted it yesterday. Fortunately I haven't yet regretted my decision although I'm not denying that might happen between now and 6th May. I almost regretted my entire existence last night, however, when Sara, Rog, Grania and I sat through the most excruciating event ever at the Union Chapel. Instigate Debate was meant to be a cutting edge two-fingers-up at the mass media approaches to politics; the NME called it "the most important underground movement," which, if true, is enough to finish me off once and for all.
Invited speakers were Dame Vivienne Westwood; Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, Harriet Harman; ex-Labour MP and current Green candidate, Peter Tatchell; ex-Mayoral candidate and LibDem hotshot, Simon Hughes; and Shadow Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, Jeremy Hunt. Music was to be from the Magic Numbers, Shlomo and Rose Elinor Dougall, and we were promised comedy from The Amazing Tommy and the Weeks.
In reality, Dame Viv didn't turn up and nor did Jeremy Hunt - in their place we got the Tory candidate for Putney, a dumpy young thickie who tried admirably to compete with Tatchell, Harman and Hughes and got absolutely nowhere. The Magic Numbers turned out to be one-of-the-Magic-Numbers, which is a bit different, while Tommy and the Weeks were about as Amazing as a pavement. The host, John O'Sullivan, was a self-satisfied, shambolic, patronising blunderbus who encouraged the audience to ask questions and then ignored what they said and asked his own. He sneered at an intern who passed him a note during the evening, consistently called 'his hero' Peter Tatchell 'Thatchell', and introduced beatboxer Shlomo as 'one of the best rappers in the world'. The evening had an absurdly obvious LibDem bias which shat all over any concept that we were watching a genuine 'debate' and I was fully embarrassed to witness the politicians going through such a risible two hours. It was an unmitigated disaster. On the upside, Shlomo was great, but watching him work his magic in front of a stifled smattering of uptight politicos sitting in church pews was painful. £5 I would rather have spent on something useful, like Compeed or stamps. Meh. You win some, you lose some.
Right. Must go hang out my whites wash.
Cocksuckgate
Last Thursday morning I phoned my mother just before I got to the airport, to say goodbye and reassure her that I had not yet died, an almost-daily ritual for which she seems to be grateful.
"Oh, Jane, I'm glad you called," she said, solemnly. "I was just about to email you." She sounded close to tears.
"What's wrong?" I asked in a high-pitched voice that indicated my panic.
"Your... your blog, Jane..." she said. I wasn't much the wiser.
"What about it?"
"Dad and I... we're both... shocked."
"What about?"
"I can hardly say it... You used the word..." (I tried to scan my memory of what the offensive item could possibly be) "...cocksucker."
I roared with laughter.
"So?!" I asked. Mum was not reassured.
"It's awful, Jane," she said. "So vulgar. So... unfeminine."
"Really? Worse than fucking?" I asked.
"Oh god, yes," she said, emphatically. "So much worse than fucking."
I told her that I believe this is a generational difference, but she seemed so gobsmacked by my labelling the volcanic ash as something that fellates that I felt it necessary to do a straw poll on arriving in France. I asked around twenty people in their early thirties, none of whom felt that a cocksucking volcano is any worse than a fucking volcano. Of course, we all agreed that fucking and cocksucking are both vulgar and unfeminine, so mother, you are indeed correct on that point. But for any of my mother's friends, or indeed any others, who read this blog and feel that she has failed in her parenting duties as a result of my free use of profanities, I apologise. Only the good bits of me are a reflection of her, i.e. my skin that tans, my love of birds and my US citizenship. Everything else is my dad's fault.
France
So I went to France for Emily's wedding and it was one of those cominglings of beautiful people and beautiful surroundings and beautiful emotions and beautiful food that made me simultaneously joyous and painfully and continually aware that, of the youth contingent, and as a fairly normal size 14 gal, I was the fattest female there by about nine stone. I kid you not. I genuinely reckon I could have got three of the other wedding guests into each leg of my jeans. There were literally miles of smooth, slim, tanned thighs on show, and the men's eyes were, naturally, out on stalks. I could have collected the drool and irrigated southern Africa for a month.
To distract myself, I forwent my wheat ban and ate baguette, and I sunbathed and met tiny ponies. It was all going rather well until I got dressed up on Saturday afternoon for the wedding, and had one of those rare moments when I looked in the mirror and thought I had managed to make myself look momentarily bearable. To celebrate, I asked Kate to take some photographs of me outside for posterity. She snapped away for a minute or so and said she'd got some good ones. I retrieved my camera and looked at the screen. In the (approx.) six minutes since I'd put on my make-up in the bathroom mirror, the circumference of my face appeared to have inflated by around an inch. I briefly became convinced that I was the victim of a cruel pre-wedding allergic reaction but then I double-checked with Kate, who assured me that the photo was, in fact, normal and that I was looking at a picture of What I Look Like. This could not be true. Desperate for a second opinion, I showed Christianne the mutant image and was sorely disappointed at her distinct lack of horrified gasps or attempts to shield my eyes from the appalling aberration. On the contrary: it appeared that the grotesque image before me was not only fairly representative but actually flattering. Shortly afterwards, we got in the car and drove to the wedding, the other three girls chattering happily as I tried to come to terms with the realisation that I look utterly, utterly different to what I thought and that my fictional version was much prettier.
Of course, the weekend was not all about me. We had a fantastic few days in and around Mirmande, made all the more precious as the volcano had done its best to keep us away, and I made new friends and passionately loved my old ones. The bride was stunning, the groom's speech was excellent, the venue was magical, I didn't fall over on the dancefloor, the lunch the day afterwards was dreamy, my skirt didn't blow up in the wind and reveal my pants, the band were crush-worthy and best of all, I managed to get a mild tan which, as Kate continually stated, will "set us up" for the summer. Here's hoping.
Election 2010
What is weird is that I have voted. I posted it yesterday. Fortunately I haven't yet regretted my decision although I'm not denying that might happen between now and 6th May. I almost regretted my entire existence last night, however, when Sara, Rog, Grania and I sat through the most excruciating event ever at the Union Chapel. Instigate Debate was meant to be a cutting edge two-fingers-up at the mass media approaches to politics; the NME called it "the most important underground movement," which, if true, is enough to finish me off once and for all.
Invited speakers were Dame Vivienne Westwood; Deputy Leader of the Labour Party, Harriet Harman; ex-Labour MP and current Green candidate, Peter Tatchell; ex-Mayoral candidate and LibDem hotshot, Simon Hughes; and Shadow Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, Jeremy Hunt. Music was to be from the Magic Numbers, Shlomo and Rose Elinor Dougall, and we were promised comedy from The Amazing Tommy and the Weeks.
In reality, Dame Viv didn't turn up and nor did Jeremy Hunt - in their place we got the Tory candidate for Putney, a dumpy young thickie who tried admirably to compete with Tatchell, Harman and Hughes and got absolutely nowhere. The Magic Numbers turned out to be one-of-the-Magic-Numbers, which is a bit different, while Tommy and the Weeks were about as Amazing as a pavement. The host, John O'Sullivan, was a self-satisfied, shambolic, patronising blunderbus who encouraged the audience to ask questions and then ignored what they said and asked his own. He sneered at an intern who passed him a note during the evening, consistently called 'his hero' Peter Tatchell 'Thatchell', and introduced beatboxer Shlomo as 'one of the best rappers in the world'. The evening had an absurdly obvious LibDem bias which shat all over any concept that we were watching a genuine 'debate' and I was fully embarrassed to witness the politicians going through such a risible two hours. It was an unmitigated disaster. On the upside, Shlomo was great, but watching him work his magic in front of a stifled smattering of uptight politicos sitting in church pews was painful. £5 I would rather have spent on something useful, like Compeed or stamps. Meh. You win some, you lose some.
Right. Must go hang out my whites wash.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Back to the groined
Oooooooh it's weird to be back here, wearing a black dress and high heels, perched on my kneeling posture stool in my little glass box, dreaming about huskies and sow-nas and reindeer kebabs. But it's fine. I mentally arrived back in London as the Gatwick Express crossed the Thames late on Sunday night and we saw Albert Bridge lit up to our left - there's certainly a shortage of limitless expanses of frozen lakes round these parts but it's still beautiful.
Yesterday evening, as planned, I hopped in my mother's car and we drove to Ikea. Mum has since revealed that, in her head, she'd thought I might buy a couple of scatter cushions and some candles, so, some four hours later, as we heaved the trollies towards the car, pushing in front of us a large chest of drawers, an oversized full length mirror, a tallish indoor palm tree, a floor lamp and several other items of varying bulk, she tentatively asked how I was going to fit this all on the tube, and I confidently said 'You're driving me home!' as in my head, that had been the plan all along. Note to both of us: relay plans from inside our heads when those plans involve other people.
The personal low point in an otherwise splendid evening was when I was trying to drag the huge mirror onto my wheelie crate thing in the loading area, and the crate wouldn't stay still and the mirror looked like it was going to slide and shatter, and I didn't want to ask Mum for help because I knew she would say the mirror was too big and that it wouldn't fit in her car (which she did indeed say, semi-accurately, a few moments later) so I struggled on my own, holding the trolley with one foot and manoeuvring the mirror with another, resulting in me pulling a muscle in my inner thigh. There are lots of reasons to dread Ikea, but getting a groin injury was not an incident for which I'd prepared myself emotionally. In the end, I forced Mum to drive with the mirror slid along the length of the car and out between the two front seats and the boot tied shut with string, a set-up that was almost certainly illegal but basically fine, and we got back to my flat without traffic dramas - there were verbal exchanges that my dad might have defined as 'a little iffy' but once back home, she phoned me to say that she'd calmed down. Today she admitted that she thought she was at risk of having a stroke but I maintain it is all good exercise.
I assembled the six drawers of my new chest last night between approx. 21:30 and 22:50, and have decided that putting together flat pack furniture is my new favourite thing in the whole world. It is like doing a jigsaw for grown-ups, and you get a new piece of practical home storage as a prize. What's not to like? I have vigorous butterflies about constructing the outer housing but sadly my next free window is on Monday 29th so I will have to quell my winged friends until then. The remainder of this week is firmly back to business as usual, with breakdancing (someone else, not me), ukulele (me and others), real ale (him, not me), a birthday party (theirs, not mine) and a country jaunt in the schedule. Loins are girded. Groins are sensitive.
Yesterday evening, as planned, I hopped in my mother's car and we drove to Ikea. Mum has since revealed that, in her head, she'd thought I might buy a couple of scatter cushions and some candles, so, some four hours later, as we heaved the trollies towards the car, pushing in front of us a large chest of drawers, an oversized full length mirror, a tallish indoor palm tree, a floor lamp and several other items of varying bulk, she tentatively asked how I was going to fit this all on the tube, and I confidently said 'You're driving me home!' as in my head, that had been the plan all along. Note to both of us: relay plans from inside our heads when those plans involve other people.
The personal low point in an otherwise splendid evening was when I was trying to drag the huge mirror onto my wheelie crate thing in the loading area, and the crate wouldn't stay still and the mirror looked like it was going to slide and shatter, and I didn't want to ask Mum for help because I knew she would say the mirror was too big and that it wouldn't fit in her car (which she did indeed say, semi-accurately, a few moments later) so I struggled on my own, holding the trolley with one foot and manoeuvring the mirror with another, resulting in me pulling a muscle in my inner thigh. There are lots of reasons to dread Ikea, but getting a groin injury was not an incident for which I'd prepared myself emotionally. In the end, I forced Mum to drive with the mirror slid along the length of the car and out between the two front seats and the boot tied shut with string, a set-up that was almost certainly illegal but basically fine, and we got back to my flat without traffic dramas - there were verbal exchanges that my dad might have defined as 'a little iffy' but once back home, she phoned me to say that she'd calmed down. Today she admitted that she thought she was at risk of having a stroke but I maintain it is all good exercise.
I assembled the six drawers of my new chest last night between approx. 21:30 and 22:50, and have decided that putting together flat pack furniture is my new favourite thing in the whole world. It is like doing a jigsaw for grown-ups, and you get a new piece of practical home storage as a prize. What's not to like? I have vigorous butterflies about constructing the outer housing but sadly my next free window is on Monday 29th so I will have to quell my winged friends until then. The remainder of this week is firmly back to business as usual, with breakdancing (someone else, not me), ukulele (me and others), real ale (him, not me), a birthday party (theirs, not mine) and a country jaunt in the schedule. Loins are girded. Groins are sensitive.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Six degrees of inadequacy
Last night I went to the theatre to see Six Degrees of Separation. Worried that I always hate everything I see at The Old Vic, I had bought £10 restricted view bench seats in the gods, and was thrilled on arrival to hear the best words in the world, 'Madam, you've been upgraded', and was presented with two seats in the middle of the stalls, simultaneously a joy and a sure sign of a struggling production. The play's concept is well-known (especially to those of us who've already seen the film) but I can't really see the justification for putting on a new version. Despite the interesting premise, it's not saying anything new, the concepts are either cliched or dated, and the acting wasn't as good as it could have been. I actually missed Will Smith. That said, for £10 I'm not complaining. Well, I am, but not to the extent that I regret going. I'd only have done something else and then moaned about that. And going to see a bad play is still a fun night out for me, perverse though that may be.
I just phoned my parents. One of them picked up, fumbled with the receiver for, I'm not joking, about 25 seconds, like some sort of feeble geriatric, which would be OK if they were seriously old but they're not. In the background I could hear the lunchtime news talking about Afghanistan. "Morons?" I was barking into the receiver. They couldn't hear me. I hung up. Now their line is engaged. I think this is the shape of things to come. I phoned my mum's mobile to tell her, but obviously, being over 60, she only has a mobile for emergencies and it is thus COMPLETELY USELESS to anyone else. I got her voicemail but didn't leave a message as I know from past experience that she doesn't know how to pick them up. I've now emailed her. She may find the message in a few hours. Not that it's really that much of a disaster that I can't speak to my parents this second, but I am bored and want to complain about that to someone who will give me sympathy. Thinking about it, my mum is probably not the best person to try. Leave the phone off the hook, you cavemen. See if I care.
I just phoned my parents. One of them picked up, fumbled with the receiver for, I'm not joking, about 25 seconds, like some sort of feeble geriatric, which would be OK if they were seriously old but they're not. In the background I could hear the lunchtime news talking about Afghanistan. "Morons?" I was barking into the receiver. They couldn't hear me. I hung up. Now their line is engaged. I think this is the shape of things to come. I phoned my mum's mobile to tell her, but obviously, being over 60, she only has a mobile for emergencies and it is thus COMPLETELY USELESS to anyone else. I got her voicemail but didn't leave a message as I know from past experience that she doesn't know how to pick them up. I've now emailed her. She may find the message in a few hours. Not that it's really that much of a disaster that I can't speak to my parents this second, but I am bored and want to complain about that to someone who will give me sympathy. Thinking about it, my mum is probably not the best person to try. Leave the phone off the hook, you cavemen. See if I care.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Only 362 days to Christmas!
I can’t really explain why it’s taken me so long to write this because I have been doing NOTHING, but as my most privileged friends will attest, the less you have to do, the longer it takes. So the last you heard, I think, it was Christmas Eve Eve and I was about to go and eat. I did, it was freaking delicious, and there began an intense period of gorging that, as yet, is about 53% complete. I had steak at my work lunch that was mouthwatering, with béarnaise sauce and a delicious sweet pea, baby onion, spinach and lardon mélange that was almost the highlight. We played shag, marry or cliff and consequences and it was every bit as funny as last year and I count myself very lucky when it comes to my office existence.
That evening, I went back to my parents’ house and, if I’m totally honest, the next few days are a haze of gluttony, as an invisible conveyor belt (aka: my hand) carried an omniprocess of delicacies over my ever-excitable tastebuds: copious piles of Nigella’s ham in Coca-Cola, turkey, smoked salmon, delicious gastropub lasagne, mince pies, amaretto biscuits, peanut brittle, granary toast with salted butter, soup, homemade Christmas cookies, parsnips, salad, garlic bread, onion rings, Sultana Bran, Bollinger, white wine, red wine, Diet Coke and beer. In the brief pauses while I was chewing, I opened amazing presents including my much-hoped-for ukulele (but a far nicer one than I’d imagined) and a tube of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream. Delighted. There were emotional times with my family as well, of course, but in a shock development, my mother has decreed that I am not to write about them any more. Her rationale is as follows: if I am too honest about them, someone might think that my dad is a racist and want to stab him, and, as my mother put it, ‘They can find out who you are from your blog, find out where your parents live, and come around and kill him in the street. It’s that simple,’ she said, as if finding their address from my anonymous blog requires a similar level of skill to urinating. After the tension that arose over the programming of mum’s Christmas pedometer, I didn’t want to involve either of us in a complex technological explanation of a) how difficult it would be to determine my father’s identity, let alone b) quite how bored and/or misguided someone would have to be to choose him, above all the other mentalists on the internet, to assassinate. So I nodded meekly and promised not to discuss them again. We’ll see how long that lasts…
I do love Christmas but, like a late-night meal in Chinatown, the moment it’s over, you suddenly see what you look like in the hideous fluorescent lighting, realize your foundation is not worth the pump dispenser from which it emerges, accept that you will need to run, fast, for seven consecutive hours to burn off the meal you would have swapped your grandmother for moments earlier, and concede that it is time to go home. I was all up for the festivities, but the moment the presents were unwrapped and the taste of mince pies became commonplace, I was desperate to get back to my nest and recuperate tout seule. I am a creature of habit, it turns out, and fun though Scrabble and beginners’ ukulele undeniably is, I miss being master of my domain. I’m 32, after all, and being an only child in my parents’ house, still unmarried, still childless, while they are getting on with their semi-retirement, feels slightly regressive. So yesterday I went home and cleaned and now I am on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow Terminal 4, en route to Prague, for a minibreak about which I am so excited I may rupture something. Apparently we have free wifi in the hotel so I’ll post this when I arrive. In the meantime, I hope all my Faithful and any LLFF fair-weather friends have had a joyous Christmas. Love to you all.
That evening, I went back to my parents’ house and, if I’m totally honest, the next few days are a haze of gluttony, as an invisible conveyor belt (aka: my hand) carried an omniprocess of delicacies over my ever-excitable tastebuds: copious piles of Nigella’s ham in Coca-Cola, turkey, smoked salmon, delicious gastropub lasagne, mince pies, amaretto biscuits, peanut brittle, granary toast with salted butter, soup, homemade Christmas cookies, parsnips, salad, garlic bread, onion rings, Sultana Bran, Bollinger, white wine, red wine, Diet Coke and beer. In the brief pauses while I was chewing, I opened amazing presents including my much-hoped-for ukulele (but a far nicer one than I’d imagined) and a tube of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream. Delighted. There were emotional times with my family as well, of course, but in a shock development, my mother has decreed that I am not to write about them any more. Her rationale is as follows: if I am too honest about them, someone might think that my dad is a racist and want to stab him, and, as my mother put it, ‘They can find out who you are from your blog, find out where your parents live, and come around and kill him in the street. It’s that simple,’ she said, as if finding their address from my anonymous blog requires a similar level of skill to urinating. After the tension that arose over the programming of mum’s Christmas pedometer, I didn’t want to involve either of us in a complex technological explanation of a) how difficult it would be to determine my father’s identity, let alone b) quite how bored and/or misguided someone would have to be to choose him, above all the other mentalists on the internet, to assassinate. So I nodded meekly and promised not to discuss them again. We’ll see how long that lasts…
I do love Christmas but, like a late-night meal in Chinatown, the moment it’s over, you suddenly see what you look like in the hideous fluorescent lighting, realize your foundation is not worth the pump dispenser from which it emerges, accept that you will need to run, fast, for seven consecutive hours to burn off the meal you would have swapped your grandmother for moments earlier, and concede that it is time to go home. I was all up for the festivities, but the moment the presents were unwrapped and the taste of mince pies became commonplace, I was desperate to get back to my nest and recuperate tout seule. I am a creature of habit, it turns out, and fun though Scrabble and beginners’ ukulele undeniably is, I miss being master of my domain. I’m 32, after all, and being an only child in my parents’ house, still unmarried, still childless, while they are getting on with their semi-retirement, feels slightly regressive. So yesterday I went home and cleaned and now I am on the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow Terminal 4, en route to Prague, for a minibreak about which I am so excited I may rupture something. Apparently we have free wifi in the hotel so I’ll post this when I arrive. In the meantime, I hope all my Faithful and any LLFF fair-weather friends have had a joyous Christmas. Love to you all.
Friday, 25 December 2009
Visions of sugar plums... and the rest
Yesterday morning I woke up all troubled, having dreamed that I was babysitting a baby belonging to my friend Eva (who doesn't currently have a baby) and that, aged about four months old, it suddenly started being able to talk quite articulately, and within about six minutes, was chatting away with me merrily as if it were a well-educated grown-up. I found the whole thing quite disconcerting and was phoning Eva saying 'Your baby is a freak!' but she was at a wedding and didn't pick up. Then this morning I woke up having been running through a forest with some friends, feeling happy, but with the vague sensation that something sinister was going on around us, and I bounced and bounced and took off, and looked down, and everywhere, as far as my eyes could see, there were rows and rows of army vehicles and it was patently obvious that we were about to go into the most massive land war my lifetime had ever witnessed, and I was boinging around in the car park. I had to get out but I couldn't and I knew I'd be implicated. It was freaking terrifying.
Meanwhile, in reality, I'm having a lovely time with my family, doing crosswords, eating mince pies, listening to carols and screeching descants. My dad is trying to make me accept that I/we am/are better than other people, and that Tiger is a better cat than Dennis, while I'm resolutely insisting that all men, women and cats are created equal and that, while I may be better than you at knowing the lyrics to songs by T'Pau, I am certainly worse at other things, and any advantage I have is purely chance and to do with my good fortune and doesn't give me the right to look down on anyone else, and goodness isn't it lucky that my dad only has one child because he'd have a favourite before you could say 'I love them all the same' and the other one would be scarred for life. Unlike me. [NB I love my dad. Although we were discussing only a couple of hours ago how I will get my ultimate revenge when I read his eulogy. I think we have rather dark humour in our family. Apologies if it disturbs]. Concurrently, my mum is telling us both not to eat our food too quickly at lunch tomorrow and shushing us for complaining about the extract from A Christmas Carol that is read Every Freaking Year at the Christmas Eve concert at the Albert Hall. In summary, it's all just as it was last year, just as it should be, and my cup runneth over with happiness, love and gratitude.
Happy holidays, one and all. May your liver function adequately, may the Nurofen take away the pain, may your days be merry and bright, and may all your metabolisms be high.
Meanwhile, in reality, I'm having a lovely time with my family, doing crosswords, eating mince pies, listening to carols and screeching descants. My dad is trying to make me accept that I/we am/are better than other people, and that Tiger is a better cat than Dennis, while I'm resolutely insisting that all men, women and cats are created equal and that, while I may be better than you at knowing the lyrics to songs by T'Pau, I am certainly worse at other things, and any advantage I have is purely chance and to do with my good fortune and doesn't give me the right to look down on anyone else, and goodness isn't it lucky that my dad only has one child because he'd have a favourite before you could say 'I love them all the same' and the other one would be scarred for life. Unlike me. [NB I love my dad. Although we were discussing only a couple of hours ago how I will get my ultimate revenge when I read his eulogy. I think we have rather dark humour in our family. Apologies if it disturbs]. Concurrently, my mum is telling us both not to eat our food too quickly at lunch tomorrow and shushing us for complaining about the extract from A Christmas Carol that is read Every Freaking Year at the Christmas Eve concert at the Albert Hall. In summary, it's all just as it was last year, just as it should be, and my cup runneth over with happiness, love and gratitude.
Happy holidays, one and all. May your liver function adequately, may the Nurofen take away the pain, may your days be merry and bright, and may all your metabolisms be high.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Bliss? I think not.
Yes, yes, I know. I should just drop it. If I was mature, I'd let it go. But I'm a 32 year old only child, and further to my mother calling me ignorant, my father has now - without directly jumping on the 'my daughter is a moron' bandwagon - kindly pointed out that it is "possible to be both intelligent and ignorant".
Now. Back up there, Sparky. I'm pretty sure I'm right here, but I'll just check on the off-chance... no, I'm right. Ignorance, as defined on The Internet, is "the state or fact of being ignorant; lack of knowledge, learning, information, etc." I think it's fair to say that the Venn diagrams of ignorance and intelligence don't seem to have much intersection. I suspect my father would say, therefore, that it is possible for one to be intelligent in one field , e.g. about pop music of the late Eighties and early Nineties, while being ignorant in another, e.g. the Conservative party or the value of living in Putney. And maybe he's right. But I think it's fair to say that I've done enough research on both Putney and the Tories to know that I'm not going to change my mind about them in a hurry. And I know that the opinions I hold on both subjects are not unusual.
So - my mother thinks I'm wrong about Cameron, and wrong about Clapham. And I think I'm right. And we both think we are intelligent beings, and that the other one is fundamentally wrong. And we can't both be right - the Conservative party is either going to make Britain great again, or it's not; and Clapham is either populated by blinkered idiots or rammed full of Lovely Young Men I Should Be Marrying. So if we can't both be right, at least one of us must be wrong. But of course, ultimately there is no such thing as objective truth: our own truths are created by the unique circumstances of our surroundings. Anyone, therefore, who tries to impose their own truth on another is fighting a losing battle. My mother is right to like Clapham, and I am right to dislike it. Our decisions are the best decisions for us.
Still, it's hard to be called ignorant, especially by a parent, especially as an only child. Even if that child is in her thirties. I've put a lot of work into the conclusions I've drawn, from my atheism to the dress cut that best flatters my figure, to which boy to kiss, which party to vote for, which bus to take, and which borough of London to live in. I've made my choices for logical reasons. They suit me. My parents have made their choices too, and I may think they're wrong, but - crucially - I don't think they're ignorant. Believe it or not, I am of the live-and-let-live persuasion. My parents have drawn the same conclusions as most of the parents I know. They've made up their minds and they're sticking to them. And that's good - parents should be stuck in their ways. Contrary to what I wanted when I was 14, trendy parents who wear skinny jeans and smoke are actually not that desirable. Give me my mum's tapered trousers and my dad's 'I wear a tie while mowing the lawn' austerity any day. I love them as they are - but if they even hint that I'm ignorant again, I'll do a Macaulay Culkin and divorce them, and the only thing they'll know about me is what they read on this blog. See how they like them apples.
Right. I'm off to the theatre to watch 190 minutes of Brecht. Pray for me.
Now. Back up there, Sparky. I'm pretty sure I'm right here, but I'll just check on the off-chance... no, I'm right. Ignorance, as defined on The Internet, is "the state or fact of being ignorant; lack of knowledge, learning, information, etc." I think it's fair to say that the Venn diagrams of ignorance and intelligence don't seem to have much intersection. I suspect my father would say, therefore, that it is possible for one to be intelligent in one field , e.g. about pop music of the late Eighties and early Nineties, while being ignorant in another, e.g. the Conservative party or the value of living in Putney. And maybe he's right. But I think it's fair to say that I've done enough research on both Putney and the Tories to know that I'm not going to change my mind about them in a hurry. And I know that the opinions I hold on both subjects are not unusual.
So - my mother thinks I'm wrong about Cameron, and wrong about Clapham. And I think I'm right. And we both think we are intelligent beings, and that the other one is fundamentally wrong. And we can't both be right - the Conservative party is either going to make Britain great again, or it's not; and Clapham is either populated by blinkered idiots or rammed full of Lovely Young Men I Should Be Marrying. So if we can't both be right, at least one of us must be wrong. But of course, ultimately there is no such thing as objective truth: our own truths are created by the unique circumstances of our surroundings. Anyone, therefore, who tries to impose their own truth on another is fighting a losing battle. My mother is right to like Clapham, and I am right to dislike it. Our decisions are the best decisions for us.
Still, it's hard to be called ignorant, especially by a parent, especially as an only child. Even if that child is in her thirties. I've put a lot of work into the conclusions I've drawn, from my atheism to the dress cut that best flatters my figure, to which boy to kiss, which party to vote for, which bus to take, and which borough of London to live in. I've made my choices for logical reasons. They suit me. My parents have made their choices too, and I may think they're wrong, but - crucially - I don't think they're ignorant. Believe it or not, I am of the live-and-let-live persuasion. My parents have drawn the same conclusions as most of the parents I know. They've made up their minds and they're sticking to them. And that's good - parents should be stuck in their ways. Contrary to what I wanted when I was 14, trendy parents who wear skinny jeans and smoke are actually not that desirable. Give me my mum's tapered trousers and my dad's 'I wear a tie while mowing the lawn' austerity any day. I love them as they are - but if they even hint that I'm ignorant again, I'll do a Macaulay Culkin and divorce them, and the only thing they'll know about me is what they read on this blog. See how they like them apples.
Right. I'm off to the theatre to watch 190 minutes of Brecht. Pray for me.
Friday, 2 October 2009
Vindication
OK, so the Claphamite turned up last night wearing... wait for it... I don't think there's a drumroll long enough... Hush Puppy loafers, khaki chinos, a white shirt, a navy blue, round neck, very-chunky-knit Ralph Lauren jumper with a red polo player, and NOVELTY CUFFLINKS. In Clapham.
You couldn't make it up. Except you obviously could because it is so unutterably predictable.
Since I wrote the blog entry about Clapham and Putney, my mother has called me 'ignorant' and 'immature' and said that it is wrong to judge people based on where they live, and that I will grow out of these opinions. The conversation ended with me being unable to speak due to the conflict between my immediate desire to launch a counter-attack so brutal that it would all end in tears and my certainty that that wouldn't be a Very Nice Thing to do to the woman who made me into the charming young lady you imagine before you today.
Suffice to say, I think she is wrong. Just to add fat to the flames, now I'm judging people on where they live AND what they wear. And for absolute clarity, I'd like the record to show that I WILL NEVER GROW OUT OF THESE OPINIONS. It is wrong to judge people on where they live or what they wear, which is why I went on the freaking date in the first place, and why I didn't run away as soon as he walked up to me. But, on this occasion, I could not have been more right. He was precisely what I expected. And we're not going to get married.
People love Clapham and Putney because they're safe and predictable. There are lots of other people there who think Just Like Them. They wear their Ralph Lauren to be part of a club, a club whose motto is 'I am safe, predictable, casjual, I like yachts and I'm pretty wealthy'. One day, I too may want to live somewhere safe and predictable. I don't have a problem with that. That's actually bollocks: I dread that day with every nucleus in my body. But the fact remains that it might happen in future. The key words there are the final two. My real beef is with anyone who chooses to buy property somewhere safe and predictable when they are in their mid-20s. And it is my right to have serious beef with that. It's not ignorant or immature to have beef with someone who shuts down from all life has to offer when they are still childless and free from almost every possible responsibility. As beef goes, that is some deeply patronising beef, sure. But it's NOT ignorant beef. Argh. I'm angry. I was very ANgry with my mother. [Deliberate misquote from a film, mum, don't worry your pretty lil' head further].
And breathe.
You couldn't make it up. Except you obviously could because it is so unutterably predictable.
Since I wrote the blog entry about Clapham and Putney, my mother has called me 'ignorant' and 'immature' and said that it is wrong to judge people based on where they live, and that I will grow out of these opinions. The conversation ended with me being unable to speak due to the conflict between my immediate desire to launch a counter-attack so brutal that it would all end in tears and my certainty that that wouldn't be a Very Nice Thing to do to the woman who made me into the charming young lady you imagine before you today.
Suffice to say, I think she is wrong. Just to add fat to the flames, now I'm judging people on where they live AND what they wear. And for absolute clarity, I'd like the record to show that I WILL NEVER GROW OUT OF THESE OPINIONS. It is wrong to judge people on where they live or what they wear, which is why I went on the freaking date in the first place, and why I didn't run away as soon as he walked up to me. But, on this occasion, I could not have been more right. He was precisely what I expected. And we're not going to get married.
People love Clapham and Putney because they're safe and predictable. There are lots of other people there who think Just Like Them. They wear their Ralph Lauren to be part of a club, a club whose motto is 'I am safe, predictable, casjual, I like yachts and I'm pretty wealthy'. One day, I too may want to live somewhere safe and predictable. I don't have a problem with that. That's actually bollocks: I dread that day with every nucleus in my body. But the fact remains that it might happen in future. The key words there are the final two. My real beef is with anyone who chooses to buy property somewhere safe and predictable when they are in their mid-20s. And it is my right to have serious beef with that. It's not ignorant or immature to have beef with someone who shuts down from all life has to offer when they are still childless and free from almost every possible responsibility. As beef goes, that is some deeply patronising beef, sure. But it's NOT ignorant beef. Argh. I'm angry. I was very ANgry with my mother. [Deliberate misquote from a film, mum, don't worry your pretty lil' head further].
And breathe.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Nuage numero neuf
My mum has expressed her concerns that I am making myself too vulnerable through this blog. I expected her to say that I am setting myself up for a massive fall with Mr L'Atelier and was prepared to reassure her that he's read it and still appears to like me - but no. My mother doesn't like the idea that people the world over can read my personal thoughts. I have no idea why it is suddenly a problem that someone in Sydney or Cameroon or Bali knows I am experiencing the heady sensations provided by a new love interest, but she's concerned. There's a good chance she is overestimating the attention this blog gets - although I have over a thousand hits a month, most of them only stay on the site for a few seconds and relatively few are regular readers. Anyway, I'll try and respect her desire for a little less transparency - but in the interests of total honesty, I feel I should say briefly that last night was surely one of the happiest Valentine's meals that anyone's ever had and I am walking on air.
Equally, in the interests of total honesty, I should clarify that my last statement was metaphorical. Sadly in reality, I am walking with a limp after I tripped up the stairs at Moorgate tube station at 8.25am and landed with my right kneecap on the corner of a higher step. Which was so cool of me. It's over two hours since the incident and it's still really hurting. I think maybe I should leave work early... Like now. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Equally, in the interests of total honesty, I should clarify that my last statement was metaphorical. Sadly in reality, I am walking with a limp after I tripped up the stairs at Moorgate tube station at 8.25am and landed with my right kneecap on the corner of a higher step. Which was so cool of me. It's over two hours since the incident and it's still really hurting. I think maybe I should leave work early... Like now. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Question Time
And so it's back to the old routine, after eleven consecutive days off work, the longest I've had away from the office since my trip to Croatia and Montenegro last May. I must say, the alarm going off at 6.45am today was a fairly confusing moment for me, but all in all, it's good to be back - 2008 is full of potential in many ways and I'm excited to see what it brings.
I have been super-efficient today which is always reaffirming to the (significant) control freak portion of my persona. Sadly I was forced to reprimand my mother briefly this afternoon but I'm hoping she'll forgive my terse tones under the circumstances. Living with one's parents is always slightly risky and my experience has been fairly typical. Arriving home after a night out is akin to extreme rendition, where every last detail is squeezed out of my pulped corpse by my mother, whose soft speaking voice disguises an iron interrogation drive that could prise Mafia secrets out of a Godfather like vomit from a bulimic. Since I've bought the flat, however, her tenaciousness has leaped to new heights and she now expects to be told about every new development, however minor. Today I laughingly said, 'Mum, you can't want to know everything! It's so boring! I mean, you can't possibly want to know that I spoke to British Gas and they're going to send me a New Homeowner Pack?' But she nodded enthusiastically at me and then looked hurt and panicked as she confronted the vast number of similarly fascinating titbits she may have missed.
The sheer quantity of people to call is hilarious. How anyone without a lot of time on their hands and an unofficial PhD in Admin and Efficiency (Hons) is able to coordinate this process is beyond me. Thankfully, I am fully stocked with computers at work and home, a pad of graph paper, a lifetime's practice at writing Things To Do lists, several clear plastic wallets for important documents, a selection of pop-a-point pencils, a landline and a mobile and the patience of a Saint. And gradually, it's all starting to come together, right now, over me. Or something.
I have been super-efficient today which is always reaffirming to the (significant) control freak portion of my persona. Sadly I was forced to reprimand my mother briefly this afternoon but I'm hoping she'll forgive my terse tones under the circumstances. Living with one's parents is always slightly risky and my experience has been fairly typical. Arriving home after a night out is akin to extreme rendition, where every last detail is squeezed out of my pulped corpse by my mother, whose soft speaking voice disguises an iron interrogation drive that could prise Mafia secrets out of a Godfather like vomit from a bulimic. Since I've bought the flat, however, her tenaciousness has leaped to new heights and she now expects to be told about every new development, however minor. Today I laughingly said, 'Mum, you can't want to know everything! It's so boring! I mean, you can't possibly want to know that I spoke to British Gas and they're going to send me a New Homeowner Pack?' But she nodded enthusiastically at me and then looked hurt and panicked as she confronted the vast number of similarly fascinating titbits she may have missed.
The sheer quantity of people to call is hilarious. How anyone without a lot of time on their hands and an unofficial PhD in Admin and Efficiency (Hons) is able to coordinate this process is beyond me. Thankfully, I am fully stocked with computers at work and home, a pad of graph paper, a lifetime's practice at writing Things To Do lists, several clear plastic wallets for important documents, a selection of pop-a-point pencils, a landline and a mobile and the patience of a Saint. And gradually, it's all starting to come together, right now, over me. Or something.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
Dress for Success
My mother does many things that grate upon my over-sensitive self, such as having regular and violent sneezing fits that last for over ten minutes while I'm trying to eat breakfast, but thankfully she has never been one of those mothers who has put pressure on me to be in a relationship. One hears these horror stories of pressurising parents who berate their offspring for their lack of long-term love, moaning about dying before the birth of their first grandchild - and continually reciting that hideous pearl of received wisdom: that one should always look one's best, 'just in case'/'because you never know who you might meet'.
I do try and look OK, but I'm certainly on the middle of the scale when it comes to making an effort with my appearance. I do my make-up on the tube every morning, starting at Euston Square and ending between Farringdon and Barbican. If I'm not going out in the evening after work, I will wear boring clothes to the office because they're warm or because they're the right colour to complete a pending darks/whites/wools wash. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love getting dressed up and looking good - but I'm afraid that the people at work aren't enough motivation.
Yesterday, I did have a post-work engagement: another carol concert, this time for the fabulous Breast Cancer Haven charity. But after three choir concerts in four days, I was pretty certain that I wasn't trying to impress anyone in the choir and, after a good scout round at last year's concert, fairly confident that there would be no frissons with any audience members. Consequently, I left my nice choir outfits on the floor where I'd taken them off on Saturday and Sunday, and instead chose to wear my black work trousers, a passable black jumper and my grandmother's jet beads which added a festive twinkle to an otherwise bland outfit. I looked... fine.
So then we walked on stage and who should be in the front row, directly in my line of sight beyond our conductor, but Rod Stewart; his wife, the model, Penny Lancaster; Chris Tarrant; and almost most upsetting of all, Sarah Beeny. Not that I was hoping to entice any of the above, you understand - but it would have been nice to be feeling slightly more attractive than 'fine'. Fortunately, we sang beautifully: Rod even gave us a spontaneous burst of applause at more than one point and conducted the descant of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing by flapping his black scarf. Hilarious. Maybe those pushy mums have a point when it comes to looking one's best; but judging by my dull as ditchwater office attire today, which could reasonably be sported by a middle-aged American soccer mom, I haven't yet taken the lesson fully on board. The new Jane starts here: from now on, it's handbags and gladrags. I'm still doing my make-up on the tube though.
I do try and look OK, but I'm certainly on the middle of the scale when it comes to making an effort with my appearance. I do my make-up on the tube every morning, starting at Euston Square and ending between Farringdon and Barbican. If I'm not going out in the evening after work, I will wear boring clothes to the office because they're warm or because they're the right colour to complete a pending darks/whites/wools wash. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love getting dressed up and looking good - but I'm afraid that the people at work aren't enough motivation.
Yesterday, I did have a post-work engagement: another carol concert, this time for the fabulous Breast Cancer Haven charity. But after three choir concerts in four days, I was pretty certain that I wasn't trying to impress anyone in the choir and, after a good scout round at last year's concert, fairly confident that there would be no frissons with any audience members. Consequently, I left my nice choir outfits on the floor where I'd taken them off on Saturday and Sunday, and instead chose to wear my black work trousers, a passable black jumper and my grandmother's jet beads which added a festive twinkle to an otherwise bland outfit. I looked... fine.
So then we walked on stage and who should be in the front row, directly in my line of sight beyond our conductor, but Rod Stewart; his wife, the model, Penny Lancaster; Chris Tarrant; and almost most upsetting of all, Sarah Beeny. Not that I was hoping to entice any of the above, you understand - but it would have been nice to be feeling slightly more attractive than 'fine'. Fortunately, we sang beautifully: Rod even gave us a spontaneous burst of applause at more than one point and conducted the descant of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing by flapping his black scarf. Hilarious. Maybe those pushy mums have a point when it comes to looking one's best; but judging by my dull as ditchwater office attire today, which could reasonably be sported by a middle-aged American soccer mom, I haven't yet taken the lesson fully on board. The new Jane starts here: from now on, it's handbags and gladrags. I'm still doing my make-up on the tube though.
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Too tired to title today
Today got off to a bad start when I had to shower directly beneath a spider. It was one of those whispery ones that has a body like a grain of wild rice and unfeasibly long legs like strands of hair. If it had been a human it would have looked like a 20 foot high Kate Moss. And potentially, that would have been a scarier sight above my shower this morning. But as it was, I felt threatened. I probably could have inhaled it and not noticed; however, I saw him/her chilling on its spindly web above my head and, in my defenceless nakedness, I was scared.
The steam and droplets of ricocheting moisture from the shower combined with the suction from the extractor fan to create some fairly adverse weather conditions for my new friend, who scuttled about frantically for the duration of my washing experience, searching for some security. I would have pitied the poor creature if I hadn't been phobic/pathetic. In the end, I burst out of the shower with a whimper several minutes earlier than normal, having washed on fast forward. Thankfully I was outwardly unscathed but I think the emotional scars may take longer to heal.
And now I am ill. This is livid-making as I have to sing in approximately eighty-three carol concerts over the next week or two and I need my voice. I have stuffed myself with salad, water, vitamin smoothies and fruit. And in a few minutes I will go to the gym to boost my immunity, even though I would rather be dipped in sick than exercise. What's really annoying about this new malady is that just this morning, after the arachnoshower, my mother suggested I may have been burning the candle at both ends over the past few days. Due to her continual oscillation between saying I am too busy and not busy enough, this latest update sent me into a frenzy of sarcasm - and even my father backed me up, saying I was fit enough to handle it. But now, only a few hours later, I am weak and feeble and my mother is vindicated. Which is a worse sensation than the illness and the spider combined.
The steam and droplets of ricocheting moisture from the shower combined with the suction from the extractor fan to create some fairly adverse weather conditions for my new friend, who scuttled about frantically for the duration of my washing experience, searching for some security. I would have pitied the poor creature if I hadn't been phobic/pathetic. In the end, I burst out of the shower with a whimper several minutes earlier than normal, having washed on fast forward. Thankfully I was outwardly unscathed but I think the emotional scars may take longer to heal.
And now I am ill. This is livid-making as I have to sing in approximately eighty-three carol concerts over the next week or two and I need my voice. I have stuffed myself with salad, water, vitamin smoothies and fruit. And in a few minutes I will go to the gym to boost my immunity, even though I would rather be dipped in sick than exercise. What's really annoying about this new malady is that just this morning, after the arachnoshower, my mother suggested I may have been burning the candle at both ends over the past few days. Due to her continual oscillation between saying I am too busy and not busy enough, this latest update sent me into a frenzy of sarcasm - and even my father backed me up, saying I was fit enough to handle it. But now, only a few hours later, I am weak and feeble and my mother is vindicated. Which is a worse sensation than the illness and the spider combined.
Thursday, 15 November 2007
Wait in vein
A tenuous pun for the title but it was either that or 'You're so vein' which made even less sense. The last 24 hours have felt a little revelatory. I have realised that I was on the receiving end of a cruel vein conspiracy. Everyone on the planet seems to have known that crossing one's legs increases the chance of varicosity. Even those who don't believe the connection are still aware of the theory's existence. Apparently, I am one of the few individuals left in the developed world who was blithely crossing my knees willy nilly, blissfully ignorant of the pressure that was building up above my calves. Laura at work was astonished I hadn't known this nugget until now. Even - and I consider this a monumental betrayal - even my own mother knew but had, for some cruel reason, never chosen to pass on her pearls of wisdom. Sure, she'll ask me if I'll be warm enough every single time I leave the house, even in the peak of the British 'summer' week; sure, she'll phone me up at work and ask if she can open my post in case it's something important - but when it comes to life-altering information regarding the very blood coursing through my veins, that's considered too irrelevant to share. Pah.
I'm not sure if any of you, the Faithful, have tried to give up crossing your legs. When it comes to challenges, I'd rank it up there light years above quitting nail biting and a fraction below going cold turkey after a five year crack binge. It's an automatic reaction for me, following the 'sitting down' movement as naturally as sweet follows savoury. I never realised the depths of my passion for leg crossing until it was forbidden - now, just an instant of knee over knee action is a sensation akin to a deep massage or a glass of white wine after a long day at work. Still, the thought of the lumpiness that I might avoid or lessen is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.
The mystery for me, however, is that if everyone knows, why do they persist to cross? Surely the threat of the varicose far outweighs the joy of the cross? Or perhaps, like me so recently, they aren't yet aware. I might start handing out informative leaflets to the crossers I meet on my travels, just so that they can cross with awareness. I feel like I've been in the dark all these years and now I must become some sort of itinerant evangelist and share this potential joy with the masses. I will be the modern St Paul, and this blog will be the equivalent of the first epistle to the Corinthians. St Paul and I aren't too similar, it must be admitted, but we share a fondness for telling people what to do and (admittedly for different reasons) neither of us are too big on spiritual gifts. That said, unlike Paul, I've got no problem with people marrying because I'm not too big on the imminence of the parousia. Ah, it's all flooding back... Right, bedtime.
I'm not sure if any of you, the Faithful, have tried to give up crossing your legs. When it comes to challenges, I'd rank it up there light years above quitting nail biting and a fraction below going cold turkey after a five year crack binge. It's an automatic reaction for me, following the 'sitting down' movement as naturally as sweet follows savoury. I never realised the depths of my passion for leg crossing until it was forbidden - now, just an instant of knee over knee action is a sensation akin to a deep massage or a glass of white wine after a long day at work. Still, the thought of the lumpiness that I might avoid or lessen is enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.
The mystery for me, however, is that if everyone knows, why do they persist to cross? Surely the threat of the varicose far outweighs the joy of the cross? Or perhaps, like me so recently, they aren't yet aware. I might start handing out informative leaflets to the crossers I meet on my travels, just so that they can cross with awareness. I feel like I've been in the dark all these years and now I must become some sort of itinerant evangelist and share this potential joy with the masses. I will be the modern St Paul, and this blog will be the equivalent of the first epistle to the Corinthians. St Paul and I aren't too similar, it must be admitted, but we share a fondness for telling people what to do and (admittedly for different reasons) neither of us are too big on spiritual gifts. That said, unlike Paul, I've got no problem with people marrying because I'm not too big on the imminence of the parousia. Ah, it's all flooding back... Right, bedtime.
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