This news greeted me when I arrived at work this morning: "Christine O'Donnell, considered so rightwing she is unelectable, takes 53% of vote in Republican primary." The article that follows described O'Donnell as "pro-gun, anti-abortion and believes masturbation is a sin."
I got really depressed and a bit foot-stampy and lip-curly, and then I wondered, briefly, whether if America went stupidly right, and Palin got elected, Britain would then drift away from our alleged 'special relationship' as America's poodle, and align ourselves more with Europe, which I would prefer - not that Europe is flawless or anything, but I sit more comfortably there than in the States. So perhaps it's conceivable that a shift to the far right in the US is a move away from the US for the UK. Because that would make me happy. It's probably naive and pipedreamish though. Plus, who am I kidding, even if we're not involved, a nuclear war between Iran and the US would probably have some 'mild' fallout in the UK. I'm not counting my chickens. Or my ducks.
I had a very sweet message from a nameless friend this morning saying that the duck thing yesterday was hilarious, and how could anyone be phobic of them. I feel the need, therefore, to clarify that, while duck phobias are potentially very amusing, what was funny about that particular screenshot was the advertisement placement. Either an automated ad generator threw out a very funny scenario, or someone selling ad space for the health company has a sadistic sense of humour. Anyway. Apologies to all of you who found the joke self-explanatory but clearly some of the Faithful need a little gentle nudging to experience the full comedic value of the item, and who are we to deny them?
Meanwhile, I clearly need a little gentle nudging to experience the full comedic value of MY LIFE as I am still pleasantly mulling/boohooing over my existential crisis, facing up to the fact that impressing friends, family and potential lovers has basically been my motivation for eternity, and that, without that driving force, I seem to be left with enough drive and energy to pour Coco Pops into my bowl but not much else. I went to the opera on Friday to see Cosi Fan Tutte, which confirmed that I love the Royal Opera House but don't like Mozart's operas, and then spent the interval discussing with Nick who we thought was going to win Ultimate Big Brother, a pleasingly personal rebellion against the permasnobs around us. Would that the two twunts sitting next to me had been so subtle with their disinterest - but instead they spent the entire second half kissing and frotting, despite the fact that I turned my head ninety degrees to stare at them for full minutes at a time. The man opened his eyes and clearly noted my displeasure but did not cease his whispering and giggling. It was an outrage, I tell you, especially during such a stupid opera - it's usually romantic, but this one wasn't: [SPOILER ALERT] two blonde women are in love with two men, who both are crazy about them too, but their friend says women can't be faithful, so he bets them they won't be, so the two men pretend to be called to war and the women are devastated and then LATER THAT DAY the men dress up as hippies or something, and arrive at the house and the women don't recognise them as their lovers and are totally taken in by the whole scam, and within 24 hours, both the women have said they are now in love with the new men, and the men are devastated because their women have been proved to be cheats, but their friend says 'That's the way women are', and the men reveal the 'prank' and the women are shocked but then they all still get married. HOW HILARIOUS.
Any way, despite the ridiculously unerotic plot, the snogging and whispering continued and at the end of the night I went home grumpy, randy and lonely, three of the crappest dwarves. Since then I have been at work when I'm meant to be at work, but have otherwise been in my flat watching TV and reading. It's been nice because I've been exhausted what with all the thinking I'm having to do about my Existential Crisis. And I know people will wonder why I don't just stop thinking about it, then. But it's not really a choice. I wasn't happy before except when I was buried in several feet of thick, hardset denial, and sorting out this stuff, asking these difficult questions, will hopefully lead to a bit more of a happy bunny environment in my head. More dogs on the heath than snakes in the grass. Big pink tongues - no forks.
Showing posts with label Opera. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Opera. Show all posts
Wednesday, 15 September 2010
Monday, 26 July 2010
Lukewarm turkey
I was going to write about my weekend, a harmless discussion of the great performance piece I saw at the National on Friday evening, Domini Public, where we all wore cordless headphones and had to stand in different places or make certain gestures depending on whether we were born in London, or had ever photographed ourselves naked, or earned over £20k, or had children, or had followed a stranger down the street, or believed that hierarchies were necessary to 'get things done'. It was interesting enough watching people move around the square, seeing who answered what to which question. And then there was the twist, which was unpleasant and fascinating, and ended up in me (amongst others) being mock-shot by my friend, Tracey, in front of a hundred strangers. It was a great hour, excellent value for £10, and I'd encourage you to go if the run hadn't already ended.
I was also going to tell you all that, if you are remotely interested in the National Theatre, you should definitely pay £7 at some point and go on one of their backstage tours. After years of good intentions, I took one on Friday before Domini Public and it was a rewarding way to spend an hour and a quarter, filled with gems about current and past productions, giving a good insight into the stage management side of things and the props department. Notes I took included the following:
But really what I think will be most of interest is not any of the wonderful, worthwhile activities I've been up to, but the topic that has really been on my mind over the past few days. Inevitably, it is men.
As noted last week, my therapist and I were discussing my desire for a boyfriend. Of course, it is perfectly normal for people to desire a mate. No one would say that there is anything unusual about that. However, I am a little bit different, in that my desire is less for an actual boyfriend (although that would be dandy) and more for the status I perceive I will acquire (in whose eyes, I have no idea) when I gain the acceptance of a respectable male. Being the only child of two wonderful parents who are still crazy (in love) after all these years, where their relationship has been far more a defining factor in their lives than their nationality, their career, their family or their bank balance, it was inevitable that I would grow up thinking that finding a mate was, pretty much, the only thing one needed to do to be viewed as a success.
Then I went to an all-girls boarding school. This was not a sensible move if one was trying to move away from the supremacy of Acceptance By Relationship. In between the near-constant steamy lesbian shower sessions, our focus was entirely on boyfriends. Not on sex. Not on kissing. Just boyfriends. In my seven years there, I never once felt pressured by my peers to lose my virginity; in my recollection, sex was barely even discussed. All we cared about was getting someone to go out with you. You could kiss someone at a party one weekend and come back to school. "Did you get off with anyone?" the ganets would ask. Occasionally, you would excitedly nod yes, blocking out the fact that his train tracks cut your tongue and that it was really difficult to feel like this was a romantic zenith when you're kissing on a bouncy castle and you can hear someone being sick in the rosebushes. But, to the ganets, the snog was not the goal. This was just an amuse bouche before the main event: possible boyfriendom. And so the agonising wait began, each morning's post a crushing disappointment as the longed-for letter with the appalling handwriting and Slough postmark failed to arrive. Finally, a couple of weeks later, you'd hear that the boy in question had pulled Clarissa at the Mariners and it would become clear that the relationship about which you'd fantasized (in between calculating how to get Take That to perform an impromptu gig in the Middle IV common room) was clearly over before it had begun.
And so the snog would be rendered meaningless, because it had come to nothing. Kissing wasn't an end in itself. All that mattered was finding long-term commitment. Getting someone to fancy you enough to stick their tongue down their throat was no challenge; getting someone to stick their necks out and tell their friends that they liked you, now that was a compliment. Without that, without the superior gender (and it wasn't stated like that, but that's how it felt) waving their wand (and it wasn't stated like that either, but who are we kidding?) in our direction, giving us their blessing, saying 'You are pretty, you are attractive, I am male, I know these things,' then we were failures. But all along, I was also a pain in the ass. I didn't just want ANY boyfriend. I wanted one I respected, one who I found attractive and interesting. So 99% of the time, when a guy was interested in me, I shut it down. Because they were normally complete freaks and, somewhat like Groucho Marx, I didn't want to be a member of any club who'd have me with their member.
Fast forward sixteen years, and here I am, nine days away from my 33rd birthday, and my subconscious still spends far too much time shouting at the rest of me that, unless a man tells me I am his be all and end all, I will have failed - but I am still enough of a pain in the ass that I won't settle for anyone unless they rock my tiny world. So I have been searching, and rejecting, and being rejected, for too long and it's tiring. And thus, last Wednesday, I agreed with my therapist that I would take a break from looking. That even though I have been trying, whether consciously or not, to find a bearable boyfriend every day I've been single over the past decade and a half (which, actually, adding together five years with H, two with Simon, two with Luke and cobbling together the rest, probably adds up to about ten years off the market and five years on), I should now stop the search. Which is about as likely as me deciding to stop breathing.
But bless me, I'm trying. I removed my profile from the dating website I was on, and I must say, after my collated run of morons, that has felt less like a sacrifice than a sigh-heaving relief. And I am not going speed dating tonight, even though I bought the £10 ticket ages ago and I think I look quite good at the moment as I have a new dress that goes well with my unexpected suntan (shoulders and face only - the remainder of me still has the colour and texture of an uncooked Eccles cake) gathered on yesterday's walk. I am trying very hard indeed to forget about flirting, and have managed to cut back to only one extremely slow e-banter conversation that I don't think will come to anything really, since the guy in question is even more judgmental than I am, and not only wouldn't want to be a member of any club who would have him as a member, but would actively want to nail gun anyone who suggested such a thing and consider doing so as a public service, because surely any girl who wanted to meet him would be a danger to herself and society at large. There's a fair bit of self-loathing there. But underneath all that he's quite funny and I'd be interested to meet him. OTHER THAN THAT there is no one. I promise. I'm being good.
Still, it's like giving up heroin. I imagine. What is the methodone equivalent for people who are addicted to finding a relationship? Lots of meaningless sex wouldn't work because it's the social acceptance I crave from a third party, who has to be male, saying 'I am handsome and funny and intelligent. And I want to spend my time with you.' Ultimately, I have to believe that that is a load of crap and that the only person who decides whether I am good enough is me, and why would I entrust such a fundamental role to some stupid man who doesn't even know me very well? But that kind of cheesy, American self-acceptance is probably a long way off, not helped by the fact that everywhere I go, everyone admits that life is better when you're in a relationship, and that being single is a lonely pastime for people who are unlucky and/or not good enough. It's freaking annoying because I am clearly amazing, hilarious and, in almost every way, happy.
And that's what I keep finding weird: beyond the Seal of Approval thing that I so obviously want from a boyfriend, I'm not that bothered. As I've pointed out many times before (but not so much that this lady is thought to be protesting too much), my life is pretty much perfect. I don't sit looking woefully at the other end of my sofa thinking it's lacking a scrotum. I am not gagging to have babies just yet - walking past countless suffocating family picnics in the sun yesterday afternoon I heaved many a sigh of relief that my neck doesn't yet have that extortionate albatross swinging off it. I don't need a boyfriend to do my DIY - I feel pretty capable of most things and my dad is more than adequate for the rest. I don't feel I need a man to organise my bills, or earn money, or take me to the cinema. In fact, the fear that he might at any point vanish/die can make relationships so unpleasant that I'm not sure they're even worth it. Really, I just want one to say he's my boyfriend so everyone knows I've passed The Test, appear with me at the odd function, and kiss me regularly. Oh, and I'd like one to come to the opera with me. A night at Covent Garden is the most romantic experience I can imagine and going with girls feels wrong. I've got tickets for two productions this autumn and if I don't have a man at my side for at least one of them I'll strop. Since I'm not allowed to actively pursue anyone, if you're single, in possession of a Y chromasome and would like to be considered for this role, feel free to drop me a line via the comments section. It's Rigoletto and Cosi Fan Tutti. Don't all shout at once.
I was also going to tell you all that, if you are remotely interested in the National Theatre, you should definitely pay £7 at some point and go on one of their backstage tours. After years of good intentions, I took one on Friday before Domini Public and it was a rewarding way to spend an hour and a quarter, filled with gems about current and past productions, giving a good insight into the stage management side of things and the props department. Notes I took included the following:
- The National Theatre site is the size of Trafalgar Square, just over two acres
- There are 850 full time employees
- The biggest theatre, the Olivier, has 1160 seats, and more lights than seats
- The stage and seating in the Olivier is based around a traditional Greek amphitheatre, but whereas the latter normally has 180 degree seating around the stage, the Olivier has 118 degrees of seating, which is apparently the extent of male peripheral vision. Women have slightly more. Either way, it means that when you're standing on centre stage, you can see every seat in the house without turning your head. We tried it. It's quite amazing.
But really what I think will be most of interest is not any of the wonderful, worthwhile activities I've been up to, but the topic that has really been on my mind over the past few days. Inevitably, it is men.
As noted last week, my therapist and I were discussing my desire for a boyfriend. Of course, it is perfectly normal for people to desire a mate. No one would say that there is anything unusual about that. However, I am a little bit different, in that my desire is less for an actual boyfriend (although that would be dandy) and more for the status I perceive I will acquire (in whose eyes, I have no idea) when I gain the acceptance of a respectable male. Being the only child of two wonderful parents who are still crazy (in love) after all these years, where their relationship has been far more a defining factor in their lives than their nationality, their career, their family or their bank balance, it was inevitable that I would grow up thinking that finding a mate was, pretty much, the only thing one needed to do to be viewed as a success.
Then I went to an all-girls boarding school. This was not a sensible move if one was trying to move away from the supremacy of Acceptance By Relationship. In between the near-constant steamy lesbian shower sessions, our focus was entirely on boyfriends. Not on sex. Not on kissing. Just boyfriends. In my seven years there, I never once felt pressured by my peers to lose my virginity; in my recollection, sex was barely even discussed. All we cared about was getting someone to go out with you. You could kiss someone at a party one weekend and come back to school. "Did you get off with anyone?" the ganets would ask. Occasionally, you would excitedly nod yes, blocking out the fact that his train tracks cut your tongue and that it was really difficult to feel like this was a romantic zenith when you're kissing on a bouncy castle and you can hear someone being sick in the rosebushes. But, to the ganets, the snog was not the goal. This was just an amuse bouche before the main event: possible boyfriendom. And so the agonising wait began, each morning's post a crushing disappointment as the longed-for letter with the appalling handwriting and Slough postmark failed to arrive. Finally, a couple of weeks later, you'd hear that the boy in question had pulled Clarissa at the Mariners and it would become clear that the relationship about which you'd fantasized (in between calculating how to get Take That to perform an impromptu gig in the Middle IV common room) was clearly over before it had begun.
And so the snog would be rendered meaningless, because it had come to nothing. Kissing wasn't an end in itself. All that mattered was finding long-term commitment. Getting someone to fancy you enough to stick their tongue down their throat was no challenge; getting someone to stick their necks out and tell their friends that they liked you, now that was a compliment. Without that, without the superior gender (and it wasn't stated like that, but that's how it felt) waving their wand (and it wasn't stated like that either, but who are we kidding?) in our direction, giving us their blessing, saying 'You are pretty, you are attractive, I am male, I know these things,' then we were failures. But all along, I was also a pain in the ass. I didn't just want ANY boyfriend. I wanted one I respected, one who I found attractive and interesting. So 99% of the time, when a guy was interested in me, I shut it down. Because they were normally complete freaks and, somewhat like Groucho Marx, I didn't want to be a member of any club who'd have me with their member.
Fast forward sixteen years, and here I am, nine days away from my 33rd birthday, and my subconscious still spends far too much time shouting at the rest of me that, unless a man tells me I am his be all and end all, I will have failed - but I am still enough of a pain in the ass that I won't settle for anyone unless they rock my tiny world. So I have been searching, and rejecting, and being rejected, for too long and it's tiring. And thus, last Wednesday, I agreed with my therapist that I would take a break from looking. That even though I have been trying, whether consciously or not, to find a bearable boyfriend every day I've been single over the past decade and a half (which, actually, adding together five years with H, two with Simon, two with Luke and cobbling together the rest, probably adds up to about ten years off the market and five years on), I should now stop the search. Which is about as likely as me deciding to stop breathing.
But bless me, I'm trying. I removed my profile from the dating website I was on, and I must say, after my collated run of morons, that has felt less like a sacrifice than a sigh-heaving relief. And I am not going speed dating tonight, even though I bought the £10 ticket ages ago and I think I look quite good at the moment as I have a new dress that goes well with my unexpected suntan (shoulders and face only - the remainder of me still has the colour and texture of an uncooked Eccles cake) gathered on yesterday's walk. I am trying very hard indeed to forget about flirting, and have managed to cut back to only one extremely slow e-banter conversation that I don't think will come to anything really, since the guy in question is even more judgmental than I am, and not only wouldn't want to be a member of any club who would have him as a member, but would actively want to nail gun anyone who suggested such a thing and consider doing so as a public service, because surely any girl who wanted to meet him would be a danger to herself and society at large. There's a fair bit of self-loathing there. But underneath all that he's quite funny and I'd be interested to meet him. OTHER THAN THAT there is no one. I promise. I'm being good.
Still, it's like giving up heroin. I imagine. What is the methodone equivalent for people who are addicted to finding a relationship? Lots of meaningless sex wouldn't work because it's the social acceptance I crave from a third party, who has to be male, saying 'I am handsome and funny and intelligent. And I want to spend my time with you.' Ultimately, I have to believe that that is a load of crap and that the only person who decides whether I am good enough is me, and why would I entrust such a fundamental role to some stupid man who doesn't even know me very well? But that kind of cheesy, American self-acceptance is probably a long way off, not helped by the fact that everywhere I go, everyone admits that life is better when you're in a relationship, and that being single is a lonely pastime for people who are unlucky and/or not good enough. It's freaking annoying because I am clearly amazing, hilarious and, in almost every way, happy.
And that's what I keep finding weird: beyond the Seal of Approval thing that I so obviously want from a boyfriend, I'm not that bothered. As I've pointed out many times before (but not so much that this lady is thought to be protesting too much), my life is pretty much perfect. I don't sit looking woefully at the other end of my sofa thinking it's lacking a scrotum. I am not gagging to have babies just yet - walking past countless suffocating family picnics in the sun yesterday afternoon I heaved many a sigh of relief that my neck doesn't yet have that extortionate albatross swinging off it. I don't need a boyfriend to do my DIY - I feel pretty capable of most things and my dad is more than adequate for the rest. I don't feel I need a man to organise my bills, or earn money, or take me to the cinema. In fact, the fear that he might at any point vanish/die can make relationships so unpleasant that I'm not sure they're even worth it. Really, I just want one to say he's my boyfriend so everyone knows I've passed The Test, appear with me at the odd function, and kiss me regularly. Oh, and I'd like one to come to the opera with me. A night at Covent Garden is the most romantic experience I can imagine and going with girls feels wrong. I've got tickets for two productions this autumn and if I don't have a man at my side for at least one of them I'll strop. Since I'm not allowed to actively pursue anyone, if you're single, in possession of a Y chromasome and would like to be considered for this role, feel free to drop me a line via the comments section. It's Rigoletto and Cosi Fan Tutti. Don't all shout at once.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Ash decisions
Ohgodohgodohgod, I love blogging, you know I do, but every now and then it feels like homework and I wish I could just employ some hilarious and articulate minion to write it for me so that I could get on with vital things like packing and watching American Idol, and now is definitely one of those times.
So the last you heard, I was rambling on about politics and then this FREAKING volcano started erupting, but obviously I thought it was just quite funny and cool and different, and then I realised that it might actually affect ME and suddenly it became completely unfunny and highly irritating, because I was meant to be flying to the south of France this very day to stay in the Pyrenees for two nights and then on to somewhere else to stay for two nights for Emily's wedding, and it was all going to be brilliant and a magical adventure and then the cocksucking ash started spewing and our flights were cancelled and then we had to start thinking about ferry trips and hire cars and overlong minibus journeys with strangers including other people's mothers and possibly attractive band members, and then the flights were uncancelled and the airports reopened but it was impossible to know whether the volcano was going to carry on slowing down or suddenly speed up again and we STILL DON'T KNOW and the uncertainty is GRADUALLY KILLING ME. However, I am determined to be optimistic and if I don't get on my Sleazyjet flight tomorrow morning I will laugh and be calm and everyone in the airport will be drawn to my relaxed good humour and incredible laissez-faire joie-de-vivre.
Anyway, other than that, since last Friday I have been doing billions of unparalleledly brilliant and uniquely quirky things, including taking incredible photos of London in the sun (admittedly I was poss. not the only person doing this on Saturday) and going on the fourth link of the Capital Ring walk with Kate on Sunday, where we managed to cover twelve miles from Falconwood, via Eltham Palace and... some other AMAZING places that I've completely forgotten, ending up at Crystal Palace, taking in a delicious pub lunch on the way and, critically, getting sunburned shoulders that have basically ruined my look for the wedding this weekend, as I am wearing a halterneck dress but my body clearly states I should wear something that covers my white strap marks. Once again, I live on the edge of the fashion grain and it is perilous up here, I can tell you.
I went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera, Prima Donna, at Sadler's Wells with Grania last Friday - a great evening out but not, perhaps, the best opera I've ever seen. A fantastic effort for a first go, however, and shedloads better than I could ever manage in my wildest dreams, so I am really not criticising. I'm glad I went but I'm also glad I didn't spend more than £10 on my ticket. After the show, we went to Dollar Grills in Exmouth Market, which was a cool venue and recommended, and at the table next to us was a very attractive girl in her mid-twenties, curvy, dark and sensual. I didn't have a clear view of the guy she was with and asked Grania if he was worthy of her. She nodded her assent. They were clearly a glamorous pairing. Then, about thirty minutes later, with her burger unbitten and his frankly terrifying rack of ribs undented, he grabbed his duffle coat and his rucksack and stropped out. We looked at Curvy McBuxom with sympathy. "Nightmare," I said to her, and smiled in what I hoped was a kind, unpatronising fashion. She nodded, and said, "I'm getting a bit bored of it now, though." Apparently this particular argument had been caused because he'd bought her tickets to Prima Donna and she hadn't liked it - the opera, not the gift. He, however, had taken her rejection of the opera as a personal affront. It was the kind of exhausting, pointless row I've had hundreds of times in my life, indicative of absolutely nothing on the surface and, underneath, firm evidence that the relationship is simply not meant to be. After the boy returned, tight-jawed, he sat in virtual silence, wiggling the rack of ribs disconsolately for a few minutes until the girl eventually caved and they got their food to go and stood up. We wished them luck as they left the restaurant and they laughed ruefully, and then I drunkenly told Grania how ecstatic I was to be there in Dollar Grills with her rather than stuck in the wrong relationship, and she agreed and it was lovely.
Monday I had my haircut in my usual imperceptible way, and then last night was Tuesday and Lucy came down to the smoke from t'country, and we went to Camden for a delicious dinner in a Turkish restaurant near Koko, and then to watch the Fuck Buttons (they're a band of sorts, mother. No actual fucking involved.) who were good enough for an hour or so, but we were a bit drunk from dinner, I was spinning out about something unrelated and distracted by trying to coordinate ferry bookings with very kind, very posh man who was being lovely and offering Kate and I a lift to the wedding, and it was all a bit confusing what with the fact that they were playing ridiculously loud dance music but no one was dancing, so we left after an hour and returned back to my flat to safety, cereal, mini Magnums and a last, absurdly unnecessary glass of wine. Today I thought I was leaving for France and then I wasn't, so I spent a long time in bed, threw a few unrelated items into my suitcase and passed a very pleasant two hours bathing in the wonderfully me-sized rectangle of sun that falls bang in the middle of my living room floor for about three hours every bright afternoon. I heave up the venetian blind, open the gigantic window and lie on my carpet, spreadeagled, often starkers as no one can see me but the birds and any particularly fortunate plane passengers looking down with binoculars. Tomorrow I have every hope that I'll be up there myself. A bientot et honh-he-honh.
So the last you heard, I was rambling on about politics and then this FREAKING volcano started erupting, but obviously I thought it was just quite funny and cool and different, and then I realised that it might actually affect ME and suddenly it became completely unfunny and highly irritating, because I was meant to be flying to the south of France this very day to stay in the Pyrenees for two nights and then on to somewhere else to stay for two nights for Emily's wedding, and it was all going to be brilliant and a magical adventure and then the cocksucking ash started spewing and our flights were cancelled and then we had to start thinking about ferry trips and hire cars and overlong minibus journeys with strangers including other people's mothers and possibly attractive band members, and then the flights were uncancelled and the airports reopened but it was impossible to know whether the volcano was going to carry on slowing down or suddenly speed up again and we STILL DON'T KNOW and the uncertainty is GRADUALLY KILLING ME. However, I am determined to be optimistic and if I don't get on my Sleazyjet flight tomorrow morning I will laugh and be calm and everyone in the airport will be drawn to my relaxed good humour and incredible laissez-faire joie-de-vivre.
Anyway, other than that, since last Friday I have been doing billions of unparalleledly brilliant and uniquely quirky things, including taking incredible photos of London in the sun (admittedly I was poss. not the only person doing this on Saturday) and going on the fourth link of the Capital Ring walk with Kate on Sunday, where we managed to cover twelve miles from Falconwood, via Eltham Palace and... some other AMAZING places that I've completely forgotten, ending up at Crystal Palace, taking in a delicious pub lunch on the way and, critically, getting sunburned shoulders that have basically ruined my look for the wedding this weekend, as I am wearing a halterneck dress but my body clearly states I should wear something that covers my white strap marks. Once again, I live on the edge of the fashion grain and it is perilous up here, I can tell you.I went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera, Prima Donna, at Sadler's Wells with Grania last Friday - a great evening out but not, perhaps, the best opera I've ever seen. A fantastic effort for a first go, however, and shedloads better than I could ever manage in my wildest dreams, so I am really not criticising. I'm glad I went but I'm also glad I didn't spend more than £10 on my ticket. After the show, we went to Dollar Grills in Exmouth Market, which was a cool venue and recommended, and at the table next to us was a very attractive girl in her mid-twenties, curvy, dark and sensual. I didn't have a clear view of the guy she was with and asked Grania if he was worthy of her. She nodded her assent. They were clearly a glamorous pairing. Then, about thirty minutes later, with her burger unbitten and his frankly terrifying rack of ribs undented, he grabbed his duffle coat and his rucksack and stropped out. We looked at Curvy McBuxom with sympathy. "Nightmare," I said to her, and smiled in what I hoped was a kind, unpatronising fashion. She nodded, and said, "I'm getting a bit bored of it now, though." Apparently this particular argument had been caused because he'd bought her tickets to Prima Donna and she hadn't liked it - the opera, not the gift. He, however, had taken her rejection of the opera as a personal affront. It was the kind of exhausting, pointless row I've had hundreds of times in my life, indicative of absolutely nothing on the surface and, underneath, firm evidence that the relationship is simply not meant to be. After the boy returned, tight-jawed, he sat in virtual silence, wiggling the rack of ribs disconsolately for a few minutes until the girl eventually caved and they got their food to go and stood up. We wished them luck as they left the restaurant and they laughed ruefully, and then I drunkenly told Grania how ecstatic I was to be there in Dollar Grills with her rather than stuck in the wrong relationship, and she agreed and it was lovely.
Monday I had my haircut in my usual imperceptible way, and then last night was Tuesday and Lucy came down to the smoke from t'country, and we went to Camden for a delicious dinner in a Turkish restaurant near Koko, and then to watch the Fuck Buttons (they're a band of sorts, mother. No actual fucking involved.) who were good enough for an hour or so, but we were a bit drunk from dinner, I was spinning out about something unrelated and distracted by trying to coordinate ferry bookings with very kind, very posh man who was being lovely and offering Kate and I a lift to the wedding, and it was all a bit confusing what with the fact that they were playing ridiculously loud dance music but no one was dancing, so we left after an hour and returned back to my flat to safety, cereal, mini Magnums and a last, absurdly unnecessary glass of wine. Today I thought I was leaving for France and then I wasn't, so I spent a long time in bed, threw a few unrelated items into my suitcase and passed a very pleasant two hours bathing in the wonderfully me-sized rectangle of sun that falls bang in the middle of my living room floor for about three hours every bright afternoon. I heave up the venetian blind, open the gigantic window and lie on my carpet, spreadeagled, often starkers as no one can see me but the birds and any particularly fortunate plane passengers looking down with binoculars. Tomorrow I have every hope that I'll be up there myself. A bientot et honh-he-honh.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Near miss
Nothing like narrowly avoided humiliation to make you feel grateful for mere existence, is there? I went to the loo at work this morning, came out of the cubicle, washed my hands, pouted at myself in the mirror, mentally criticised about thirty six elements of my appearance and admired about nine, and then turned to walk out the door. As I turned, from the corner of my eye, I spotted a potential thirty seventh criticism, and reversed to look again in the mirror. And thank goodness I did. For the first time in (my) living memory, my dress was tucked into my tights. This is probably every woman's worst nightmare. Forget the Special K bitch prancing around in her boyfriend's oversized shirt, her eyes saying 'Look at me, all toned legs, unreasonably white teeth and glossy mane'; in Real Life, there is very little that is less sexy than normal woman's bare buttocks and backs of thighs below a shirt. A fully naked rear view is one thing, but like a starkers man in socks, female nudity appears to be a kind of all or nothing deal. Cover those same buttocks and thighs in tights, and tuck the shirt into the waistband, and I don't know about you, but it's not my idea of an erotic masterpiece. So you can appreciate my joy that I had managed not to stride between the ladies' loo door, the water bubbler and back to my desk with this most sensitive of areas revealed to the assembled masses. It was, in short, an excellent start to the day.
Since then, I've been running in the snow and. That's it. Last night I went to choir practice where we were being filmed by the BBC for some reason that will never be aired, and we were all a bit hysterical as a result. At one point, someone was making an announcement saying that if people were running late, they should phone someone in the choir, and that if they didn't have anyone in choir's number they... "were a total loser" I finished off, in a Green Day / surfer dude accent, to slightly lower than my usual hit rate of around 76% laughter and 24% awkward silence. Feel bad now. Then again, merely being in a choir is normally considered a fairly loserish thing to do so I guess we all need to come to terms with that at some point. Plus I'm sure they'd miss me if I never said anything at all - can't win 'em all...
Am also grumpy because I spent all morning trying to get tickets for Traviata or Aida at the opera house, except if my boss is reading, in which case I spent the morning streamlining office efficiency and upping revenue. Anyway, I couldn't get onto the ROH webpage or through to their phone line as today is the first day of booking, but a few minutes ago I finally managed to access the website and all seats under £170 are sold out on all dates. Gah. I haven't been to the opera for months and was really in the mood. But hey. I've got a fun night lined up for tonight, a fun few days ahead, I'm off to see Nic at the weekend and my skirt isn't tucked into my pants. [Double checks]. Nope. My skirt isn't tucked into my pants. Things could be worse.
Since then, I've been running in the snow and. That's it. Last night I went to choir practice where we were being filmed by the BBC for some reason that will never be aired, and we were all a bit hysterical as a result. At one point, someone was making an announcement saying that if people were running late, they should phone someone in the choir, and that if they didn't have anyone in choir's number they... "were a total loser" I finished off, in a Green Day / surfer dude accent, to slightly lower than my usual hit rate of around 76% laughter and 24% awkward silence. Feel bad now. Then again, merely being in a choir is normally considered a fairly loserish thing to do so I guess we all need to come to terms with that at some point. Plus I'm sure they'd miss me if I never said anything at all - can't win 'em all...
Am also grumpy because I spent all morning trying to get tickets for Traviata or Aida at the opera house, except if my boss is reading, in which case I spent the morning streamlining office efficiency and upping revenue. Anyway, I couldn't get onto the ROH webpage or through to their phone line as today is the first day of booking, but a few minutes ago I finally managed to access the website and all seats under £170 are sold out on all dates. Gah. I haven't been to the opera for months and was really in the mood. But hey. I've got a fun night lined up for tonight, a fun few days ahead, I'm off to see Nic at the weekend and my skirt isn't tucked into my pants. [Double checks]. Nope. My skirt isn't tucked into my pants. Things could be worse.
Tuesday, 19 May 2009
Tuesday melange
After a busy weekend, I woke up startlingly early on Monday morning. I tentatively opened one eye and was thrilled that my digital clock read 06:50 - another hour of snoozing before I needed to sit upright. A short doze later, I reawoke feeling strangely refreshed and knew something was amiss. I opened my eyes, and saw that my clock now read 08:29. My alarm had decided that it was going to sleep in, and didn't go off. And I don't know how I did it, but I made it into the office by 09:03, 34 minutes from bed to desk, unshowered and with bed remaining unmade, but teeth brushed, clothes donned, make-up applied, hair tidied and choir folder remembered. I briefly felt like a B-grade superhero.
Friday night I went to see L'Elisir d'amore at Covent Garden with Arabee. I'd never seen a comic opera before, and I really enjoyed it from our £8 standing tickets. I don't know if it was due to the opera being less well-known or the credit crunch, but there were large swathes of empty red velvet in the stalls and lower circles, and the boxes were almost all empty. All the cheap seats were rammed, however, so I think it says more about the financial climate than the popularity of Donizetti. We had a good ol' natter in the interval and over wine in a pub beforehand, and all in all it was a delicious evening. Saturday was down to Tooting with Em for bargain threading (Feroza is ditched) and then dinner with Kate at the delicious and very funky Village East in Bermondsey - will definitely be returning - and finally on to Shunt. It pains me to admit it, and apologies to anyone to whom I've lied and said I've been there loads, but this is the first time I've gone to this self-consciously cool underground lair beneath London Bridge train station. I've intended to visit for years, but this was the first time that good intentions and willing third parties combined simultaneously, and Kate and I set off for the gloom of the arches with excitement. It was every bit as random and cool as I'd hoped, although the clientele was definitely in their mid-twenties, on average, and it was a little unexpected to find that the guys we'd been chatting to were still at university and aged 23. I don't know if they were unusually mature, or if the loud music meant I couldn't hear how idiotic they really were. Still, it was a brilliant night, involving white wine, fancy dress, throwing plastic balls at the head of ska band guitarists and pretending to be usherettes in a screenless cinema.
Since then I've spent time with two members of my extended US relations, had a day at work, gone to the gym, bought some scales in Boots, gone to choir, been reluctantly gobsmacked by Tim's impromptu magic display at the pub afterwards, woken up on time this morning, weighed myself, and enjoyed another half day at work. The scales and the weighing are on account of my decision, post last Friday, to try Weight Watchers for a few weeks. And the past 36 hours since I began, under Laura's beady eye, to count calories and calculate point allowances, have been shocking. My quantities weren't too bad, I knew that - but it appears that my main dietary treats, including smoked mackerel, halloumi and Pret's yoghurt with berries and granola, healthy though they sometimes are, are also so high in points that it is a miracle I haven't been recruited by Sumo UK for their summer extravaganza. One medium mackerel fillet, a staple part of my lunchtime diet, counts as 10 points, the same as a Big Mac. I am allowed 21 points in an entire day. A 40g block of halloumi, the size of a small matchbox, is 3.5 points, which sounds OK, until you realise that the average halloumi salad probably contains around 150-200g of grilled cheese. Oh. That may explain why I haven't lost quite so much weight as I expected in the past six weeks since I went on my pre-holiday diet.
Don't get me wrong. I am not crying into my Ryvita, feeling like a social outcast. I am generally a happy lass, and I do believe that I'm attractive and healthy as I am. But there's no denying that I'd like to shift a wee bit of weight before I have to prance about in my bikini in just under three weeks - so this seems like a fun thing to do between now and then. Call me odd, but so far, I'm enjoying it.
I went on this website last week to try and firm up my allegiances in advance of the European elections in June. On many issues I was confident that I had a fair bit of information in my filing cabinets, and I felt confident that I was clicking the right buttons. But on a few topics, namely EU integration and immigration, I felt pathetically ill-informed. I know what my gut tells me about these topics, but if there's anything my three weeks of politics course have taught me, it's that your instinct is all well and good, but if you aren't able to see or explain how these proposals can be practically implemented, then you're just a fantasist, which is nice for you and fun escapism, but really doesn't help the situation much. I'm now waiting for this book to arrive from Amazon; I saw the author speak a year or two ago and he was impressive and really quite fanciable. For some insane reason, due in part to the fact that I was feeling a bit needy having had a sweetly romantic but unsaucy dream about some total stranger on Sunday night, I ended up stalking him online yesterday and sent him an email asking him out for a drink. This morning, I received his reply saying that he was in New Zealand, which, as far as excuses go, is pretty solid. I almost imploded with cringe, deleted the email and have resolved to think no more on't.
Friday night I went to see L'Elisir d'amore at Covent Garden with Arabee. I'd never seen a comic opera before, and I really enjoyed it from our £8 standing tickets. I don't know if it was due to the opera being less well-known or the credit crunch, but there were large swathes of empty red velvet in the stalls and lower circles, and the boxes were almost all empty. All the cheap seats were rammed, however, so I think it says more about the financial climate than the popularity of Donizetti. We had a good ol' natter in the interval and over wine in a pub beforehand, and all in all it was a delicious evening. Saturday was down to Tooting with Em for bargain threading (Feroza is ditched) and then dinner with Kate at the delicious and very funky Village East in Bermondsey - will definitely be returning - and finally on to Shunt. It pains me to admit it, and apologies to anyone to whom I've lied and said I've been there loads, but this is the first time I've gone to this self-consciously cool underground lair beneath London Bridge train station. I've intended to visit for years, but this was the first time that good intentions and willing third parties combined simultaneously, and Kate and I set off for the gloom of the arches with excitement. It was every bit as random and cool as I'd hoped, although the clientele was definitely in their mid-twenties, on average, and it was a little unexpected to find that the guys we'd been chatting to were still at university and aged 23. I don't know if they were unusually mature, or if the loud music meant I couldn't hear how idiotic they really were. Still, it was a brilliant night, involving white wine, fancy dress, throwing plastic balls at the head of ska band guitarists and pretending to be usherettes in a screenless cinema.
Since then I've spent time with two members of my extended US relations, had a day at work, gone to the gym, bought some scales in Boots, gone to choir, been reluctantly gobsmacked by Tim's impromptu magic display at the pub afterwards, woken up on time this morning, weighed myself, and enjoyed another half day at work. The scales and the weighing are on account of my decision, post last Friday, to try Weight Watchers for a few weeks. And the past 36 hours since I began, under Laura's beady eye, to count calories and calculate point allowances, have been shocking. My quantities weren't too bad, I knew that - but it appears that my main dietary treats, including smoked mackerel, halloumi and Pret's yoghurt with berries and granola, healthy though they sometimes are, are also so high in points that it is a miracle I haven't been recruited by Sumo UK for their summer extravaganza. One medium mackerel fillet, a staple part of my lunchtime diet, counts as 10 points, the same as a Big Mac. I am allowed 21 points in an entire day. A 40g block of halloumi, the size of a small matchbox, is 3.5 points, which sounds OK, until you realise that the average halloumi salad probably contains around 150-200g of grilled cheese. Oh. That may explain why I haven't lost quite so much weight as I expected in the past six weeks since I went on my pre-holiday diet.
Don't get me wrong. I am not crying into my Ryvita, feeling like a social outcast. I am generally a happy lass, and I do believe that I'm attractive and healthy as I am. But there's no denying that I'd like to shift a wee bit of weight before I have to prance about in my bikini in just under three weeks - so this seems like a fun thing to do between now and then. Call me odd, but so far, I'm enjoying it.
I went on this website last week to try and firm up my allegiances in advance of the European elections in June. On many issues I was confident that I had a fair bit of information in my filing cabinets, and I felt confident that I was clicking the right buttons. But on a few topics, namely EU integration and immigration, I felt pathetically ill-informed. I know what my gut tells me about these topics, but if there's anything my three weeks of politics course have taught me, it's that your instinct is all well and good, but if you aren't able to see or explain how these proposals can be practically implemented, then you're just a fantasist, which is nice for you and fun escapism, but really doesn't help the situation much. I'm now waiting for this book to arrive from Amazon; I saw the author speak a year or two ago and he was impressive and really quite fanciable. For some insane reason, due in part to the fact that I was feeling a bit needy having had a sweetly romantic but unsaucy dream about some total stranger on Sunday night, I ended up stalking him online yesterday and sent him an email asking him out for a drink. This morning, I received his reply saying that he was in New Zealand, which, as far as excuses go, is pretty solid. I almost imploded with cringe, deleted the email and have resolved to think no more on't.
Friday, 6 June 2008
Back by popular demand
It's been so long I've almost forgotten how to write. But not quite.
I've had the opposite of writers' block - I shall name it writers' flood - whereby I've had so much to say that I haven't known where to start and, to keep things simple, decided not to start at all. But yesterday I became so passionate about something that I realised the time to speak had finally arrived.
What was this subject that dragged me out of non-blogging apathy? Not Paul's 30th weekend when we all flew up to Scotland and stayed in an incredible house and I cooked for 12 people even though one half of the double oven was broken and there were no scales and I was meant to make birthday brownies and they came out looking like a flat brown biscuit and we drank a lot and wore wigs and hooted hooters and Paul played with a remote control helicopter for longer than was strictly polite and two of his friends got it on which was just too funny and I returned to London a shell of my former self but feeling vaguely saintly? No.
OK - maybe it was the long weekend when the choir I'm in went to the beautiful and not-nearly-as-stag-night-infested-as-expected Riga in Latvia for a flimsily devised tour so that one of our number could see a ladyfriend in Latvia for potential snoggery, but which then turned out to be exceptionally funny, involving drinking sour cream, a lot of sweating on dancefloors, a random hut at 2.30am where we danced unconvincingly to drum 'n' bass, a splendid concert with a young Rigan choir who were really good, a fantastic minibus journey where we harmonised, freestylee like, a gargantuan catalogue of music ranging from The Beatles to Paul Simon to the Grease Megamix to The Lion Sleeps Tonight? Non.
Perhaps it was The Apprentice which, once again, is just being too annoying for words with all the candidates being so thick as to defy the realms of imagination, let alone actual possibility, and now we find that one of them actually submitted his application form with multiple spelling mistakes - and I'm talking about words that don't actually exist rather than mere synonymic errors which, in these days of spell-checkers, is so unforgiveable that I cannot believe he even made it into the first round of the auditions process but there's the BBC for you? No.
Or maybe it was the trip to Glyndebourne to see the Monteverdi's L'incoronazione di Poppea (which I just wrote out and then looked up on Yahoo! to see if I'd spelled it right and by jiminy, I had!), my first foray into this ridiculously elitist, unaffordable, glamorous, anachronistic British operatic tradition where Paul had paid extra for well-spoken public school minions to carry our pre-ordered picnic across the lawns and set up our hired table and chairs in a good position by the haha close to the little lambs in the field and from whence we could take advantage of the setting sun over the house, and where, as I walked towards the auditorium for the first half, I told Paul that although I enjoyed opera, I'd never really honestly understood all the fuss about it, always being much more moved during the Tonight medley in West Side Story or even Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat in Guys 'n' Dolls, and that I have always had a twitch of irritation when people wax lyrical about opera like it's some sort of cultural manna or when Julia Roberts cries in Pretty Woman at the end of La Traviata, or when Cher cries in Moonstruck when they're watching (if memory serves me correctly) La Boheme at the Met with Nicholas Cage, because I have never had that wrench of emotion and I didn't really believe that anyone really ever did (much like those smug, hateable morons who guffaw really obviously at all the 'jokes' in Shakespeare to show everyone in the theatre that they connect on a deep level with the subtlety of the Bard's humour when all that's really happening is that someone's making a pathetic pun about penises), but then at the end of the opera, I was absolutely silenced at the beauty of the final duet and suddenly found tears in my eyes and couldn't believe I'd turned into such a cliche? Still no.
Surely it must have been the fact that, on my way back from choir on a Monday evening a couple of weeks ago, I traipsed across Grosvenor Square in my Birkenstock clogs and work clothes, carrying two heavy bags, and found, upon reaching the other side, that the gate had been locked, and, worrying that the man was working his way around the perimeter, locking each gate in turn, realised that by the time I crossed back to my original entrypoint, I may be entirely trapped, so seeing no alternative, climbed out of the square over the four foot high black wrought iron spiked railings, and although my ample buttocks cushioned me from a rear skewering, I still slightly slipped on my way over and carved an inch-long gouge into my left shin, leaving a lovely thick scab and a surrounding bruise that turned blue and then black and then yellow and now grey? Nope.
Alternatively, was it the week-long illness from which I suffered greatly since I last blogged, an illness presented to me as a rare gift from Paul which had me bedridden, sweating and struggling to speak for several days, missing two crucial choir practices and sending me into an OCD-exacerbating frenzy of cabin-fever - was it this that drove me finally to update all you Faithful on my progress through this hilarious rainforest of life? Again, no.
So: not, then, the opera, not a trip to Scotland, not a leg injury, nor a near-death experience has inspired me to clear the backlog. What has finally propelled me to write, dear readers, is my calves.
Never my favourite body part, my calves have always been broad, seemingly untannable, and covered with an even sprinkling of hated hair follicles. Sure, I am familiar with the benefits of the razor and I use my Venus regularly - but all too soon following this procedure, the sandpaper effect returns. I tried to ignore it, but Paul's regular gag which involved "exfoliating" the soles of his feet by rubbing them on my legs did not make me feel like the sex kitten I know I am deep down. So I've had them lasered. And, after just one treatment of a likely five, they are already so improved that I feel like my beauty regime has changed forever. My self-confidence is boosted, my tights don't self-ladder and Paul now needs to buy a new pumice stone. I am not alone in my passion - two other lasered friends called the experience 'life-altering' and I am now happy to admit that I too rank it as one of the most pleasurable painful experiences of my thirty year existence. Ladies of the world, unite - you have nothing to lose but several hundred pounds sterling and a lifetime's supply of razor blades.
I've had the opposite of writers' block - I shall name it writers' flood - whereby I've had so much to say that I haven't known where to start and, to keep things simple, decided not to start at all. But yesterday I became so passionate about something that I realised the time to speak had finally arrived.
What was this subject that dragged me out of non-blogging apathy? Not Paul's 30th weekend when we all flew up to Scotland and stayed in an incredible house and I cooked for 12 people even though one half of the double oven was broken and there were no scales and I was meant to make birthday brownies and they came out looking like a flat brown biscuit and we drank a lot and wore wigs and hooted hooters and Paul played with a remote control helicopter for longer than was strictly polite and two of his friends got it on which was just too funny and I returned to London a shell of my former self but feeling vaguely saintly? No.OK - maybe it was the long weekend when the choir I'm in went to the beautiful and not-nearly-as-stag-night-infested-as-expected Riga in Latvia for a flimsily devised tour so that one of our number could see a ladyfriend in Latvia for potential snoggery, but which then turned out to be exceptionally funny, involving drinking sour cream, a lot of sweating on dancefloors, a random hut at 2.30am where we danced unconvincingly to drum 'n' bass, a splendid concert with a young Rigan choir who were really good, a fantastic minibus journey where we harmonised, freestylee like, a gargantuan catalogue of music ranging from The Beatles to Paul Simon to the Grease Megamix to The Lion Sleeps Tonight? Non.Perhaps it was The Apprentice which, once again, is just being too annoying for words with all the candidates being so thick as to defy the realms of imagination, let alone actual possibility, and now we find that one of them actually submitted his application form with multiple spelling mistakes - and I'm talking about words that don't actually exist rather than mere synonymic errors which, in these days of spell-checkers, is so unforgiveable that I cannot believe he even made it into the first round of the auditions process but there's the BBC for you? No.
Or maybe it was the trip to Glyndebourne to see the Monteverdi's L'incoronazione di Poppea (which I just wrote out and then looked up on Yahoo! to see if I'd spelled it right and by jiminy, I had!), my first foray into this ridiculously elitist, unaffordable, glamorous, anachronistic British operatic tradition where Paul had paid extra for well-spoken public school minions to carry our pre-ordered picnic across the lawns and set up our hired table and chairs in a good position by the haha close to the little lambs in the field and from whence we could take advantage of the setting sun over the house, and where, as I walked towards the auditorium for the first half, I told Paul that although I enjoyed opera, I'd never really honestly understood all the fuss about it, always being much more moved during the Tonight medley in West Side Story or even Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat in Guys 'n' Dolls, and that I have always had a twitch of irritation when people wax lyrical about opera like it's some sort of cultural manna or when Julia Roberts cries in Pretty Woman at the end of La Traviata, or when Cher cries in Moonstruck when they're watching (if memory serves me correctly) La Boheme at the Met with Nicholas Cage, because I have never had that wrench of emotion and I didn't really believe that anyone really ever did (much like those smug, hateable morons who guffaw really obviously at all the 'jokes' in Shakespeare to show everyone in the theatre that they connect on a deep level with the subtlety of the Bard's humour when all that's really happening is that someone's making a pathetic pun about penises), but then at the end of the opera, I was absolutely silenced at the beauty of the final duet and suddenly found tears in my eyes and couldn't believe I'd turned into such a cliche? Still no.Surely it must have been the fact that, on my way back from choir on a Monday evening a couple of weeks ago, I traipsed across Grosvenor Square in my Birkenstock clogs and work clothes, carrying two heavy bags, and found, upon reaching the other side, that the gate had been locked, and, worrying that the man was working his way around the perimeter, locking each gate in turn, realised that by the time I crossed back to my original entrypoint, I may be entirely trapped, so seeing no alternative, climbed out of the square over the four foot high black wrought iron spiked railings, and although my ample buttocks cushioned me from a rear skewering, I still slightly slipped on my way over and carved an inch-long gouge into my left shin, leaving a lovely thick scab and a surrounding bruise that turned blue and then black and then yellow and now grey? Nope.
Alternatively, was it the week-long illness from which I suffered greatly since I last blogged, an illness presented to me as a rare gift from Paul which had me bedridden, sweating and struggling to speak for several days, missing two crucial choir practices and sending me into an OCD-exacerbating frenzy of cabin-fever - was it this that drove me finally to update all you Faithful on my progress through this hilarious rainforest of life? Again, no.
So: not, then, the opera, not a trip to Scotland, not a leg injury, nor a near-death experience has inspired me to clear the backlog. What has finally propelled me to write, dear readers, is my calves.
Never my favourite body part, my calves have always been broad, seemingly untannable, and covered with an even sprinkling of hated hair follicles. Sure, I am familiar with the benefits of the razor and I use my Venus regularly - but all too soon following this procedure, the sandpaper effect returns. I tried to ignore it, but Paul's regular gag which involved "exfoliating" the soles of his feet by rubbing them on my legs did not make me feel like the sex kitten I know I am deep down. So I've had them lasered. And, after just one treatment of a likely five, they are already so improved that I feel like my beauty regime has changed forever. My self-confidence is boosted, my tights don't self-ladder and Paul now needs to buy a new pumice stone. I am not alone in my passion - two other lasered friends called the experience 'life-altering' and I am now happy to admit that I too rank it as one of the most pleasurable painful experiences of my thirty year existence. Ladies of the world, unite - you have nothing to lose but several hundred pounds sterling and a lifetime's supply of razor blades.
Friday, 18 January 2008
Seats? Overrated.
This is hard for me to admit, but contrary to the impression I may try to emit, I'm not actually an opera buff in the slightest. This is largely due to my appalling long-term memory: I have been to the Royal Opera House twice before; the English National Opera at least three times; Holland Park Opera once - I've even sung in the chorus of two operas in Dorset - but the sad truth is that, with the exception of the ones I was actually in, I have no clue what I have seen. I'm pretty certain Carmen is on the list. Eugene Onegin rings a bell, although I have no idea what it sounded like. I know I haven't seen any Wagner. But other than that, I draw an embarrassing blank.Thus it was that, as the lights dimmed over the sumptuous ROH last night, I listened to the opening bars of La Traviata to see if I recognised it as something I'd witnessed before. Immediately, I knew for sure that I had never seen it in person - but I certainly recognised it. Not from my classical upbringing. Not from school. From Pretty Woman. I cringed. Here I was, trying my hardest to be culturally broad while physically slim - but my benchmark for recognisable opera tunes was courtesy of Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. It was a personal low-point.
When I'd wrenched my self-esteem back to healthier levels, I began to enjoy the left hand side of the opera. The right hand side was, of course, completely obscured due to our cheap position high up in the standing area - but for £7, I wasn't complaining. The sound was unaffected, we could see the surtitles perfectly so we didn't miss any implausible plot developments and, to be perfectly honest, I felt some pity for the people who had spent such absurd amounts on their seats. Surely they were looking at us resentfully, livid that we were witnessing the same magnificent spectacle but for a fraction of the price?
The opera itself was fantastic and seemed to last about ten minutes - an unusual sensation for me because although I love the big numbers, I do tend to get a bit restless during all the less aurally palatable recitative stuff. I think it's the fact that I was brought up on musicals. My least favourite section was the third act. Strangely, everyone in the audience seemed to have caught Violetta's TB in the second interval as they suddenly started coughing feverishly having been almost silent up to that point. Additionally, although I had done extremely well not to feel too single in such extraordinarily romantic surroundings, the couple who moved to stand next to me for the finale could not seem to keep their hands off each other and were constantly kissing and snuggling audibly, exacerbated by the man's fondness for rubbing his lady-friend's back - she was sporting an unfashionable velvet jacket and the noise of his hand running against the fabric's grain seemed deafening.
Those slight gripes aside, I had a wonderful night and look forward to my next trip. The replacement soloist was fantastic but she needs to work on her shocked 'Moi?' expression on receiving cheers at the end as it was unconvincing and hit fondue levels of cheese - although not as annoying as the lovers next to me who altered their 'Bravo!'s for the men to 'Brava!'s for the women and 'Bravi!' for the assembled cast. Growl at the prohibitive ponciness of the educated classes, she types using long words.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Piss
Dear Patron,
I am writing to you as someone who has booked for La Traviata. It is with great disappointment that I have to tell you that Anna Netrebko is currently suffering from bronchitis and will not be able to sing the role of Violetta in tonight’s performance. Anna arrived for rehearsals in London with a bronchial condition which has sadly now returned. She hopes to be able to perform again very soon and I know that she is very sorry that she has had to let down this evening’s audience. I am pleased to let you know that the role of Violetta will now be sung by Albanian soprano Ermonela Jaho, in her debut with The Royal Opera.
We flew Ermonela in from New York overnight as a precaution as Anna was feeling a little unwell yesterday, although at that point she had still hoped to sing at the performance tonight. Unfortunately her condition worsened and, regrettably, she was obliged to cancel at noon today. Ermonela made her professional debut as Violetta in Tirana, Albania, aged 17 and has subsequently sung the role at the Bavarian State Opera in Munich, Teatro San Carlo in Naples, Teatro Giuseppe Verdi in Trieste, L’Opéra de Marseille and at L’Opéra de Lille. Our casting department has been following her career with great interest and this will be a very exciting evening.
I am so sorry for any inconvenience that this may have caused and I hope you join us in welcoming Ermonela alongside Jonas Kaufmann, Dmitri Hvorostovsky and Maurizio Benini and the rest of this wonderful cast.
Yours sincerely,
Tony Hall
Chief Executive
Royal Opera House
Grumble grumble grumble. I've been excited about this for months. I called The Royal Opera House to see if I could cancel/exchange my tickets - a long shot if ever there was one - and the guy on the phone laughed and said 'No.' They sell the performance, not the performers, which is fair enough. 'If it makes you feel any better,' he added, 'I had tickets for tonight too - and when I had tickets to see her in Don Giovanni, she was also ill that night, so I'm doubly furious.' That did make me feel a bit better. 'Plus,' he said, 'there were people queuing up at 5.30am this morning for day release tickets, and some of them were from Germany.' So I expect they're a tiny bit more annoyed than I am. But not much.
I am writing to you as someone who has booked for La Traviata. It is with great disappointment that I have to tell you that Anna Netrebko is currently suffering from bronchitis and will not be able to sing the role of Violetta in tonight’s performance. Anna arrived for rehearsals in London with a bronchial condition which has sadly now returned. She hopes to be able to perform again very soon and I know that she is very sorry that she has had to let down this evening’s audience. I am pleased to let you know that the role of Violetta will now be sung by Albanian soprano Ermonela Jaho, in her debut with The Royal Opera.
We flew Ermonela in from New York overnight as a precaution as Anna was feeling a little unwell yesterday, although at that point she had still hoped to sing at the performance tonight. Unfortunately her condition worsened and, regrettably, she was obliged to cancel at noon today. Ermonela made her professional debut as Violetta in Tirana, Albania, aged 17 and has subsequently sung the role at the Bavarian State Opera in Munich, Teatro San Carlo in Naples, Teatro Giuseppe Verdi in Trieste, L’Opéra de Marseille and at L’Opéra de Lille. Our casting department has been following her career with great interest and this will be a very exciting evening.
I am so sorry for any inconvenience that this may have caused and I hope you join us in welcoming Ermonela alongside Jonas Kaufmann, Dmitri Hvorostovsky and Maurizio Benini and the rest of this wonderful cast.
Yours sincerely,
Tony Hall
Chief Executive
Royal Opera House
Grumble grumble grumble. I've been excited about this for months. I called The Royal Opera House to see if I could cancel/exchange my tickets - a long shot if ever there was one - and the guy on the phone laughed and said 'No.' They sell the performance, not the performers, which is fair enough. 'If it makes you feel any better,' he added, 'I had tickets for tonight too - and when I had tickets to see her in Don Giovanni, she was also ill that night, so I'm doubly furious.' That did make me feel a bit better. 'Plus,' he said, 'there were people queuing up at 5.30am this morning for day release tickets, and some of them were from Germany.' So I expect they're a tiny bit more annoyed than I am. But not much.
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