I recently discovered that 'to dime' has another meaning in the Scandinavian world.
The Norwegian tells me that in the eighties when the Dime Bar's ad came out, cinemas would be filled with tittering teenagers and mystified parents.
'But Sven, it is just a chocolate bar...'
It means - how can I put this - bum sex.
Watch the ad again..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83n3X0S_lFE&feature=related
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
ginger pigeon
I saw a ginger pigeon yesterday.
Shining bronze and copper among all his concrete brothers.
He was looking fine; healthy, smooth feathers and bright eyes, a stark contract to his bedraggled, grey, knobble-footed brothers.
I wondered if he gets teased by all of the other pigeons?
'Oi, ginger wings.'
A pigeon only a mother could love?
No. He was too plump and prosperous. I think he is some kind of pigeon king, who gets to sit on Nelson's tricorne hat - the premier pigeon spot in the city.
I'm not the only one it seems to have spotted my auburn plumed friend
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=7554831828861553672
Shining bronze and copper among all his concrete brothers.
He was looking fine; healthy, smooth feathers and bright eyes, a stark contract to his bedraggled, grey, knobble-footed brothers.
I wondered if he gets teased by all of the other pigeons?
'Oi, ginger wings.'
A pigeon only a mother could love?
No. He was too plump and prosperous. I think he is some kind of pigeon king, who gets to sit on Nelson's tricorne hat - the premier pigeon spot in the city.
I'm not the only one it seems to have spotted my auburn plumed friend
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=7554831828861553672
Friday, December 21, 2007
silent night
I found a ten pound note a few days ago. Folded in three, lying on the frosty grass in Clissold Park. How lucky! I thought.
But not for the person who lost it. It had the air of a tenner previously owned by someone who gets money from the cash machine £10 at a time. Not lucky indeed.
Yesterday I was shopping on Oxford St with my mum.
We are hunting down Christmas cake decorations and Wellington boots. Outside selfridges she buys a Big Issue.
'Oh Thank God. I've had bad morning. No one is buying nothing,' says the guy, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands.
'Well you have a better afternoon, I hope,' say my mum.
'Merry Christmas.'
'Merry Christmas.'
Inside we have no luck with the Christmas decorations. It is boiling and I think about taking off my coat. I put my hand in my pocket and my fingers brush against the £10 still folded in three.
Outside again I walk up to the Big Issue seller.
'I found this on the floor a few days ago,' I say. He looks at the note and at me. A burst of winter sun lights his face. 'I wanted to pass the good luck onto someone else, so here you go.'
'Oh. Thank you. Really,' his forehead is wrinkled and he looks at me. On the floor?
I'm embarassed - money is such a strange thing. I touch his arm.
'Here,' he says handing me a Big Issue still looking confused.
Now ten pounds is quite a lot to just give to somebody. But if you're living on the street or in a hostel it doesn't go far - two or three cheap meals.
So should you give money to homeless people? I haven't for many years choosing instead to buy the Big Issue and support homeless charities. Well they'll just spent it on drink and drugs right?
It's Christmas and I'm planning to spend some of my hard earned money beer and wine – why shouldn't he? As far as I'm concerned it is his money and he can do what he wants with it. In fact it feels like it never was my money.
If you feel like helping homeless people this year, Hackney Winter Night Shelter opens on 1 January and runs to 31st March. This period is usually the coldest of the year.
A tenner could mean a lot to them too.
http://www.hwns.org.uk/
Merry Christmas and here's to 2008!
'Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.'
But not for the person who lost it. It had the air of a tenner previously owned by someone who gets money from the cash machine £10 at a time. Not lucky indeed.
Yesterday I was shopping on Oxford St with my mum.
We are hunting down Christmas cake decorations and Wellington boots. Outside selfridges she buys a Big Issue.
'Oh Thank God. I've had bad morning. No one is buying nothing,' says the guy, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands.
'Well you have a better afternoon, I hope,' say my mum.
'Merry Christmas.'
'Merry Christmas.'
Inside we have no luck with the Christmas decorations. It is boiling and I think about taking off my coat. I put my hand in my pocket and my fingers brush against the £10 still folded in three.
Outside again I walk up to the Big Issue seller.
'I found this on the floor a few days ago,' I say. He looks at the note and at me. A burst of winter sun lights his face. 'I wanted to pass the good luck onto someone else, so here you go.'
'Oh. Thank you. Really,' his forehead is wrinkled and he looks at me. On the floor?
I'm embarassed - money is such a strange thing. I touch his arm.
'Here,' he says handing me a Big Issue still looking confused.
Now ten pounds is quite a lot to just give to somebody. But if you're living on the street or in a hostel it doesn't go far - two or three cheap meals.
So should you give money to homeless people? I haven't for many years choosing instead to buy the Big Issue and support homeless charities. Well they'll just spent it on drink and drugs right?
It's Christmas and I'm planning to spend some of my hard earned money beer and wine – why shouldn't he? As far as I'm concerned it is his money and he can do what he wants with it. In fact it feels like it never was my money.
If you feel like helping homeless people this year, Hackney Winter Night Shelter opens on 1 January and runs to 31st March. This period is usually the coldest of the year.
A tenner could mean a lot to them too.
http://www.hwns.org.uk/
Merry Christmas and here's to 2008!
'Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.'
Dalai Lama
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The parakeets, frozen ducks and a coot.
Hackney, my home town, is known for it's mix of cultures - melting pot some might say. Home for many of London's first, second, third and onwards generation of immigrants; Turkish, Somali, Jamaican, Nigerian, Sri-Lankan. And these are just the people on my estate.
How do they survive here in this cold? http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6478911.stm tells me they are actually from the foothills of the Himalaya - so they can cope with a bit of icy chill. Hhhmm Himalaya or Hackney. I know where I'd rather be. 
But even I was surprised to see a group, from sunnier climes, outside my kitchen window. First I saw one; small, noisy, green, be-winged and being chased by a magpie. Then I saw another and then four more. A flock of parkeets - over here, taking our nest boxes, filling up our bird baths, eating our peanuts. And no one is doing a thing about it.
Then I went for my afternoon walk in Clissold Park and saw some more. Here is a picture to prove it. Clearly showing a Parakeet. Clearly.
How do they survive here in this cold? http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6478911.stm tells me they are actually from the foothills of the Himalaya - so they can cope with a bit of icy chill. Hhhmm Himalaya or Hackney. I know where I'd rather be.
The ponds in the park were freezing over. The sun was setting behind the ducks and coots slithering around on the uneven ice. It wasn't the Hindu Kush but it was cold and beautiful.
Friday, November 30, 2007
well I'll be dogone
So I wait on the platform. By some miraculous chance, the train that pulls up is not too crowded and I even see – the holy grail of the rush hour traveller - AN EMPTY SEAT. I imagine the gods of the underground – a spiteful, immature bunch - have their attention elsewhere, the circle line perhaps.
When I get on the train I see why the seat is empty. A dog of giant proportions is lying in front of it and no one seems prepared to move him. I stare at the dog. It is stunning – thick fur, large round head at least as big as mine; body over a meter long. But the startling thing about him is his fur. He is stripped like a tiger with colours of biscuit, caramel and sesame.
His owner, a young black woman has hold of the lead – a large metal chain. She has long black dreds and looks like she hasn't slept in a week. They could have stepped out of the pages of a Philip Pullman book. Everyone else on the tube is staring at the dog. Most of the carriage is smiling – it has bewitched us.
We are a nation of animal lovers; the RSPCA formed 60 years before the NSPCC after all. And I am ashamed to realise that if she was blocking the seat with anything else - shopping, crutches, even a child - I would be seething with inner commuter hatred. The creature shifts and gets to his feet freeing access to the seat. I sidle around his enormous head and sit down.
'You have a very beautiful dog,' I say. Normal rules of the tube don't seem to apply when you are sitting next to a tigerdog.
'Thanks,' she smiles at me, 'he's not happy with all these people though.' The dog tries to chew the edge of my coat and she pulls him away.
'What sort of dog is he?' I ask.
'A mix - huskie and Japanese Kishu Inu.'
He turns around and sits down. On my feet. It is the best tube journey I have ever had.
This is the funny thing about London - one minute you'll be poked in the eye with an umbrella goboon and then next a tiger dog will be sitting on your feet. Whatever else it is, it certainly ain't boring.
When I get on the train I see why the seat is empty. A dog of giant proportions is lying in front of it and no one seems prepared to move him. I stare at the dog. It is stunning – thick fur, large round head at least as big as mine; body over a meter long. But the startling thing about him is his fur. He is stripped like a tiger with colours of biscuit, caramel and sesame.
His owner, a young black woman has hold of the lead – a large metal chain. She has long black dreds and looks like she hasn't slept in a week. They could have stepped out of the pages of a Philip Pullman book. Everyone else on the tube is staring at the dog. Most of the carriage is smiling – it has bewitched us.
We are a nation of animal lovers; the RSPCA formed 60 years before the NSPCC after all. And I am ashamed to realise that if she was blocking the seat with anything else - shopping, crutches, even a child - I would be seething with inner commuter hatred. The creature shifts and gets to his feet freeing access to the seat. I sidle around his enormous head and sit down.
'You have a very beautiful dog,' I say. Normal rules of the tube don't seem to apply when you are sitting next to a tigerdog.
'Thanks,' she smiles at me, 'he's not happy with all these people though.' The dog tries to chew the edge of my coat and she pulls him away.
'What sort of dog is he?' I ask.
'A mix - huskie and Japanese Kishu Inu.'
He turns around and sits down. On my feet. It is the best tube journey I have ever had.
This is the funny thing about London - one minute you'll be poked in the eye with an umbrella goboon and then next a tiger dog will be sitting on your feet. Whatever else it is, it certainly ain't boring.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
you can stand under my umbrella
Yesterday someone hit me in the head with their umbrella. I was walking fast, in an eastwardly direction along Oxford St, and she was walking, again fast, westward bound. Somehow she managed to get me in the temple with one of the plastic goboons at the end of a spoke.
‘What the…. Jesus,’ I said rubbing my forehead.
She said nothing and continued striding along the road. The tilt of her head evoked Boadicea on her blade-bedecked chariot. I imagined her chuckling and then one day removing the plastic covering and sharpening the spoke.
I find the average commuter in London town is a barely contained mass of seething resentment. I must admit there are days when I feel not dissimilar to this.
It doesn’t take much to turn up the heat of this inner rage – and almost getting stabbed in the eye is a bit more than not much.
It was not a good moment then to join the rush of commuters pouring down the steps into the hell that is the northbound platform of the Victoria line at 5.45pm on a Tuesday.
More later…
‘What the…. Jesus,’ I said rubbing my forehead.
She said nothing and continued striding along the road. The tilt of her head evoked Boadicea on her blade-bedecked chariot. I imagined her chuckling and then one day removing the plastic covering and sharpening the spoke.
I find the average commuter in London town is a barely contained mass of seething resentment. I must admit there are days when I feel not dissimilar to this.
It doesn’t take much to turn up the heat of this inner rage – and almost getting stabbed in the eye is a bit more than not much.
It was not a good moment then to join the rush of commuters pouring down the steps into the hell that is the northbound platform of the Victoria line at 5.45pm on a Tuesday.
More later…
Thursday, November 15, 2007
advanced littering
Firework night is over – thank god. Like Christmas, the bangs and sparkles seem to start earlier and earlier every year. I like fireworks - in theory. Ohh Ahh Lovely. In the same way that I think veal tastes nice, but when you start thinking about it, our bizarre celebration of a failed terrorist attack leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.
The Norwegian calls fireworks displays 'advanced littering' and you can see his point. Today we need to think about the resources we use and the impact that this use has on our environment. From that point of view fireworks have little to redeem themselves.
And there aren't many other activities that lead to widespread, burning and maiming of children on a yearly basis. If fireworks were invented now, they'd be banned in a flash of a rockets tail.
To ban fireworks night, then, seems the only option.
We are also considering banning Christmas. Wrapping paper - what a waste.
Bah humbug.
The Norwegian calls fireworks displays 'advanced littering' and you can see his point. Today we need to think about the resources we use and the impact that this use has on our environment. From that point of view fireworks have little to redeem themselves.
And there aren't many other activities that lead to widespread, burning and maiming of children on a yearly basis. If fireworks were invented now, they'd be banned in a flash of a rockets tail.
To ban fireworks night, then, seems the only option.
We are also considering banning Christmas. Wrapping paper - what a waste.
Bah humbug.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
thinking outside the box
Yesterday the blessed council replaced our stolen recycling bin. Why someone would steal one when they are so readily available is beyond me. I mean it only took us five emails and two months to get ours replaced. (deep breaths, calm, calm)
So I woke from my stuffed nose slumbers to find a bewildered Irish fellow on my doorstep waving a green plastic box at me. Better him than the prostitutes who had been there the previous night scattering Pringles and fag buts all over the steps.
'Oh, love, sorry to wake you. You've ordered this, love? Is that right, love?' he says staring at the glass window above the door.
'Oh yes, someone stole ours. Brilliant thanks for bringing it...'
He looks at the box in his hands.
'It's just that I can't give you this, love, as it's someone else's.' He shows me the number seven clearly written in Tipex on side of the box. He had taken someone else's box to replace ours – my mind literally boggles. Does he provide continuous employment for himself in this way?
'Love, I'll be back in a minute. Sorry to wake you, love.'
'No probs.'
So five minutes later he reappears with a new box.
'Love, here you go, love.' He gazes up at the ceiling.
'Thanks' I say and close the door.
Then I become a fraction more awake and realise I'm wearing a t-shirt and my fairly short (a la James Bond in the seventies) dressing gown. I imagine him going down the stairs crunching through the sour cream and chive crisps mumbling, 'love... love.... love.'
So I woke from my stuffed nose slumbers to find a bewildered Irish fellow on my doorstep waving a green plastic box at me. Better him than the prostitutes who had been there the previous night scattering Pringles and fag buts all over the steps.
'Oh, love, sorry to wake you. You've ordered this, love? Is that right, love?' he says staring at the glass window above the door.
'Oh yes, someone stole ours. Brilliant thanks for bringing it...'
He looks at the box in his hands.
'It's just that I can't give you this, love, as it's someone else's.' He shows me the number seven clearly written in Tipex on side of the box. He had taken someone else's box to replace ours – my mind literally boggles. Does he provide continuous employment for himself in this way?
'Love, I'll be back in a minute. Sorry to wake you, love.'
'No probs.'
So five minutes later he reappears with a new box.
'Love, here you go, love.' He gazes up at the ceiling.
'Thanks' I say and close the door.
Then I become a fraction more awake and realise I'm wearing a t-shirt and my fairly short (a la James Bond in the seventies) dressing gown. I imagine him going down the stairs crunching through the sour cream and chive crisps mumbling, 'love... love.... love.'
Monday, October 22, 2007
rock the boat and stone the crows
This week I've been pondering what makes a stone a stone, a rock a rock and a boulder a boulder. Or to put it another way, when does a stone become a rock? My first thoughts - size does matter. To my mind a stone is apple sized and smaller. A rock is bigger than an apple but smaller than pumpkin. Lets say a large pumpkin. And a boulder bigger than a pumpkin. But what does the dictionary say?
A stone n. is a piece of earthy or mineral matter, especially smaller than a boulder; a paving block; a gem; the central hard portion of a fruit; a unit of weight equal to 14lbs. It is also - according to the dear dictionary - a rock.
On the other hand, a rock n. is a large mass of stone or stony material; a boulder; a gem; a firm or solid foundation; a cylindrical stick of coloured and flavoured sweet.
So hold on, a rock is a mass of stone AND a boulder?
A boulder n. is a large mass of stone or rock; a climbing route small enough to tackle without ropes; a town in Colorado. (Strictly speaking Boulder not a boulder for that last one)
So according to the dictionary, a stone is smaller than a boulder and is also a rock. A rock is a boulder or a mass of stone. Whereas a boulder is a large mass of stone or rock.
Hello confusion my old friend.
The closer we look, the deeper down the rabbit hole we go as stone and rock are verbs as well as nouns. To rock means to move rhythmically back and forth (He rocked the baby to sleep) and to disturb or upset (the revelations about the will rocked the whole family) How can one word have two almost contradictory meanings?
The conclusion I make from all this confusion is that words - like rocks - are weighty. They can mean a multitude of things depending on where they are hefted or placed.
But you knew that already - right?
P.S. And on the rocks means both likely to fail AND served on ice.
A stone n. is a piece of earthy or mineral matter, especially smaller than a boulder; a paving block; a gem; the central hard portion of a fruit; a unit of weight equal to 14lbs. It is also - according to the dear dictionary - a rock.
On the other hand, a rock n. is a large mass of stone or stony material; a boulder; a gem; a firm or solid foundation; a cylindrical stick of coloured and flavoured sweet.
So hold on, a rock is a mass of stone AND a boulder?
A boulder n. is a large mass of stone or rock; a climbing route small enough to tackle without ropes; a town in Colorado. (Strictly speaking Boulder not a boulder for that last one)
So according to the dictionary, a stone is smaller than a boulder and is also a rock. A rock is a boulder or a mass of stone. Whereas a boulder is a large mass of stone or rock.
Hello confusion my old friend.
The closer we look, the deeper down the rabbit hole we go as stone and rock are verbs as well as nouns. To rock means to move rhythmically back and forth (He rocked the baby to sleep) and to disturb or upset (the revelations about the will rocked the whole family) How can one word have two almost contradictory meanings?
The conclusion I make from all this confusion is that words - like rocks - are weighty. They can mean a multitude of things depending on where they are hefted or placed.
But you knew that already - right?
P.S. And on the rocks means both likely to fail AND served on ice.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
mutton dressed as spam
I know it wasn't my special day or anything, but I was one of the bridesmaids and so I thought, well I better make an effort. I normally feel like a little girl dressed up at weddings, never quite able to get it right, as if I'm wearing someone else's grown-up dress.
I would describe my style as sporty-tramp. I imagine when people meet me they are never sure if I am going to try and sell them a Big Issue or invite them to a game of badminton. This suits me fine most of the time but I wanted to feel more comfortable at this wedding especially as the bride had said – wear what you want.
So I bought a dress I knew for sure I looked good in and as this was an autumn wedding in one of the wettest and coldest years since we have started fretting about climate change, a dress I knew I would be warm in. It is a close fitting black jumper dress with a little belt to tie around the waist. I ummed and ahhhed over the shoes - either boots or little black heels. I settled on boots for warmth reasons. I thought I looked smart, warm and cute.
Unfortunately on the day of the wedding I realised I'd made yet another fashion mistake and would be uncomfortable but for completely different reasons. All the other bridesmaid put on silky flowing dresses in blue and green and pink. Lovely dresses that swung and skimmed below the knee. I had a vision of myself in my dress. My short black dress with what were essentially fuck-me boots.
Imagine an old rich fella who falls in love with a much younger woman, much to the dismay of his family. They marry and after a few months of blissful happiness, he dies. What I was planning to wear was what that woman would wear to the funeral. In Ape Pro Pre At.
I left putting my dress on till the last minute saying to myself – it doesn't really matter what you wear no one is going to look at you. But when i immerge clad in black from top to toe, look at me they did.
'Its a bit dark isn't it?' I said lamely. Yes, but you look very sophisticated, said one kind friend. You look great, said another, but I have another dress with me, said another less kind friend. It is a bit short said the-nail-in-the-coffin friend. Ah well, I thought, just got to go with it now. And luckily we all did look completely different and, I think, wonderful in different ways.
As we were waiting outside the hall with the bride, the mother of one of my friends said, oh why are you not wearing a silky dress like everyone else? I hid behind my flowers. Unfortunately I'm about three inches taller than the other bridesmaids.
Luckily the wine was flowing and I spotted another girl in a black sophisticated dress and other guess in a belly dancing outfit. The wedding was a fairly eccentric – one of the songs was Food Glorious Food. So I relaxed and enjoyed my champers.
The bride hugged me later on the dance floor saying how happy she was. She thought it was the happiest day of her life. I don't think she would have noticed if I had been wearing a bin liner.
And that after all is what matters.
I would describe my style as sporty-tramp. I imagine when people meet me they are never sure if I am going to try and sell them a Big Issue or invite them to a game of badminton. This suits me fine most of the time but I wanted to feel more comfortable at this wedding especially as the bride had said – wear what you want.
So I bought a dress I knew for sure I looked good in and as this was an autumn wedding in one of the wettest and coldest years since we have started fretting about climate change, a dress I knew I would be warm in. It is a close fitting black jumper dress with a little belt to tie around the waist. I ummed and ahhhed over the shoes - either boots or little black heels. I settled on boots for warmth reasons. I thought I looked smart, warm and cute.
Unfortunately on the day of the wedding I realised I'd made yet another fashion mistake and would be uncomfortable but for completely different reasons. All the other bridesmaid put on silky flowing dresses in blue and green and pink. Lovely dresses that swung and skimmed below the knee. I had a vision of myself in my dress. My short black dress with what were essentially fuck-me boots.
Imagine an old rich fella who falls in love with a much younger woman, much to the dismay of his family. They marry and after a few months of blissful happiness, he dies. What I was planning to wear was what that woman would wear to the funeral. In Ape Pro Pre At.
I left putting my dress on till the last minute saying to myself – it doesn't really matter what you wear no one is going to look at you. But when i immerge clad in black from top to toe, look at me they did.
'Its a bit dark isn't it?' I said lamely. Yes, but you look very sophisticated, said one kind friend. You look great, said another, but I have another dress with me, said another less kind friend. It is a bit short said the-nail-in-the-coffin friend. Ah well, I thought, just got to go with it now. And luckily we all did look completely different and, I think, wonderful in different ways.
As we were waiting outside the hall with the bride, the mother of one of my friends said, oh why are you not wearing a silky dress like everyone else? I hid behind my flowers. Unfortunately I'm about three inches taller than the other bridesmaids.
Luckily the wine was flowing and I spotted another girl in a black sophisticated dress and other guess in a belly dancing outfit. The wedding was a fairly eccentric – one of the songs was Food Glorious Food. So I relaxed and enjoyed my champers.
The bride hugged me later on the dance floor saying how happy she was. She thought it was the happiest day of her life. I don't think she would have noticed if I had been wearing a bin liner.
And that after all is what matters.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
War - huh - what is it good for?
On Sunday, after the fantastic Free-wheel event, K and I went to the Imperial War Museum to do a treasure hunt test (don't ask).
I've never been to the IWM before - looking at a load of gun, tanks, shells etc. doesn't appeal. And why Imperial anyway? There were lots of visitors, mainly men taking extremely careful photographs of plane propellers.
There was one couple who stuck in my mind. A young man with short dark hair, standing with arms behind his back, legs planted firmly wide apart in the 'I've had military training' position. He was wearing camouflage trousers. It takes a certain person to wear any item of camouflage to a war museum. A certain person who wants to make a certain statement.
He was staring intently at an information board as I raced passed trying to find the name of one of the planes hanging from the ceiling (Big Beautiful Doll if you want to know). He gave the impression that he had given each and every item in the museum the same single minded level of attention. His girlfriend was sitting in a huddle on a bench behind him. A dejected sort of thing, shoulders all in a bunch - a bored slightly desperate expression on her face.
War is wrong, of that I have no doubt, but life is never clear cut. Museums like this serve a valuable purpose, even though I might try and turn away from the brutal side of human nature and violent way humans have of brushing up against each other. It's how the world is I suppose.
We ended the visit in the Tibetan Peace Garden which was how I wish the world was.
I've never been to the IWM before - looking at a load of gun, tanks, shells etc. doesn't appeal. And why Imperial anyway? There were lots of visitors, mainly men taking extremely careful photographs of plane propellers.
There was one couple who stuck in my mind. A young man with short dark hair, standing with arms behind his back, legs planted firmly wide apart in the 'I've had military training' position. He was wearing camouflage trousers. It takes a certain person to wear any item of camouflage to a war museum. A certain person who wants to make a certain statement.
He was staring intently at an information board as I raced passed trying to find the name of one of the planes hanging from the ceiling (Big Beautiful Doll if you want to know). He gave the impression that he had given each and every item in the museum the same single minded level of attention. His girlfriend was sitting in a huddle on a bench behind him. A dejected sort of thing, shoulders all in a bunch - a bored slightly desperate expression on her face.
War is wrong, of that I have no doubt, but life is never clear cut. Museums like this serve a valuable purpose, even though I might try and turn away from the brutal side of human nature and violent way humans have of brushing up against each other. It's how the world is I suppose.
We ended the visit in the Tibetan Peace Garden which was how I wish the world was.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
One, Two, Three.....
I'm reading a book about Chile called Travels in a Thin Country by Sara Wheeler. No particular reason, I'm not planning a trip to Chile, I haven't heard great things about Wheeler's travel writing. No, it has just been sitting on my bookshelf for 10 years, half read and abandoned. So I am finishing it now.
Wheeler talks about a group of native Indians who are now extinct, wiped out by the actions of brutal and careless Europeans. So far, so depressingly familiar.
They had an extremely rich language, including a word for the feeling you get when you bite into something soft and your teeth hit something hard. I tried to make up a word in English for that feeling of biting into a oyster to find a pearl or a chomping down on a hamburger to find a thumb nail clipping. Squigdack? Murminct? Any other suggestions?
But given this richness, they had no words for numbers above three. I have three numbers to watch today, a meeting at 11 in Leicester Sq for a possible bit of freelance writing, an appointment at 3 in Blackfriars to register with an agency who have a part time job I'm interested in and finally dinner at 7 in Southwark with a friend. Phew.
I tried to imagine living a life with no numbers, no money, no debt, no appointments to be made or kept, no worrying about the big three oh, four oh, or any other oh. But I gave up because I didn't want to be late for my meeting.
Wheeler talks about a group of native Indians who are now extinct, wiped out by the actions of brutal and careless Europeans. So far, so depressingly familiar.
They had an extremely rich language, including a word for the feeling you get when you bite into something soft and your teeth hit something hard. I tried to make up a word in English for that feeling of biting into a oyster to find a pearl or a chomping down on a hamburger to find a thumb nail clipping. Squigdack? Murminct? Any other suggestions?
But given this richness, they had no words for numbers above three. I have three numbers to watch today, a meeting at 11 in Leicester Sq for a possible bit of freelance writing, an appointment at 3 in Blackfriars to register with an agency who have a part time job I'm interested in and finally dinner at 7 in Southwark with a friend. Phew.
I tried to imagine living a life with no numbers, no money, no debt, no appointments to be made or kept, no worrying about the big three oh, four oh, or any other oh. But I gave up because I didn't want to be late for my meeting.
Monday, September 10, 2007
A can poo attitude
It's me. I'm back. Sorry for the break in communications. The summer has blinked by, MA done and dusted, my year in Cornwall is over and I'm back in London.
Yesterday I went for a walk to the shops, smiling at the bustle and hustle of people. The sun was shinning and I thought, maybe, just maybe it wont be so bad being back. As long as I make sure we get out of London, slicing the weekend off the week - pulling the days out of London and pushing them in the sand in Llangenth or Woolacombe?
On the way back I saw a Tennants Extra can glinting in the sunlight on the pavement. Not to strange a sight in the litter strewn streets of London. What did make it stand out was that there was a small cat poo drapped over it. Was the cat bored? Did it wish to set itself an extra challenge that day? Was it trying to make a comment on the contents of the can, a kind of catty review?
Maybe it just had a can poo attitude.
Yesterday I went for a walk to the shops, smiling at the bustle and hustle of people. The sun was shinning and I thought, maybe, just maybe it wont be so bad being back. As long as I make sure we get out of London, slicing the weekend off the week - pulling the days out of London and pushing them in the sand in Llangenth or Woolacombe?
On the way back I saw a Tennants Extra can glinting in the sunlight on the pavement. Not to strange a sight in the litter strewn streets of London. What did make it stand out was that there was a small cat poo drapped over it. Was the cat bored? Did it wish to set itself an extra challenge that day? Was it trying to make a comment on the contents of the can, a kind of catty review?
Maybe it just had a can poo attitude.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Mudslide
It's been a beautiful day here in Cornwall but to say today has gone well would be a fucking lie.
On the first day of sunshine in ages I figure I'll go for a bracing sea cliff walk and a dip in the sea before starting work. I should have known something was not right when I step in some dog shit.
I knew that I had stepped in dog shit as I'm wearing flip flops and some flicks up onto my wrist. Nice.
The path is really muddy and I start regreting my optimistic flip flops. Coming back down the hill, I stop just before the really muddy bit and spot a path up the side of the bank around some behind some tree trunks. Ah! I think. How clever I am to spot this path.
Negiotating this steep brown track, I slip - right on my arse. Thump. I walk the rest of the way back with a big brown mud patch on my arse smelling slightly of dog shit.
Back on Gylly beach I take of my muddy trousers and I realise - shit - my pockets are empty - I've lost my phone.
I plan to jump in the sea to cool off – dash back to the house, drive back to Swanpool; the nearest point where the road meets the coast path and have a look. It is bound to be on the floor near where I fell.
I strip down to my new bikini. New and free with Elle. One size fits all they said. One size reveals all they should have said. I dive into the sea in the 'Itfreezingletsgetthisoverwith' manouver. The bikini bottoms peel of and roll up down my thighs and my bikini top peels off and twists over. So I have to stay a moment longer in the bracing sea to re-organise myself.
But after I got out the sea, home, into new clothes, into the car, back to Swanpool and back along the path, it was nowhere to be seen.
The good news is that my contract was due for renewal on the 26th – so I don't have to pay a months rental for a phone I don't have. The bad news is that the insurance I'd been paying every month for the last year, that I had just cancelled cos I was just about to get a new phone ran out yesterday.
So, even though the rest of the day improved somewhat, think it is safe to say - fucking lie.
On the first day of sunshine in ages I figure I'll go for a bracing sea cliff walk and a dip in the sea before starting work. I should have known something was not right when I step in some dog shit.
I knew that I had stepped in dog shit as I'm wearing flip flops and some flicks up onto my wrist. Nice.
The path is really muddy and I start regreting my optimistic flip flops. Coming back down the hill, I stop just before the really muddy bit and spot a path up the side of the bank around some behind some tree trunks. Ah! I think. How clever I am to spot this path.
Negiotating this steep brown track, I slip - right on my arse. Thump. I walk the rest of the way back with a big brown mud patch on my arse smelling slightly of dog shit.
Back on Gylly beach I take of my muddy trousers and I realise - shit - my pockets are empty - I've lost my phone.
I plan to jump in the sea to cool off – dash back to the house, drive back to Swanpool; the nearest point where the road meets the coast path and have a look. It is bound to be on the floor near where I fell.
I strip down to my new bikini. New and free with Elle. One size fits all they said. One size reveals all they should have said. I dive into the sea in the 'Itfreezingletsgetthisoverwith' manouver. The bikini bottoms peel of and roll up down my thighs and my bikini top peels off and twists over. So I have to stay a moment longer in the bracing sea to re-organise myself.
But after I got out the sea, home, into new clothes, into the car, back to Swanpool and back along the path, it was nowhere to be seen.
The good news is that my contract was due for renewal on the 26th – so I don't have to pay a months rental for a phone I don't have. The bad news is that the insurance I'd been paying every month for the last year, that I had just cancelled cos I was just about to get a new phone ran out yesterday.
So, even though the rest of the day improved somewhat, think it is safe to say - fucking lie.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Climacophobia
A couple of Fridays ago, I fell down a flight of stairs outside 5 Degrees West - a pub in Falmouth. I bent back my thumb nail and bruised my knees and shins pretty badly. Sufficient time has passed that I can now think about it without a shudder. My bruised have almost healed and I think I have managed to halt the tide of irrational thoughts that were washing around my brain.
I remember talking to my friend at the top of the stairs, and then next thing being at the bottom of the stairs on my hands and knees. In the doggy position to be precise. Like I was waiting to be fucked by the stairs.
I was fine at first - adrenalin - but after a few minutes my legs started to really hurt, but that was not all.
I have a phobia of falling down stairs - Climacophobia as it is known. It is not your usual phobia of snakes, heights or spiders, but there it is. As the pain increased I started feeling really scared. I ended up at home in drunken tears wailing at my boyfriend. 'See I told you. I was right to be scared of stairs, THEY ARE OUT TO GET ME.'
Realising that I was being completely irrational did not stop the feelings. I could feel my sanity bend; my rational self, literally losing some of its grip on my mind.
Due to my sisters illness I have been around a lot of crazy people. Not just 'We drunk a whole bottle of sambuca' crazy, but 'God told me to jump on the bonnet of that car rip off the satan's eyebrows (aka windscreen wipers) ' crazy.
This has had its effects, some good, some not so good. I do fear having a breakdown, but it also means that I know mental illness is just an illness and one that people can recover from. It has taken me quite a few years to get my fear of a breakdown into perspective and the way I look at it now is that it could happen to me, but I don't think it is likely to.
It also means that I look after my mental health as seriously as I look after my physical health. If I have been working too hard and not sleeping and start getting a sore throat – I will take action – early nights, lemon & honey and heaps of fruit & veg.
If I start thinking stairs are REALLY out to get me, I take action. And in this case the action was to come straight home – spend time with Kai, relaxing, reading, sleeping and funnily enough lots of fruit and veg.
There is a big stigma around mental illness and I think this stigma has a lot to do with fear. People fear those with serious mental illness as they can be scary, irrational, violent, and extremely sad. But I think the fear also comes from a horror of ever being like that themselves.
But one thing I know is I've got to get over my fear of stairs – they aren't really out to get me.
I remember talking to my friend at the top of the stairs, and then next thing being at the bottom of the stairs on my hands and knees. In the doggy position to be precise. Like I was waiting to be fucked by the stairs.
I was fine at first - adrenalin - but after a few minutes my legs started to really hurt, but that was not all.
I have a phobia of falling down stairs - Climacophobia as it is known. It is not your usual phobia of snakes, heights or spiders, but there it is. As the pain increased I started feeling really scared. I ended up at home in drunken tears wailing at my boyfriend. 'See I told you. I was right to be scared of stairs, THEY ARE OUT TO GET ME.'
Realising that I was being completely irrational did not stop the feelings. I could feel my sanity bend; my rational self, literally losing some of its grip on my mind.
Due to my sisters illness I have been around a lot of crazy people. Not just 'We drunk a whole bottle of sambuca' crazy, but 'God told me to jump on the bonnet of that car rip off the satan's eyebrows (aka windscreen wipers) ' crazy.
This has had its effects, some good, some not so good. I do fear having a breakdown, but it also means that I know mental illness is just an illness and one that people can recover from. It has taken me quite a few years to get my fear of a breakdown into perspective and the way I look at it now is that it could happen to me, but I don't think it is likely to.
It also means that I look after my mental health as seriously as I look after my physical health. If I have been working too hard and not sleeping and start getting a sore throat – I will take action – early nights, lemon & honey and heaps of fruit & veg.
If I start thinking stairs are REALLY out to get me, I take action. And in this case the action was to come straight home – spend time with Kai, relaxing, reading, sleeping and funnily enough lots of fruit and veg.
There is a big stigma around mental illness and I think this stigma has a lot to do with fear. People fear those with serious mental illness as they can be scary, irrational, violent, and extremely sad. But I think the fear also comes from a horror of ever being like that themselves.
But one thing I know is I've got to get over my fear of stairs – they aren't really out to get me.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
dash it all
I used to be addicted to brackets. They were my way of throwing in little asides (like this) without interrupting the flow of the sentence.
But I have stowed by stash of brackets at the back of my writer’s tool box and taken up with the – far superior – dash.
I am not sure why this change has occurred - just as I am not sure really how to use a dash correctly. But now I know – and love – the dash.
The thing is my use of dashes is accelerating and soon everything I write will be – like – this – and – not make any – if at all – sense.
But I have stowed by stash of brackets at the back of my writer’s tool box and taken up with the – far superior – dash.
I am not sure why this change has occurred - just as I am not sure really how to use a dash correctly. But now I know – and love – the dash.
The thing is my use of dashes is accelerating and soon everything I write will be – like – this – and – not make any – if at all – sense.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Happy f@ckin' birthday
This morning just before I woke up I asked K what time he needed to get to the airport
He replied, 'Blurrgghh?'
Well, I thought, if he's going to Poland he needs to get a move on. Then I woke up. It was 5:45 am.
It reminded me of a conversation we'd had with our friends L and J recently - sipping beers in NYC.
J had woken up the night before with night terrors convinced something terrible had happened to their delicious dog, Kitty. Fear not, the poodle was fine.
The conversation wandered onto 'funny things we've said when we were asleep.'
My 'stick it in your own eye' is my favourite (see earlier post) closely followed by shouting at an ex - who had the habbit of clamping the duvet and rolling over pulling it from my shivering body - 'You are not a fork and the duvet is not spaghetti.'
J said, that one night while almost asleep and with eyes closed L said,
'well don't you roll your eyes at me!'
But my favourite story of this kind was my friends N and Al – Al snores and sometimes N has to wake him up or roll him over to get back to sleep. On one such occasion, N was prodding Al when he rolled to face her with half opened eyes and growled,
'Happy fucking birthday.'
He replied, 'Blurrgghh?'
Well, I thought, if he's going to Poland he needs to get a move on. Then I woke up. It was 5:45 am.
It reminded me of a conversation we'd had with our friends L and J recently - sipping beers in NYC.
J had woken up the night before with night terrors convinced something terrible had happened to their delicious dog, Kitty. Fear not, the poodle was fine.
The conversation wandered onto 'funny things we've said when we were asleep.'
My 'stick it in your own eye' is my favourite (see earlier post) closely followed by shouting at an ex - who had the habbit of clamping the duvet and rolling over pulling it from my shivering body - 'You are not a fork and the duvet is not spaghetti.'
J said, that one night while almost asleep and with eyes closed L said,
'well don't you roll your eyes at me!'
But my favourite story of this kind was my friends N and Al – Al snores and sometimes N has to wake him up or roll him over to get back to sleep. On one such occasion, N was prodding Al when he rolled to face her with half opened eyes and growled,
'Happy fucking birthday.'
Friday, June 08, 2007
wake walking
This whole week I have been trying to be really disciplined and get into the mode of working 9 to 5 (what a way to make a living) but the distractions are just too numerous.
The three main culprits are:
- Youtube.com – curse your metal body. The whole internet is pretty frickin distracting. My friend Jon showed me a funny cartoon about this very situation (Jon where did you get that cartoon?)
- Daydreaming – I suppose this isn't too bad as to write one must dream or somesuch bullshit.
- wake walking – I have only just realised I do this. A few minutes ago I was working on research for chapter 4 and then a blank and then I found myself in my bedroom fiddling with the things on my dresser. I think I do this about four times a day. Just jumping up FOR NO REASON. Sometimes I trick myself into thinking OH I've got up to use to loo or to make a cup of tea.
Perhaps I have ants in my pants?
The three main culprits are:
- Youtube.com – curse your metal body. The whole internet is pretty frickin distracting. My friend Jon showed me a funny cartoon about this very situation (Jon where did you get that cartoon?)
- Daydreaming – I suppose this isn't too bad as to write one must dream or somesuch bullshit.
- wake walking – I have only just realised I do this. A few minutes ago I was working on research for chapter 4 and then a blank and then I found myself in my bedroom fiddling with the things on my dresser. I think I do this about four times a day. Just jumping up FOR NO REASON. Sometimes I trick myself into thinking OH I've got up to use to loo or to make a cup of tea.
Perhaps I have ants in my pants?
Monday, June 04, 2007
Don't get in a state...
Some of the things I learnt on a recent trip to USA
1. It is never OK to call nine eleven, seven eleven by mistake – ever.
2. Ask for the restroom or bathroom not toilet.
3. US toilets are lower and shallower than ours. I discovered this while wiping front to back – as I have been taught. For a second I dipped the back of my hand into the yellow water below. I did not do this again.
4. None of the Americans I met actually like Bush. Some train guys told us to 'give George a good kick up the but from us.' when we were travelling from NYC to DC.
5. Pancakes, bacon, home fries, huevos rancheros, pizza etc. are good and plentiful, so don't blame the washing machine if your trousers don't do up.
6. Hailing a cab in NYC involves almost standing in the path of moving traffic – kerb clingers don't get anywhere.
7. If someone asks you to be in a film, they are either street fundraisers or film students. Hopes should not be gotten up.
8. The subway is not as hard or complicated as it seems. Just leave plenty of time and don't get in the way of commuters. Remember if you need to stop, stand aside.
9. Filene's Basement rocks.
Friday, April 27, 2007
The future's bright, the future's bright green
The Great Global Warming Swindle, Channel Four's infamous documentary caused uproar, bringing home how strongly many people feel about the threat of catastrophic climate change. It was riddled with inaccuracies and shoddy science, but it did get one thing right. Some people are so convinced about the dangers we are facing that they are no longer able to allow any debate on the topic. Well known commentators reacted to this programme with white hot disbelief. HOW DARE they say we might not be right? They are setting us back YEARS...
I know more than most about the force of this conviction in the green movement. I spent three miserable months working in one of the major environmental charities. I thought I was green and a committed environmentalist, but compared to some of my colleagues I had a long way to go.
I worked alongside people who really, and I mean really, believed that the world as we know it is going to end in a matter of years, not decades. That we are going to descend into a nightmarish future all because we couldn't give up our addiction to air travel/Starbucks/strawberriesinfeb.
I admired their commitment, passion and ability to still keep fighting for change even though they thought it was too late. I did not admire the religious fervour of their beliefs which meant they berated, hectored and looked down on people who asked questions about the validity of the models they were using. The thing is...
WE DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN IN THE FUTURE
This is a fact sometimes forgotten in climate change discussions. The science of climate prediction is an art, a very sophisticated crystal ball gazing exercise. We do have to make an attempt to work out what is going to happen to inform policy and to control our increasingly profligate use of resources, but I believe it is dangerous to present scientific prediction as fact.
I heard a joke on the radio recently.
Scientists have plotted the increase of Kate Moss as the model of choice for various products over the last year and have predicted she will be used to advertise 99% of all new products if current trends continue.
Obviously this is a flippant comparison, but even something as pointless as Kate Moss's career is very unlikely to follow current trends as there are other factors the graph maker has not included.
There is nothing more complex than the Earth's systems. And though the methods used by climate scientists are rigorous and thorough, can't we allow the possibility that the models may not be right?
Yes, we need to cut down our use of power, plastics and petrol. We need to do this now. But not by frightening people into compliance. The human race is not worthless group of parasites, we are not a scourge on the face of the earth, we are a wonderful part of it. Granted we have made many mistakes and it is vital that we learn from them and move to a more positive future.
The organisation I worked with divided its supporters up into segments which were painted an imaginary shade of green. People who wrote a couple of postcards a year were light green and extremely committed supporters were dark green. I think we should find another way, and we should become BRIGHT GREENS.
The Dark Greens are desperate for change and they are frightened. They think that to get everyone else to change they need to frighten them too.
A small child is carrying a glass of orange juice. Her dads says, 'be careful love, not near the new sofa.' She looks up and wobbles. 'I said watch out you are going to drop it, mind the table.... I SAID WATCH OUT....'
Guess what?
She is probably going to drop that blinking glass of juice.
We are all addicted to power, it's too late, we are going going to die, waves of climate refugees will flood into this country, you mustn't fly, you mustn't eat fruit out of season, you mustn't eat MacDonalds, you mustn't, you mustn't you mustn't...
The thing is I know what I must do, and I whole heartedly embrace it as a positive choice. I face my future and it is bright; bright green.
I know more than most about the force of this conviction in the green movement. I spent three miserable months working in one of the major environmental charities. I thought I was green and a committed environmentalist, but compared to some of my colleagues I had a long way to go.
I worked alongside people who really, and I mean really, believed that the world as we know it is going to end in a matter of years, not decades. That we are going to descend into a nightmarish future all because we couldn't give up our addiction to air travel/Starbucks/strawberriesinfeb.
I admired their commitment, passion and ability to still keep fighting for change even though they thought it was too late. I did not admire the religious fervour of their beliefs which meant they berated, hectored and looked down on people who asked questions about the validity of the models they were using. The thing is...
WE DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN IN THE FUTURE
This is a fact sometimes forgotten in climate change discussions. The science of climate prediction is an art, a very sophisticated crystal ball gazing exercise. We do have to make an attempt to work out what is going to happen to inform policy and to control our increasingly profligate use of resources, but I believe it is dangerous to present scientific prediction as fact.
I heard a joke on the radio recently.
Scientists have plotted the increase of Kate Moss as the model of choice for various products over the last year and have predicted she will be used to advertise 99% of all new products if current trends continue.
Obviously this is a flippant comparison, but even something as pointless as Kate Moss's career is very unlikely to follow current trends as there are other factors the graph maker has not included.
There is nothing more complex than the Earth's systems. And though the methods used by climate scientists are rigorous and thorough, can't we allow the possibility that the models may not be right?
Yes, we need to cut down our use of power, plastics and petrol. We need to do this now. But not by frightening people into compliance. The human race is not worthless group of parasites, we are not a scourge on the face of the earth, we are a wonderful part of it. Granted we have made many mistakes and it is vital that we learn from them and move to a more positive future.
The organisation I worked with divided its supporters up into segments which were painted an imaginary shade of green. People who wrote a couple of postcards a year were light green and extremely committed supporters were dark green. I think we should find another way, and we should become BRIGHT GREENS.
The Dark Greens are desperate for change and they are frightened. They think that to get everyone else to change they need to frighten them too.
A small child is carrying a glass of orange juice. Her dads says, 'be careful love, not near the new sofa.' She looks up and wobbles. 'I said watch out you are going to drop it, mind the table.... I SAID WATCH OUT....'
Guess what?
She is probably going to drop that blinking glass of juice.
We are all addicted to power, it's too late, we are going going to die, waves of climate refugees will flood into this country, you mustn't fly, you mustn't eat fruit out of season, you mustn't eat MacDonalds, you mustn't, you mustn't you mustn't...
The thing is I know what I must do, and I whole heartedly embrace it as a positive choice. I face my future and it is bright; bright green.
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