Yesterday I went into town to do some competition analysis at Foyles Charing Cross Rd and as it was so close, popped into the National Portrait Gallery to check out the Women Writers exhibition.
I peeled of the tracksuit-t-shirt outfit I have been wearing for the last few days and donned a checked shirt, smart trousers and silver shoes so I felt a bit more like a girl about town.
The exhibition was small, just one display case of black and white photos mainly from the '30s and '40s. I stared at buckteeth, wrinkles and large jaws and I wondered why I was obsessed with the way these talented, successful women looked. Possibly the only other photos I am familiar with from this period are of glamorous starlets with perfect rose bud lips and glamour outfits.
There are a couple of beauties. Barbara Cartland as a young woman caught my eye, about as far from the pink frocked make-up encrusted woman I am familiar with. She could have held her own with any starlet.
She is standing with her hands together in front of her lap, index fingers in a downward steeple, forming, what I can only describe as an opening. She is holding this opening directly in front of her other more private opening. It is an extraordinarily sexual pose, contradicting with the innocent faced girl.
There is a really funny picture of Enid Blyton looking like she would cheering strangle the two children posing with her. And then there was only the famous four.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
Photographic memory
This weekend we have been staying with my parents and on Sunday night, my mum dug up a load of old photos to show my other half, childhood holidays mainly. The photos charting the change from toddler to child, child to teenager.
Three photos got me.
One of me and my sister holding hands when we were about 3 (me) and 6 (her) wearing our matching stripy t-shirt dresses. We are holding hands. The other two were of me and my sister when we are 15 and 18 respectively on holiday in Cyprus.
In one she has her arm around my shoulders and she is gazing at the camera, I am looking up at her, adoringly. She is so beautiful and calm, with a mona lisa smile. In the other we are lying on a bright white sandy beach asleep with our heads almost touching on a crumpled beach towel.
As my mum handed them to me she said, 'You two always did love each other so much.'
This was the last family holiday we had before my sister suffered a severe breakdown and was caught in the jaws of schizophrenia. She was sectioned, taken from our family home and locked for many months into the local psychiatric unit, in her first of many hospital stays.
For the first few weeks my sister slept in a corridor divided up into 'bedrooms' by heavy green and brown curtains. She was locked in with people that I, a fairly hardy Hackney girl would have crossed many roads to avoid if I had met them on the street. Shouters, screamers, silent rockers; All confused, drugged and unhappy.
So on Easter Sunday, my feelings took a nostalgia trip and the bright grief and pain returned for the evening. I remember thinking that my beautiful sister had died and something else was moving her now leaden, drugged body around, making it do and say horrible things. I can remember thinking that, but I had forgotten how it felt.
She has been so well for the last few years, at least 3 without a section or hospital visit and my recovery has followed hers.
But after looking at those photos, I slipped into the grief again like it was comfortable old jumper. I'd forgotten the feeling of crying quietly lying on my back in bed with the tears falling sideways and filling up my ears.
I had forgotten how easy being unhappy all the time had felt.
Three photos got me.
One of me and my sister holding hands when we were about 3 (me) and 6 (her) wearing our matching stripy t-shirt dresses. We are holding hands. The other two were of me and my sister when we are 15 and 18 respectively on holiday in Cyprus.
In one she has her arm around my shoulders and she is gazing at the camera, I am looking up at her, adoringly. She is so beautiful and calm, with a mona lisa smile. In the other we are lying on a bright white sandy beach asleep with our heads almost touching on a crumpled beach towel.
As my mum handed them to me she said, 'You two always did love each other so much.'
This was the last family holiday we had before my sister suffered a severe breakdown and was caught in the jaws of schizophrenia. She was sectioned, taken from our family home and locked for many months into the local psychiatric unit, in her first of many hospital stays.
For the first few weeks my sister slept in a corridor divided up into 'bedrooms' by heavy green and brown curtains. She was locked in with people that I, a fairly hardy Hackney girl would have crossed many roads to avoid if I had met them on the street. Shouters, screamers, silent rockers; All confused, drugged and unhappy.
So on Easter Sunday, my feelings took a nostalgia trip and the bright grief and pain returned for the evening. I remember thinking that my beautiful sister had died and something else was moving her now leaden, drugged body around, making it do and say horrible things. I can remember thinking that, but I had forgotten how it felt.
She has been so well for the last few years, at least 3 without a section or hospital visit and my recovery has followed hers.
But after looking at those photos, I slipped into the grief again like it was comfortable old jumper. I'd forgotten the feeling of crying quietly lying on my back in bed with the tears falling sideways and filling up my ears.
I had forgotten how easy being unhappy all the time had felt.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Brackets and Crayfish
Over the last two weeks I've been doing a lot of proof reading or copy editing as they call it. After a whole day of just starting at words on a page you start to get into the zone. Mistakes sort of jump out at you, like a lonely bracket without its partner or two guilty looking full stops huddling together at the end of a sentence.
It probably hasn't had much effect on my spelling (consistant or consistent, I dunno) but I think it is definitely helping.
It reminds me of a time when I worked on a dive boat in Far North Queensland which ran day trips to the Great Barrier Reef. I would take groups of qualified divers on little underwater tours, around coral bommies and through sea canyons. At first I was no better at spotting things than any of the other divers, it was all a jumble of sea life swaying in the current, but after a few days my eyes adjusted to the underwater world.
I started to spot things and was able to point them out to my trailing group of divers. Little things would start to jump out, like the lone bracket, except in the sea it was the eye of an octopus peering out from a small crack, a tiny translucent shrimp hanging mid water inside a barrel sponge, or a pair of long delicate crayfish antenna hovering just above the sand, giving away its hiding place in a shallow sea cave.
But the thing about proof reading, is that you have to assume their is a mistake, if you think the best you will not spot any errors as your brain will skim happily to the next word. So you have to read with a pessimistic mindset, assuming the worst and feeling pleased when you do find a mistake. And spending hours thinking like that left me feeling moody and depressed at the end of the day.
Struggling as I do with a natural leaning towards pessimism it has made me realise, quite apart from my spelling eccentricities, copy editing is not the job for me.
It probably hasn't had much effect on my spelling (consistant or consistent, I dunno) but I think it is definitely helping.
It reminds me of a time when I worked on a dive boat in Far North Queensland which ran day trips to the Great Barrier Reef. I would take groups of qualified divers on little underwater tours, around coral bommies and through sea canyons. At first I was no better at spotting things than any of the other divers, it was all a jumble of sea life swaying in the current, but after a few days my eyes adjusted to the underwater world.
I started to spot things and was able to point them out to my trailing group of divers. Little things would start to jump out, like the lone bracket, except in the sea it was the eye of an octopus peering out from a small crack, a tiny translucent shrimp hanging mid water inside a barrel sponge, or a pair of long delicate crayfish antenna hovering just above the sand, giving away its hiding place in a shallow sea cave.
But the thing about proof reading, is that you have to assume their is a mistake, if you think the best you will not spot any errors as your brain will skim happily to the next word. So you have to read with a pessimistic mindset, assuming the worst and feeling pleased when you do find a mistake. And spending hours thinking like that left me feeling moody and depressed at the end of the day.
Struggling as I do with a natural leaning towards pessimism it has made me realise, quite apart from my spelling eccentricities, copy editing is not the job for me.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Human Wreck
She's sat motionless at the bottom of the stairs. She has her back to us, fur lined hood up over her head; not moving.
Love, you alright?
It is 10.30 on a Sunday morning and me and my other half are off to the climbing wall.She's not moving, sitting on the bottom step, just outside our front door. It is Sunday morning. I can see the lacy pink T of a g-string on the pale skin above her jeans. It's twisted off centre.
Eh?
She leans uncertainly to the side and twists around to look at us standing in our doorway. I see her blotchy face. Her eyes are flat and dead. Ah, of course what was I thinking? She's a prostitute, a druggie. In all senses of the word, a human wreck. Have you seen Shawn of the Dead? Like that but without the laughs.
You can't sleep here, this is our home. You've got to leave.
I'm firm, assertive. It worked last time.
I wasn't sleeping, I just fell asleep.
I am angry and a bit frightened. I don't want to leave my flat and find a prostitute not moving, outside my door. How long had she been there? All night?
She doesn't get up. She picks up her handbag and starts to scuffle around in it. My heart is pounding. Then I notice the pigeon. It must have flown up the stairwell. It is flapping against the glass, trapped. It rests on the window sill just in front of the woman.My other half is standing next to me. We'd talked about this, what to say to them. I think it is better for him to stay out of it. It is better for me ask them to leave. They have so much grief from men. More respectful.
You CANT stay here. Get OUT!
My voice has changed, I'm angry and shouting. My insides are shaking. She just looking inside her handbag. There are three things inside it. They rattle as she sticks her hand in. I see a comb but no keys. She is sitting up with a very straight back, every few seconds she sways ever so slightly from side to side. She is off her head and she is not getting up.
YOU HAVE GOT TO GO.
I'm just getting my things together.
You're not checking out of a FUCKING hotel. You haven't GOT any stuff to get together. GET OUT.
Ms Respectful in da house.
She still doesn't move. I start shouting at her for real now. Go away, go away. She looks at me and does a small laugh. This is horrible, my stomach twists. She mimics me saying, Go away, go away softly under her breath.
I'm calling the police.
Another small laugh. She says 'so what?' with her shoulders.
9 9 9
Then, Sorry, all our operators are busy.
I think, that actually HAPPENS! Shit. My other half is looking at me. Wha? he mouths.
She continues to sit and continues to re-arrange the three items in her handbag.
Eventually.
Police please. The is a woman outside our house and she WONT GO AWAY.
I am shouting down the phone at the operator.
She is being threatening towards me.
She stands up at this.
How am I being threatening?
I give our address to to the operator.
I'm not being threatening.
She sways slightly where she is standing. I tell the operator that she is one of the prostitutes that works on Lordship Rd. The ragged dirty skinny woman laughs again. It is not a real laugh, more a world weary acknowledgement of how shit the world is.
The operator tells me she will pass my message to our community safety officer. My message?
The prostitute walks down the stairs. Mumbling. Wasn't being threatening...
So we go to the climbing wall. And they say climbing is dangerous.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm thinking a lot about truth and the way we tell stories and change them to make them better or more entertaining.
So for the sake of honesty, it was more like 11.30 – we'd had a bit of a lie in. And I didn't say that thing about the hotel, I thought of it later.
Everything else did happen. The pigeon, the g-string and everything.
And talking of truth, she wasn't threatening me, in the truest sense of the word. She was there, blocking our way down the stairs and I felt very threatened by her. Does that mean I lied to the police?
Love, you alright?
It is 10.30 on a Sunday morning and me and my other half are off to the climbing wall.She's not moving, sitting on the bottom step, just outside our front door. It is Sunday morning. I can see the lacy pink T of a g-string on the pale skin above her jeans. It's twisted off centre.
Eh?
She leans uncertainly to the side and twists around to look at us standing in our doorway. I see her blotchy face. Her eyes are flat and dead. Ah, of course what was I thinking? She's a prostitute, a druggie. In all senses of the word, a human wreck. Have you seen Shawn of the Dead? Like that but without the laughs.
You can't sleep here, this is our home. You've got to leave.
I'm firm, assertive. It worked last time.
I wasn't sleeping, I just fell asleep.
I am angry and a bit frightened. I don't want to leave my flat and find a prostitute not moving, outside my door. How long had she been there? All night?
She doesn't get up. She picks up her handbag and starts to scuffle around in it. My heart is pounding. Then I notice the pigeon. It must have flown up the stairwell. It is flapping against the glass, trapped. It rests on the window sill just in front of the woman.My other half is standing next to me. We'd talked about this, what to say to them. I think it is better for him to stay out of it. It is better for me ask them to leave. They have so much grief from men. More respectful.
You CANT stay here. Get OUT!
My voice has changed, I'm angry and shouting. My insides are shaking. She just looking inside her handbag. There are three things inside it. They rattle as she sticks her hand in. I see a comb but no keys. She is sitting up with a very straight back, every few seconds she sways ever so slightly from side to side. She is off her head and she is not getting up.
YOU HAVE GOT TO GO.
I'm just getting my things together.
You're not checking out of a FUCKING hotel. You haven't GOT any stuff to get together. GET OUT.
Ms Respectful in da house.
She still doesn't move. I start shouting at her for real now. Go away, go away. She looks at me and does a small laugh. This is horrible, my stomach twists. She mimics me saying, Go away, go away softly under her breath.
I'm calling the police.
Another small laugh. She says 'so what?' with her shoulders.
9 9 9
Then, Sorry, all our operators are busy.
I think, that actually HAPPENS! Shit. My other half is looking at me. Wha? he mouths.
She continues to sit and continues to re-arrange the three items in her handbag.
Eventually.
Police please. The is a woman outside our house and she WONT GO AWAY.
I am shouting down the phone at the operator.
She is being threatening towards me.
She stands up at this.
How am I being threatening?
I give our address to to the operator.
I'm not being threatening.
She sways slightly where she is standing. I tell the operator that she is one of the prostitutes that works on Lordship Rd. The ragged dirty skinny woman laughs again. It is not a real laugh, more a world weary acknowledgement of how shit the world is.
The operator tells me she will pass my message to our community safety officer. My message?
The prostitute walks down the stairs. Mumbling. Wasn't being threatening...
So we go to the climbing wall. And they say climbing is dangerous.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm thinking a lot about truth and the way we tell stories and change them to make them better or more entertaining.
So for the sake of honesty, it was more like 11.30 – we'd had a bit of a lie in. And I didn't say that thing about the hotel, I thought of it later.
Everything else did happen. The pigeon, the g-string and everything.
And talking of truth, she wasn't threatening me, in the truest sense of the word. She was there, blocking our way down the stairs and I felt very threatened by her. Does that mean I lied to the police?
Friday, March 23, 2007
Hackademic
...is the word I learnt yesterday. It refers to a journalist who is labouring under the misapprehension that he or she is also an academic.
One of the people on my team is working with a writer who she described thus.
I, myself, thought it was rather funny.
One of the people on my team is working with a writer who she described thus.
I, myself, thought it was rather funny.
Monday, March 19, 2007
What a (work) experience
Quark (no, I have not stepped on the toe of a rather posh, Eton educated duck, but am starting a sentence about the software, beloved of all designers) is a bit annoying.
Picture the scene, I am on my first day of work experience, after a morning of heaving dusty books from one place to another (NB dont wear white shirt on work experience, they nearly always make you tidy up filing cabinates) a lunch gawping at the city types with neat shoes (women) and fucked up hair cuts (the men) my afternoon was spent proofing a section of a book on film, 1001 films to see before you die or something to that effect. I had the original manuscript with film titles and other bits in italics, but the Quarked page didn't have any italics.
Why? Why? I hear you cry.
Because if you transfer stuff from Word into Quark, the italics disappear. So I've spent all afternoon marking italics onto a piece of paper. What a micky ficking waste of time. There was someone else doing this as well. You would think the software designers could sort that out.
But I did learn many useful things today including,
If you make tea for people who are really busy, it makes them like you.
Big books (like the one I worked on today) are written by a collection of writers with one general editor (who in this case is external) I asked how they choose the writers and she said they have a number of writers on a number of topics who they ask again and again. Or they take new people recommended by the general editor. The people she mentioned were all either well respected film critics (for Le Monde or the Boston Globe) or academics. You could tell the difference.
The proof reading mark for italics is ital in a circle next to the words underlined.
Defenestration is the act of throwing a thing or esp. a person out of a window. (Now don't worry I didn't defenestrate anybody, but it was a word I didn't know in the section on Hitchcock's Rear Window.)
(FUCK: I'm addicted to BRACKETS)
Picture the scene, I am on my first day of work experience, after a morning of heaving dusty books from one place to another (NB dont wear white shirt on work experience, they nearly always make you tidy up filing cabinates) a lunch gawping at the city types with neat shoes (women) and fucked up hair cuts (the men) my afternoon was spent proofing a section of a book on film, 1001 films to see before you die or something to that effect. I had the original manuscript with film titles and other bits in italics, but the Quarked page didn't have any italics.
Why? Why? I hear you cry.
Because if you transfer stuff from Word into Quark, the italics disappear. So I've spent all afternoon marking italics onto a piece of paper. What a micky ficking waste of time. There was someone else doing this as well. You would think the software designers could sort that out.
But I did learn many useful things today including,
If you make tea for people who are really busy, it makes them like you.
Big books (like the one I worked on today) are written by a collection of writers with one general editor (who in this case is external) I asked how they choose the writers and she said they have a number of writers on a number of topics who they ask again and again. Or they take new people recommended by the general editor. The people she mentioned were all either well respected film critics (for Le Monde or the Boston Globe) or academics. You could tell the difference.
The proof reading mark for italics is ital in a circle next to the words underlined.
Defenestration is the act of throwing a thing or esp. a person out of a window. (Now don't worry I didn't defenestrate anybody, but it was a word I didn't know in the section on Hitchcock's Rear Window.)
(FUCK: I'm addicted to BRACKETS)
Monday, March 12, 2007
May I take your jacket sir?
So the MA works looms ahead, I have made a few darting nervous forays, nibbling at the edges, doing a bit of that, and a bit of this, not making much progress with anything.
It is the classic mistake, I know I need to break it down into manageable chunks but I keep thinking well that will affect that, so I need to do this before that and then...
Today felt like a bit of a break through though, as I, with the help of my lovely course mate, did a mock up of my book jacket. Made it feel a bit more real and wow, like it might actually happen. I wonder how much it will change by the end of the course?
It is the classic mistake, I know I need to break it down into manageable chunks but I keep thinking well that will affect that, so I need to do this before that and then...
Today felt like a bit of a break through though, as I, with the help of my lovely course mate, did a mock up of my book jacket. Made it feel a bit more real and wow, like it might actually happen. I wonder how much it will change by the end of the course?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Why bring that up?
I'm doing some research for an article on motion sickness and have found the delightful and helpful www.chuckiebags.com
I'm sure you can guess what their product is for.
I wonder how long it took them to come up with their company name. I imagine the founding members of the company sitting around the kitchen table in Cranleigh, Surrey, throwing ideas around.
'How about, Up-chuck bags, Ralph?'
'Hmm, not sure Susan'
'Remove-a-puke?'
No, no I've got it Chuckie bags, the kids'll love it. Wasn't there a children's TV character called Chuckie?
'Er Ralph that was a horror -'
'Details Susan, details.'
I'm sure you can guess what their product is for.
I wonder how long it took them to come up with their company name. I imagine the founding members of the company sitting around the kitchen table in Cranleigh, Surrey, throwing ideas around.
'How about, Up-chuck bags, Ralph?'
'Hmm, not sure Susan'
'Remove-a-puke?'
No, no I've got it Chuckie bags, the kids'll love it. Wasn't there a children's TV character called Chuckie?
'Er Ralph that was a horror -'
'Details Susan, details.'
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside
I went surfing yesterday. Well to be honest it might be breaking the Trade Description Act to call what I was doing, surfing. A more accurate description would be going into the sea with my board and flapping about like winded seal trying to balance on a lolly pop stick.
I haven't been for a few weeks and though my performance left a lot to be desired, the only way I am actually going to get better is by going and bloody doing it. And I needed cheering up after the Friday I'd had.
After breakfast in bed, I drove north to South Fistral beach. From the top of the cliff as I struggled into my wetsuit, it looked like the sea was presenting some good beginner waves, fairly strong white rolls of broken water. But in the water, I kept finding myself almost out of my depth with no waves. There were waves further out and waves further in but no matter how hard I tried I keep floating back to the no-mans land of waveless grey water.
It was quite disconcerting. At one point I paddled away from the shore to what I assumed was shallow water further out, but when I turned around the shore seemed remarkably far away and my fear of death kicked in. Must do something about that fear of death thing.
Afterwards I lay in the weak sunshine on the smooth water varnished sand watching the other beginners, no one seemed to be having much luck. The sea was just not having it.
A lone oyster catcher flew from right to left, about 20 feet above me following the water line, just as the sun broke out from the patchy cloud.
What a way to spend your Saturday morning.
I haven't been for a few weeks and though my performance left a lot to be desired, the only way I am actually going to get better is by going and bloody doing it. And I needed cheering up after the Friday I'd had.
After breakfast in bed, I drove north to South Fistral beach. From the top of the cliff as I struggled into my wetsuit, it looked like the sea was presenting some good beginner waves, fairly strong white rolls of broken water. But in the water, I kept finding myself almost out of my depth with no waves. There were waves further out and waves further in but no matter how hard I tried I keep floating back to the no-mans land of waveless grey water.
It was quite disconcerting. At one point I paddled away from the shore to what I assumed was shallow water further out, but when I turned around the shore seemed remarkably far away and my fear of death kicked in. Must do something about that fear of death thing.
Afterwards I lay in the weak sunshine on the smooth water varnished sand watching the other beginners, no one seemed to be having much luck. The sea was just not having it.
A lone oyster catcher flew from right to left, about 20 feet above me following the water line, just as the sun broke out from the patchy cloud.
What a way to spend your Saturday morning.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Food for thought
I had a lovely dinner around at a friends house last night. We were talking about the anxiety and problems many people have around the simple act of eating an evening meal. I was telling my friend and his wife about my childhood of extreme food fussiness and how my parents dealt with it.
At meal times, my mum and dad, were very encouraging and made sure to praise me when I finished my plate, but not make a big deal of it if I did not want much food. There was always a big bowl of fruit to snack on if I was hungry.
It must have driven them mad as they love good food and I would sit there wanting no more than butter on my spaghetti, not even salt and pepper. One person asked me once if it was to do with control, and it could well have been, but I do remember absolutely hating the taste of many of the things I tried, from green peppers to pork chops.
Luckily I grown to love food and cooking. But my parents careful management of my fussiness is so ingrained that I still feel absurdly pleased with myself when I finish a plate of food. Even now; a warm sense of accomplishment radiates up from my full belly.
About a year ago after finishing a sumptuous meal with my parents, my dad said, Oh look you've finished your plate, well done. We looked at each other, the thirty year old grown up daughter and the sixty five year old kind hearted father, and had a laugh about it.
But when we were talking about it last night, it made me realise, how the messages we get when are are children are so important. This feeling is hard-wired into my brain, but what if that reassurance and praise had been criticism or indifference, how would that of affected me?
All I can say is thanks Ma and Pa.
At meal times, my mum and dad, were very encouraging and made sure to praise me when I finished my plate, but not make a big deal of it if I did not want much food. There was always a big bowl of fruit to snack on if I was hungry.
It must have driven them mad as they love good food and I would sit there wanting no more than butter on my spaghetti, not even salt and pepper. One person asked me once if it was to do with control, and it could well have been, but I do remember absolutely hating the taste of many of the things I tried, from green peppers to pork chops.
Luckily I grown to love food and cooking. But my parents careful management of my fussiness is so ingrained that I still feel absurdly pleased with myself when I finish a plate of food. Even now; a warm sense of accomplishment radiates up from my full belly.
About a year ago after finishing a sumptuous meal with my parents, my dad said, Oh look you've finished your plate, well done. We looked at each other, the thirty year old grown up daughter and the sixty five year old kind hearted father, and had a laugh about it.
But when we were talking about it last night, it made me realise, how the messages we get when are are children are so important. This feeling is hard-wired into my brain, but what if that reassurance and praise had been criticism or indifference, how would that of affected me?
All I can say is thanks Ma and Pa.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
A car by any other name is still a car
A car advert caught my attention on TV last night. The new Ford Fiesta Zetec Climate.
I thought this is a most interesting choice given that climate change is big news and most people are aware to avoid catastrophic climate change we need to reduce our carbon dioxide emissions.
One way to do this is to drive less. So I wondered what Ford were thinking…
I was wondering about this quite a lot and thought I would give them a ring on their customer information number (08457 111 888.)
The bright young soul on the other end told me why the Ford Fiesta Zetec Climate is so named.
‘It is the normal Ford Fiesta but it comes with the Climate package. That is why it is called Climate.’
Hhhmmmm…
‘And what is the Climate package?’
‘It comes with auto-lights that come on when it gets dark and auto-wipers that come on when it rains.’
‘I see, I thought it might have been an eco-friendly car, as it was called Climate.’
‘And it has rear and front fog lights.’
‘Don’t most cars have that?’
‘Not all models.’
‘But it is nothing to do with Climate change?’
‘Er no.’
So there we have it.
I thought this is a most interesting choice given that climate change is big news and most people are aware to avoid catastrophic climate change we need to reduce our carbon dioxide emissions.
One way to do this is to drive less. So I wondered what Ford were thinking…
I was wondering about this quite a lot and thought I would give them a ring on their customer information number (08457 111 888.)
The bright young soul on the other end told me why the Ford Fiesta Zetec Climate is so named.
‘It is the normal Ford Fiesta but it comes with the Climate package. That is why it is called Climate.’
Hhhmmmm…
‘And what is the Climate package?’
‘It comes with auto-lights that come on when it gets dark and auto-wipers that come on when it rains.’
‘I see, I thought it might have been an eco-friendly car, as it was called Climate.’
‘And it has rear and front fog lights.’
‘Don’t most cars have that?’
‘Not all models.’
‘But it is nothing to do with Climate change?’
‘Er no.’
So there we have it.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Toy boy
I had a very strange dream last night.
Now that is a phrase that can make the most interested and saintly reader loose the will to live, but this one was really weird and I can tell you about it quickly, so please bear with me if you will.
I dreamt I got engaged to a tiny baby.
What the hell is that all about?
The weirdest thing was a conversation I had with a friend after I'd announced my intentions. She was trying to convince me that the age gap was too big (rather than the fact that it was just plain WRONG) and dream me said, 'But when I'm sixty, the baby'll be thirty.'
Now that is a phrase that can make the most interested and saintly reader loose the will to live, but this one was really weird and I can tell you about it quickly, so please bear with me if you will.
I dreamt I got engaged to a tiny baby.
What the hell is that all about?
The weirdest thing was a conversation I had with a friend after I'd announced my intentions. She was trying to convince me that the age gap was too big (rather than the fact that it was just plain WRONG) and dream me said, 'But when I'm sixty, the baby'll be thirty.'
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Dry and worthy
There is something about discussions on the topic of vaginas, in sober serious society which causes and creates the uncontrollable desire to snigger. I mean really, what sort of a feminist am I. Juvenile? Yes. Silly? Without doubt. Understandable? Most definitely.
One of my modules, Creative Non-fiction, started with a trawl around the room, everyone giving their idea for a non-fiction book. We had been out at the theatre the night before and there were a few sore heads around the table as many beers had been consumed after the performance and on the coach journey home. One of my class mates is planning a book about vaginal medical conditions, from a feminist perspective. A good book, one that needs to be written, an area that needs to be looked into.
See, it is not just me, is it? All discussions on the topic ring with double meaning.
It wasn't really unexpected that the room lost it when our tutor was quizzing our classmate about the content of her book. The tutor was worried that any book focused on medical conditions runs the risk of being stuffy and boring. She said, how are you going to stop it from being dry?
There was a silence, then one sniff and we all dissolved into giggles. We have got 15 weeks of trying to be a bit more grown up, goddamnit, ahead of us.
One of my modules, Creative Non-fiction, started with a trawl around the room, everyone giving their idea for a non-fiction book. We had been out at the theatre the night before and there were a few sore heads around the table as many beers had been consumed after the performance and on the coach journey home. One of my class mates is planning a book about vaginal medical conditions, from a feminist perspective. A good book, one that needs to be written, an area that needs to be looked into.
See, it is not just me, is it? All discussions on the topic ring with double meaning.
It wasn't really unexpected that the room lost it when our tutor was quizzing our classmate about the content of her book. The tutor was worried that any book focused on medical conditions runs the risk of being stuffy and boring. She said, how are you going to stop it from being dry?
There was a silence, then one sniff and we all dissolved into giggles. We have got 15 weeks of trying to be a bit more grown up, goddamnit, ahead of us.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Rhetorical devices
We learnt a number of rhetorical devices at the end of last term, but after some extensive googling I have found some alternative definitions.
Epistrophe – A particular type of catastrophe that involves pissing yourself.
e.g. 'One man with wet pants, knows the woes of a thousand with wet pants.'
Anadiplosis – A herbivore dinosaur with explosive wind, also known as A Joelodockus Weirex
e.g. You eat the beans, beans that cause stomach pain, pain turns to gas, gas explodes and fouls the air.
Antimetabole – Someone who is very much against ten pin bowling.
e.g. You say you do not know how to bowl, but you bowl like you have not had your say.
Parallelism – A branch of mystical Christianity based on the parallel rhetorical lines that circle the globe.
e.g. Rhetoric encircles the heavenly earth as it encircles our heavenly souls
Antithesis – The sinking feeling that occurs a week before your MA thesis deadline.
e.g. To hit the word count, is to count yourself a hit.
Anastrophe – A punctuation mark used to indicate words removed during collaborative writing which neither party is happy about.
e.g. Happy about this radio script I am not
Anaphora – A rhetorical water jug used in ancient Roman times esp. during orgies.
We'll pour water on the sleeping slave, we'll pour water on the vomiting maid and we'll pour water on the naked pair.
Polyptoton - A nursery rhyme involving someone who 'puts the kettle on.'
e.g. Tis better to drink wine than to wine about the drink.
Epistrophe – A particular type of catastrophe that involves pissing yourself.
e.g. 'One man with wet pants, knows the woes of a thousand with wet pants.'
Anadiplosis – A herbivore dinosaur with explosive wind, also known as A Joelodockus Weirex
e.g. You eat the beans, beans that cause stomach pain, pain turns to gas, gas explodes and fouls the air.
Antimetabole – Someone who is very much against ten pin bowling.
e.g. You say you do not know how to bowl, but you bowl like you have not had your say.
Parallelism – A branch of mystical Christianity based on the parallel rhetorical lines that circle the globe.
e.g. Rhetoric encircles the heavenly earth as it encircles our heavenly souls
Antithesis – The sinking feeling that occurs a week before your MA thesis deadline.
e.g. To hit the word count, is to count yourself a hit.
Anastrophe – A punctuation mark used to indicate words removed during collaborative writing which neither party is happy about.
e.g. Happy about this radio script I am not
Anaphora – A rhetorical water jug used in ancient Roman times esp. during orgies.
We'll pour water on the sleeping slave, we'll pour water on the vomiting maid and we'll pour water on the naked pair.
Polyptoton - A nursery rhyme involving someone who 'puts the kettle on.'
e.g. Tis better to drink wine than to wine about the drink.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
A wink is as good as a nod to a one eyed dog
On the eight hour journey (god blast engineering works on Sundays) from Cornwall to Home, we were joined at Newton Abbot by an interesting pair.
I didn't see them at first, what alerted me to their presence was smell. Smell that wafted back from their table to ours like an evil Bisto wisp, an acrid mixture of human sweat and stale booze.
I looked up to check out who was generating this stink. The guy was standing up having some kind of discussion with the person he was intending to sit next to. Ah oh.
He had curly grey/white hair and a mottled red face arranged around the centre piece of a huge nose. I have never seen such big pores. They weren't part of his skin, they were facial features in their own right, black craters in the surface of the red moon nose.
He had a dog; a waggy tailed Labrador, friendly like only Labs can be. The dog was clean, slobber mouthed and though his right eye worked perfectly, his left eye was minus one eyeball. He looked like he had been caught flirting by a spiteful cat fairy who had his eye sewed into a monstrous wink.
A little girl of about eight years old, sitting opposite me asked the man what had happened to Freddie (at this point we knew his name) He said, 'He didn't look both ways when he was crossing the road and a car took his eye out.' Even the little girl looked a bit sceptical at this explanation.
I wonder what really happened?
I didn't see them at first, what alerted me to their presence was smell. Smell that wafted back from their table to ours like an evil Bisto wisp, an acrid mixture of human sweat and stale booze.
I looked up to check out who was generating this stink. The guy was standing up having some kind of discussion with the person he was intending to sit next to. Ah oh.
He had curly grey/white hair and a mottled red face arranged around the centre piece of a huge nose. I have never seen such big pores. They weren't part of his skin, they were facial features in their own right, black craters in the surface of the red moon nose.
He had a dog; a waggy tailed Labrador, friendly like only Labs can be. The dog was clean, slobber mouthed and though his right eye worked perfectly, his left eye was minus one eyeball. He looked like he had been caught flirting by a spiteful cat fairy who had his eye sewed into a monstrous wink.
A little girl of about eight years old, sitting opposite me asked the man what had happened to Freddie (at this point we knew his name) He said, 'He didn't look both ways when he was crossing the road and a car took his eye out.' Even the little girl looked a bit sceptical at this explanation.
I wonder what really happened?
Monday, January 15, 2007
Board on board
On Saturday, I bought my first surfboard. I went to Newquay with my amigo and bought a seven foot six mini-mal. It has four blue stripes running from tip to tale a blue star right about where I have to put my face.
It is beautiful.
So this weekend in relatively mild January weather I got to try it. After battling with the beast in white water, I now have a tender knee from my lame attempts to pop up (getting to your feet) and a massive bruise on my thigh from one of the fins. But it was great; I did a couple of good runs in and pushed myself to go for slightly bigger waves than I would normally. I am very determined and will try hard, but I am, what I believe is called in surfing lingo, a great big scaredy cat. Or words to that effect.
Every time I surf,I ‘save’ myself £10 as I don’t have to hire a board. I believe this is the same method used by chic ladies when justifying spending hundreds on a Gucci handbag or Choo shoes, and hey it works for me. It is doubly good as it is an incentive to actually get out and practice in cold weather.
It is beautiful.
So this weekend in relatively mild January weather I got to try it. After battling with the beast in white water, I now have a tender knee from my lame attempts to pop up (getting to your feet) and a massive bruise on my thigh from one of the fins. But it was great; I did a couple of good runs in and pushed myself to go for slightly bigger waves than I would normally. I am very determined and will try hard, but I am, what I believe is called in surfing lingo, a great big scaredy cat. Or words to that effect.
Every time I surf,I ‘save’ myself £10 as I don’t have to hire a board. I believe this is the same method used by chic ladies when justifying spending hundreds on a Gucci handbag or Choo shoes, and hey it works for me. It is doubly good as it is an incentive to actually get out and practice in cold weather.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Tree's a crowd
There are times when you feel life just can't get any better, the sun shines brightly, you get a lovely email from an old friend and then you write a paragraph that is so good, it ought to be engraved on a gold bar and kept by the British Library in their extra-specially-good section.
And then you speak to Hackney Council.
I live on a council estate in Hackney. I am, at present, trying to get Tree Protection Orders put on the trees on my estate. I sent off an application in September and have not followed it up due to moving to Cornwall/changing life malarkey.
On 6th Dec we got a notice that three of the trees on the estate are going to be chopped down. Yesterday I called Nick who deals with the TPOs as they are known. This person is not the same person who does the assessments on the trees or is responsible for looking after them, but an architect who also deals with planning applications. The logic of this is not at all clear to me, but I have every confidence that it does make sense to someone, somewhere.
My TPO application is in his in-tray. He apologises for not looking at it. He tells me he doesn't know much about trees but that he keeps putting TPO on trees at the request of residents and no one seems to stop him.
Great, I thought, someone on my side. It might not be the most democratic process but hey, if it means I can save the copper beech and cherry blossom that add so much to my inner city life, then I don't mind.
Then he said, 'The thing is, if we get a TPO put on the trees and then Planning cut them down anyway, there isn't anything we can do, because Hackney can't sue itself.'
'Could I sue Planning?' I ask.
'Errrmmmm.'
And then you speak to Hackney Council.
I live on a council estate in Hackney. I am, at present, trying to get Tree Protection Orders put on the trees on my estate. I sent off an application in September and have not followed it up due to moving to Cornwall/changing life malarkey.
On 6th Dec we got a notice that three of the trees on the estate are going to be chopped down. Yesterday I called Nick who deals with the TPOs as they are known. This person is not the same person who does the assessments on the trees or is responsible for looking after them, but an architect who also deals with planning applications. The logic of this is not at all clear to me, but I have every confidence that it does make sense to someone, somewhere.
My TPO application is in his in-tray. He apologises for not looking at it. He tells me he doesn't know much about trees but that he keeps putting TPO on trees at the request of residents and no one seems to stop him.
Great, I thought, someone on my side. It might not be the most democratic process but hey, if it means I can save the copper beech and cherry blossom that add so much to my inner city life, then I don't mind.
Then he said, 'The thing is, if we get a TPO put on the trees and then Planning cut them down anyway, there isn't anything we can do, because Hackney can't sue itself.'
'Could I sue Planning?' I ask.
'Errrmmmm.'
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Big sister
Excitement is in the air. I spoke to my big sister yesterday.
'Guess what is starting tonight' she said. I being submerged in the world of writing, films, research and the like, am not sure.
'Dunno?'
'Celebrity Big Brother' she said with a flourish
Oh shit.
I am, I'm very sad to say, susceptible to a weakness that predisposes me to... oh damn it, I just love this kind of mindless TV. There, I've said it. It's out. Rather than reading Great Expeditions, I'd rather watch z-list celebs irritating the hell out of each other.
Phew, now I feel lots better.
It is fascinating, to see how quickly they forget that they're on TV all the time and the microphones pick up everything they say, even when they whisper. I love it when they lie, and blatantly deny it. Sometimes, they are are aware they are lying. But you can tell sometimes that they just are unaware that they have created a new truth for themselves to fit what they want to believe. Utterly fascinating.
My sister likes it for another, much less common reason. She has been in hospital a lot over the last 10 years, suffering from mental health problems. She has had the grave misfortune to have had to live in secure wards for months at a time while battling her demons. Big Brother reminds her of being in hospital, locked in with people you don't know, with nothing much to do. Being watched all the time, by the doctors, nurses and paranoid creations.
Now she is out and better than she has been since it all first started. She finds it reassuring as they, the 'normal' people, struggle and 'go a bit mad' themselves in the equivalent of a locked ward. Remember Les Denis and Vanessa? If they can't cope with it, no wonder my sister and her ward mates with their collected disorders struggled to hang on to the little bits of sanity they had at their disposal and occasionally threw cups of tea at the wall.
'Guess what is starting tonight' she said. I being submerged in the world of writing, films, research and the like, am not sure.
'Dunno?'
'Celebrity Big Brother' she said with a flourish
Oh shit.
I am, I'm very sad to say, susceptible to a weakness that predisposes me to... oh damn it, I just love this kind of mindless TV. There, I've said it. It's out. Rather than reading Great Expeditions, I'd rather watch z-list celebs irritating the hell out of each other.
Phew, now I feel lots better.
It is fascinating, to see how quickly they forget that they're on TV all the time and the microphones pick up everything they say, even when they whisper. I love it when they lie, and blatantly deny it. Sometimes, they are are aware they are lying. But you can tell sometimes that they just are unaware that they have created a new truth for themselves to fit what they want to believe. Utterly fascinating.
My sister likes it for another, much less common reason. She has been in hospital a lot over the last 10 years, suffering from mental health problems. She has had the grave misfortune to have had to live in secure wards for months at a time while battling her demons. Big Brother reminds her of being in hospital, locked in with people you don't know, with nothing much to do. Being watched all the time, by the doctors, nurses and paranoid creations.
Now she is out and better than she has been since it all first started. She finds it reassuring as they, the 'normal' people, struggle and 'go a bit mad' themselves in the equivalent of a locked ward. Remember Les Denis and Vanessa? If they can't cope with it, no wonder my sister and her ward mates with their collected disorders struggled to hang on to the little bits of sanity they had at their disposal and occasionally threw cups of tea at the wall.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Had I the cloths of heaven
All of my clothes appear to have shrunk over the Christmas period. All of them. I think there must be something wrong with my washing machine. Perhaps it has a faulty thermostat and is washing at a near boil? Or perhaps it is the new softener I am using, causing the cotton fibres to contract during the spin cycle.
Stranger still, my tops and shirts have only shrunk a bit, it is mainly my trousers and skirts. They are fine, in terms of lenght, it appears to only effect the waist band area.
Most alarming.
Stranger still, my tops and shirts have only shrunk a bit, it is mainly my trousers and skirts. They are fine, in terms of lenght, it appears to only effect the waist band area.
Most alarming.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Happy new Tuesday
Is today officially the most depressing day of the year? Feels like it. I remember last year, they announced that the 24th of Jan was scientifically calculated to be the unhappiest day of the year. Something to do with the year's longest gap between pay days and shitty weather. But I must say, today feels pretty gloomy to me. The fun of Christmas and New Year is over, and most people are public transporting their pale faces to work.
Christmas? Stressful you say? What? It was all tinsel twinkled, mulled sage and onion happiness. Wasn't it?
But anyway, I may not be having to struggle to work, but I am seated at my worktable tapping away at my lap top, trying to make in-roads into my longest ever story. One of the assignments due in next week is a twelve page story which sticks to a set formula laid out by our lecturer. My fiction tends to err on the flash side of things, ie short. I've never written such a long story.
I have the structure written up on a piece of paper on the wall, I have a rough outline of what is going to happen in each section, and now I just need to go and gosh darn write the damn thing.
Christmas? Stressful you say? What? It was all tinsel twinkled, mulled sage and onion happiness. Wasn't it?
But anyway, I may not be having to struggle to work, but I am seated at my worktable tapping away at my lap top, trying to make in-roads into my longest ever story. One of the assignments due in next week is a twelve page story which sticks to a set formula laid out by our lecturer. My fiction tends to err on the flash side of things, ie short. I've never written such a long story.
I have the structure written up on a piece of paper on the wall, I have a rough outline of what is going to happen in each section, and now I just need to go and gosh darn write the damn thing.
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