House of Shoes

The Pointy Finger of Justice

2007-03-29T12:46:00.000Z

Don't mess with me - I'm a juror and I'm not afraid to say 'Guilty!'. So watch out.

Actually that's a lie. I've just finished jury service and it was 'orrible. Very interesting, but strangely upsetting. If it wasn't being forced to constantly stare at pictures of bloody faces and bruised and broken backs, it was having to listen to Counsel 1 (Miss Mustapha in an obviously newly qualified wig) being zombifyingly boring, or developping a desperately awkward crush on the Prosecutor (it was the voice and him saying "Don't fence with me!" to a snotty witness. We all knew he meant 'fuck').

The whole way through we thought that there simply wasn't enough evidence to convict, but when it came to the deliberation it became evident that for some of the defendants on some of the counts, there, well, was. We came to our conclusions, then had to wait over an hour for the court to come free to deliver our verdicts. We sat in silence, we 12 who had nothing in common other than increasing depression over convicting someone, and waited, and waited.

So, we entered court, and started delivering the verdicts. Unfortunate coincidence in placing meant that all the 'not guilty's came first leading the defendants to think they were in the clear. Then came the 'guilty's. At that point the court went stellar. People crying, defendants grey-faced, and family members shouting at the jury 'Well I hope you're happy now!'.

What?!?! Yes, of course missus bleach-blonde, white stiletto boot-wearing lady. I can think of nothing more conducive to happiness than hearing for nine days how a bunch of idiot chavs beat the shit out of each other, in which no-one came out credibly unless it was in pursuit of the Annual Wanker Award. This not only robbed me of 2 weeks of my life that I will never get back but cost the tax payer Half a Million Quid. FOR A FUCKING PUB BRAWL!!!

And relax. It was really good to see how our judicial system works first hand, and is probably the best option out of a not-particularly-inspiring bunch, but my god! Some of the cases that get this far are so stupid. Apparently, when talking to one of the ushers, half of the cases should have been sorted at Magistrates, but in today's litigious society (bloody US) people push and push until they get as far as they can. What's the betting that one of the lawyers will find a loop-hole in this case and redo the whole bloody thing at Appeals, eh?

Sand and CGI

2006-09-04T16:28:00.000Z

I quite like these programmes, but I had to note down this review because my good friend Katrina would much appreciate it:

Dramatised documentaries featuring legendary ruins and Panama-hatted archaeologists often prove popular - possibly by vague association with the world of Indiana Jones. Fans of the genre will enjoy this, the first of three trips into antiquity over the coming nights. The subject is the ancient Egyptian city of Piramesse, the Venice of its day and centre of "one of the most bizarre puzzles in the history of archaeology". Put simply: it moved. How it did so is something we learn at length courtesy of a cliché-tastic narration and a slew of filler shots with blokes in eyeliner and sandals posing as ancient Egyptians - all drenched in whooshy music. It's an extraordinary story, but the eyelid-drooping slowness of its telling may test your patience.

RT reviewer: David Butcher

There you go Kat - someone who holds an uncannily similar view to you on these sword 'n sandal docu-dramas. 'Da-da-daahh' music and all! :)

Cherry Drops

2006-08-21T09:20:00.000Z

What happened to Cherry Drops? They used to be encased in kitch, pale pink cherry flower pattern perfectly circular tubes. The sweets themselves were rock hard, cloudy baby pink, wrapped in wax paper and impressed all the way round the edges with a pretty pie-crust pattern.

Now, they're ovoid, clear and fractured with ugly fissures, devoid of patterns wrapped in plastic and sold in bog-standard black and (shudder) hot pink paper with Bertie Bassett mugging away.

They seem to taste the same, but where, I ask you, is the craftsmanship? Half my enjoyment in these little nuggets of heaven has been destroyed.

Have any other beloved sweeties from childhood been desecrated in this way? Answers on a postcard, please.

Return of the Bag Lady

2006-08-17T09:31:00.000Z

Once again I shall be an itinerant wanderer, without home or shelter to my name. I'm moving out from what I laughingly call my flat and which everyone else refers to as the shoe storage depot.

Having been recently gazzumped and robbed of the darling little flat that should have been mine I will be hurrumphing back to my parents to asthmatically wheeze away my life surrounded by numerous emotionally needy feline fuzzballs.

Why, when the one thing that distinguishes cats from other annoying little mammals is their elegant aloofness, intelligence and independance, did my mother choose to breed persians? The one breed famous for its need for constant cuddles, pudgy lack of coordination and the same level of intelligence and wanderlust as your average potato.

Ho hum. So anyway, I'm packing up my things and shipping them homewards. The problem is, I've accumulated even more stuff. Since I've moved in a year ago, I've bought a whole new wardrobe, even more books and about 20 new pairs of shoes. On the up side, I've managed to contain the practical items to about the same amount as when I moved in. So that's all right then.

Feeling 10 again

2006-05-15T15:40:00.002Z

Childhood is over-rated. I relived a common childhood experience on Friday and it wasn't so great.

I was crossing the park to my bus stop where I rely on London Transport to get me to work. The buses are few and far between so if you see one begin to pull up you run hell for leather to make it.

In stilleto heels this does not present a problem. I've had years experience pelting down streets in 3 inch heels. However, this fresh Friday morning I was in a pair of flat, flappy, flipflop thingies.

See Shizue...

A small figure in an unbuttoned black trench coat is pootling along the lane. Figure catches sight of bus pulling up to bus stop.

(Watch closely and you can see the figure seems to be blaspheming).

Small figure begins to run down path at high speed.

Path does a 90 degree angle.

Small figure does not.

Frankly, I was never any good at geometry. My mind was fully engaged on the 'round the corner' concept, but my body was firmly convinced that my current trajectory was the way to go.

As a consequence I slipped in spectacular fashion: One leg flying into the air, Jazz hands on the way down, my black trench swirling round Phantom of the Opera stylee, a resounding thud, lengthy skid and an indignant OWWW!! of, well, actually more of mortification than pain. I must of looked like a demented Wayne Sleep.

Anyway, I limped to the bus which amazingly had waited for me, and boarded to be confronted by a dozen concerned faces.I mustered the dregs of my dignity and sat down. 10 minutes into the journey, an awfully naice lady touched my shoulder. 'I'm terribly sorry, but you seem to have, er...blood running down your leg?'

Oh great. You try and look cool while mopping up copious amounts of blood running down your pins.

It got even better at work. My Clinical Director who was to attend a meeting with me came into my office while I was gingerly dabbing at my leg. Being a typical clinician he took command at the first sight of blood.
"No, no, you need to get all the grit out - here, let me do it"
"OWWWWWW!!!! What the F**K d'you think you're doing, David?!?"
"Trust me...I'm a Doctor!"

Oh dear. He then proceded to chortle happily to himself saying how he'd always wanted to say that without getting a smack from a patient. He nearly didn't make it out the office alive.

I am now the not-so-proud possesor of a scabby knee the like of which I haven't had since I was about 10. Its at the crusty dark browny yellowy stage. I await with trepidation the bit where it will start to itch like buggery and I'll be consumed with that morbid need to pick at it.

Someone hates me...

2006-04-24T16:43:00.000Z

I'm quite disturbed. That's 'disturbed' in the 'I'm fairly perturbed' sense, not the 'where's someone put my straitjacket?' sense.

It seems that someone hates me, and moreover that they have fairly good reason. I am currently contemplating crawling under my desk, but that would put me in close proximity to my footwear and at the moment that makes me writhe in shame. (Hard to imagine, I know). Let me fill you in on the background...

Sunday night I received an email from persons unknown stating "You are a thief". I had no idea who the person was, the only clue was that the email was cc'd to an old friend from Uni. I emailed said friend who insouciantly responded "Oh yeah, she hates you - you stole her shoes".

?!??

I don't remember this.

According to reliable sources, a few years ago at Uni I got rat-arsed in the bar, ogled this girl's shoes, then later in the nightclub hared off with them. What happened to the footwear post-nightclub is a mystery. Certainly they haven't remained with me. What I don't get is how I managed to snaffle them in the first place. I mean to say, how can you not notice someone removing your strappy shoes? (I'm making an assumption here, I can't imagine I would steal a pair of trainers or such like).

I've sent a tentative email back offering to reimburse the cost of the missing tootsie-warmers but so far its been a frosty silence.

This is perhaps not (embarrased little cough) my finest moment.

Well Slap me with a Spoon and call me Mrs. Beeton!

2006-04-19T15:26:00.000Z

I had an unexpected burst of literary and culinary creativity the other night. It may have been due to the welcomed bank holiday break and the knowledge that my snotty, cold-infested state would prevent me from going to work the next day, allowing me to stop obsessing about NHS targets and actually unwind a wee bit.

Whatever the reason, I had a bit of a Conran moment in the kitchen (though I feel more spiritually akin to Floyd) and came up with a dish so spendiferously, lip-smackingly good that I spent the evening in a warm fug of Smug.

Now what I usually do when this occurs is think "gosh, that's tasty, must remember how I made that" then promptly forget and spend many heart-breaking hours in the kitchen trying to recreate the glory of that lost dish. I seem to do this on an alarmingly regular basis. Early senile dementia, one supposes...ho hum. So, several months ago, I bought a journal for the express purpose of noting down the receipe of anything tasty I make.

Then lived off 3 minute noodles and muesli bars for a couple of months while my work went into the stratosphere.

Anyway, this distressing state of affairs came to an end with the aforementioned culinary moment (Prune and Flaked Almond Wood Pigeon Tagine, for the interested) and I opened the virgin pages of my journal to jot down the receipe.

2 hours later I was still writing, having penned several pages with titles such as 'The Difficulty of Woodpigeon', 'Cream: A Tale of Unrequited Love and (tummy) Trouble' and 'How not to eat Oysters' grrr...

As a consequence, its less of a standard cook book than an odd gallimaufry of strange foody opinions, receipes and anecdotal tales. Incrediably user-unfriendly, but since I'm the only one who will read it, it doesn't really matter does it?

And it makes me giggle.

Specially the bit about the oysters.

er, Hello?

2006-04-10T21:26:00.000Z

Um, noticed I've been a bit on the absent side. Right, this is to, um, well, y'know...

Winter Wonderland

2005-11-28T10:18:00.000Z

(in a fond tone) Ah, Germany.

Not a phrase many would say perhaps, except Germans obviously, but I am feeling very nostalgic at the moment, and I only left the country 14-odd hours ago.

No wonder Germans go into the whole Christmas thing in a big way. Aside from still being a very Christian country where everyone goes to church on Sunday the atmosphere is highly condusive to winter jollity.

I've just come back from Stuttgart where we were performing in the Jazz Festival. For the most part we stayed in Schordorf which is a picture box Alpine town, and honestly, I think the weather was conspiring to make us spend the entire weekend cooing and having the kind of winter fun that we all erroneously remember from childhood.

Everything was hilly, with little alpine sheds about and tons of soft, fluffy brilliantly white snow. We yodled to the mountains and heard it echo back. We threw snowballs. We sledged down the hills. If we didn't have a sled we rolled. The possiblity of Lederhosen was raised, but we all hit John until he gave up on that idea. We ran about giggling like kiddies, then stomped inside to drink beer in scarily large tankards like MEN.

Stuttgart itself has the largest Christmas Market in south Germany and is generally considered to have the best one in the whole of the country. It's full of pretty wooden huts and stalls, all selling surprisingly non-tacky Christmassy things. There were ice-rinks, bakeries selling stollen and gingerbread, yummy good quality chocolate, hundreds of places to get highly potent Gluhwein with Schnapps, traditional little lantern things, wooden carved nativity scenes and angels and, er, woollen socks. Woollen socks seemed to feature in a big way.

It was manic, but everyone was smiley and happy and really friendly. Now, I've been to Germany a couple of times before and I know that the Germans, much like the English, can be a miserable bunch of sods sometimes, but there was winter magic in the air and everyone was made sparkly and nice through it. It was bit like wandering through Narnia - 'specially with the whole Christian thing going on.

Next year I'm going get out the mittens, kit out in heavy duty woollen socks, put my rucksack on my front and head over to Germany for a proper Xmas-tide.

Frohe Weinachten!

Oh, its wet!

2005-10-28T16:41:00.000Z

...And therefore good footwear is needed.

I'm going to Bath for Boots. Anyone care to join me?

We can prance around in Empire Lines, dancing Mr Beveridge's Maggot and looking out for ridiculously good-looking men to climb out of ponds and say "Miss Bennett!" in terms of shocked (yet aroused) surprise.

Or maybe not.

Tea and Tattered Pages

2005-10-14T11:00:00.000Z

Having dinner with my parents last week, we started talking of the time I worked in Paris. Looking back, I realise how much independance I was given. How many parents would allow their 17 year old daughter to live alone in Paris for a couple of months, holding down a full-time job, merely for the chance to exercise her French language skills? (Of course they didn't forsee Geriatric Patrick, but then I didn't choose to enlighten them so everyone's happy).

The conversation sent me meandering down memory lane, and fondly paused at the doors of Tea and Tattered Pages...

This is my ultimate favourite bookstore. For those who have read my rant about Waterstones et al. imagine for a moment the antithesis of those bookstores and you will have an idea of this wonderful little shop.

On my way to work one day I saw a panel advert in a free magazine they give out in the Metro advertising an English language bookstore, located on rue Mayat near Montparnasse. I was hungering for English by this time so the very next saturday I sought it out.

For those who don't know, rue Mayet in the 6th Arondissement is extremely suburban. With growing trepidation I passed along the silent streets entirely made up of quiet houses - no shops in sight - and wondered if I had made some sort of mistake. Then I saw it. Or rather, I saw the higgledy-piggledy pile of books on a little wooden crate. I looked up at the sign and saw the legend Tea and Tattered Pages.

It was tiny, yet held thousands of books. Some without covers, some ancient leather-bound types, some pulp-fiction and some in nearly-new condition. They were everywhere - squashed in shelves, on racks outside, piled in columns on the floor, heaped at the edges of the iron-work spiral staircase and balanced on top of bookshelves. There were a couple of people avidly reading books, and there was a quiet, peaceful, dusty air of companiable calm. A soft squawk made me turn around to stare into the face a benign looking parrot. I was utterly charmed already, but then I heard the clink of a tea cup. I looked towards the back and saw that there was a shabby-genteel tea room. I say tea room, but it was just a few little round tables and chairs surrounded by, yes, more books. I quickly scooted over and sat down and was delighted to have a choice of English teas (if you're familiar with French 'tea' you can imagine my excitement), brownies and fruit cakes. I placed an order with the smiling lady and promptly fragrant leaf tea in a pretty teapot with mis-matching teacup and saucer arrived. She told me to grab a book and have a read while I drank my tea which I duly did. A couple of hours later I drifted out of the book shop with several dog-eared tomes and an amazing feeling of contentment.

Needless to say Tattered Pages became a frequent haunt of mine, and is still to this day my ideal of a perfect bookshop. I sincerely hope it hasn't changed at all, and if you're ever in Paris, look it up and give it my love.

Amphibians

2005-10-13T11:59:00.000Z

In my unpacking I've found my glass frog lamp and my moorcroft-y pottery frog!

I am a happy person! I've felt all uncomfortable recently and I realise its because I wasn't surrounded by my usual froggy paraphanalia. :) :) Happy! Happy!

I love frogs!

Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs!
Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs!
Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs! Frogs!

Gloat

2005-10-13T09:55:00.000Z

MY phone is wonderful. Look at what it can do....

display the tube mape
holds the London A-Z on it
Play music
tells me the weather for the week
holds e-books
Plays films!
Can play dangerously addictive Jawbreaker n' stuff
writes word documents
displays PDF documents
has a camera
has a photo album with editing function
has MSN messenger
write Excel spreadsheets
displays my contacts
I can read my emails
I have GPRS
I have Bluetooth
I have a lady on it who tells me what my schedule is and who is calling
voice dial (which now I've put my own software on it rather than the crappy fonix one actually works!)
Internet Explorer

It is super and I love it.

The Mysterious Art of Shopping

2005-10-11T23:18:00.000Z

This area is, of course, naturally the province of ladies of a certain type and most men run away screaming at the prospect of several hours of such consumer activities. While I accept this as a given, I've never really understood the (generally) male antipathy towards shopping.

The typical cry of 'but how can you spend an entire day shopping?' is bewildering to me. Where, precisely, is the difficulty? Now I believe that the problem is that many people (and I include women here) do not know how to shop pleasurably. It is an art and I am an artist par excellence. To prove this I recently took a male friend - who previously hated shopping - on a spree and found a firm convert to this most dynamic of art-forms.

The trick for fun communal shopping is to have a rough sort of game-plan in mind. This willy-nilly drifting in and out of shops with no objective in mind only leads to frustration and ennui. However, one should be careful not to go too far in the opposite direction and have so rigid a plan in mind that disappointment is unavoidable and subsequent murderous rage inevitable.

Firstly, no one likes to do the same thing, non-stop, all day. The day should be punctuated with coffee stops, lunch in relaxing surroundings (not Pret a Manger) and mid-afternoon cocktails. Inbetween times should be an assortment of different types of shopping - some clothes shopping, some gadgetry excitement (I once spent a giggly 10 mins chasing my friend on those electric scooter thingies in Selfridges), a mooch around a good bookstore, snaffling freebies in a food hall and of course shoe shopping.

My fame has grown to the point that I am now booked as the shopping companion of choice. In fact this Saturday I'm off jaunting with one friend, and after much persuasion I'm commissioned for Sunday too (but she has to buy me lunch).

One last piece of advice:

Avoid Oxford Street on Saturday like the plague. There is no need to put yourself through that.

Barbie dolls and Lightbulbs

2005-09-21T17:01:00.000Z

The more I think about it, the more I comprehend just how wierd a child I was.

A comment that Over the Moon posted on Bag Lady regarding those strange lady loo-roll warmers reminded me of something similar I attempted to do DIY-style aged 6 or so.

I wanted a doll in a big crinoline style dress. I only had the despised modern day barbie dolls. So, in entreprenurial style I attempted to make my own. I thought that my big round wire lightshade frame would make an admirable hoop, and the material shade itself a divinely pink dress. I removed the lightshade (presumably vertigo hadn't kicked in and crippled me the way it has now) and proceeded.

Barbie was quickly stripped and shoved in the top of the frame.

She wouldn't fit so I cut her legs off.

I moulded the 'dress' around her and after quiet satisfaction lasting circa 30 seconds decided that she was a bit boring. I thought that since I had used a lightshade to create Victorian Dream Barbie, I could use her as a novelty lightshade.

I tried attaching her as before but her torso was in the way of where the bulb and cord ought to be, so I got some string and hung the lampshade upside down from the lightbulb in an uplighter effect. Her dress fell immediately away from the wire frame so I hastily tucked the loose bits around the frame to hold it in place - which it did for about a day.

Due to gravity, after a couple of days her head fell off, but I was bored of her by then and forgot about it.

A week or so later my father came in my room to give me dinner and noticed the lampshade. This is what he saw:

A decapitated doll hung upside down with dingy pink material covering her chest, leaving a clear view of the rest of the body trapped inside a torture chamber of wire, obscenely framing a melted stump of groin, the legs having been chopped off sometime previously.

Daddy didn't say much, just removed the grotesque, by this time dusty, figure and replaced the lampshade into its original setting. Later on he gave me a yoghurt.

I don't think he ever told my mother though.

Go-Live!!!

2005-09-21T11:55:00.000Z

I'm not sure what I can and can't say as everything I deal with is under Restricted Commercial, but - I would just like to announce that....(drum roll, please).....

WE HAVE GONE LIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND, we've done so successfully. After an initial hiccup the software worked smoothly, my end-users (after a swift refresher training session from me) whizzed through the applications and sauntered away from their computers with - I have to say - a bit of a smug grin really.

I have had the enormous satisfaction of seeing the past 1 and a half years of my life come to fruition.

SO, can I just give a big two fingers up and a yelled out '{four-letter word} you!' to:

The Times
The Guardian
The BBC
The Sun
HSJ
The British Medical Association
E-Health Insider

in fact, all of you c#*!s who with your inflammatory and sensationalist (and most of the time downright inaccurate and false) journalism managed to make my life so much more difficult, unpleasant and stressful during this period. I hope you all get squished in your own print press.

Bag Lady

2005-09-16T08:21:00.000Z

Helloooo out there?

Anyone?

Hello?

Ah yes, as has been pointed out to me, I've been incommunicado recently due to my new job being incrediably stressful and busy (in a good way - I think the grey hairs really suit me) and the fact that I have been turfed out of my lovely Edwardian 3 double bedroom house and into a late Victorian (hiss, you should see the fireplace) 1 bed flat.

Actually, its a nice flat with a pretty view across Victoria Park, but it is still 2 bedrooms, a staircase, a toilet, a garden and most importantly a loft down on my last place. Many people would say 'Where's the problem? You are one person, you have a one person place, I see no issue' and they would be wrong so wrong! Moving the piano was a pain but do-able, but my dears! The living room resembles a jumble sale after a particularly militant set of Grannies have been let loose on it and my kitchen surfaces are currently waving the white flag after armies of spice and herb jars went on the march, as if over enemy terrain. I feel like I've put my new home under siege - just shove some laurel leaves on my head and call me Napoleon, I suppose.

Do you want to know what all this stuff is made up of? Well, here's an extract from an email I sent my friend:

Clothes
11 bin bags full
3 large suitcases
2 small suitcases
1 gargantuan blue holdall (Katrina has one so she knows how big they are)
1 under-the-bed clothes storage thingy

Shoes
7 shoeboxes (filled)
3 bootboxes (filled)
4 (very) large bags filled with approx. 35 pairs

Books
5 boxes
2 medium suitcases
1 small suitcase

Practical items
1 rather small cardboard box

Its not good is it?

So, I'm elegantly clothed and shod, my mind has stimulation aplenty, but bugger me if I can find where I've put the bog roll.

PowerPoint

2005-08-01T19:04:00.000Z

I'm at that stage in what I laughingly call my 'career' that means whenever I go for a job interview I have to do a presentation.

And I hate it.

Talking to a bunch of people holding clipboards and scribbling a lot is a sweaty-palm type scenario for me. Presentations to normal people are ok, but the crappy ones you have to do for interviews are always more about whether you can talk while referring to a screen behind you without looking like a weathergirl.

I've got one on Monday.

Poot.

Harry Potter and the Shame of Shizue

2005-07-18T17:16:00.000Z

Oh dear...

My flatmate bought this for me the other day, and I've already read most of it.

I was up til 4.30am this morning, then read more before going to work (thereby having to make up extravagant lies why I was nearly 3 hours late for work).

Oh dear...

Extra! Extra!

2005-07-15T16:29:00.000Z

I've just read the newspaper. It's made me angry and saddened. The front cover reports on a fire-bombing of a Mosque in Birkenhead, supposedly in retaliation for the London bombings. Now I thought that 'retaliation' meant to pay back an injury in kind. As far as I know, we still do not know who caused the bombings for certain, but we may be sure it wasn't the elderly muslim cleric who was caught in the building and had to be rescued by fire fighters.

These incidents seem to have sprung up over the country, in Bristol, Bradford, Leeds and most recently in London. That shocks me. We expect it of America with their insularity and fairly homogenous society, but that the same sort of irrational race hatred should happen in one of the most cultrally diverse cities in the world is deeply depressing.

What really made me angry as I read the article was the behaviour of the press though. This particular article burned with self-rightous, bleeding heart indignation, yet in the London bombing press conference which I watched in its entirety, this same newspaper's representative (which, by the way, isn't a tabloid) was using inflammatory language of the worst kind. You know, 'Muslim Terrorists' 'Islamic attacks' etc. Like Meg I applaud Paddick's response, but I was really disgusted by the emotive language used by the press. To then comment on the "shocking" attacks on Asian families and religious centres which they at least in part have occassioned makes me feel ill.

They are utterly crass in their hypocrisy - anything to sell a rag.

The pain, the pain...

2005-07-15T12:04:00.000Z

Ugh. I'm stuck at home, for the second time in two weeks with a back problem. It isn't an excitingly slipped disc whilst out white water rafting or a rakishly obtained torn ligament from canyoning (both activities which I've done without incident). Oh no, I managed to put my back out by getting up off the sofa.

'Oh, how risky!' I hear you exclaim. Yes, strong men would blanch at the prospect of a well-plumped sofa, I know.

Isn't it pathetic? Much as I deplore the state of today's youth's health, I can't say I'm bucking the trend any. Despite the gym membership - and the fact its at the end of my (short) road - I haven't graced it's portal in nearly a year. I get winded going up the stairs to my office so I take the lift and I zoom in on crisps like a Hoxtonite to a bad hair-cut.

I did my back in (no other phrase for it, I think I've pulled the muscles, but for all I know I could've bruised some fat) well over 10 days ago and I still can barely move. I keep wandering over to my flatmates with a tube of Deep Heat looking pathetic til they rub some in for me. And although I truly have done the adventurous sporting activities mentioned earlier, they were about 3-6 years ago previous to and during Uni; before I discovered the joys of really good kitten heels and grown-up French cuisine.

I'm 25 yet feel more like an octogenerian. Something must change. I think I'll join my friend of the pink pages and do a Jane Fonda video.

Just as soon as I can walk again, that is...

Alpha Male with Tits

2005-07-11T11:32:00.000Z

Hhm, so, well, yes. The above comment. Apparently according to one of my colleagues this is my new soubriquet. I am, it transpires, basically a bloke who's been squashed into an hour-glass.

I scoffed at the time. I had a new bouncy haircut with a cheeky fringe which attractively - if not entirely practically - covered half my face, I had a flirty skirt on, ultra-cute top and very pointy shoes indeed. Alpha Male?! Tcha! I was the epitome of fluffiness.

He elaborated saying I could be a bit (vague hand gestures) in the boardroom, to which I gave a mild, level look. He responded with "oh no, she's giving me that look again" and promptly ran off. I was troubled.

When I got home, I hesitantly broached the subject with my flatmate. After she had stopped crying with laughter I felt better. Obviously it was a laughable idea. I said as much to her. "No, no, I totally agree with him, it was just a really funny way to put it" was her reply. I began to feel low. I expostulated on the amount of frivolous underwear I had, reminded her of several comments she had made about said items, the vast quantity of shoes I own, the fact that she calls my bedroom a boudoir (I think this is because of the velvet curtains but I'm not entirely sure) and my preoccupation with Benefit. Surely, I pouted, these are the paraphenalia of the feminine mind? "Yes, but you are (vague hand gestures) you know".

Pardon me, but enlightenment failed to dawn.

Paranoia set in when a third friend - quite independently - informed me that I was a Man With Breasts. (At first I thought she said I had man-breasts and got quite offended) By this time I was a little jittery. I asked why, why, am I a boy?

"Because you drink beer from a bottle"

Is that it?!? And actually, I'm more of a Singapore Sling Girl at heart. At least there was a lack of vague hand gestures, but frankly I was still at sea.

"Mind you, you're quite odd, because you are very feminine in some ways". Then she looked thoughtful and wouldn't say anymore.

I now live in perpetual fear that I'm going to magically grow a pair of testicles and start thinking with them.

Or something.

Yours, in confusion,

Shizue (Female, definitely)

swishy, swishy

2005-05-31T00:10:00.000Z

Men in capes or long swishy things:

Good
Anakin, Mace and Obi in StarWars III
Batman
Daniel Auteil's character in Le Bossu (extremely swishy, swishy!)
Zorro
Van Helsing - though I'm not sure about the polo neck

Bad
Superman
Hammer Horror vampires
Robin
Braveheart (the dangly bit of his kilt)
Ming the Merciless
the orange-haired baddie in the Incredibles

Men who didn't need a cape
Wesley from The Princess Bride
Flash Gordon

Men who really needed something
The Phantom - so wrong, on so many levels

3 for 2 at Waterstones

2005-05-30T18:54:00.000Z

The hackneyed phrase 'everyone has at least one novel inside them' is, quite possibly, true. Whether the resulting novel deserves to see the light of day, and whether it is a good thing for either author or reader is perhaps more debatable.

I do have a bit of a problem with this phrase - an attitude that is unpopular I know - as although in principle I applaud the sheer number of books now available to us in bookshops, the somewhat slick air of showman-salesmanship and sometimes exploitative element of many of the choices in the bestseller lists makes me uneasy.

On the back of the success of one 'literary' novel about a man's fascination with, say, the history of navigation, come a whole host revolving around such kooky subjects as chocolate, bees, tulips, paintings etc. The arrival of a harrowing autobiographical account of childhood is followed by a glut of similar novels - even down to having the same style dustjackets, as though part of some automated production line.

I don't quite know what I would care for instead. I know I prefer libraries, with their dusty, dog-eared air of quiet and calm, the lack of pressure, where the only agenda is to prevent as many books from being nicked as possible and to stay within budget. I long for the bookshops of my imagination, where proprietors sold books because they loved them, and profit was a happy coincidence.

I don't know why the commercial aspects of the book world distresses me. I regard the worldly advertising element of television with a tolerant, even slightly disinterested, eye. But the case is different. The purpose of most television channels is to produce advertising for third parties (apart from the BBC, which may explain its slightly schizophrenic atmosphere). That's where the money comes from and the way they do this is to provide bait in the form of tasty programming . Its a fairly upfront procedure, and if a good program is created then wonderful, and if its trash then oh dear, but at least we've promoted Lenor Vaporesse to an audience of 2.3 million.

Books are different to me. I feel - rightly or wrongly - that the birth of a novel must have been both painful and dear to the author, that its creation is essential to the author and written because it had to be, not because it is the type of book that 'travels well'. I like to feel that I am participating in something special in reading it. The process of discovering and choosing a book is a private and personal experience for me, so when I see floor-to-ceiling displays of the current hot sellers invariably right by the entrance, tarting themselves in bulk, I am overcome by dismay.

When I avail myself of the ubiquitous 3 for 2 offers I emerge into the sunlight rather guilty, like I've been seduced by some cheap lothario and wondering about my purchases. Nearly always in those situations I find 2 books I truly want and the third is an 'ho hum, I might as well as its free' option. Which is a dreadful way to think of a book, and is a result of my weakness for a bargain, agressive marketing, the sheer weight of books on the market and perhaps most of all, a trend in many books to be samey.To be popular, to appeal widely, in effect - to attract the lowest common denominator.

Am I being too harsh? I am well aware that my attitude to books is a little rarefied, and I am also cringingly aware that in the simple fact of publishing my own words of fairly trivial meanderings I am contributing to the superfluity of stuff that floats about the world without appreciably making a difference for the better - or even just a difference.

Happily Ever After...

2005-05-26T20:38:00.000Z

So, the girls and I are sitting there eating lunch. The topic has ranged from the impending wedding of one of our number, via the interesting program 'Middle Sex' and ended up at marriages both successful and unsuccessful across the generations.

I mentioned that astonishingly enough, many psychologists think soap operas are a good thing for adolescents and adults to watch as they show what happens to couples after the perfect day of the wedding. You know, when the bills haven't been paid, your partner has lost their job and the washing machine has broken down - again.

Another friend agreed, and stated that some marriages of our parents' generation might have ended due to the inflated expectations inculcated by the happy ever after fairy-tales, where the end of the story is the joyful getting together and skipping off into the perfect sunset, not the beginning.

But perhaps these happy-ever-after stories once had a purpose too? When the reality of a happy marriage to the individual of your choice was sheer good luck rather than your right, then these fantasy tales might have held a measure of applicable make-believe and a pattern of what should be strived for.

Until relatively recently in our history, when you got leg-shackled, it was for life - period. If you didn't get on with your chap then tough, nothing you could do about it short of murder. In those circumstances, maybe the fairy tales gave you an outlet for pent up emotions and something to daydream about, whilst being sufficiently removed from reality and heavily dosed with enough idealism in the sanctity of marriage to make the idea of adultery if not distateful, then at least not immediately attractive. Also the idea that once married, things went swimmingly and that this is the way it should be is a powerful one. If you have no option of leaving each other once married, you better make a bloody good effort to keep it going. The alternative would have led to a great deal of bitterness and wretchedness.

Bizarre that you could trace a connection (albeit tenous) between Cinderella and Eastenders but there you go. One wonders what the next development will be? The mind boggles...

Lawns

2005-04-17T22:55:00.000Z

I'm disgruntled. Extremely.
Look, for most things, applied intelligence and diligence results in success. Can't cook? Be logical, practical, follow the instructions and hey presto - food that doesn't kill you.
Can't play an instrument? Learn how to read music, take a few lessons and step forward as, well ok, not the next Chopin but someone who can knock out 'happy birthday' at least.

But gardening? Nothing doing. I'm currently contemplating a withered money tree as I type. The tree I bought because it is "zero maintenance" and "extremely hardy, happy with any treatment and environment". The poor thing is both balding and at a drunken angle, like a Leytonstone Wetherspoon's regular. I followed this up by killing some Aloe Vera to my mother's bafflement ("How did you kill a cactus? they're indestructible. What did you do to it? How? etc.) and some cress. Cress, for god's sake! The stuff you grew on damp kitchen towel when you were in playschool!

At the moment we're trying to revive the lawn. If we don't our landlords will get in a gardener to do it and charge us. If that sounds harsh then you haven't seen our garden. So I bought some moss killer/grass feeder and joyfully sprinkled it about, humming 'we plough the fields and scatter...' feeling like some child of nature. It worked. A week later all the moss was dead. Unfortunately this left us with a load of earth. All the green stuff that we thought was grass had been moss. All of it. A few scraggy bits of grass were trying manfully but it was a losing battle. So I raked and sowed some easy/quick grow rugged lawn seed, ('rapidly produces tough, verdant' etc.) tapped it in, watered and waited. And waited. And waited.

Nothing. Nada. Not one new blade of grass has appeared. We still have a lot of the brown stuff hanging about instead. We're going to have to pay that damn gardener.

But do you see? The only thing I did successfully was to kill off some more plants! Moss, in this case. No matter how carefully I follow the instructions (and I really did try with that money tree) and how logically and sensibly I approach the matter, I will never be a gardener.

So, I hereby state, that for the good of all Flora, I shall hang up my gardening gloves, put away the seccateurs and softly close the shed door on my rake of broken dreams. sob.

Trans-Alpine Redemptorists

2005-04-04T13:11:00.000Z

An era is coming to an end. The pontiff has breathed - or rather wheezed into a tube - his last. In time-honoured fashion (actually rather more decorously than is traditional; look at the Borgias...) there is the usual scrabble and speculation over the next candidate while the poor old codger's form is still warm and we shall shortly see the white smoke of ballots floating up the chimney: Aah, modern technology.

We are reliably informed that the odds are shortening on an ultra-conservative (well there's a surprise), a (gasp!) black cardinal with happy ideas of unity between muslims, buddhists and catholics - though naturally protestants are beyond the pale, and a rank outsider who is considered dangerously 'progressive', although at the age of seventy-odd I would have thought he's not got much progression left in him.

Still, a new(ish) lease of life will come to the Vatican, one supposes, and anyone who still pays attention to the Christ-malarkey will presumably prick up their ears.

Which brings me by circuitous route to the topic of this blog. My flatmate - in a crisis of non-faith - went on the Camino, and was adopted by a bunch of monks from Orkney, the Trans-Alpine Redemptorists. These lot didn't like John-Paul as he was, ahem, radical, too forward-thinking and too (I kid you not) zeitgeisty for them. They like to say the mass in Latin and nothing but. They make quite nice cheese. They dislike homosexuals. They participate good-humouredly in village competitions. Apprarently, girls wearing trousers is sailing a bit close to the wind in their opinion.

My flatmate is spending Easter with them, and god knows who exactly will be returning to London. Not the same person who left, I think. I'm personally holding out for her returning as a Nun.

Now, I was talking to a mutual friend who informs me that the Trans-Alpine Redemptorists have been excommunicated by the Pope for being too conservative. However, the person in question is notoriously vague and this might not be true (to cover my bottom from litigation). Now what I wish to know is, if you're excommunicated by the Pope, then when that Pope dies, are you still excommunicated? And do the descendents of the excommunicated labour under that same misfortune. Is, for example, the Queen still under a black cloud because of naughty old Henry VIII?

Any thoughts?

Revenge of the Oyster

2005-03-29T13:47:00.000Z

Food.
It provides us with sustenance, pleasure and occasional indigestion. It enriches our prime-time and Sunday morning television viewing and has done wonders for the sales of glossy hard-backed books with slightly inflated prices.It is, without a doubt, the stuff of life and I have hitherto had a long and deeply satisfying relationship with it.

Now, however, my trust and affection have been poisoned - quite literally - in the shape of a nefarious oyster. That Queen of the ocean, whose very spit is so highly prized, has reduced me to a state of quivering fever and an entirely unecessary level of intimacy with the porcelain bowl in the bathroom. Quite aside from the unpleasantness of food poisoning itself, the fall out is horrible to anyone with tastebuds. I have been a martyr to my stomach and subsisted (I refuse to say 'lived') on a diet of mushy white rice; mushed-up white bread; freshly boiled water and drastically boiled chicken. Boiled white fish was suggested but frankly the thought of any type of sea creature sent me dancing off to the bathroom again.

Upon my return to work today, a well-meaning colleague deposited a huge Easter Egg on my desk in all its chocolatey-glory. I wanted to weep.

The most irritating aspect of the whole situation is the attitude of my friends who almost without exception have greeted me with the words "serves you right for eating it alive". For the record, can I just point out that if the damn thing was still alive when I ate it I wouldn't be ill! It gave up the ghost at precisely the wrong moment- from a Becky-centric world view, naturally.

Although Food and I will have to rebuild our relationship slowly, I feel confident that in time we shall once more have as thrivingly brilliant a connection as before. My horoscope speaks of fruitful encounters to come...

Righto, time for another cup of nutritious boiled water.

To begin with...

2005-03-29T13:28:00.000Z

Hmm,
Having been overtaken by a surge of ennui (and the liberation of having the boss away) I have set up and am now the proud possesor of a blog myself and will henceforth cease living vicariously through the blog of notnowmeg.

Personally, I want to have a rant about a particular topic (coming up next, folks!) and the necessity of trying to come up with a reasonably coherent introduction is a bit beyond me at the moment. Oh dear, I need to make a cup of boiled water...