It’s retrospective time, people of blogland.

Nye 2003: a mirthful event, spent at home, partly in the bathtub, partly in bed. On my own and pining for a distant girlfriend with whom I had Life Plans and Hopes.

Nye 2002: a joyous event, spent in a girls’ club with my friend Odd, dutifully clubbing and eyeing up girls. It was also a First Date with someone I can only call Superbutch.. Superbutch got riotously drunk, loud, possessive, brash and argumentative. Odd got riotously drunk, loud, flirty with Superbutch’s friends, as well as argumentative. A fisticuff was narrowly avoided. During the cab ride home, Odd puked up half the contents of the bar as Superbutch was sending me drunken text messages. The cab driver chucked us out in indignation. I tried to make myself feel better by thinking I was earning big motherfucking karma points for breaking up fights as well as wiping the puke off Odd’s face. All in all, a fruitful evening.

Nye 2001: a jolly event, in a bar on the other side of the Channel, in the delightfully named Trouville. I got drunk on bad champagne, almost fell into the canal, got into an argument with someone very mean I’d just met, wanted to go back and drown myself in the canal, was talked out of it by my girlfriend. I think I fell in love there and then, as she was holding my hand and a bucket and telling me it would all be fine in the morning. I can’t resist kindness, you see.

Nye 2000: a cheerful event, at home with my mother. We went to bed at 11pm and got up early to go climb a mountain.

Nye 1999: a jovial event, in the middle of the Sahara. I didn’t wash for six days, but Christmas and nye were successfully avoided. *Note to self: why am I not doing that again?*

Tonight I am invited by someone I don’t know very well to go to a house party held by someone I don’t know at all. I might flake pitifully.
Happy 2005, y’all.

Oh well.
Hello, internet. I am back from the place on the pictures. First let me get this out of the way :just like the rest of the world, I know all and wept about the Tsunami and the half million people swept away, but I won't talk about it. It seems cheap somehow, so here's not yet another blogger's lament. So give money. that's it.

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This blog is one year old today. Go blog! I gain some satisfaction from the idea that I've kept it up for this long. I thought I'd never have anything to say. Now I know that I don't have anything to say, but that it doesn't stop me from saying it.

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Around 3.30 am, I dreamt that punctuation had been abolished by governmental decree. There were no more dams in logorrhoea's way. It was only a short dream, but I woke up in a cold sweat.
I didn't want to come back.

Update on my slow Days

Disappointment
Today it snowed for nearly three hours. I watched the flakes from my bedroom windows, waiting for the build up before I could run out in my mummy outfit and be merry; but each flake melted as it touched the ground.

Distraction
Over the past two days, I read for over 18 hours : a detective novel involving an accordion player, two prostitutes and a medievalist; a treaty on the epidemics of plague in Europe; and a book entilted ‘the perfect masochist’s manual. All this alowed me to ignore Christmas as comfortably as possible.

Delay
I have oodles of things to write about my mother, but I woudn’t even know where to start, so I’ll keep it for some other time.

Dream
I dreamt that I was in a hospital losing a considerable amount of blood; doctors assured me that it was because I had swallowed a spoon. I was adamant that such a thing was impossible since I didn’t not use sugar or milk in my tea, therefore never needed to stir, therefore did not use spoons. The puddle of blood around me was spreading; then A appeared and told me she was going to the beach and I could come along if I wanted. I hesitated because a) I had no towel and b) I was still hemorraging, but I tagged along anyway, then I threw up into my beach bag. She went on and I just sat on the ground and cried. When I woke up I had a sore throat, so now I’m not sure about the spoon aspect.

Delivery
Just as well that yesterday, Pope John Paul II delivered his annual urbi et orbi blessing for Christmas. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling better already.

Story time

This is the most dispirited Christmas I’ve ever spent.

So here is my Chirtsmas story, especially for you people of Blogland. On a good day it’ll make me feel all warm and fluffy inside. On a bad day it’ll make me sneer. Oh, and it happens to be true. But anyway; here goes:

1.The place :
the countryside, north of France; an endlessly flat land, stretched all the way to the horizon. You expect cows, or at least cabbage fields. There are none, because.....:

2. The time: 1915, the coldest fucking winter since.. since at least the Franco-Prussian war. The one before the one I’m talking about. They’re not called Prussians anymore, but the enemies speak the same language.

3. The cast: German soldiers on the one side (the guys with spiked helmets downing bad beer)
French soldiers on the other side (the guys with the rounded helmets swiging crap red wine)

4. Synopsis: They are on either sides of a demarcation line. Helmets are either pointy or rounded, but trench foot is a constant. Both sides are intent on anhiliating each other, because this is what wars are about, and it is war. Until then, they spend their days and weeks crawling in mud, fighting rats for bits of stale bread, and playing cards to try and forget the infinite boredom and the certainty of death.

And then it’s Christmas eve, even in trench land.
Some say that the Germans start singing first. I can believe that, since the French are not known for their musicality. But somehow they join in. And a truce is called, people!
It is said that gifts are exchanged - lumps of coal? tin mugs? dead rats? who knows. And later, they play a game of football. That can’t be easy on the trench foot condition. (Can you imagine kicking a ball with rotting feet wrapped up in rotting bandages and no shoes? But that’s me spoiling this magical moment with my cynicism. No wonder A could’t stand me. Stop digressing. Sorry.)

And the following day, they go on trying to slaughter each other.
Oh, bless.

5. Morale of my story: So now I better stop moaning about my Christmas/life/lost love. At least I don’t have trench foot, and no-one is forcing me to play football wearing a spikey helmet. So now I’ll go swig some Vendanges Tardives Gewurztraminer 1995, which is the God of all wines.

Two pence-anthropology / Chapter I, France Of the Middle

#1
There is here, and there is the rest of the Western world.
The rest of the world is far, beyond the mountains; it’s a long donkey ride into the unknown. In many ways, this part of the world still has to catch up with the most daring advances of progress and civilisation. For instance, the people here have not been sartorially enlightened.Everywhere else but here everyone and their mother and wearing a poncho; not here. Perhaps because it’s so freaking cold here, the outfit of choice for Winter makes everyone, men and women, look like sexless mummies. Fortunately, there are secondary sexual signs to distinguish the sexes. Hair.
#2
I am counting; the number of women over the age of 50 with crimson hair is alarming. I am yet to come up with a theory about it. Zabélie blames Tchernobyl. I am not so sure. No matter what, I am saddened to count my mother as one of the victims of the Crimson Menace. Isn’t it sad when someone close to your heart ends up a statistic?
I wonder if I’d like to see more ponchos and fewer pillarbox-red heads.
#3
Dogs. Are everywhere. There are two kinds: in the posh area of town, they are small, yappy, overfed, and they come with tartan bows and little coats and matching ageing, female, well-off owners.
In the town center dogs are large, underfed and hostile, held tight on their leash by equally underfed and hostile, multiply-pierced people. Those people would like to think they’re punks. They conglomerate to get drunk on Kronenbourg (punk beer) around bus shelters or on the steps of the cathedral, and scare the shit out of the middle class females. Sometimes the hounds take a bite out of the pampered little bichon frisés; for fun. Or perhaps they are genuinely underfed.
No matter the breed or social status, dog owners won’t stoop to pick up their pet’s turds. Fortunately, the cold freezes them solid, so not much damage is done if you inadvertently kick one. On the other hand, I remember a hot day in July.. But better not summon ugly memories.

I really wish it would snow and people would stay the fuck home and stop walking around buying stuff they don’t need. Merry Christmas my arse. I’ll have a glass of water and a dry cracker tonight.
Love you all.

Home
I have to go home periodically to renew my sense of horror.
Carson Mc Cullers

I have transported my neurosis and myself to France for the Christmas holidays.

1. My mother had 'sorted out' my belongings (see previous posts) so I'm feeling more like a stranger in my old home than I've ever done. She has also smoked all the pot that my brother had left. She claims it didn't do anything to her. I'm not sure I buy that, since she is currently painting a mural of camels' heads in the downstairs bathroom.


2. Precious train moments #1
An uneventful journey. Twenty minutes after departure, I offer one of my glossy magazines to the fidgety man with brutal halitosis sitting on my right, in the hope that it doesn't encourage him to breathe through his nose, it will at least sedate him before we get to Paris. Across the aisle from me is sitting an old man; he is echoing every announcement made by the train crew. 'Sandwiches! yeah! Paris Gare du Nord! Ashford! Yeah!' The unsuspecting younger man in the adjacent seat has put on his headphones.'Hey, whatcha doing? 'I am trying to.. I'm listening to some music.' 'I want to do that too.' Not betraying any surprise or irritation, the young man offers one of his headphones. His companion starts belting out onomatopoeia. 'Just listen', the young guy whispers. Later the old man falls asleep, chin on chest. I do no laugh; I am in awe of the patient passenger. I think I envy him a little.


3. Precious train moments #2
A night of January 2002, a South West train is taking my girlfriend of two weeks and me from Southampton ferry port back to Victoria station. The carriage is empty but for a couple of sporty tracksuit bottomed types with generic/matching haircuts. Perhaps we're bored. We kiss; or rather we play at kissing. No, I kiss, and she plays, pulling away with a smile that means to be teasing. Our hands slide under layers of winter clothing. I am intent; she is too, intent at playing. The ticket inspector winks at our intertwined limbs. The game resumes. She stalls, giggles, teases. By now I have lost all sense of humour and only yearn for a frantic fuck - here, anywhere, who cares about the spotty guys five seats away from us, they’re asleep anyway, shut up, come here, hey, come here, why are you stopping? The train pulls into Victoria station hours after midnight and the last tube. On the night bus to her south London home, she falls asleep. As her head rests on my shoulder, I peer out for clues, I don’t know where we are but we can’t miss the stop. It was a game, I tell myself. Soon I will understand that this game is all she is capable of. Those two hours on the train were the most erotic/terrifying we ever had together.

4. It looks like it might snow tonight.

Forget bath salts- All I want for Christmas is this


EVIL CASTLE LAIR - ULTRAMODERN COMFORT WITH AN EVIL GOTHIC FLAIR!
Sure, everyone wants a castle lair -- they're cool, scary, and a lot more fun to torture people in. But they're also cold, damp, expensive to maintain; and it's impossible to fit a proper Genetics Lab or Pleasure Pit into those little stone rooms!
That's why Scaramanga & No S.A., the world's leading Evil Architects & Contractors, have introduced the VLAD TEPES SERIES EVIL CASTLE LAIR. It's a fully modern and functional lair built within a castle-shaped fiberglass shell, that looks so real it even fools English Heritage. Includes Master Bedroom, 3 guest suites, 4.5 bath, Grand Ballroom, computer center, medical center/torture chamber, indoor pool, servants barracks, home theater system, Wild Boar Feeding Arena, missile silo, and central air. Includes convenient, obvious self-destruct mechanism.
Price: Starts at US$99,999,999,99 from Villains supply. For all your villain needs.

dis·trac·tion (d -str k sh n)
n.
1. A condition or state of mind in which the attention is diverted from an original focus or interest.
2. Separation of bony fragments or joint surfaces of a limb by extension.

I’m trying my best for definition #1. Partly because #2 sounds rather painful.

a. Diversion
I read ten lines, write a paragraph, pop bubble wrap, make tea, pop more bubble wrap, drink tea, change an adjective in the paragraph, forget to wash the cup, pop more bubble wrap, put socks on because it’s getting very cold, make more tea, pop more bubble wrap, read ten more lines, delete my paragraph, forget to drink the tea, pop more bubble wrap, put a jumper on because it’s really very cold, make more tea, open a magazine and stare at the ads, drink cold tea, try to wrap the cat in the popped bubble wrap, try to locate a clean mug for tea. The cat won’t stay inside the rolled up bubble wrap. The paragraphs are all crap, I drink too much tea, and dark thoughts come back and pop, pop in my head.

b. Original focus.
I don’t know how much more of this I can handle. I really don’t.

A big step forward for me, a very, very small step for humanity

I’ve finally started on my French blog. This time it won’t just be a haphazard accumulation collection of random things. I even have a structure for it.

J: ‘So you’ll be writing in French, so you can say things like: oh that guy I live with is a pain in the ass, I can’t wait to be moving out, and you’ll be using slang or the imperfect subjunctive cos I haven’t learned it yet. You will, won’t you?’

No, it’s not going to be like that. But I’m still looking forward to it.

Don't say you weren't warned
I was innocently perusing some French sites trying to find out how to while away my time next week when I found this.
So now we know. The dirtiest people on the planet, huh. Well, in my case it really depends on how dirty people will let me be. I don’t want to brag.

Children's Books That Didn't Make It

1. You Are Different and That's Bad
2. The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables
3. Dad's New Wife Robert
4. Fun Four-Letter Words to Know and Share
5. Hammers, Screwdrivers and Scissors: An I-Can-Do-It Book
6. The Kids' Guide to Hitchhiking
7. Kathy Was So Bad Her Mom Stopped Loving Her
8. Curious George and the High-Voltage Fence
9. All Cats Go to Hell
10. The Little Sissy Who Snitched
11. Some Kittens Can Fly.
12. That's It; I'm Putting You Up for Adoption
13. Grandpa Gets a Casket
14. The Magic World Inside the Abandoned Refrigerator
15. Garfield Gets Feline Leukemia
16. The Pop-Up Book of Human Anatomy
17. Strangers Have the Best Candy
18. Whining, Kicking and Crying to Get Your Way
19. You Were an Accident
20. Things Rich Kids Have, But You Never Will
21. Pop Goes The Hamster & Other Microwave Games
22.The Man in the Moon Is Actually Satan (Jarnocan's favorite)
23. Your Nightmares Are Real
24. Where Would You Like to Be Buried?
25. Eggs, Toilet Paper, and Your School
26. Why Can't Mr. Fork and Ms. Electrical Outlet Be Friends?
27. Places Where Mommy and Daddy Hide Neat Things
28. Daddy Drinks Because You Cry

I really don't like this

1. There is an undercurrent of anger and despair flowing right underneath the surface. I think it’s always been there, but it’s risen in recent months.

2. I am afraid I am going to snap. Lose my shit if someone is mean to me; start bawling if someone is nice.

3. As a result, I withdraw. It’s not fair to snap.

4. I’ve postponed a date that was planned for tonight. She’s cute, bright, stylish. But I feel too caught up in my internal vicious circle monologue to be available even for a date. I don’t feel I have anything to offer.

5. To break out of this internal vicious circle monologue thing, I should really go out on dates. Back to square one.

6. Why did I resist the urge to throw the loaf of bread against the wall? The worst that could have happened would be funny shaped toast. And maybe it would have made me feel better.

7. I am losing some friends. One part of me thinks they’re right; why should they stick around someone so caught up in her own misery? I brought it upon myself. A smaller part of me thinks friends stick around no matter what. Ah, the great myth of female friendships.

8. I hate self-pity. So what d I do now? Watch tv, I suppose.

I’m not staying long.
1. Last night I dreamed that I was on my way to perfecting the recipe for chicken feet jam.I wonder what that one means, then.

2. The leering marathon is going well, thank you. 9 episodes of The L word down, 4 to go. I have just watched Shane have sex on the floor with Rosanna Arquette’s character. It really, really cheered me up. Who whispered vicarious?

3. Finally, if you understand French, go here. It is my very lazy but very funny friend Zabélie’s blog.

Chicken feet jam.
*shakes head* I don't know.

Here comes the recommended hiatus
Please excuse me for a few days; I am currently busy obsessing. I am having an L word marathon. The complete first season, brought to me by J; he is catering endlessly and mercifully to my vicarious-living-as-a-way-to-recovery method. I don’t know if the method really leads to recovery as such, but in the meantime the tears I shed are over the fictional lives of fictional people. Who happen to be sexy, although somehow airbrushed, and make a nice change to the bridge trolls I saw on Saturday night when I was out with Jacqui causing a ruckus in ladies’ bars. Pah, not really; we were incredibly well behaved. But I digress: bridge trolls were my point. That’s what I saw. It made me sad. Beer-swilling graceless creatures with bad haircuts and white trainers. Or hipsters in cliques. I’m off to watch episode 7 now. I don’t think I’ll write a review, I just like to leer. Thank you for listening.

Put succinctly

1 I saw Margaret Cho on Saturday night.
2 small venue, about a hundred people.
3 She kicked ass.
4 Jacqui and I didn't linger at the stage door. Too dignified to be groupies, you see.

I’m a bit bored with this. I’m also despondent, lonely and cold. Possibly bored with being me, too.
I’ll come back soon.
Feel free to talk amongst yourself.

Good night.

Clearly, Attention Deficit Disorder

Two occurrences that almost made me cry:

1. At lunch time today I lovingly and reverently cooked some Trofie (for the gastronomically challenged, that’s a traditional pasta from Liguria). Posh pasta usually takes 300 times as long to cook as normal pasta, so I stood over the pan stirring, took the pan off the hobb as soon as the trofie was perfectly al dente, and added carefully chosen ingredients.
It’s only after I had sprinkled the exact amount of parmesan out of the little plastic shaker thing that I noticed the little green dots. Mould. Mouldy parmesan.
So after throwing my fork across the room in a fit of despair and rage, I did what any self respecting cook would never do, I washed my pasta under a stream of lukewarm water.
It really wasn’t so good after that.
But I didn’t cry.

2. Yesterday in between work and a work function I had exactly half an hour to squeeze in some Christmas shopping. The product of my (frantic) Christmas shopping was in turn stuffed into a plastic bag. A plastic bag which I have left. Somewhere. Bus. Street. Bus stop. I have no idea. I think I am going to cry after all.

At this point I would like to blame mulled wine for this sudden drop in attention. I would also like to blame the box office that still haven’t sent me my pair of tickets for tonight’s show, as well as Christmas shoppers all over London, parmesan makers that don’t print sell by date on plastic shakers, and exes you can’t get over and spend time crying about on the bus. It’s all their fault.

I have no idea what to wear for tonight’s show. Cos, tickets or no tickets, I will get us in, I swear. Oh, it’s Margaret Cho. Yay!

Tis the season to be jolly

-I’ve tidied up your closet, and the drawer under your bed, says my mom.
-You have? [mind races as to what she may have found in there.] You have. Ok.I can deal with my mom stumbling on my things. I am an adult now, aren’t I?
-There’s so much strange stuff in there, and I needed space to put away my summer things, so I got rid of some of your old stuff.
- Can’t you wait til I get home and do that myself? And how do you know what to throw out anyway?
- -Oh, but I’m not throwing anything out. Guess how much I got for your old pairs of goth boots?
- My boots. You didn’t. They were relics!
- Well it’s not like you were going to wear them anymore.
- Maybe I was!
- Oh well, they’ve made someone happy now. Maybe they were putting a show and needed costumes. And! I managed to sell your stereo! First I used the speakers to put flowerpots on, but I thought they were still good, so I took them down to the flea market too.
- What am I going to do for music now, then?
- There’s always my cd player
- The old piece of shit in the kitchen. Right.
- So when you come home, you might want to think about what to do with the huge stack of magazines. Oh, and, there’s that bundle of exercise books all tied up together, I didn’t have a look at those, but we can have a bonfire when you’re here.

At least I was spared the ultimate humiliation. That carefully tied up bundle of books are my early teenage diaries, complete with details of sorrows and tears and crushes and ponderings and tampax experimentations. Not pretty.

I wonder why the sudden urge for clearing, and why my room.
Everything else in the house remains untouched. My brother’s room in particular is a mausoleum of his 19 years of life. Books on the foreign policy of Guatemala or the changing geographies of the Finnish-Russian borders or a political and historical assessment of the middle East; his posters of tennis players; and his collections: coins, notes, vials of sand from all the deserts of the globe, cigars, 19 Century lead soldiers.
I never collected anything, and I’m still alive. Maybe that doesn’t grant my old room any sort of special status. I’m not really bitter about it; but I am considering the bonfire. Except that I’ll be the one to do away with my stuff. Get your matches ready, mom.

And this is why I turned down that $70 Million contract

‘How are things at Megalopolitan pictures ?’ asked Sir Ambrose.
‘Greatly disturbed. We are having trouble with Juanita Del Pablo.’
‘Luscious, languid, and lustful?'
‘Those are not the correct epithets. She is – or rather was – ‘surly, lustrous and sadistic.’ I should know because I composed the phrase myself. Miss Del Pablo has been a particular protégée of mine from the first. I remember the day she arrived. Poor Leo bought her for her eyes. She was called Baby Aaronson then –splendid eyes and a fine head of black hair. So Leo made her Spanish. He had most of her nose cut off and sent her to Mexico for six weeks to learn flamenco singing. Then he handed her to me. I named her. I made her a anti-fascist refugee. I said she hated men because of her treatment by Franco’s moors. That was a new angle then. It caught on. And she was really good in her way, you know- with a truly horrifying natural scowl. Her legs were never photogénique but we kept her in long skirts and used an understudy for the lower half in scenes of violence. I was proud of her and she was good for another ten years’ work at least.
And now there’s been a change of policy at the top. We are only making films this year to please the league of decency. So poor Juanita has to start at the beginning as an Irish colleen. They’ve bleached her hair and dyed it vermilion. I told them that colleens were dark but the Technicolor men insisted. She’s working ten hours a day learning the brogue and to make it harder for the poor girl they’ve pulled all her teeth out. She never had to smile before and her own set was good enough for a snarl. Now she’ll have to laugh roguishly all the time. That means dentures. I’ve spent three days trying to find a name for her. She’s turned everything down. Maureen there are two already. Deirdre – no one could pronounce it. Oonagh- sounds Chinese. Bridget – too common. The truth is, she’s in a nasty temper.’

From The loved ones, Evelyn Waugh. Read it. If only because you’ve watched all four series of Six Feet under and miss the atmosphere of funeral homes.

Real intellectuals play board games part II
Some time ago, some clever American bastard came up with Ghettopoly.

'Pimp up your stable of hos, build crack houses and projects, do a drive-by, get the whole 'hood addicted to crack- collect $50! Only the hustlers with the tightest game will win!'

To ensure that players stay true to the game, player game pieces include: Pimp, Ho, Uzi, Marijuana leaf, a Basket ball and a piece of crack, and of course counterfeit money and two dice.
Apparently the overrated overpriced shop Urban Outfitters carried the game was instantly boycotted by the NAACP. Fair enough. Now in the pipeline are Hiphopoly and Redneckopoly. 'It draws on stereotypes not as means to degrade, but as a medium to bring us together in laughter; if we can't laugh at ourselves, we'll continue to live in blame and bitterness', said the infinitely philanthropic creator of the game.

Personally I would never shell out anything for any board game; Scrabble makes my face go numb and I can't sit in front of Monopoly without going into severe convulsion. Last time was New Year's Eve, 1993; I lasted ten minutes, and was later found racing around in the snow in a tshirt, and that had nothing to do either with the sangria or the funny cigarettes. Really. But where is my point? Oh yes. Here it is, sort of: still I confess that the thought of that game made me chuckle. It's just a funky board game, right? There isn’t much difference between that board game and what is glorified in hip-hop lyrics and music videos, right? Wel, I don't know. Not so sure. What do you think? Would you be upset by Jewnopoly? Asianopoly? Scottishopoly? Gaynopoly? Would I be upset if it were Frenchonopoly instead? Maybe, in true French fashion, I would rant for half a minute, consider educating the ignorant masses for another ten seconds, then just shrug it off.
The truth is, I probably would get upset. I do have a history of getting disproportionally upset by the jolly shovelling of stereotypes about the French. Or about any nationality, in fact. But that's another story altogether. Maybe some other time.

I told you, I never liked board games anyway. I think I'll go back to my original Christmas presents ideas:

A rude cross-stitching kit
The guide to how to shoot rubber bands
My face on a grilled cheese sandwich

There is no emoticon for the way I’m feeling today.

On the way back home from the cinema, I pass:

· a couple dragging a heavy bag and dumping it into the river. Late at night. It probably isn’t really a body, because these things only happen in films. Still, I walk faster, just in case they have a heavy spanner/knife/hammer and a spare bag.

· a dog kennel with a ‘for rent- £180 a week’ sign on it in someone’s front yard. When I go back later to take a photo, the sign’s gone. I guess it was too good a bargain in this area of London, someone’s already grabbed it.

---

. Maybe I shouldn’t have watched the Office Christmas specials. (In hell, it’s Slough every day.) I think the perspective of another Christmas spent with my mom pretending to ignore Christmas is crushing me already. We’ll pretend to ignore it together and make chit chat about this and that and the subtext will be about everyone we/she has lost and how she’s only got me left and how far I am.
Yuck.
Maybe I just have an iron deficiency. Maybe I’m just hungry. Or dehydrated. Or bored. Can’t always tell.

---

Another recurring dream, people of blogland: I dream that I do the splits. Clever explanations in the comments section, thank you.

Misdirected romanticism, anyone?

'Romeo, Oh yeah, I used to have a scene with him. (Juliet)

1. Maybe 8 months ago, I opened the case where my glasses live when I don't wish to see the world around in too much focus, and saw, stuck to the lid with cellotape, a pink fortune cookie slip that read:

You or a close friend will be married within a year.

I believe it was A's fortune cookie; in any case, she put it there.
Out of some sort of superstition, I kept it when we were together. And kept it when we weren't.
It's still there; and I won't peel it off.

2. Was it also superstition when I put A's name down on my life insurance form? [see footnote #2] Perhaps it was. In any case, should I get flattened by a double-decker, she will still get a year of my salary, which could get her a (second hand) bike to replace the one that was stolen and probably sold on Craig's list to someone else who had their bike stolen, etc.

It feels almost vengeful and spiteful and mean to go and take the step to cross her out, just like re-writing your will to spite your estranged wife, or something; Yet, and how I know this! it's incredibly dumb of me not to. I will get round to it. Eventually.

---

[Footnote #2 :Last time I promised footnote #1 but never delivered, it's still in gestation. But here is F#2: yes, I have life insurance; don't ask, it's a work thing. I'm not that organised]

Positively oozing, or *A Freudian Moment*

Last night’s dreams were chaotic and involved my cat again.
Now, after two decades and a bit of obsessive moggy-related dreams I have finally figured out that the cat in the dream is in fact *scoop* Me; and that’s considering that I don’t subscribe a 100% to the popular theory that every character in your dreams is actually you.

Under cat disguise, I have done the following things in dreams:
*struggled out of my own arms and tried to run away in crazy traffic, and risked getting flattened (a constant since I was about 7)
*puked up a gigantic heap of yellow, lumpy substance not unlike Covent Garden’s soup Company, the smoked haddock chowder variety.
*Filled up a room with explosive diarrhoea.

At this point I would like to say I’m so sorry about the references to unsavoury bodily functions. But science demands certain sacrifices, you know.

So; why such excretions in my dreams?
It would be easy to jump to conclusions and say that I’m simply full of shit; but not only would it be not very nice, wouldn’t it be pure blasphemy in the face of the well of wisdom that is dream analysis? Yes, it would.
Well I do have a theory, but I don’t feel like going into it for now. End of the Freudian moment. Thank you for listening.

Role models
People of blogdom, I’m as excited as a rabid flea! well, as jaded and unenthusiastic me can be: Margaret Cho is coming to London! As I was striding into my favourite café I spotted an A3 poster advertising her upcoming ‘state of emergency’ tour; it was tucked under the staircase between vegan lesbian flatsharing and crunchy home-made granola adverts, so I wonder what the turnout will be. Of course she is virtually unknown in this country, so just as well I’ll be there in my lamé dress throwing my chones underwear at her. (see footnote #1) In the little blurb I noticed she was cleverly reinvented as a lesbian activist by her PR people. How opportunistic. Still, I’ll be there; come to London, I’ll put you up, I have a futon.

---

I saw Bridget Jones being on the edge of reason today.
I know.
The synopsis goes like this: Bridget repeatedly shoots herself in the foot when around object of affection, (figuratively, it’s not a western), conveniently doesn’t remember that it’s a bad idea to carry fertility statuettes for men met when travelling in Thailand, soon finds that Thai jails are pretty fun places to hang out that and all the girls just dance around singing Madonna songs and share boyfriend stories and satin wonderbras. Then heroin is saved by boring, poker-in-the-arse but big earner lawyer boyfriend, and the film culminates in, what else, a marriage proposal, because that’s all that we should aspire to. Yes, internet, since you ask, I managed to switch off the cynical filter long enough to laugh and actually enjoy the film. With the exception of the marriage proposal. Cinematic marriage proposals and their implications invariably make me cringe, slow poison that they are!
Margaret Cho will work fine as my antidote.

---

Footnote #1 : to be added later. Good night.

Fish and chips
Fishboy suggested starting a support group for those who, despite their 'pinko lefty faux-Gothy underachieving alternative cool façade', fail to worship Radiohead, and actually like Dire Straits. If I manage to get past the old dilemma of whether I would like to be part of a group that would have me as its member, I will apply straight away. I have tried, people of Blogland, I really have; but Radiohead is just like avocado, not in the way that it tastes like wax crayons, but in the way that I would love to like it because it's supposed to improve your life, but just can't. And Brothers is arms makes my eyes well up every time, possibly because it brings back memories of that night at a Dublin funfair in April 1989 when I did all the rides then threw up my fish and chips and Fergal Murphy handed me a tissue and then we kissed. No, not strictly right after. So, Dire Straits. Yeah.

---

Isn't it typical. Just when I am all psyched up and ready to go, high on cravitamins and ginseng and guarana, and my coolest boots have been polished to an eye-catching shine, and all the voices in my head concurr to scream in unison 'go out and be merry and get some drinking and flirting done and be careful with those heels', then of course my drinking and flirting partner is ill in bed with a temperature.
Just as well I have another day of merriment planned for tomorrow with an altogether healthier, and possibly cuter friend. Yay!

---

From a work colleague on Friday : Oh, your earrings certainly are ..different. You're such a punk!
Well, this punk is going to make mulled wine now, and have fish and chips. To honour the memories, you know.

Get cultured with your mom


'I've dusted your library', my mom says on the phone.
'oh no', I think.
'You have some interesting things in there', she adds, tentative.
'I do?'
'Yes, all those erotic novels, and erotica anthologies you have!'
'shitoh yeah, those old things...'
'If they''d been put on the shelves properly and not with their spines facing in, I would have spotted them earlier!'
'precisely oh hum?'
'Quite engrossing really; oh and I also learned some new words!'
'please don't tell me which ones you have? I mean, you have. Has it been cold recently? Any snow yet?'
'The ones I didn't really enjoy were all a bit too violent though, with whipping and things like that.'
'ok. Look mom I've gotta go, dinner is getting cold.'
'Do you have anymore?'
'No. I don't think so. I just have.. the classics. Really. Nice talking to you, mom.'

It's not quite as bad as your mom finding your porn stash under your bed. Mainly because I'm older now.

I don't think she would enjoy Pat Califia.

Hey, I found a new hobby that's got nothing to do with this blog!

This is what I want for Christmas.
And all my friends will get their own cross stitching kit, too. Say 'yay!'

Post break-up revisionism, or it looks like I'm not done yet.

A. How to become a relationship revisionist in easy steps.

B. Definition:
· Among historians, revisionism has traditionally been used in a completely neutral sense to describe the work or ideas of a historian who has revised a previously accepted view of a particular topic.
· More generally, revisionism is used by non-historians as a pejorative term for biased historical work which denies that some past events took place.

C. Instructions and mode of action
1 Block out all good memories. Things that you thought were good then were only a figment of your imagination. Diagnose self-delusion, and a subsequent happy recovery.
You never were in love with a wonderful person, you never planned to buy furniture/steal kitchen utensils/adopt a Chinese orphan together, and the sex was never amazing, or if it was, it was only thanks to you.

2 Revel in bad memories. The time s/he snapped/ignored/hurt you. Forget you ever snapped/ignored/rejected/hurt her/him.

3 Establish that things that sucked then suck more now, with hindsight; bad things can be dragged out and highlighted, turned into anecdotes and fables.

4 At this point, consider finding a derogatory nickname for the ex friend or lover you're trying to get over. Suggestions: Arseface, The Cunt, Crazy Sarah (everyone knows a Sarah.)

5 Said nickname will help safely compartmentalise the terminated relationship and label the ex friend or lover.

D. Results

What's a little self righteousness/self deceit/denial in the face of oblivion/a brand new page? And amusing stories to tell your friends about your ex that was so, so bad.

E. Honesty no section E. Sorry.

F. The final quote : Toute histoire est histoire contemporaine.

Today I spent an hour with a famous actor, but I didn't know that until he'd left; I'm not good at recognizing celebrities. So that explains his charisma, then.
Today's discovery was that you can get a molebeauty spot tattooed on for 50 quid at a salon near you. Tattooed lip liner, on the other hand, will set you back £250. So that's 300 quid to look like a tart, then.
Today's closest thing to joy took the form of a chocolate soufflé.

Next time, Internet, blogpeople, I will explain what life lessons you may reap from television series. Or not.

Patch
People of blogdom, I haven't had a haircut in over three months.
I do have a regular hairdresser; Luisa's Spanish, she talks a lot and offers me red wine, and we chat about Barcelona and her attempts at pregnancy and how much cost the Gaultier watch her husband got her; she's perfectly delightful, and bubbly, and seriously overenthusiastic. When she's done with me my hair is perfectly cut and in place, but because she is so enthusiastic and wants to give me value for money I invariably look like my little brother, aged 12. Too enthusiastic, so too neat, too goddamn short. I console myself with the thought that it'll be fine in two weeks' time after all, this stuff grows so fast, and put a hat on.
So over the past 90 days or so I have been hacking at my growing mop; a little snip here, a little snip there, nothing drastic, with those clever scissors that cut through hair, y'know? Fantastic. I love my girly hair. It's tickling my ears quite becomingly, I think.
But I am only postponing the inevitable, people of blogland. For there will be a time when I must go back. When the random snipping has taken its toll and I look like those brooms you use for reaching cobwebs. And then, what will I tell Luisa to explain the interesting gradations I've created? 'My mom did it'. Oh, how very grown up. I used that one when I was 19 and getting a telling off from the scary woman who tried to set right a colour gone really, really bad. I'm ashamed to this day. 'A friend begged me to be his guinea pig'. 'It was a dare and I lost.' 'Well, it's all you can do in the jungle, you know' might work, but can I pull it with a straight face? The real question is this :how can I get over this need for approval and just tell Luisa the truth, that against all expert advice I took my hair's fate into my own hands and hacked at it with reckless abandon? 'Luisa, I'm weaning myself off the need for approval, yours or anybody else's. Approval, approval, shmaproval. Soon I won't need it anymore. I'm so quitting; I'm on a patch right now, and next thing you know, the patch goes, and yes, goddamnit, I have been cutting my hair myself, without even a mirror, that's right, and even your dog's hair is better cut, and I look like shit, so please fix it. Please?'

---

My lovely friend Zabelie got her birthday present. I think she is pleased: her first comment was - 'have you heard of fountain women? Well, I now know that I am one.'
Yay! I hope I get extra karma points for that.

And this is why we're here now
One morning in the fourteenth century, young Francis P. went to church, as one did, and wham, he caught a glimpse of a complete stranger named Laura. For the rest of his life he harboured a deep, completely unrequited love - she never even knew the poor guy existed - and, in order to channel his troubled feelings, churned out over over 360 love poems dedicated to some bint he'd only seen for 30 seconds between two church pillars. For all he knew she could have been a complete idiot; talk about idealisation. Anyway; not only did she never get to read them, but she also died of the plague, a fairly fashionable death at the time. As a result, his personal literary catharsis became a symbol for the birth of romantic love and other humanistic notions. Before him and his ilk, there was no romantic love to speak of, was there. People happily pillaged and raped their way around. And then, 366 poems about pure and overwhelming love later, courtship and romanticised notions of coupledom became all the rage. I blame Francis P for this unshakable yearning for.. for.. all this mess I'm in.
Better get a start on the poems, then.

Taking the orange obsession to a new level.
Next time, Internet, friends, I will explain how I blame Petrarch for all my troubles.

It's a necessity.
'Among human societies the most advanced orgasmically are purported to be the women of Mangaia, a southern Cook Island in central Polynesia. Mangaian females reach orgasm two or three times during intercourse. Upon entering puberty, Mangaian boys go through a series of initiation rites into adulthood. Part of the initiation includes being instructed in methods of stimulating women to maximum sexual pleasure. Indeed, Mangaian women are expected to attain orgasm during intercourse each time; if not, the Mangaian man who fails to please her loses his status in the island's society. The Mangaians, with no semblance of a Puritan heritage, do not consider female sexual pleasure an indulgence. They consider it a necessity.'

Exactly.

I'm having squidginess withdrawal symptoms. They clearly prompt me to read about stuff like Polynesian societies; I suppose it's sublimation of a kind. On top of the lack of squidginess comes the fact that it's the time of year to prepare your hibernation chamber and snuggle up next to a hairy mate. If you're a bear, or an Alpine marmot, that is; if you're human, well you just carry on ignoring nature's cycles and haul your ass out of bed three hours before dawn and drink mixtures of fat sugar and caffeine to prop your eyelids open instead of snuggling. Not that I have anyone to snuggle with in the first place. So better forget about the Necessity of Orgasm and squidginess and snuggling and everything.

Crap I'm bored today. Or cranky. Or hungry. Or dehydrated. I can't always tell the difference. Perhaps it's the November syndrome. Time feels so flat; work for another four weeks, then go through Christmas like it's a meat grinder.
I do have moments of pure exhilaration, though.
Walking fast at night, messing up the neat heaps of dead leaves, enjoying having a body that can move fast through the crisp air. Faster, faster, through the deserted streets on the way home. I do wish I had some snuggling to look forward to, though.
Internet, friends, mom, I've gotta go. I'm having a craving for uncooked puff pastry. If cravings are supposed to be a way for your body to tell you what it's missing, I wonder what that one is supposed to mean. So, puff pastry ; then I might go out for a walk.There are heaps of leaves that need kicking out there.

Just because I am paranoid doesn't mean that they're not after me.
 

Who do you identify with, the cat or the dog(s)?

Black and white cinema
'Do you think François Truffaut is in heaven?', asks Melissa.
I patiently explain that since I don't believe in any kind of afterlife, I can't answer that question in a way that she would find satisfactory.
'Yes, but, was he not a good man?' she pursues.
I add, rather pompously, that since I don't hold such a manichean view of humanity, I cannot really answer that question either.
'What does manichean mean?' she asks.
I explain that it means I don't think that people are either bad or good, but both at the same time.
'But don't you think, like, you're a good person?' she asks.
'No, I don't think I'm a good person.' Melissa stares at me with something akin to horror. She probably thinks I have low self-esteem. Low self-esteem is a fashionable concept, she will have heard of that. She's 16.
 

---

This person has a friend whose car licence plate reads:

"If you're going to ride my ass...

...you may as well spank me and pull my hair."

She's envious; so am I, and I don't even have a car. I immediately thought of someone perfect for that license plate. she doesn't have a car either, though.

Scrabble scars


Today, Internet, I would like to vent my loathing of Scrabble.
'Real intellectuals play board games', my grandmother said. 'Play Scrabble with your mother and me', she said. 'It's your chance for another mind-numbing afternoon sipping lukewarm tea and wracking your brain for three-letter words that never get used in any real context til you either want to throw up or bang your forehead against the wall, or both', she did not add. Years and years of Sunday afternoons around a game of Scrabble, out of guilt, or duty. Then she died, and my mother and I swore to never let the horror rule our life ever again.
We considered placing the game in her coffin before the burial but for some silly reason of inappropriateness or something it didn't happen.
Fast forward three or four years to The Scrabble Holidays.
It was meant to be ten enchanted days up in the mountains, just the girlfriend and me. No television, no radio, no phone, no computer; just the two of us in a little mountain chalet, an unbeatable view on the Pyrenees complete with sheep, and a large double bed. We would hike, be at one with the wonder that is Nature, and fall into bed at the end of a long day; and just be together. It rained the whole time, the temperature dropped to below 8° (in August) and the fog was so thick we couldn't even see the sheep. Hiking was reduced to driving down to the village to buy food and extra socks. We could have piled up the blankets on the bed and given ourselves over to languorous sexual activities, right? Wrong. For reasons I won't even go into, fooling around naked under blankets with her very willing and able partner wasn't on her agenda, then or ever; so she demanded that we play Scrabble.
I bought a game of Scrabble. We played Scrabble. For ten days. At first I tried to improve on the rules by making it a bit more creative: for every word we had to make up a saying; but after the first two games it gave her a headache to try and think too hard, so we reverted back to the normal way. Ten days, people of blogland. And no sex.
I still have the game. Internet, friends, readers, it's available entirely for free to a good home. I'll even throw in a bottle of Tippex to customize the points on the letters; my version is the French one, different letters earn different numbers of points. It's yours. Really. Please have it.
The only happy Scrabble memory I have is last summer's, when, at her request, I showed A how infinitely mind-numbing the game was; she'd never played it and wanted to be enlightened. She cheated, I let her cheat, I still won, thinking 'finally! we share the same values -she hates it too- how I love this woman'. Can't trust Scrabble.

Comatose Sunday
Soon, to indulge my penchant for writing about very random things, I will tell you, internet, people of blogland, friends, mom, I’ll tell you just why I hate Scrabble. I might also expand on some fascinating dreams I’ve had lately; but now I’m off to eat coq au vin with baby new potatoes followed by caramelised apples in cinammon; to try and cure my hangover.

Too much Chablis
"Where should I go from here?" asked Alice.
"That depends a great deal on where you want to go." said the cat.

"But what if I don't know where that is?!" she asked.
"Then you're properly screwed." said the cat.

A story of forbidden love

Art of hospitality
We’re entertaining tonight. The custard and mince surprise is in the oven- the secret is to not boil the lager, but the guest is running late; I hope it’ll still be ok. We have Chablis, but no mineral water – if I were her I wouldn’t stay for a minute, I say. Fingers crossed, J says. When was the last time he had a guest over for dinner? He cleaned his hovel of a room for the occasion. Time to open the wine, I think.

---

Gonorrhea lectim, then?

The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning about a new virulent strain of sexually transmitted disease. This disease is contracted through dangerous and high risk behavior. The disease is called Gonorrhea Lectim (pronounced "gonna re-elect him").

Many victims have contracted it after having been screwed for the past 4 years, in spite of having taken measures to protect themselves from this especially troublesome disease.

Cognitive sequellae of individuals infected with Gonorrhea Lectim include, but are not limited to:

* Anti-social personality disorder traits:
* delusions of grandeur with a distinct messianic flavor;
* chronic mangling of the English language;
* extreme cognitive dissonance;
• inability to incorporate new information;
* pronounced xenophobia;
* inability to accept responsibility for actions;
* exceptional cowardice masked by acts of misplaced bravado;
* uncontrolled facial smirking;
* ignorance of geography and history;
* tendencies toward creating evangelical theocracies; and
* a strong propensity for categorical, all-or nothing behavior

Shamelessly nicked from this blog

Warty
This little guy was on the pavement this morning. I think it's a toad. Not quite cute enough and too large to be a frog. Well, maybe seven eighth of a toad, with his right arm missing and all. I crouched next to him and asked: 'toad, how are you feeling?'. Either it wasn't a toad after all, or he lacked the energy to croak. The pavement clearly wasn't the best surroundings for seven eighth of a toad, so I scooped him up and installed him in the garden. I hope that if the cats make a meal out of him they don't do it remaining limb by remaining limb. I suppose that if I find the dead remains of a toad later on, I can bury him in the hole left by the hungry foxes when they dug out the daffodil bulbs to eat them.

---

Update on Toad.
I went to check and he was still there, huddled in a corner under a bush; I wasn't sure he was still alive, so I poked him gently in the eye and he jumped, proving thereby that he still was. So I named him Herman. I'm probably getting too attached. It's always the same problem with me.

Hiatus
I haven’t blogged today, and I feel something is missing.
Is that really sad? Should I worry that it’s turning into an addiction? A crutch? I’ll keep the laptop on the spare pillow tonight, in case I wake up and feel the sudden urge to discuss my new colour obsession or what items of tableware I have broken recently. People of blogland, friends, mom, good night.

It all happens so fast
This morning I overslept by 7 minutes, meaning that my carefully planned out system was severely out of synch, so I had to feed the cat while brushing my teeth while dry blowing my hair while putting my boots on, and that wasn’t zen at all. The whole day went accordingly; after the sadistic car driver and puddle incident, there was me trying to multi task, all Goddess Shiva-like in the face of adversity, all the while remaining approachable and responsible and helpful and patient and NICE, GODDAMNIT. (Breathe. Ok. Now take yourself out for coffee and just watch the people walk past, that’ll soothe you.) Right, I said to myself, if within the next 15 minutes you count more than 6 ponchos, you get a chocolate brownie. So I counted : 12 ponchos in varied colours, yay! as well as 8 pairs of stupidly high heels clearly very awkward to walk in, and only 3 of those velour trouser suits with ‘bling bling’ or ‘bitch’ written across the arse. (My advice: when looking to buy a velour trouser suit thing, just.. stop.) The winning combination of greasy bottle blond hooker hair, giant gold loop earrings and sportswear, a fine example of the tribal dress code of chavs, (the new ruling class of Britain) is not so common around my place of work; there are better places to score high on the chav stakes. Still, I was well entertained, and got a chocolate brownie.
Tomorrow, internet, friends, kind and possibly distant readers, mom, I might post pictures of what chavs look like, in case you feel the anthropologist stir within you and enquire. But for now I shall go and stand on my head as a way of relieving today’s tension; or maybe just re-read “The loved ones” by Evelyn Waugh. I finished watching series 2 of Six Feet under, and I miss the atmosphere of the funeral home. Thank you for stopping by.

Soudain un inconnu vous offre des fleurs.
In the commercial, it happened like this: moving shot: a young, beautiful, smiling woman (you) is walking down the street, her golden mane of hair making ripples in the sun. Heads turn. Close up: an equally young and beautiful man, but with short hair, obviously taken by the stranger’s scintillating beauty, charisma and man-killing hips. In a split second, because air time costs, he knows what to do: he rushes into the nearest flower shop, buys a bunch of red roses, and risks his life catching up with the blonde wonder. Who doesn’t freak when he forces a bunch of flowers on her. Cut. Slogan: Impulse: suddenly, a stranger gives you flowers. The end.
Well. Tonight as I was leisurely walking down the street, a smiling stranger offered me a brand-new roll of gift-wrapping paper. Either she liked me, had seen the ad and thought that all the flower shops would be closed at this time, or she really hated her wrapping paper.
It’s rather nice, actually.

Skegness :the most depressing place I have ever visited. 

Who knows why it all suddenly came back to me today; maybe it was the purely apocalyptic feel of the day, the leaden skies, the mud.. here goes the repressed memory:
Many years ago, when I was an unsuspecting Modern Foreign Language assistant in the Northern Regions of this beautiful country, I was sent to Skegness.
I hadn't done anything wrong that I can remember, or at least they couldn't prove anything, so the exile was unrelated to any shenanigans. I was simply rounded up, like a score or so of fellow MFLAs, packed onto a bus and sent to trailer-town as a huge favour to the Local Education people: provide the local kids with a virtual French town, happily recreated in the deserted resort of Skegness-on-sea. In November.
Skegness is bad enough in the summer: hundreds and hundreds of 'luxury' trailers all lined up along the beach, providing holiday accommodation for the economically challenged. Fish and chips and beer and arcade games. And the wind on the Northern sea.
We slept in unheated trailers and lived on fish and chips and milky PG tips tea. We painted signs, wrote out roleplays, prepared creative activities. When the time came for the brats to appear, I had to don a custom officer uniform and board the first coach, and intimidate hyperactive 12-year-olds into presenting their (fake)passports.
It was false, cheap, tacky, and utterly humiliating.
I can safely that none of us enjoyed the experience.
That's all.

Popular wisdom, my white arse.
I know that you weren’t born in 1933, Internet. Neither was I, I hasten to add, just to balance out the times when I do sound like a grumpy old fart.
But we both know this: when Adolph H was triumphantly elected in 1933, it was what the people wanted. Don’t we have footage documenting the delirium? His election was greeted positively in most European countries, and even in the US; and many conservative commentators argued that it just wasn’t democratic to question the people’s choice. We know where the people's choice led us.

Do y’all have bunkers in the US?

---

homophobia, garden variety
About once a year I get political and write to some mayor. Remember? I forgot to add that Monsieur le Maire answered me. So that made me feel all fluffy inside, even though it was probably penned by some perky PA whose job description is ‘answer all the mail that doesn’t contain bits of bog roll or smeared dog shit.’ Because that’s what poor Noel Mamère got: a torrent of hatred, over 4000 epistles of stinking concentrate of homophobia.
Different registers are explored: nostalgic (if Hitler was still around he’s have you and that scum burned up), martial, and scatological, like those literally dipped in shit, just to, oh so subtly, illustrate the fact that’s what the gays really enjoy about being gay. You know.
But the scariest thing about it is that most of those letters are signed; in most people’s mind, being homophobic is still something to be proud of.
Because rugby players are less likely to be called faggots, one of them collected all those letters and made a book. It’s called, duh!, ‘Homophobie France 2004’, by Serge Simon, and it’s published by Editions Le bord de l’eau. I say yay!

---

It’s Saturday, therefore I’m off to socialise and buy something orange.

1000 mg
I’m trying to figure out why, over the past month and a half, I’ve been having this strange, sudden compulsion for the colour orange. This is an ex-goth writing this, internet. My bedroom at home used to be a extravaganza of black drapes, black walls, and fake cobwebs, complete with plastic spiders. Even these days, my closet doors open on a sea of black garments. Fabric-coordinated.
And now, this craving for orange. Orange, for the sake of Pete!
Should I see some deep symbolism in this?
Or should I assume that I’m developing scurvy and that I need a strong dose of vitamin C?

404 and Rioja as the path to oblivion
Google ‘miserable failure’ and look at the top result.
Alternatively, Google ‘weapons of mass destruction’ and click on ‘I’m feeling lucky’.

I know, these have been around for a while; anything to feel a bit better, really.
Besides a whole Cassoulet (that’s posh sausage and beans.) and half a bottle of wine for dinner.

Oh, and read this, too.

The real ordeal
Tonight, internet, I had to stand up and make a speech in front of two hundred people. Strangers and colleagues.
Before I walked onto to the stage, I spared a thought for the brave, brave soul in my (past) life who once had a shot at stand up comedy. At least, I didn’t have to be funny. Except funny to look at, perhaps.
Surprisingly, all went well; I heard my voice lift up, clearer and stronger than I expected. Some faces even lit up as I was delivering my totally non-prepared spiel. I’m being proud, Internet!
Next time though, I have to remember to not eat figs before a speech. You see, internet, dried fruit makes me fart, so I had to clench my bum throughout the whole thing. That was the real ordeal.
I’m in such a poetic mood tonight.

In hell it’s Christmas every day.
Internet, you don’t need me to puke all over Christmas; it’s been done before. It makes teenagers feel cool, and grown ups look more clued up about this shitconsumeristsociety.
So let’s quote Loudon Wainwright III instead, why not:

Suddenly it's Christmas,
The longest holiday.
The season is upon us;
A pox, it won't go away.
It's a season, it's a marathon,
Retail eternity.
It's not over till it's over
And you throw away the tree.

I think I used to like Christmas; but my liking of all things Christmassy went away along with frozen food, the year Oxford Street’s decorations were sponsored by Bird’s eye : a mile-long shimmering tunnel of orange Bird’s eye logos. Christmas has to start early to keep the punters busy; over here, we don’t have Halloween and Thanksgiving to tide us over. Halloween in the uk is but a cheap mess, since Brits don’t like each other enough for it to turn into a big warm gushing feast of neighbourness. (And some psychos put gross stuff on doorbells to put the kids off anyway.) As to Thanksgiving, it does sound like a nice idea now that I’ve understood that no, it’s not just pigging out to celebrate the fact that a bunch of white blokes nicked the land from some brown ones after a merry slaughter. No, it’s not! I know better now, you see, Internet. One day I was on Ignorant Foreigner mode, I questioned the nature of Thanksgiving, that exotic notion. An explosion ensued: did I really want to shred (or was it tear? rip? surely not disembowel? my memory fails me) every possible joy in her life? Did I? DID I?
Hell, no; malevolent and wicked I may be- or I wouldn’t be able to do the job I do; but one should draw the line at asking questions about Thanksgiving. So I grabbed my keys, shut my big foreign trap and retreated.
Internet, I’m not sceptical anymore about it, now that I’ve had the (calm) rationale behind it; in fact I can think of worse things that the prospect of pigging out with the people I love. All three of them. On the other hand, I am seriously not looking forward to Christmas: it’s my family’s favoured time of year for funerals. Wait, we also do April.
So what as my point: oh yeah, I’m a grumpy cunt today. Thank you for listening.

Ne faites pas du dimanche un jour comme les autres *

And now for a completely hippie moment
On the bus again- I put the customary paperback back into my pocket, and allow myself to feel what is there. Feel the present, look at fellow passengers, flex my bum muscles on the used grey seat; for once I won’t retreat into fiction, or into another deeper inner layer of
regrets
what ifs
memories
but breathe in and feel the anticipation of today fill me up and warm me. It’s good.

---

And now for a completely lesbiatric moment
There is something quite spiritual about dolphins, she says, as we flutter about in the sexshop; I’m admittedly there to pick up a present for an unsuspecting friend; as we play with what is on offer, I do wish they would leave the animals out of it. We leave with their last two Fun Factory dolphins, conspicuously packaged into bright pink wrappers that we can later happily display to fellow tube passengers.

---

And now for a completely cynical moment
I wish they would stop it with the let’s write to the undecided Ohio voters campaign bollocks. Can’t they tell that it’s incredibly arrogant and will backfire? That’s all I had to add.

---

And now for a completely grumpy cunt moment
It’s Halloween, people. Annoying children trick-or-bloody-treating, possibly. Time to put the lights out and lay low, after greasing the doorbell button thing with melted lard; since I’ve run out of anthrax.

* don’t make Sunday into a day just like every other day.

Skincare : no more broken eggcups
I just read this in some magazine :

Surveys and panels
Dermexpert, a leading skin-care company, is looking for women 20-35, any skin type, affected by facial acne Must have 5 to 6 white/red spots. Compensation: 160 euros.

A ha! a guinea pig job where people will pop your pimples for you. How lovely.
What I like about this is that you need to have a certain number of zits.
What happens if you only have 4? Or more than 6?
Also, do they have to be white and red, or just one or the other? Are white ones preferable to red ones?
I guess even if you end up completely disfigured, you come back home with the moral satisfaction of having helped modern science.

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Internet, people, friends: I’m pleased to report that the upbeat mood is sticking around. No more tears, no more broken 50p eggcups.
Not that I had eggcups left.

I like compote, or Porque lo valgo
I don’t know what it is, besides the obvious explanation of non-simultaneous chocolate cake and fruitful masturbation, but I’m all upbeat today. As if I were high on something. Life. The realisation that I like myself, and that I'm worth more than the bad taste left behind from a unrealistic relationship.
Maybe it’s the Glorious End of The Infinite Sadness.
Yay!

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This morning’s pre-breakfast reflecting went as such:
a. Why, in moments of anger, am I capable of picking something up and throw it at the wall, but always pick up the fifty pence eggcup from New Cross cheap-ass market? Why always something cheap that doesn’t matter? Isn’t anger meant to overlook thrift and carefulness?
b. Should I, like my lovely and very controlled, ass-kicking martial artist friend S, pick up Kendo? From his description, I understand it goes like this:
1.Put on Dark Vader mask and padding.
2.Pick up big stick.
3.Step forward.
4.Hit opponent on any of the following body parts: head, wrists, chest, and throat.
5.When beating opponent to a pulp, shout out the name of said body parts. Head! (whack) Face! (whack)! Just to make sure opponent knows exactly which bit it is that’s hurting like a bastard.
6.Now, your turn to get whacked into Dark Vader compote.
7.And relax.
Pricier than eggcups, but oh so much more cathartic.

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*cough*
And finally, a big thank you to the lovely people who have put up with me for the past two months and reminding me that I'm worth it. I had forgotten - temporarily.

Snippets
It’s only after we left the house to trot towards the Saatchi Gallery that J leaned over and said : you have hair sticking out of your nose. Do you have any scissors on you? Since I did not, I carefully tucked it back in with my little finger.

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Late last night, a quick succession of events culminated in me acting as referee in an arm-wrestling contest between complete strangers in a dodgy, grimy, sticky Soho dive. Time well spent.

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Sometimes, when the hangovers let me, I read The Guardian, and I laugh, and spill tea over my 300 thread count sheets.(I don't spill as much as when I read The Times, naturally.)
Extracts:
Last week [The Guardian] launched Operation Clark County to help readers have a say in the American election by writing to undecided voters in the crucial state of Ohio. In the first three days, more than 11,000 people requested addresses. Here is some of the reaction to the project that we received from the US:

Have you not noticed that Americans don't give two shits what Europeans think of us? Each email someone gets from some arrogant Brit telling us why to NOT vote for George Bush is going to backfire, you stupid, yellow-toothed pansies ... I don't give a rat's ass if our election is going to have an effect on your worthless little life. I really don't. If you want to have a meaningful election in your crappy little island full of shitty food and yellow teeth, then maybe you should try not to sell your sovereignty out to Brussels and Berlin, dipshit. Oh, yeah - and brush your goddamned teeth, you filthy animals.
Wading River, NY

Real Americans aren't interested in your pansy-ass, tea-sipping opinions. If you want to save the world, begin with your own worthless corner of it.
Texas, USA

My dear, beloved Brits,
I understand the Guardian is sponsoring a service where British citizens write to Americans to advise them on how to vote. Thank heavens! I was adrift in a sea of confusion and you are my beacon of hope!
Feel free to respond to this email with your advice. Please keep in mind that I am something of an anglophile, so this is not confrontational. Please remember, too, that I am merely an American. That means I am not very bright. It means I have no culture or sense of history. It also means that I am barely literate, so please don't use big, fancy words.
Set me straight, folks!
Dayton, Ohio

MAY YOU HAVE TO HAVE A TOOTH CAPPED. I UNDERSTAND IT TAKES AT LEAST 18 MONTHS FOR YOUR GREAT MEDICAL SERVICES TO GET AROUND TO YOU. HAVE A GREAT DAY.
Harlan, Kentucky

More here. Enjoy. I know I did.

I love England, really I do.
Places I would like to visit:
Poppleton, just for the name.
and Farleigh Wallop, wherever that may be.
And Effingham, of course. Wait, I’ve been there already.

Surgery, celibacy, and the infinitely personal nature of experience
Metaphor Of The day, or Picture this:
secondary school, break time, the girls’ toilet is a hive of chatting adolescents applying lipstick. Marie-Laure is examining her complexion in the mirror – huge, white head spot alert! She starts squeezing mindlessly – SPLATTER! Conversations come to an immediate halt. Hey, isn’t that what cubicles are (also) for? Hasty wiping of the mirror, exit in shame.

This is a bit like squeezing a bit fat purulent spot. First it hurts much worse than it looks, for such a middle-of-the-range-looking spot. You just can’t leave it alone, and then you squeeze, and pus keeps coming out, a little blood too perhaps. And you keep going back for one little more squeeze, because it just has to come out, even if the mirror gets splattered in the process.
Then, maybe, when the crap’s out, then you heal.

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I bought a bumper pack of AA batteries yesterday. I’m all set for a long spell of celibacy.
cel·i·ba·cy ( P ) Pronunciation Key (sl-b-s)
n.
1.Abstinence from sexual intercourse, especially by reason of religious vows.
2.The condition of being unmarried. [syn: chastity, sexual abstention]Wait, isn’t celibacy self-imposed? Or perhaps it’s a nice word to use when deep down I’m bitter that I’m not getting any?

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I watched an Alexandr Rogozhkin film last night called The cuckoo. Wartime Lapland, three characters with no common language are thrown together by circumstances.

- [in Finnish] What’s your name, Russian; Ivan? All Russians are called Ivan.
- [ in Russian] Get lost, fascist!
- [in Finnish] Pleased to meet you, Gerlost, I’m Vekio. I’m not a fascist, I’m a Finn. I’m just wearing this uniform, I’m not fighing, the war is over for me.
- [in Lap language] Vekio, Gerlost, I’m Anny. I haven’t seen a man in four years, and now two come at once! so don’t get too close to me, or I get wet and I want to scream.

It’s a tale of prejudice and loneliness and longing and the failure to communicate, exacerbated by the language gap. At the end, all parties walk away with an altogether different version of what happened – as if they didn’t live the same events at all.
When a relationship falls through, how can both parties to walk away with the same version of events? Different memories, different emphasis. Better not compare them too much.

This is not a love song
These are the things that I miss.
I miss her voice; fired up, opinionated, passionate in every way, sometimes unfair and unforgiving, quick to dismiss and scorn, judge and trample. Such a relief from my wanting-to-be-careful considerations, such freedom. In secret, I called her my little bull; I never told her that. Perhaps I thought she’d be offended.
I miss her perspective, her sense of what is funny, absurd, shocking; I was so proud to be the one to see beyond the funny girl, beyond the entertainer. I thought: no one will love you like I do. (In every story, isn’t there a character deluding herself with that belief?)
I miss her brown body, so unlike mine, yet so familiar; and I miss her appetite, for food, for movement, for life, for sex, for me. It matched and legitimised mine; it opened up floodgates in me, new possibilities, new hungers, new, shared, power.
I miss her crazy hair (she always wanted to shave it off), her soft skin, and I miss her belly.
I miss telling her off for pulling out her toenails, for always threatening to get a bald head; I miss trying to convince her that I liked her belly.
I miss pretending to tell her what to do; I miss pretending that she deserved a slap.
I miss her unrealistic expectations, which pricked the mediocre in me.
I miss her dreams of domesticity, which lured the loner in me.

These are some of the things that I miss; and if that makes me inconsistent, I don’t even care.
(On the other hand, I really don’t miss her attraction for yappy lapsang souchong dogs.)

The pillow perspective
It’s a beautiful autumn day.
I found a probably imprudent, tiny insect in my mug of cold tea; I want to believe it was suicidal. I can be so romantic that way.
I have many encounters planned for this week.
It's 4.50 pm and I'm still in bed; it's called brooding.

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A picture emerges:
· She fantasised about me beating people up for her. She fantasised about me going to Law school, become a powerful lawyer and fix injustices . She would have liked me to move over the Atlantic in one short sweeping motion and find my feet and be autonomous and strong. She would have liked me to initiate phone sex and to top her in bed. She commented on how hot other women were. She would have liked me to drive her places, to woo her, to be able of more, to know more. She would have liked me to pretend to boss her around, tell her what to do. She would have liked to look up to her partner.
· How I always felt that I was letting her down! And vowed to myself to try harder!
· It is hard always feeling on trial; it is harrowing always trying to impress, always trying to match someone else’s hopes.
· She liked that I was different, looked different, talked differently, perhaps even thought differently; but then it began to show that my way of being different didn’t fit into what she wanted for herself.
· Why is so difficult to accept the notion that I was loved for who I am not? And why did it take me so long to figure it out?
· It’s not like I don’t know what it is to invest a lover with my own expectations. Projection, anyone?
· Goddamnit, I still can’t shake the belief that it could have worked out. What do I need to quit?
"When someone sees you as you really are and wants to be with you, that's powerful."

Deep sea diving makes me feel claustrophobic
How much truth is there to the cliché that you really have to touch the bottom before coming up again? And how far down is the bottom anyway?

Six Feet Under?·
·The hedonist in me has shut up. One day, perhaps, I slowed down, and finally figured out that our/my only worthwhile pursuit is really intimacy; that on that quest we get sidetracked and lost and confused and lured and deceived, and all we get is sex, and sex and its corollary ego rub seem to fill the void for some time. And now, that has become a given, and I just can’t nod to hot fuck dates. I’m only/obviously flattered. But I’ll stay away, and not unleash the flirting beast inside. Keep the rampant shagster locked up.
· Relationships can be a great distraction. The general sense of rot that I am feeling is, I realise, deeper than the pain of the break up. When did it start? Was it covered up by the elation/hope/torment of this relationship? Where would I be had the relationship not happened?
· There is undoubtedly digging to be done; and I know I have to do it alone. Isn’t a break up, as horribly gut-wrenching as it is, the best time to start digging?
· Yours truly will be single and sleeping alone for a very long time.
· Yours truly will still be missing her for a very long time, and lapsing in my resolution of not daydreaming about her.

Vicarious extravaganza
Over the past few days, I’ve watched the entire first series of Six feet under and identified in one way or the other with almost every single character; I have read a dozen short stories, and identified with almost every single character, and now I’m off to read Gender bender: the champion of truth, justice and unisex underwear. It’s a comic book. I wonder if I’ll identify with…. etc.

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Today’s fact that I shouldn’t even be entertaining: it’s the first time for .. well, what feels like a very long time, that I’m off work and not on a plane to go and be with her. I miss her company, that’s all.
Today’s list that I shouldn’t compile: all the things I wanted to do with her and which will never happen.
Pffffft.

Restraining orders are just another way of saying I love you

How grateful I am to the Sun, for this immensely gratifying tale of stalking:
Karen had been with her childhood sweetheart Martin for ten years when he said he had met someone else. It transformed the shy, quiet Karen into an obsessive, deranged stalker. “I tried to seduce my ex wearing make up and clothes I stole from his new lover. », she said. I wonder if I could make a decent stalker. It’s an occupation that requires a higher standard of organisation and obsession that I believe I’m capable of. One thing I know for sure, though, is that I’d never steal her new lover’s clothes and/or make up to try and seduce my ex. I’m just not willing to compromise on style, thank you very much.

I’d rather have a cup of tea
Internet, I have just turned down what amounted to a hot fuck date tonight. No, but, really. I even ignored the scintillating temptation of having something spicy to write to you about; I just turned it down. Not because I am washing my hair, or haven’t shaved my legs; I’m pretty well maintained in the grooming department, thank you. It would have been easy, it could have been fun. Instead, I’m in for an evening of movies and vicariousness. Do you think I should worry?

Why not take a long walk on a short pier
I have a whole week off coming up soon.
I might just elope to Brighton for a bit.
The first time I spent a dirty weekend in Brighton with a lover, we had a fight. She snapped at me in the middle of the high street, I snapped back, she darted off, and, since that was during that lost era before everyone had a mobile phone, we spent the rest of the afternoon vainly looking for each other. We made our separate ways back to London late at night on the same train, but we only figured that out when we hit Victoria Station.
The second time I spent a dirty weekend in Brighton with a lover, we had a fight, at four in the morning in our bed and breakfast room. So, in a truly obnoxious manner, I got my earplugs out of my bag and pretended to sleep. For the rest of the day and on the train back, we didn’t speak and it was then that I decided that it’d be better to go our separate ways as soon as we’d hit Victoria station.
The third time I spent a dirty weekend in Brighton with a lover, I mainly waited a lot. She’d said she’d be there at 5; at 5 she called to say she was down the pub with some mates and would be there at 7; at 7 she promised she’d be there at 8. I had dinner by myself in a dimly lit restaurant and flirted with the waitress. When the delayed lover turned up, a little after 10, my anticipation button had been flicked off. After that I lowered my expectations.

I can’t help but question my quasi-masochistic attachment to the place.
Who wants to go to Brighton with me?

Post-diluvian
I have just cried till my makeup was a smear on my chin and snotted all over J's shoulder, like he'd been trying to get me to do for some time. Good times, good times.
That's all, really.
Perhaps I'll be back tomorrow.

I’m watching t e l e v i s i o n
Ah, if I were a man.. I’d hope one of my friends would call up the fab five on my ass; Thom and that cute bespectacled food guy could redesign my living room; meanwhile I’d get Kyan and Jai to help me with something in the bedroom, while Carson would drive round the block in the suv.( I’m not really into blondes.) Or, more mercifully, he could be having fun in the closet trying to bring some colour into my life.
Watching Queer eye : yet another activity which is not much fun to do alone.
I miss her and I know I shouldn’t.

International finance, innit
I received an epistle from my bank saying the following things:
Dear Ms Ysengrin,
Thank you for your recent enquiry about working or living abroad. We are pleased to enclose the information you requested. You can also obtain further information by visiting www.bastardsbanklimited.co.uk or by contacting your personal adviser. Yours sincerely, etc.
Ah.
Well.
Explanation number one: someone is trying to get rid of me by hinting that I should take up offshore banking; that might be a polite way to tell me to bugger off and leave the country.
Explanation number two: I have been sleep-walking all those years and no-one bothered to tell me that I was calling up financial services and requesting meaty leaflets on international services.
Explanation number three: this is the hand of fate! Fate is telling me to leave the country! and to not close down that bank account!
Explanation number four: I have no explanation number four which would satisfactorily cater for my romantic side, since I won’t simply chalk it up to a mistake on my lovely financial adviser.
Now that my doubts on my partner’s ability to help me through a transatlantic move have vanished along with the partner, I might well consider a move after all. I am considering it right now. I’m giving myself a deadline of August 2005. There. And it’s got nought to do with Bastardsbank unlimited.

Failure of integrity
1pm: poised, intent and highly visible, I have been waiting for a good ten minutes when the number 578 bus sails (triumphantly, I think) past my incredulous figure. Righteous indignation is rising in my chest, shaking my fist at the driver just isn’t enough. The next stop is on the other side of the traffic lights; my boiling blood propels me down the road, panting, I reach it just when the front doors open; I make my wrath heard. What the fuck? Is that his idea of fun? I feel vindicated.
8.30pm, night has fallen, crowds are pouring in and out of pub; as I stride along St Martin’s lane, a young woman, clearly off her face, stumbles and falls, revealing a vast expanse of bare thighs. Amused/mildly revolted passer-bys watch; I help her, prop her up, make sure she knows where she is going.
This is my romanticized version of the day, for I am lying. I am lying because I was too lazy to run after that renegade bus driver, and possibly too meek, today anyway, to confront him. I am lying because I watched the piss-head fall on her bum just like everyone else did, without even trying to help. Too scared or too selfish, today, so I only thought about it, and kept moving. Just like everyone else.

Red Hot Catholic Love and the House of Hamlet
J had a home visit today from some religious nutter who launched into a near monologue on the light of the Lord. J played his favourite game, answering using only lines from South Park. Cultural references always come in handy.

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So yes, I have been very much in my little bubble lately; but just like the rest of the Western world I have been following the US election warm-up; it matters because when America farts we get to smell it all the way here, don’t we. At this point I would like to propose Shrub as a modern Hamlet figure: George II, a spoiled, insecurity-plagued, wannabe king, whose blind loyalty to the ghost of his father’s regime and whose thrust for revenge against George I’s imagined enemies will, ultimately, bring about the son’s tragic downfall in the November elections. If we’re lucky.
This morning I heard some French journalist claim that in France, Spain, Germany or the UK, Kerry would be elected by more than 80% of votes. It’s really quite touching, this naïve belief that America gives a flying fuck about what European countries think.
Pah. Back to the bubble now.