How to make geese

Spotted a particularly funny bit on McSweeney's today. If you like that sort of (bizarrely pointless and illogical) thing. Oh, I hope you do. Do you?

Greed revisited

I have been alerted that the wishlist link might not be all it's cracked up to be. I have tweaked; hope it works; if not, your options are (a) do an Amazon search for my name, obviously; or (b) snort derisively at the very idea of bowing to my demands and take yourself off to a less grasping blog.

Either is fine, really.

Blogging on borrowed wit

Faustus's latest entry is far too good not to share - anyone in a relationship has probably had this conversation. Well, anyone who demands that their partner view them as completely perfect, defying all logic, will have had this conversation. Unless that partner is very clever indeed.

Be sure to read the comments - I especially enjoyed the "more pie or less pie, which should I choose?" and the "but the praise was flawed" contributions.

Ditch first, shop later

Mercedes ad
Originally uploaded by Scroobious.

One weird message in an ad - well, that's just an ad, and maybe an off day for the copywriter. (And account execs and everyone else who carries the concept through without once saying wtf, but never mind.) But the same weird message in two ads, that starts to look like a trend. And this one is freaking me out.

First, I saw the TV spot - geezer rehearsing his dumping speech in a mirror. Tagline: Chucking them first. It's the latest in the Mars bar "pleasure you can't measure" series, which I used to love, back when it was all "steamy breath"* and suchlike. Things that made me smile and think yes, that's just nice. But this - breaking up a relationship to save your ego? Is that really pleasure? Who exactly is Mars trying to appeal to here? I thought they were trying to reach more women, actually, but here they are featuring a trademark Male Bastard and expecting us to identify with him. Hm.

But this lapse in sense is not confined to the confectionery industry, apparently, because here we have a print ad for Mercedes A-Class (being a compact, I'm guessing they're also targeting at least a few female buyers), and - well, you can't read the text there, but those three little lines are: "The 'It's not you it's me' speech. Prepared in peace with jolt-free Autotronic transmission."

Space to think, okay, I get that the campaign is all about a peaceful place in a stressful life. And yes, breaking up is stressful, but occasionally necessary. But, again: is this generating the emotions they really want their customers to identify with the product? Seriously, is it? Because they must have thought this through. And I'm getting a little worried here. Is dumping getting trendy? Just another fun activity to fit in between, say, shoe shopping and brunch with the girls? Oh, Sex and the City, where have you led us...

Fibrephobes rejoice!

I have created a whole other space for my knitting related wibbling. Which will keep me happy, while sparing you the boredom. Mostly. I can't guarantee I won't have an occasional outbreak of knitting here - should I do something so tremendously exciting I just can't contain myself - but on the whole, this will be a knitting free zone.

There. Satisfied?

Will you look at...

Hey, it's exactly one month till my birthday.

In entirely unrelated news, I have added a wishlist to my sidebar.

How 'bout that.

[exits stage left, whistling casually]

One good thing about stay-for-a-week headaches

It's a great excuse not to go to gym.

Then again, I could just say I had a headache, and stay home without the agony...

ouchouchouch.

False advertising

All that fuss ever since, oh, last week at least, promising there would be veritable truckloads of snow descending on London on Thursday. Did it happen? No. Plentylots of little tiny snowflakes; a fair dolloping of rain, too; but as for blanketing on the ground... no. Definitely not.

But this morning, a kindly soul emailed me to say that out in Beckenham (a suburb of London, south-easterly direction) the snow was 2 inches thick, and still pristine since all the kiddywinks were in school. Well! Clearly an expedition was called for.

So having been reliably informed that snow was to be had to the south-east - naturally we headed south-west, to Richmond*. This, while seeming like a reasonable idea, turned out not to be wise. In fact, Richmond appears to have had even less snow than Bloomsbury. Moreover, having never previously been to Richmond Park, and having completely failed to bring the mapbook, we did not actually find much of the park. How hard can it be? It's a big damn park. There are maps at the station. True... but when we got to the nearest corner of the park, all it contained were sportfields. Okay, so go around, right? Er, right. That led us onto the Thames Path, which seems to skirt all the way around the park, without actually going into it at any point.

Not that it mattered. The river was very pretty. The stroll was nice. More little tiny flakes. Hang on, flakes? Flakes don't bounce! Okay, little tiny hailstones. Hm. Interesting. A romantic stroll through the hail, nowhere near the famous Richmond deer. So when we got tired of that (read: when our faces were numb with cold), of course it was easy to head back to the station. Er... well, it would have been, if we'd followed the intuitive route we took on the way out. But no, we made the mistake of following the helpful road signs. Station that way, you say? Even though we came from back thisaway? Right you are. You know best. You are, after all, a road sign. Oh, and look, here's another road sign, still pointing in this direction. We must be doing something right. Surely!

Well, we did get to see a bit of Richmond in our wanderings. Rather more than we'd intended to. A pretty place, if unnecessarily mischievous in its dealings with foolhardy travellers.

_____
* Hey, it's pretty! There are deer! So I'm told, anyway. And it's about as far out as Beckenham. And, I later heard, there was definitely snow in its close neighbour, Twickenham.

The problem with snow

is that it's so damn COLD. I wouldn't mind this if it were doing a decent job of snowing. But for days now it's just been little tiny flakes whirling around, not making much of the prettiness on the ground, although great prettiness in the air. Still liking the flakes, of course. Liking muchly. But I'm sitting here at my keyboard, in my so-poorly-insulated flat, and my fingers are numb with cold. Not doing much for my typing skills, I can tell you.

Sigh.

Still, though. Last night I was sat with Beloved at the window here; those tiny little flakes falling outside, fabulous cocktails inside, lights on the river, views of St Paul's and the Gherkin and all... and I was very conscious of being in the centre of the world, with all kinds of excitement ahead of me. We'll be in Davos this summer, in Cape Town in December, how glamorous is my life?

Colour me smug.

Money, fans and champagne

Today is a good day.

Shhhhh.

I can't tell you anything more yet. But I'm quite happy.

Also, a deep bow and sincere welcome to the various people who are reading and commenting. I love that you're enjoying my wibbling. And even more, I love that you're actually wibbling back. And in many cases providing valuable information.

The only weirdism being (apart from thinking I know people I don't know, and harassing them to reveal themselves... no resemblance to actual persons, ahem, *cough* what was I saying?) that I get a flood of comments in my email with no relation to what they're actually commenting on. It's nice to know that something I wrote or linked to is "gorgeous" (thanks Greg), but what the hell was it? (Don't bother answering. I trawled through my archives till I found it. Talk about ego, gawd, two comments and I'm a rock star in my own mind.)

Anyhoo. Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome... in Kabaret, en Cabaret, to Cabaret!*

_____
* Oh, please tell me you're earwormed now. Please. That song always does it to me.

Oops

Sorry about that. Got quite snippy there. Which is particularly unfair since I do in fact have a tendency to take issue with various problems, apparent to me, in this lovely country that is letting me live here. So. Sorry.

Other than the last sentence or two, though, I stand by that post entirely. It does worry me a little that I get so defensive. But that probably does not, in itself, entirely negate my entire argument, entirely. Entirely probably.

Happiness depletion

Okay, the snow made me happy, but then this made me sad. And frustrated. And a bit angry.

I know he's got a point, hidden deep under the sweeping generalisations. I know that change is, indeed, slow - too slow for most of the population. I know that he does admit "the plural of anecdote is not data" (and what a lovely phrase that is), and that he was only in Cape Town, and so on, and so on.

But, like, dammit!

The situation he describes does not reflect my experience of SA. Certainly it doesn't reflect Joburg, where in my apartment complex, all the flash cars (and there were quite a few) belonged to the black residents. Where there are plenty of occasions to see white staff (probably students) serving black customers in swish bars, restaurants, shops. There's a whole word for that demographic, in fact - buppies - and I cannot believe that he spent a month, a whole month, in Cape Town without clocking this fact.

But the problem is, while he's blithely ignoring a rather significant facet of the South African reality, and taking a rather smarmy tone implying that locals are happy to continue enjoying themselves by climbing all over the downtrodden majority... he's not entirely wrong. Well, he is wrong about the attitude of most SA whites, I think, and he's wrong (or at least, significantly missing the point) about the reasons for the situation. But yes, it's still true that broadly speaking - very broadly - blacks are poor, often dirt-poor, and whites are more or less comfortable. You may see a black CEO - in fact you will see dozens, hundreds, who's counting? - but you won't ever see a white gardener.

Yet despite that, the problem is mostly that there are not enough jobs to go around. The downtrodden majority stay downtrodden because there are no opportunities for them to exploit. Those who are skilled will get ahead - but even so, skills are not enough. I've heard plenty of smart, qualified black South Africans complain that they can't get hired, because "I don't have the right surname." Yes, nepotism is a problem; yes, affirmative action is a problem for many whites; yes, there is plenty of injustice in the hiring market, operating in both directions. But basically, it's not that the cake is being sliced the wrong way. The cake is just far, far too small.

So I dispute the idea that Britain is better, because the racial element of the class divide is supposedly accidental. No it isn't. It's also, I believe, significantly more entrenched than it is in SA, by now. But that's a whole other argument, which I will run far away from because unlike European visitors to my country, I don't feel entitled to perform an ill informed public dissection of the social ills of this country, my host.

Sniff. At least it's snowing again.

It's been snowing again...

Little tiny flakes dancing in the air this morning, getting into my eyelashes, bouncing merrily on the wind. Evidently they've been more substantial overnight, because some snow has actually settled - not on the streets, of course, but on every grassy space it could find. I walked the long way round to work this morning, the better to enjoy it - walking through Brunswick Square, past Coram's Fields and Red Lion Square, with a huge grin on my face. I just can't help myself. And I'm holding out high hopes for tomorrow - when it just so happens I have a day off...

Little flakes of magic

I keep looking out of the window and seeing the air full of white stuff. This makes me ridiculously happy. That is all.

Yay! Snow!

...about bloody time, too.

I'd been hoping this sudden cold snap would produce some worthwhile results (i.e. snow) and indeedly, so it was. For all of five minutes - but a very, very beautiful five minutes, I promise you. Beloved and I sat with our noses to the window like a pair of five-year-olds, watching big, fluffy flakes whirl around, as if we were in a snowglobe. We have an amazing view for this sort of thing - over the rooftops, but close enough to another building to get clear sight of the snow against a dark backdrop. So we could see very clearly the capricious movements of aircurrents - bunches of flakes dashing this way, then pausing, checking everyone was still together, and readyyy - go! in another direction. Up, down, sideways, back... a magnificent playground of wind and snow. And the clouds were blowing west so fast, pretty soon we were seeing blue sky and golden clouds (reflecting the soon to be setting sun) behind the still falling snow. Magical.

I can't imagine I will ever be sick of snow. The more, the better. So what if it gets slushy and icy and you risk a sprained ankle with every step? It's pure magic. I'll take some of that any day.

Still don't get it, still don't care

But I'd like to know by what leap of logic calling someone a Nazi is a racist insult, requiring an apology to the entire Jewish community, just because it turns out that person is Jewish.

Ok, Ken was bloody rude and should probably have apologised for that. Because we like to think politicians have manners, preferably better manners than tabloid journalists. But I honestly can't see what makes the concentration camp comment racist. It shows bigotry against the Evening Standard, but not against the reporter's religion. Surely?

I guess it's an example of trying too hard - Associated Newspapers is seizing on an opportunity to bash Ken (which it loves to do), and cunningly at the same time to misdirect attention from its own dark past. I almost like that. It's chutzpah (bit like Ken bringing this up just when everyone's expecting him to finally apologise). Kind of backfired, though, didn't it?

Hello, sailor

The navy turns pink. I love it.

postscript

Make that three wins of Spider.

And now I think I'm going to go look into getting me one of these "lives" the kids are all talking about these days...

A window into my wild, orgiastic world

So far this weekend I have:

done two loads of laundry
taken out the recycling
cleaned the bathroom
completed my contractual weekly Work From Home
read all of the Observer (in but a single day!)
knat most of a sleeve
gone to gym, twice, and grocery shopping, twice
soundly thrashed Beloved Consort at both Tabula and rummy
and, for only the second time ever, won a game of four-suit Spider.

And they tell me I don't know how to party.

Crazy like a fox

I'm sorry, I just don't understand this hunting ban. I don't understand hunters. But I don't understand the ban either. As far as I can make out, it's a piece of law designed as a Great Compromise but in fact, rather than please everyone, it's angered everyone. As compromises are wont to do.

Let's think about this. Hunting is now illegal, but:
(a) hunting a simulated scent is not;
(b) "exercising hounds" is not;
(c) flushing out foxes is not;
(d) killing foxes "accidentally" (as I imagine might happen if you've got hunting-trained dogs out chasing a fox scent, simulated or not, and flushing out foxes - or are they really, really clever dogs who know that they're no longer allowed to finish the game?) is not, and
(e) apparently a bunch of other stuff isn't, because yesterday, 91 foxes were killed and only a few of those deaths were "accidental", yet they were all strictly legal.

So I don't understand.

It's not that I feel particularly strongly either way. On the one hand, killing for sport is barbaric; on the other, foxes are apparently a real problem in the countryside, and for all I know hunting really is the most effective and humane form of pest control available. I doubt it; but I really don't know anything about it. Mostly it just seems to be one of those bizarre feudal hangovers that make England so darn special. (Read the comments of angry hunters: "they hate us, they really hate us" and "I blubbed like a baby at the thought we'd never hunt again" and I defy you to think there's any rationality in the hunt lobby. Anyone else reminded of Sheri Tepper's Grass?) But you'd think if they were going to legislate on it, they'd do a better job.

Mind you, considering the legislation of shrooms... nah. I guess making sensible laws is not Britain's strongest point.

There might be a problem here

Going to gym means going down a very nice little London street, full of pretty shops full of beautiful things (that I don't need and can't afford, but nice to look at), and buzzy cafes, and mouthwatering delis.

That's the problem.

Because, naturally, I also pass these lovely shops and cafes and -ahem - delis on the way back from gym. When I'm hungry. And it's lunchtime. And I'm feeling mildly euphoric (from the endorphins) and ready to treat myself. And this one place, see, Kennards Good Foods, it's just amazing. And staffed by very lovely and friendly and beautiful people.

So I went in for some fresh bread for lunch. And came out with £17 worth of: bread, chorizo, pate, quince paste, premium chocolate/nut spread (darlings, Nutella is just *so* high street), and pastries.

I'm fairly certain this is not the best way to support my gymming. Fairly certain. Not completely certain, though. After all... it's so nice. And, you know. Like Sheryl Crow (I think) said: If it makes you happy...

Right?

Plus which, that gorgeous blonde woman in the shop, she finished the chocolate spread with a teaspoon, she said. And she's thin, and did I mention utterly gorgeous? So there.

May I enhance your televisual experience?

A tip for Desperate Housewives: it's more fun if you only watch every second episode. Because they're all much the same, and if you watch every week, well, it's just Teri Hatcher falling over - again - isn't it? However, miss an episode, and you find you haven't missed much, but nor does it all seem quite so repetitive. Freeing you up to enjoy the daftness of it all.

No need to thank me. I am here to serve.

Lifestyle Latin

Shamelessly pilfered from a Liberty Life newsletter - some helpful Latin phrases. Chat-ups and put-downs for the dead emperor in your life.

Caesar si viveret, ad rerum dareris
If Caesar were alive, you'd be chained to an oar

Ita erat quando hic adveni
It was like that when I got here

Venisne hic saepe?
Do you come here often?

Recidite, plebes! Gero rem imperialem
Stand aside, little people! I'm here on official business

Vacca foeda!
Stupid cow!

Recitavi librum atque nunc sustineo musicae
I've read the book; now I'm waiting for the musical

Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis ad necem exponebantur
In the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags

Right, now who's going to give me a crash course in Latin pronunciation?

Would it were so easy

I have in my bathroom a bottle of Shiseido Body Creator*. Who thinks up these product names? I do not want to create more body. I want less of it. I'm pretty sure that's the point; this is not directed at skinny girls wanting to beef up. Wouldn't Body Disapparator be more apt?

But then, logic is probably not regarded as essential. They are, after all, targeting women daft enough to believe that slathering a tingly lotion over their "desired areas"** is going to evaporate adiposity and smooth cellulite. Obviously. Because diet and exercise is like, so last century.

_____
* Vanity Fair subscription gift. I was after the Il Coloniale body cream, but I never get the good stuff [pout].
** Desired by who? Surely our desired areas must be okay? What about the areas that are hideously misshapen and not desired by anyone, aren't those the bits we're worried about? I do wish they'd be clear about these things.

I want special friend-shrinking potion and a backpack

Pippalicious told me last night, over raw fish, that if she were to move back to SA, she'd have only one friend there. Only one. Everyone else has dispersed over the globe. Me, my closest friends are still back home, but in different cities; and frankly I'm not that confident that they will all stay put, anyway. I have a number of good friends here in London. But I don't plan to stay here forever. I hate this. I thought the global village was supposed to bring people together, not send them running in all directions. Why can't I take everyone with me, everywhere I go?

(Is there too much grumbling on this blog? Tough. Is my blog, I'll moan if I want to.)

But the Olympics are, like, cool!

So I've now twice been living in a city bidding for the Olympics*. And what I - still - do not understand is: how do these politicians manage to convince themselves that being an Olympic host is anything other than a financial disaster? There's a very predictable news cycle. Happens every four years (though spread over rather longer). City bids - excitement. City wins bid - celebrations. City prepares madly for games, spending billions on development. Complaints are made. Spending is defended. Doubts are raised as to possibility of getting it all done on time and on budget. All is finished in nick of time (usually rather slapdash by the end) and over budget. Olympics happen. Cheers! Locals whine about bloody tourists and bloody businesses putting prices up. Business cheers about wonderful tourists, but why aren't they spending more? Olympics over, everyone goes home. Someone tots it all up and guess what? It cost much, much more than it was supposed to. And it didn't make nearly enough money. City faces deficit for years to come. Citizens complain.

This happens every bloody time. It's not even news any more; or it shouldn't be. Yet still people claim this is a good idea, money can be made, and the citizens really want it. Okay. Whatever. Somebody evidently wants it. I just can't work out why.


_____
* Not actually true. By the time Cape Town was bidding, I was living in Jozi. Details. Shhh.

To preserve happiness, shut mouth

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that if something good happens, you're not allowed to tell. If you have a hot date, keep mum until he's called for a second. If you're interviewing for a hot job, don't tell anyone until you've got the offer.* Or you'll jinx it. Right? Right.

Why is that? This puzzles me. Not that people believe it - but that it actually works. Why should the universe enforce this weirdly trivial rule? Because it does. It really does. Remember my watch that never works, but is now working? Remember that the watch that was working, but stopped as soon as I gloated about that fact? You'da thunk I'da learned my lesson. Nope. Last night I commented to Beloved Consort on how nice it was that my pretty watch was working, and how wonderfully reliably it was working, and how odd that was. (He singularly failed to appreciate the oddity of the unreliable watch working, just when the semi-reliable watch stopped. Never mind.) So of course this morning it had lost 10 minutes.

Okay, it's just 10 minutes, and since then it seems to be all right. But it has undermined the whole trust issue. I want to be able to trust my timepiece. Is that too much to ask?

[Sulk.]

______
*I seem to remember that's the rule, anyway. Been so long since I looked for a new job. And absolutely aeons since I had a hot new boyfriend. O'course when I did, I completely failed to keep it a secret (not very good at that discretion thing), and he's still around. So I guess it's not the most reliable rule. All this unreliability. Good grief.

The awful truth

"I lift my glass to the Awful Truth, which you can't reveal to the ears of youth..."

Sorry, Mr Cohen, but you can, for here it is. Someone noble and wise has translated this terrifying text, for the protection of us all, and it is my duty to disseminate it. Citizens, read the Little Golden Book of Zogg.

It's hopeless, schatzie

Every girl knows: the gay boys may be cuter, but you simply can't turn 'em. Why would it be any different with penguins?

It's sweet, though, that they were trying to nest with pebbles. I'd go for a pet rock over an actual baby, too, any day. Smart birds.

The Scroobious Heffalump

stripeadelica 2
Originally uploaded by Scroobious.

Nothing like a photo shoot to bring a girl down. Yesterday we attempted to get some appealing shots of me wearing ye Stripy Jezz that would convince Knitty to publish the pattern. Oh oh oh. The pain.

I mean, it's the spring/summer issue, so bad enough trying to find a setting that doesn't look utterly winter-dead; bad enough trying to look warm and cheerful in freezing temperatures (7 degrees I think; ok, that's not actually freezing, but darlings, the wind). Bad enough trying to catch the few fleeting seconds of sunshine as clouds occasionally opened a little. (Sun comes out - I ditch coat and scarf - I try to pose, with hair not being blown into face, and face not scrunched up against the sudden glare, and by the time we've just about gotten somewhere, sun goes away.) Not the most fun you can have on a Sunday, I assure you.

But then the real pain starts: looking at the results. Oh, lordy. I don't really look that huge. Do I? Really?

As an exercise in humility, I should probably post the funniest of the pics. But I can't bear to. So you get the same one Knitty gets - the least worst. Believe me, some of them were just bizarre. Tits pointing in three different directions (and yes, I still only have two tits). And so on.

Well. Tis done.

Deep breath. Count to ten.

Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say the boiler was fixed? Well, no, you see, it's not. It's packed up again. Is the plumber answering his phone? No, of course he isn't. Do I have to go to a party tonight, without benefit of shower? Yes, of course I do. Obviously. Because that's just my damn life, isn't it.

Inhale... exhale.

I do wish little things like this did not piss me off to quite such a ridiculous extent. I don't actually blame the plumber. I foolishly omitted to ask exactly what had gone wrong, so I have no idea what might have triggered the boiler's little relapse. Quite possibly the plumber did the best job humanly possible, but still this unforeseen second act would have been enacted. I don't blame the absent landlady either, obviously, because that would be irrational in the extreme. I just absolutely bloody hate dealing with crap like this, and I do wish it would stay dealt with. A phone call, a painful extraction of cash, problem solved. But no. That would be too easy.

Grrr...

Bring duvet. Bring cocoa.

Amazing. This morning it looked quite nice out there. Sunshine, even. It was quite cheerful. Then suddenly - BOOM - the lights went off and the rain came down. I'm very glad to be inside - but do I really have to go to a party tonight? Yes? Damn. And I'm very very glad to have the heating fixed - but did it really have to cost one hundred and eighty squid? Damn.

We are everywhere, I tell you, everywhere

Had to call a plumber this morning. (Really, really hoping landlady will refund us for this super-expensive experience - but of course it had to happen while she's off on holiday, so we can't be sure.) Got the name off our caretaker's door: Atlantic Plumbing. (Oddly, they claim to have never visited this building before.) I didn't particularly think about the name until I heard the Saffer accent on the phone. Ah, I thought: good Cape Town seuntjie, moved to London and just kept his business name. After all, it keeps him near the top in the Yellow Pages. But you know how long he's been over here? Ten years. Ten whole years. Hasn't lost the accent, hasn't changed the name. Fascinating.

Must stop thinking about the plumber now. My bank manager is crying. (In my head. The little bank manager in my head. How many years has it been since anybody had ever actually seen or spoken to their bank manager? Do you even have one anymore? But still, there he is in my head, weeping behind his little grey desk.)

Mornings. Blech.

Anonymous and I have been sharing our morning issues. Sharing, of course, is a notoriously flexible term, and, well, it's kinda led to stealing. Not too fine a point on it. Here follows Anon's scientifically precise dissection of the problem, and its relationship to diet issues*. With annotations to reflect my own, fascinating experience.

Oh, and sorry for the brightbright blue; Blogger is having colour issues. Never mind.

It goes like this:

* Wake up

* Adjust to fact is morning, and i can't get away from it

* Get in bath (1)

* Adjust to fact that bath is for bathing, not warm, substitute bed for further snoozing (2)

* Get into clothes (3)

* Adjust to fact that i've spent so long snoozing in the bath that i don't have time to make nice breakfast (4)

* Rush to work, hungry and feeling kak and resentful that am not still snoozing. Reach desk. Collapse in heap. (5)

* Adjust to fact that despite all my wondrous early-morning effort, it's NOT time to go for a lie-down yet (6)

* Pick up greasy canteen food to satisfy rumbling stomach (7)

* Ease into the day (8)

Scroobious personalisations:

(1) Unless I have cunningly bathed previous night, and can convince self am still clean and fresh, thus earning a precious extra 20 minutes in bed. Not that I actually take 20 minutes to clean myself. But I can pretend I do.

(2) Well, not in present flat, no, because bath takes v long to fill, and temperature is unreliable. So its showers only (or not at all) in the morning rush. Probably a good thing for punctuality, though, since there was definite bed/bath functionality confusion in previous abode.

(3) Discover that clothes I had planned to wear are in laundry/mysteriously stained since last sight/mysteriously tighter since last wearing. Panic. Try to find something, anything, that is approximately clean, approximately crumple-free and still lets me breathe. Curse wardrobe. Curse thighs.

(4) Plan to pick up relatively healthful pret pot with granola and berries.

(5) Ask to be helped out of clothes. Well, that's what happened this morning, anyway. My coat zipper was stuck and I actually had to climb out of it. No, I'm not the office tart - at least not first thing in the morning**.

(6) Wonder why I haven't figured out yet where the first aid room is, and whether anyone would notice if I snuck off for a quiet nap.

(7) Devour bacon sarmie and Coke I picked up on the way in, from cafe wot is much closer than Pret. (No canteen.) Vow to eschew all saturated fats for, oh, at least an hour.

(8) This involves wabbing, as facilitated by gentle exploration of inbox, news headlines and, of course, my favourite blogs. This is the point at which I get distracted from my morning issues by discovering that: shoppers really are crazy***; people pay far too much attention to the sex lives of those bloody royals; and I may have wardrobe issues, but it could be so much worse****.

___
* Again with the food, and the relationships. Bloody impossible to get away from. Sorry.
** That's another story entirely.
*** Although I like this argument that rioting is the only sane response to Ikea customer disservice.
**** I like Kirsten Dunst, truly I do. I have a special thing for Bring It On, even if all that exposure of her teenage waist did send me straight to three hours of gym. But she's not doing herself any favours, is she?

Relationship issues

While it remains a revolting phrase, I have come to realise that the phrase 'my relationship with food' is surprisingly apposite.

See, what I really want is a long-term commitment to a stable, healthy diet. But I keep falling for passionate, dirty flings. I'm such a slut for a tasty morsel...

Why I still watch Charmed

Yes, the scripts are ever dodgier, the plots ever sillier, and the acting ever flatter. And don't get me started on the outfits, or Rose McGowan's hair. But nowhere else would you find lines like this:
"Hey, I have a business and two small children, and I still find time to vanquish demons, so don't blame me if you can't keep up."
Spoken to the Angel of Death, no less.

A lesser delight from the same episode - "Just because you're a demon doesn't mean you have to be so ew."

See, for me, that makes it great knitalong fodder.

Or something

please forgive [writes archy]
the profundity of these
meditations
whenever i have nothing
particular to say
i find myself always
always plunging into cosmic
philosophy
or something

Thank you, Mr Marquis. Unfortunately, dear readers, while I have nothing particular to say, nor do I have cosmic philosophy. So you get the 'or something'.

To wit, four questions from three train journeys. All, as it happens, between Kings Cross and Sutton, albeit for different reasons.

Firstly: what on earth does one transport in a sturdy case measuring approximately three inches wide, two and a half feet long, and two inches deep? And would one normally be carrying two of them? And am I to read anything into the bearer's lapel badge admonishment to 'Be cool. Stay calm. Admit nothing'?

Secondly (yes, that was just one question, actually, albeit in multipart glory): where does one buy coffee that comes in a cup encouraging the wide world to TAKE SIP DO MASSIVE SMILE? Is it really just coffee?

Thirdly: why has no one told the gent sitting in the row ahead of me reading Harry Potter that only girls have layer cuts? It took me about five minutes after he started talking on his mobile to realise that there was not, coincidentally, a separate conversation going on elsewhere in the carriage by a man with a louder voice than the woman I thought he was. (Um. That wasn't very clear. I thought he was a girl. That's all.)

And fourthly - now I'm not really sure I should be bringing this up in such a public place. Children might be in the audience. But since we're talking about, y'know, trains and stuff - [deep breath] - let's just raise the issue.

That chap three weeks ago. Entered an empty carriage, sat directly opposite me, across the little table. Baggy clothing. Never looked at me. But with all the space available, chose to sit right there, opposite me. Sat there with his personal stereo going, looking out the window. Left hand casually inserted under his sweatshirt, mostly blocked from sight by table. Left hand starting to, er, move rhythmically. Really rhythmically. So. Was he doing what I think he was doing? Or do I just have a filthy mind?

Almost as soon as I noticed (I was reading), he got up and got off at the next stop, anyway. I just wondered.

Hypothetically...

If I were mildly depressed and cranky...
And the only proximate cause I could find for this was the state of my thighs...

Would I be seeking chocolate to improve my mood? Or to justify it?

Why I am not trendy

There's a particular shade of green - somewhere between lime and olive - that should be hideous, but instead is vibrant and enlivening, and it's everywhere right now. But what fascinates me is this: everyone seems to be wearing it in fantastically coordinated outfits. Matching coats, shoes and jewellery, for one very common example. Which somehow strikes me as really impressive.

If I imagine myself seeing, and being tempted to buy, say, a pair of olive-lime-green shoes, f'rinstance, I know I'd be thinking 'Ooh, that's lovely* but what on earth would I wear it with? Absolutely nothing. No way. Moving on.' Ditto coat. Jewellery only slightly less so.

Yet somehow, the fashionable people of London - actually I don't mean the fashionable people, I just mean everybody but me, all the dedicated shoppers out there - and yes, that does seem to be everybody in this town - too many parentheses. Stop. So, them. They somehow manage to buy these outrageously coloured accessories, presumably one by one, until they get to the point where they have a perfectly this-season colour theme going, and can impress the easily impressed (me) with the coherence of their Look. It's amazing. It's so... reckless.

This is possibly further evidence of how I am simply not cut out for frivolity.

_____
*I might think 'that's hideous'. But only if I hadn't seen so much of it already, looking so inexplicably gorgeous. I'd probably still realise it would be hideous on me, though.

That's my baby!

She Who Knows All has decreed that my Beloved is, this month, a lean, mean money machine. Yeah! Is true, since Christmas. Which is some compensation for never seeing him. I get a little of the old money magic too, courtesy of the special mystery that is rising signs, and wouldn't you know? I've just been offered some more freelance work, and promised a cheque for freelancing past by the weekend. Truly, She Who Knows All, knows all.

Right, I'll be reading the rest of my horoscope now then. Don't interrupt. This is important stuff.

The lurgi has landed

Not on me, for a change*. But half the office is off sick. The other half is either recovering, or sickening.

Er. That wasn't meant to sound quite so personal. They're lovely people, really. Um... yes.

So anyhoo it's a busybusy day, and tomorrow looking even more exciting. Things could be a little quiet on the scrivening front.

____
*I'm about three weeks overdue for my monthly snuffles, I reckon. This is pretty good going. I seem to actually be keeping up with at least that one New Year's resolution. Things on the glamour front are looking a little more dodgy, and it has been pointed out to me that I am singularly ill suited to frivolity. So the other resolutions need work. Or possibly retirement. But at least I'm not sick.

Please help

I don't normally pass chain mails around, even in the privacy of my own blog, but, well, this was special. I hope you'll agree.

It's also good to know that maybe, the watch stopping problem outlined below is a simple result of, um, vortex radiation. It must be these blue crystals I found implanted in my wrist...

Headline giggle of the day

Today's Evening Standard poster:
'Kate Moss's boyfriend: shock photos!'

Funny/irritating in two parts. Firstly, before dating Kate, Pete Doherty was an actual Rock Star, and I would think deserves to have his name up there, even if he's not as famous as his girlfriend. (And the more I think about it the more ridiculous and annoying it is that someone who makes actual music, actually creates something, rates lower on the starometer than someone who is merely skinny. Pretty, according to some, but I say just skinny. Look, it's not that I'm a fan, I'm not waving the Libertines flag here. I just think a musician is cooler than a model. That is all.)

Secondly, what Mr Doherty is even more famous for than music, is being a traditionally outrageous rock star junkie. Think Pete Doherty, think raucous bad behaviour and heroin chic. Wasn't Kate famous for that too at one stage, to a lesser degree? Well. So there's not much 'shock' to be had there, then.

Maybe that explains it: 'Pete Doherty shock photos!' would be an obvious non-starter. So basically, this headline is trying to sell papers to people who are celeb-obsessed enough to care about Kate's boyf getting into trouble, but not obsessed enough to actually be up to date on who that boyf really is or what he's really like. But still obsessed enough to buy the paper. Pretty tight market, I would have thought.

Still with the wanting

I dunno, I'm just in a wanty-wanty kinda mood today. Bear with me.

Do want an iPod Shuffle. Cos they're cute, and small, and can hang round my neck at gym, thus avoiding the usual pocket problem. And not as heinously expensive as the big ones. And, you know, cute. And small. (Odd thing: they've removed the witty footnote saying 'Do not chew your iPod.' I wonder why?)

Do want a degree (this week). To be specific, an MA Media Studies from Open University. Because unlike the other courses I've been checking out (in a supercasual, just-browsing-thanks, sort of way), these options actually look fun, and interesting. And because an MA in Media Studies sounds a lot more relevant than it actually is. That is, as a journalist, it looks like a groovy thing to have on my CV; no matter that I could actually do my dissertation on, forinstance, The Anima in Tim Burton. Or similar, or worse. Then again, who knows? I might come over all relevant and decide to discuss media manipulation in Bush's America. Could happen. Almost as much fun as Tim Burton. Maybe. Hey, maybe there's even a short paper on blogging waiting to be writ...

But nevermind both of these wants, because they require money, and money I am not spending yet. Nosirreebob. Also, the latter requires time, and the other thing I want is more knitting time. Is entirely possible to knit while studying - I know, I dunnit - especially if part of course prep consists of watching DVDs. As I'm sure it would, for a course on American cinema 1945-1995. Which, obviously, I would be taking. Obviously. But still, designing takes a bit more time and attention, and cannot be done while studying. Not even while movie watching, really, although I certainly try.

On which subject - designing - may I report that I am a big fat wussy. Yesterday I sat down, again, to prep my stripy pattern for submission. Having decided, properly, to offer it first to Knitty.com. (Thinking that would be, like, easier or something. I do hope Knitty eds do not find this out and smite me.) So I did the schematic, and very smart it looks too. O'course, on checking out Knitty submission guidelines, I find that 3 sizes is 2 too few, so I do some more upsizing. Right. Continuing. Do the sizes. Get Knitty pattern template and proceed to do my pattern in their format. Not too hard, but I need to convert metric to imperial all over, US spelling, etc. I get halfway through, then it's supper time.

Why am I a wussy? Because the above should really not have taken more than an hour. I think I spent almost four on it. What with all the wabbing. Every time I saw a new requirement (something simple like 'yardage of yarn used') I went wibble wibble wibble, don't know, wibble, let me go surf a bit while I calm down. Then I'd go find the yardage and tackle the next thing. Needles used (US size) - wibble wibble wibble, surf surf, etc. See? Wussy.

I'm sorry, again with the knitting, I'll stop now. (Although you should know I've got a truly gorgeous design in my head - a beaded twinset to be made for mother-in-law's upcoming 60th birthday. Oooh! Only it really wants to be made in silk, or at least cashmere, and I can't afford that. Sigh. Mercerised cotton will have to do. It's just not the same, darlings, not the same.)

Two questions

Do 'jury consultants', as in Runaway Jury, actually exist? Are lawyers actually allowed to hire people whose job it is, specifically, to help them get the most manipulable jury possible, and then manipulate them? Does this actually happen?

Three question marks there, but just the one question. Question number two: Are fat people really 'tightfisted and unsympathetic', as evil jury consultant Gene Hackman alleges? And what does that make me? Obviously this is not a scientific, rational question here, more a 'how do you see fat people' question.

And another question, just for fun. If you had a laser megaphone (I have no idea what these are actually called; it's a megaphone that allows you to project your voice with pinpoint accuracy over long distances, so your target will hear you, but their lunch companion won't - yes, these things actually exist) - if you had one, what would you use it for? Personally, I'm all in favour of sitting in a high place, startling faraway victims with 'Should you really be wearing that?' Or, 'Your child is annoying. Make it stop.' This is probably why I will never be allowed (by fate) to have one. Ooh, and you could use it for Karma Calls. 'That pigeon crapped on you because you were thinking of cheating on your boyfriend.' Cool!

Mean? Moi?

To want or not to want

Further to my post below, another reason not to want a glamorous wardrobe is that I would end up looking like one of those fashion clones I keep seeing. It's quite bizarre; in SA I never saw a group of girls/women out together in matching outfits, unless they were in high school. Not often even then. But pretty shortly after moving to London I spotted this weird clone phenomenon. At the time it was almost subtle - you'd see three girls (early 20-something, most often) all wearing hipster jeans, studded belts, cowboy boots and 1980s-style T-shirts. Which looked a bit daft, but then again it was pretty much a uniform by itself - jeans and T-shirt; you could see how it would happen. Still, if I found myself going out with a pack of friends and we were all wearing almost identical clothes, I would think at least one of us would try to vary the look. Panic, almost. But here, not. It happens so often, I can't quite believe it's accidental. But what's the psychology behind actually choosing matching outfits? Surely you don't do that on purpose? Surely?

Well, apparently you do, because the fashions have changed and now I keep seeing groups all wearing jewel-coloured velvet jackets, over flouncy, asymmetric skirts, adorned with 'vintage-style' costume brooches. Always on the left lapel. It's too perfect, like they're in a chorus line. It can't happen by accident. Surely.

Anyway, so that's the problem: I quite like the look of the moment and if I had the cash, and could find stuff in my size, I'd be happily sporting the vintagey velvet look myself. And that would be embarrassing. I like to think I'd give it a special twist, but who knows... probably everyone thinks that.

More to come. But work to do.