Prime fanfic: The Very Secret Diaries of the Fellowship and their friends.
PS. Hat tip to Cate for the link. I knew I was forgetting something in this tiny, brief, wee postlet. Sorry.
Oh all right then, I'll play. (Hat tip to James and the Blue Cat, who's posted some very excellent efforts and you should totally go and look.)
Spring is:
- Skittles and beer
- here
- the loveliest time of the year
- incomplete without a hobby.
Hobby kit:
- cyanide
- strichnine
- peanuts
- pigeons
- squirrels (optional extra).
Pigeons will:
- try and hide
- eat peanuts
- possibly undergo vivisection.
Best avoided:
- the Audubon society…
…who call it
- impiety
- lack of propriety
- quite a variety of unpleasant names.
Still, it is:
- not against any religion
- a good way to spend Sunday afternoon in the park
- sociable.
And bored.
Blogging something wise, or witty, or indeed anything at all, would probably help with the latter. But I am too much the former.
Hence all the random blogs that have been piling up in my head (some of which might almost be interesting - well I can say that can't I, you'll never know) will remain, for the nonce, unexposed to the cruel world out there.
Please stand by.
From a letter to a UK business journal, published on 29 March 1980:
Your article on new technology prompts me to take time off from phoning our purveyor of electric typewriters with yet another complaint about his technological masterpiece.
Last time it was the ribbons that spattered black spots on the paper. This time it insists on producing a question mark instead of a Y, but there may be some logic in that. We have been through chewed-up cartridge tapes too.
Talk by smart salesmen concerning “the new technology that you cannot do without, otherwise you are still in the quill-pen era” is therefore viewed with a jaundiced eye. Any new wonder aid will simply be something else to go wrong, and all the time saved will be dissipated on more irate calls to get specialist attention. When the old Underwood got a paper clip in it, anyone could clear it.
Hands up everyone who's having a stupid day.
Nobody?
Oh.
Maybe I'd be smarter if I weren't dulling my brain with chocolate overload.
Hang on, I'm not - not today anyway.
In that case, maybe I'd be smarter if I were fuelling my brain with chocolate.
Eurgh.
(Put this in your diary, people. It may be the last time you'll ever hear me respond to thoughts of chocolate with "eurgh". Or maybe you'll just have to wait another 16 years or so, until Easter again coincides with birthday.)
I know someone who needs one of these.
Then again, I might share in his early morning suffering to an unfair degree.
The guestmap is now working*. You may all proceed to stick your pins in. And thanks to the bold pioneers who have already done so!
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* It always was. I was just being stoopid (ahem).
I can't think of a way of saying this without a simple confession: I watch America's Next Top Model. Somehow, the skinny bitchfest appeals to me: pretty/bizarre clothes, teen narcissism and idiocy, voyeurism, all that. With the special bonus of seeing what new and subtle way Tyra can find to diss egomanic plastic woman Janice Dickinson each week. Anyhoo, what's missing from season 3 (now showing in the UK) is a likeable possible winner - it's been obvious for ages that it's between Eva, Yaya and (possibly) Amanda, and they're all equally awful*. I missed season 1 entirely, but t'other day I stumbled across a link to the blog of winner Elyse Sewell. Here's the surprise: it's really good. Girl has a brain (witness the start of a long, technical and highly enlightening discussion of why Japanese speakers can't differentiate between l and r sounds, for instance). And a sense of perspective. And a fabulous sense of humour.
And she talks fashion 'n shit.
Wottawin!
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* No, actually, I'll take stroppy little Eva over the "deep and spiritual" Yaya or Amanda any day. (And of course now that I've publicly placed my bet - I say Eva wins - it's going to be Anne, isn't it? Sigh.)
In SA, Heinz is baked beans and Crosse & Blackwell is mayonnaise.
In the UK, it's the other way around.
Since posting "Novels are for girls", I have:
Gone shopping (one lingerie shop, two haberdasheries, one kitchen department)
Had my hair done*
Stocked up on oestrogen**
Packed my darling hubby's lunch box (he eats lunch at midnight; shift work will do that to you)
And washed the dishes. I still have a bunch of laundry and general cleaning to do, but I couldn't neglect my Dear Readers forever.
Obviously, I'm a girl***. Or possibly a gay man, but let's not indulge in ugly stereotypes. No, wait, let's - because that's what this is all about: the claim that women can't get out of the kitchen long enough to write interesting stories.
Quite honestly it's Yvonne Roberts' contribution I have a problem with. Jane Rogers makes some good points, but mostly I stand with AL Kennedy in the "oh give it a rest already" team. And yet, there she is writing about it; and here I am, blogging about it. Clearly we can't ignore the bloody stupid question:
Is Women's Writing Dull?
Might as well start with asking whether there is any general difference between men's and women's writing. Much as I'd like to say no, I have to admit, my shelves have always groaned under the weight of Fay Weldon, Barbara Trapido, Margaret Atwood and so forth; while I enjoy a number of male writers, I tend to get far less obsessive about them and don't seek out the entire oeuvre of, say, Gore Vidal or Iain Banks. I probably should; I honestly couldn't say why I don't; yet there it is. Like versus love. I'm a literary lesbian. (Of course what I'm reading right now is by a man - John Irving - but since it's The 158-pound Marriage, I was probably conned by the title, wouldn't you say? Relationships and body weight. Obviously it's chick lit. Obviously.)
So, to move on. Assume there is a difference. Assume that, as is so often stated, women write about domestic issues. What other kind are there? In fiction as in reality, you're dealing with individual characters, individual lives. It's at home that the big issues bite. Just as even trashy beach reads can have a historic sweep (think Gone With the Wind), even big historic themes tend to get written in terms of domestic minutiae (think, possibly, Ian McEwan's Saturday, though I haven't read it yet).
And let's not forget that there really are a lot of women writing, and they really do write about a wide variety of subjects, and if you haven't noticed, well, where have you been Ms Roberts? Let's see where you'd like women's writing to go: "Into the depths of science fiction, gothic horror, action thrillers". Wow. So it's into the genre ghetto. Sure that's what you want? Well, if you say so...
Okay, SF we can do. How about Ursula le Guin, Andre Norton (yes, she's a girl), Sheri Tepper (well, you haven't heard of her, but you're obviously not a sci-fi reader), even Margaret Atwood? Gothic horror - oh come on now. You're taking the piss. Women practically invented the genre. Mary Shelley, Ann Radcliffe, the Brontes, right through to Daphne du Maurier and Catherine Cookson. Etc. Etc. Action thrillers - well, you've got me there, I can't name one. Then again I can't name any male thriller writers either - not my thing - except Michael Crichton. Not exactly something to emulate, if you ask me.
What else did you want - ah, yes: "female characters who are thoroughly selfish, wicked and unpredictable not because they were sexually abused in childhood or married a bastard but because they are out for what they can get". Really, where have you been? Have you even read Weldon, or Atwood? I'm starting to get quite worried about your qualifications as a literary commentator.
I'm tempted to bang on about what women's novels really are or are not About, but there's no point, and besides, there's plenty of that in the Guardian piece. Let's move on to the only relevant issue: is it boring?
Well, if all you're reading is Aga sagas, maybe they are boring. Most of what's on the bestseller lists is boring. Not exactly representative of all of literature, though, is it? A random selection from the 3 for 2 table at McBooks is not going to rock your world. Making sweeping, snide comments based on such a selection is about as tacky as writing off the entire blogging world based on the first dozen random blogs you find****. A lot of blogs are pretty crappy; there's no quality control, but more importantly, as a stray passerby, you are probably not the target audience. Clicking "next blog" typically brings me to a succession of pages written primarily for the friends of the blogger***** - online conversations, with party photos, jokes and loads of comments. I may not be interested, but I really doubt the blogger cares.
Similarly, while there are plenty of novels by women that I'm not interested in - and plenty by men - I can generally tell that by the cover. It doesn't matter. The fact is, some people are. By definition, then, it's not boring; it's relevant to, and appreciated by, the target audience. Don't be snotty. And please, please don't keep talking about this, or I'll have to start asking rude questions about why men's writing is so aggressive, crude, and uninteresting.
It isn't, of course. But some is. I guess men just need to get out of the smelly depths of science fiction, horror and action thrillers, and back into the kitchen. Which, as we all know, is where the party happens.
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* Just a trim, but "done" sounds better.
** Yes, really.
*** Or maybe a Stepford Wife; I admit, putting it all together, I'm a little shocked.
**** And she segues not very smoothly into a completely different gripe...
***** Not entirely unlike this one.
I'm running out the door now but there will be discussion later of the whole bloody Women's Bloody Writing debate. Consider this a warning, or an invitation to do the prep.
By the way, Valerie Martin's Property really is all that, and you should read it immediately.
It seems terribly tacky to blog a third hand link, but this info on German Men seemed far too useful not to share. (Hat tip to London Leben.)
Particularly enlightening is the explanation of German rudeness (see also the useful German phrases). This may explain the two German lads I knew who travelled through Israel having taught themselves just one phrase in Hebrew, which they told me translated as, "Shut the fuck up and speak English."
What's that? You think I should know this stuff already, being as I'm married to a Kraut? Nonono, y'see, my model is the exotic Swiss-Namibian-Capetonian hybrid. Much more complicated.
Oh, and of course you'll want to check out the rest of the site. I'm in hysterics right now over the useful British phrases:
When you want to say, "Get that shit you call food away from me," pronounce it, "No thanks, I'm not hungry."
For "I'm so hungry, I haven't eaten in weeks," say "Is there an Indian restaurant around?"
We have at least established that contrary to popular belief, Yanks do have a sense of humour. Good to know.
Like manic depression, only not: introducing hypomania. Shall we call it "monopolar disorder"?
Watched Reign of Fire last night. (Because I'm a sucker for punishment.) Why did I find myself yelling in rage and thumping my fist repeatedly on my own thigh? Well, I could forgive the lumpen American chauvinism*, the wooden acting of cutout characters, the direlogue, the complete absence of logic. I expected these things. At least the dragons looked cool**.
No, what I could absolutely not tolerate was the prominently displayed headline (Clever and Original Exposition, here): "Europes' capital cities in flames".
How many Europes, exactly?
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* Why set the story in the UK at all if it's all about Yankee cavalry riding in to save the world? Just curious.
** Designed as "a cross between a snake and a hawk and a bird", according to an FX guy. That would be the rare mammalian landhawk, I guess.
Free online newspaper about Zimbabwe, written by Zim journos in exile. Take a look at the story on Mugabe's efforts to censor internet usage.
Pity the most reliable news on the country has to be reported by people outside the country.
I have of late, and wherefore I know not, had a semi-recurring dream*. The details vary, but the overarching theme is: I'm in school (or possibly university), I have apparently not been going to any of my classes, I have absolutely no concept of what's been going on all year, and exams are approaching. I am, in the dream, relying entirely on my own textbook cramming (that's "cramming of textbooks", not "cramming in a textbook manner", but hey, it might be both) to get me through - not unlike high school physics class, where I and a certain friend completely ignored the teacher every lesson, and were allowed to get away with it as long as we weren't too disruptive because we were doing fine with self-teaching. And because the poor teacher hadn't a clue how to stop us. Oh well. Where was I?
Yes, so I dream that I am hoping to get through on my own steam, but still overwhelmed with guilt and panic over not having managed to get to class. Here's the funny** part: my main reason for cutting classes is that I have not, apparently, ever figured out what my timetable is, or where to find the classroom. This creates major dream stress. But even funnier*** is that this is Based on a True Story: for one semester of third year Garlat****, I missed almost every tut, because the class was being held in a random room in, I think, the African Studies building, and I only found it twice. I did try more often, honestly. But I always seemed to get lost somewhere in Engineering and eventually fled in terror (of the tall, hairy engineers, staring at me).
Somehow, nine years later, this has resurfaced in my dream life, decked out in a whole new architecture. I'm getting remarkably familiar with the layout of this dream school/college. It's nowhere I've ever been in my life, but by now, I know it well.
Incidentally, I've also become very familiar with a particular flat I've never lived in, that keeps cropping up in my dreams. I have dreamt I am living there with, variously: Pip; Beloved; or just myself. I know the layout. I know the building. I know the neighbourhood. But in this case, I'm pretty sure it's a pastiche of places I actually have been, with a lick of paint and a change of use.
Yes, I am bored. Yes, this is boring. I'll stop now.
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* Yeah, I'm blogging my dream life. What? You wanna make something of it? Yeah, I blogged about sandwiches not so long ago. Yeah, I know, it's Not Good Form. Sod off. Is my blog. You don't have to read it.
No, come back, I don't mean it. Stay, please. I'll write about... um... something interesting. In a minute. Probably.
Honestly, I never promised consistency.
** Not really
*** Marginally
**** Greek and Roman Literature and Thought. Seriously. Garlat.
Has "burglarized" been made a word while I wasn't looking? Has it become ok, at least for Americans, to pretend you need to verbify the noun, rather than using the perfectly good verb from which the noun originally sprang? (Or the other way round. I don't much care.) Why do I keep seeing this acyrological* abomination in print? Who said it was allowed? And why weren't they immediately smacked down by the Subs of Wrath?
Postscript: apparently it is acceptable US usage, which tells you all you need to know. Bloody flatulopetic* Yanks.
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* This post did not in fact start as a way to use the worthless words for recent days. But it turned out to be a good way to use them. I couldn't find an elegant way to work in lexicographicology, though.
I used to see a particular couple waiting at the same bus stop I waited at every morning. They were South African. Not remotely unusual to see an SA couple in east London; no news there.
Beloved and I went to Paris one weekend. Guess who we saw in the breakfast room.
What are the chances? Two South African couples relocate to the same part of London and then go to the same Paris hotel, at the exact same time. Is odd.
That's all.
At least this reminds you that there is a limit to how long we have to put up with Dubya. But it's still depressing.
It turns out that while Switzerland has indeed signed the Schengen treaty, it doesn't actually mean anything yet. Possibly because the population has not yet voted on it. Blast democracy.
So in order to take a little weekend trip to Hamburg, I have to:
Phone the German embassy's 090 appointment line, charged at £1 per minute.
Listen to the recording telling me veeerrrrry slloooowllyyy that:
This line is charged at £1 per minute, in order to cover the costs of processing visa applications.
I have to be calling from a touchtone phone. Please can I press 1 after the tone to confirm that I am using a touchtone phone.
I shouldn't call from a public payphone, because it's charged at £1 per minute.
If I am calling from an office phone, I should not continue the call, because the switchboard can interfere with their systems.
Okay. Now. I can proceed to book an appointment, if I'm quite ready. I can't go to the consulate without an appointment. I have to book an appointment using this hotline. After I book the appointment, I must not disconnect the call before I am told to do so, or my appointment will not be confirmed and I will not get my confirmation letter and no one is allowed into the consulate without their appointment confirmation letter.
I can now book my appointment. Do I have all the information I need? I must be ready to give my name and full address, as well as my passport number*.
If I have all this information I can book the appointment.
etc etc.
Of course there is a protracted bit of bumf at the end, which apparently I have to listen to or risk repeating the entire exercise, telling me all sorts of things that I probably already know - having found the information in the same place that I found this telephone number - including an alternative telephone number to call to book an appointment in cases of extreme urgency only. Why anyone would call the other number after they've already been through this one, I can't imagine. A bit late, I would have thought.
The same procedure applies with any other EU embassy. This disservice is operated by a private company, which splits the earnings from the phone calls with the embassies. I can't for the life of me understand why you can't book the appointment online, and pay an extra couple of quid included in the visa fee, to cover the costs of processing. I think I detect the hand of Crowley.
I now have to try to confirm whether Switzerland is at least an EEA member, for the purposes of Schengen**. If it is, I don't have to make a hotel booking, which I will later cancel, or provide proof of funds and proof of employment. Not that any of this is such a big deal. It's just a big pain.
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* I'm convinced that they deliberately bury this little nugget of information halfway through the recording in hopes that a lot of callers will curse, hang up, run away to rummage through drawers until they find their passport, return and call again. Thus earning the telephone service a few extra quid.
** Postscript: apparently it's not. I'm pretty sure it will be treated as if it were, but it's not. So I have to cover my ass by collecting all the bits of paper, although almost certainly, none of them will be needed.
Damien Hirst's Bilotti paintings - Matthew, Mark, Luke and John - are four huge canvases in four huge wooden frames, commissioned for display in a deconsecrated chapel in Rome.
Mark is in blue paint, with brown dirt. John is in green paint, with brown dirt. Luke is in red paint, with brown dirt. And Matthew is in brown paint, with brown dirt.
Clearly, they fall into the category "mixed media", with each painting including - besides paint and dirt - butterflies, pens and paper (a page from the Bible), and a neatly marshalled selection of small items - razorblades, pills, and crucifixes, or similar. Oh, and mirrors, to reflect the religious texts inscribed in Latin on the sides of the canvas.
I think Matthew has the prettiest butterflies, with John coming a close second. Mark has possibly the prettiest pen.
According to the first of the quoted texts, Matthew 6:33, "Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you."
Which is nice.
Apparently if I seek God, I shall find dirt, sharp objects, pharmaceuticals and butterflies. Not necessarily in that order. I think I'd like to have the butterflies added unto me, but I'm not so keen on the razorblades.
Or the crucifixes.
Friday was very sunny and I was very happy.
Yesterday was quite sunny and I was quite happy.
Today is not at all sunny and I am bleh.
And fascinatingly*, while the BBC had originally predicted it would be heavily overcast all weekend, today it is trying to convince me it's sunny (rather than uniformly grey and bleh, as it appears to me). So much for the wisdom of the Beeb.
Right, no more weather blogging, I promise. There must be more important things out there to talk about.
(How's Cape Town today? Anybody?)
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* Not really
It has long* been my contention that successful people are by definition thin. Be it that their innate drive and ambition is the key to gym and diet success, or that thin people radiate an aura of combined self-discipline and sexual attractiveness that in itself helps them up the ladder, I have not yet determined. But I am convinced: thin=power.
This
supports that theory.
All right, Conde Nast is not in fact synonymous with success, but... but...
At any rate, I am now quite sure that I cannot and will not ever work for Vanity Fair. Less pressure there, then.
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* About three months. Don't quibble.
Sometimes it's the small details that make all the difference.
Reading, on a Sky News strapline, that "two men are relieved to be dead after their helicopter crashed off the Mull of Kintyre", raises all kinds of metaphysical questions. Has Sky been teaching its journalists how to contact the recently deceased, for truly hardhitting comment? Is it planning to share this valuable knowledge, or is it a trade secret? Why were they relieved - are they such passionate opponents of the truck driver's gear change that they wanted nothing to do with Macca's favourite Scottish peninsula? Did they just not want to be stuck in cold Scottish water? Is it really fun on the other side? What?
Pretty disappointing, then, to realise that I should have read that "two men are BELIEVED to be dead". The curse of all-caps, and an inadequately adjusted TV monitor.
Or perhaps, when mice think like people. Picture it if you will:
Teen mice seek out boozers, chew through kegs, get pissed and dare eachother to storm the traps.
Baby mice steal doll’s clothes to play dress-up.
Mouse reproductive patterns go haywire as mice discover battle of the sexes. Having 10 babies hanging from teats can really make a mouse bitter.
Mice find that nibbling just a tiny bit of rat poison gives quite a kick. But you gotta know when to stop, man.
Mice abandon sewers, tunnels etc in search for more attractive homes with a nice view, where the crumbs come from brie and olive ciabatta, rather than mouldy refuse.
Their children, however, tend to hang out in the sewers, seeking street cred.
City mice start dreaming of a return to the countryside.
Fieldmice dream of the excitement of the city.
Churchmice resent being synonymous with poverty and form lobby groups to campaign for more positive media representation.
My gym has the peculiar policy of showing, on four silent TV screens, four different channels, few of which can be appreciated without sound. (You can always listen in on your own headphones, but really, who bothers?) Occasionally, the news channels will have subtitles turned on, so you get to read - a minute or so delayed - a mistyped and frequently misheard version of the news.
But far more amusing is the blonde woman who delivers Hollyoaks dialogue in sign language. (This is a special perk of going to gym on weekend mornings.) Half of the signing seems to consist of elaborately overacted facial expressions, which makes a sort of sense, since the deaf viewer is obviously so busy trying to see the signed dialogue, they can't be watching the actors as well. Blondie has to give double value; and she does, believe me, she does. Of course, when there's a quiet moment (cut to someone sleeping...) she turns to watch the action, and has the tough job of looking interested but not distracting the viewer. Seems to chew her lip a lot - I'm sure she shouldn't be doing that. Then leaps back into action like an Italian, talking with hands and very, very mobile face.
Which led me to think of Joey Lucas in the West Wing - who is really a double character: Joey plus interpreter. The interpreter is marvellous. When Joey's angry, he has to yell. When she's flirty, he sounds coy. And he does this all super-fluently, at speed, without allowing the conversation to pause; although very occasionally he does insert himself into the interaction ("No, that was me thanking you,"), which is terribly confusing.
But what I want to know is, are real-life deaf interpreters this skilled? Can they really deliver real-time translations, complete with appropriate tone of voice, and without stopping to go, "Hold on, what was that last bit?" or "Can you spell that?" Or are they more like the news subtitle people, who provide literally minutes of entertainment for me at work?
Atkins is dead, long live the GI diet. Yes, I've read about it for years, yes, it makes excellent sense, yes, it's a great idea if you want to avoid diabetes (well, we all want to avoid diabetes, obviously; I mean more "if you've been fiending on sugar all your life and you're terrified of the logical outcome"). No, I hadn't seen these lovely little mantras here:
"Never use sugar, always a substitute. Eat the fruit rather than drink its juice. Never puree, never mash. Eat raw. Avoid cheese and caffeine. Pasta is a side dish not a meal. Eat every three hours to avoid low blood sugar. Include protein in all meals. A rice cake is diet death. Cover half your plate with vegetables, then a quarter with carbs and a quarter with protein. Cook everything al dente, leaving your stomach to do the extra work."
No fruit juice? No cheese? No pasta meals? You mean I have to learn to cook properly? Dammit!
It's enough to send a girl straight to the chocolate aisle for comfort.
So today I saw the teaser trailer for Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.
Of course, I have seen Episodes I and II. And of course I know that they were mediocre (I) to abysmal (II). And I didn't even like the originals all that much. Kids' movies, y'know.
But there I was, watching the big ol' CGI volcanoes and clone armies and general menace, thinking, "Ooh! Cool! That'll be fun!"
There must be some kind of hypnotism going on.
And Switzerland has signed the Schengen treaty. Only took me five months to figure this out.
Which means that, while I still have to apply for a Schengen visa to go anywhere, I don't have to pay for it; and I should have a slightly easier ride on the paperwork.
It's not quite the freedom of Europe, but I'll take it.
Manolo he say, do not be the Shannon Doherty. Do not wear the Uggs.
If only more people listened to Manolo.
Right, I've been officially a grown-up for more than 10 years now, I must have learnt some stuff. As I approach the end of my 20s, it is fitting that I should share my hard-earned wisdom with the next generation. Not that I actually know anyone of that sort of age. Certainly no one that reads this thing. That I know of. But I might have a sweet young thing hiding among the mystery lurkers*, who knows? It is my duty to write this. For her.
[clears throat] Let me begin.
Things I wish I'd known at 18
1. Plucking your eyebrows really does work. After a decade or so of assiduous tweezering, the brow hairs will indeed be discouraged and will not grow back. It is at about this point that fuller brows will come back in fashion.
Leg hair is a lot more persistent, though.
2. ...
Actually, that's about it. Apparently I haven't learnt much in my 20s at all.
How depressing.
Oh no, I got another one.
2. There actually are jobs out there for people with an English degree. You don't have to be a secretary.
But secretaries might get paid better.
Now I'm definitely depressed.
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* Which reminds me. Which of you is in Helsinki? I don't know anyone in Helsinki. Are you reading this on some cunning Nokia handheld device that only thinks it's in Helsinki? I'm very curious.
In SA, sandwiches by and large come in the following variations:
Brown or white bread;
Toasted or plain; with
Chicken mayo, tuna mayo, egg mayo, or some combination of ham/bacon, fried egg, cheese and tomato.**
In London, the standard sandwich shop will require you to take your pick from their range of:
Brown or white rolls, brown or white baps (like rolls but bigger), ciabatta/panini, foccaccia or olive foccaccia, and possibly, brown or white granary bread; with
Fillings including (but not limited to) shrimp cocktail, tuna mayo, tuna sweetcorn, tuna mix (typically green and red peppers and spring onions), brie, cheddar, goat's cheese, cream cheese, parma ham, salami, bacon, crispy bacon, avo, a selection of salads, sundried tomatoes, and - if you're lucky - chicken with crispy bacon. I have never yet seen plain chicken or egg mayo on the menu.
If you ask for a toasted sandwich, you are likely to get two slices of toast, with filling. You could probably ask them to toast it like a panini, but it hardly seems worthwhile. Just get a panini. It's twice the size and soon you will be, too.
Any of these fillings, plus baked beans and/or coleslaw, are also available on a baked potato. Which will be the size of your head and is called a jacket. "I'd like a tuna jacket, please," is not actually funny, however bizarre it may sound to the new arrival.
In Paris, a sandwich generally comes in:
A baguette, with
Ham, or cheese, or both.
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* It is held, among seasoned bloggers, that posting about sandwiches is the laziest, dullest, most narcissistic and unimaginative type of blogging there is. I maintain that this particular post is an exception, being part of a serious of Important Contributions to Cross-cultural Understanding, or failing that, at least a lightly humorous exercise in Expatriate Reportage. Some might retort, "Yes, but they all say that." To them, I stick my tongue out.
** Of course SA's cities are cosmopolitan places and full of exotic delis that will provide haloumi-and-olive tramezzini (which of course you don't get in London), salmon bagels, etc. I'm just talking about the basic sandwich shop here.
Fellow South Africans, be warned: if a non-saffer starts to say, "I wonder..." do not be tempted to complete the sentence with "...how many times you've had sex." You may find it a little hard to explain yourself, and leave the other party with a lingering suspicion that you're just a pervert, really.
Trying to explain the great Rodrigues myth will not help. I admit, you'll get their attention when you come to, "The story went that he'd shot himself on stage..." But you will lose your audience entirely when you finish, "...but it turned out he's alive and well and living in Detroit. Can't sing for toffee any more, though." And they will now believe that you are not only a pervert, but somewhat bewildered, and of dubious musical tastes.
To non-saffer readers: take our word for it. After the Fact is a great album.
You've been fired - but don't worry. We can make the newspaper bigger now.
Hm, let's think this through. Presumably, they don't mean "bigger" as in "more staff". They mean bigger as in more pages. To be produced with fewer editorial staffers, since they've just axed a bunch. So not only have 14/15 people (there seems to be some inconsistency on the exact number) lost their jobs, but those that stay get to work harder. Probably without extra pay*. Gosh, everybody loses. And yet management believe this masterpiece of communication will improve morale?
And let's not even bother to ask whether the top brass will be getting their bonuses this year. (Probably they'll get extra, for achieving substantial cost savings.) Or whether shareholders can expect a dividend.
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* Or are the firees' salaries to be redistributed among their former colleagues? Interesting prospect, but on the whole, unlikely.
Well, it seems there is a South African blogring, but it's very narrow in focus - the topic must be Africa. Purportedly. Not really what I had in mind. So the question remains open. But go check it out, anyway, if you're interested. I have already found out that if it's your birthday, you can wave your ID book to get a free trip up the Table Mountain cable car, and a free treat from Marcel's frozen yoghurt. (Like I don't miss them enough without being taunted like this!) Don't say I never tell you anything useful, kids.
So in three weeks I'll be 29 (for the first time).
Huh.
I used to think I was a growing-old-gracefully kinda girl. I thought wrinkles and grey hair were no big deal. Well, I still think that - but There Are Limits. I mean, I never thought I'd look like this before I even hit 30.
I blame the stress of the past two years. It is, I am sure, no coincidence that I started sprouting white hairs at breakneck pace during a particularly difficult period last year. Sadly, while the crazed, crinkled thicket atop my head may be ascribed to Life Experience, the bizarre lines around my eyes can only come from my bizarre facial expressions. Apparently I wrinkle my nose a lot more than I ever realised; the inner corners of my eyes look like... have you ever taken a silver cigarette paper, creased it, then rolled that crease backwards and forwards, then unfolded it? No? You haven't lived. Anyway, that's what my skin looks like. Except not silver. Why can't I just have crow's feet like a normal old woman?
And then there's the Scary Body Issues. I am burdened with the kind of shape that does not age well. I reckon if you have a neat, compact, small-breasted body - think Nicole Kidman - then gym and moisturiser will do the job. But us more (ahem) Rubenesque ladies have all kinds of saggage to concern ourselves with. It's all very well having curves when you're 18, with tits and ass where goddess intended them to be. Ten years on, it's an entirely more depressing state of affairs.
Much to the amusement of my inner cynic, I have developed a wholly irrational fondness for body care products. It's not that I actually expect them to do anything. It's just that they're somehow comforting. And they come in pretty glass jars. And they smell so nice. And they have all kinds of exotic ingredients. This addiction crept up on me - back in the day, face wash and moisturiser was the sum total of my beauty regime. Simple. Now, I have a range of different lotions and potions for my feet (with marshmallow!), body (sea kelp), hands and face - actually, I have two different bottles each for hands and face. Day and night, dontcha know. I also have day and night treatments for my eyes (the night cream contains grape and ginseng)*. Besides face wash (with rice and honey), I have face scrub (what is quillaja? anybody?) and clay mask (rosemary). And cleanser and toner (more clay). And then there's the hair products - besides the basic, everybody-has-em shampoo and conditioner, there's intensive conditioner, leave-in conditioner, frizz-controlling hair serum and curl definer. And let's not forget the previously mentioned Body Creator Aromatic Gel.
I need a whole new bathroom to contain this obsession.
Or I could just get over myself.
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* They don't actually even make separate day and night eye creams. But the ginseng-containing wrinkle-refining eye cream makes my eyes water, so I can only use that at night, or start every day looking like I'm crying. In the morning, I use an eye gel to reduce puffiness (this particular obsession started with the need to look less like a fish-faced alien after I had, in fact, been crying), and leave my wrinkles to their fate.
Two separate recent thoughts I've been having collided forcibly in my head this afternoon. (I took a disprin. I'm okay now, thanks.)
1) Other than my immediate friends, I don't stumble upon a whole lot of South Africans in the blogosphere. I'd quite like too, though. We're (sometimes) an interesting bunch.
2) Blog rings are kinda nifty.
See where I'm going with this? You thinking what I'm thinking?
Let's have a show of hands. Anyone who would be interesting in joining CyberSaffers, say Aye. Also please comment on whether you think we can, between us, rumble up a decent number to get this thing going. Also please comment if you think it's the tackiest idea you ever heard of. (But nicely.)
Obviously if there is already such a ring, colour me stupid and pass me the link, not necessarily in that order.
For a professional language expert, getting anything less than 100% on this is just not good enough.
Full results:
93% Beginner
93% Intermediate
100% Advanced
72% Expert
I protest.
Although I see she claims that 100% of users in my age group had lower scores in every section. Hm. I'm starting to feel a little better.
There is a linguistic plague I have been increasingly aware of: the phrase “which is nice”. Nothing wrong with this in itself – a bit bland and contentless, admittedly, but hey. So is lots of colloquial English, including mine, with overuse of phrases like “but hey”. And “we’ll see”. And – oh just scroll down the page, pick out your favourites, don’t you dare flag them up to me.
It’s just that it gets used so damn often, as a kind of punctuation, reducing any positive emotion to a semi-comatose nod. “I got a new phone. Which is nice.” “He proposed. Which is nice.” “I’ve won the lotto. Which is nice.” “After a 20-year search, I finally contacted my long-lost mother. Which is nice.”
I have to admit though – I don’t hate it as much as I want to. Mostly because every time I think about it, I’m reminded of the first time I noticed the problem. It was the infectious little verbal hiccup of the perfectly lovely chap who was showing me round the local Posh Gym*. Tall, very cute, and liberally blessed with that adorable bumbling quality that gets kids out of all kinds of trouble, gets puppies taken home and fed, and gets men… well, both of the above. Lots of things in this gym were, apparently, very nice.
Showing me a piece of equipment: “Look! It counts your reps! Which is nice, cos my memory’s terrible.”
In the juice bar: “We have lots of social events. Which is nice, cos it’s social.”
Explaining that no, they didn’t provide shampoo and conditioner: “But I just use the soap on my head, and bring my own conditioner, which makes my hair lovely and shiny. Which is nice!” (Oh, and you just had to see the delighted smile on his face as he contemplated his lovely, shiny hair.)
It’s Like That Episode of Friends… when Ross tries to help Chandler quit his gym, and ends up joining himself? I reckon this guy was the equivalent of the aerobics queen that the gym hires to stun testosterone-fuelled members into staying. Women, apparently, must be presented with someone gorgeous and dumb, to melt our motherly hearts. It kinda worked; by the time he’d finished his spiel, I just wanted to draw him to my matronly bosom and stroke that lovely, shiny hair, to keep his two lonely brain cells warm.
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* Needles to say, I didn’t sign up there. I went for the cheaper option down the road. Exploring the range of local facilities was fun though – especially the gym across from our new offices, which promised to Make Workouts Fun! “Oh, it’s great here. We give you free boxing gloves when you join. Have you seen the class timetable? Erotic dance! Eh? The Shag Workout! Eh? Eh?” Despite the undoubted appeal of the mirror ball in the spin room, though, I decided that I couldn’t handle Boob Aerobics with my colleagues. Sorry.
Clive has just unearthed a traumatic memory. Brace yourselves, it involves bestiality, sadism, rape, and gay bestial rape.
My uncle once kept a pair of ducks. As ducklings, they were cute. As ducks, they were... scary. The one (ahem) liked the other one; the other one liked toes. A Lot. Woe betide the barefoot passerby - toes would be viciously attacked. By which I mean, bit. Really very damn painfully, and utterly relentlessly.
It was my misfortune, at the time, to be living in the granny flat - a very nice little en-suite pad, but access to and from the main house came via the kitchen door, and (this is the misfortune bit) about two metres of Danger Zone. The kitchen door was on one of those springs to prevent it slamming shut, as a result of which it was well nigh impossible to close it with any kind of speed. And the ducks were equipped with razorsharp hearing* and the instant - the very instant - they heard either of these doors open, they would hurtle in sex-starved abandon round the corner of the house, seeking their prey. Well, Duck #2 was seeking his prey; Duck #1 was just following his own true love, Duck #2. Toes would then be mercilessly attacked.
Now, it took me some time to cotton on that this was a Sex Thing. I just thought he maybe was convinced that toes were like really fat, juicy, extra-salty worms. Till one day I decided, in my frustration, to just stand there and let the bugger prove to himself that they weren't.
It kinda worked. He stopped eventually. My toes were a bit sticky, though. And it was more evident than ever that Duck #1 was the one who most deserved the epithet "bugger".
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* This sounds like a nastily mixed metaphor, but just go with it.
Glitter for Brains did a lovely explanation of London's zones on Monday. I've only just found it.
I have to say, it's all sounding rather close to home these days. What with Esteemed Father living in Sutton (practically Croydon), and us considering departing Zone 1 (the only one that counts, darling) to accommodate Beloved's ungodly hours and distant workplace. Shudder.
Oh, that reminds me, the good news is ripe now and can be unpeeled (peeled? unpeeled? same thing. Confusing) - Beloved has Proper Job. At the selfsame Evil Broadcasting Empire where he's been freelancing, so it's no big change, but still. Good News (TM).
Next time you feel the need to get lunch from the Japanese Canteen, do not ask for noodles instead of rice. Reasons be there three.
Reason the first: they cost an extra 50p, which is a Cheek.
Reason the second: they are the weirdest, wormiest noodles man hath ever made, and will scare you. And not taste good.
Reason the third: being mutant noodles, they will be even less chopstick-friendly than you expect, and will result in offensive slurping, splashing and staining of clothes. Also, your keyboard will be sticky thereafter*.
I do hope I remember this.
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* Unless you don't eat at your desk. But you need the monitor to hide behind, given the severe unsightliness of noodle consumption. Eating in breakout area would be Most Unwise.
I have just discovered two things.
One, the Hallmark channel has finally justified its existence, by introducing Gilmore Girls to the line-up.
Two, it is showing this - one of my all-time favourite shows* of which I have seen not nearly enough - at 5pm on Tuesday evenings. Meaning I'll get home just in time to watch the closing credits every week.
Can I cry now?
Distant glimmer of hope: there is a strong possibility of Sky+ in our future - but only three months down the line. (Oh, you'd like to know why, would you? Huh. Keep guessing.)
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* Look, you already know about my embarrassing taste in TV, just smirk to yourselves and leave it at that, okay?
I'm a little slow with these things. It's not exactly new. But if you haven't already, take a look here.
And no, I don't care if you're not a Sarah McLachlan fan, that's really not the point - watch the damn thing.
...about Wes Anderson. First the Royal Tenenbaums, and now the Life Aquatic - both movies I wanted very much to love, and I almost did... but not quite.
There's so much to like. Great casts - Bill Murray, Anjelica Huston, Jeff Goldblum and Cate Blanchett: together at last! Deadpan dialogue - "Be nice to Alastair, he's my nemesis." Cartoonish characters, cheesy design, beautifully framed shots. Marvellous details (like the renamed submarine, to match the scratched out tattoo). But, as Beloved put it, where's the content? I feel like I'm missing the point even asking, but it doesn't add up. It's a beautiful, empty container for a movie. Maybe I need to shake the box some more.
Okay, I know you lot don't care about the knitting stuff, but I'm-a gonna be a published designer. You have to admit that's pretty cool. Yeeha!
The stripy jezz, she is liked.
