One last thing

The pub quiz trophy is back where it belongs: in our grubby little paws.

It's all about winning, kids, don't let anybody tell you different.

And now I really will sign off.

I apologise for my misguided attempt at topicality

That last effort was both boring and pointless. And didn't even make much sense. Never mind. I'm holiday-bound - well, long weekend, at any rate - and will, one hopes, return from Hamburg full of the joys of spring and brimming with bloggy goodness.

Toodle-oo.

There's some fun stuff linked in my sidebar, if you're bored. Or you could just talk among yourselves, you know. Make sure my comments system doesn't feel lonely.

Whatever.

Sorry Basil

As has been amusingly pointed out, Iraq has been the elephant in the polling booth. As it were.

Finally, with one week to go before the election, someone let the
elephant out of the bag. As it were.

Not that I'm entirely clear how I feel about this. Firstly, whatever the legal grounds or lack thereof, invading was wrong - well, I'm just a soggy pacifist anyway, but bringing the country into a war when there was such strong feeling against it? Not very democratic.

But while the whole war issue is something that I, and many others, care passionately about; while Blair has obviously been less than honest and less than democratic, and voters should be aware of that; while this issue should, ethically speaking, influence voters, and while it's unlikely it will... what would be the consequences if it did?

It's like being back in SA: a choice of evils. Labour? Conservative? Lib Dem? ANC? Democratic Party? Unspeakable Nats? Which is least disgusting? I suppose this is a universal dilemma (and at least I don't have to partake of the horrors of US presidential elections). But wouldn't it be lovely to vote for something you actually believe in.

Now where did I leave that Rainbow Dream Ticket Preferendum...

Mothers. Who needs 'em.

A casual conversation with a colleague – wait. Too many Cs. Start again.

Idle chatter with a workmate triggered a painful flashback this afternoon. All thanks to the pair of heel shields* she bought at lunchtime. You see, my mother almost disowned me over a pair of those. No, really. It was my wedding day, too.

Honestly. I couldn’t make this up.

It started with a phone call, to alert Mother that we would be picking her up in about an hour, and that she should be dressed and ready. (Always worth emphasising, with my mother. Punctuality is not a virtue native to those born under the sign of Aquarius.) Now, I know Mother well, I know her tendency to get into a flap; I should have expected something. Especially as, since the wedding had been announced four weeks previously, there hadn’t been a peep of trouble.

The warning signs were clear as soon as she spoke: slight agitation, anxious explanations of how she had meant to wear this, but then she realised it didn’t look good with that, and now she had to wear these shoes, but it turned out that with tights on they were a bit slippy, and could we please stop off at the shops to find some of those sticky things to keep them on?

Er. Well, I pointed out. Well, we were on a Schedule, and we would be keeping the guests Waiting for the pre-wedding champagne cruise**, so I didn’t really think so, but I would call the bridesmaid and ask her to please pick some up and we’d get them before the actual ceremony. Um, she said. Well, okay…

That, you would think, would be that. You would be wrong.

Five minutes later, as we were heading out the door, the phone rang. Mother had put those five minutes to good use in working herself up into a Right Lather and launched into a speech as soon as I picked up. She had had Enough of This Treatment, she informed me. When she turned 50, she had Promised Herself that she Wouldn’t Take It Any More. If I didn’t think she was a good person, worthy of my attention, she didn’t have to burden me, and she was quite happy to remove herself from my life. She would not be coming to the wedding; I was to get Substitute Mother*** to light the candle, I didn’t have to have anything to do with her ever again. Goodbye****.

Imagine My Surprise. Naturally, my first response (after the floods of tears) was to say right, I have to go over there and do some repair work. Beloved, however, rightly pointed out that I had to do no such thing: I had to have a cup of tea, calm down, do my nails, and enjoy my day. I endeavoured to do this.

Few hours later, just as the booze cruise ended, Mother called. Hello, said she. Hello, said I. Pause. I just wanted to check you were okay, said she. Yes, fine, said I, everything’s under control*****. Okay then, said she. Pause.

Would you like me to get your brother to pick you up, said I. Oh yes! said she. Of course I want to come – if you want me.

[Dramatic sigh.]

She came. Last-minute communication failures meant that Substitute Mother still did the candle bit, forcing her to confront her phobia and giving Mother further (self-generated) cause for bitter resentment. Absolutely prize-winning bit of manipulation, that. After the ceremony, she told me that she was really glad we’d had this out, as it was really important, and it was just as well that I saw the error of my ways. She did love me, although I was so terribly selfish and awful to her. (At no point did she actually explain anything. Still, as long as it got sorted out in her head.) I also spent much of the wedding dinner reassuring Mother that she looked lovely, really, which I’m pretty sure is not the right way round. For one’s wedding day. And all.

Not that I’m still bitter.

My advice to any would-be brides? Elope. It’s so the best way.
_____
* You know, sticky things to protect your feet from new shoes and/or prevent them (shoes, not feet) slipping off. Because Elastoplast just isn’t good enough for some people.
** It was a very low-key wedding, really, but Beloved’s cousin happened to have invited us to start the festivities on his yacht. It was lovely.
*** Long-time family friend, medium-time Mother’s Enemy, long long story.
**** Took me ages to figure out what had upset her, but I’ll spare you the expense. She was peeved that I wasn’t able, at a moment’s notice, to take half an hour to help her dress. On my wedding day. Did I mention that? Weddings. Schedules.
***** Slight overstatement there, as I hadn’t actually managed to get hold of Substitute Mother and was taking it on faith that she would do the candle bit. Turns out she had a crippling lifelong fear of open flame. I thought it was just wedding nerves causing her to break five matches like that. Well.

Dirrrty in a clean way

I passed in the street a man in a yellow gimp suit, with fetching black trim*. Obviously he was promoting the local gym. It didn't even occur to me to ask why the gimp suit**. But I did have to ask why he was carrying a pink feather duster.

It's to show he's nice, he explained. You can't just have a yellow gimp on the high street. That might distress people. A gimp with a feather duster, though, he's clearly safe; you want your gimp to be good with windows, right?

It's very English, somehow.
_____
* Irrelevant flashback to my first permanent job. Yellow and black were the company colours. The walls were painted bright yellow, the doors were black. I had a lot of headaches there. But the Evil Bosses may have been to blame as much as the decor.
** This is the gym that offers the Shag Workout and Boob Aerobics, after all.

Over the Rainbow, out of their minds

Among my mail today was a sheet of folded newsprint - the size of a tabloid centrefold - entirely covered in fairly small black type, laid out apparently at random, with lots of boxes, some of which contain tables with smaller boxes. It's almost impossible to tell which page is Page One, or for that matter, where on the page one is expected to start reading. But I am a conscientious voter, and this looks like something to do with the election, so I persevere. After some careful navigation, I find that it seems to start with the following (all punctuation exactly sic):

Rainbow George's address
05/05/05
City Zen

Thanks to the futuristic, mystically directed Rainbow Connection Movement, and the Vote for Yourself Rainbow Dream Ticket that represents it in this election, the people of Cardiff and Belfast as well as many in London but sadly not in Edinburgh, will have the wonderful opportunity to come together to transform their cities into model 21st century leisure oriented ones.

Wonder cities, free of party politics, governed by their own citizens with at least three of them competing to stage the 2016 Olympic games.

Meanwhile you can help make the greatest connection ever by joining us for a five minute wonder on 05.05.05 at www.050505.tv. What is now required to make my dream a reality is for many of those amongst us who are generally sensible enough to vote for nobody at all, to register their revolutionary ticks next to their dream ticket candidates' names and a door will have been opened that nobody on earth can shut, so on 05.05.05 make a W.I.S.E.* choice.

I see this heartfelt plea (all of it) repeated in different layouts in various corners of the two-sided sheet. Clearly Rainbow George, whoever he is, really means it. Encouraged by this display of sincerity, I continue to search for answers.

I find two columns headed "What is a preferendum and how does it work?" While this devotes a number of paragraphs to emphasising that you should only tick a box if you support it, it completely fails to explain who is conducting the "preferendum", why, and what it hopes to accomplish**. It does admit that "You do not have to do anything with this P-Form: throw it away thoughtfully if you are not interested." Thoughtfully, hm? I'll be sure to scratch my chin and look serious while folding the paper aeroplane I'm already seeing fly out the window.

But I cannot just give up. I must give this important document the attention it deserves. I turn my eyes to the aforementioned tables, with numbered boxes saying things like, "Extend train operating franchises" and "Time limits on Second Chamber legislative process". It's possible, by close reading, to find the headings under which each party's policies are grouped. I gather this is how one is asked to express one's preferences.

One small table forms the Vote For Yourself Dream Ticket. Viz:
Make party politics and politicians redundant: government by preferendum.
The daddy state: D.A.D. (Directly Accessible Democracy): everyone able to participate.
Model 21st Century Cities. Environmentally excellent - Leisure oriented.
Competitions to attract the ideas and designs that appeal to people.
Rainbow Jubilee when all debts will become null and void.
(This is getting interesting.)
Replace money with an electronic currency called "The Wonder".
Free water, public transport, health and education, with blessings.
Phase in UNITAX - a single charge replacing all existing taxes - abolish duty on whiskey.
Cut the working week, restore the lost Sabbaths.
The Emerald Rainbow Islands Republic uniting the British and Irish peoples.

Now I'm excited. All existing taxes to be abolished - especially on whiskey! I wonder if they'll extend their generosity to gin, and Pimm's. Anything else would be discriminatory, surely. And to get free medical care, with blessings? Well that's just lovely. I have a very sweet GP as it is, but it would be marvellous to hear her bless me after every appointment. And bus conductors could definitely do with a few blessings, some of them get quite grumpy. Not to speak of state school teachers. I'm a little confused by the image of an all-green rainbow, but still, I have to know: what is this wondrous Dream Ticket all about?

I see two more small boxes - one on each side of the sheet - reading, respectively:
"I am eligible to vote in this constituency and, as first voter, would like you to count my policy preferences (tick to agree)"
and
"I am eligible to vote in this constituency and, as 2nd voter, would like you to count my policy preferences (tick to agree)"

This isn't terribly helpful. I'd like to know what exactly is meant by "first" and "second" voter, and what exactly they plan to do about my preferences. But possibly this is some weird English thing I'd understand if I were born here, and had the benefit of their admirable education system. In any case, now I've opened the sheet, I find more opportunities for enlightenment.

There is a column on the inside fold headed "A REMARKABLE OPPORTUNITY", with the first paragraph beginning "-if not an historic one." It seems to be a continuation of text somewhere else, that I can't find. Oh no, wait, that's just running on from the headline. Got it now. Let's see... well, this seems to be the closest this, yes, remarkable document comes to an explanation. I'm still rather in the dark, but I do at least know that this endeavour - whatever its precise nature may be - is "not government funded" and that "we can, if we wish, and only if we wish - with no pressure at all - have a voice in a world dominated by the party blocs". Well, I find that very encouraging.

There are also, in extremely small print, two columns (divided by a lot more tables, and the REMARKABLE OPPORTUNITY) headed "CIVILISATION The Manifesto of The Vote for Yourself Rainbow Dream Ticket (DTP) Government by Preferendum 2005". Frankly, as intrigued as I am, I can't bring myself to read this grey fog. I want a precis. There isn't one, so I skim. Well worth the effort, when I read: "A puissant, noble and able people find themselves not in a democracy but in a poligarchy (5)." A footnote! ("Government of the people by the party for the politicians", is the explanation.) They must indeed be mystically connected to me. And I do rather like being called "puissant" and "noble". Wait, do they mean me? I'm not of these Emerald Rainbow Isles, after all. Hm. I'll just choose to believe they do. I get the impression this lot is quite keen on the power of positive thinking.

So comforting myself, I pass on to: "Money and what people will do to get hold of the stuff, coupled with the force of 'the market', has distorted value systems and cultures throughout the planet and led the growth of resource consumption to suicidal levels - and the resentment of ancient societies." Indeed. We seem to be getting to the good stuff here - the proposed end to money.

I'm beside myself. "The DTP suggests the 'Wonder' as the fixed unit of exchange in various denominations up to the Miracle but the important 'recycling' of currency happens as we spend, not as we earn." Now how does that work, I wonder? Oops - did I just spend something? Let's get the juicy details. I'm eager to understand their economics.

"About a hundred inefficient, oppressive, intrusive and ineffectual taxes are eliminated and replaced by a simple primary energy duty - UNITAX - which is embodied without paperwork in every economic activity in exact proportion to our spending, quality of life and income." Ooh! But what if I have a really happy life but spend very little? Or if I spend lots (frankly I'm already planning to run to the shops, Visa card in hand, having read the earlier promise of an "end to all debt") but haven't had a job in years? Which part is in proportion then? Hey, maybe it cancels out to zero and I don't pay UNITAX at all. Cool.

Apparently I don't have to worry about being jobless, because "everyone has at least enough to live on as a non-selective basic income - 'blessing' - (solving, on the way, the 'pensions crisis')". Oh, so I can't expect to get blessed on the bus then. Pity.

Let's get down to brass tacks. How do they feel about business, eh? What if I do want a job after all? "Trade is unfettered but polluters will find they pay dearly and there will be benefit in recycling, making things last longer and in employing people - but for fewer hours: a leisured society in a beautiful places [sic]."

I'm sold. They've got my vote. They wouldn't promise all this without being able to deliver, for that would make them just as bad as all the other politicians.

Where do I sign?
_____
* Elsewhere, through scrutinising letters about 1mm high - really - I find that this simply stands for Wales Ireland Scotland England. I was hoping for something a bit more esoteric.
** It also includes a credit to the "design consultant". I won't publish their name. Frankly I'm surprised they allowed themselves to be named. Maybe it's actually their archrival's name, and they are rightly thinking that being blamed for this disastrous bit of undesign will ensure that said rival never works again.

Just ... wow

This is so much better than my unfortunate white streak. [shakes head in disbelief] So very much better.

Because it's a slow blogging day

And because I've just been hugely tickled, once again, I feel the need to link to the world's funniest estate agent.

I think I'm going to have to put a link on my sidebar. This is funny every time I look. Flats to suit "a Patrick Bateman type but without his excesses", or with "views of the Arc de Triomphe, the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Pyramids... on a clear day".

Glorious and Cate: please promise me that when you start looking for your London homes, you'll make Springfields your first stop. They deserve to be richly rewarded.

Satanic Scrivenings!

From A Reader*:

"Oh. My. God.

"Literally: i go looking for Scroobious for entertainment, and look what pops up:

"http://www.scroobious.blogpsot.com/"

Cunningly devised to trap unwary typists. This seems to work for any blogspot name. See, the Unsaved look like Saved. Says so right there.

You too can be the Voice of Satan.

_____
* Anonymous, to give him his proper blog name. There, dear, happy now? [sigh] What am I supposed to call you then?

The frightfest continues

As if it weren't bad enough for impressionable teens to be swamped in 80s colours (took me years to recover from the trauma myself; we should be protecting the next generation), the trend seems to be infecting those old (and supposedly smart) enough to know better. This morning I saw Michael Howard in a pink tie and sky-blue shirt. Just say no to pastels, Mike. Please.

Consequences: a Cautionary Tale

For years I was too scared to do it. I believed I just wasn't that kind of girl. It seemed wrong, and dangerous - imagine what would happen if I weren't careful! I'd be humiliated. It would be far worse than being the only girl not doing it.

So I kept to the straight and narrow for a long, long time. But the pressure built. Everyone could see I wasn't doing it. And I was certainly tempted. Maybe if I did it, I too could be cool...

As I got older I became more adventurous, and finally, I thought, what the hell. I'm a big girl. I can do it.

I gathered all my courage. I went into the pharmacy to get the necessary. And then I did it.

I sprayed my legs with self-tan.

You have to understand, I have always been the whitest girl I knew. In sunny SA I was a laughing stock. I thought when I came to rainy old England, I'd fit in - but with a tanning lounge on every corner, and cheap Ibiza holidays a dime a dozen, I was sadly mistaken. (In fact, Londoners now seem to be more tanned than Capetonians, who have developed a healthy respect for the ozone-free sun they live under.) So, I hide my legs in shame under long skirts and trousers; they never see the light of day, so they never achieve even the faintest shadow of a tan, so they stay hidden. It's a vicious cycle. This year, I decided, I wanted to wear shorter skirts, allow my calves to feel the free air. I felt, as a safety precaution and duty to my fellow citizens, I should at least lessen the reflective glare off my snow-white skin. So, abandoning a lifetime's caution, telling myself the products were better these days and I didn't have to be left with the dreaded orange streaks, I grabbed the Ambre Solaire No-Streaks Instant Light Bronzer and I sprayed.

I'm older and wiser* now. And I'm here to share with you the lessons of my experience.

Lesson the first: when they say "avoid knees"**, they really mean it.

Lesson the second: I'm not too sure how this works, but while it does indeed dry instantly, don't think a drop of water running down your shin won't leave a white streak the next day.

Lesson the third: similarly, as dry as it may be, wearing socks too soon after application will leave you with a sock tan. Go figure.

Lesson the fourth: if you're born with pasty blue-white melanin-free skin that refuses to darken even under the African sun, embrace it. Because there is no way that even the gentlest fake tan is ever going to look natural with your skin tone. Seriously.

_____
* By a day. It counts.
** Not that it does say so on this particular bottle, but luckily for me I read every bottle on the shelf. And still got burned. Not sunburned, I mean, burned in the figurative sense. You know.

Why yes, I *am* a super hot female, now where's my million dollar contract?

I have had a Grooming Day. I am plucked, polished, pore refined, self-tanned and moisturised from head to toe. If I'm not super hot now, then frankly there's no hope. Luckily, I am super hot.

My super hotness rating is, of course, lowered slightly by my insufferable smugness. But it's just as well. The world is not ready for this much hot.

Now to go do something clever, so I can rejoice in being both beautiful and talented.

And by the way

Mutti-in-law compliments me that I have the awful German language "so gut hingekriegt" and recommends that I "mach so weiter, ja". Damn her dark sense of humour.

London: full of everywhere else

Yesterday - St George's Day; a typically drizzly London day, which I thought was marvellously apt - Beloved and I found ourselves, quite by accident, enjoying a typically London afternoon. We saw a movie that, while not actually English, was set in England and about Englishers - oops, one Scot and a bunch of Englishers. It was lovely. It had Johnny Depp*. The cinema was full of Forruners.

We had a meal in a Forrun restaurant, that had managed to adapt itself to English tastes by serving lamb with chips instead of saffron rice, and adding omelettes, fried fish etc to the menu, beside the more exotic dishes.

We took a turn around the National Portrait Gallery to look at pictures of a Mexican**.

We had planned to go see an actual English film (full of sex; Agnes Catherine Poirier must consider her point made), but after the fluffy dogs and fairies of Finding Neverland, 9 Songs just seemed far too raw for comfort. So we went home. (And watched the director's cut of Donnie Darko, which isn't any easier to figure out.)
_____
* Yes, it went off circuit ages ago, but luckily we have the Prince Charles Cinema to catch us up on the good things we miss.
** Frida Kahlo strikes me as amazingly in control of her image. Most of the photos looked exactly like her own self-portraits. She didn't change her facial expression in a single one; only in the later pictures did she relax a little and allow the photographers to pose her at all differently to that classic, straight on bust. Intriguing.

I am *so* offended

I don't often get people wandering over here courtesy of Google or other searches. Not often at all. I've had a few; someone looking for useful information on Pete Doherty got a headline rant instead, and some earnest art fan was treated to my brilliant review of Damien Hirst.

But now I see I turned up on some poor Oedipal sod's hunt for "Rubenesque motherly tits".

That is so very wrong.

The Misadventures of Hello Cthulhu

My day just got much more fun.

Thanks to him.

Better than Franglais

From an email to my German mother-in-law, who is always trying to get me to talk her language:

Ich glaube, dass ich gar nicht Deutsch kann schrieben. Ich habe recently dass mit A geprobieren, und ich finde, dass wird sehr schnell ein unheimliche gemors von Afrikaans und Deutsch und Englisch. Ich bin sehr maklik geconfused. Ich werde no doubt kurz viel Spass nach the good citizens of Hamburg bringen.

London ist jetzt auch geconfused; das Wetter swings madly von kalt nach warm. Heute morgen war es kalt und nass; jetzt ist es sonnig. Wir haben ein paar schoene Tage gehabt aber dann wird es skielik weer disgusting.

Think she'll get the message?

For diehards only

See all six Star Wars films back to back at Leicester Square. In a single day.

May the force be with you.

What kind of crazy information system is this?

White smoke means new pope. Black smoke means no pope has been picked. Grey smoke means someone forgot to clean the chimney.

This can't be good for the ozone layer.

Just a bundle of contradictions

One of my greatest objections, always, to doing a “proper diet”: I don’t want to be told what to eat, I want flexibility: I don’t want to do the hard work of following recipes and going shopping for all the stuff I don’t normally eat, I want to eat my old favourites, according to whim rather than plan.

Yet, what I’m most enjoying about my peculiar diet experience (halfway through day two, so obviously I’m well qualified to discuss my lengthy experience of it): being told what to eat and what to cook. Really. I feel mothered and a little bit bullied and most of all, completely relieved of the burden of decision making. Who knew I was such a wuss*?

Similarly, for the past, oh, three years or so, I’ve been complaining ever more vigorously every time I have to move home. (Having moved about 25 times in the 29 years I’ve been alive, you can see why I might be a little sick of the nomadic lifestyle.) The last move – a whole eight months ago – was particularly painful, for sundry practical and emotional reasons, and I made very loud noises conveying a firm intention to stay put for, like, ever.

And since we decided (inevitably) to move a couple of months ago, Beloved has had to put up with regular Scroobious Tantrums™, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, as I bemoan subjects including (but not limited to) the horrors of flathunting, the exhaustion factor, the expense, the difficulties of finding the right level of appropriate furnishing in a rented flat, the instability and insufferable temporariness of being tenants, the impossibility of buying, the appalling standard of rented housing in London, and the burden of impermanence created by knowing we do not want to live in the UK forever, but not knowing where we want to be instead, for how long, or when we want to go there.

Now we have found a flat. And all of a sudden the flip side of my nomadic upbringing kicks in and I absolutely cannot wait to move. Moving is something I can do. I know how – I probably have more experience at it than anybody else on the entire earth, ever*. I’m good at packing. Once decanted into the new abode, I love unpacking and arranging stuff. I love finding new furniture and things to make the place mine. And here’s yet another contradiction: as much as I love accumulating new stuff, I love getting rid of stuff even more.

So now, instead of listening to oft-repeated and annoying wails of distress, Beloved has to listen to the oft-repeated and annoying mantra: “It’s time to CHUCK SHIT OUT! Now we get to CHUCK SHIT OUT! Yay!”

It’s confusing being me.
_____
* Absolutely bloody everybody. Shhh.
** Exaggeration, too, I can do.

Utter genius

How to really confuse your party guests.

PS

Turns out, US and Canadian residents can also sign up via the same site.

Just in case any of my friends from over the pond feel an overpowering urge to help me out, and get their own free iPod.

Just in case.

I'm going to make myself a Healthy Tuna on Pitta with a Salad now. Mmmm, eDiets. Mmmm.

Hm

Good idea or not? I don't know yet. I'm hoping yes, a good idea. I want an iPod. I would say I want a free iPod, but since you have to complete an online offer, which costs actual money, it's not quite free - just very cheap. And if you look at it that way, you get a free online service. (It is legit, honestly.)

So here's the thing; I've signed up. What the hell. I need to lose weight anyway, so may as well give eDiets a bash (Beloved will no doubt be delighted to hear I have a Plan). But this means I've committed £30 (£2.99 for minimum 10 weeks), so now I really need to get 5 people to sign up to something too, so I can get my iPod. Um. Pretty please? Any of my UK friends interested in, say, Yahoo! Personals? Probably not. What was I thinking? Dammit. Now that I think about it, I'm struggling to find the subset of my friends who are (a) in the UK, (b) still iPodless, (c) reading this blog and (d) dumb enough to sign up for some unwanted online service. Possibly I am the only such person of my acquaintance. Double dammit.

Hey, maybe if you sign up for one of the betting services (three to choose from? wtf?), you can manage not to part with actual cash. Maybe. I have no idea how that works.

I should really engage brain when surfing, shouldn't I. It's clearly bedtime.

Not that I'm getting ahead of myself

...but I just found something perfect for our new home.

We have a new home. Or will do, in a month. We are officially moving to the sticks - Isleworth; near Brentford, west London, nowhere near Essex - and will be luxuriating in more space than we have ever had to ourselves, ever, in any country, including a large garden. Oh, and permission to keep a cat. So that's that sorted. Yay me!

Of course this lovely flat in the sticks has some rather, er, disturbing features. Notably the pink leather sofas. But I'll be turning a blind eye to that - as much as it's possible to be blind to pink leather - since, after all, we'll have tons of space, and a garden. And a cat. I have my priorities well sorted.

Having just spent a particularly lovely afternoon with friends in the burbs (entirely different burbs, different direction, different demographic entirely), much of which involved sipping sauvignon blanc in the sun, I'm about ready to have a garden of our own. With a cat. Did I mention we have a green light on the cat front?

There will be a cat.

Aside: a great oddity of rented accommodation is that we keep finding ourselves needing to simultaneously buy furniture, and find somewhere to store other furniture. Surprisingly, the landlord's/lady's design for their property often does not exactly coincide with our own needs and/or tastes. Not much we can do about the pink sofas - but we have to take the double bed out of the second bedroom, and install a double futon*, so that we can have both a study and a guest room, in one. It had better bloody work.

And we need cupboards. Much storage is required. My finely honed psychic powers tell me there's a trip to Ikea in my future...

_____
* Yes, we yielded. If we can't squeeze a couple of extra square metres out of this cramped little flat for four lousy weeks, well, we'll just have to hand in our tardis badges.

Wish I really had a tardis badge. Like in scouts: a badge indicating proficiency at tardis creation. That would be cool.

Confoodshion

Strolling down the picturesque* streets of Northfields t'other day, Imagine My Surprise! to see a Polish deli, with a sandwich board in front advertising biltong, "a British product".

So many layers there. If it weren't 2.30am I'm sure I could make more of that.

But I'll go back to bed now and find out if I'm sleepy.

_____
* Not really

I almost forgot

That "yay shopping!" post has an entirely less sunny cousin, who got left out of the fun for reasons of work. (Bloody work getting in the way of blogging, what's that about?)

Shopping cousin says: what is with the 1989 flashback? Seriously. I remember 1989, I was 13, I had a truly frightening wardrobe and all sorts of "creative" style ideas. About two years later I was already wise enough to look back in horror: tiered flouncy skirts? About the least flattering thing a chunky girl could wear. All those Indian scarves? Really not the best thing to tie around my waist, considering (hm, bulk and pattern, exactly what we want to highlight midriff flab). And as for colours - pink and turquoise; was that really necessary*? And now suddenly - they're back! Apparently it wasn't just my fevered early teen imagination. People actually wore this stuff. I'm scared to look around for fear of seeing knee-length denim cutoffs with braces. Worn with T-shirts knotted above the waist. And side ponytails. With scrunchies.

I do realise I'm not the most qualified person to tackle this subject. There are better bloggers** waving the flag of Common Fashion Sense. But when things get this out of control, I feel the need to raise a little consciousness here.

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* On my latest knit project it is. Ahem. Of course that's different, because, er, the textures make it all okay. Probably.
** How much do we want one of those T-shirts? ... Well, not that much, not being a T-shirt person, really. And it is rather a bright orange. But still.

I hate the world

Bloody guestmap bloody eating bloody posts...

Kids, if you've stuck a pin and it's not there, it's not because I don't love you. It's because guestmap has strange and unpredictable appetites. And the "support center" does no such thing, instead accusing posters of deleting their own pins. Who would do such a thing? Sniff. I'm not winning here.

Bloody guestmap bloody suppository centre...

Very reassuring

How nice. Scientists are now "pretty certain" that their New York toy won't create a black hole liable to suck the planet to a mysterious doom. So that isn't top of the list of threats.

Personally I'm much more worried about climate change and Aids than about human threats like terrorism or nuclear war. Mostly because while those might be a problem, global warming and Aids already are, and nobody seems to be doing much of anything about it. Not where it counts, anyway - viz, there's a total lack of adequate action on Aids in Africa (thanks, Mbeki) and on carbon emissions in the US (thanks, Dubya).

Not to put a downer on your day, or anything.

So how about that super-volcano, then? What makes the likelihood of that happening in the next 10 years "very high"?

Also not that bothered about the robots, because for one thing, we've been hearing this since at least 1930, and somehow we're never quite as close as we're supposed to be. And for another, we all know that Will Smith will be there to save us when the time comes, so that's all right. Even the combined might of Jeff Goldblum and Jake Gyllenhaal were not enough to avert global warming-induced global freezing, though.

Post-post-materialism

I hate shopping. Except when it goes well. And every now and then a bargain literally* throws itself at you.

Today, Beloved and I are the happy recipients of an enormous widescreen TV, being disposed of at a low low price by a neighbour, heading back to Italy. We were sorely tempted to snap up more of his furniture, but sadly, concluded that we really couldn’t squeeze a double futon into our flat, even as a temporary measure. Alas.

And, because Venus is in Aries and hence I am positively dutybound to Refresh my Look**, I went in search of a light summer top. I didn’t search very far – just across the road, in fact. And I found a perfectly pretty, suitable and cheap top, and skirt, for good measure. (To cost of skirt must unfortunately be added cost of self-tan. Alas, again.)

So these were good consumer experiences, and moreover, we may have found a home***. Not a bad week for spending money.

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* Not really. I am not generally – indeed, ever - besieged by animated sale goods. I apologise for this iniquitous abuse of the language.
** Also because the weather is slowly improving and I realised with alarm that I have precious little to wear that still fits me, once baggy jerseys are no longer an option; clearly slimming is called for, but it may not happen quickly enough.
*** Not the “spacious, sunny” etc one; the problem there turned out to be that while the flat was part of a previously spacious house, therefore had large rooms and high ceilings, the hallway had been divided neatly in two and the bathroom – while not actually in a cupboard - was a tad cramped. Meaning, for a “spacious” flat, it was surprisingly poky. Still, coulda been a contender, had Beloved (venturing intrepidly – can intrepid be made an adverb? Hm - into deepest Brentford) not found a properly spacious flat, with large garden, and cat-friendly landlady. I shall report back after a private viewing.

Hope springs eternal

I've just arranged a viewing for a flat, in an almost ideal location, described as "exceptionally large, sunny, airy, with huge built-in wardrobes, a conservatory/utility room and garden". Let's place our bets on what's wrong with it, shall we?

1. Next door to crackhouse
2. Holes in walls and windows
3. Half-size bath in cupboard; no shower*
4. Shower in cupboard; no bath
5. Bath/shower in advanced stage of biological experiment
6. Kitchen consists of microwave, kettle, toaster and cooler box
7. Serious pest issues
8. Colour scheme chosen by blind, drug-addled chimpanzee

One bet only per problem, sweepstake-style. I promise to buy the winning better a drink (arranging to be in the same city as me, so as to claim drink, is responsibility of the winner). If, by some miracle, none of these problems pertain, I will buy everybody a drink.

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* As seen by Friend Pip, displayed with pride by very "creative" landlord/developer

A world without pity

My guestmap, she so empty...

And stroppy. I think she ate a few posts. If you've previously posted, would you be so kind as to check whether your message is up? If not, please to repost. I'm hoping it'll take this time.

And if you haven't posted, what are you waiting for? Honestly. It's not just there for decoration, you know.

In which the Scrivener yields to temptation

10am: Ooh, meeting leftovers. Pastries! Ah well, better stick with a bacon butty*.

10.30am: Lots of pastries still here. Mmm, look good. No, I'm just after a cup of coffee.

11am: Yes, I'm aware that there are pastries in the kitchen. No, thanks, I'm not having.

11.30am: Oh, you brought them out here, right under my nose. How thoughtful. No, thanks. Really, no.

12.30pm: Hands off my apricot Danish!

[cartoon button poings off waistband, flies across room, out the window, along with resolve.]
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* The Scroobious Diet Rules: no sugar or booze. Carbs coated in artery-clogging animal fat are totally allowed.

Notes from the culture divide: Greetings

A tripartite, colourful divide, this.

1(a) Generally, in SA, “Howzit!” is not a question. Is a greeting. To be answered only if you’re feeling “funny”, with “It’s fine thanks, and yours?”

(b) However, this does not pertain to black South African usage. When working in a strongly multiracial newsroom, I found that my colleagues answered “howzit” with “okay, thanks, and you?” and expected a similar response to their own howzits.

2. Since arriving in London, I haven’t quite been able to work out the phrase “all right?” It seems to be used in a similar way to “howzit” – viz, casually, instead of “hello”, rather than sincerely, with emphasis on the question mark, as in “how are you?” An answer does seem to be called for, but what? “Hello” is plain wrong. “I’m fine, thanks, and you?” is taking it way too seriously. “Yeah, all right,” kind of fits, but it just seems downright rude.

The only certainty I have acquired on this issue is: the appropriate response to “all right, darlin’?” is to raise your nose daintily and walk right on by the construction site.

3. Back in the rainbow nation. If you speak to a total stranger on the phone, do not be surprised to be asked “how are you?”, with every sign of sincerity, and to spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries before learning why they are calling (or being able to explain yourself). No, they don’t have you confused with someone else; no, you haven’t forgotten meeting them. They are being nice. Be nice back.

I got entirely too used to this, and found myself doing the same after moving to London. I can tell you, Scottish call centre employees get very, very confused at being asked about their state of wellbeing.

4. Around Christmas and New Year, black South Africans will shake your hand a lot and say “Compliments!” Kisses may be exchanged. It’s not because they like your dress. It’s short for “Compliments of the season.”

5. I’m on a roll now, so let’s take a short trip to Europe. In England, women occasionally kiss on the cheek in greeting. One kiss. One cheek. At least one girl must be involved; men do not kiss. In France, I believe, a kiss on each cheek is appropriate, and unisex. In Switzerland, however, there is a universal conspiracy to confuse the crap out of me, because whoever I’m kissing, their idea of the right number is different to mine. One? Two? Three? Whatever I’m not going for, that’s the right answer.

My first meme

reading
Originally uploaded by Scroobious.

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451 - which book do you want to be?
Complicated question, this. As explained by her via her, it's got to be a novel that I care passionately about, and can memorise and recite out loud constantly. Huh. There are many books I love to read out loud, but over and over again? And are they good enough to be the book I'd choose to save? And there are many books I love, and would want to save, but that don't sound so good out loud. This is hard. (Could be I'm just over-thinking it.) Okay, I'm going to go with Kalki, by Gore Vidal. Not really a musical reading-out-loud kind of book, but it's never boring, it's short enough to memorise, and most importantly, it's one of the few books I'm completely evangelical about*.

Next question.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Good goddess, yes. Starting with Gilbert from Anne of Green Gables, progressing nicely through Mr Knightley and Aragorn... oh, plenty, plenty.

PS: I can't believe I forgot to mention Sam, from Benny and Joon. If we count movies as fiction. Which they are, so we do. So there. And Errol Flynn in some pirate movie had a very, very potent effect on my 5-year-old imagination, and later fantasy life. Although I only worked out recently that it must have been Errol Flynn. Mmm, pirates. *sigh*

The last book you bought is:
Good question. [Runs to to-be-read shelf to refresh memory] Right, three at once from Oxfam: Bill Bryson, Down Under; Fay Weldon, Worst Fears; and Kate Atkinson, Human Croquet. The last two are books I have previously read and am lovingly restoring (in hardback) to my library**. Worst Fears is especially, darkly, magnificent.

What are you currently reading?
Handbag: The 158-pound Marriage, by John Irving (a very early novel, full of 1970s "liberated" sex).
Bedside: Wonder Tales, edited by Marina Warner - translations of French fairytales, "for grown-ups".
Kitchen***: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke. Utterly fabulous, and great to read aloud. (Haven't finished it yet, or it might have edged out Kalki in answer #1.)
Bathroom (oh, like you don't): Emily Dickinson, and The Superior Person's Book of Words.

Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Depends. Am I stranded, or do I know when I'm going home? And can I bring my knitting? Never mind. Let's say:
Robinson Crusoe - for survival inspiration, and because I've never read the damn thing and if I'm not entirely deprived of other options, I probably never will.
Finnegan's Wake and a commentary - because, again, I've never read it, and because it is complicated enough to keep me interested for a long, long time. Or not at all. I haven't found out yet.
Complete Jane Austen - tricksy, eh? Six and a half books for the price of one. (Love and Freindship, alas, will have to stay, unless I can find an astonishingly good combined works edition.)
And lastly, 1001 Nacht, because I may as well work on my Deutsch while I'm out there; and because its 1950s domestic logic is so incredibly funny. I gotta blog about that some time. Definitely.

And we're done.
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* And I think I may have lost my copy to someone who doesn't understand heavy hints about "So you've got my Kalki, right? Hm. Still got it? Hm. Finished it ages ago, didn't you? Hm." So I might have to rely on my memory of the damn thing after all.
** Significantly diminished on leaving shores of SA. I relinquished my entire Weldon collection, following the self-devised rule that if it was replaceable, it must go. (Left me with a rather unbalanced collection.) Now I'm replacing.
*** Beloved requires a soundtrack to wash up to.

German efficiency where you need it most

Public service notice: should you need a Schengen visa, do not go to France (or the embassy thereof). Go to Germany. It's a much, much pleasanter - and faster - experience.

In other news, while everyone has been telling us we can surely afford a much better flat in Ealing than in central London, this appears to have no bearing on reality (as purveyed by the local estate agents) whatsoever. After a whirlwind tour of, um, 10 flats today, they've all collided in my head in a grungy melange of icky bath goo, peculiar colour choices, your granny's light fixtures (not mine; my gran's got taste) and, most of all, dark, cramped spaces. Without any cupboards. Anywhere. A special mention goes to the flat that had an amazing view, through huge windows, over treetops and rolling park and hillside - but that also featured Chinese-style paintings on the side of the (pink) bath, which was sprouting some kind of new life form around the taps. We won't discuss the kitchen. Or the "newly decorated" flat that had a brand new kitchen, but everything else was imprisoned in 1980s Durbanville, without possibility of parole.

Last of all ("psychology, you see") we were shown, with a great display of pride, a flat that really was done up very nicely. Oodles of cupboard space. Immaculate finishes. An incredibly lovely landscaped garden (on a one-bedroom flat!) and top quality kitchen equipment. The landlord was even, we were told, willing to remove unnecessary furniture. Just two small problems: one, the beautiful garden was metres away from a major thoroughfare, putting paid to any hopes of a peaceful afternoon in the sun. Two, the flat was nowhere near our specified, non-negotiable location. Pretty darn far away, in fact. About an hour's walk from the required tube line.

Sigh.

So now we're thinking of looking in the sticks. You may have thought Ealing was already the sticks. You'd be wrong. We're thinking Osterley.

One last thing: hail. Honestly. Hail. What happened to spring? Seriously, where is it? I know I left it around here someplace earlier this week...

Wha'? What happened?

Honestly, I go to bed for just two days and when I come out, there's green leaves everywhere, but the temperature's dropped about 10 degrees.

A girl could get confused.

But a girl is still rather under the weather*, and will be putting off proper blogging a while longer. Sorry kids.

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* It's a better excuse than "uninspired and too busy checking out the new Knitty", anyway.

*coff*

My tonsils are trying to take over the world, and I'm their first battleground.

Not much happening over here except pain. Move along, please.

10 things

Five good things about being me:
1) Being very lucky in love.
2) Being generally lucky. Not as in winning competitions, but as in things working out for me. Life is, mostly, on my side.
3) Knitting.
4) Being easily pleased by simple things like knitting. And cats*.
5) Good hair. Low maintenance.

Five less good things about being me:
6) I can't seem to find my motivation. And there's no director to discuss it with.
7) In the ongoing battle between chocolate and my body image, chocolate keeps winning.
8) I have no idea where I want to spend my life. Just not here.
9) While easily pleased, I am also terribly easily bored.
10) No cats. (This is subject to change.)

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* I know, I know, cats are not simple things. But they don't have to do much to make me happy. A gracious nod in my direction, an occasional purr, will suffice.

Poll for West Wing fans

Your answers to the following would be greatly appreciated.

Do the characters speak so darn fast - never needing to stop and think about the rather complex and vitally important ideas they're discussing, never tripping over their verbal selves, never lost for a word - because:

a) the scriptwriters are trying to pack too many words into a 50-minute episode;
b) the scriptwriters want us to believe that these characters really are that much smarter than the rest of us (part of the Great West Wing Fantasy that the world is ruled by people with brains, conscience and humour); or
c) people in these positions really are that smart and talk that fast?

If it's (c), my sense of inadequacy just went up a few levels.

Giving customer disservice a bad name

May I extend my sincere, humble and altogether grovelling apologies to those good people who tried to do something nice for me and were caught in the Amazon web.

I shoulda known. I really should. Having long ago decided that I should avoid ordering anything from Amazon, ever, because of the sheer bloodboiling impossibility of communicating with them in the not that unlikely event that something go wrong. (Most of my friends claim to have never had a problem, ever. Apparently I've just been unlucky. But natheless: should you be unlucky, it should be possible to talk to them about it. Not that simple.) And yet I still posted my Amazon wishlist and some rather heavyhanded hints. (More demands, really.)

I have learned my lesson. The exact chain of events is listed, as a public service for the benefit of those unwise in the ways of Amazon, in the footnote below. It's a long footnote.

Meanwhile, steps have been taken. I have discovered a better wishlist. (Still fairly empty, but that's all right, since my birthday is now behind us and Christmas is a long, long way away.) For one, there's an offline reservation button, so you can record your intention to buy something without actually doing so via that particular online stockist. For another, it works on any website, anywhere, so you're not tied to a limited range of products. Hello knitting supplies! Hello Jo Malone! I'm not sure how the delivery thing works - you can register an address - but it can't really be worse than Amazon, can it?

Amazon ("Amazonly inept!") is being flushed down the Scroobious drain. Good riddance. [ceremonious brushing of hands]

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* How Amazon screwed up a perfectly simple gift giving experience: The Whole Story.

Friend A and friend B order gifts from wishlist. Time passes.

Both inquire as to whether I have received gifts. I haven't. I ask them to follow up.

Friend A finds that gift was supposedly delivered long time ago. Sends query. Amazon writes to me: "oops, sorry, we'll redeliver; if this [given] is not the right address, please use URL [given] to provide correct details."

Address given is two house moves out of date. Surprising, since I have received Amazon orders at both subsequent addresses, and looking up My Account I can't find the old address anywhere. (I later realise that the address attached to My Wishlist is completely unrelated to any other address - billing, dispatch, anything. Would be good of them to flag this up, wouldn't it? Or am I the only customer daft enough not to realise this?)

So I use the given URL to provide new address, and to mention that the same problem presumably applies to a second order, for which I give the order number.

I receive automatic email: "Sorry, we can't send information on your account to anything but the registered email address. To change email address please sign in." Astute readers will note that this has bugger all to do with my previous message, posted using the given URL, and with no other email address - or request for account info - involved.

I reply to the email pointing this out - obviously a mistake (silly me) and the mail bounces.
Meanwhile I have been emailing Friend B to let her know that her gift too must have been delivered to wrong address, and asking her to get in touch with Amazon.

B, a self-described "technopeasant", finds it difficult to do so. As do I. Emails to two different addresses bounce. She emails me in increasing frustration asking how she is to get in touch with them. I struggle to answer, knowing that there is a magic link that can be found somehow, going via "My Orders", but that it is tucked cunningly out of sight behind layers of standard questions and responses, so as to prevent frivolous queries; and not having any recent orders myself, I can't navigate through my own account to find it. I tell her never mind, I'm doing battle and WILL sort this out.

I finally manage to find an "email us" button (personalised especially for me) via a link in Amazon's original "you can't talk to us like this" email. I post a fairly stroppy complaint demanding that someone pay attention.

Finally, I get a reply: "oops, terribly sorry, if you're changing address then for security reasons we need to reconfirm the senders' payment details. Please tell them to phone or fax us on these numbers."

Obviously this makes no sense at all. But knowing I'm not going to get anywhere, and hanging my head very, very, very low indeed, I forward this message to my previously good friends. So that they may have the pleasure of making an international call, in order to sort out a completely unnecessary mess, in order to send me a simple birthday present.

Is it just me? Or is this really bonkers?

I have had similar problems before - but at least then it was only my own blood pressure being sent through the ceiling. The shame of subjecting my lovely, generous friends to this experience burdens me terribly. I mean that.

The Rhyming Dentist

This morning I received a card from my dentist. It read as follows (all punctuation copied exactly):

Weren't you just thinking it's been a while; since you last checked your smile!
However, do not panic or despair, come and spend 15 minutes in our chair. We'll ensure that your cleaning's good; and check you're eating what you should.
So take the time to come along, for peace of mind that nothing is wrong!

The card features a bunny holding a tube of toothpaste.

Nothing in the actual surgery gives the faintest impression that the practice targets children. Admittedly, my dentist - not the practice owner - sits on a sparkly purple chair. But she also wears a purple coat. And a nose ring (not purple). And does a nice line in conspiratorial smiles.

I had thought all this was cute. Now, I'm starting to suspect derangement.

I Tink I Taw a Moldiemort!

Courtesy of extemporanea, Naked Quidditch. Has kept me laughing like an idiot for far too long while I should be doing something useful (quite a few somethings in fact). Be warned, it's 10 chapters long. But so, so funny.

It's his fault, officer!

On 4 January 2002, I committed a murder. I killed my Beloved Consort's beloved bakkie.

It was, of course, an accident. (Murder just made a better intro, I admit.) It was dark and raining. The roads were fairly empty. There was a flicky green arrow telling me I could turn right. I turned. I drove straight into another car, which had also been obeying a flicky green arrow in the other direction. Leaving aside the embarrassing question of why I didn't see him in time (was he driving at Jozi superspeed? Was I not paying attention? Given my previous and subsequent driving record, there's a strong possibility of the latter, but never mind), it was obviously the traffic lights that were to blame - I later realised that the flicky green arrow lights (but not the rest) on one pole had actually been turned round 90 degrees.

I always wondered whether this could happen accidentally. Turns out, at least one person has indeed been deliberately fiddling traffic lights. Tow trucks, huh? One more reason to hate them.

Still, given that both us drivers made a lot of noise about the lights being screwed up at the time (and were completely ignored by the lovely policemen), and that they remained screwy for a good few weeks and I personally heard of at least three further accidents there during that time, I do wonder whether the rot goes even deeper. Were the tow truck companies also paying off someone in the police or traffic dept to turn a blind eye?

Nah. Too paranoid. (Embarrassed chuckle.)

For one day only!

Google just makes itself more useful every day. Now it's getting tasty too.

Be sure to read the small print. And the FAQ.

I mean, isn't this whole invite-only thing kind of bogus?
Dude, it's like you've never even heard of viral marketing.

(Sorry, kids, I wish I too could have come up with something clever for you today. But... no.)