Am experiencing annoying revival of (some of) last week's frustrations, plus a few new twists. As a result, am not feeling hugely entertaining, and may be unusually taciturn for a bit. It's either that or regale you with anecdotes of my cats, and how my orchid's just sprung a new leaf. These are the safest topics in my life at present, it seems, and "safe" evidently means "duller than the Bournemouth bingo hall in February". So bear with me. And thanks for the jokes.
Sometimes, in the corporate world, bodily waste products transpire. People react to this in various ways. Some crumble; some fight; some sulk; and some point and laugh.
Fans of that last approach should go immediately to worship at the shrine of Gersh, to be known henceforth as "The Alchemist"*, as he transmutes leaden PR speak into comedy gold.
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* At least to me. Not sure how Gersh himself feels about this.
Police everywhere this morning. I wonder: do they know something we don't? Or are they simply thinking, another Thursday, let's go look butch just in case?
"[Insert noun] walks into a bar" jokes, please.
In the comments box. Now.
(Anon: you see how I'm always thinking of you. Nadia: not the one about the blonde and the poodle, please, something that actually makes sense.)
(Although generally speaking, I'm all in favour of jokes that don't make sense. A bunch of milk. Hahahaaaa!)
Right. Hand 'em over. Thanks.
Mugabe is "a man safeguarding world peace",apparently.
By giving China contracts to farm Zimbabwe? I guess Zim is a bit short of local farmers, then?
More and more, I'm seeing Obelix's point.
Take this, for example - German judgmentalism where you need it most*:
"SPIEGEL: With 'Jaws' you, Mr. Spielberg, took the fun out of bathing for millions of people. Did you never feel guilty about that?"
Um... okay. Taking this entertainment business a leetle too seriously, are we?
But then they get stuck into Tom, and it's all good:
"SPIEGEL: Do you see it as your job to recruit new followers for Scientology?
Cruise: I'm a helper."
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* Directed at Tom Cruise. And Steven Spielberg, though I only really care about mocking Tom.
Why? Whywhywhy? Why is it that after a full long weekend of good sleepy nights, even after gallons of caffeine, sleep should suddenly elude me just as my working week starts? After a caffeine-free, early-start, action-packed day, why should I lie awake hour after hour? Whywhywhy? Why, when I have a particularly busy and demanding day ahead? Why?
Good thing there's Sainsbury's triple-choc-chip muffins to bring meaning to my morning, really.
An ad you would never see in SA:
"FREE CAR* REMOVAL. This is an absolutely FREE service. There are NO HIDDEN CHARGES."
Not because people wouldn't be willing to perform this service for free. You just wouldn't ever require it. Leaving the car unlocked on the street would do the job just fine (yes, even if the car was officially deceased).
It's just a completely different set of problems here, isn't it?
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* Similar ads exist for furniture. Similar oddity.
So after the roast, and a rainy womble around Wimbledon Common, and plenty of idle chatter, and some bodice ripping (no corps, as it turns out, but plenty of corsets and rippling musculature - definitely an R18 sort of ballet), and more idle chatter, I've regained some sense of perspective and a handle on my fairy godmother complex. It's not up to me to fix everyone's problems. Okay then.
Also, I've been reminded of how little I know London (always embarrassing). Three years and until tonight, I'd never been to Sadler's Wells - despite having lived a short walk away for about 8 months. Also, I'd never been on Wimbledon Common and hadn't realised quite how delightful the village is. Having rectified that, it's now firmly on my list of places I wouldn't mind living if a hitherto unsuspected wealthy great-aunt died and left me her musty manse.
A problem I'm not remotely likely to have. Still and all. One must have the list. So far I think Wimbledon is behind Marylebone* and Oranjezicht**, but ahead of Richmond****. I'm not yet familiar enough with the streets of Paris, Zurich and New York***** to rank them.
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* Wins points on central location, although Wimbledon Common is far lovelier than Regent's Park. Also, there's probably a dearth of gardens in Marylebone. And Wimbledon is much easier to pronounce.
** Location is the problem here. Views: amazing. Convenience for central London and/or other glamorous European cities: very low. Being at the tip of Africa and all. But this one is infinitesimally closer to reality*** than the others, since Beloved's mother owns a quarter of such a house.
*** Still about as far off as my chances of starting an organic vegetable farm on Mars. Unlikely in so many ways.
**** Pretty, but flat, and a bit far out.
***** Having never, in fact, been to New York. But I seen it on TV, and bits look quite promising.
Swarming like flies round Waterloo underground.
Abandoned suitcase at the foot of the escalator.
I have never seen a crowd of passengers climb so fast.
This has been a week of frustrations. Some minor and obviously irrational - being unable to convince my garden to actually grow*, for instance, or to convince my sick cat that I'm doing it** because I love him. Some less so.
Case the first: being unable to convince my Fabulous Friend that she should definitely make a move on her crush while she has a window of opportunity. Consider: thirtysomething, stylish, stable and solvent. Owns a lovely and large flat in a smartish London suburb (where she lives alone - unheard of!), has a full social life and a wide range of interests. Does things where others just talk. Has hiked around Peru and Mont aux Sources; taught English in Turkey, Italy and Croatia. As happy to go out (or on holiday) on her own as with friends. Catch, right? She doesn't see it that way At All and I can't persuade her to believe in herself.
Case the second: being unable to get inside Esteemed Father's head and fix the wiring that keeps getting him into financial messes - not through any hopeless profligacy, but simple lack of organisation. He moved to the UK two years ago and has had an exceptionally hard time (including breaking up a 20-year relationship). Starting over in a new country is hard enough under any circumstances; he's had to do so at an advanced stage of life, with almost zero assets and few connections, while undergoing emotional trauma of all kinds. By the start of this year things were looking up significantly: he had home, work and social life all pretty much sorted out, and seemed set to get back on his financial feet in short order. But suddenly he's a bit screwed again, and it was all so avoidable.
He'll be okay. He'll fix it. But I'm not convinced the cycle won't repeat (I've seen it a few times before).
I thank all the little godlings that I'm tougher than my parents. I didn't inherit the genius gene, but I did get the nous that they both so badly lack. Much more valuable.
Anyway, enough of that. It's dripping steadily outside and I have to go meet friends for a Sunday roast on Wimbledon Common - which sounded far more attractive in the midweek sunshine than it does now. Still, girly chat can't be bad. And tonight I'm going to the ballet for free! If corps in corsets don't cheer me up, I don't know what will.
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* Although I have certainly given it my best shot, spending most of yesterday digging, composting, planting, mulching and weeding the damn desert into submission.
** "It" in this instance being: shoving him in a cage, taking him to see a Bad Man** who stuck a stick up his bum and a needle in his back, then starving him for over a day and - the final insult - pushing large bad-tasting pills down his throat. No wonder the poor thing's upset.
*** Actually a very pleasant and sympathetic Afrikaner, but I don't think Harvey sees it that way.
Ok look, I know I said at least the bombs helped us get the magazine to press early for once, but I didn't really mean that, all right? Are we clear? We don't have to have regular Thursday "incidents", do we?
Please, terroristic type people. Learn about irony.
And quit this crap.
Twunts.
When you live with someone, and you share their tastes, it’s very hard to buy a present that is really for them alone.
CDs? Cool tunes. DVDs? Love that movie. Books? Great, can’t wait to read that.
Fabulous originally designed, handmade jersey? Ooh, you look hot in that.
I may as well just give up and buy myself lingerie.
Seen on a movie poster this morning:
"The nastiest, most savage and brutal movie you could ever want to see."
Frankly, I'm having trouble with the "want to see" concept in this context.
Give Mugabe money? Oh yeah, that's a brilliant idea.
Still, if it is in fact used to apply some judicious pressure, and if it does in fact improve the lot of average Zimbabweans (rather than just Mugabe's supporters and teenage "war veterans"), I guess that's a few million well spent. I do find it hard to suppress my native cynicism, though.
File this one under "social injustice rant (subcategory: feminism)".
Building fire drill today. Since the alarm gets tested every week (usually on a Monday but it's been known to get moved), and since it's not quite a steady signal, and since it started, stopped, started, stopped, and started again, obviously it took us a while to decide okay, this is in fact a drill, better leave the building.
An email has just come around:
"The reason the fire alarm kept stopping was because the receptionist at [one of the buildings] silenced her alarm - twice. The Building Manager has assured the tenants that she will be replaced as soon as possible."
I have such a problem with this kind of "fire the wench!" reaction. I realise that this is a safety issue and hence Terribly Important. I realise that some of the companies in this building might have very strong opinions about the stupidity of such an error. But. Is it okay to "replace" her just like that? A rollicking bollocking, sure; an official warning, okay, maybe; but immediate firing? Somehow I expect grown-ups, and corporations, to have a more mature reaction than that. Not to mention a little more decency and, oh yes, respect for employment law, even when the employee might be expected not to know her rights.
It is so painfully easy for those on the bottom of the ladder (usually women, by the way) to lose their jobs - those who frequently need them the most - whereas those with more power (usually men) are all but impossible to get rid of, even if they are dangerously bad at their jobs. CEOs who run their corporations into the ground (and/or turn a blind eye to large-scale safety hazards*) tend, if anything, to be rewarded with golden parachutes. But the receptionist who screws up a fire drill, man, she's going down.
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* You think I'm being a little overimaginative? What about the management errors leading up to the 2003 Central line crash? What about the errors behind the 2000 Ladbroke Grove rail crash, and many, many others? I may have missed something (very likely, since I wasn't even in the UK at the time of most of the famous crashes) but I don't think anyone lost their job for failing to implement proper maintenance and training procedures.
A Krispy Kreme has just opened opposite the office.
This is inexpressibly bad.
Update: Ooh, wait, my lovely colleague has just handed some doughnuty goodness out. So it's not all bad, then. As long as they're free, the calories don't count*.
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* Male readers, take note, I'm giving you valuable insight into the female psyche here. If she doesn't buy it or order it, calories are not included. This is why she eats off your plate. Just order double and deal with it.
In the middle of an otherwise ordinary conversation yesterday, suddenly, the following animated exchange*:
"Hey! You know those salmon bagels, right? Like, a good bagel with lots of, um, smoked salmon and cream cheese and... and... stuff?"
"Um - yes?"
"How quickly could you eat one of those?"
"...?"
"What's the fastest time you could get one of those down? If you were really hungry?"
"If I was really hungry, I guess... a minute?"
"Really?"
"Yeah. Less than a minute."
"Hmm." [sits back in chair] "I've never been able to do that. Not inside a minute."
"Does it have to be salmon?"
"No, just, you know, whatever kind of bagel you really like."
"Okay."
"I think I'm going to starve myself for a day, and then go for the minute."
"Okay."
Guys are weird.
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* Let's be clear: neither party was me.
No, not a spoiler, but a brilliant competition: write Dumbledore's death in the style of some author other than JK.
I particularly like the PG Wodehouse one, but the Sappho is rather special. And the Zork. And - oh, go on, read them all. Then write one. The competition is, alas, already closed, but you can still share your genius with us all via the magic of the blogosphere. Please put a link in the comments box.
I'll get cracking on my version just as soon as I've had some sleep...
Oh, it starts innocently enough.
Just a drink at the Square Pig and 'Swine Bar* to welcome the new staff member. Surely no one could object to that?
But a pint becomes two...
And then someone suggests adjourning to Ciao Bella for dinner...
Next thing you know you're knocking back the limoncello with a piano-playing lawyer** who has inexplicably formed the impression that you're a group of actors***; of course you have to maintain the illusion, while simultaneously chatting him up on behalf of your single but absent music-loving friend, and all this makes the hours just fly by...
So you miss the last train, and the night bus doesn't come, so you end up walking along the river with the LWP, bemoaning his latest heartache****, admiring MI6 by night*****, discussing how "postmodern" in architecture actually just means "whimsy", and disagreeing on whether that's actually a bad thing, and finally crashing in his basement flat in Pimlico******...
And then it's 4am and you're wondering how early the trains start running******* and whether you can make it home before Beloved gets off night shift********, and you screw up your homeward journey and there's a signal failure at Twickenham and here you are at last, full of rue, Beloved's fast asleep and the cats********* have disowned you.
All this just to welcome the new guy. I tell you it's not worth it. Tonight you should stick to cola**********.
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* Some of my colleagues abjure the place for that appalling pun. I of course love it for exactly the same reason.
** Who looks attractively like a cross between Beloved and Hugh Grant.
*** This could be something to do with my tendency, after a drink or three, to toss my hair and declaim, but I'm more inclined to blame my dear colleague the Luvvie Without Portfolio, who seems to have escaped a career in The Biz (like which there is no other) entirely by some peculiar accident. He lives with a film producer type, dates actresses, reads scripts compulsively, name-drops shamelessly, and takes the Bard's dictum that "all the world's a stage" entirely literally.
**** Always madly in love with someone wholly inappropriate, he is. It's very entertaining, though possibly not to him.
***** Ooh, in my quest to bring you a picture I seem to have found a most fascinating London architecture blog. That's my morning then.
****** LWP has but a single criterion when apartment hunting: posh totty. There must be posh totty in the neighbourhood. Meaning there's always a W and a 1 in the postcode. He does manage to live in the most amazing places - he once proposed to me with the offer of lots of cupboard space, which is quite something for Victoria, at least on a journalist's budget. The present flat is somewhat (read: almost entirely) devoid of natural light, but absolutely cavernous and you really couldn't get a better address.
******* Not that early.
******** Turns out I could, but not by my normal route, and I figured it out just a minute too late to catch the requisite train.
********* They did of course have enough food. If not, I would made damn sure I got home.
********** Although all this bad behaviour appears to generate an unprecedented number of footnotes. Count 'em, I've made it into double digits. Now I have a record to break!
And the classic 80s hit Babeled below is...?
"They give return to the good circulation, boy, pagination of the round right - like the registry of the boy, round round circulation of the right pagination."
Thanks to Anon, who could get linked if he only bothered to start hisself a blog. Go on dahling, it would be so funny.
Terrorists trying to spoil the party?
Throw a party.
I mean yes, two minutes silence (and very moving it was too); yes, vigil in Trafalgar Square; but then let's have some free music, please, and make sure you use public transport to get there.
Well I mean, it can't be cool if even my employer's doing it.
Sigh...
Consider how strange and wonderful it is, the sense of communion with Mother Nature that can ensue from RIPPING her bastard children the hell OUT.
You have to be gentle, almost loving. You have to carefully ease the weeds out of the ground - not yank them roughly, or they will break, and return with anger in their hearts. You have to treat them tenderly, learn how they like to be touched. Then pile them up and burn them*.
You don't get that kind of satisfaction from swatting flies.
One more thing while I've got the last-weed-post-ever window open. According to the instructions that came with our new composter, we can stick weeds in it, because they will safely break down - "but not pernicious weeds", because they're, well, pernicious, and will grow. Now really. How am I supposed to tell the difference? Is pernicious not a pretty fair definition of weed to begin with? Who can tell me how I should decide whether a weed is safe for composting or not? And please don't talk to me about "well bindweed is okay but creeping buttercup is a little rascal", because we're not on first name terms, the weeds and I. We have not been formally introduced. That spiritual communion I described takes place on a Sacred Whore kind of footing: you Weed, me Gardener. So just tell me what general principles I should operate on, if you can. Wriggly roots versus lumpy, that sort of thing.
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* Not really, alas. No bonfires allowed. Clean Air Act. [sigh]
My absolute favourite of some very excellent quotes [belated hat tip to strawberryfrog] on that whole Thursday thing:
"They did their worst, and they managed to disrupt our transport network and get fatalities in the low double figures*. That happens on a fairly regular basis anyway, you twits. What's your next trick - a fiendish weather control device which makes it rain on a bank holiday weekend?"
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* Not so low any more, but still.
This has been a strange week. For reasons both personal and, well, hugely public, I've been thoroughly discombobulated. Part of my mind has been back in Cape Town, back in the 1990s*, back in all kinds of personal and political strangeness. Part has been trying to make sense of London, now, in new kinds of strangeness.
And tonight I found myself watching Red Dust on BBC2 - a "political thriller" about the Truth & Reconcilation Commission. Starring Hilary Swank. How come I've never heard of this before?**
More to the point, though, it reminded me forcibly of the two things I love and hate most about my country. South Africans live with indelible scars - scars of every kind, scars that I suspect are most obvious to expats like myself, who know the country intimately yet have some distance from it. Returning home is at best a bittersweet pleasure***; on my last trip (December 2003) I was struck by how powerfully the past still overshadows daily life. It seemed that every conversation included some reference to race, although the people we were talking to didn't seem aware of this. There is so much damage: to the national psyche, to social structures, to the economy... And as SA hypes its attractions as a tourist destination (with good reason, it's fabulous, I hasten to add), adding township tours and Robben Island to the list of attractions, even that damage becomes just another commodity. So at worst, it's a country where violence collides with a peculiarly desperate brand of capitalism.
But. Despite all that, it's an ongoing miracle. At the time I took the TRC so much for granted - just another part of the craziness of SA life - I didn't bother to follow it, I didn't even think about it much. Now, with a little distance, I confront the absolutely amazing, glorious insanity of it: a literal and judicious interpretation of "the Truth shall set you free". Imagine! Setting oppressors and oppressed, terrorists and victims opposite each other at a table; telling them to say sorry and make friends. It's childish, it's sublime and it's impossible.
And it worked.
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* Quotable quote: "Most days it's hard to believe I was ever as stupid as I was at 18" - thank you, Sheri Tepper.
** Just as curious, whatever happened to the Antjie Krog movie? How is it that films with A list stars like Swank, Juliette Binoche and Samuel L Jackson just sink without trace?
*** But obviously, I CANNOT WAIT for my next visit this December.
Anybody (in London) who wants to join a public demonstration of solidarity/defiance/Spirit of the Bloody Blitz, go here.
Obviously it can't be shit, when it gives us this lovely book for free.
I've just read the first story so far, but it's wonderful, and I imagine I'll be buying the actual book sometime. Go take a look at the beautiful strangeness.
From the less formal commentators - i.e. my mates and some chaps on the web:
Anonymous writes: "In the spirit of Getting On With It, London farmed out trades to other bourses once the central clearing house was evacuated - how cool is that? We're having a crisis but there's business to be done, so we'll just make a plan and get on with it." (And even better, the market has apparently fully recovered from the initial panic. Justifying the bemused question from a friend yesterday: "Why would I sell my shares just because someone's blown up the tube? What difference would that make?")
Anna Pickard does a proper round-up of blogger responses here.
And the London News Review tells those terrorists where to get off.
So we seem to be about done here. I think I'd better find a new subject.
Which reminds me, just before yesterday's news occurred, I was about to ask - isn't the real question here: you need a diploma to say, "I'll just see if we have that in your size"?
In the excellent words of the Guardian:
Responding to the bombings "also involves trying to understand why people are drawn to commit such infamous and evil deeds, not merely tightening security to prevent them from happening again. And it means sticking resolutely to all the values that make an open society so worth living in, including tolerance and civil liberty."
Tariq Ali spells it out:
"The principal cause of this violence is the violence being inflicted on the people of the Muslim world. And unless this is recognised, the horrors will continue."
And Robin Cook* offers an alternative:
"The danger now is that the west's current response to the terrorist threat compounds that original error. So long as the struggle against terrorism is conceived as a war that can be won by military means, it is doomed to fail. The more the west emphasises confrontation, the more it silences moderate voices in the Muslim world who want to speak up for cooperation. Success will only come from isolating the terrorists and denying them support, funds and recruits, which means focusing more on our common ground with the Muslim world than on what divides us."
My greatest fear is that the Bush agenda will win - that 7 July 2005 will be held up, along with the far greater atrocities of September 11, as a flag to rally support for ongoing aggression. Dudes, it's not working. Start over.
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* Note for Yanks** - not the thriller writer, but an MP and former Foreign Secretary, who has always opposed the war in Iraq.
** Yes, Jam, you too. Give me a handy patronising nickname that includes Southerners as well as North, and I'll consider switching, but till then...
Events like this really test a blogger's mettle. You come here, you want gritty details, tales of trauma or at least drama. Here's my round-up:
The bus blast was pretty near my office, on a route that I sometimes take, but I was nowhere near; we didn't hear the blast; we didn't see anything. The Boss asked us not to leave the building. By and large we ignored him.
One friend got evacuated from Paddington.
Another's friend's husband got injured, but not seriously.
That is IT. I got nothing for you. Go here instead.
And if you want to know how I am? I'm fine. Completely fine, and by now, pretty unemotional. My inner drama queen was having the vapours all morning, make no mistake, but the truth is it's not that bad. "Over 40 dead and hundreds injured" - that's not good, but it's not that bad. London has been expecting a terrorist attack for at least three years, and if anyone had been asked to predict what would happen under these circumstances, I think we would all have expected higher casualties.
When I left the office tonight, the streets looked pretty normal. Not quite normal - shops were closed; tube stations were empty; there was less traffic than usual, almost no buses, more pedestrians. But in those few pubs and cafes that were open, people were sitting having a drink. In my own office, it was far from a normal day, but by 4pm we were all shrugging it off. Eh, the tube's down, it's hardly news...
I don't know if this makes Londoners callous, or brave, or stupid. Or simply rational. No doubt there will be much puffery about the spirit of the Blitz in the days ahead. Bollocks, say I. We just have a sense of perspective. Consider just a handful of headlines from the past few years: September 11; Madrid (191 dead and 1,800 injured - just for comparison); tsunami; and OH YES THERE'S A BLOODY WAR ON.
40-something dead? Okay.
Of course, maybe this heartless attitude is mine alone. Please don't yell at me. It's not that I'm unsympathetic to those who have been affected. But honestly, worse things have happened.
Wednesday: rah-rah Olympics.
Thursday: tube accident brings entire network to a grinding halt. Oh, wait, two tube accidents, or possibly not accidents. No, hang on, I think there's another one. And a bus blown up in Russell Square. Or possibly two.
Watch this space.
The internet is shit.
Unfortunately, every single sentence on page 10 hit home.
But I'm not *ready* to move on... I *like* Google...
[wanders off, whining quietly]
What I haven’t yet mentioned – owing to pressing urgency of work and, um, more interesting blogging – is what greeted me on return from my scant four days away.
BLOODY ENORMOUS WEEDS.
I have mentioned my sudden, surprising (to me) and uncharacteristic (I would have thought) fascination with The Garden. This mostly has to do with amazement that I haven’t actually killed it yet. As someone who has moved through life leaving a trail of shrivelled houseplants in her wake – you’d think I would have simply stopped trying, but it’s like picking at a scab*; or perhaps I just got addicted to the horrified cries of “You killed a GERANIUM**?! But how?” – I’m constantly expecting to see my black fingers*** take effect. So far, they haven’t; as a result, watching the grass grow is very nearly riveting entertainment for me. Suspense-filled, certainly.
But it also has to do with The Weeds.
When we moved in, there was nothing but weeds, and dead grass. The first task, obviously, was to get rid of those weeds. Huge, prickly, stinging things they were, the size of your average rosebush and twice as vicious. The roots had of course spread out into a dense and intricate lacework a foot beneath the surface. This made weeding a lot of fun. No, really. It was a tough, GI Jane sort of job. I spent happy afternoons muttering “Die, bastard” as I broke yet another garden fork. It was a matter of pride to see how quickly I could fill the wheelbarrow, and to find the longest, fattest, tricksiest root to show off at the end of the day.
But the thing is, there really were a LOT of weeds. Beloved did a fine job of digging up two beds (after I had made the area accessible by removing the big nasty bramble bushes, of course), and he was wonderfully thorough. There are no more weeds growing there. At all.
In the rest of the garden, though… well, try as I might, I don’t seem to be as thorough. And I have come to suspect that all my efforts are acting as a bracing tonic to the weeds, bucking them up nicely, and aerating the soil for their growing pleasure.
So it’s war. A very personal war. Of necessity, a war of attrition; strategy and patience are key.
Every time I step into the garden, I note their positions and plan my next attack. I scan the terrain, looking for telltale green spots where no green should be. I bide my time till I think they have reached optimum size – not too big to slip out easily, not too small to grasp all relevant parts – and then I pounce. I like to think I’m getting somewhere.
But they defy me. Four miserable days, and the damn things are like triffids. Damn rain.
I’m so looking forward to the weekend.
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* Another disgusting habit I can’t seem to break. Like America’s Next Top Model.
** I mean, of course, a pelargonium. I have graduated to the ranks of those who know the difference. But I doubt I can expect the same of you lot...
*** As opposed to green, geddit?
So international condemnation of Mugabe’s latest bit of nationbuilding – violently destroying thousands of homes – is, of course, motivated by racism.
Shabir Schaik’s conviction on charges of corruption was, of course, also racially motivated. As was the pressure for Jacob Zuma to resign; as was the loud gasp of disbelief that issued forth when the idea was mooted that Zuma might be our next president. (There’s an interesting shift from race to class in this argument, but at root it’s the same: real Africans pitted against coconuts.)
We all remember, too, that the whole Aids myth was concocted by racists; a lie based on the deeper untruth that Africans are promiscuous.
It must be nice to have such a simple answer for everything. Now, if only it had any practical value in actually solving the problem...
This weekend saw Beloved Consort and I meandering through country lanes, absorbing the typically English atmosphere that infuses so much of our cultural foundations, as vistas of breathtaking natural beauty unfolded on every side.
Well, probably they did. We couldn’t see much through the thick mist and/or driving rain. I guess that was the typically English atmosphere.
No, I’m being unfair. There was at least, ooh, several hours of sunshine. Some of it even coincided with breathtaking vistas and so on. Indeed, some of it even happened at the seaside – a veritable miracle.
So I can confirm that Dorset really is remarkably pretty. And atmospheric. Leading one to think not only of Louisa Musgrave and Tess of the D’Urbervilles, but also Bilbo Baggins and Tiffany Aching. Our literary pilgrimage took in, inter alia, the following notable sites and sights:
Dorchester, better known in its fictional incarnation as Casterbridge.
Thomas Hardy’s cottage in Higher Bockhampton*. Accessible only by a leisurely stroll through verdant woodland or along a country lane. Ridiculously picturesque.
Winchester, where Jane Austen died.
Lyme Regis, where Austen spent two summers and set part of Persuasion, and of course where John Fowles set The French Lieutenant’s Woman. Apparently he still lives there, too, and I have to envy him; the place has single-handedly overturned my belief that there is no such thing as a lovely English seaside town**.
And Wincanton, which is twinned with Ankh Morpork and home to the Ankh Morpork consulate.
It wasn’t all booky stuff. We also enjoyed a fair few cream teas, admired the Durdle Door and the New Forest***, oohed and aahed over Stourhead’s landscaped gardens**** and made the obligatory stop at Stonehenge. Where we were most liberally drenched. It’s hard to experience a mystic connection with our spiritual past when you’re bent over double with a brolly between you and the awesome stones.
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* We also passed Nether Wallop, and for that matter, Middle Wallop. I do love English village names.
** As an Englishman said to me yesterday: “The English seaside resort is an acquired taste. Like salmonella.”
*** It's a thousand years old.
**** Which is the Austen novel and character where she lampoons the fashion for sticking classical temples and ancient woodlands onto new estates? Anybody?
A warm, tingly, airy sensation; lightness; freedom.
Unexpectedly paying off your entire (large) credit card bill.
And still having enough cash left over to book two holidays*.
On that note, I'm heading off for the weekend**. Beloved has returned from Death's door; the freelance deadline has been renegotiated; last-minute B&B rooms have been located***; and the BBC is promising adequate weather. Not that we believe them, mind, and "adequate" is not "good", but still.
So we're taking a tour of Dorset, which some claim is the prettiest countryside England has to offer. It's also full of Literary Resonance - Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, all that - if I don't come back spouting unusually Victorian phrasings, you'll know I haven't taken the whole thing seriously****.
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* This weekend break, plus a Trip Home for December.
** It's nothing but hiatuses here, is it? Or possibly hiati. If only we were heading to a tropical isle I could witter about hiati in Haiti. Ah well. Missed opportunity there.
** Something of a miracle, that; turns out it's jazz festival weekend in Lyme Regis.
*** Entirely possible.
