Losing time

I'm entirely surrounded by dysfunctional timepieces. There's the Ikea alarm clock, which I bought because it looked so cute, like something belonging to my grandmother. Unfortunately it works about as well as my grandmother's memory, which is to say, erratically. It needs daily winding, which is fine, because it needs daily adjustment too. I've gotten quite used to looking at it and subtracting 5 minutes or so, because it tends to run fast. Except lately, it's as likely to run slowly. Or to gain half an hour instead of 5 minutes. It's very confusing.

Then there's my Swiss watch. Which I bought in April last year. It's not a smart or expensive watch, just a fairly decent one that I happened to buy in Switzerland. Shortly thereafter, it started stopping - that sounds horribly clumsy, but that's what it did: it formed a habit of stopping, for a random duration, then it would go again. So it might be accurate, or it might have lost 20 minutes, or 5 minutes, or two hours. Of course it was still under guarantee, but that would have meant shipping it back to Switzerland, and I was pretty sure it would come back with the same problem - since almost every watch I have ever owned does this. I can take it to get fixed, be told it's fine, and have the same problem as soon as I collect the supposedly working watch. I hear a lot of people have this problem; something to do with the electromagnetic field of the wearer. It's annoying, especially because it's so erratic. My previous (cheap) watch never did this, so I'd kind of forgotten.

Anyway, so that watch was giving trouble, and I was considering sending it back for repairs, but then it stopped. Stopped stopping, that is. It ran fine. Beautifully. For at least six months. Until about a week ago, I foolishly commented to Beloved on how beautifully it was running, and how nice that was. The Very Next Day it stopped again. And has been doing so daily ever since. Now it's totally stopped, in fact; I'm leaving it alone for a while to see what happens.

Because sometimes my watches just get over themselves and start behaving. Like my evening watch - a remarkably pretty pseudo-antique item; I've never seen a watch I liked as much. But it is highly susceptible to the stopping problem. Especially in hot weather. Or very cold weather. Or when there's any damp in the air. Which is a problem in London. At the moment, that watch is working just fine. But I don't trust it. So I'll wear it, but it's not that functional, because I always feel the need to double check against a reliable source of time. Bit pointless really.

Which leaves my computer - fine if it's on, but I do have a lot more stuff to do not at my desk than at my desk. Or my cellphone, which is usually buried in a handbag or coat pocket or something, or off. Or the bedside alarm clock. So I can't really complain, there are ways for me to check the time. But it seems to be more hassle than it should be, just at present.

Plus, my internal clock seems to be on the fritz too. I keep losing hours out of the day. Thinking it's 2 o'clock and it's suddenly 5. I know there's a rational explanation - I don't pay attention, it's that simple - but it feels like all around me time is going haywire. Annoying.

I apologise for the post below

I have no recollection of typing that.

I have no alcohol tolerance.

This is a problem when living in a country with such a strong pub culture.

Sipping red wine is only glamorous to a point. I think I passed that point really early last night. Poor Beloved, waiting for me at home. I have contrition to perform. This must happen before more blogging. So, again, later.

dm

is late. 2 mch whine. fk. later.#

In the interests of workplace safety

Heed the warning signs that one of your colleagues may be a psychotic killer. I'm sure some of these will be very familiar.

Perfect

I didn't know that a custard-filled chocolate-topped doughnut was exactly what I needed right now. I didn't know that, until Lucy brought me one. Good Lucy.

Which brings me nicely to the subject I have of late been pondering: Things I don't know I want, think I don't want but do, or think I want but probably don't. Lists ahoy!

Things I think I want but don't really:
A Career (TM). I probably should, I realise, but I don't really. Getting a Career sounds like a surefire way to creeping workload overload. Boring What I want is an independent income. Which I don't have. And am not likely to get. Darn.

Another degree. Every time I talk to or hear of anyone studying anything at all, I get jealous. I think the world is full of wonderful things to learn, and universities are fun, fun places. Even home study works for me. And I feel hopelessly undereducated, with all the MAs around me. But then if I start to think of any specific thing I want to study... it's not as exciting as it should be. Unless I could spend the rest of my life studying various arts subjects at undergrad level (i.e. before it gets too bullshitty and unrelated to anything like reality). That would be fun. Expensive, pointless fun. Exactly the kind I like.

A digital camera/cameraphone. No, I actually do want one of these, but there are problems. If I get a camera, I'll never actually have it with me, or charged, when I want to snap something. If I get a cameraphone, I'll be marginally more likely to solve I'll probably end up with a lot of blurs, none of which can be deciphered without prior knowledge of the subject, which is a bit pointless really.

A glamorous, trendy wardrobe. I'd only have to lose a stone to look good in it, and that wouldn't be fun at all.

Things I think I don't want, but actually do
More energy. I feel fine the way I am, but I do spend far too much time in bed. The logic of 'If I had more energy, I'd probably have to do stuff, and I don't have the energy for that' is obviously silly and moreover, far too much like my mother for comfort.

A healthy diet. I like eating custard-filled chocolate doughnuts. They make me happy. Unfortunately I know from experience - three months of quite astonishing discipline - that eliminating wheat and sugar from my life makes me look and feel fantastic. And gives me more energy. Which I realise is quite a good thing, even if curling up under the duvet with doughnuts and knitting is much more appealing to me in my present sluggish state of mind. And then maybe I could lose a stone and look good in the glamorous wardrobe that I don' t have but think I want.

Oh, this is all getting too complicated and self-referential. I'll go do some work.

A Time Cher Apartment!

And the latest fabulously bad pun wins Glitter for Brains a spot in my linkrack. Go Glitter!

Political identity crisis

I'm very distressed. I have just read two items in the Torygraph - look, it was just lying around in the office and caught my eye, I couldn't help it - and bollox to it, I find myself completely agreeing with the implied indignation/incredulity. That's all wrong.

But then, how can I not be incredulous, and indignant, about the idea that at the same time as introducing gigantic supercasinos around the country, they want to limit the size of teddy bears to be won at the seaside? Because you wouldn't want to encourage the kiddywinkies to gamble. No sir. Leave that to their parents, who have more dosh.

I retain some sense of superiority to the reactionary journo, however, on noting that he was unable to resist (or possibly, did not even consider avoiding) the delightful phrase 'nanny state gone mad'. Google count: 32,800. Can we say 'heinous cliche'?

While in possibly the reverse situation - sandal-wearing hippie liberal state gone mad, anyone? - we have a thief being allowed to claim the cost of a gun as a legitimate business expense. As if burglary were a legitimate business.

These lawyers are crazy.

Don't say I never do anything for you

For those readers who insist on accusing me of being a Smug Married (look, it may be true, but just shurrupalready, okay?) (What's that? You will if I will? Have you no spirit of romance? Don't you like hearing about Twoo Wuv? What - AAAHHhhh... *splat*)

[Picks self up. Dusts off cyberanvil debris. Pushes head back into shape.]

Well. I give you this.

Just in time for Valentine's Day.

Paradoxymoron

You'd think that this would be a fun way of resolving all sorts of binary oppositions, once and for all. But it all comes down to numbers - so naked beats clothed? Well of course it does. How many web pages do you think feature, say, "clothed women" rather "hot naked babes? Sigh. Yet by its own rules, quality beats quantity. Bit pointless then isn't it?

Anyhoo. Anniversary dinner was lovely, thanks for asking. Followed by a fillum called The Forgotten, which should be. Still, when I grow up, I wanna be Julianne Moore.

Ooh-er

Don't laugh now, this is personal, and I'm a bit scared. Which is silly. But there it is.

I’ve come over all insecure after reading this – a very sharp Guardian feature on money issues in relationships. Which we don’t have. I don’t think. We fall into the painfully anal category, keeping close track of who pays what and who owes who what; and while I’ve been on a low-level campaign for most of the relationship to relax things just a little, for the sake of convenience, generally it works pretty well for both of us. We’ve never shared everything, but it feels like we do. It’s worked when we were both earning, it’s worked when only I was earning, it’s worked when only Armin was earning. It even worked when Armin was earning double what I was, although that was maybe special circumstances, because he was saving very hard to study – so we were both effectively on the same budget. It has occurred to me that renegotiation might be in order if/when we have a significant, long-term disparity in income (i.e. if one of us finds ourselves in a remarkably well-paying career). But that’s for then.

Now suddenly I find myself wondering how on earth it would work if I did the usual wife thing and had a baby. It could happen. It’s not on the agenda, but it could happen. I’m pretty clear in my own mind that I don’t want to be working full-time and raising kids as well – nuh-uh. (Then again I’m not even working full-time now. So.) That way madness lies. I think Beloved understands this. So: what are the financial implications? Do we still try to keep separate finances? Do we share everything? Does Beloved give me an allowance? Do I keep a tab of what I owe him, for repayment at some future date?

Each of these options, as detailed so clinically in the article, is completely weird. Especially to me.

Well. There is an easy solution after all, and it’s one that I rather like. No babies. Phew! That solves so many problems.

Warm fuzzy feelings

It’s a fine Saturday night in Cape Town, just before the start of my final year at university. I’m in a right strop because I have to go to a dull party – can’t get out of it because I ran into the host earlier and, not having a good excuse to hand, had to say ‘but of course I’ll be there’. And I have no one to go with*.

‘Go, it’ll be fune, maybe you’ll meet a guy,’ say flatmates helpfully. ‘Not at this party,’ I sniff. But I get all dressed up, complain loudly about how fabulous I look (I’m having a thin week) and with no one to appreciate me, and trot off.

Six hours later, I’m back home. With a boy. I’m feeding him hot chocolate and, under the ultra-flimsy pretext of wanting to read my short stories, he’s getting my phone number. He finishes the drink, leans in and kisses me goodnight – a light, luscious, deeply sexy kiss. He leaves.

I don’t sleep a wink.

Next morning, the flatmates have to laugh at me because I’m sitting in my dressing gown, staring into space with the goofiest grin you can imagine. There’s a photo to prove it. This continues for some time. Because I know, with unreasonable and unshakeable certainty, that this is It. This is my partner for the rest of my life.

It’s now 2,922 days, and manymany sexy kisses, later. It’s our eighth anniversary.

I am very happy.

_____
*And thereby hangs a tale. But not for publication.

I'm learning

...to get clever. Only a little bit clever, but then, I'm just starting to learn. First step: I have added a little link rack (look right, down a bit, under recent posts and before archives... there you go). Some blogs I read fairly obsessively, and the second bunch are blogs of people I actually know. Still to come, lots more links.

Oh, and they'll open in new windows, too. Hot diggity, I'm clever.

What I really want to know, though, is: how do I make... thingies... you know, when you hold the pointer over a link and some wise words pop up telling you what that's about? How do I do that? And what's it called? Probably if I knew what it was called I could find out how to do that. I bet it would be a good start.

Don't believe it, won't believe it

Never mind independent bookshops, this here bloke is predicting the end of all bookshops - even Amazon. Nooooooo!

Things to make you go mmmmm!

It's a beautiful day. Crisp, sparkling air, ridiculously clear blue sky, and it's almost mild. A day to make you think hm, I think I've heard of this thing called spring, and now that you mention it, the days are getting longer... Not that I'm so foolish as to imagine it'll come anytime soon, you understand; I've been around, I'm sussed, I know there's at least a couple three months of winter left. Brrrr. But there's a theoretical possibility of a change of weather. Which is nice.

Although if we don't get some snow first, I'll sulk.

But it is a beautiful day, and I had a good workout (yay me!), and on the way back from gym I saw that there's a charity shop about to open on Lamb's Conduit Street. Which is excellent news, because here in London town, the stock of charity shops tends to directly reflect the neighbourhood they're in. And Bloomsbury's exactly the right sort of neighbourhood, and Lamb's Conduit is exactly the right sort of street, to maximise my chances of finding Cool Stuff. There won't be any £150 Max Mara coats, like at the Cancer Research shop in Marylebone High Street, but there also won't be a preponderance of Marks & Sparks, like in most Oxfams. So that made me happy too.

So it's a beautiful day, and I went to gym, and I've just eaten a hot cross bun to negate any dangerous side effects of gymming (like weight loss; we don't want me wasting away. Oh, we do? Oh... ), and I have a new thrift shop to look forward to, and any day now - any day - the latest Vogue Knitting should be popping through my letterbox. And I have some freelance work to do, which is a tiresome distraction from knitting, but very welcome income boost. And last night I finally made it past the planning/swatching/calculating stage and cast on a full 192 stitches, and the nobbly-bobbly-holey tunic has begun. I knit again.

Aside: I'm trying to knit like a grown-up now. This means resisting the temptation to just get started and work it out as I go along; it means swatching, and planning, and writing out as much as possible of the pattern before I start, and it also means keeping one page for rough calculations and another to record what I actually do (because usually I make notes, and scribbles, and changes, all on one page, and then when I come to knit the next piece, for some mysterious reason I get confused. Strange), and drawing a schematic right at the start to show what measurements I'm trying to work with. Very grown-up.

And I have discovered something fascinating about swatching. I always treated swatches as purely a tension test, or possibly a sample to see whether I liked a particular stitch pattern, but not much of that. But with my last few efforts, I tried also to approach it in the proper grown-up designer way, to see what happens if I use these colours, or try that pattern change, and whether these yarns actually do work together at all. It's been remarkably enlightening. Because what always seems to happen is this: I do a swatch, I make a few improvements, I finally finish with a pretty good idea of what works and what doesn't, and I put it aside with a revised plan in my head and go to sleep. And then I wake up with, not just a good idea, but the fully formed absolute certainty of what's right or wrong, and what to do about it (give up, in one case, until I have a different yarn selection). Which bears only the most tenuous relation to the plan I had before bed. Somewhere in my subconscious, there's a bunch of elves scribbling away on the drawing board, fixing things for me while I sleep. I like that. They're much smarter than me.

Er, yes, so. There is knitting to do, and magazines to anticipate, and work to finish. And it's a beautiful day. And the only thing that would make it better would be if Beloved were awake to enjoy it with me, and not working night shift all weekend. But he is (sigh). But that means some more money. So that's good too.

It's a good day.

The importance of research

Gore Vidal gets to write on the Vanity Fair website this month on the subject 'Was Lincoln bisexual?' As far as I can tell the answer given seems to be 'No, he was fully gay, but what could he do but marry and pretend, poor lad.' What I love most, though, is that Vidal - who's no better at sticking to the point than I am - gets to slip in the following:

'In 1948, Alfred C. Kinsey published Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. He also wrote me a note of appreciation for my "work in the field".'

Isn't that every man's dream?

Paid popination*

Something to look forward to: Beloved and I are off for a free meal tonight. I love mystery shopping. We also got to see a free movie last Friday. And tomorrow I'm going to watch Vanity Fair, though sadly not for free. Ooh, and tomorrow night we will be playing Gracious Hosts, showing a few friends around our Bloomsbury** broom closet. You could almost imagine I have a social life.
____
*Yes, this entire post is motivated only by the desire to use today's worthless word. Watch out for more of the same. And look! I get to alliterate too!
**St Pancras. But who's checking.

1/8W+(D-d) 3/8xTQ MxNA

That's the formula that makes 24 January the most miserable day of the year, apparently; and this year it falls on a Monday, too. Bummer. "Foul weather, debt, fading Christmas memories, failed resolutions and a lack of motivation conspire to depress," according to the BBC. Well, lucky for me, I don't have to go to work. For the rest of you: well, just be pleased that if that's the peak of misery (or nadir, rather), from Tuesday on it'll all get better. Probably.

It's just occurred to me

I love telling stories. Not so much the fairytale, amuse-the-children kind, because I have no imagination and would rather read out a well written version of a classic (or indeed brand new classic) than try to remember or invent one. But I do like telling anecdotes. Stories about me - because as I think someone clever once said, we are all endlessly fascinating to ourselves - and about my friends, because they're pretty cool too. Of course, because I have the attention span of a fruit fly, I always forget who I've told my stories to. And I'm really bad at editing, or staying on-topic. So truth be told, I'm just addicted to boring a captive audience. Well, but now I have a blog! Perfect storytelling stage! And you don't have to listen you know. Don't stop me if you've heard this before - just run along to the next blog.

In the meantime, have I told you about the evangelist on the bus who revealed the great cosmic secret: God is a bureaucrat?

There was I, minding my own business on the number 25, squidged up unnecessarily intimately against my fellow commuters, as is usual on that route. Nose in a book, not paying much attention to anything, till slowly some fragments of my neighbours' conversation percolated through my consciousness, and I was hooked.

Dramatis personae:
Evangelist - young, smartly dressed, articulate.
Victim - young, slightly less smartly dressed but still respectable. Much less chatty. Polite, receptive, but slightly confused as to why this person is talking to him.

[Monologue, conducting in businesslike tones as befitting someone discussing, say, a visa application, gradually fades up and phrases like 'Matthew 4 verse 28' are heard.]
Evangelist: ...it's very important to be saved. Have you been saved?
Victim: Er... yes?
E: I mean, have you been baptised? As an adult?
V: Yes.
E: What were the exact words?
V: ...?
E: Do you remember what words were used? Did they say 'I baptise you in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit?'
V: [confident] Yes.
E: I'm sorry, that's not valid. You'll need to get baptised again. It's not your fault, I thought I was baptised for years before I found out it was done wrong. You have to be saved to get into heaven. I wouldn't want to be the one who dies and finds out he's not getting in. That's the worst thing. Where do you live?
V: [baffled but polite] ...Hackney.
E: You can go to this church, it's on the Mile End Road. [Hands over flyer.] It's very good, they have very good people. They'll get you into heaven. Do you know how to be a Christian? I mean, do you know the commandments?
V: Yes.
E: How many commandments are there?
V: Ten.
E: No, there are one hundred and ninety-eight.
V: ...Oh.
E: One hundred and ninety-eight. The Bible tells you everything about how to live if you want to get into heaven, it tells you how to dress and so on. You have to dress very smart, like Jesus did. Do you wear a tie every day?
V: I wear a tie to work.
E: You have to wear a suit and tie every day.
V: [cheerful now, ready to draw the line] Not every day!
E: Yes, if you want to get into heaven, it says so in the Bible. And women must wear long dresses and cover their hair, like this. [Brings out flipfile, shows photos of faithful worshippers.] This is how women dressed in Jesus' day. Only the worst kind of women left their hair uncovered. Women should dress like this, to show respect for Jesus. Come to church, we'll explain it to you. Here's my card. [Writes mobile number on card.] Don't forget. Come on Sunday.
V: This is my stop.
E: Okay. Have a nice day.
[Exit victim. Evangelist proceeds to take notes as after a sales meeting.]

This is unfortunately a much abbreviated version of the full conversation - there are limits to my memory - and there was much more about how important it is to get into heaven in the original. Also more detail about the exact, and very specific requirements. But I was fascinated by two things. One, where in the Bible does it tell you to wear a tie, like Jesus did? And two, why isn't it more widely known that to get into heaven, you just have to fulfil the requirements as outlined in leaflet D14.23? As long as you fill out the form right, and wear a tie, your visa will be approved. Easy, isn't it?

Lost in a good bookshop

In a postscript to my Evil Capitalism, er, post, below, I think I'll talk about independent bookshops.

Sigh. Honestly now, aren't those two words by themselves enough to give you a warm glowy feeling? Bookshops. Independent. The way they should be. With lots of good books, a sense of personality, and not a Starbucks (or Seattle Coffee Company) in sight. (Not that I'm opposed to combining coffee with books. In fact I think a nice coffee-cum-bookshop is one of the nicest things in the world*. But 'nice' is the operative word, and at Starbucks, does not apply.)

It's great to have lots of books available, really it is. It's great that enough Englishers read books, and read enough books, to ensure a vast number of bookshops on every high street. And from a purely consumerist point of view, it's great to have such competition that you hardly ever have to pay full price for anything remotely popular (what with all the special discounts and 3-for-2 paperbacks). From the author's point of view, however, I understand there are serious problems with this situation. And obviously the same applies to independent booksellers. And there's something distressing about marketing books as something close to disposables. And, well, you may have noticed, below, that I'm not all that keen on a purely consumerist perspective, anyhoo.

So I've made it a rule to only buy books (almost always in hardcover; I'm snobby that way) from nice shops. Because they deserve it. Luckily I'm spoilt; not only is Bloomsbury crammed with gorgeous secondhand and bargain bookstores (but independent bargains, which is allowed), I can also take a very short bus ride to Foyles or - pinnacle of bookish delight - Daunt. My oh my. How I love Daunt. Still, Foyles has those discounts (hard to resist really), and often, signed copies. So Foyles gets a visit or two also. It's still not Daunt, though.

And by the by, I was in Daunt last night, and for the First Time Ever! managed to leave without buying anything. Be proud. Be very proud.

_____
*And like most other bibliophiles, my secret ambition is to earn a living from running the Perfect Bookshop - with squashy leather couches, warm wooden shelves, home-made cakes and, in my case, luxury yarns in the corner. It could work, right? I call it Cocoon.

For the record

Due to public demand [ahem]*, herewith a brief discourse on the word 'diva'. (I feel I should really be leaving this to the expert, but there it is, I can't disappoint my public.)

'Diva' is not a synonym for 'female singer'. You actually have to have a talent for singing. And be older than 16. And have a whole Concorde-load of charisma, I might add. Thusly, even after 40 years, the likelihood of Natasha Bedingfield ever being deserving of the moniker is a little slender.

Not that I have anything against Natasha, you understand. Poor dear. Just another blonde popster, not a hope in hell of standing out from the crowd. Not like Rachel Stevens then. (Oooh... did I really just say that? Dammit, so much for secret guilty pleasures.)

Oh well. It's not like I have taste after all. Still love Dido although every Serious Music Critic tells me not to. [sigh] Just as well I have no aspirations to be a music critic then. Fillums, I know. Fillums, I have great taste in. After all Mars Attacks! is not just my personal choice for best alien comedy ever, it was universally lauded.

Wasn't it?

_____
*Look at me, Scroobious Superblogger! I have a public! They demand! Wheeee! ... well, just the one really, and an oldest bestest** friend can't really be considered my 'public', but indulge me, okay?
**Apart from all you other oldest, bestest friends. Obviously.

Oh, please let it be true. Please.

Postmaterialism? Bring it on. Maybe it has something to do with lacking spare cash for the past two years, but I'm less and less interested in shopping* (not that I was ever that dedicated); I trooped through a few sales yesterday for the form of the thing (well, I could use new shoes, and it would be nice to find that perfect party dress) but truth be told, it was more of a relief than otherwise to find nothing interesting.

And I too find myself rubbing hands in secret glee when reading of the travails of estate agents and high street stores. Housing is ridiculously overpriced, and there is just way too much crap on sale. It staggered me when I first arrived in London; I tried to explain to a friend in SA just how much stuff there was available, and she was deeply puzzled. Why would you want stuff you don't need, she asked. Exactly so. While it's quite fun to be able to choose from, let's say, 30 different pepper grinders (a semi-conservative guess as to the number I might find on a trawl through John Lewis, Habitat, Ikea etc), do we really need that much choice? To say nothing of the tatty end of the market - the overwhelming amount of novelty goods and cheap 'fashion' available on the wrong end of Oxford Street is unutterably depressing. If you don't think so, imagine the human energy that goes into dreaming up, manufacturing, packing and selling these ugly disposable products. Not to mention the natural and economic resources. Surely there's a better use for all that. Just because we have money, here in the practically-full-employment UK, doesn't mean it makes sense for the 'invisible hand' to push all the country's (world's?) resources into yet more stuff to sell to people without any real needs.

I despair of economics.

And while we're on the subject. Gift shops. I have never understood gift shops. A whole shop devoted to 'gifts'. If there isn't any better way of classifying their products, it leads me to suspect that what it really sells is stuff that nobody would actually want to buy for themselves, but that will do at a push for stuffing giftwrap. And who would want to receive something like that? Is there anything more depressing than a gift shop?

_____
*not quite the same as being uninterested in stuff, I must confess. Still loving my shiny new office toy. And o'course there's nothing like the thrill of a large bag of lusciously coloured, soft textured yarns. And clothes, oh yes, I love new clothes. Hate shopping for them though. But I can't quite claim to be a fully converted postmaterialist. Sadly.

Hypochondria alert

How would you know if you had a blood clot, say, in your leg? I just want to know. I have a tendency to occasionally imagine that there is no other explanation for whatever random pain I'm experiencing - especially after longhaul flights and so on. But I'm not about to haul off to a doctor so that she can clip me over the ear for wasting her time. Because after all, if I did have a blood clot, I almost certainly wouldn't know about it, because I have absolutely no bloody idea what the symptoms would be.

So I'm sure that I do not, in fact, have blood clot issues. All the same... it would be nice to know.

In other random health news, I have a persistent and severely uncomfortable ache in my general tailbone region. Ouch. I read yesterday that oversleeping is liable to cause lower back pain from inactivity. But surely that's not why I've been suffering for the past week. Surely.

Fun extraction, continued

Oh it's just too much. There's nothing healthy to eat at all. Not even salad. Really, it's obvious that if you smother it in mayo it's not exactly calorie-free, but do they have to go so far as to say: "Well, enjoy it, but then have a light supper to make up for indulging in *gasp* a fatty salad"? [bawls, stamps foot, drums fist on desk]

I'm just going to have to give in to the patented Health Pizza (TM) concept. And remember, good dark chocolate has more antioxidants than red wine. So clearly if I live on pizza, chocolate and rioja, I will be glowing, darling, absolutely glowing.

Oh, darn (heehee!)

I could pretend to be upset. I could tut tut and say things like, "Well really, I try to be healthy, I have a nice granola breakfast, and then this!" I could attempt to complain about having my non-existent diet sabotaged. But then, you wouldn't believe me, would you?

Free pastries. Mmmmm. That's the way to kick off my week, thankewverymuch.

(Left over from someone's breakfast meeting, apparently. Yum. Definitely a perk of working on the same floor as the suits.)

What next? What next? [KC]

Having finished the stripalicious jezz (yes yes, picture coming, coming dear) I had planned to make another colourful and delightful project, vaguely inspired by pretty Chinese jackets as seen in Flying Daggers et al. I had all the details planned out. I had the yarn, too, four colours that go together spectacularly well (blue, purple, gold and silver; but nice subtle blue and purple, I promise). I was really looking forward to that. Then I swatched it, and damn, but the silvery cotton is waaaay too heavy to go with the others. Damndamndamn. So i started thinking about a nice little black lacy thing that had also been simmering in the back of my head, with clever detachable funfur collar. But when I started swatching it up, well, it's nice and all, but it just seems so three years ago darling, sorry... so I mentally changed the style completely, keeping the lacy stitches but making a nice trendy wrap cardigan. Ooh, now that's something.

But somewhere along the line I'd gotten much more excited by the idea of a 'ballerina aran' (as will be featured in Vogue Knitting's spring/summer edition; how next season!) and now that's what I want to do. Well, sort of; I ditched the ballerina styling for a long tunic, but kept the lightweight, sexy concept. It will be a beautifully detailed sweater/dress with sexy cutout bits to keep Beloved happy (he's always whining that I should do sexy knitting). In some ways I see this as the descendant of my infamous brown jersey. Which I still love, people, so be nice. But this will be less sloppy, much better finished and, well, a lot more trendy and sexy. I hope.

And plus I have advance plans for those blue and purple cottons - one a sexy lace wrap (as above), one a fairly simple, soft, textured jezz. I'm trying to think of a way to update the shaping or something of the textured item; I keep coming up with things, but really, it's a very soft, light fabric, I can't do clever structured jackets or anything. So will keep pondering for a while.

In the meantime, Designing Knitwear arrived from Amazon this morning - fantastic book! How have I lived without it so long? Full of useful info and inspiration. Completely unlike the Knitting Stitch Bible, which also arrived, and will be sent back pronto. A whole book with hundreds of stitches, and only one of them is not desperately boring. Admittedly that one is stupendous; but still - one! Out of hundreds!

Sigh. Sorry to be so boringly knittified - hence the [Knitting Content] code above; watch out for it in future posts. I had a pretty quiet weekend, see. Beloved working (mostly night shifts, but on Saturday he kicked off with a final shift at Coffee, Cake and Kink, leaving him just enough time to come home for supper before 12 hours at Sky. Ouch), so I was home alone, and very damn lazy. I mean there were all these great movies on TV. (ET! Grease! Austin Powers!) And me with swatching to do.

Actually I did do two non-knitting things: first, on Friday, we donned our capes and masks and went to do the mystery shopping thang at Leicester Square. I have to report that while the movie was great (The Incredibles - more masks and a handful of capes; definitely the best Pixar yet, and you know that's high praise indeed), the cinema experience was terrible on a number of levels. So we complained, and complaints were more-or-less dealt with; but Beloved was so incensed, he could not resist telling the manager that 'I will tell all my friends not to come here, and - and - this will have repercussions beyond tonight!' Sigh. Poor dear loves power so. Not so hot at maintaining cover, though.

And on Saturday I went to get my dad a computer (£199! bargain!) and picked up a little something for myself. So, when Beloved wakes up and plugs it in for me (because I'm lazy), I will be playing with my shiny new printer/scanner/copier. Yeeha! It's so little and cute! And I can scan knitting designs and stuff! ...Oh, I guess that is a knitting thing after all... Right, so I did one non-knitting thing this weekend. That's still something.

How the mighty have fallen

Tenth. Out of 15. Tenth.

This is really not the way for pub quiz champions to defend their title.

[crosses arms, sticks out lower lip, frowns]

Let the love wars begin

Those sick, sick military minds.

I just read in New Scientist that declassified US documents reveal plans for a number of chemical weapons that would, for instance, make victims' - er, enemy combatants' - skin unbearably sensitive to sunlight. Or - for instance - release an aphrodisiac, making enemy combatants strongly sexually attracted to each other, in a 'distasteful but non-lethal' blow to morale. ('Ew! You're gay! Oh no, so am I! Ew! How can we fight those strong, manly US soldiers when we are unable to fight the evil within us?' ... or something.)

Which raises so many questions. Like, have they not read about the Greek theory that soldiers actually fought better alongside the men they loved? Sorry, stupid question, we're talking about army types here aren't we, and American army types at that. Don't read. Never mind. Next question: how sex-obsessed are these guys to even think of this? Wait, again, army types, never mind.

Next question. And this one really is my favourite. If they had the capability to do this - if they actually thought they could produce chemicals to create an overpowering sexual attraction - why the hell didn't they bottle the stuff and sell it to perfume manufacturers? I'm sure the profits would keep the defence department going for decades and release the taxpayer of a mighty burden.

[wails of laughter]

Ha ha, no, sorry [wipes eyes] ... that really is a hell freezing over scenario, isn't it. Army sucking less money from the state. What a picture. [wheeze]

All hail the god of pharmaceuticals!

I have always said, no matter how much I look like I was born a few hundred years too late, there are two reasons I'm very glad to be living when I am: plumbing, and medicine. I like toilets, I like hot running water, and I really like knowing that whatever dread disease I may develop, I am never likely to find myself biting on a stick while some brandy-soaked barber hacks me open with a rusty razor*.

But right now I also really, really, really like extra-strength Disprin. Yesterday I developed horrid muscle aches (probably coming down with the flu, after all, it has been a month hasn't it?); by this morning it had developed into truly evil back pain and an insidious headache**. Then I popped the magic pills. La! I feel fine!

Let's hear it for painkillers - RAH!
*shakes pompom*

___
*Fascinating true story: the world record for amputation speed was held by one London chap who lopped off a leg in 35 seconds. Unfortunately, he also managed to lop off the victim's - er, I mean patient's - right testicle, and three fingers from the assistant who was holding him down. All three - surgeon, assistant and patient - died. Blood poisoning.
**beep beep. Is that my Karma Call?

Damn, I fell for it

Last night I found myself - entirely accidentally, you understand - watching Celebrity Big Brother. And for the first time ever, actually enjoying it. (Thus far, my reality TV watching has been limited, but obsessive: US Survivor, Joe Millionaire and America's Next Top Model. I think that's all.) Big Brother in any form or country has never appealed. Until now. Possibly this has to do with the fact that for once, I actually know four of the contestants - well, three, since Germaine Greer left. (And what was she thinking? Honestly? What did she expect? It's not like she hadn't given any thought to the crapness of BB before.)

Anyway, Germaine's gone, but that still leaves Caprice, Brigitte Nielsen, a bunch of people I don't know (including two distinctly cute boys and one creepy old guy) and - ta-da! - Jackie Stallone. Jackie makes it all worth while. Just looking at her is entertainment enough. Being hit with the ugly stick is one thing, paying a surgeon to do the hitting is quite another. And then she talks. My oh my. She cleared the dinner table singlehandedly (no, she didn't actually do anything useful like clear the dishes, she just talked and the others all left). I think all her brains have been injected into her lips, but the poor dear seems to think she can tell Big Brother a thing or two about Culture. Which, apparently, means champagne or at least chardonnay with meals ('I've never in my life had dinner without some fine wine,' she whines), and a little brandy to ensure they sleep well. Because of course that's what BB is all about. Watching people sleep. Yes, she tells BB, I realise that everything we get is at your discretion, but I demand that we have some wine at our discretion. Luverly.

Even better was her complaint about her fellow housemates. 'I was told I'd be sharing this house with eight of the most brilliant people in Britain,' she grumps. 'I thought there'd be, like, Bill Gates or something.'

You know the best thing about that? How much she sounds like Germaine Greer, saying 'I didn't realise the kind of people who'd be in here with me. It's wrong for me to present myself in the same context as them.'

Excuse me, I have to go stop laughing now.

Well I thought I had something

To say, that is. But my head's not working properly today and it's gone. Maybe I'm coming down with something, just in time for the pub quiz tomorrow. I ache all over and I'm ridiculously tired and I feel stoopid.

But enough grumbling. I did have a great idea* earlier, inspired by a rather worrying blend of epicaricacy** with 'why does this happen to me?' type thoughts***. If we assume, for the sake of argument, that what goes around comes around; and we know that nobody believes themselves to be a bad person; then it's a logical conclusion (well, it is to me) that there will be bad people, to whom bad things happen in the course of karmic wossname, who are utterly confounded by their misfortune. Now, wouldn't it be nice**** if they could be told why they deserved this? As for instance: you crashed your car because you're a big fat bully. Or, your dog has died because you don't deserve it anyway, you selfish person you.

Or perhaps something more specific and indeed, helpful, to assist in the noble journey of self-improvement we are all embarked on. Imagine if you could subscribe to a text service. Picture it: "Oh dear, I've mysteriously put on 2kg, how could this happen? [phone beeps] Look, it's my Karma Call! [reads] 'You made bitchy comments about the fat waitress in an audible tone.' Oh, I see now that was wrong, I will never do it again.' " Honestly now, isn't that a good idea?

Look, I'm having a bad day, forgive me. I'm sure I'll be struck down with tonsillitis for expressing these uncharitable thoughts. And I'm sure I'll get some Karma Call emails to point that out to me.

____
* If by 'great' you mean 'nasty, pointless and more than a bit creepy', which of course you do.
** Yes, it's a word. Look it up. Who said Schadenfreude was a specifically German concept?
*** What's the word for that? I know there is one. What is it? Please?
**** Again, 'nice' in a particularly vicious sort of way.

Why thank you!

New jezz gets first public outing today. Two unsolicited compliments so far. (And one very much solicited, and long distance, and without benefit of actually seeing jezz, so that probably doesn't count... but I needed it.) I am most pleased.

And I do have actual posts with actual content up my (very colourful and perfectly fitted) sleeve, which will manifest as soon as I have some time. Promise.

I can knit! Who knew?

I finally got something right. The stripadelic tunic is done and she is lurvly. (Pics to come - watch this space.) Fits like a dream, very clever (but dead easy) curvalicious stylings, stripes are fabulous, I'm excessively pleased with myself.

About bloody time.

O'course the innards are slightly less divine; 'twas my first experience trying to stitch up something stripey and I got the hang of it rather late. Now I know just how to tackle the problem, but by the time I next do stripes, I'll probably forget it entirely. Damn. Still, it looks professional enough from the outside. I just hope the knots don't unravel and create a Swiss cheese styling. (While I was sewing it up I read an article about how 'everybody knows' you shouldn't have any knots in knitting, ever. Well. Bit late now. And I'm not entirely convinced about knotless yarn switches, but okay, I'll give it a bash next time.)

Pause while I spend the rest of the day writing up the pattern, including three different sizes. Gah. Wish me luck. How did I do that again...

Is it too late to ask Santa?

There's merchandising, and then there's merchandising. Every now and then someone in the 'find all kinds of crap to sell people who like the movie' department has a stroke of genius. First, there was the Nimbus 2000, for female Harry Potter fans of all ages; too bad they had to discontinue it*.

But last night I saw something I really, really want. It's the closest thing you'll get to a real Stitch (of Lilo & fame): a Stitch hand puppet. I can't find one on the web, tragically (this particular item was bought at Disneyworld Florida. Or is it Disneyland? Whatever). Closest I can find is this, but this is obviously a puppet, I mean it doesn't have feet or anything. The one I saw looked like a regular plushie. But the genius of it is, once you stick your hand up his bum, he's alive! I would not have thought I could get so excited by a plush toy. (Then again I was three or four vodkas down by that stage.) It was fetish territory. Seriously. I have to have one. I just have to. Maybe I should start planning a trip to Florida... or would that be going just a little bit overboard?

Ooh! Must start begging favours of anyone I know in the US!

_____
*Spoilsports. Why shouldn't a 12-year-old have a vibrator?

Prophetic? No? Yes?

Things about today that are not at all like last night's dream:

My teeth are not in fact falling out in flaky, rotting chunks*.

I am not at an airport wondering how a large, inflatable (make that inflated) giraffe made it into my luggage, or for that matter why I suddenly have a whole extra suitcase. I probably should have been wondering where I was going. But I wasn't.

I do not have an overweight, mentally handicapped 13-year-old** attached like a limpet to my lefthand side, severely impeding my typing efforts and leading to unusually intense press day stress.

Things that are exactly like in my dream:

I looked up at exactly 4.30 and realised with a panic that while everything seemed to be going very smoothly all day, the past two hours had mysteriously vanished, important things had not been done and deadlines were not so much looming as ambushing me with evil laughter.

Admittedly, there wasn't the dead weight of the attention-seeking kid to exacerbate matters. But otherwise, exactly the same.

I guess that should have been predictable for the first press day of the year.

____
* I've heard that dreaming of your teeth falling out reveals castration anxiety. Being as I'm a girl, I imagine it's rather more revealing of my fear of losing my teeth.

** Not a random dream kid, someone I used to work with, back in the days when I worked with handicapped kids. This particular little blighter had severe speech difficulties and was almost entirely unable to form coherent words. He could swear like a trooper though. I was very fond of him.

Resolution? Revolution!

In recent years my new year's resolution making evolved from the standard promise-everything-do-nothing formula, via a carefully structured (but still ultimately useless) month-by-month Life Improvement Plan, to adjustable Goals for the Year (revised on a monthly basis). This last system had the advantage, I found, that by year-end it looked a lot as though I had achieved all my goals - largely as a result of having revised them downwards bit by bit. Never mind. It's a system, and I'm continuing with it. (My list of goals is rather shorter this year.)

However, it has occurred to me that goals are all very well, but resolutions are more fun, creating the intoxicating image as they do of a New Improved Scrivener to hold in mind's eye. Forget realism. I'm reintroducing proper fantasy resolutions to my life.

Resolution # 1: I will Not Be Sick. Frankly, I spent enough time snuffling in bed last year to tide me over for the rest of the decade. Henceforth sickness will not be tolerated, sign of weakness that it is; I will quell any nasty bugs with large amounts of over-the-counter drugs and sheer force of will. Don't laugh when you see me wandering the city redeyed and rednosed, brandishing echinacea bottles and mansized tissues, shouting 'We will nevah, nevah surrender!' Or I'll sneeze on you.

Resolution # 2: I will be Glamorous. I will never appear in public without properly filed and buffed nails, polished boots, ironed blouse and smooth, squeaky clean hair. I will maintain an iridescent shimmer, a glow of barely there make-up between me and the world. I will wear stockings, not pantihose, because what's underneath counts. I will wear a mysterious smile and speak in genteel, low tones, pleasing to the ear. I will endeavour to uphold at all times the ideals of Forties Femininininininity (sorry, got a bit carried away there). Why? Because it looked good in Malena. Even if she did come to a bad end.

Also, glamorous people don't eat, it doesn't look nice. They just sip cocktails and smoke. I don't smoke, however, so I'm hoping nibbling on expensive dark chocolates will be an acceptable substitute.

Resolution # 3: yet to be decided. All suggestions will be given due consideration.

My mum's gone all techie

Well, actually she hasn't at all. Except inasmuch as she always has been a bit of a computer fiend. But that's her problem, and nothing to do with this post. This post is quite different. This post is all about the notice in the staff kitchen that says: SPIKED?

When I was a teenager, I remember hearing lots and lots of dire warnings from my mother (and uncle, and grandparents; they were a Dire Warning kind of family) that going out to a disco, or similar, almost certainly meant having sinister strangers (or even sinister friends) put Something in your drink. I was never quite clear on what this something was, but formed the general impression that my mother believed I would leave the premises irrecoverably hooked on some dangerous drug. As a result (of this and other, dafter things) I concluded my mother was extremely silly and I could never believe a word she said.

Then came the age of Rohypnol, and now the Mum that is Occupational Health & Safety is putting up posters in the kitchen warning me not to let anyone buy me a drink, or indeed get close to any drink I may have independently bought for myself. What's more, they are claiming to have 'a limited number' of gadgets that will somehow, mysteriously, let me know if my drink has in fact been spiked. How very peculiar.

I can't decide whether I am more curious to know how on earth such a gadget would work (I don't want to be dropping foreign objects in my glass, do I? That would be weird); or to know whether anybody actually asked for one of them. And if the limited number were in fact snapped up in record time, does that make my colleagues paranoid? Or me foolhardy?

Scary peek inside a workmate's head

Random lunch conversation: who would you be, if you could (had to) be someone from the Wars? (This being England, of course, there are only two Wars under discussion.) I said Mata Hari, no contest; if you gotta be in a war, pick the sexy, exotic character who's not actually shooting or being shot at, most of the time. Plus, she probably got the best nosh.

Batshit workmate Lucy said, a kinky SS girl. Okay, I'm thinking, dominatrix stuff, shiny boots, fine. Yes, she says, she really wants to be able to torture people.

Oh.

Yes, with a long cigarette holder, and lots and lots of red lipstick, and suspenders. And the hairstyle with two plaits over the top of the head.

Well, we were all agreed that the plaits made it quite charming.

But then again with the torturing. Torturing Irish people, and scousers, and Arsenal fans. And making lampshades of their skin.

At which point we steered the conversation rapidly towards amusing forms of torture. Like charades, and karaoke, but with a German accent, ja. And so to Rolf Harris.

It was the best we could do.

What a year. Was it?

Think of it as diary haiku: describe your year (past, not upcoming) in 20 words or less. Give the matter some consideration, remember to include the beginning of it, and you may surprise yourself - I found that one great memory had gotten kinda buried under later stress. It restores the balance a little. And please email me your submissions. Ta.

Compassionate one-upmanship

Three minutes' silence? Why three? Once upon a time, a minute was the standard gesture. At some point, two became considered appropriate. Today it's three. I'm all in favour of shared symbolic gestures, but this is a little weird. Not to mention setting a worrying precedent. Disasters are bound to happen, man-made or natural, and at this rate we'll end up with a sliding scale from 1 to 10 - how many minutes any given tragedy earns will be a complicated matter calling for weeks, nay months, of diplomacy and leaving a nasty, sour taste long after as the Daily Mail slugs it out with the Guardian over whether the six minutes settled on was too long, too short or just enough time to display the necessary sympathy for those affected by, say, the San Andreas fault coming over all funny and tossing a chunk of California into the sea, but narrowly missing San Francisco's richer suburbs.

Never mind. It's still a nice thought.

I remember in 1993, SA had a minute's silence (or two; don't pressure me on the details) in honour of Peace and Reconciliation. I can't remember whether it was in specific remembrance of any particular bloodbath, or just a general 'let's put the bad stuff behind us' idea; probably it was after Chris Hani's funeral. At any rate I do remember I was on the way to the shops at the time, crossing the bridge over the highway, and suddenly noticed large numbers of cars were pulling over. So I stopped too. (I was on foot. No accidents were caused.) From the bridge I had a pretty good view of pedestrians and drivers (of all skin colours) stopping all around; traffic didn't come to a complete halt, but it was still pretty eerie. And strangely powerful. It's just a gesture. But it meant something.

Blinkered vision

I find myself completely and utterly uninterested in trawling through rails of tatty fashions looking for the ultimate sale bargain. The prospect of picking up cute little party shoes, or another practical coat, appeals not at all. I was almost starting to feel virtuously Above All That - not materialistic, me - as I contemplated how utterly uninspired I am to add to my stock of stuff. Then I started revisiting some knitting websites.

Shiver.

Any time I claim to be Over Shopping, ask me about Colinette yarns, or Lantern Moon knit accessories, or Rowan anything. Yumyumyum. It's like books: I walk into a really great shop, I want everything, no matter that I can't possibly find the room to store it or the time to read/knit it. That's not the point. It is perfect, it must be mine. How did Stuff get to be about self-expression?

Or is that just me?

New year... same old boredom

First day back at work. Not much to do yet, since it's a small mag this week and all. So I'm doing what I usually do: looking for entertainment. There's blogs; there's comics (this page is fun); all of this would keep me busy for much longer if I hadn't formed such an addiction to, especially, blogs, that I kept checking obsessively throughout the holidays. So I don't have much to catch up on. Bugger.

If I only had a more enlightened workplace, I could knit in my downtime... after my sales scoop, I have all these gorgeous designs fizzing in my head. Need more knitting time! More!

Any suggestions for entertainment may be deposited in the comments box. Please.

Ooh, it's going to be a good one, I can feel it

Suddenly it's 2005. (Suddenly? Who'm I kidding? I've been living in the anticipation of this shiny new, improved year for, ooh, weeks.) We had a great NY Eve - anybody watch the London Eye fireworks on the telly? Yeah? Good, wasn't it? We wuz there. Watching from Waterloo Bridge. And it wasn't raining, and it wasn't even cold (well, I say it wasn't, Esteemed Father says it was if you weren't wearing woolly stockings, I say that's his own silly fault then, wasn't it). And it was gorgeous. So LOUD. And smoky. And lighting up Westminster with such spectacular brightness. And did I mention loud?

Although actually, for loud and smoky, it wasn't as impressive as the Thames Festival two years ago - when we were right under the fireworks as they happened, enjoying a rain of hot soot and choking on the gunpowdery air. No, it was great, really. Anyway.

So the party was good, and the day was good too. Woke up feeling remarkably perky and Tiggerish and remembering that happy is my thing, I do happy, I'm much better at being happy than otherwise and y'know, I think I'll get some more happy practice in this year. Catch up a little. Yeah.