SGS: Activities

What you do in Switzerland will, of course, depend on where you go. In the cities, go shop, and take lots of pictures of the pretty olde worlde ambience. No guide needed. All very self-explanatory*.

In the mountains, you can climb (in summer) or ski (in winter). Everything else is peripheral. Resort towns such as Davos or Zermatt will of course offer other activities - spas, sailing, horse riding, ice-skating - but they are there merely for show. You're there for the mountains. Get up them - by fair means or foul.

Your Swiss host or companion may try to convince you that the various cable cars, funiculars etc are there only for the enfeebled, but don't listen! For merely an eye-watering amount of money, you can reach heights undreamed of by couch potatoes such as *coff* me!** And in winter, should you not be initiated in the mysterious rites of ski or snowboard, you might be able to slide down on a toboggan - utterly terrifying, yes, but addictively so.
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*Oh, all right, I will tell you one thing. I have developed a perfectly superstitious belief in Swiss shoes. Ever since a stroke of luck on my first visit, I have made a point of shoe shopping there**, and have always done extremely well. (On this recent trip, Beloved managed to find three fabulous pairs within an hour - nothing short of miraculous for someone who normally cannot be dragged into a shoe shop until the point of extreme podiatric desperation, and then struggles to find anything remotely suitable.) It's probably not that they're better made, or cheaper, than shoes elsewhere. I suspect it is, rather, that the Swiss shopping experience is more conducive (calmer than London, better stocked than SA), and the range available more classic, less trendy - hence more to the tastes of those, like us, who prefer not to replace our footwear every season.
Beloved would add, here, that anything Swiss made is necessarily made better. He may be right. It's also possible that Swiss shoes are made to be sturdier, given local conditions (i.e.: mountainous).
** This may sound like perfectly ordinary female behaviour, but I'm actually not an avid shopper normally, and not particularly hung up on shoes.
*** Nonetheless I would like you all to know that I CLIMBED THE JAKOBSHORN ALL BY MYSELF. See those capitals? I'm THAT PROUD.****
**** And would like you further to know that the fact I spent the next day nearly comatose and very unhappy had NOTHING to do with my lack of fitness for this exercise. It was the dodgy bratwurst. The bratwurst, I tells ya.

SGS: Culture and cuisine

As preparation for your stay, read Asterix in Switzerland. Accept every word as gospel*. Especially the bit about muddy footprints. The Swiss do not like dirt. If you visit a Swiss home, remove your shoes the second you cross the threshold. While in other countries this might be considered rude, your Swiss host will instantly wish to bear your child.

Cleanliness is ingrained in the Swiss psyche to an extreme and incomprehensible degree. Even pubertal skateboarders - who might daringly sport a single ear piercing - have a shiny pinkness that suggests their mothers have just finished scrubbing behind their necks. It's quite confusing to behold.

Of course, what those esteemed cultural commentators Goscinny and Uderzo omit to mention (no doubt for fear of reprisal; luckily I am more intrepid) is that William Tell (or whoever might be considered the father of the Swiss nation) made a pact with the devil. No, really, it's true. Consider: the Swiss diet consists almost entirely of animal fat and starch, yet the Swiss people are all slim and fit. It's the devil's work.

For those of us without the benefit of demonic dealings, I advise you to adjust your mindset. Forget anything you may have read about the supposed advantages of Atkins, the dangers of dairy or, for that matter, the curse of cholesterol. Prepare to enjoy breakfast of Nutella on bread**, lunch of bratwurst with bread and/or chips, and supper of fondue (bread and cheese). Or roesti (a potato dish that, as far as I can tell, requires the tubers to be first grated, then fried, then roasted with cheese, and possibly bacon or other toppings).

Fair enough, there are other menu choices, but these are typical (and, typically, the most appetising; stick a restaurant on a mountaintop, 3000m above sea level, and "captive audience" is the phrase that springs to mind). And the other options are still likely to be fried, roasted, or fried and roasted, and smothered in cheesy or creamy sauce. Not that I'm complaining. Obviously.

Then, of course, there's all the rumpunsch (hot rum punch, obviously) and nuessgipfel (nut tart), not to mention good Swiss chocolate. Mountain air makes you hungry. Especially when you've just climbed 1km in height.Which leads me to... activities: the next exciting chapter of the Scroobious Guide. Stay tuned.

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* Apart from Obelix's belief that Switzerland is flat. Even if you'd been dragged unconscious up and down the Alps, I can't imagine that from any point in the country you'd be able to look around without seeing mountain in every direction. Really not very flat at all.
**Or mueesli***, admittedly. But come on. You would choose cereal over Nutella?
*** Note for the unwary: "muesli" are, in fact, mice. "Mueesli" is breakfast cereal.
**** I am here using the German typographic convention of substituting an e for an umlaut on the preceding vowel. Anyone know how to do umlauts in Blogger?

Those Ukrainians are crazy

We interrupt our scheduled Swiss programming for a moment to bring you this delicious titbit:

The Ukrainian national anthem is "Ukraine is not dead yet".

That's the spirit.

SGS: Art and architecture

Ask a young child to draw a house, and s/he will render a cube with a pointy hat, windows evenly distributed. This is Swiss architecture. Now show that child pictures of, say, a few Greek temples or Victorian mansions. S/he might feel moved to elaborate his/her house by drawing on a few pillars, floral motifs etc. This is Swiss design. They don't build decoration into the structure, they paint it on afterwards. Once you get used to it, it has its own charm. Apart from looking like a country built entirely out of souvenir kitsch, that is.

While I'm not aware of any particularly Swiss schools of art*, there are a number of famous Swiss artists (including an architect, Le Corbusier; while not the kind of cubes I had in mind, nonetheless you will observe his distinctly blocky style). Theophile Steinlen is a personal favourite - yes, I have unsophisticated tastes - but of greater note is Paul Klee. And let us not forget Giger. You see? I told you - these Swiss are crazy.


There is also, in Davos, a museum devoted entirely to Ernst Ludwig Kirchner - a German-born artist who lived for a long time in the area, and painted it quite spectacularly. Look at the picture at top; imagine it on an enormous canvas, in thick paint, colours saturated and glowing. Imagine a room full of landscapes like that. Imagine another room with paintings of semi-abstract human figures and still lifes. I tell you seriously: breathtaking. Few exhibitions have impressed me that much.

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* Edit: obviously, I forgot about the birth of Dada. But these were artists in exile in Zurich, not actual Swiss artists. Hm...

SGS: Geography and climate

Small sideways, pointy upwards. Meaning: the surface area of any normal country has, in Switzerland's case, gotten scrumpled up into rather a lot of mountains covering not very much square mileage. As a result, there's always snow somewhere, though you might not be able to get to it. As far as I've been able to tell*, Switzerland has a near perfect climate: warm summers, crisp snowy winters, lots of sunshine and clear blue skies all year round, not too much wind. I've visited in every season and it's always been gorgeous in one way or another.

As you might guess from looking at a map, the German part covers most of the north, central and eastern regions; the French are to the west; the Italians to the south; and the 1% of a Rhaeto-Romanic persuasion are probably in a tree hut somewhere. Who knows. I've had limited exposure to the French and Italians, but have heard tell that the French Swiss are mad party people (I find this slightly hard to believe) and the Italians have managed to blend Swiss lunacy with Italian charm to create heaven on earth. Go south. Then send me a lifeline.

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* And as Beloved would have you believe, but don't listen to him. He has been known to assert that "it's always sunny in London". He is evidently even nuttier than other Swiss.

SGS: Language

63% of Swiss people speak the local variation of German. (The other three official languages are French, Italian - both spoken in their familiar forms - and a peculiar ancient tongue called Rhaeto-Romanic that bears little relation to any other modern language.) Since Schweizer Deutsch (pronounced: Schwiitzer-Duutsch) does not exist as a written language, German Swiss are all able to communicate comfortably in socalled High German - they think. Their thick accents might however make the difference between Schweizer Deutsch and Hoch Deutsch purely academic to most outsiders.

If you speak German, try adapting to local conditions as follows: squoosh up your vowels a bit (almost every vowel combination can end up as ii or uu if you try), pronounce k in gutteral fashion - kch - add -zli to every fifth word or so, throw in a little French and Italian seasoning ("merci", "ciao") and introduce a singsong intonation to your sentences.

If you don't speak German, how's your Afrikaans? No, they're not really the same, but a lot of words are similar (more so than High German, although the pronunciation is seriously odd). If you can't make yourself understood, you might be able to at least understand.

If you are stuck with English, smile and point.

The Scroobious Guide to Switzerland

(An erratic overview by a partial* and undereducated observer.)

Grueziwohl mitenand!
("Polite greetings to all of you.")

Switzerland is a very peculiar country. Don't let anyone tell you different. After eight years of exposure to a (half) Swiss personality, plus repeated visits to his home country (and family), I can say with absolute certitude that these Swiss are crazy**.

As evidence, I give you the following:
Every adult male, as you probably know, has to do military service*** - first for six months at age 18, then for a few weeks every year, as a refresher. Men are expected to be ready for service at any moment, should the Austrians invade, or whatever. The countryside is dotted with bunkers and the Swiss army is famous for important things like knives, and chocolate rations. This is familiar stuff. What you probably don't know is that, as a natural adjunct to this militia principle, every adult male is in possession of an army-issued machine gun, and ammunition.

In any other country, it would be news if a lunatic didn't run amok with these government-issued weapons. Right?

I give you this just as a little background colour. The rest of the guide to be published in daily instalments. Come back tomorrow for the Scroobious Guide to Swiss language.

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* As in biased. Not as in incomplete. I am still an entire Scrivener.
** Then again, I'm increasingly inclined to side with Obelix in the belief that "these [insert nationality here] are crazy". Anyone you care to name. Madder than cut snakes, the lot of them.
*** Apparently, this is being cut down. I'm a bit vague on details, but the essence of my report is purest truth, I assure you.

Shhh...

Scroobious is sleeping till October.

Well, she is if she gets her way. What else are holidays for?

OCD R somebody else

In response to a heartfelt plea, I shall now list and describe all my personal OCD tendencies in loving detail.

Or I would, except that I can’t actually think of any. It’s not that I’m suspiciously stable. I check things like plane tickets repeatedly and obsessively – every time I book a trip, I am quite, quite convinced that I’ve made a horrible muddle and will wind up at the airport on the wrong day, forced to pay a fortune in idiot tax to get where I need to go. (I will only calm down when the trip is successfully completed, in fact. It makes no difference how many times I compare diary and tickets; I never quite believe that they match up.)

Similarly, knowing perfectly well that I’ve already triple checked that I’m carrying wallet, mobile, tube ticket and keys won’t stop me checking again as soon as it pops into my head that I need to be sure I have all those things.

I don’t really have any weird compulsions, though. Although it distresses me to be in possession of two partly used items such as, oh, shampoo bottles, or ballpoint pens. (The pens one is a bit of an issue, working in an office, because of course people are always walking off with my pens and leaving theirs. It’s simply not possible to use up pens in an orderly fashion.)

And I take colour coordination very seriously. So I’m absolutely on Anna’s side regarding the T-shirt/duvet clash. I also have to stop myself staring pointedly at, oh, say, anyone wearing brown boots with an all-black outfit. No matter how cute she may be and how much I envy her dinky little waist and shiny red hair, and how stylish she is in general terms.

Just as a for instance, you understand.

Similarly, I like a clean desk, and a clean PC desktop. But I’m not anal about it. Not really. I mean, if any misguided freelancer happens to sit at my workstation when I’m out, and if I come back and notice that, I’m not going to spend more than, ooh, twenty minutes neurotically cleaning up. At most. Probably.

While I fully empathise with the tic recently described to me by an anonymous friend (who may or may not be Anonymous), of lining coins up so that the heads all face the same way, I’ve definitely never done that myself. Definitely not. Nor have I ever sat at a restaurant table carefully arranging the salt and pepper pots, cutlery and other table furniture so as to (a) align with the floral print on the tablecloth, and (b) leave the minimum space between them. Ever. You hear me? I don’t do that. That would be weird.

But while I’m on the subject, there’s nothing at all weird about folding up tissues before and after you blow your nose. It’s just neat.

So there.

Old faithfuls

In the wall of the Victoria & Albert Design Museum.

To those who wait

After long periods of work and waiting and more work, some of the Good Things that have come to me in the past few days:

Time spent with Anonymous. It’s been too long. Side-effects of same: excessive calorie consumption*, excessive laughter, excessive shopping. Blisters.

Renewed conviction that if I’m to live on these benighted shores, it should be in Brighton. London is terribly exciting and all, but Brighton is Better. Like Sea Point without the mountain. More hippies, less models. And last time I looked, it was possible to leave Sea Point without a henna tattoo. You know what? I don’t even like Sea Point that much. But I do like Brighton. It’s as close as I’m going to get to Cape Town without leaving the UK. So, if Beloved could only get a job on the south coast…

Delivery of many excitingly large cardboard boxes from overseas. With equally large, but less exciting customs duties to be paid.

Delivery of one small cardboard box, containing free wine. We really do heart the internet. And may I point out, it’s a Cape winemaker who generously decided to give this “serious marketing disruption” thing a go. They make good people in the Cape**. As well as good wine. Yum***.

Now it’s back to the work for a bit. Sigh. But also, from this Friday, a week of holiday in Switzerland****! Yay!
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* The good Anon having stuffed his tiny suitcase with Albany Double and Milo slabs. To non-Saffers: you just don’t know what you’re missing.
** They also make good people in the States, apparently. Who knew? [ducks flurry of cyberslaps from Yankee readers] Mr Gapingvoid not only came up with this bright idea, he made sure I got my bottle after the offer closed – my first mail having apparently disappeared in a cloud of binary wossname. So, good people all. (If you're curious about this peculiar booze-for-bloggers idea, there's tons more discussion on the blog and wiki. Makes for fascinating reading.)

*** That's a generalised "yum". Not a Stormhoek-specific yum. I haven't tried it yet, but I'll be sure to let you all know if the taste's as good as the tactic.
**** [coff] …meaning yet another blogging hiatus… brief, though. Brief.

"Hello? ...Hello?"

Not only am I Very Busy and Important, but this week one of my Favourite People in the Whole World Ever* is in London town, and I'm playing host and tour guide**.

So I'll be further neglecting my online host duties. Sorry.

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* Clue: Anonymous won't be posting this week.
** The Scroobious Tour of London is rather low on Crown Jewels, cathedrals and the like, and rather high on amusing shop names ("eatmyhandbagbitch" being a favourite, though sadly it's shut down), one or two world-class salons d'amour, surprising public art and architecture, and patisseries.

Not. Acceptable.

I'm aware that things have been a little quiet around here. (Because I'm very busy and important, you see, shut up and wait for the big reveal in a few weeks.) One might even say, deathly dull. I'm not surprised to see my stats sinking rapidly into utter oblivion.

But I am SHOCKED! to see that MSN Search tossed the Scrivenings up in answer to the dreary query: "How many days till I die?"

THIS IS NOT GOD'S WAITING ROOM. There is life. I promise.

Be patient.

Vagina dentata

The rape victim's revenge: a Femidom with teeth.*I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

Problem the first: it doesn't actually prevent the foul deed occurring, it just causes pain for the perpetrator. If you can convince him that pain will ensue, okay, but I'm not sure of that. So I agree with the concern that it might just trigger a more brutal attack from the now really pissed off attacker.

Problem the second: what women need is to be free of the fear of attack. That fear will not be ended by the knowledge that ooh, but if he DID, he'd be sorry. And in SA, I can't imagine that the knowledge of this device would spread to the extent that potential rapists would be scared off even thinking of such a thing.

Problem the third: cost. R1 may be nothing to middle class women, but as the inventor herself points out, middle class women are not the ones most in danger. The article doesn't say whether this is a washable/reusable item, or a disposable one, but I strongly suspect it's the latter. So do you spend R1 a day - R30 a month - on this uncertain protection, when your monthly income may be only R800 and you have a family to support?

But none of that explains why I hate it.

When I was a (very far from promiscuous) student, I was in the habit of carrying a condom in my wallet at all times. I did so whether or not I was in a relationship. My reasons were complicated: I would have said at the time that it was my responsibility to be prepared, even if I wasn't planning any escapades, because who knew what might happen; I would have said, also, that living in SA, my chances of being attacked were terrifyingly high and I wanted to at least have a chance of protecting myself from HIV infection if that did happen.

I'm sure that sounds bizarre to non-Saffer readers. I must point out that first, SA women are bombarded with stats on the high incidence of rape (one every 8 seconds, was it?), and second, it really is possible (sometimes) to convince your rapist to wear a condom, because he's as scared of Aids as you are (and probably hasn't a clue whether he himself is already infected).

It is still bizarre, though. Obviously. In hindsight I think my condom-carrying habit was a rather silly gesture based on the idea that I should be a liberated and responsible sexually active woman. Even if I wasn't all that active.

But the thing is: it was an empty gesture with little connection to, well, anything. As high as the rape stats are, they're skewed by the fact that if you're a woman (or girl) in the townships, you're pretty certain to be attacked. It's not so likely in the suburbs. (Well, it's a lot likelier than in a nice Sussex town, but still.) The more distance I have from that state of mind, the more revolted I am that planning for a possible rape even featured in my thinking. It's good to be careful, of course, not to put yourself in dangerous situations and so on, but really. It's deeply unhealthy to be constantly thinking in those terms. Isn't it?

And so, even knowing the dangers that South African women face, I truly hate the idea that they are being invited to prepare themselves, every day, in such an intimate way, to be raped. It's not empowering. It's not protective. It's sick. And I hate it.

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* Link courtesy of strawbs.

I win

Is there anything better - anything - than the sound of someone who has previously played hard to get saying:

"You have my full attention."

Dear Boss

I think I’ve given you pretty good service over the past few years. You might remember saying once that I was “the best hire you ever made”; I hope you haven’t changed your mind. I’d like to remind you that since my arrival on the subs desk, press day has by all accounts become much calmer and smoother; you haven’t yelled at the news editor in ages. Probably that’s because he left, and it’s impossible to yell at his adorable replacement – by the way, could we get her desk moved to a dark corner somewhere? She’s making me jealous – I mean, distracting the male reporters - but never mind.

You know I’m always in punctually, or at least before you. I covered for you when you had to get your hair cut before that hot date the other week. I bring cookies. I haven’t had a sick day in, ooh, months. You pay me for three days a week, but you get as much work out of me as you ever did in five – wait, never mind, forget I said that. Anyway, I have a great rack, thus improving the aesthetic value of our office and improving morale. At least among the men. Since you’re among them, I’m sure you appreciate the importance of that.

So here’s the thing. You won’t mind if I take the rest of the week off, will you? I mean, I’ll still be here, improving morale and all the rest of it. It’s just that I won’t actually be getting any work done. Not since I found the bugs*.

Look, you gave me internet access, what did you expect to happen? Go bug the production editor. He’s on eBay again.

Sincerely,
Scroobious

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* I found it on Little Red Boat, by the way, but do you mind if we don't talk about blogging on work time? Thanks. 'preciate it.

Just till I can patch my brain back together

I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be working. Working on all kinds of things. But I've completely lost my ability to concentrate. Too many things in my head at once. Too many. And it's hot. It's not supposed to be hot. It's Notting Hill carnival day. It's always crappy weather at carnival. That's the rules. Come carnival, summer's over. Except this year, apparently, not. Last week and this week seem to have traded places. It was supposed to be summer last week, autumn this. Last week was already autumn. Everybody was saying so. But summer's laughing at us now, coming back for one last sweaty gasp and making us all kick ourselves for not getting that leg wax.

Well, just the girls among us, anyway.

So here's what I was supposed to do this weekend:

1. Sudden Urgent Job no 1 (estimated duration: one day)
2. Sudden Urgent Job no 2 (estimated duration: two to three days)
3. Secret personal project (estimated duration: one month, but broken up into bite-sized chunks)
4. Visit Kew Gardens (prearranged date with Esteemed Father)
5. Go to ballet (Matthew Bourne's Highland Fling; free tickets to a sellout performance like this are not to be scorned, no matter how many demands there may be on my time)
6. Clean the house, child, it's disGUSting!

Here's what I actually did:
1. Um, maybe half of it.
2. Um, maybe 5%.*
3. Two bite-sized chunks. Many more to go.
4. Done. Admired Chihuly. Very pretty. But it took a lot more out of my day than intended because: EF took me to the garden centre to stock up on winter plants and spring bulbs. And then I had to get the plants into the ground. So much for Friday.
5. Done. Very entertaining. But it took a lot more out of my day than intended because: Sunday train schedule + catching up with old friend + unexpected good weather = riverside Pimms, leaving early, home late.
6. Um, no.

And also 7: trying, and trying, and trying again to get my damn Bluetooth dongle to work.

It doesn't. Well, it works fine on Beloved's iMac, but not on my PC. Don't say anything, you Mac fiends, please.

And now I'm sitting here, having been fiddling at my keyboard all day, utterly unable to hold my two brain cells together for more than five minutes at a time. Which is rather impeding my progress. Honestly, you wouldn't believe how long it took me just to type this post.

Better get back to it, then. [girds loins]

ohdeargoddessMUSTi?
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* In my defence, they're not all *that* urgent. I mean, I'll get them done by the deadline I agreed to. Really I will. Just, well, not *early*.

Headline of the day

Up-to-the-minute, breaking news:

FREE PHONE CALLS ON THE NET

Why is it always the Evening Standard, eh?

Conundrum

On PostSecret:

"I only feel beautiful when I'm hungry."

Well, I generally don't feel beautiful at all, so for a moment there I thought I'd found a trick. Maybe if I were hungry more... but then, when I'm hungry I'm not happy. Hard to feel beautiful when you're not happy.

Hm.

Not just me then

Why, this article could have been written by me! Apart from, er, the "enormous literary figure and cultural icon". Well, I mean, I might be enormous, and I might be an icon. (Hey! I might! Could happen!) But anyway.

"America, it turns out, is full of smart, clever, creative people who happen to have no interest in working and whose employers have unwisely given them Internet access."

Quite.

"I find that my own blogging is increasingly mechanical and formulaic. As an artist, my normal impulse is to write things that people don't care about and, ideally, can't even understand. Gibberish."

Exactly.

You know, it's a funny thing. I've noticed a trend (admittedly tiny): the Second Blog. People start a blog, have fun with it, then find that they've developed some kind of blog persona and even (gasp!) a readership. And what started out formless has become more defined; unfortunately, that de facto definition excludes certain aspects of themselves, certain interests that they want to write about. But The Readers Don't Care. So the Second Blog is born to contain those... other things.

It seems to me that the Second Blog - usually less frequently tended, less widely read - often contains the stuff that the blogger actually cares about the most. In my case, knitting*. I'm sure you can all fill in your own examples. And I suspect the main blog is poorer as a result.

Funny that when I started the Scrivenings, and filled it with whatever took my fancy, knitting featured fairly regularly. My exclusively knitting blog, though, is withering away through neglect. I got that hit of readerly attention, and I found it harder to devote energy to blogging elsewhere because, well, there was no feedback**.

And at the same time, my main blog experienced a shift in tone. More chatty. I found myself talking directly to certain, vocal readers/commenters, posting things with just one or two people in mind. The comments are fun, but take on a life of their own - well, that's the fun part. I'm sometimes reminded of extemporanea's comment on a particular roleplaying game: "I don't know why I bother to come up with stories, I should just sit you all in a room together, you'd create plenty of action."***

But it's odd, really, to think that if there were any posts I was actually proud of (not sure if there are, but hypothetically), they would have been back in the early days. Once upon a time I was actually writing, a bit. Much to my surprise and confusion, I was actually included in another blogger's list of "People who have something to say". I felt rather guilty when I discovered that; you'd think if it were true, I myself would know what I had to say, and I haven't a clue. I suspect myself of conning the internet public with Big Words. I think I'm still on that list, but I'm more certain than ever that I shouldn't be.

There are too many "buts" in this post. A stylistic failure that I think is rather revealing.

I love all you commenters dearly. I do.

But:

I reserve the right to post things that are not funny. Or even interesting to anybody but me. And to keep doing so in the face of yawning silence. I think there's a tiny chance that if I do so, I'll actually find that Something to Say.

So there.

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* And cats.
** Then again it could have something to do with my lack of knitting progress lately. Different story.
*** Except far more beautifully and wittily expressed.

Think I'll check in for the weekend

You know how people jokingly describe full-service luxury in terms of "they'll even wipe your bottom for you"*? I think I've found just such a place.

I went to visit a friend in hospital this weekend. No, nothing to worry about, and no, you're not to feel sorry for her, because this was a real 5-star hospital, with a minibar in her private room. Admittedly, it was empty, but you could easily remedy that by calling room service. Room service! And not the kind that brings bedpans. Proper room service, with a two-page wine list and selection of sandwiches.

What really got me, though, was the en-suite bathroom - bidet included - with Molton Brown toiletries!

You know, in my day, they strapped you to a table, hacked out your appendix with a rusty spoon**, stacked you in bunk beds and spooned cold soup down your throat till you were strong enough to stagger out of there.

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* Or maybe not. Maybe it's just my family that has such toilet humour. In that case, do us all a favour, erase from memory and skip to the next paragraph, okay?
** Yes, always the appendix! Even if you'd come in with a broken leg! Don't know what they had against appendices!

Fear and loathing

Is it possible to take out a hit on a software program, do you suppose? You see, I'm reluctantly forced to conclude that the world would be a far, far better place without HP Image Zone and Document Viewer.

No, let's not mince words. I hate that thing with a consuming passion. I'm fairly certain that Image Zone is the Antichrist. It's definitely doing the devil's work wherever it goes - spreading chaos and confusion, whipping users into an impotent frenzy. It must go, right? I'm reliving that episode of Buffy season 4 here, where she wants to murder her college roommate. Her friends tell her she's overreacting, but Buffy measures her toenail clippings - which keep growing, after being detached from her body! - and knows the girl's evil. And must be stopped. It's exactly the same. But without the toenails.

I won't go into the grisly details of exactly why it makes me so angry. I'll pretend that I'm holding back for fear of boring you, but in fact, it's more that I know I'll just end up blinking helplessly and whining, "It doesn't WOOOORRK..."

Which is enough information for anybody, right?

Wetness

It has been raining gently, but steadily, all day. I might whine about how it was gorgeous all week, then when my weekend starts, it's wet. But no. I'm delighted for two reasons.

One, the garden loves it*.

Two, I have a cast-iron excuse not to go running.

Update: it has now, of course, stopped raining.

I got up this morning, put on my running gear and thought, "I'll just wait till the rain stops." By the time I wrote this post (4pm-ish originally), I was resigned to the fact that it wasn't going to stop, and quite sick of sitting around in leggings. So I had a shower and got dressed. And saw that the rain had stopped.

It won't last, right? The second I step outside, it'll rain, right? So I'd better just stay in. Right. That's the thing to do.
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* Yeah, gardening again, I know. But you shouldn't be surprised any more by my granny tendencies. I mean, you've seen Omar's portrait of me, right?

Don't ask why, just enjoy

Look what Tayster found!

They're Taking The Hobbits To Isengard

Needs sound. And Flash.

Sorry Gersh

I know I promised no cats. But I think Jemima just swallowed a Shetland pony and is having trouble digesting. I felt I should record and share this scientific peculiarity. You know, citizen journalism.

Or, we could make it a caption contest... Prize: the admiration of your peers.

Changing change for change's sake (for a change)

Ooh, completely pointless rebranding that may need to be redone at any time, what a brilliant idea.

Really, the queen may well hang in for another 20 years or so, fair enough. (So it could be ages before the next "natural" redesign.) But will Britain be able to fend off the euro for that long?

And - obviously, I'm speaking as a marketing cynic here - is it really necessary for coin designs to "reflect modern Britain"? What's wrong with the thistle, anyway? They're not extinct or anything. How are thistles so terribly dated?

They must be very bored, over at HM Treasury. Inflation threat, looming housing crisis and consumer slump* aren't enough to keep them busy.

_____
* I admit, this is the Daily Mail** version of the state of the economy. Despite the headlines, most of us haven't noticed any big problems. Yet.
** Not literally for heavens' sake. I don't read the bloody Mail. Are we quite clear?

I bet if we kept the names and lost the bugs, most people would be fine with that

New government planning policy aimed at protecting biodiversity includes a list of creepy crawlies that are to be protected.

I apologise for that opening. I realise it was exceptionally soporific. I just needed to give the background so I could get on with naming (some of) the beasties:

The gilkicker weevil
The shining ramshorn snail
Tooth fungus
The depressed river mussel
The dark bordered beauty
The hornet robberfly
Lindenberg’s leafy liverwort
Wart-biter grasshopper
The six-spotted pot beetle

So if you’re feeling a bit down, remember, things could be worse. You might be a depressed river mussel. I bet they find it much harder to get therapy.

For that special fleapit experience

Last night I finally got to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory*, which is good, but I saw it at the scuzziest cinema I have ever been in. Which, obviously, is bad.

Scuzzier than the Golden Acre. Scuzzier than the Hillbrow Mini-Cine***. A lot scuzzier than the Prince Charles - which I happen to love, but I know people who refuse to go there because it’s “sticky”. Never noticed that myself. And at least they remember to switch the lights off.

A number of seats were broken. The upholstery was not just frayed, it was actually falling off. It was permeated with a suspicious, unidentifiable, though not overpowering, odour. In the toilets, the one cubicle with a working light had a broken lock.

It’s an odd day when the bus ride is better than the cinema.

____
* And of course I loved it. Although I’m not sure I approve of psychoanalysing Wonka. Or him channelling Michael Jackson. But Tim Burton is still My Man**.
** And I finally saw the Corpse Bride trailer! I’m in heaven! It’s got Johnny, and puppets. It’s dark and romantic and beautiful and it rhymes. I cannot wait.
*** Although I admit that I haven’t been there since about 1989. It’s entirely possible that it’s deteriorated since then. If it’s still running, which I doubt, the Mini-Cine – located in the gangland war zone that is inner Joburg - may in fact now be scuzzier than the Hammersmith UGC. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

Just a question

What the hell does "hollaback girl" mean? Anybody?

Update: Apparently it's "a girl who is all talk but ain't about no action". Idiomatic usage derived from cheerleading, forsooth.

Having this great puzzle of the ages solved, however, should not deter you from checking out the great link provided by the Radioactive One, in which dauntless social scientists try to find meaning in Gwen Stefani's rather odd little ditty. (Though somehow they missed the personality-driven back story that it's all about kicking Courtney Love's ass. Holla!)

Well this is depressing

So let's be clear:

No suspiciously bulky coat. No running from cops. No likelihood of an imminent explosion, then. And, oh yes, they were already holding him, so no reason at all to shoot at all, much less eight times in the head.

What the hell were those cops on? Pure panic? Way to set an example, guys.

Notes from the culture divide: The silly season

In SA, December is "the silly season". It's Christmas. Everyone's on holiday. Nothing much happens at work, unless you're in the hospitality industry. Employees yawn and stare out the window and take long lunch breaks to do their Christmas shopping. Newspapers and magazines are thinner than usual, and full of "human interest" stories (usually about animals), because nothing's happening and no one's around to read them anyway. It's Christmas, after all.

In the UK, August is "the silly season". It's summer. Everyone's on holiday. Nothing much happens at work, unless you're in the hospitality industry. Employees yawn and stare out the window and take long lunch breaks to do their summer sales shopping. Newspapers and magazines are thinner than usual, and full of "human interest" stories (usually about animals), because nothing's happening and no one's around to read them anyway. It's summer, after all.

Oh but wait, Christmas still comes in December. People take holidays then too. And long lunches. And meedja types still fret over how to fill their column inches or broadcast minutes when no one's doing anything but choosing the best colour nailpolish to set off their beaded sandals on that midwinter beach break in Morocco.

SA may have more public holidays, but the whole country only really shuts down once a year. In the UK, it happens twice. Because here, Christmas isn't sensibly stuck in the middle of summer, where it doesn't interfere with anything much. It's cunningly placed at the end of the year, giving us a well deserved break after, ooh... three whole months of slog, at least!

Time travel

I just happened to come across this lovely bit of travel writing from 1782 - a German tourist's description of the journey from London to Richmond, and his impression of "the rich expanse of this charming vale", "sweet Richmond" itself, "Elysium" indeed, where he "forgot all sublunary cares".

So he quite liked it, then.

It's only a few paragraphs that get so florid, when he's quite overcome with delight at "ye copsy hills, ye green meadows, and ye rich streams in this blessed country". Give it a read if you're interested in what a foreigner thought of English stage coaches, anti-Semitism and slugabed habits. (He was up at three to watch the sunrise, and there was no one to let him out of the house till six o'clock! Appalling laziness!) Or if you're looking for delightful new words. Personally, I'm quite taken with "circumjacent".

Dof, pronounced - oh never mind*

Rumour has it I'm a fairly smart person. That is, people say so, but I'm not so sure because (a) I regularly miss my mouth with whatever liquid I'm trying to drink**, and (b) I Do Not Understand the basic stuff that smart people are supposed to know***.

Every so often I decide right, I really ought to make an effort, and I pick up a Clever Book that has sold millions of copies over the past few decades because of how lucidly it explains science (or maths, or logic) for dummies. I usually don't make it past about chapter 2, if that. Dancing Wu Li Masters waltzed right on by. Godel, Escher, Bach shook their grey heads in despair****.

My latest attempt (triggered largely by the publication of the third book in the series; nothing like an attack of completism to motivate) is The Science of Discworld. Now, after a rocky start, I did make it right to the end, so yay me. I don't feel enormously enlightened about most of the bits that really confuse me, like relativity*****, but some things make a bit better sense now. Like Schrodinger's Cat. Apparently Schrodinger meant for it to be wholly ridiculous. I get it now******.

Still, though, I suspect the authors of taking the piss out of their poor struggling readers somewhat. I present the following quote (p115) as evidence:

"Once the process has started, it is surprisingly rapid, taking about ten million years from start to finish."

Cheek!
_____
* See comments here, if you really must know.
** Purely an illustrative example, which may or may not be fictitious.
*** Actually I don't think that even the smartest scientists truly understand, however well they describe the processes, but that's another issue.
**** And when you consider the prominence of Carrollian nonsense in that book, it's even more shaming that I couldn't stick with it.
***** Please don't try to explain it to me. It'll only end in tears.
****** Again, if you disagree, be kind enough to keep it to yourself. I'm clinging to straws, here.

The trouble with moblogging

Runcible duncible
Scroobious Scrivener
got a new cameraphone,
wanted to blog.

Turns out the process is -
technocompatibly -
not quite as easy as
falling off log.

Dammit.

Oh, the pictures are great. But Blogger is ignoring my messages. I have no idea whether the problem is with my method, my phone, my network or Blogger*. Ah well. At least I have the pics, and once I get the requisite doojigger**, I'll be able to upload them the good olfashioned way.

In the meantime I'm getting enough amusement merely from contemplating my conversion to the Dark Side. From a mobile-phobic, basics-only, contracts-are-deals-with-the-devil kind of girl, to "Ooh! I can record video! ...How long is it till I can upgrade to more megapixels?"

_____
* Update: It's Blogger. Doesn't like UK phones. Double dammit.
** Woulda had it already if the dude in the shop hadn't lied to me. "Oh yeah, a regular USB cable, whatever you have, that'll be fine. Don't worry about a Bluetooth dongle." Sure, dude.

TV treats

So, Lost. I think I get it. It's full of ridiculously sexy men. (And very pretty girls, although I do detect the Hollywood Clone Syndrome.) On a telegenic jungle island, with lush verdancy and white sands, torrential rain to ensure that clothes cling revealingly, hot sun to ensure that people show a decent amount of flesh. Sheer programming genius. Plus there's a dog.

Oh yes, and a bit of mystery and stuff. I gather there's a big scary monster. And they really are lost. And all have big secrets. And you have a few assholes to be annoying and generate conflict. And a hobbit on drugs, to be Unpredictable and possibly Put Them All At Risk at some point. Also, I like the presence of an Iraqi soldier. Topical, we are.

But mostly it's about the ogling. Am I right?

"Detain all Siamese twins and round up the usual goldfish"

You know how someone will occasionally try a "fun puzzle" on you, describing how Jack and Jill are dead on the floor in a puddle of water and broken glass, the window's open but not broken, how did they die?

You know how much you want to smack them after a couple of those?

Have fun. The answers get better and better.

Bring back the wanton misdeeds!

It’s clear. The language is on an inexorable slide into mediocrity and, well, dullness.

I mean, a certain property journal reported 100 years ago on the “wanton misdeeds of holiday-makers of the bean-feasting and hooligan type”. These days, a tepid reference to “lager louts” is about all you can expect.

I might need to work on my handwriting

Beloved: "So, this shopping list of yours. Savvy cabbages. Is that a normal vegetable character trait?"

Eight, eight, the burning hate

So I'm told it is neither possible nor desirable to eliminate slugs from one's garden. Slugs provide food for birds and hedgehogs, thus completing the glorious circle of life. One must aim only to keep them away from those plants that one desires to protect. Well, in my brand new, struggling garden, I want to protect each and every fragile little leaf, so until someone bio-engineers slugs to eat only weeds*, I'm going to need to eliminate.

Which is why I'm so proud of my new little slug trap. Eight, people. Eight grey, green, greasy slugs sank to their yeasty death last night. Look on my works, ye slimeballs, and despair!

And anyway I have cats. It's only right for me to discourage birds from hanging around my garden.

_____
* Why hasn't anyone done this? It would be perfect. Slugs eat weeds, birds eat slugs, all is well. Someone in a lab should be working on this right now.

Not mother of the year

My mother used to regularly threaten to "just disappear". She spoke of it so longingly and so often that I honestly wished she would. Thanks, we don't want you either, now sod off and let us get on with our lives, would you?

Still, it's almost impossible to understand someone actually doing it. I think what particularly gets me is that she took one daughter and left the other. And that she left £25. Because £25, clearly, is all a teenager needs from her mother, ever.

To a certain Google user

My dear child,

I was deeply touched by your search. Its simplicity - and yet, tragic misdirection - cut straight to my heart.

One hears so much these days of the power of search engines. I can see why you would clutch, as a drowning man clutches a straw, at the hope that Google would find that which you so desperately seek. But you must by now have realised: this is not the way. While the internet is indeed a fount of knowledge, and might well be able to assist you in your quest, certain refinements to your terms are needed.

"Mom" won't do.

Specifically, I am not your mother.

I wish you all the best. Please do send me a photo when the happy reunion takes place.

Regretfully,
The Scrivener

Inquiring minds want to know

If a mammoth were discovered in Selfridges, which department would it be in?

Food hall? Leather goods? Sporting goods? Gifts? Travel accessories?

"Londoners not helpful" shock

Despite my rather sardonic headline, I actually am shocked by this report. I was shocked enough when I first heard the story of how a man was stabbed to death on the bus, simply for attempting to stop another passenger throwing chips at his girlfriend - I admit, the take-home message for me was, tell Beloved not to interfere in strangers' bad behaviour*.

But that was one, crazy guy doing one, crazy thing. To read that the whole bus full of non-crazy passengers simply stood by - let the man die, declined to get involved in basic first aid - that shocks me deeply.

The question of what I would have done is, obviously, unanswerable. I also know that this is not necessarily the standard response. My friend Pip was once in a tube carriage when an old man appeared to die, right in front of her, and the other passengers leapt into action. But maybe that was less threatening. Less bloody. Less close to the bone when the city is after all feeling rather vulnerable.

Anyway it sucks.

I didn't say I had any profound insights to offer.

_____
* There is a lot of appalling behaviour on London public transport, most of it from schoolchildren. It's almost incomprehensible to many South Africans - used, as we are, to a far more oldfashioned approach to discipline - how little authority figures step in to control misbehaviour (usually because they are not allowed). As an example, Beloved was once on a bus where two groups of kids got into a fight. The driver stopped the bus; the conductor and all non-combatant passengers got off and simply waited for them to get over it.

How have I offended thee?

To the god of sleep:

Whatever it was, I'm sorry. Truly. I take it back. Don't you think I've suffered enough?

I mean, insomnia, okay. Urgent and ill-timed deadlines, all right. Feline disturbances - well, I did choose to keep cats.

But infecting the one hour of sleep I do manage with terrifyingly vivid* and emotionally intense** zombie dreams - don't you think that's a bit unnecessary?

_____
* How vivid? Well, survival required killing people, or zombies. On a few occasions I managed to get my fingers on a soft and vulnerable piece of flesh - eyeballs, say, or jugular. And tried to rip. And failed. Because the sensation was just too ew. So, pretty vivid. And no, I have not been watching scary movies.
** For much of the movie, Beloved was the scariest of them all. Eina***.
*** Afrikaans for "ouch".

Confessions of a reformed nelipot

It’s common knowledge that every girl is obsessed with shoes. Love 'em, we do. XX chromosomes come packaged with chocolate addiction, an inability to follow maps, multitasking mania and an idea of heaven resembling a warehouse full of Manolo Blahniks. Just as that little Y chromosome automatically gifts its owner with DIY skills, a passion for football and an inability to remember birthdays.

Pardon me while I laugh myself sick. Phew. That was fun.

Right, so back in the real world, I am a girl (pretty sure), I have feet (two of them), I like to look good, and Beloved would say I love shoes. He would say I have too many of them. He would say shoe shopping is a treat for me. He would be so very wrong.

Shoes fall into the “necessary evil” category. Not being a student any longer, and living as I now do in a rather wet climate, barefoot is not the attractive option it once was. Vanity is also catching up with me, rather belatedly, in the matter of my hopelessly calloused soles. I’m starting to see the point of pedicures, and to wish my tootsies could be as soft and pink as Beloved’s, but alas, those days are past. So, I wear shoes. And yes, I have more pairs than the average chap; and yes, I spend more time and effort (but not necessarily cash) on choosing them than said Mr Average. But, honestly, it’s not fun.

The thing is this: men have it easy. Trousers make it easy. Also, no decision on heel height is required. Also, the male wardrobe generally covers a more limited palette. So men get to say smugly that four pairs is plenty, as witnessed in Petite’s comments. Women, though, have to contend with an enormous range of styles, heights, colours, and levels of durability. And try to figure out how they all work with the rest of her wardrobe. It’s tougher than you might think, especially since for some occasions – a smart party, say – flat shoes are almost never acceptable. And some women have particular difficulties.

Hypothetically, for instance, if you were a tall and not particularly willowy lass, with rather sweaty feet, you would not want to wear little strappy high heeled sandals, however cute they might look, and however super fantastic Manolo might label them. Because your feet would slip all over and the straps would dig into your flesh and break and your toes would stick out at funny angles and your skin would bulge red and purple between the straps and anyway, sticking teeny little pointy shoes under a more curvaceous style of physique would look pretty damn ridiculous.

Hypothetically.

So these, then, are my shoes.

How many pairs?

• One pair of cheap trainers for gym*.
• One pair of cheap and cheerful red trainer-type shoes, now falling apart on the inside; replacement urgently needed.
• One pair black ankle boots.
• One pair brown ankle boots.
• One pair maroon ankle boots.
• One pair Land Rover walking boots. (I just love that name.)
• One pair silver high heeled evening shoes.
• One pair adorable retro-style red heels with peekaboo toes and ankle strap. Best shoe buy ever. Of course, they hurt like hell, but who cares when they look so damn cute?**
• One pair cream canvas wedges. Incredibly comfortable right up until the second when they’re unbearable. Weird.
• One pair sexy black strappy wedges.
• One pair floppy red suede high-heeled boots with criss-crossing straps.
• One pair brown suede knee-high boots, with high heels and lovely purple and turquoise embroidery. These last two pairs were bought on sale, because I wouldn’t dare pay full price for suede shoes in rainy London, but they have survived two wet and muddy winters miraculously well.
• One pair beaded brown/turquoise/purple slip-on sandals. Flat. Lovely.
• One pair purple flipflops, for gardening only.

Right, unless I’m forgetting something, that’s the lot. 14 pairs. Clearly, I’ll be in urgent need of things like knee-high black boots by the time winter rolls around (my last pair died), but as of today, that’s the lot.

Most expensive pair

Um, £60 for the maroon ankle boots. The dead black knee boots cost £90. But they’re dead. I plan to pay more for my next pair.

Cheapest

Apart from the £9 flipflops? Probably the canvas wedges – I think they were about £15. Otherwise, the red suede boots were on sale at £20. Bargain.

Last shoes bought

The sexy black wedges. I love them even though they’re half a size too big. Because I went shopping in the afternoon of a stinking hot day, so my feet were half a size bigger than normal. Stoopid.

How many shoes under your work desk

Right now, those same sexy black wedges***. Because old habits die hard, so I kick them off and wander barefoot around the office. You can’t take me anywhere…

So how about you? Follow my example; don’t wait to be tagged, just pipe up. You either have a burning desire to discuss shoes, or you don’t. Who’s playing?
_____
* I know, it’s supposed to be a terrible sin against your body to run in cheap shoes. But I hate spending money on expensive brands of trainers. It offends me. And these are comfy. So there.
** If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll put up a photo when I’m at home. This is all coming from memory.
*** Normally, none. I don’t do the comfy shoes to work, smart shoes at work thing. Obviously.

Fascinatingly novel idea

For the first time since arriving in London three years ago, the market price of our rented home*** appears to be within spitting distance of what a bank might be prepared to lend us to buy it.

Interesting.

Does this mean: (a) the market's dropping; (b) we are at last living within our means; (c) rentals are less inflated out here in the sticks; or (d) some combination of the above?

Still wish we could afford to buy that glamorous riverside pad we used to live in, o'course...

_____
* When I say "fascinating" and "novel", of course, you realise I really mean "interesting enough to distract me from work** for a fleeting moment" and "not at all new but for the first time possibly with some relation to reality".
** And yes, I really am working at 11pm, and this explains why I'm so desperate to wab, which is sad really since I'm absolutely knackered and should be focusing on finishing the damn job so I can go to bed. But if I weren't so knackered I'd be able to focus and finish quickly. But I am knackered. So I'm wabbing. I'm sorry, I'm not making any sense. I need sleep. Not much sleep last night. Dammit.
*** This is not in fact our home. Our home is not, fortunately, for sale at this point. But all the streets hereabout are pretty much identical - yes, this is a little depressing - and this flat is very much like ours, as well as very near ours. It seems to have been done up a bit better though, so ours is probably a bit cheaper. Of course, this garden has not had the benefit of my obsessive attention. I'm sure my War on Weeds has upped the market value of our place considerably. Maybe I should ask for a rental discount.

Relapse

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.

Recontextualising extensible mindshare

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.

_____
* At least to me. Not sure how Gersh himself feels about this.

Thursdays are getting interesting

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?

A desperate cry for help

"[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.

Words from the Chinese Ministry of Truth

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?

These Germans are crazy

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."

_____
* Directed at Tom Cruise. And Steven Spielberg, though I only really care about mocking Tom.

Selective insomnia

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.

Notes from the culture divide: Quotidian economics

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?

_____
* Similar ads exist for furniture. Similar oddity.

It's not all about me (apparently)

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.

_____
* 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.

But I don't feel afraid...

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.

The kind of impotence Viagra shrugs helplessly at

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.
_____
* 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.

Hang on now

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.

On the impossibility of altruism

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.

Sounding more middle aged by the second

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.

And while I'm in boring rant mode...

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.

Not exactly the hoped for reaction.

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.

_____
* 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.

Disaster!

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*.

_____
* 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.

I'm sorry, what?

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.
_____
* Let's be clear: neither party was me.

They killed Dumbledore!

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...

The evils of drink

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**********.
_____
* 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!

Too funny not to steal

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.

Yet another cool response to That Thursday

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.

All of a sudden blogging's lost its charm for me

Well I mean, it can't be cool if even my employer's doing it.

Sigh...

FAScinating

Who knew "shebeen" was Irish?

Non-Saffer readers, move along, never mind.

Absolutely the last post on weeds ever, I promise

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]

Ok, I know I said I'd change the subject but...

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?"

____
* Not so low any more, but still.

No place like home

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.

____
* 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.

All together now: we're Londoners, so sod off

Anybody (in London) who wants to join a public demonstration of solidarity/defiance/Spirit of the Bloody Blitz, go here.

Another reason to love the internet

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.

And some other words

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"?

What he said

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.

_____
* 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...

Yes we have no news

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.

What a difference a day makes

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.

Oh dear

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]

Hobbies: knitting, reading, and weeding

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.
____
* 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?

Cry the beloved countries

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...

There and back again

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.
___
* 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?

Pleasure you can't measure

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****.

____
* 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.