Tag, I'm it

So Extemporanea wants to know what 7 songs I'm into right now. This is no doubt supposed to be terribly revealing of my musical tastes and what have you, but I'm not sure it is. I don't actually own any CDs by any of these artists, though I see a FOPP trip in my future that may remedy this. I had to look up who actually performs a couple of them. They all seem to have come my way by some random means, such as via iTunes' free download of the week or a Q compilation. In fact two of them are from the latest Q CD — 80s covers — which I heartily recommend. (Don't roll your eyes like that. Yes, I have cheesy taste in music, but the operative word here is covers. The selection does rather rock.)

So. Seven songs.

"Fill my little world", The Feeling. Yes, the one that's on the radio every bloody time you turn it on. Yes, the totally fluffy teenage poppy one. It's perky and catchy and I am greatly enjoying it. So there.

"Life is so easy now", Son of Dave. Just gorgeous. Bluesy harmonica-y mellow gorgeousness.

"Heartbeats", Jose Gonsalez. Yes, the one from the Sony TV ad. I am clearly hopelessly impressionable and boring. Tough. It's a lovely song and I like it. So there, again.

"Personal Jesus", Johnny Cash. A very unexpected version. Touch of the godbothering, but it intrigues and pleases me.

"Burning sands", Silicone Soul. Gorgeous hypnotic electronica. Very enjoyable.

"Faith", The Boy Least Likely To. This, and the next one, are off that Q 80s mix. I never liked the George Michael original, but this has a perky fingersnapping cuteness that is very infectious. And surprising. I really like surprising covers.

"Running up that hill", Placebo. Sheer genius. Measured and just a little bit sinister. I can't leave the room if this is playing. (Apparently you can get hold of it on the special edition of Sleeping With Ghosts.)

There you have it. Three covers and five perky songs. Hm. Representative? Probably not.

I'm supposed to tag another 7, but I can't imagine who would be reading this that hasn't already done it, or doesn't regularly post whatever they're into anyway. (Yes, Patroclus, I'm thinking of you.) So I'll fall back on the traditional "I'm tagging YOU... if you wanna."

In which Anna gets under my skin

May I direct you to the always brilliant little.red.boat for a funny and poignant post on, shall we say, a sizeable issue. One close to my heart. And hips.

Apart from the evil NURRRSE JEAN! — pleased to say I've never experienced such a walking disaster in a healthcare situation — this all sounded painfully familiar. Lifelong natural roundedness? Check. Consistent surprise when actual weight is revealed? Check. Increased girth after falling happily in love? Check. Defiance? Check. Resentment at the very idea of having to stop enjoying food in the way I do? Check. Sense of failure as a feminist for caring too much? Check.

It would be ridiculous to say that not enough has been written on the subject of fat, but I don't think I've ever read anything that I felt came close to unpacking the huge* complexity of the issue. I'm particularly fascinated (and frequently distressed) by the lack of understanding of chubbies by non-chubbies. There is such a gulf between the Fattipuffs and Thinifers; skinnies just don't get it. I know. I live with one. And have spent much of the past nine years trying to bridge the gap, in the interests of not murdering him in his unsuspecting sleep one day.

Here it is. I have always been a curvy wench. I always will be a curvy wench. Having dieted myself into a low-carb, lightheaded frenzy a few years ago, I think I can safely say I know what I look like at my skinniest (bar actual anorexia or famine), and Skinny Scroobious still has soft bits. A teeny tiny little waist, yes, but a gently rounded belly, and well padded thighs. And, of course, my cups still runneth over, and we won't complain about that. I know the shape of my ideal self, and it's a pretty cool shape, but nowhere near the general fashion ideal. And the softness is impossible to budge — seems I will never be one of those people whose skin fits neatly over their muscles.**

Beloved, on the other hand, is naturally wiry. He's a born runner, he has tiny little bones and strong muscles; he is now chubbier than he has ever been in his life (seems even Thinnifers are not entirely immune to the dangers of being in love and well fed) but that little extra padding around his waist is still almost invisible to the untrained eye. So there are certain basic physical differences between us. The lightest I have ever been is about 2kg heavier than he has ever been or is likely to be.***

There are also, as you might expect, certain differences in our eating habits. I love food; I especially love creamy pasta, fresh bread and quantities of cheese, and all variations on chocolate and ice-cream. There's a special place in my heart for junk food. Salads bore me. I believe "yes please!" is always the right answer. You can see how I end up rounded.

Beloved enjoys food. He loves my cooking. But he doesn't fundamentally care. He's less critical, and conversely less appreciative, of meals than I am; when cooking himself, he tends to forget to add seasoning. He doesn't look forward to meals (except, obviously, when hungry). He would never fantasise about a perfect meal when planning a holiday, as I have been known to do. He doesn't ever want to eat something just because it's there (say, someone's birthday cake at the office). He is capable of that utterly alien problem, forgetting to eat; and then when he gets hungry, he will fill up on half a packet of chocolate digestives. When he lived alone in London, he was perfectly happy surviving on biscuits, peanut butter sandwiches and tinned ravioli.

Tinned ravioli.

The man is clearly a freak.

But here's the thing: this is not enough to explain the difference in our respective sizes. No. He starts each day with a huge bowl of sugary muesli; I eat a small bowl of sugarfree, wheatfree cornflakes.**** We eat dinner together, the same food, the same amount. We eat comparable lunches at work; actually his are frequently larger than mine. It's true that when he's home alone, he's more likely to forget lunch, but then I'm more likely to skip breakfast. There are times when I snack a lot, there are times when I don't. I generally get more exercise than he does. Even when I am on strict diet (it happens; not often, but it happens), and he's eating more than me, and exercising less — even then, he is skinny, and I am not.

Which is fine. That is how he is. This is how I am.

The problem is that, like most Thinifers, he doesn't understand what it is to like food maybe a bit more than he does, and to have maybe a slower metabolism, and most of all, he doesn't understand emotional eating, or how it feels to be fat.

Beloved is a very loving, caring, supportive chap. But he is sometimes quite astonishingly short on empathy. He means well; he just Does Not Get It. This applies to various situations, but most especially to the Question of Chub. In his skinny male brain, he thinks: She is fatter than she wants to be. (True.) It is possible to change this by diet and exercise. (True.) Therefore she wants to diet and exercise immediately. (Uh...) I can help by pointing out that she is fatter than she wants to be and that she really shouldn't have that chocolate she's reaching for. (NOW HOLD ON ONE DARN MINUTE!!!)

I know he's not alone in this failure to understand. Reading Anna's post, and the comments on it, it is painfully obvious that the world is full of clueless people. People who somehow believe (as Beloved tends to) that being fat is a sign of a disgusting lack of self-restraint. Now, I guess that attitude is no more unreasonable than my own ingrained (and obviously self-sabotaging and childish) belief that I should be able to eat WHATEVER I WANT SO THERE... but how is it that fat becomes so important in judging a person? How is it that a person's size becomes their defining characteristic? How is it that it becomes okay to judge them — even in Anna's comments, someone suggests that a fat person regularly eating at McDonald's is fair game.

It's enough to drive a person to the dessert trolley.

(Full disclosure: my latest diet started on Wednesday. Which may or may not have anything to do with my crabbiness on that day.)

_____
* No pun intended. Honest.
** This is a bit mystifying to me. Exercise makes my muscles rapidly very strong and hard, but there is always, always a soft layer over them; usually quite a thick fat duvet, as Bridget would say. Dieting reduces that layer, but doesn't erase it. My skin fits me loosely. That's just how it is.
*** And it does bother me, actually, to feel like Jack Spratt's wife. My boyfriends have (almost) all been around 10kg lighter than me. Ladies are supposed to be small and delicate. I do not dig this inversion.
**** Don't imagine this is me trying to be restrained. I just prefer the cornflakes, and can't eat a lot in the morning.

She writes!

The now infamous Mary Dejevsky, that is. She of the "women are too busy pleasing their menfolk to blog" argument.

I haven't blogged about this, because of being (a) busy and (b) unsure whether you all really needed to read my stroppy letter, when I've already made my thoughts on the subject perfectly clear. (Well. Somewhat muddy, really, but that's my thinking for you.) Plus, Patroclus and others were doing a damn fine job of alerting the blogosphere. But since I have a reply, here goes.

I emailed her the following, under the subject line "Female bloggers. We exist":

I'm sure you must by now have received a deluge of mail about that column on the strange lack of female bloggers. Perhaps that makes my addition to said deluge redundant, but then, I've never been too bashful to voice my opinion. Sorry.

I realise that an opinion column doesn't labour under the same burden of proof as a news item, but I do think a *little* research would not have gone amiss. Just a little Googling would have quickly turned upthe interesting fact that as far as is recorded, the blogosphere actually seems to be dominated by women. And only a few of them are writing on "feminine" subjects such as childcare, or gynaecology.

I guess it's not entirely fair to blame you for adopting the widely held belief that bloggers are predominantly men. But I do blame you for disseminating it without even attempting to check. You might have gotten a far more interesting column out of the question of why this false belief has such a stranglehold. I have even blogged on this subject: see link. Although I may be too bashful for you.

And by the way. On the subject of women being too dutiful to find time for blogging, may I direct you to the wonderful sweatpantsmom, whose Bad Mommy confessions to Postsecret include the admission that "the Tooth Fairy didn't come because she was too busy blogging".

Seriously, if you're going to comment on blogging, it wouldn't hurt to actually read a few blogs first. You might enjoy them. You might even somehow find the time to write one yourself.

The reply:

yes, what seems like milliions and millions of them! (which is great) my point was more to answer the question posed by iain dale - why were there so few - than to reinforce the point, but it now seems the premise was, at least, questionable. my experience was, however, similar to his. maybe we were just looking in the wrong place. the blogosphere is obviously a lot bigger than i (and perhaps he) thought. all the best, mary

I have to say, at this point I feel quite sorry for her. I can only imagine what's happened to her inbox. No wonder the poor dear doesn't have time for capital letters. (Or actual reasoning.) I am pleased she's at least reconsidering her premise.

Moving on.

Your suggestions welcome

You know some days, you just want to throw a king-size strop and sulk all week, for no apparent reason, cos it just sounds like fun?

No?

Well. Bully for you. I'm having one of those days. Cos, you know, it's not FAIR. (Don't ask what. Doesn't matter. Everything. Nothing. Not fair, any of it.)

Also, I don't have a dog.

I have two cats, and cats are my thing, and I love 'em dearly, but I have been overcome with sudden puppy broodiness of late. I think it might be because starmadeshadow mentioned something about a well-fed, sleepy puppy in my presence recently. Or it might be because Rachael has a new border collie who is everything a dog should be. I don't know why; I know it is Not The Time and we can't have dogs for years yet, and that's fine really, my cats are fabulous.

But I want a dog.

Also, I want a beach to walk it on, or at the very least a forest with nice little streams. And I want a house of my own. And a real-world shop so I can sell pretty knitting things without hassles from useless bloody web hosts. And a boat and a pony and a magic wand. And a reallyreally fast metabolism. And a catering size tub of Ben & Jerrys. And a holiday.

Some of these things may be more urgent than others.

Truth or Fiction?

Things I learnt or remembered on Friday night:

1) There is such a thing as too many half-naked men.

2a) That ugly night-bus-vs-cab dilemma can be avoided entirely by taking the first train home.

2b) My days of dancing all night are not, as previously thought, entirely behind me.

2c) Months of training for a race* also come in useful for promoting stamina on the dance floor.

3) While women never chat me up, and straight men rarely, when it comes to men who have no interest in sleeping with me, I rate some serious beefcake.**

4) I like hard house music.

Not all of the above statements are true.

_____
* Turns out I can't run 10km, at least not in stonking heat. I can, however, run 8km and walk the rest. I can live with that. For now.
** Even if they're only using me to get to the hot guys I'm with.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now

There are two ways of looking at my life.

One is that I work part-time. This is true. I go to the office from Tuesday to Thursday, I do a few hours from home on Friday, and I draw a part-time salary.

The other is that I have three jobs. This is also true. Besides my office job (subediting), I do freelance editing, with widely varying regularity, and I run a little website. You know all this already.

Thing is, both views really are true. Most of my co-workers — probably all of them — assume* that I spend my weekends lolling in the sun and knitting. Yes, that has been known to happen.** I’m not very good at getting out of bed at a reasonable time when I don’t have to. I get to run errands at my convenience, rather than on Saturday mornings with the rest of the world, which is a great relief but also interferes with my attempts to instil in myself a proper work ethic and structured work-from-home routine.***

But even though out of the office, I don’t work to any kind of regulated system, I most certainly do work. So far this year, f’rinstance, I have already done almost twice as many freelance hours as I did in all of 2005. Much of this has regularly kept me up till 3am as I tried to finish a particularly hard-to-kill job for a Canadian client, working on Canadian time. I get a lot of emails saying, “Help! Can you turn this around, like, RIGHT NOW?” …And I say yes. Because I work fast, I am flexible**** and I like the money.

And the website, while more fun than you might believe possible, is a whole bundle of challenges of its own. The stuff that presents itself for immediate attention ranges from daily tasks like packing and posting orders to irregular (but fairly frequent) big jobs like unpacking, photographing and uploading new product arrivals. And, you know, accounting, maintaining the blog, monitoring stock levels, and basic planning and emailing and advertising and market research and so on.

But then there’s the stuff that doesn't demand attention, the stuff that is potentially the most important — long-range planning, creative marketing, networking… this shit takes time too. And energy. And a clear headspace. And this is hard to find.

So my to-do list***** is quite interesting. It includes things like “phone scary Hollywood lawyers”, which frankly has me quaking in my adorable high-heeled boots,****** as well as “order more boxes”, which is a bit less glamorous but a lot less scary and might get done sooner. It doesn’t get much shorter from week to week, it just changes shape. At the moment it is a huge bloated beast of fear, frankly, since there’s that social life thing happening. It dominates my weekends and my waking thoughts. It controls me. It controls my sleep, or lack thereof. It is a manxome foe indeed, and it has thoroughly slain that delightful concept of a Nothing Day that I remember with great fondness from about two years ago.

And it has had the quite remarkable effect of turning my Tuesday-to-Thursday “working week” into recovery time. Whatever my co-workers may believe.
_____
* They know about my extracurricular activities, but I don’t think they really believe in them.
** When there is sun, at any rate. So not very often.
*** It must be said that these attempts are more theoretical than practical. As in: Must learn self-discipline! Must work from 9 to 5 even when at home, and not in pyjamas! …Hang on, was that 9am or 9pm?
**** I do yoga.
***** Actually I haven’t signed up for this yet, but I like the look of it very much.
****** Not really. They are adorable high-heeled sandals. This being summer.

How comforting

So letting the conservatives win on a "poisonous" and annoying women's issue — abortion — would really be doing everyone a favour. Then the high-minded liberals could wash their hands of the whole embarrassing mess and focus on the interesting stuff like jobs, education and healthcare.

Meaning care of men's health, presumably.

Your health, pea-flowered

That is the subject line of one of the many spam emails I have been receiving. I find it hard to object too violently to this deluge when the messages are so poetic.

Your cash, one-humped.

I want to write something witty and original about this, but I really can't top the lines themselves.

Your money, mouse-eared.

What more is there to say?

EWWWWW!

You think your shoes are manky? See the most disgusting shoe ever.

I love that it actually moves.

Rescued from the comments

Courtesy of Strawberryfrog: What the internet is for.

It's good to see married life* hasn't changed him.

_____
* All 9 days of it.

Wilkommen, bienvenue, welcome

Right now, Beloved is at Heathrow, meeting an Old Friend (TM).* The moment they arrive back will mark the beginning of about 10 days of intense socialising with various Old Friends who all seem to be converging on Londonville in the exact same week-and-a-bit; two of them are staying with us (though not at the same time). This means various things.

It means excitement and joy and delight in the company of those much loved and seldom seen.
It means stress and exhaustion and complete failure to stay on top of things I really need to stay on top of.
It means Swiss chocolates.
It means a depletion of monetary resources as we wine and dine and celebrate and entertain.

But what it means right now is that the carpets are vacuumed, the kitchen and bathroom are clean, there are flowers on the table**, the beds are made with fresh linen, the oil burners are lit and the air is filled with the happy scent of lavender and expectation.

_____
* Just how old? Well, he met her on a plane, while he was en route to visiting his dad for the summer. He was 10. It amazes me they are still in touch.
** Note to self: put flowers on the table.

Oh yeah, you got me going, you really got me going

I have been earwormed all week, and now this article shows up. But it misses the most devious earworms of all: those that implant themselves *without* the actual song being heard. Just a few words from the lyrics are enough to kick it off.

Which explains why I've been humming all week, "One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble", even though I haven't actually listened to Chess in years. (More's the pity.) It's because I have been subbing a story on a property development called Oriental City.*

This variation of the "pesky phenomenon" isn't just pesky. It is a dangerous weapon. If only a few words are needed, such words can be slipped quite innocently (or quite mischievously — yes, Vivaldifan, I am looking at YOU) into conversation. This kind of thing can trigger a battle to the death. To the very death, I tell you.

Vivaldifan, I'm gonna get you. One way or another. I'm gonna find you. I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha...

_____
* [sigh] Okay. If you really need the help:
Bangkok. Oriental City. But the city don't know what the city is getting. The cremedelacreme of the chess world inna - show with everything but Yuuuul Brynner!

Name that shop!

I have a great fondness for peculiar shop names. The punny ones are entertaining enough, but my real favourites are the ones with unusual wording or surprising honesty.

In the former camp, we have:
"Yotgrot — purveyors of old and new marine stuff" (Paarden Eiland, Cape Town)
There's a sense that the creativity ran out just one word too soon, but that only adds to the appeal.

and:
"Superbonbon — mighty restaurant of wondrousness!" (formerly of Melville, Johannesburg; now sadly retired)
It was indeed wondrous, for the 13 months it was open. The menu, featuring "quail! saketini! coco pops!", put dessert at the top, so you knew how much space to leave. But alas, the owners got bored and went on to do something else.

And in the "surprising honesty" camp, we have a couple of hairdressers in London:
"Spendloads Please!" (somewhere in south London on the number 42 bus route, I think)

and the more worrying:
"It Will Grow Back" (Dalston, north London).

Anybody else?

Life isn't real till it's blogged

From a recent conversation at Chez Scroobious. This conversation was of a personal nature, so you'll have to use your imagination.*

BELOVED: [warm and intimate comment]
SCROOBIOUS: [rather less serious riposte]

[Thoughtful pause]

B: You are NOT blogging that.
S: Damn.

_____
* Possibly scraping new depths of blogdom here: "insert your own content".

More of the obvious

Alcohol is bad for you.

"I'll just go for one drink," I said. "Won't be home late," I said.

So how exactly did I come to be waking up on Saturday morning, still drunk, with the knowledge that I had given everyone I work with* an intense back rub, possibly bitten one of them (memory's a little hazy on this point...) been kicked out of two pubs** — and now I had to get out of bed, clean the house and throw a party?

Alcohol is fun.

Officially a braai is all about devouring enough dead cow to feed a village. Traditionally it's also about the beer. But at Chez Scroobious, it's largely about the pitchers of gin and elderflower. Cue startled ejaculations: "What have you put in the water?!"

Keep pouring. Stand back and watch the conversation reach new elevations of absurdity. (Did you know that the 9th Commandment was "Thou shalt not adulterate lemmings?" I have it on the very best authority. Also, the airport at Zurich is named Testicles.***)

Expensive alcohol is more fun and less bad...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an imbiber of gin will soon wax lachrymose. It has occurred to me, though, that this hasn't happened for a while. Since... mm... since about when I stopped drinking any gin that isn't Bombay Sapphire, in fact. Most excellent discovery! It tastes exquisite, it smells amazing and it is depressant-free. How cunning!

...but even the nicest alcohol will have after-effects.



And then I had to make lunch for my dad and his new husband.****

PS. Big warm hugs to my lovely, lovely guests. Especially the unexpected ones. I like to think that if it weren't for that last train issue, we could have all still been in the garden, and that would be fine with me.

_____
* Or at least, those of them who had come out.
** Because they were closing. Not because we were so badly behaved. Honest.
*** That part is actually true. Sort of.
**** I really haven't been keeping the record up to date, have I?

Don't worry, there's still plenty of silly

I give you: the Minty Fizzy Fountains of Wonder.* (Sound optional, but infinitely preferable.)



And in the "I don't believe my eyes" category, try this optical illusion. Unless you're colour blind. Then it probably won't work so much.

_____
* Source, with more details.

I hang my head in shame

Have I really posted only three times since the start of the month?

And we're now halfway through?

Egad.

Now, a little market research. If my head is full of non-typical Scrivenings thoughts — thoughts to do with running a business when you are not a businessperson; thoughts to do with maybe almost changing the world, or at least my little world — and they're largely squeezing out the more trivial and entertaining stuff you come here for*, and I maybe want to write some of them down, if only to tidy my head up a bit...

Do you think I should put them safely out of the way in a specially designated blog box where they won't confuse you? Or should I babble on here, achieving the double whammy of boring you half the time when you want something silly, and the other half of the time, boring the potential wouldbe ontroppernures who might find something interesting in my less silly somethings?

I don't like compartmentalising, see. It didn't work so well for my knitting blog.** But I suspect it makes better sense.

____
* Maybe. Do you? I have no idea why you come here. All three of you.
** Of course now I have a new knitting blog, but that's different.

33 minutes

I'm feeling pretty good about myself right now.

Obviously I realise that is ridiculous. I realise that 5km is just a warm-up for many people.
I realise that 33 minutes is far from a great time. I realise that I was running waaaaay at the back. I realise all that.

But a few months ago I couldn't run for even five minutes. And my target for tonight was just to keep running. Maybe to finish within 45 minutes.

So I'm feeling pretty good.

I think I deserve some Milo.

In which Scroobious states the obvious

Summer is more fun when you’re on holiday.

In an unprecedented synchronicity of happy things, last week saw me on leave, Beloved on leave, other commitments cleared away in the first half of the week (mostly) and *gasp!* the tangible start of summer.

This was good. We spent a day (and a fair amount of poondz) making Beloved dizzy, nauseous and headachey, and then all better, and then dizzy some more. My idea of a good, good time. (Although ideally less of the headache and more of the dizzy.) And we spent a couple of days in the mellow goldenness of Bath – inspecting Austen settings, stomping around hilltops, dallying in boats and so on. Terribly pretty, Bath, but where’s the beach? Or mountain? Surely it should have at least one of those?*

And all this happened in lovely, balmy sunshine – the first time I have ever holidayed in the UK in good weather**. Getting increasingly balmy as the week progressed, really. It was great while pootling about on the river, but not so much back in London, trying to do some work. Thank goodness it started raining again, eh?

Cars are useful.

Pre-Bath, we picked up a smart little toy that totally didn’t belong to us. (Honest, mum, it just followed me home!) Frances, kind soul, took us to Ikea and back within about two hours.*** And to the garden centre, where we stocked up on a bunch of plants**** and bark chips and cowshit. It was all so easy. Most of the time I don’t miss having a car at all – parking, petrol, maintenance, insurance, traffic, no thanks – but, well… it were nice while it lasted.

A woman’s work is never done.

So I’ve just had a week’s leave, of which only three days in total were actual holiday. I should be all caught up. I should have a glistening clean house, an excitingly worked over garden*****, an empty desk, a lot of big ticks on my to-do list.

Not so much. (Although the garden’s not doing too badly. Yay rain!)

And because I can never bring myself to say no to work, and because everyone in the whole world seems to want to come to Londonville at the same time, it’s going to be, like, the middle of July before I have a chance to get ahead.

*Sighs self-pityingly.*

Exercise is hard.

That 10km run I signed up for is rapidly approaching. Tonight I’m doing a 5km as some kind of twisted test run. Now, I was doing very nicely with my training for quite a while, but the past few weeks have been… busy. It’s been hard to keep it up. I’m honestly not sure I can run for even 5km. Hours of gardening, yes, trekking over hills, fine, I’ve done plenty of that, but running is a bit more of a challenge.

This is me girding my loins for public humiliation.

[Insert mental image here.]
_____
* My homesick is coming out in funny ways and with increasing frequency.
** This might have something to do with our habit of taking off without much planning, whenever we suddenly have a few days. In, er, November, say, or February…
*** I do expect you to be impressed at this point that we were even able to get out of the shop within two hours. Seriously. We made it out with just the three things we went in for (plus, er, one thing that wasn’t on the list, but was on a mental problem-to-be-solved list, so that’s okay). It was sale week and everything. We beat the Ikea quicksand. Applause, please.
**** Which are only going to die within a couple of weeks, but a girl’s gotta try. *Shrugs philosophically.*
***** Wow. That sounds kinda saucy, doesn’t it? Lucky garden.

In bed with a sexy redhead

She's so shiny.

Not very slim, true, but terribly clever. And so cute.

More importantly, I can now blog from the comfort of bed. With cats. And sunshine. I can't tell you what an improvement this is.

Commercial announcement

FYI: Purlescence now has a blog. If you have any interest in crafty stuff, you might want to check it out. If not, not.

As you were.

The Big View

For your reading pleasure: a lovely little website devoted to "philosophy in its widest sense" - including science, mythology, and so on. It's beautifully designed, beautifully written, and full of nifty nuggets. How unusual is that? I think I have a little crush on this guy.

And if you don't want to bother reading about quantum theory, just try the past life analysis. See? Something for everyone.

Something I never imagined I would ever say

I wish I could vote in Texas.

Kinky Friedman for Governor! Without a doubt, the most exciting political idea I've ever heard. I mean that just on principle, obviously, but with a platform of healthcare, education and renewable energy, it actually sounds pretty damn reasonable too.

Plus, when he's out cutting ribbons and such (or whatever governors have to do for PR), he will no doubt leave the cat in charge. And that's never a bad thing.

Please tell me they're going to sell "Vote Kinky" buttons. I really have to have one of those. The Wanted T-shirts aren't bad, but I want to Vote Kinky. A rule for life, really.

A ridiculously long and inconclusive post. I wouldn't bother if I were you.

I keep hearing that women don’t blog. Funny, I think, casting an eye over my blogroll. I’m pretty sure they’re not just pretending to be women. Definitely sure I’m not. Some people even say women blog more than men.*

When I first heard that — which was also when I was new to blogging — I thought, but of course. Makes sense. Blogging is communication, and women are known to rather dig communication. So I was quite confused to later hear all the “women don’t blog” statements. So I thought about it a bit, and formed some wholly unscientific conclusions, based on wildly generalised and contentious assumptions about gendered behaviour that are sure to upset somebody. Shall we begin?

Hopelessly Sexist Axiom 1:
Women dig communication. This is a truth universally acknowledged, though expressed in various ways, from “girls just love to gossip” to “wimmin’s empathy and communication skills are proof of their innate superiority”.

HSA 2:
Women are frequently disinclined to spend large amounts of time on complicated technology. Now, please note what I am not saying. I am not saying: “women don’t get tech”. I am not saying: “women aren’t interested”. I am definitely not saying: “women are dumb”. All I am saying is that most women do generally prefer their tech to be simple, straightforward, easy to use and with an obvious point to it. This is of course far more contentious than #1 and it is far easier to point to the exceptions, but I stand by this statement, largely because of

HSA #3:
Women are busy. By and large, we do more housework; we do more caring for children and elderly parents; we have all kinds of unpaid, often unconsidered demands on our time. (Not to mention the very time-consuming demands of grooming the female body into a socially acceptable form – but that’s a whole other post.)

So by and large, we don’t want to waste time figuring out how to work something that may or may not prove useful and/or fun; we want to first know what it can do for us, and second, we want it to do that with the minimum of foreplay. As it were. I do know women who will happily tinker about with something of dubious function for weeks on end, just to see what it does, but for every one of them, I know 10 men like that, and 10 women saying “show me when it’s working”.

HSA #4:
A lot of what keeps women busy, keeps them isolated, as any mother of small kids will tell you. I don’t think I need elaborate on this; it’s pretty self-explanatory.

So: women discover Blogspot and Livejournal, weep tears of joy because they can now engage with the world on their own terms, in whatever small bites of free time they have available, and it is easy as pie to do so. No fiddling about unless you want to. Blogs offer the full gamut of communication, from idle gossip to high-level discussion of Serious World Affairs. The toddler-imprisoned mum can connect with others similarly oppressed, or remind herself she has a brain by taking part in far more high-brow conversations.***

So: “Where are all the women bloggers?”

Or rather:
“Where are all the women who should be blogging Big Important Opinions on Big Important Subjects on Big High-Profile Sites?”
...and the closely related, but fairer:
"“Why aren't the Big Important Women Bloggers Getting More Attention?"

Let’s unpack this even further. Sorry, it’s terribly old hat, but it must be asked: Who decides what is important, and who decides what sites are the ones that “count”?

I’ve read a squillion posts — far too many to track down and link, but you can start with Bora, above — on the complicated subject of power in the blogosphere, and how it emulates power (and patriarchy) in the “real” world, and whether or not this is inevitable, problematic, or even true. A lot of this conversation is very interesting, complex and (occasionally) important, which is why I won’t reprise it here. Further reading recommended.

I'm supposed to be offering some conclusions, aren't I? Not sure I'm up to that, now it comes to it. Let's try some unsound opinions and uncomfortable arguments instead.

One. Just as modelling and prostitution are the two industries where women are reliably on top, the most famous female bloggers are – quelle surprise – those who write about sex, more or less directly, or who at least suggest sexiness. “Women Only Interesting to Men in Salacious Contexts!” shock.

Two. It’s really very easy to demonstrate that there are a vast number of female bloggers out there, writing about everything from gender issues to knitting to politics to celeb gossip to family life to, y’know, STUFF, just like male bloggers, and many of these blogs are pretty big business. So what exactly is this “no women blogger” crap?

Three. (I can see the comments already.) A provocative question: is it possible that women’s blogs are marginalised because women actually have a broader range of interests than men? Hence, women are more likely to participate in male-run blogs on Big Serious Issues than men are to participate in female-run blogs on “women’s interests” — meaning twice the traffic and googlejuice for men’s blogs.****

Four. How much does it actually matter? Given that (a) women are clearly having a blast online, even if they’re not getting the recognition they possibly deserve, and (b) as we keep forgetting, nobody really cares about blogs anyway.*****

Well. So far it has taken me two days to get this far in writing this post, and I haven’t even started inserting the links. I don’t think I ever had an actual argument, just a collection of half-formed thoughts, and after two days of splicing grrrlblogging in between commercial property news, it’s not getting any easier to roll those thoughts into any form of conclusion.

So. Um. If you’re still here, I think it’s your turn now. You probably think you know what I’m trying to say, even if I don't, and why it’s all wrong. One, two, three… go.

_____
* Though as some other people point out, this could be misleading, since it doesn’t include blogs hosted on independent servers. Which probably means it excludes the dominant blogs, which, arguably**, are male-dominated.
** As in, I’ll argue with you if you deny it.
*** No link here. I know there are such blogs around, but studiously ignore them. Sorry.
**** I warned you this was unscientific.
***** Of course, blogs are hugely influential among bloggers, and there are a lot of bloggers. It’s just as reasonable to argue that nobody cares about journalism, except for those who happen to read newspapers. Lots of people don’t. But do newspaper readers have a disproportionate effect on social attitudes and market trends? Probably, yes. Does the same go for bloggers?

Notes from the culture divide: Drought

In South Africa, drought is dry. Drought can be easily recognised by the lack of water. Grass is brown, the air is hot, and most importantly, there isn't any rain.

In England, it is evidently possible to be slap bang in the middle of the "worst drought in 16 years"* and not really notice. Brollies are go; suede shoes are no.

This country is crazy.

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* Or whatever. This blog brought to you by Who Needs Research, Inc.

That's nice

I love this: Nice things in London. Does what it says on the tin: details and user reviews of, ooh, everything really — shops, arts venues, clubs, restaurants... with a top 100 nice list. And each listing includes a button for "nice things near here", which should help you plan a day out. Very cool.

Our man in Havana*

I made Beloved pose in the jersey I recently made for him. (For purposes of pattern publication.) Turns out he's quite good at this modelling thing.



_____
* "Havana" being what I named the design.

Let some other people entertain you

When Scroobious is bored, Scroobious should really write something funny to liven things up around here, but no. Scroobious is one lazy-ass blogger. Scroobious has been passively wandering around looking for things to make her giggle. Luckily, she found some.

Over here, we have a pissed-off comics fan suggesting what equal opportunity objectification might look like. Holy gluteus maximus, Batman!

McSweeney's publishes a little Cookie Monster soul-searching. Which helps me to see that I am no monster. I just love cookies. In an innocent and wholly appropriate way. Unlike that fabric freak.

The AntiCraft tells you how to garden with doll parts. Although, as the editors point out, you don't really need the "how". ("Plant herbs. Try not to kill." Actually I could use a little help with that last part...)

Anna's own dry day* (well, something like) led me to the quite brilliant Sweatpantsmom.

And it turns out Jemima's not as individual as we thought. There's a whole website of cats in sinks. (Why am I surprised? There's a website for everything.)

Now Scroobious is bored again. And speaking of herself in the third person. Huh.

_____
* Note how the cool bloggers handle it: by making up a Fun Interactive Game. Not by aimlessly clicking. Duly noted.

New theory

Hypothesis: Parcelforce is part of an iniquitous New Labour strategy to boost the economy by driving business into the private sector. (The proper private sector, none of this quasi-independent former government monopoly crap.)

This strategy however is doomed to fail because of the increasing burden of mental healthcare for Parcelforce customers. A little elementary cost-benefit analysis would go a long way, Tony.

Unfortunately, by the time anybody in the upper echelons has worked this out, it'll be far too late for the likes of us.

Something beautiful

When you're in need of a little midday meditation, visit
ashes and snow. If you have the cyberjuice for it, I suggest you click on "explore" in the "enhanced experience".

And then just be awed for a while.

Lack toast and intolerant

Making Light has (not for the first time) introduced me to a thing of Great Delight: the eggcorn, or "more or less common reshapings of words and expressions: a word or part of a word is semantically reanalyzed, and the spelling reflects the new interpretation". Worth perusing if you're inclined to chortle at references to, say, "the judicial and penile system". (See, the law isn't an ass, it's a dick.)

Just in case you didn't already know

Pear should not go on pizza. Especially not with tomato sauce. I don't care how appealing pear&gorgonzola sounds, it's not a pizza topping, and don't assume it's a good idea just because they haven't taken it off the menu yet. It's not.

Oh, hang on, now

I would like the record to show that, despite my recent panegyric to a shiny house, I do NOT find housework empowering*.

It's true I find I feel "happier and more in control of my life" when my home is clean and tidy. But then, so does Beloved. (Who is male. Just so we're clear.) It's hard to feel in control when you can't see the surface of your desk and there are no clean socks in the house. But that's the end result, see. The actual vacuuming? Not so much. The only way I can imagine housework making me feel empowered is if I were paying someone else to do it.

But then again, no sensible person would trust an article that contains the line: "The one thing that gives the majority a sense of empowerment is a good go around the house with the vacuum cleaner — followed by some cleaning and dusting." What kind of crazy person would do the dusting after the vacuuming?

_____
* Link to Gendergeek, not the original article, because (a) The Indie wants you to pay to read it, and (b) Gendergeek makes the very excellent point that actually it's all just puffery for a TV show.

The Importance of Having Henry

A few weeks ago I was chatting to a friend about confronting your imminent death*, as you do, and she mentioned that when the doctor she saw after a holiday accident had asked about her will, she grabbed a piece of paper and wrote something elegantly simple, like “All to husband. Talk to Henry.” Henry, you see, was not her husband, but her Accountant; she was confident that he’d have a handle on things.

I was overcome with profound Henry envy. I wanted a Henry. I wanted an Accountant. Now, I have previously had dealings with accountants, once or twice; useful as it can sometimes be to have someone file your tax return, I’ve never been enormously impressed with their usefulness. Fill in form, take cheque, seemed to be the order of the day. But I always suspected that there was a difference between an accountant and an Accountant. This conversation seemed to confirm that.

I am pleased to report that I seem to have acquired a Henry***. A nice chap who responded to my initial enquiry (“I have three income streams and messy records, can you sort out HMRC for me?”) with enthusiasm and offers of free Financial Advice from other members of his firm, a six-year review of my taxation history, and so forth. Better yet, he is getting someone to take a look at my nasty import duty situation (am convinced I’ve been overcharged). So it seems that I have a Henry. A composite Henry, to be sure, and possibly not one I can trust to have a handle on my entire life situation (yet), but I’m on my way.

I feel terribly grown-up.

_____
* Don’t worry, everybody’s fine.
** She’s also fine.
*** Not his actual name.

The joys of spring

Ah, spring, when a young woman's fancy turns to thoughts of pedicures. And springcleaning.

If you were to visit Chez Scroobious today, you might detect a certain tension in the atmosphere. The walls are brighter, true, the air is fresher, but beneath all that... is the building actually shellshocked? Why yes. Yes, I think it might be.

There has been activity, you see, of the type that normally only happens when you move. The type that involves moving heavy furniture* and scrubbing in every nook and cranny. The type that drives your duster to start emitting pathetic whimpers** after the first room. The type that comes with running commentary like, "I didn't know it was that colour!" and "Oh, so that's where this got to."

It's been fun.

And that's not the only thing. In further frightening domesticity, I am all excited after visiting a lovely little shop full of fabulously colourful and shiny kitchen equipment. You know, real copper pots, that sort of thing. A Nigella Lawson fantasy. I came home with a titanium frying pan and some big knives. Most pleasing. But I keep having flashbacks to a conversation I had, at around 16, with a lovely woman who was almost a mother to me. She was really pleased with her new pots. I said, "If I ever get excited about pots, just shoot me." Yes. I actually said that, to this wonderful person whom I loved and admired very much. And yet we're still friends. I don't deserve such people.

Anyway, I'm excited about pots. It's the beginning of the end, or something.

Oh, and our long neglected posters have been dragged off to the framers. I tell you, we're going to be doing things differently around here, oh yes. Stuff will get done, not put aside for dealing with later. Uh huh.

Well, a girl can dream.

Further signs of spring:

1a) Catnip resurgent.
1b) Stoned cats.
2) Birds. I'd forgotten how many of them we get around these parts. Cool.
3) My fingers are starting to itch for weeding, not knitting. (Well, not only knitting.)
4) Men are still crazy. I got a wolf whistle the other day, from a chap so old and toothless it came out as more of a wolf wheeze. Oh, and of course I shagged George Clooney on Friday night.

Uh huh. He wanted a threesome; he let me pick the other girl. She was dark and exotic, very sexy, but disappointingly passive. Still we had fun, me and George.

I never had a movie star dream before. I like that I go straight for the best.

____
*A particular challenge since this little flat is so very crowded, with our furniture on top of the landlady's. In some cases literally.
** If you don't believe cloths can express themselves audibly, then you just haven't been cleaning enough.

No accounting for tastes

Since yesterday, two men have tried to pick me up in the street. This hasn't happened in aaaaages and frankly, I'm confused.

Yesterday: long dress, high-necked jersey. None of it tight or indeed particularly shapely. Hair (frizzy) in ponytail. No make-up. And this chap drives past me three times — leaning out window, grinning like a loon. Finally asks for phone number.

Today: running togs. Running togs. Every lump and bump unforgivingly revealed in cotton lycra. Sweaty. Frizzy haired. Another chap tries to get friendly.

Now, the first one, okay; maybe he has a thing for Puritan chic. I don't get it, but okay. The second one? Seriously. There is no explanation.

Request to the men of the world: please, consider checking me out when I'm actually looking cute. Lipstick. An outfit with a shape to it. Clean, shiny hair. Then, I might feel flattered. As it is I'm a little bit creeped out.

PS. Thank you, oh wise and thoughtful Interwebs, for your response to my glum. What an unexpected bunch of linkage. (Gapingvoid? Love that site, read it often, but not sure why it's supposed to make me smile. Thanks, though.) I'm especially fond of the weird knitting stuff, btw, please keep that coming. You are all very lovely.

Commercial break

A very peculiar thing: I have signed up to do a 10km run in July.

I'll pause here to allow you to collect yourselves. ...Have you quite recovered? Excellent.

Well, as I was saying, I appear to be committed to getting sweaty in public. I'm not sure exactly how this happened, but since the organiser is one of my Truckles buddies, there's a fair chance wine was involved. Also, I think she mentioned the magic words "brunch at the finish line".

So anyway, the training has commenced. On Friday, and again this morning (in the rain!), I ventured out onto the streets of Isleworth for a gentle jog. Redolent as that word is of 80s-style rayon shorts, I'm forced to use it; "running" would be a completely unfitting description of the activity I performed. I think I was actually overtaken by one of the old ladies from The Producers. But the general picking up of knees, kicking up of heels and bouncing of bosoms seemed to indicate that I was doing something more than walking.

I'm pleased to report that I made it to the end of my route (I'm no judge of distance but I reckon it must have been, ooh, 500m at least) without a walking break. Or, for that matter, a collapsing break. At this rate, the 10km will be a doddle; after two months of training, I'll just trot lightly through central London till I get to the pastries. No problem.

There's just one thing. Scarier by far than the training. Part of this whole race deal is getting sponsorship. I've never quite understood that; asking people to pay you to do something completely pointless. But there it is. Our team is running for Muscular Dystrophy; or rather, we're not actually for it, we're against it, even though I hear it kills little kiddies, and I'm kind of against little kiddies, so this is a bit confusing for me.* Still, if you think horrible muscle-wasting disease is a problem (I admit I wouldn't want it), or if you just like the idea of paying me to humiliate myself in public, please donate a few pennies.** It's easy, which is more than I can say for getting me out of bed to pound the pavement.

Edit: of course yesterday was also the London Marathon, which does rather put things in perspective. Look, there are people who will run for 26 miles in chicken suits, and the word for those people is "insane". And then there are people who will run for 10km in tasteful sportswear, and the word for them is "courageous and inspiring". Right? Right.

_____
* It's a good thing I have so few readers, or I might get into trouble for saying things like that.
** I'm not in that picture. If you give generously, you might eventually see a pic of this year's team, which will include me. Not sure that's an incentive...

Brave new world

Last night Beloved's beloved died. The other woman, obviously, being his iMac. The one he leaves me alone in bed for. Well, my rival, she dead. (I didn't do it. Honest.) No warning. No explanation. Just quietly expired. It is an ex-Mac. It has ceased to be. It has gone to meet its maker. (Except Steve Jobs is still alive, isn't he, so that doesn't quite work.)

Major stress induction here. Not only is this, well, his one true mechanical love, but he had scheduled a rather packed weekend of working on my website (all rather urgent stuff). And I had scheduled a rather packed weekend of freelancing (all rather urgent stuff). Cue visions of the two of us fighting over my PC, wailing at each other to work faster, etc.

Also cue great anxiety over the larger question of dealing with the iMac's untimely demise. How to rescue data? How to replace iMac? Computer purchase is, after all, a major investment requiring weeks of intensive research, financial juggling etc.

Or maybe not.

He's just popped off to the discount Apple Centre up the road (handy, that) to get himself a shiny new laptop. Well, he wanted one anyway. And he's paying cash.

Conclusions:

1) I really, really, really like having a husband in (very) gainful employment.
2) Stress is a great way to concentrate the mind. Considering how hard it was to get him to choose a simple cellphone, this should have been much harder. Let's hear it for stress.

Wibble

I am having lots of homesick right now. Also lots of worry. And frustration. And more worry. And then some extra homesick. With a side order of fretting. There's a lot of chocolate in the house (Beloved went to Switzerland to visit family just before Easter; meditate for a moment on that happy, happy conjunction), but it's not really helping. I haven't put back (much of) the weight I lost in recent fever, even after substantial Easter choc consumption, and even that isn't really helping. So. Help? Tell me something to make me smile. You're the All-wise Interweb, I know you can do it.

Quiet news day at Scroobious Corner

Summary of today's emails between Vivaldifan and I:

"BORED."
"..." (He is actually quite busy, apparently.)
"STILL BORED."
"..."
"BORED AND STRESSED."
"[yawn]"
"NEED COOKIE. SEND COOKIE."
"When is a cookie a cookie, and not a biscuit and not a brownie? Go blog." [Translation: make your own entertainment, woman, and let me publish this here newspaper.]

Which is why we will now broach the Great Cookie Debate.

It is commonly believed that cookie is merely Merkin for biscuit. While this theory has its roots in truth and is appealingly simple, I maintain that this is not so. A biscuit, you see, is a dainty thing that can sit neatly alongside a teacup without completely overbalancing the saucer and causing slooshy mess. It is also light, crunchy, and possibly iced. It may contain raisins (though most do not), but is generally of a smooth consistency.

But a cookie, now, a cookie. A cookie is a great big childish messy thing. It is never a neat circle; it has oozed joyously in the oven. It is full of chocolate chunks, or raisins, or similar textural goodness. It is possible (though, obviously, fundamentally wrong) to get a small cookie, but a cookie baked in the true spirit of cookieness should be bigger than your palm. Preferably much bigger. The mere thought of eating more than one should cause a happy blend of fear and excitement to roost in one's belly. And it is chewy. It tastes of grandmotherly ovens and Saturday afternoons. (Not Sunday. Biscuits taste of Sunday tea with your other grandmother, the ladylike one, the one who tells you that blue and green should never be seen, and who serves tea with biscuits from a tin.)

Brownies are not cookies. Brownies are just dense, chocolatey cake. I have to admit I don't quite understand brownies. And what do you call those divine chocolatey-fudgey things with huge chunks of biscuit in them? They deserve a proper name. Like, say, "manna". Or "mine".

There you have it. I hope that's cleared a few things up.

Now I want a cookie even more. Also a grandmother.

"Intro: Something about Aprille"

"The Reves prologue and Tale: not svre yet – but definitlie haue an ironike aubade and vse the word 'fnorten', for 'fnortynge' ys aboute the funnyeste worde of which y kan thynken)."

Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog.

Free advice

Here's a career tip. No charge.

If you are the kind of insecure, neurotic wussy who's inclined to wail "nobody loves me!" when your inbox stays empty for more than a few minutes;

if you obsess over your website stats and see every dip as a sure sign that your visitors have realised you're a waste of time and the end is nigh;

or if you have a tendency to spend hours on insanely detailed budgeting and cashflow forecasts, updated as often as new information comes in (i.e. every other day), and to seesaw between rapture and panic at the implications of these extremely dicey calculations:

DO NOT under any circumstances start an online retail business. It will drive you CRAZY.

Dimensional telecommunicational slippage

Oh TITS. I have lost my goddam cellyphone.

And apparently in the time it took me to realise it was lost (two days), the battery died, so that old where's-it-ringing trick isn't working.

And it's my business cellyphone. Well, I try not to publicise the number, but nonetheless it has been printed in two magazines (as well as on every invoice) and theoretically there could be dozens — dozens, I say — of eager customers wondering why I haven't returned their messages.

What kind of stoopid idiot loses their cellyphone in a rather small and fairly tidy (it's just been cleaned goddammit) flat? I know it's in here somewhere. I had it when my mum phoned on Easter morning. I didn't have it this morning. I haven't gone out in between those two times. Possibly not something I should admit so readily, but there it is.

Where is my bloody cellyphone?* I have hunted in and around the bed and bedside tables (I was in bed when my mum called). I have checked all my handbags and jacket pockets, even those I definitely haven't touched since Saturday. I have checked in the bloody pillowcases. I have checked in the deep and cavernous folds of the sofa (an exercise that yielded nothing, not so much as loose pennies, which I'm sure is against the cosmic laws of something or other). I have looked underneath every item of furniture in the whole damn flat.

No cellyphone.

You know when you look in a particular place, and the thing's not there, and five minutes later you look in the exact same place and there it is? A friend of mine calls this dimensional slippage. I believe in it fervently. I'm ready for my phone to slip back now please. Into this dimension I'm in. Please thank you.

Or maybe Jemima swallowed my phone, like Martin in Green Wing. I do hope not. That radioactive wossname can't be good for kitty digestion.

Seriously now. Coo-ee! Cellyphone! Come to mommy!

SERIOUSLY.

Almost instantaneous update: I HAVE FOUND MY CELLYPHONE! Dear little phone. How I missed you.

Apparently I had not checked every single jacket (there's one I forget qualifies as such, which was hiding in a drawer). Apparently, too, I did in fact leave the house on Sunday. Gosh. Mystery solved.

Now I must run away to fill my cellyphone with electrical love. And check messages.
_____
* Also, what on earth did I do to vent my frustrations before blogging? What a sad and dark time that was, to be sure.

Calling MT geeks

Right, the first in a possibly infinite series of stupid Movable Type questions. (I could figure it out slowly, or I could ask for help. I'm asking.)

1. How to change the wording of "X comments" to something cooler?
2. How to post pictures?

Your help appreciated. Assume I know nothing whatsoever about The Internets.

Spring has sprung

Ah, spring. Daffodils in the garden (finally). A touch of sun on the skin. And lunch at Truckles.

Time was, I could tell the instant spring arrived because the air smelt different: greener. Brighter. But that was in Cape Town, and since moving to the Big Smoke, I’ve had to learn new ways to read the changing seasons.

Let’s be clear. I’m not talking about the calendar; 21 March means nothing to me. (Well no, it means “five days till my birthday!”, but that’s not the point.) And I’m not talking about the daffodils — yellow splashes are all very well but they completely fail to lift the gloom that six months of grey dankness soak into me. No, I’m talking about Truckles.

Truckles is a little sun trap near the office: a wine bar stuck in an enclosed terrace, blocking out the wind but basking in the sun. On a day of even moderate temperature, you can sit there with a glass of wine and imagine you’re on holiday far, far away from London. Makes it a bit hard to drag yourself back to the office, but while that lunch break lasts (maybe a leeetle bit longer than it should, teknikly), it is heaven.

And today was the first Truckles day of the year. I guess it might have come earlier, but I was sick, wasn’t I. So today I headed back to the office, and the sun was out, and it was a Truckles day. Spring is officially here.

Your turn. How do you know it’s spring?

And the winner is...

After a stupidly long delay (thanks, kidneys!), I can at last announce the winner of the Scroobious caption contest.

That would be the one person to even try. Demosthenes. Whose entry was so darn good it put everyone else off completely. (Wussies.)

Step up and claim your prize, Dem. What would you have me write about?

How to not learn to ski*

Some eight years ago, I found myself closer to snow than my little African heart had ever quite believed I could get. I was in London. Obviously, there wasn't much snow there — enough to thrill me, admittedly, but not enough to kick about and play with. However, just a short plane hop away was Switzerland, home to cheese, chocolate, crazy soldiers, ski resorts and (temporarily) my own dear Beloved. The plan was, I would join him for a week or so, and while our starving student budgets didn't extend to visiting the mountains, he promised to teach me to "stand on skis" on the gently sloping fields behind his father's house.

Imagine my excitement. Imagine the anticipation.

Imagine me arriving slap bang in the middle of Switzerland's warmest winter in a century, with the fields insufficiently frozen to allow me to bounce on them without damaging the crops underneath. (Or something.)

So. After eight years of talking about "next time", we finally get around to booking a trip to an actual ski resort in actual ski season. (Weeelll... the "in season" part might be stretching the truth a little. But it would be possible to ski.) Just a long weekend, so I'm still not expecting to learn much more than "to stand on skis", but still: me! on skis! At last! As the time approaches, we realise that this agonisingly long winter we've been complaining about will actually have one great advantage: the snow will be better than we might have expected. Beloved spends hours telling me how, exactly, one must stand on skis, and why I mustn't be scared of breaking myself, and how carefully and patiently he will teach me, and how great Rivella tastes after a morning's snowy exercise.

Imagine my excitement. Imagine the anticipation.

Imagine me coming down with a raging fever one day before the trip.

Imagine me hopefully tagging along anyway, because I feel much better this morning really, and surely by Monday at least I'll be ready to do a little on-ski-standing. Imagine that bastard fever giving me the runaround all.bloody.weekend so that by the time I'm on the plane headed back to grey, miserable London, I still haven't gotten any closer to the glorious icing-topped mountain goodness than the flat's sunporch.**

Still, silver lining. I did lose 5 kilos.

_____
* An infinitive split with care.
** Which I must admit has a lovely view and I spent a couple of very happy hours there on Saturday morning, rolled up in about three duvets.

Meme slut

Patroclus gives me a great excuse to talk about movies, which is much more fun than work, even if I have already laid bare my celluloid loves in previous posts, memes, etc. This is not a proper meme, it's a simple list, which means that (a) I can defend my lack of Proper Blogging with the old "but it's not a real meme!" excuse, and (b) I don't really have much of an excuse for posting this at all.

Like P, I wouldn't get far with the original "best films ever" list, mostly because I haven't actually seen many classic films. So we'll stick with the easy and fun part: my favourite films. Rest assured, most of them won't be sullying any "best ever" lists anyway, so I've pretty much complied with the original instructions without even trying.*

Here we are then. In no particular order, the 10 films I can watch over and over and over:

1) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. Gary Oldman has never been as good as he was here. Superb comic timing, brilliantly circuitous logic and smart dialogue, and the cutest Hamlet I've ever seen on screen. But don't worry, this is probably the last "clever" film on the list.

2) Moulin Rouge! Because it's just a great big all-singing, all-dancing Pierre et Gilles fantasy. Sparkly stuff! Fabulous music! Nicole Kidman in amazing outfits! El Tango de Roxanne! What's not to love?

3) The Princess Bride. Do I even have to explain this? I couldn't if I tried, but I will just add: this film brought Beloved and I together. True. Who could wish for a more romantic beginning?**

4) Delicatessen. I love everything about this film. It's stylish and dark and whimsical, all in perfect balance. I wanted to love Amelie, but in the end it was just a little bit too fluffy; it needed darkness. The City of Lost Children was stylish and dark, but more bizarre than whimsical; good in principle, but again, I couldn't quite clasp it to my bosom. Delicatessen, however, is just perfect.

5) Being John Malkovich. John Cusack is always a favourite and this film is tailormade to please me, being chock full of things that are deliciously nonsensical. I mean, half a floor. Genius. (Okay, that's two clever films. Sorry.)

6) Lest you think this list is getting a bit too artsy, I give you: Bring It On. Oh come now, you can't seriously fail to love this, can you? They're so darn cute, and peppy, and bitchy! And the choreographer! And the boy, well, he brings out the cradlesnatcher in me. Oh yes.

7) Can I cheat and stick in the entire oeuvre of Tim Burton? Because I really can't decide. Sorry. If you really want me to narrow it down, we'll make it "the entire oeuvre of Tim Burton with Johnny Depp, but not including Corpse Bride, which hardly featured Johnny at all, what a waste". I also think Lisa Marie made a better muse for him than Helena, but I guess that's his choice.

8) Not that I've got anything against Helena. She was fantastic in Fight Club.

9) And in Room with a View. That kiss... I think I'm allowed one shamelessly soppy film in the list, and this is it.

Oh goodness. Only one slot left to fill. Oh, the pressure. Memento? O Brother where art Thou? Lord of the Rings?

10) Animal House. I'm sorry, I can't help it. It's the dead horse that gets me. The guy measuring the dead horse, then the doorframe, then back to the horse... Absolutely no one I know will watch this with me. But I totally love it.

Edit: Nonono! How could I forget Grease? Sorry, AH, you have to go. Grease is just special. Laugh all you like, but I love that movie.

Postscript: I will watch pretty much anything featuring, by, or in any way associated with: John Cusack, Johnny Depp, Tim Burton, the Coen brothers, Cate Blanchett, Julianne Moore.

I will have to be forcibly dragged into the cinema to endure: Tom Cruise, Ralph Fiennes, Gwyneth Paltrow.

Now you go.

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* The idea is to post a "fave films ever" list that doesn't overlap AT ALL with your "best films ever" list. Kind of a guilty pleasures thing.
** Ok *teknikly* the romantic beginning was a year later, but without the Princess Bride, we never would have met. Honest.

Caption contest

A challenge in three parts:



The winner gets to dictate the subject of my next post.

(Now watch, nobody's going to even try...)

Spring is in the air...

...and it's snowing blossoms and birds are twittering and the sun is warm and the sky is glorious blue.

At least for five minutes at a time. Then it's bucketing down. Then it's grey and windy. Then the sun is out again. Rinse, repeat. They say Cape Town goes through four seasons in a single day, but that ain't got nothing on London, folks; here we go through all four in a single hour, every hour.

Still, it is spring, and it's not as cold, which is something of a mixed blessing since the cats are much more demanding of being let out at night now. I'm trying to train them out of this, but so far the only difference is that I have to get up to yell at them six times a night, rather than get up to open the door. Still getting up though. Not sure this is progress.

And then there's this rash of romance. First Rachael* got married, now Strawbs is engaged**. All very seasonal. Congratulations all round.

Spring is also, I believe, the time for growing things. In my own little world this seems to apply mostly to Purlescence, which has attracted a little flurry of media attention — only in knitting-type press, and only because of the press releases I sent out, nothing more exciting than that, but a flurry none the less and unexpectedly concentrated in timing. And that combined with the changing weather*** and so on has brought on a serious sales spurt. Yeeha! As they say somewhere I've never been that possibly doesn't exist.

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* Whom I know only from her blog.
** Whom I know rather better.
*** Baskets. Nobody was looking at the baskets. Suddenly they're almost sold out. I can only ascribe this to summer picnic/beach plans.

How to turn 30

It is common to harbour some anxiety about exiting one’s 20s. Having just survived the experience, I can assure you that this anxiety is entirely misplaced. In fact, I thoroughly recommend turning 30. This special Scroobious Guide will explain what procedure to follow for maximum enjoyment. The method described does require the full engagement of a willing partner, however, so some forward planning may be required to find such a person.

How to turn 30

1) Pack your bags. It’s going to be a long weekend. You needs lots and lots of glamorous clothes, plus a swimsuit. Under no circumstances should you pack a laptop or anything to remind you of work (much less enable you to access it).

2) Be whisked off to a very smart hotel*, preferably in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Tell guest relations no, you do NOT want to know how to access the internet, thank you.

3) You’re going out tonight, so start primping. Ideally you want to be wearing a cute new outfit, with shoes that look like you can’t dance in them, but that are actually quite danceable. This is important. Apply maximum glamour.

4) Get a taxi** to the trendy nightspot carefully chosen by your loving partner, who has of course reserved a few tables for your many friends.

5) Graciously accept bags full of gifts from your many friends, but don’t open them yet. Partake of the lavishly flowing champagne and nibbly bits. Marvel at the Black Forest martinis. Dance. Dance a lot. Dance with everybody. Nobody cares that you can’t actually salsa.

6) Take a rickshaw home at 3am. Collapse into that huge, snowy, delicious bed. Darling, you were fabulous.

7) Breakfast in bed, obviously. Read the paper, enjoy your mocha. Mmmmm. Maybe you want to get up and go out. Maybe you don’t. (Maybe your feet really don’t.) Maybe you want to go for a swim (there’s underwater music in the pool, you know). Maybe you want to take a nap. Maybe you can think of other things to do in that bed. Maybe there isn’t anywhere better to be in the whole world than that bed. Maybe you should make the most of it.

8) Sooner or later you do have to venture outside, if only because you have theatre tickets. You could visit a little museum if you want (nothing too challenging). Have dinner. Enjoy the show. Go for a drink. Stay out late — after all, you don’t have to worry about getting the last train home, do you?

9) Good morning! It’s your birthday! Get your partner to pour that lovely champagne the hotel sent up for you, and bring you all those gorgeous presents. Open them while sampling your scrumptious chocolate truffle birthday cake (also from the hotel). Wow! So many wonderful presents — jewellery, music, Tim Burton! Aren’t you spoilt.

10) Breakfast in bed, again. You don’t have to check out just yet.***

11) Okay, now you do have to check out. Go to an exhibition. Stroll around town. Have tea. Someone else still wants to spoil you, you know.

12) Meet your dad. Watch a movie. Have dinner.

13) It’s probably time to go home now. Your cats are missing you. Get a taxi. You’ve done well. Tomorrow morning you can start catching up on all the work you expected to be doing over the weekend… and dealing with the guilt of being so very scandalously spoilt.

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* A quick peek in hidden corners of the room will determine whether the hotel is suitable — both posh and playful. There should be chocolate-dipped plums in the mini-bar, and the Gideon Bible should be accompanied by How to Change the World for a Fiver.
** Cute new shoes, remember? So what if the venue is a mere five-minute walk from the hotel? Save your shoes for dancing; it might be wet out there.
*** Even if you’re terribly unlucky and your birthday happens to fall on the first day of British summer time, meaning the one hour of the year that falls into a black hole gets stolen from your day… not that you’re bitter.

Because we all love a good photo story

Shakespeare's Sister brings you Bush's plan for victory.

The next few days are looking to be quite full, what with birthdayfications and trying to get things done around them. Terribly busy and important, that's me. So I'll see you on the other side of 30. Or just before. Oh! The suspense!

Just in case

None of you are going to the Rectilineal Swine tonight, right?

Cos I won't be there.

Announcement

I have had perfectly polished nails for almost two whole days now, with nary a sign of chipping. I must be growing up.

However, I don't seem to have gained much in the way of self-awareness, over the course of three decades. I'm still caught quite unawares every time my body affects my mood. As for instance the onset of excessive grump that has been hitting me roughly once a month. I turn into a tantrumy overgrown toddler and then am quite surprised to discover, a day or so later, that there might have been a hormonal reason for that little outburst...

Or, consider those occasions when I'm Coming Down With Something. Just t'other day, Beloved asked me if I was getting sick. When I realised (about a day later; I'm a bit slow) that yes, I was, I mentioned to him how my mother always knew I was getting sick before I did, because I'd get all tearful and pathetic over the slightest thing, and would insist that no, really, this broken nail (say) was terribly upsetting and the whole world was against me.

"Like how you almost cried over Movable Type on Sunday?" he said.

Oh. Yes. Like that.

(And yes, I will be migrating to MT shortly. I'm trying to set up two MT blogs at the same time — one shiny new Scroobious, one Purlescence. And I've come to realise I'm just not clever enough for this and shoulda settled for Typepad*. Luckily I have Beloved to help... if I can just get him when we're both awake and at home.)

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* No, I shouldn't. Easy, but not nearly flexible enough. So.

Far too good to languish in the comments

That lovely and talented man, X, alerted me to this: the Hokey-Pokey as written by Shakespeare. Verily, 'tis a thing of euphonious charm.

Update

Still March.
Still cold.
Still busy.
Not old yet.
Very, very stupid.
Grrrrr.

Back soon.

On the thickness of blood

Anne Arkham describes how it feels to be comforted by her dad. Beautifully written as always, but reading that, and the comments, left me feeling strangely alienated. I don’t seem to know what they’re talking about.

I can’t even imagine opening up to either of my parents in that way; still less feeling better for it. With my mom, the tables were turned too long ago – she’s been the little girl in the relationship for at least 15 years. My dad only needed comforting more recently, but before that, we just didn’t relate in that way. We’re friends. We care about each other. But he’s not someone I’d turn to for comfort.

I don’t mean to sound sorry for myself. I have an abundance of love, friendship and support in my life. I feel plenty cared for. It’s just that “family” is not a concept that has ever meant much to me.

A friend said to me the other day, “But you do love your mom, right?” Well, I guess I do. I care what happens to her. She has the power to hurt me. I want her to share what’s going on in my life… to an extent. When she’s not really pissing me off, I can feel affectionate indulgence for her, and I remember how close we used to be when I was little. I have a picture of her at age three, or thereabouts, that fills me with tenderness and heartache. But I don’t feel warmly towards her. I don’t feel able to say “I love you” without a liar’s guilt.

And I feel a little bit sad about that.

Because it's my civic duty

Help Candy googlebomb Bill Napoli.

But only if you think rape is only a problem when the victim is really religious. If you think atheists don't mind, or that it's okay to rape someone who wasn't "saving herself", feel free to ignore this.

On the dreamblogging bandwagon

Everyone's dreaming about Angelina Jolie these days. Not me. This was last night's entertainment:

I returned a library book, only to realise I'd returned the wrong one and had to go barefoot in the cold.*

I made polite chitchat with the librarian, who told me excitedly about all the plans she'd made for my imminent childbirth experience, where I had to go, etc etc. I was too polite to tell her (a) how freaked out I was by her extreme involvement in my pregnancy, considering she was just some librarian I barely knew, and (b) the pregnancy was off. False alarm.**

While making my escape, I took acid, for the first time and for no apparent reason; got a bit freaked out when I thought I was eating my fingers and resolved to Get Over It, which I successfully did.

So I went home and blogged about it.

In the dream.

I blogged in my dream.

I really don't know what to say about that.

_____
* Oh, like your dreams make sense.
** No, this has absolutely no bearing on reality.

The Almighty speaks

'"If Tony Blair thinks his friendship with George W Bush is worth rubbing out a couple of hundred thousand Iraqi men, women and children, then that's something he can talk over with me later," said God. "But when he starts publicly claiming that's the way I do the arithmetic too, it's time I put my foot down!" It is well known that God has a very big foot.'

God: I've lost faith in Blair

[Ed's note: poor God. That whole performance review thing in January seems to have got him on the defensive right from the start of 2006.]

Girl is to mother as boy is to man

In honour of International Women’s Day*, I bring you a Serious Post. I was going to write something fluffy about fashion. But then this particular issue started to really get on my tits.

Madeleine Bunting wrote in yesterday’s Guardian that pregnancy is no longer seen as something to congratulate someone on. She coined the term “anti-natalist” to describe this “bias against having babies [that] has permeated our culture”, and refers to those births that do indeed take place as “spectacular everyday acts of rebellion”.

It’s an interesting argument, and I can see her point about how motherhood flies against the consumer culture. But I take exception at the implication that not having babies is a selfish, immature, inherently consumerist choice.

Mostly, though, I take exception at the way a private decision to breed or not to breed has been politicised by all sides. And when attacks on breeders are being made, it’s women on the receiving end. As Zoe Williams recently pointed out, also in the Guardian, people seem to forget that this is — generally speaking — as mutual a decision as it is possible to make. Why? Because deep in our collective unconscious is the idea that having babies is absolutely integral to womanhood.

A 12-year-old girl getting her first period (and hence a potential mother) is often congratulated: “You’re a woman now!” Really? The law doesn’t consider her a consenting adult for another four years. New mothers tend to gush about finally feeling “fulfilled as a woman”, and conversely, childfree women are used to being asked if they don’t feel they’re missing out on a vital experience of womanhood. When these questions are directed at men, there is a full stop after “vital experience”. I have never, ever heard it suggested that a man isn’t fully a man until he’s a father.

Women, even childless women, are often described as “motherly” or “Earth mother types”. The closest masculine equivalent, in common usage, would be “avuncular”.

So it’s no wonder women have to bear the brunt of all this concern with the reproductive rate. Women who don’t have babies are called selfish (despite the very reasonable arguments that can be made that it’s breeders who are the selfish ones). Women who do, and work? Also selfish. How dare you put your career ahead of your children’s quality time! Women who have babies and don’t work? Betrayers of the feminist cause, letting their education go to waste that way.

We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. And they say feminism has nothing left to achieve.

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* It's also National No Smoking Day. Kids, don't puff. There, I've done my bit.

Things to make you go Ooooh!

This is really rather wow. Choose the flash version, the html just doesn't compare.

I like the lizard-eating trees. Also the skeleton of... that weird little flying thing, right above the hippie kids on clouds. Nice juxtaposition.

Why hobbits are better than elves

Best fan quote from Ringers: Lord of the Fans:

"A hobbit will still be there in the morning. You think an elf will still be there? Fleetfooted elves — no. He'll take off. But a hobbit, he'll want to cuddle, and he'll still be there the next day. And then he'll make you breakfast."

FYI

Parcelforce is the devil.

The. Devil.

That is all.

Edit:
...but Google Analytics is Da Bomb.

Up, down, up, that's me.

A rash and foolhardy proposition

Right, so I might have mentioned this birthday thing. Naturally an event of such enormous importance to the citizenry cannot go uncelebrated. And naturally if you know me, and are in London, you will probably already have received your invitation to the champagne-soaked revelry, unless I don't like you, in which case sod off.

This is for the rest of you.

I will be available for pre-birthday drinks, probably at the Square Pig in Holborn, on the evening of Thursday 23 March. You could call this a blogmeet, except that I may well have a few work mates there too. Does that sound scary? Good. It is a Test.

If you're dedicated enough — either to me or to Johnny Depp — to attend, and if you don't all prove to be a distressingly peculiar lot, there may be a follow-up meeting. With DVDs. And cake. And pink leather sofas. Patroclus is to blame, although not for the sofas.

See what I mean about a rash and foolhardy proposition? I haven't even mentioned this plan to Beloved. I fear his wrath. Or that he'd talk some sense into me.

March 2006: the Scroobious preview

Coming soon!!! Blogging to look forward to in the month ahead:

Whining about the weather
Heavyhanded hints about my birthday
More whining about the weather
Whining about my heavy workload
Did I mention my birthday?
Whining about the bloody weather, bloody country, I should go back and live somewhere with a real climate…
Blogging against sexism on International Women’s Day
I’ll be turning 30 soon, please make the pain go away
Ooh, hangover
Sunshine! No, hang on, it’s already gone again*
Whining about bloody Mercury going bloody retrograde again, which is just bound to wreak havoc with giftage, not that that should stop you
Footnotes, obviously***
And to round it all off, maybe a special bloggy surprise. If I can be arsed.

Are you excited yet??? I know I am!!!

Ooh! Somebody's just given me a box of chocolates for no good reason! I take it all back. This month is going to be fabulous.

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* This is a projection based on past experience. In fact today is sunny and gorgeous. As long as you don't actually venture outside. This being the fundamental difference between here and Real Places: weather forecasts truthfully say only "bright" rather than "sunny". Because "sunny" would imply warmth. [insert hollow laughter] Yesterday I saw people sitting eating their lunch at pavement tables, so desperate were they to enjoy the illusion of spring. This despite the fact that a mere five minutes later it was snowing. What is that? Jakkals trou met pikkewyn se vrou?**
** Non-Saffers, don't ask, it'll only confuse you.
*** Not sure what it says about my state of mind that (almost) the only full sentences in this post are in the footnotes.

o-HO!

Now we know who to blame.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I direct your attention to paragraph 13: "...She is the personal stylist to, among others, Keira Knightley, Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Kate Beckinsale and The OC's Mischa Barton".

The Fuggers' hit list, in other words.

Her crimes against fashion are great. Now, if someone reading this were to take it upon themselves to, say, kidnap Ms Zoe ("rhymes with low", and do you think that's a coincidence?) and incarcerate her for a week or so with nothing but a selection of, say, large coffee-table books celebrating the genius of Prada, or Dior, or Armani, but NOT under any circumstances Christian Lacroix... and maybe a little electro-shock therapy...

Well, if that were to transpire, and I'm not saying it should, I'm sure we could all sleep just a little bit easier. Don't you?

Oh. And while you're at it, maybe you could burn the world's supply of Uggs. The greatest ever fashion mistake that Would Not Die.