Natalie Uninterrupted

Something New

2011-02-09T21:43:00.003Z

Following a humongous absence...I shall be blogging my Restaurant Review Column for those who don't get The Messenger - the monthly Manchester magazine.

What excitement!

My recent email interchange...

2009-08-25T19:25:00.004+01:00

The below is a transcription of a recent email exchange between myself and Peter Rigby. I was attempting to email Peter Rigby - my foster sister's father, in relation to wedding arrangements for his daughter.

My sister suggested I put it up here for the amusement of others. I have blanked out our email addresses for obvious reasons.

As per all email exchanges, start at the bottom and work your way up.

:-)

----- Forwarded Message ----
From: "P.rigby@xxx.com"
To: NATALIE B
Sent: Tuesday, 25 August, 2009 2:26:20 PM
Subject: Re: Rachel's wedding and table

Don't forget the oil-streaked bit of the stripper... that sounds like it would really liven up the hen party...

Afraid I have to confess that you really have got the wrong Peter -although if I were the real Peter I would also be amused that you were embarrassed so him and I must have something in common!

And yes, I will regale this story at future dinner parties, I hope you get over the embarrassment.

Would be interested to learn how you come upon my email address in the first place?

Peter

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

From: NATALIE B
Date: Mon, 24 Aug 2009 21:08:33 +0000 (GMT)
To:
Subject: Re: Rachel's wedding and table

Do I sincerely have the wrong Peter..?

The real Peter would think it amusing to pretend it wasn't himself so I felt excruciatingly embarrassed at having discussed gyrating strippers to an utter stranger... I'm all in a confusion now.

I'm terribly sorry if you are the wrong Peter. But looking on the bright side, I'm sure secretly you are utterly delighted to have erroneously received the below - it's a good dinner party anecdote surely! :-)

From: "p.rigby@xxx.com"
To: NATALIE B
Sent: Monday, 24 August, 2009 12:44:58 PM
Subject: Re: Rachel's wedding and table

Hi Natalie, I think you have the wrong Peter...

That said... I think its only fair that you arrange a gyrating, oil slicked stripper for Ray's hen night... I will let you know if I am available -hen nights are free!

Peter (the wrong one)

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless device

From: NATALIE B
Date: Mon, 24 Aug 2009 08:53:15 +0000 (GMT)
To: p.rigby@xxx.com
Subject: Rachel's wedding and table

Hi Peter,

How are you? I hope my mother behaved herself for you and Carol...

Two things:

One, I heard you are looking to get rid of an old desk. I'm looking for a desk - I'm converting my dining room into a reading room and would like a writing desk. I wonder if you would consider selling it to me - and how much would you like.

Two, there is NO WAY I am arranging a bl**dy stripper for Ray's hen night. If she wants one, tough titty. I'm the chief bridesmaid in charge of organising the hen night and it will be a quiet, calm affair with no baby lotion and gyrating men thank you very much! Just had to clarify that. I have my reputation to protect and all...

Pass on my regards to Carol and speak soon!

Love Natalie xx

A Pre-Raphaelite Dr Who would do well for me thank you very much

2009-07-22T22:23:00.009+01:00

I have just finished watching 'Desperate Romantics' - the new BBC six part series on the lives of the Pre-Raphaelites. I was terribly excited on hearing of its impending arrival several weeks ago - the Pre-Raphaelites have been my favourite art group since I was first introduced to them by my terribly boho and bearded art teacher, Mr Grundy, when I was about fourteen. (For anyone who also loves their work and isn't aware - the Manchester Art Gallery has a fantastic 19c room holding a briliant permanent collection of their stuff.

Excitingly they have one of the Ophelia paintings. Not the infamous Millais' 'bath-based' one (my favourite of all theirs, no doubt in part due to near-tragedy tied up with its creation)

but the lesser-known Hughes' which features Ophelia on her branch just before her fall.)

The series thus far is fantastic - it couldn't fail to be really, the PRBs are an ideal meld of artistic andeavour, bohemianism, rebellion, debauchery and idealism... all wrapped up in period costume and out of this world names like, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (It is I think the finest name ever conceived. It makes one swoon just reading it surely :-) )

Watching it, however, got me wishing that the wardrobe department of the Desperate Romantics had been brought in to dress Matt Smith this week. If anyone hasn't seen, (and is at all interested!) the sneak previews of the new Dr Who garb, look see:

As most know, I have been finding it hard to deal with the imminent departure of Dear David, my Dr Who par excellence. Viewing the new look Dr Who has NOT allayed my fears in the slightest. I mean... WFT!! Who the bollocks was responsible for THAT get up?? WTF are they doing putting a bow tie on a TWENTY YEAR OLD?? I can only assume this abberation of good sense is attributable to some desire to make him look more grown up - given the debacle about his age... In which case - why didnt they just choose an older actor?? If that's not the reason in any event... and this is presumably then some crass effort to acheive the Dr Who 'eccentric Englishman' look, there are plenty of more inspired and sophisticated ways to achieve his brand of vintage geek... without resort to something so crudely obvious as a bow tie and tweed.

Have they nooo subtley.

2009-06-13T09:14:00.002+01:00

Wandering through the aisles of the Co-op several weeks ago I happened across a most wonderfully labelled packet of food in the deli section.

'Ambient sausage-rolls'

Utterly intriguing.

2009-03-18T20:00:00.002Z

So. Two substantial changes planned for the House of Barbosa in the near future.

First change. For a one-month trial period, I shall be upgrading to 'Vegan'. This next step of my journey to Sainthood has been some while in the coming; my addiction to all things cheese has however, caused no end of procrastination. I feel the time has now come, nevertheless, for me to step into a new world of dairylessness.

I am actually quite looking forward to it. The family aren't. Understandably. In mitigation I would say I am not a demanding veggie, thus, there is no reason to expect me to be anything other than my unexacting self as a vegan.

Change number two. Having decided I shall resist the urge to move out of my current abode immediate upon qualification, and anticipating my search for London-based employment to be futile in the current climes, I have decided to do some home-improvements.

Particularly, I shall be granting myself one of my 'One hundred things to do before I die' wishes, and shall gift myself my own library. Handily converted from the currently-existing dining room.

This is horrendously exciting. First improvement will be to take up the carpet and revert to the lovely original wooden floorboards (originally covered over as plebeian house-hunters apparently prefer carpet. Will require large sanding machine and glaze or some such thing I reckon) Second, as an utter cliche, but nonetheless a marvelous one, the purchase of a large old leather armchair.n(Sudden thought, I pledged to buy no more leather furniture. Hmmm - perhaps this aspect needs some reassessment). Third, purchase of a 'full of character and charmingly battered' writing table. Fourth, import of Persian rug from lounge into 'library'. Fifth, naturally, installation of multitude of book shelves.

Oh joyful.

I should take up pipe-smoking too. That'd work.

Which would itself require a smoking-jacket of course. Red and black silk blatantly.

Maybe a Fez even.

Oh the possibilities. If only I could install a domed roof...

Sleeping with your eyes open

2009-02-02T18:44:00.003Z

A friend’s birthday this weekend saw me holed up in an idyllic and remote 17th century Welsh cottage/farmhouse.

As the pictures demonstrate, wood panelling and stone-flagged floor were in abundance – as was a massive open fire, which promptly became the focus of the weekends activities. The first evening was spent mainly in the enormous dining room as our eagerness to ‘play with the fire’ resulted in us utterly flooding the lounge with smoke. A note to all fire neophytes – DO NOT place more than three logs at once on an old open fire. You are inviting the firebrigade otherwise.

The most exciting part of the weekend I think, excepting the new found ‘cow-racing’ game on the Weeeeeee, was by sojourn in the most beautiful four poster bed i have ever had the opportunity to sleep in. It is/was ENORMOUS, an Empress I am guessing.. but I can never remember the names for bed sizes above King so I can’t be sure.

I was devastated to discover that I would not be inhibiting the double bed room – it was rightly reserved for the birthday boy and his wife. However, being the hippy-esque couple they are, at 3am in the morning as we all staggered into our respective rooms, Matthew kindly offered to allow me the opportunity to pass the night in the Wonder-bed. (No smutty thoughts please – we are all grown ups here...)

After an appropriate period of refusals with thanks, I gleefully relented and jumped in excitedly next to Claire.

Now ordinarily (that is in circumstances where one hasn’t imbibed several bottles of wine and glasses of port) the incident would have ended here. But naturally being drunk, I had to push my luck. As Matt turned out the lights and all went quiet, I began to moan loudly that things were not as they should be. That much as i appreciated the offer of spending the night in the Empress Four Poster and fantastically many-beamed room – there was simply no point in me being in it – if the room was so dark, I wasn’t aware I was indeed IN IT!

Matt – being of a most patient and quick-witted nature, and perhaps knowing that if he didn’t act quickly, I could continue in the same vein for hours, jumped out of the bed and rummaged through his rucsack.

Within moments a hend-held torch was on my bed-side table. Matt upended it and turned on the beam to reveal the full splendour of the old beams and tapestried bed roof.
To his question of whether this was ok – I could now go to sleep happily aware that I was in the Wonder-Room - I relied enthusiastically... that it was now perfect, my dream-bed experience was just as it should be.

I am sure the beam of light spent many an hour marvelling at the glint of the mahogany in the evening light. Shame that I could not enjoin as I have yet to discover how to sleep with my eyes open, indeed I was asleep before Matt returned to his side of the bed.

Hamlet 'n' stuff

2009-01-09T20:31:00.002Z

So seven months after by initial booking... I finally attended my much anticipated evening with Mr Tennant and colleagues. It was touch and go for a while whether he would actually return due to his back injury in late December but, praise be to the Lord, he arrived back on the boards the very day of MY arrival!

The cost and wait was infinitely worth it - he was quite marvellous... naturally :-) . I won’t give a critique of the play – as I have little capacity for that, but I’ll venture to categorise him in short as an energetic and humorous Hamlet who really brought to the fore his self-hatred and desperation at his own seeming cowardice. (and breathe...)

The cast on the whole were all utterly stunning – Polonious especially was fabulous and hysterically funny. One really notable feature was the sense one felt of Polonious/Ophelia/Laertes as a tight family unit... which I have never seen particularly presented in that light before. Coming from a close-knit quad myself, I really connected with them and watching them interact with each other was quite touching. For the first time ever, I felt a total sympathy with Laertes for his plans to murder Hamlet.

I received news today of what may well be my next theatre trip... the musical adaptation of... The Thornbirds!! My visit will be utterly post-modern ironic...NATURALLY . I suspect I shall, for the sake of tradition, attend chez mother... she and I having shared beating breasts for the Thornbird saga... and R Chamberlain in the eighties.

Notable reads for this entry is my current which is the collected diaries of Kenneth Tynan. I sincerely think he is a SERIOUS contender for a seat at my ideal dinner party. Which is some feat as it has remained unchanged for about six years! I REALLY don't know who I can oust though. CLEARLY can’t be Nature’s greatest creation ever ... and Shakespeare is unthinkable! Can I then REALLY oust Alan B?? I could I suppose just extend my party to five – but that would be CHEATING surely shirley??

I don’t know, I really just don’t know. I must give this issue more thought... one can’t rush these things can one?

Missing Miles

2008-11-20T19:57:00.005Z

I have been missing terribly Miles Kington's wonderful articles since
his passing, so last week did I a quick search of
The Independent Online to find some of his stuff that I may have
missed.

And in an ecological outrage, printed a load of his stuff off to read on my
journey home.

(Penance of one sapling planting to be carried out shortly.)

For those of you who may not have come across him, Miles Kington was
one of the Independent's regular columnists and the best thing in the
Independent for the 22 years he wrote in it. What i think I loved so much about his writing was that unusually for a satirist, his tone was utterly lacking in bitterness and instead had an apparent warmth for whatever subject he mocked.

If you did miss out on him - you really should indulge in reading some
of the links below, especially the first which is an example of his most prolific column entry - the minutes of the meetings of the 'United Deities'. I suppose they count as a series and probably/hopefully a collection of them will be put together as a book some day.

(PS. Apologies - my understanding of blogger.com does not extend to how to do the 'link' thing so you can simply click and the article pops up. Copy and paste is the height of my sophistication in bloggness. )

The lord Thy God is a little likely to fly off the handle
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/miles-kington/miles-kington-remembered-the-lord-thy-god-is-a-little-liable-to-fly-off-the-handle-876682.html

Bah humbug its the annual Christmas card debate
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/miles-kington/miles-kington-bah-humbug-its-the-annual-christmas-card-debate-425258.html

Oh to be in England now the Britishness test is there
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/miles-kington/oh-to-be-in-england-now-the-britishness-test-is-there-578804.html

A few handy tips for the minefield of modern manners
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/miles-kington/miles-kington-remembered-a-few-handy-tips-for-the-minefield-of-modern-manners-787833.html

2008-10-30T19:48:00.000Z

I knew the day was coming and I have been trying to prepare myself for it for some time.

The End of Tennant’s Days as Doctor.

Oh, that I should ever live to see it.

Foolish, vain hope that this time would never come to pass.

Love indeed IS blind.

2008-09-01T19:19:00.002+01:00

I’ve been on a reading roll for the past five or so months. And by that I mean, everything I have been reading I have really got along well with. Most of my reads have been those that have been on my ‘Must Read’ list for several years. Ones that for one reason or another have been passed up in favour of others.

I could wax lyrical about all of them (with the exception of TWO. A.S. Byatt, Persuasion and surprisingly, Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and The Margarita – both of whom I begun twice and drifted away from twice)

The most memorable of all prize will undoubtedly go to my current, The Kite Runner. I am at page 277 and will finish it tonight. Mostly when I finish a book I enjoy I feel rather sad and ‘miss’ it for the couple of days or more it takes me to find another and hit that stage of ‘engrossment’ you get where you can’t wait for your lunch hour, journey home etc so you can start reading it again.

I am not sure whether I will experience that feeling tonight, despite the fact I think the book extraordinary and utterly engaging.

Reason being is that I have been feeling mostly pretty upset throughout reading the book. Today I cried for the fifth time. The first session I had with it, I sobbed. So much so in fact that when I got off the train in tears and got into my car, I had to sit at the wheel for five minutes purging my sadness before I was in state to start driving home! I then went to bed that night sobbing also.

I don’t think I am unusual in this respect. The Kite Runner was pressed upon me by my sister who warned me that I would find it difficult. My boss looked almost fearful when catching sight of it upon my desk and a colleague informed me he had comforted his girlfriend only a few months ago as she worked her way through it.

I’m sure most regular readers will have actually read it by now. As with most books, I am terribly behind the times. If you haven’t though, I do recommend it and a box three-ply of tissues.

Re. future reads…..I am sun-holidaying next month and require a couple of suitable books therefore. I do think that holiday books are a genre of their own and don’t have any front-running candidates at the moment. If anyone has any recommendations, I would most gratefully hear them.

A 'small' feature on peignoir sets.

2008-08-02T18:04:00.016+01:00

A peignoir set is one the most elegant and beautiful of the vintage clothing types in my eyes. Although often referred to as lingerie, I wouldn’t call them such – they are bed clothes/night wear/‘floating around the house clothes’ as I call them. I kind of see them as the female equivalent of the men’s ‘smoking jacket’, though admittedly many of them are too sheer for accepting any house-callers in!

Some of them are however so absolutely fabulous that you could get away with wearing them nowadays as a ball/cocktail dress – which some of the more daring vintage-wearers do actually do.

So, a peignoir set comprises a slip and a robe. The word peignoir comes from the French peigner - ‘to comb one’s hair’… and you WILL have seen these in a dozen silver screen movies where, true to their conception, Doris Day et al would be sat at their dressing tables brushing their hair whilst wearing them. As if by magic, I have some very pictures of silver screeners fashioing peignoirs of the time...

Herewith we have the lovely Ms Veronica Lake -

And then a lovely photo of Ann Sheridan (by dressing table of course):

There were two main types in the 40s and 50s – the baby doll, and the ‘Olga’ or ‘Vanity Fair’ (these were the top peignoir producing companies – Olga coined the look really and all other companies merely produced Olga/Vanity fair copies.) Olga and Vanity Fair peignoirs can go for up £400 - but you can get them on ebay for good prices if you look hard – the Dixie Dallas shop is on .co.uk and specialises in both.

Baby doll

First, an example of the baby doll (which six times out of ten comes in pink) –

The baby doll is always high on the neck/round necked, is short (above the knee), kicks out from the bust area. The above shot is of the nightie only. A robe will tie or fasten to cover it completely like so:

Olga/Vanity Fair

My favourites. Particularly the classic Olga style (nipped waist, v-cut neck line, full skirt to ankles). Aka this GORGEOUS thing:

I am rhapsodic about this set. It’s the most perfectly wonderful set I have ever seen (though not the most expensive actually)

The above at $200 would be a pretty good deal compared to this cashmere Saks Fifths Avenue one at $1200 (www.midnightglamour.com):

I understand of course that having laid eyes the above most perfect ever Olga you will be overcome by an immediate and pressing desire to own one so as to float gracefully from room to room in your house in it… it is only natural. To this end, so you can go seek and find, I can tell you it is an Olga style number 9788 and 92270. I am certainly NOT, however, not telling you where it is for sale this instance… in case you go and bid for it 

Other classic Olga examples:

Also made famous by Olga / Vanity Fair, though not in their classic cut are the full length baby doll style aka:

If you are looking for a high ‘floatient factor’, this is the one for you. And on the floatie factor – the ‘floatiness’ is ACTUALLY measured! Peignoirs come with what is called a ‘sweep’ measurement – from about 89 to about 250. 250 denotes being the fullest skirt you can get that will therefore sweep out behing you to the maximum, as you walk. The most perfectly wonderful set above has a 180 sweep.

I could show you picture after picture of these lovelinesses but the best place the check them out (though not, I would recommend to buy as you will pay full market rate), is www.midnightglamour.com.

I do though have to show you this one as it’s so outrageously indulgent you could have your own personal coronation in it 

Above is probably a 350 sweep – or more.

So then, slob around the house in a pair of teddy-bear dotted pjs…. or, as an alternative, drift elegantly from room to room smelling flowers and reading urgent telegrams, in one of these decadences.

Or some such, I’ve not really got a strong image in my mind about it at all…

A small confession

2008-07-27T20:03:00.001+01:00

I have a confession to make.

Over the past two weeks, I have become… a gamer. Yes. You heard me, a gamer. I am on the game.

And it’s shameful to admit, but........... I love it.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be doing it for. At the moment I am completely addicted though. I can’t wait to get home just to get on it. I just love the outfits I get to wear and the people I meet, especially the ones wearing helmets.

I just intended on doing it for ten days – for free of course, but then money was handed over and that’s just made the whole experience even better. Thing is, I was improving, I was getting better and better and I just couldn’t stop after ten days knowing I could become REALLY experienced. Experience is what makes you a success at it.

I mostly do it with a guy call Tabh – I met him the first night I was on it. He’s really muscled and likes to cover himself entirely in chain-mail. He has a thing about pelts and animal skin.

I just stick with normal clothes and prefer covering myself in herbs although there’s obviously lots of exercise involved and it’s really tiring, I’m certainly not anywhere near as buff as he is. Well, I wouldn’t want to be, I think all those muscles are bit OTT.

I spend most of my time chasing Tabh around. I run around in my various outfits thinking,

‘God I look cool in that flowing scarlett robe and gold arcane belt’

I run o’er mountain tops to seek out the ‘Orb of Athelrod’. I am attacked by Warlocks from the evil Brotherhood of Defias from the frontiers of Elwynn Forest in the land of Quel’thalas. I rain fire from my ‘Lightstaff of the Owl Hoard’ upon the Horde.

Oh yes, I am a WOW geek and proud. I’m gaming and it’s bloody brilliant!

It’s so completely fantastical – it’s like BEING IN the Lord of the Rings!!!!

I get to hear people shout ‘Heal me Calliope!’ and run to their side casting mana-spells hither and thither :))). I polymorph my foes and arcane shatter their consorts.

Oh the drama! J

No doubt this will whittle away in some weeks – as many of my ‘fads’ do, but for the moment, I only wanna talk about the fact I’m on the game….Exchange commands with me. Boost my stats. Level me up!

http://www.worldofwarcraft.com/index.xml

The warm cloak of God's love

2008-07-18T18:18:00.003+01:00

I didn't think anything could make me laugh today.

I was wrong.

A kind man handed me a leaflet... and it said...

My Dear Friend,

May I lovingly tell you that one day you will die and open your eyes in another world: either in...

A state of supreme happiness and joy, exceeding anything ever known in this life, known as...

HEAVEN

A state of unbelievable anguish, pain and torment, exceeding anything ever known in this life, known as...

HELL
(little animation of flames)

There is no annihilation!
There is no re-incarnation!
There is no escape!

I just love those kind Christians. They really do uplift one's soul.

Pass me the smelling salts

2008-07-01T21:23:00.002+01:00

Another mishap in my professional life occurred yesterday. Quite a stunner too – I give myself ten out of ten for this one - falling down stairs or mistaking strangers for colleagues doesn’t even come close to this.

I will regale….

It was 4.30 pm in Hill Dickinson’s offices. All 16 members of the Corporate Team were in the main board room for our monthly presentation of business development activities. My mind had begun to wander away from the current presentation of the banking fee earner and so I idly cast my attention upon the plaster wound around the index finger of my left hand.

The previous night I had been cooking a fine Italian pasta dish and had neatly sliced across the top of my finger. It had bled somewhat and had been bandaged up by means of a simple cloth plaster. Whilst my mind wandered in the meeting, I was intrigued to discover the state of the finger and thus began to unravel the plaster from around it (remembering of course to smile intermittently at my colleague who has been pursuing some truly wonderful business development activities this month.)

The plaster had unfortunately been applied so as to stick somewhat to the wound itself. Removing it caused the wound to open somewhat to reveal unsightliness.

(and now, for safety, I shall take a break and go outside for some fresh air for writing this is causing some unpleasant sensations. Truly.)

I quickly replaced the plaster after viewing the nauseating sight of raw flesh and tried to ignore the persistent image of the offending wound in my head.

The vision continued to plague my mind.

I became hot and felt sick. I became aware of the now-echoey voice of my banking colleague.

Then all went blank.

I fainted.

I fainted sat in a board room of 16 colleagues….because of a small cut on my finger.

Fortunately when the fainting occurred I was sat down. So it could have been worse.

Obviously I know not how long I was ‘out’ for, my consciousness returned prompted by the voices of my colleagues trying to revive me. :))))))))

For the first few seconds, my head remained upon my chest and I was rather confused. Then I realised I was conscious and jumped up in my chair announcing quickly ‘Sorry, I just fainted for a minute’

EVERYONE was staring at me mouths agape with a repetitive ‘Are you OK?’ being directed at me.

Alas, there was no knight of a white steed to sweep me into his saddle and waft smelling salts under my nose. Instead, my good friend and colleague Melanie, a most confident and efficient woman, immediately strode over to my chair, hoisted me up and marched me out of the meeting for ‘air and water’.

As I left the room I said, ‘Sorry! I shouldn’t have taken my plaster off.’ (I mean, what the hell was THAT??)

I think in all the ensuing comments from colleagues (‘No wonder you’re a vegetarian...’ being one of them) the one that most amused me was my boss’s statement that at first he had ignored me and thought nothing particularly was wrong as, ‘I thought it was just you being dramatic’.
Cheers D.

So there you go. Another proud achievement for my catalogue of career climbing endeavours.

Nothing to write home about

2008-06-25T22:19:00.002+01:00

Another direly dull day at the office.

The effect of this is magnified by the fact I am feeling in a bad mood in any event. No particular reason, I could feel it rising yesterday and now it is soaring high.

Just been out and bought Blindness by Jose Saramango and The Cleft by Doris Lessing. Finished Fatherland by Robert Harris on the train this morning. Prior to that read THE WONDERFUL, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera which I heartily, heartily recommend to ALL. Oh, I lie, prior to that was the Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers which was also great. Very similar relationship-types featured in the two books, the protagonist male in both being almost mirror-images of each other. This was completely coincidental but reading them side by side I think enhanced my reading experience.

Next on my to read list are:

Walden Two – BF Skinner

The Child Garden – Geoff Ryman

Tropic of Cancer – Henry Miller

The Glass Bead Game – Herman Hesse

Artists I want to know more about are:

Alfonse Mucha

Frederic Leighton

Aubrey Beardsley

This week's Quoteboard humorous quotes are:

‘Whom are you?’ said he, for he had been to night school.

You should never touch your eye but with your elbow (Proverb)

Never rub bottoms with a porcupine (Ghanaian Proverb)

I’ve given up reading books; I find it takes time off myself.

I haven’t spoken to my wife in years. I didn’t want to interrupt her.

Joyful, joyful

2008-06-10T20:56:00.002+01:00

I have just received news into my inbox of perhaps the most exciting theatre event that in my opinion could ever be devised.

Well, I suppose, that might be overstating it JUST a little… but I do want to you understand just how UTTERLY COMPELLING I find this event. And how utterly coincidental too.

I was only bemoaning to my brother-in-law LAST WEEKEND how devastatingly charmed I was by a certain gentleman and how I held out hope that a party I will be attending should be visited by said gentleman. I was informed that alas, due to the Object Of My Affection’s schedule, it was inconceivable he would be attending the party.

It has been a hard week. I have had sleepless nights and have eaten little. My pallor is wan, my spirits low and my hair, limp and lifeless as my heart. I have found neither joy in the star-strewn night skies nor delight in the sun-filled days. You could even say -

this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours

If you wanted to. And that would be great, because, well, it’s Mr Hamlet’s wonderfully bleak speech which, on especially Goya-esque days, I resonate in the delicious melodrama of.

But people… imagine how much greater it would be…. how, absurdly splendiferous it would be, if the very object of my affection, were to lament the majestical roofs with me???

Why, it would be a dream come true for you, Natalie, I hear you reply.

And, I say, but it IS a dream come true….for it is happening and will happen this very December! For, oh yes, the delightful Mr David Tennant is to appear as the title-role in the RSC’s production of Hamlet!!!!

Could you GET any better than that!!!!!

Hamlet is my undisputed favourite play and Mr Tennant, well, he sits on Johnny Depp’s geeky right hand and would be responsible for me staying in every Saturday night were I not Sky Plus enabled.

And all this, hot on the heels of ANOTHER fantasy realised (and I think the writer, Stephen Moffat must have tapped into my brain as I slept for this one) – a Dr Who episode (featuring DT of course) set – in a library! And not just any library – but an entire PLANET that is library.... A Victorian libraryI And the fact that the majority of the action was carried out in the circular domed section of the library – well, it’s almost utopian.

I have since researched on the library featured in the two recent episodes and have discovered that the domed section scenes were shot on location on Swansea Central Library. And for an added element of attraction, if sufficient didn’t already exist, I discover that that great liberal heavyweight, Mr William Gladstone, opened it…

"O day and night, but this is wondrous!"

Quotes

2008-05-31T13:00:00.002+01:00

Some words for those who might need them...

How is one to live a moral and compassionate existence when one is fully aware of the blood, the horror inherent in life, when one finds darkness not only in one's culture but within oneself? If there is a stage at which an individual life becomes truly adult, it must be when one grasps the irony in its unfolding and accepts responsibility for a life lived in the midst of such paradox. One must live in the middle of contradiction, because if all contradiction were eliminated at once life would collapse. There are simply no answers to some of the great pressing questions. You continue to live them out, making your life a worthy expression of leaning into the light.

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.

Our ideals resemble the stars, which illuminate the night. No one will ever be able to touch them. But the men who, like the sailors on the ocean, take them for guides, will undoubtedly reach their goal.

If growing up is the process of creating ideas and dreams about what life should be, then maturity is letting go again.

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.

Night time terror in Darwen: Part 2

2008-05-27T19:26:00.004+01:00

And so the story continues....

Rattus stared. I stared back. Neither of us moved.

A current of understanding passed between us.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I pushed myself quietly away from the dusty, in need of a sweep, floor until I stood upright again, Rattus eclipsed once more from my view.

I stood silently, some moments passed. Brain slowly clicking through what I had just witnessed.

And the then the terror overwhelmed me... finally. I succumbed to its ineluctable power as Rattus to cheese. Shrieking as loudly as my neighbourliness would permit I jeted up and down momentarily before exeunting through the lounge door and trailing a blaze up the stairs, straight into my bedroom and BOLTING the door.

Quick as a flash I was under the bed covers.

But Mother Fate was on my side! I had carried my phone up to bed with me! Seizing the handset I speed-dialled for assistance. Not the police, no... though this was clearly an emergency call.

No. Something better than the police...a man who carried fleas his pocket for fun. (well, there is a longer version of this story and it was not EXACTLY for fun - more to prove a point but hell... he doesn't mind fleas in his pocket for Christs sake!)

Flea-man answered and the story was unfolded within seconds.

Flea-man was calm, cool and collected. Despite the hour, he delightfully offered to ride post-haste to my assistance and to chase the offending animal from my abode.

I was desperate to shout 'Yes! Come and trash the filthy rodent from my lounge'... but empathy overwhelmed terror. We settled instead for an early morning call, safe in the knowledge that Mr Darcy would not sleep while Rattus inhabited his patch. Padme and Puck were clearly of no use in the stand-off. The day I named Mr Darcy was the day I blessed him with all the bravery and dignity of his namesake. I knew he would not fail me.

And so, I put down the phone and with a fluttering heart I drifted off to sleep.

The morning came too soon. Again I was faced with the prospect of returning downstairs to face Rattus. Stepping lightly down the stairs and inching open the lounge door, I furtively scanned the room.

Padme and Puck were nowhere to be seen.

Like mother like son.

But there, there crouched in the EXACT same spot in which I had left him seven hours earlier was Mr Darcy - the perennial hero.

Seven hours on sentry duty had left its toll on him. His whiskers were dropping with fatigue and his eyes were rimmed with the redness of too little sleep. Yet, throughout all his exhaustion, he had stayed awake and his muscles were as primed to pounce as the first moment he had seen Rattus.

I darted past the television and into the kitchen slamming the door behind me. Collecting my thoughts and daily belongings, I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of calm. I had faced mice in my life. Plenty of them. I was raised in the country and was used to a seasonal influx of six mice a night during harvest time. What is a rat but a large mouse? Who did the family turn to in those early days to rid the sitting room of furry little beings? Me, that's who. And here I was, 29 years of age, cowed by its larger cousin. Shame on me!

I turned and calmly opened the kitchen door. Rattus would NOT get the better of me this time. This was MY house and he should be the one sloping about in fear, not me.

With all the resilience and pride of my noble sex, I held my head up, flicked my hair high into the air and proudly, loudly walked slowly and confidently past the television, into the corridor and out into the freedom and safety of the outerworld.

Nighttime Terror in Darkest Darwen: Part 1

2008-05-19T18:54:00.001+01:00

Now the topic of this blog is something I did internally debate whether to blog on.

Part of me said, ‘No topic should be out of bounds in an honest and open blog’…. The other, Smeagol-like part of me responded ’This is shameful. You should tell no-one. They will laugh and scorn you. You will be publicly shamed’

Yes. This problem I have is one that we should only talk of in whispers, to our bestest, closet friends and family…if at all.

In the end, of course, my renowned inability to keep a secret inevitably led me to the ‘open and honest’ corner of the ring. (Or perhaps, my ‘open and honest’ principle is responsible for my inability to keep a secret … oh chicken and egg!) That, and a comment by an esteemed gentleman colleague that even the most good and respectable of Victorian ladies will have suffered great difficulties with this matter at one time or another, and so I should embrace the problem as yet another example of my 19^th century lifestyle.

I found his argument both succinct and persuasive. So here goes:

Last night, I did repose at an early hour due to my decision to cease inhaling foul pestilences of noxious fumes.

At around eleven and thirty, my ears were enlivened by an unholy racket which did reluctantly and fearfully raise me from my bed to creep down my creaking, wooden stairs to the lower echelons of the house.

At the bottom of the staircase, I was greeted by Miss Padme, who did by cunning use of her whiskers and tail, convey to me her desire that I should follow her into the cold, stone-floored lounge, in which place I was accustomed to passing my evenings.

With faith in the trustworthiness of my first-adopted, I did devotedly follow her short and gentle path into the lounge. There she did, with a sweep of her black paw, motion my eyes to the far right corner of the room.

Quite still and statue-like in that very corner, was the crouched figure of Mr Darcy, my second-adopted and by far the largest and bravest of all my feline-brood.

With frozen feet and bare legs did I hesitantly move towards the concentrated figure of Mr Darcy. No acknowledgement of my presence nor welcome at my approach did he make. His stare was undeviating…and I did follow the path of his stare with own, curious eyes.

Along the stone flooring and up to the grey television stand did they sweep. From there did they observe a two inch gap between the stand and flooring.

It was at this gap that our gaze did halt and centre.

For several unending moments not a sound was heard within the walls of the room. Miss Padme, Mr Darcy, a cowardly Puck and I all did stand in breathless silence.

Then, seemingly to me, with no rhyme nor reason, did Mr Darcy become most agitated and his breathing did become most heightened. His whole body did crouch more keenly and his paws began to dance up and down as if upon a scorching surface.

It was in the moments that ensued that I first began to comprehend.

It was now that my suspicions became keenly raised, for then…a shadow did fall out from the gap whereupon our eyes were fixed. Motion occurring under the stand was without dispute… for the very agent of that motion did cast his black silhouette upon my floor.

Ever so slowly I began my descent towards the tomb-like ground. First, my knees did make bare contact with the chill, hard rock… and some moments later, warm palms. Lowering my entire body against the floor, I turned my head to rest upon it.

Nought stood between the two-inch opening and my crouched, unprotected figure.

With trepidation I did open the lids of my eyes and peer inside the very bowels of the television stand.

From there I did suddenly, sickeningly grasp what terrible agent did so hypnotise Mr Darcy’s gaze, did make tremble young Puck and seek comfort besides the warm fur of his adolescent mother.

From there did the flesh and blood owner of that terrible silhouette reveal himself in all his pestilent horror to me.

For peering straight at me were the fat, glittering eyes of that most rancid, scuttling being……..

Rattus Norvegicus.

Thursday 1 May 2.14 pm

2008-05-06T20:22:00.002+01:00

It might of course be possible to be more bored than I am at this precise moment…..but I can’t see under what circumstances this could happen.

I’ve passed the hysterical phase and have now entered zombie territory. My eyes feel glassy, I can manage a grunt or two, I have vacant staring down to a fine art.

One of my colleagues suggested that we should all stay at home and just get called in if and when any work appears............

Ancillary to boredom actually is frustration.

I FINALLY started the "His Dark Materials" trilogy which has featured on my "To Read" list for the past five or six years. I spent a lovely six hours reading Northern Lights last night and went straight to Waterstones this afternoon to get books II and III. I would love NOTHING more than to spend this evening eating my way through The Subtle Knife… but alas, no. Instead, I have to pursue that other activity which lies so close to my heart and in which I do so notably excel …oh yes, networking.

I wonder what shame I shall bring upon myself tonight.

My left heel is pretty loose. Perhaps there may be a large staircase I have to walk down that I shall catch my heel on and fall loudly all the way down whilst being watched by all other four hundred and ninety-nine guests.

Or perhaps I shall embark upon my ‘I hate the cult of celebrity’ soapbox only to discover I am talking to the Editor of Heat magazine.

I once asked a Bishop what his star sign was.

Three hours and forty two minutes to go.

Oh kill me now.

I’m so bored I can’t actually be bothered putting meaningful, connected sentences together.

This is all I can manage:

I am delighted to see straw picnic-hamper weather is returning
I ate a Krispy Crème donut today thinking it would be something special. It wasn’t. I still hate donuts
If I were ever in a position to name a female cat again, I would name it ‘Lyra’
I’m attending a Heroes and Heroines Charity Fancy Dress ball that I am arranging dressed as Scarlett O’Hara and am bored by my predictability but am struggling with a viable alternative
I am undecided over whether it should be ‘zeros’ or ‘zeroes’
I am living with a man I don’t know

Climate Change Summit

2008-05-01T19:52:00.006+01:00

In my first step to becoming an environmental lawyer :) , I attended the Prince of Wales May Day Summit on Climate Change today; representing one of only one thousand business in the UK who have pledged their support to this organisation to reduce their carbon footprint this year and every subsequent year in line with the 2050 target of 60-85% carbon emission reduction.

I came out of the event more depressed than uplifted.

Firstly, it was a shock at how poor the support of UK businesses is to stopping climate change. One would have hoped that at least every single FTSE 500 company would be in attendance, I doubt there was even one hundred. Secondly, it was shocking to hear Pen Hadlow, the Polar Explorer, resigned to the extinction of the polar bears and the melting of the ice-caps - his work now is not on their preservation - as he sees this as futile and past all realism - so instead he is concentrating on gathering information to help learn how soon we can expect the ice caps disappearance (the US Oceanographic Centre says FIVE years - and this isn't an institution know for radical ideas.) and how best to combat the effects on then 'remaining' species and peoples of the world.

One positive aspect to come from the Summit was Unilever's announcement that it is pledging to source its palm oil from non-rainforest sites and its establishment of an international business group committed to development of sustainable palm oil production. Starting today.

Let's hope this action brings a brighter future for orangutans than Pen's future vision for polar bears.

Slavishly outraged

2008-04-13T15:11:00.003+01:00

I have been wondering upon my facility for outrage recently as I appear to have passed through several months without anything really incensing me. In fact, in terms of these blog posts, the last post detailing an occasion that measured as highly as this on my Outrage Richter Scale (ORS) was the Madonna adoption blog I suspect.

But it seems this week is the week for outrage blogs, so I will add to frenzy too!

So what is this occasion that registers a clear 6 on the ORS, Natalie? You say.

Free will. Or the [mis]conception of. I reply.

And to elaborate, the difference of opinion on the issue of: can we control our emotional responses to circumstance?

It was posed to me that we CHOOSE our emotional responses. We can CHOOSE to be happy, sad, angry etc. when an emotive circumstance presents itself.

If my mother dies, I CHOOSE to be grief-stricken...apparently.

(that was the crunch moment when my gauge started its incline)

And not just grief. Any emotion in fact. WE CHOOSE to respond to Incident/Cause A with Emotion A or Emotion B or Emotion C.

I of course have to dwell on what this would say about love.

And I have have never yet met anyone who able to MAKE themselves fall in love. Indeed the mere expression itself connotes the fact that it is an unintentional, uncontrolled occurrence.

Or rage. In what circumstance could someone sit and say ‘And now, I choose to be enraged’ You simply can’t FORCE an emotion. You feel it/ it is there – or it isn’t. You can’t force a feeling that isn’t there.

Philosophers have spoken about free will for generations; most of us have a deep conviction that we live our lives with “free will”. Free will, hard to define, but loosely in the sense of a human beings’ faculty for making and acting on reasoned choices.

Ignoring for the moment issues action choices (i.e. when a cause C event happens – can we REALLY ever be said to have CHOSEN action A or action B – and whether is it not instead the case that whether A or B ensues, it was NECESSITATED by who you are and the forces acting upon you at the time of your ‘choice’. No free will at work – only an inevitable outcome caused by who we are. You can’t avoid doing other than what you end up doing. You are the person you currently are and cannot respond in any other way unless you were to be someone other than you.) for now let us just deal with emotions. Because to me self-determinism in respect of emotions is even more self-evident a truth self-determinism in respect of actions.

Emotional responses are utterly beyond our control. Emotions present themselves to us as ‘knee-jerk’ reactions. When Cause A occurs – emotions do not sit on a waiting bench within us to be called up when the being owning them decides which emotional response he would like to carry out. Emotional responses are immediate – they AUTOMATICALLY ensue from A. The response occurs spontaenously –the emotion is nothing more than a mechanical reaction.

To say that you could have felt, or acted otherwise, is a fallacy. We can’t do anything other than what we end up doing, our behaviour and emotion is utterly determined by circumstances and biology i.e who we are. In a same molecule-for-molecule situation, we would always respond in the same way – why would or could anything else change it?

If this were not the case – where does the ‘part’ that makes a different choice or response come from – where does it sit? If not in the mind – the genes the molecules, then where? A supernatural element, a ghost in the machine?

And if this supernatural or ‘other non-biological, circumstances’ based element exist – how does it make its choices? Utter chance? Random chaos. How is that then a free choice?

Some quotes from guys thinking about lack of freedom in respect of emotion:

“You are free to do what you want, but you are not free to want what you want” Arthur Schopenhauer

“I suppose it’s possible that you might have acquired this want because you wanted to. It’s theoretically possible that you had a want to want to have a want. But this is very hard to imagine, and the question just rearises: where did THAT want come from? You certainly can’t go on like this forever. At some point your wants must be given. They will be products of your genetic inheritance and upbringing that you had no say in. In other words, there’s a fundamental sense in which you did not and cannot make yourself the way you are” Galen Strawson

For more discussion on Self-determinism – check out Steven L Converse: ‘Free Enough: Doing what come naturally’... who I plagiarised pretty much everything from...

Except for my outrage. That was determined ;)

Mr Camus' pearls of wisdom

2008-04-09T21:18:00.003+01:00

Am very much enjoying my current read at moment and thought I'd share part of a particular passage that amused and resounded with me. I do try to remind myself of my existence and by doing so, appreciate it, though believe it's not perhaps necessary to do it by such afflictive means!

Query: How to contrive not to waste one's time? Answer: By being fully aware of it all the while. Ways in which this can be done: By spending one's days on an uneasy chair in a dentist's waiting room; by remaining on one's balcony all a Sunday afternoon; by listening to lectures in a language one doesn't know; by travelling by the longest and least-convenient train routes, and of course standing all the way; by queueing at the box-office of theatres and then not booking a seat. And so forth.

Note to the pusillanimous: a lexiphanic blog

2008-04-08T19:00:00.002+01:00

I am yet again at a loose end at work so thought I would engage in a little bafflegab as a mithridate to my boredom until the hour to absquatulate arrives.

I have nothing that is not picayune to discuss but am hoping to fistigate my personal challenge to use fifteen words from www.worldwidewords.org/weirdwords in one small post. This is not so mattoid as it may on first sight appear, I've been lollygagging for almost three long hours on various retro clothing website but, have found myself full of floccinaucinihilipilification in respect of most items I came across.

As may be obvious, I am a hyperpolysyllabicsesquipedalianist and admit to being twitterpated with using sesquipedality to squabash people in debates.

It is a pinchbeck trick which smacks of the sciolist but, neverthless, I admit freely to it.

Given this fact, I thought application of wordlwidewords to this pages as an oyez so that I may use them to vellicate my sister when next I meet her so that she may accuse me of fanfaronade more so than she usually does. I do not mind. She is nought but a jobbernowl and should know to be more fidimplicitary when I am around.

On the Superiority of the Structured Hat

2008-04-02T21:20:00.003+01:00

OK, clearly we need head and hair protection given that we live in Grey, Pissy-Little Britain. True, true. Thus, our protection-mechanism is of some import to us.

I'd like to point out therefore something that may have eluded your attention in this respect. The Structured Hat.

And I'd like to suggest you give it a try (on).

The advantages of a Structured Hat over an Umbrella:

1. It doesn't break in the wind.

2. You are less likely to forget it.

3. It looks 'fetching'.

4. It doesn't imperil the eyes of your fellow pedestrians.

5. It doesn't require constant opening and closing.

5. It doesn't impinge on your bodily-freedom

6. It's longer-lasting.

7. It acts as an eye-mask to aid sleeping on the morning train journey.

8. It retains warmth.

Thus: quite clearly superior to the Umbrella.

High Tea

2008-03-20T20:26:00.004Z

OK. So... High Tea... a HUGELY important issue for the past four weeks.

Normally it's me who obsesses about fine details of event organisation, this time is has been my beloved elder sister.

The High Tea fascination started last summer when Caroline and I attended the Sunday 'Tea and Cakes' held in Ribchester Parochial Hall. Hamming up our parochialism, we drunk tea in fine bone china cups, sticking our little fingers out, sipping noisily and giggling whilst saying in lilting tones, 'Oooo, that's a lovely cup!' or 'Is the pot still warm?' or 'I might just have another drop' ... anything we felt would make us sound like sixty year old quaint ladies.

We eventually progressed from the parochial hall to the pavement outside my Mum's house complete with fresh tea pot and cups (my Mum lives in a very quaint village with very little movement or traffic and mostly just walkers passing through the streets - it's not like we set up on Oxford Street) ... and a game of dominoes which we felt added to the whole theme of the affair. Both Mum and Caroline's husband were highly embarrassed at our antics and refused to join us, but truthfully we put a smile on all passing villagers' faces and drew lots of complimentary and friendly comments. People were LOVING our respect for the High Tea.

So, Caroline decided this Easter we should devote an good portion of an afternoon to a full High Tea ceremony. Dainty sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, jam, tiered cake stand, fine bone china, napkins... the lot. We are recreating the Ritz in 1910 essentially.

Caroline and I disagree over quite a bit, whilst we all share the same sense of humour and idea of fun and silliness, certain issues divide us... High tea has proved to be one of these.

So here, I am setting down MY idea of how High Tea should be held.

I have to accept that Caroline is the originator of the event and so she WILL get the final word, but that doesn't stop be publicising how I think High Tea SHOULD be held...and how it could be held IN THE BEST WAY.

Cups and saucers
Fine bone china without a doubt. This is not up for discussion. Anyone planning High Tea cannot call it High Tea without fine bone china which is fundamental to the ceremony earning its title as such.
Drinking form
The cup should be held with three fingers, with the little finger sticking out. Tea drinking should be carried out with pursed lips and a light sipping sound as the tea is sucked between the lips and into the mouth. A soft 'Ah' or smile is requisite after the sip. If the tea is hot, gentle blowing whilst maintaining eye contact with your companion is a must.
When the tea is returned to the saucer, the eye must follow the movement and the cup should be placed back upon the saucer with a slight 'chink' sound.
Conversational topics
Polite conversation on topics such as; weather; tea blends; the health of mutual friends, are to be had.
Serving platters
A three tiered cake stand is de minimis.
My mother has a lovely wooden 19th c cake tier for just this instance upon which doilies will be placed.
Bread variety
Sandwiches are where Caroline and I really fall out. For me - it is obviously white bread only. The upper class in 1910 ate white bread with their high tea, not brown or wholemeal. I don't care if health concerns prefer wholemeal these days, observance of old-norms take priority. White bread is also softer than brown bread. Soft genteelity is the key to this affair and thus only white bread is acceptable.
Sandwich shape
This is the KEY to mine and Caroline's disagreement... she is creating FINGER shapes i.e. thin rectangles. I find this totally abhorrent and fear that my entire enjoyment of the event will be marred by the sight of 'finger-shaped' sandwiches.
CLEARLY triangles are THE only option. EVERYONE knows it is triangles. Try telling Mrs Eldridge this. I simply cannot understand that she fails to comprehend this crucial matter.
That the sandwiches must be crustless of course is accepted by both of us. Anything else would be ludicrous.
Sandwich fillings
Cucumber...naturally.
Salmon... accepted and approved of.
Being a veggie, Caroline suggested cheese as a cucumber alternative... a variety of sandwiches is, of course, key to pleasing your guests and a sign of indulgence. Caroline was suggesting sliced cheddar. I was quite defiant on this score. I can't imagine sliced Cheddar in Brideshead Revisited. I have insisted on cream cheese.
I know I am right.
Scones
Clotted cream and jam being the accompaniments, scones must be plain. Raisin and cherries are for butter. To load cream and jam and cherries would be gluttonnous in the extreme.
Jam
Strawberry jam is indelicate as the strawberry pieces tend to be large and clumsy. I advocate a finer blended jam such as raspberry or blackcurrant.
Butter
That's it. Butter. Not margarine (the prospect of which makes me faint with anxiety)
Butter must be served ina matching butter dish of course. If you want to really impress, cut into small cubes.
Napkins
Cloth. White. To be unfolded and dropped over the knee.
I support the use of the napkin as a finger cleanser throughout the eating process. Suggesting that the finger tips can be pressed lightly against the material if they should become sullied. Caroline disagrees and feels the napkin should be used for one purpose only, the dabbing of the corners of the mouth after the guest has finished eating. She recommends rubbing the finger tips together over the plate to any occasion where crumbs or melted butter/cream interfere with the guests fingers.
Whilst I appreciate the picture of crumbs falling lightly onto a plate beneath finger tips, I also feel the napkin 'dab' to be both practically more effective and just as quaint.
In this instance, we can both pursue our own actions as we feel appropriate at the time.

So that is the basics as I see it for a proper and genteel High Tea.

I am most concerned by the sandwich shape issue and will report back on whether rectangular shapes do indeed marr the occasion.

I shall of course be wearing a 'tea dress'. That goes without saying.

Some random recommendations

2008-03-18T21:53:00.007Z

OK - some random recommendations :

I advise watching the following films:

The Notorious Bettie Page
Lovely film in both colour and black and white.
Most fascinating part of this is appreciating the complete naiveity of Bettie's attitude to her work. Or, in complete opposite, her absolute broad-mindedness in relation to nudity and 'costume poses'. I can't make my mind up on that - the two seem to meld together oddly.
Apparently Dita Von Teese went up for the role and was refused. I think this was a good call, both for the film and Dita's career. Bettie was clearly an original and fell into her position as Pin Up Queen; Dita has consciously developed a similar status and positively courts comparison with Bettie. Had she taken the role, she risked being labelled as a mere Bettie-wannabe and thus lose credibility.. rather than earning the position as a modern Pin Up in her own right.

As for benefits for the film, merely because Dita knows Bettie perhaps more than anyone else on the stage at the moment, and of course sported the famous Bettie haircut for some years, doesn't give her the requisite skills for conveying the role. They were right to use a bona fide actress for it. Perhaps people would have seen 'Dita' rather than 'Bettie' in the celluloid too.

Once
Being a sucker for romance and musicals, this was high on my to watch list. It disappointed in no way except that
*SPOILER*
they DIDNT end up together :(((
But actually... despite the fact I was wringing my skirt the whole way through due to my pre-sentiment they may not in fact end up in a lover's bliss, I was kind of appreciative of that the writer hadn't gone for the easy ending. To such an extent he even chose to deny us a tearful farewell!
If you are a fan of acoustic singer-songwriters, I'd be surprised if you didn't love the score. The protaganists/singers voices are PERFECTLY suited and for an UK film, a lot of which I find stressful to watch, it was very relaxing. There was raising of the fact of hardships that Eastern-European immigrants suffer but the film managed to balance social realism with an essentially idealistic and romantic purpose. France always seems to do this better than the UK . UK films I find tend to be clumsy-handed and can only ever acheive one over the other.

FOOD

Chilli Chocolate
Yes it's old-hat and I'm sure most have tried it but I recently went to a Harvey Nics 'Chocolate and Wine' evening and was blown away by a dark chocolate and chilli variety (of a producer/ label I am afraid I can't remember). If, like me, you had not tried it before, YOU MUST! It REALLY brings out the dryness of bitter chocolate in a most excellent manner.

James Bond 'Scrambled Eggs'

Essentially, you cook the eggs over a low heat for about fifteen minutes, with the addition of disgusting heart-attack amounts of butter. The eggs must never catch, and they must be stirred pretty much CONSTANTLY. OBVIOUSLY add salt and pepper, and then a choice of parmesan (about two mins before service) OR finely chopped garlic (it DOES actually do well in here - about eight mins before service) OR herbed cream cheese (same as with parmesan for addition timing) OR fresh cut herbs OR nothing!... depending on your taste buds... Christ, I have lived with someone who added lemon curd to fried rice and tuna once with the explanation/indefensible defense it was equating to 'sweet and sour'!!!! Who am I to judge your culinary delectation?

('James Bond' eggs BTW as Fleming gives a full description of Bond making eggs this way in the short story '007 in New York' - it has now been included in edited versions of Octopussy and The Living Daylights. Fascinating!)

Final recommendation is

High Tea

High Tea will be blogged soon - it is amusingly serving as the cornerstone of my family's Easter and an absolutely inappropriate amount of conversation has been had on the intricacies of this. It thoroughly deserves a posting in its own right.

Numbers 12 - 14 of 357 things that annoy me

2008-03-16T16:07:00.007Z

Misuse of word 'tapas'

This is driving me crazy.

I get excited everytime a new 'Tapas Bar' sign comes up as my favourite food is tapas but invariably upon perusing the menu I discover it is not at all a tapas restaurant, just an establishment owned by a restauranteur with no respect for his product or own integrity. Normally you find dishes such as 'bowl of olives with herbs' alongside 'foccacia bread and hummous'.

This Friday was the worst instance of misrepresentation I have thus far come across. Under a huge 'NEW TAPAS BAR' sign, came a short list of example dishes...

'Lattes, croissant, panini'

For FUCK'S sake. No even at a STRETCH could you claim it to be tapas.

Women with large prams

Like this one.

It's entirely, unnecessarily large. It's about five or six times as big as its inhabitant. It's my belief this trend of oversized prams stems from the same place that the urge to buy a Porsche four by four does. Which I also have no truck with.

It's not necessary to cosset a baby in a truck or drive one unless you are moving large mounds of earth.

It's an extension of our label-obsessed culture, conspicious-consumption society and its entirely selfish. You can't MOVE down the street for the things. And to add salt to the wounds.. mothers inevitably get cross and make some snidey remark at other pedestrians for getting in THEIR way!!

A particular question posed by a waitress at Negresco restaurant this Saturday

It was the inaugural 'Hen night without a hen' and my chosen restaurant was the fantastically decorated Negresco... chosen because the decor matched with my latest corset purchase :))))))

Fortunately the food was excellent so I wasn't berated for my ridiculous basis for choosing.

An excellent restaurant in all respects with the exception of the fact the waitress asked Meghna, who had ordered swordfish, 'How would you like that done?'

Meghna... after an understandable period of perplexedness responded haltingly, 'Medium??'.

Someone needs to take the nice waitress in hand.

And now, lest you harbour the erroneous belief I am only filled with conniption ( :)))) ) I shall detail those things which have pleased me of late.

The women with the sling

Today, I travelled back from Manchester and was gladdened in my heart to see a sensible lady hoiking her infant around in a sling. It wasn't even a specifically-designed baby sling. It was just a large rug-type affair she has wrapped around her allowing her to strap the infant on her back, thus enabling her to move with minimum intrusion throughout the public highways of the City of Manchester.

My inability to network

This should perhaps come under the banner of 'things that annoy' me but the latest exemplification of my ineptness in this corporate skill made a colleague and I laugh so it has to come here.

Usually finding it difficult to engage on an acceptably 'corporate-level' I dread attending networking events and the trauma of honing in on a suitable topic of convrsation I can genuinely enjoy engaging in (I think this is my downfall - I think you aren't meant to enjoy it, only PRETEND you do... I'm pretty awful at 'pretending' too though, so even that realisation doesn't help matters.) UNusually, I came across someone who I did have an interesting conversation with. A young psychotherapist specialising in existential psychotherapy.

So we had a nice chat about Camus and Sartre (and of course Freud - you just HAVE to) and how their ideas are applied in a psychotherapeutic way.

Upon exiting the networking event, I spotted the therapist so went over, tapped him on his shoulder, told him I was leaving and that it was nice to meet him and good luck in his latest endeavours (was setting up a business of his own) I left feeling especially pleaseed with myself at how smooth I had been, not only in engaging a 'colleague' for half an hour pleasantly but also being so careful as to 'finish' the network professionally.

I turned to note to my friend/colleague Claire, who had accompanied me as I said my professional farewell, that the therapist had looked strangely at me when I went to say goodbye and pondered on why this could be. Claire indulgently explained that my networking efforts were much noted but that perhaps next time, I should make sure I said goodbye to the same man I had been taking to in the first place, and not some random stranger who didn't know me from Adam.

Much unprofessional giggling ensued.

A wordy website

Drawn to my attention by a fellow linguaphile:

http://www.worldwidewords.org/weirdwords/

Isobel Faye Higgs

My new little cousin. And I'm so PLEASED it's a girl! MORE girls in the family! Whooo-hooo!

The Lost Myth of the Venus-child

2008-02-28T19:20:00.004Z

Dear Imogen,

You speak of the delicious Mr Depp.

Perhaps I should recount a little known myth that it is imperative your classics students become familiar with. I cannot reveal from which source I came to know of this myth..... only that it is true, and if it not be so, may the knarled hand of The Fates cut short the very string of my too, too sullied life and send me winging to the very bowels of dark Hades........

As the end of the Golden Age of the Gods approached, all-mighty Zeus, tiring of the jealous ways of his wife-sister Hera, bid Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, to fashion a mortal male from the very core of her ambrosia-being. This mortal male, so delightful in looks and in radiant beauty, would serve to enchant the eye of Hera, turning her watchful gaze away from the adulterous mischief of her all-powerful and salacious husband. In return for her efforts, Zeus promised to free Aphrodite from her bond to lame-footed Hephaestos, and to unite her for all eternity with her true love, the war-like Ares.

Aphrodite, unable to resist such an offer, left Mount Olympus alone, leaving even her favourite behind, the light-winged Eros, to seek peaceful and concentrated refuge on the Island of Cyprus, which island she was fond of more than any other place on mankind's earth. There she began her work in creating a male more beautiful than even that most beautiful of all mortal beings, Helen of Troy.

So consummed with her work did Aphrodite become, that she failed to hear the call of Zeus for the gods and goddesses of his realm to leave Mount Olympus and to abandon mortal men and women to their fate forever.

Aphrodite, alone in the world, continued to work as if in a timeless trance, as she fashioned her most sublime personification of her nature. More inspiration and thought had Aphrodite never before bestowed into one single task. Her spirit and mind was absorbed for centuries with the perfection of her incandescant male. All her essence of being was poured forth over these long years, ensuring that Aphrodite's child-of-mind would be forever filled with the very quintessence of empyrean beauty.

In the year 1963, Aphrodite's work was finally complete. The sublime mortal man was ready for unveiling to mankind and to the now-vanished eye of Hera.

Her creation was sent forth from the Island of Cyprus to the unlikely town of Owensboro, Kentucky, his care being charged to a simple-born man and woman.

The god-child grew into his fated beauteous form as simply as a leaf swirls in the gentle breath of restless Eurus.

And now, though the time of the Gods has passed, men and women of the mortal kingdom can still recall the supreme power over beauty of this most lovely of all goddesses, by gazing upon the pinnacle of male exquisiteness that is Aphrodite's swan-song, Mr Johnny Depp.

'Twenty questions' (or at least some of them)

2008-02-27T20:06:00.002Z

I haven’t written a list in a while and given that I bored to an extent previously unknown to man, woman or sentient being, I shall fill my final forty-five minutes in the office ‘listing’.

What to list though…..

I am creating some lists at work at the moment actually, based upon the personalities of our team. Our team has just doubled in size and as the ‘Initiator for the creation of team joy, unity and a happy, inspirational work-place’ I have decided to create a booklet for new starters and trainees etc that will give them an alternative introduction to the team… beyond the usual age, extension number and work history crap you normally get.

I’ve basically presented the team with my favourite ‘twenty questions’ list that I like to bark at strangers who accost me in bars, in place of normal conversation.

Anyways, I suppose I could recount the list that staff members are currently filling in – not with their responses of course. That would be unusually indiscreet even for me. No. I could, for my own amusement, fill them in myself. This prospect equally bores me though. I know my answers already and could recount them in my sleep.

OR, in fact, I could list my already installed Eclectic Initiatives to Personalise the Office, Create Staff Unity and Harbour Laughter and a Lightness of Soul never before experienced in a corporate law department ….and develop more. THEN I am, whilst blogging, also working! No guilt here then.

Just let me turn on my ‘Non-chargeable’ clock… this is clearly ‘New product development’….

On second thoughts. So good are these inspired ideas, they would clearly be stolen by the raft of rival law-firm fee earners who daily visit the spaghetti junction that is my blog. I cannot let this be.

Additionally, Roll On Friday have recently been spying into the affairs of close Manchester colleagues of mine and I am aware of the insiduous gaze of the legal profession into areas you never expect them to intrude or discover.

Crapola.

OK, in no particular order:

Ideal three dinner party invites:
Bill Clinton, Johnny Depp, Alan Bennett

What other job would you most like to do:
Zoologist at the Virunga Mountain Research Facility

What did your school report typically say about you:
Natalie needs to put as much effort into her written work as she dos into her oral work

If you were a jungle animal what would you be?
A bonobo

Which literary creation do you most identify with/would most like to be like:

Scarlett O’Hara OF COURSE!!! – for COUNTLESS reasons. She was independent, headstrong, passionate, ground-breaking (for clarification here – she was a female from the deep south in 19 century who owned and ran her own businesses, created a cotton plantation, physically defended her own territory and negotiated with the enemy at a high level of authority to protect her own family – not of this was ‘acceptable’ for a mere woman at the time) authoritative and intelligent. ‘Tis a height sincerely to be aspired to.

If you could have one super power what would it be:

See Super power blog below.
That, or immortality.
Saying that - I recently came across a beautiful but fated idea somewhere recently that I can’t identify in my memory. Something is saying in Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman’s latest film that I recently went to see (In place of Johnny Depp!!!!! THATS how much I love Morgan's voice) but I’m sure it’s not that. Anyway, the idea was: Would people accept immortalty if offered? To prompt consideration, this story was told……A woman was offered a vial of liquid that would make her immortal. She decided she would accept immortality, but she only drank half - saving the rest for her future lover that she immediately embarked on a search to find. She realised immortality alone was no fun and so her key to beating the immortality Achilles’ heel was to find the person she could spend the rest of her life with and give them the potion. Unfortunately, so important did finding the right man become, that as time passed, it became more and more impossible to find the person worthy of the immortal liquid. After all, this would be the only person to could exist in eternity with. After the passing of centuries of disappointment and finding all men lacking to her ideal, she began to view all men as failures and resigned herself to a life of lonely immortality.
‘Tis the age-old vampire problem. Part of what adds to their romantic stature I guess. (Poor Lestat….)

What colour best represents you:

Yellow – loud, happy but sometimes overwhelming…..
‘Tis also the colour of the mighty leo Lion.

Would you rather have a face for a bum or a bum for a face:

Face for a bum. :)That cracks me up every time. Surely NO-ONE says ‘bum for a face', though’???

Lose a leg or lose an arm:

Leg definitely. You can cover up the leg and leg prosthetics are developed enough to mostly replace the natural leg function. Not so with an arm as the hand and fingers are so dextrous and complex and technology hasn’t advanced to replicate this yet.
(Also – you could get one of those legs the Olympic runner has that is made of sprung steel or something that means you can bounce along the road at high speed.)

If you could one one of the four major talents; Musical ability, Literary ability, Artistic ability
Mental ability, which would it be:

Musical ability. "I think music can express subtleties that neither literary nor visual artistic endeavours can."

If you could save one item from your burning house, what would it be?

My Victorian pearl and ruby lavaliere. That sounds odd as it is jewellery based and I am not a jewellery fan – not real ‘gems’ anyway. I find real gems gauche, for one – I am not someone who would be delighted by the presentation of a diamond necklace for example. Gems/modern jewellery are a minefield of ethical implications so it is best just to stay away – it’s not like I’m missing out on much either, a small bead of glass looks just like a diamond – why does it HAVE to be a diamond? It’s only social snobbery/vanity that distinguishes one from the other.

No. The reason why is 1. Because I do have objections to jewellry, being ‘second-hand’ it’s the few/one piece of ‘real’ jewellry I am happy to wear. 2. It was my Grandma's and is the only item of hers I have. 3. I have another sentimental attachment to it beyond it being my Grandma’s – my sister wore it for her wedding and I was soooo touched by this. I know I shouldn’t take it personally – lavalieres are beautiful (and no longer made really – it was the Victorians and Edwardians primarily who loved them and they went out of fashion with them. Lord knows why.) so of course she should want to wear it. It was a perfect fit with her dress too. But I was still chuffed knowing Caroline was walking down the aisle having chosen to wear, of all pieces of jewellery, my favourite. (it was of course her something borrowed and something old)

What would be the best aspect of being a member of the opposite sex?

Childhood games. Boys games are sooo much better than girls. Cowboys and Indians, tree-houses, camping, digging for treasure/insects. They are all also all more out-doorsey than girls. They have adventure at their heart too.

OK. The class-room bell has rung and I am free.

Disclaimer:
Any reference to time zones or physical location at the time of writing (“the Time”) is purely fictitious and should not be viewed as a genuine reflection of the writer’s actual status at the Time.

It Is Like It Ought To Be - A Pastoral

2008-02-25T22:25:00.004Z

I recently attended THE MOST BIZARRE theatre experience I have ever been 'exposed' to.

I don't even know how to explain what I witnessed for seventy minutes.

Probably best is just to explain the rough sequence of events:

Upon entering the theatre, we were greeted by five actors in 19 century clothes, most playing folky-tunes on instruments (accordion, cello, violin/trumpet... yes, it was violin-trumpet COMBINED.. I didn't understand it looking at it and still don't) who stopped playing every so often to hand out glasses of cider...and to invite us..... to apple bob.

Several people apple bobbed with the help of the cast. (remarkably - mostly women with full faces of makeup and freshly coiffed hair - fair play) Then, volunteers having dwindled, one of the two actresses began to bob herself, with much fanfare, because she could, we were told, fit TWO apples in her mouth at once.

And so she could.

On her final extraction from the bath of water, the actress exploded out of the bath and started SCREAMING, with no seeming reason, in 'tongues' or witch curses... or something. I couldn't really hear as I was too focused on the fact that her cast mate was now, head-locking her, and fully immersing her head in the bath water, before dragging her out - by her throat - to allow her to 'tongues' some more. Several times. Then he kind of flung her onto the floor, where she collapsed...apparently 'unconscious'.

She was then bound up, and the audience was ushered into their seats - by the remaining three actors - swishing branches and long twigs (!) through the air in front of us.... and shouting 'Move along! Move along!' :)))))))))

Then twenty minutes of poetry about living in the country, away from the city, creating your own 'society' hidden in a valley ensued.

Then twenty minutes of the actors interspersing playing their instruments with making FARM ANIMAL noises. They didn't just make the noises, they recorded their noises on little dictaphones... and then walked up and down the stage.... not saying A WORD, replaying the noises....for the ENTIRE twenty minutes...every so often, walking in and out of the audience seats, and playing the noises to the faces of the audience members.

So far, so surreal.

Then, one of the actor went into a suitcase, and proceeded to unload roughly thirty mechanical fluffy white rabbits, set them around the stage, and set them to hop around, blink their red-lit eyes, and make 'squeaky noises'.

This we watched for some ten minutes.

Just sat.... watching the hopping, squeaky rabbits.

Then, poetry again...a storm is coming.

Instruments out again - loud stormy music.

Two of the actors begin disrobing (the advert had said 'Not suitable for children: Contains nudity') the male disrober, produced a bowl of mud, and having revealed his sinewy frame in its entirity, rubbed mud over thia entire, and I mean ENTIRE, body.

He then, got down on his hands and knees, and crawled in a circle like a dog making a bed. :))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Then he got up onto his hands and feet, and walked around the stage like a bear on all fours.

The female disrober at this point, had revealed her boobs, and was laid out on the floor, rubbing dried leaves all over her clothes and boobs. And rolling.

At some point she started madly eating apples... and spitting and dribbling the mulch from her mouth onto the floor.

I think the other actors were playing music and screaming at this point. I don't know. It was all very confusing for me. :))))))

Then, onto the stage walks a women covered in a long velvet black cloak. She stood on a podium and shouted some brutal, storm-related words. While her cast mates rolled in leaves spitting apples and walked around like naked, muddy bears. (The little rabbits were still going by the way).

Then, with a loud bang, everything stopped (the storm...was over....)

Veeeeeerrrrrry slowly, the cloaked woman turned around.... to reveal her face...which was...a horse's face.

It was very freaky. David Lynch would have been proud. It has given me much fodder for future nightmares.

Then they put their clothes back on... and proceeded to kill a fake horse. It was blugeoned to death. And left in the middle of the stage. The poor horse (previously billed as 'the love horse' that audience members had been invited to 'speak to ' and record messages of love into it... for the love horse also contained a magical dictaphone)

The little rabbits were then set on the fake horse... to 'eat it'.

Then, light folky music came back on.... and all quietly sat down on the stage, got out A KETTLE and made a cup of tea. And just sat quietly for some minutes.

We sat watching them drink tea.

Then they recited nice poetry about rivers and kissing.

And that was it.

They disappeared off stage, and came back on for their applause, wearing plastic animals masks. A hound dog, a pig, a sheep, a horse and an owl.

And that was it.

And I will end this blog in the same way I came out of my surreal theatre experience, with a ????????????????? :)))))))))))))))))))))))))))) ?????????????????????

“The latest show from Uninvited Guests is absolutely brilliant… this is a clever, engaging and tightly controlled show.” The Guardian

2008-02-14T20:02:00.002Z

Am enjoying watching Masterchef at the moment, though the overly dramatic, 'Cooking DOESNT get much tougher than THIS' opener always makes me chuckle. It's a line more suited to bare knuckle fighting than the controlled application of olive oil to a non-stick pan.

I love cooking and am I suppose passionate about food, compared to some - I will go out of my way to visit a local store stocking good ingredients, can spend hours wandering around markets and delis and am blissfully happy with a complex recipe necessitating hours in the kitchen. Despite this, I do wonder about the unadulterated passion for food that some of the Masterchef contestants and presenters display. Food appears to literally rule their lives. Food is culture of course and deserves to be considered as an integral part of life's rich tapestry just like art and literature. But unlike the latter, food I don't believe can enrich the soul or challenge the mind so I find it somewhat baffling that some-one can devote their lives to the pursuit of the perfect hollandaise sauce and believe they have found nirvana - as Masterchef implies they do. Food is ancillary to life surely?

Anyway, some good food quotes below.

Being a cheese-lover, I can't agree more with GK Chesterton - though I doubt he was quite so sincere as I!

"The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese." ~G.K. Chesterton

"Condensed milk is wonderful. I don't see how they can get a cow to sit down on those little cans." ~Fred Allen

"The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found." ~Calvin Trillin

"If you ate pasta and antipasto, would you still be hungry?" ~Author Unknown

"Nothing will benefit human health and increase the chances for survival of life on Earth as much as the evolution to a vegetarian diet. " Albert Einstein

Japanese whaling

2008-02-07T22:31:00.000Z

An Australian Custom ship has within the past few days captured emotive footage of whaling activities by Japanese hunters. Horrifically the photographs taken witness, for example, the piercing of an adult whale through its hump by the use of explosive harpoons, before the still-live and undoubtedly painracked whale is hoisted slowly through the air to bleed out the last of its life in fear and agony. Additional footage hints at a heartbreaking end to the peaceful lives of a mother and her calf.

Japan has used the International Whaling Convention's permissive measures relating to whaling in pursuit of 'scientific research' since the outset of the Convention's ratification. Since its creation in 1946 the International Whaling Commission has failed abysmally in its mandate to protect the stock of whales 'for future generations' - a mandate which in itself is based upon state self-interest, is entirely sterile and wholly theoretically imperfect.

The IWC has done little more than provide a permisive gloss to decades of slaughter of whales and stood by as to allow us to witness the systematic depletion of race of rightful inhabitants of our planet.

The IWC should be immediately and shamefully disbanded even were it not to be replaced by an equivalent, and hopefully more substantial organisation. If only to deny whaling nations such as Japan, Norway and Canada with the opportunity to legitimate their actions by reference to a fictitious provision that provides them with the outward conceit for the bloody murder of sentient creatures.

If you ever wanted to be Wonder Woman....

2008-01-15T18:21:00.000Z

Because let’s face it, who didn’t? Her costume was FAR and away the best of all the super-heroines AND she was a feminist icon to boot (She hailed from Themyscira, an Amazonian island successfully run and inhabited solely by women… until a man came along and buggered it all up. For more on this fascinating history go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Themyscira)

Or as an alternative, what about my favourite, Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlett, or any other pre-20th century femme really who paraded an hour-glass figure, underskirts and a wasp-waist.

Yes, since my early says I have been fated to be an ardent lover of all things corsets for both Scarlett and Wonder-woman relied upon, firstly, a corset and, more often than not, ‘foundation wear’. ‘Foundation wear’ for the uninitiated is any undergarment incorporating bones, originally wood or whale bone, now steel. I’m talking corsets, corselettes, girdles, suspender belts and brassieres.

Now for me, these five items are the five pieces of armour (in both a literal AND metaphorical sense) essential in EVERY woman’s wardrobe.

We (the female ‘we’) all wear bras, of course (at least I hope we do. The 60s are over.) But, alas, the other four lapsed into obscurity in the latter half of the twentieth century. And, well, I am here to try to fix that.

It was once said by some nameless, impertinent man, that should I ever be in a position of power (above and beyond the innate power my Y-chromosome awarded me as my birth-right that is), my first decree would be that all women should wear corsets. And that nameless man was not far wrong.

Alas, I am in no such elevated position of power. Lamentable - yes and a fact that makes the world a poorer place for it, but no less true I am afraid. I am, however, through the art of narration and opinion-giving (aka. this blog) in a position to set forth a persuasive and informative argument to help usher in a re-visit to the by-gone days of foundation-wear.

So let the persuasion and information commence.

Let us first start with the best and most exciting of all the foundation wears… the hallowed corset.

My first ever corset, in the foolish days of my corset-nyophytry (yes, I made it up) was a PLASTIC-BONED!! under bust corset. As the name implies, the under bust corset starts under your bust. The under bust is not meant to be seen really, its purpose is to hug the waist and hips to create ‘the wasp waist’.

Under bust corset here:

Freakish unhealthy, not to be recommended at all, we don’t like it, oh no it gyps but you get the idea anyway, wasp waist here:

And who WOULDN’T want an extra teeny waist for some guy named Rhett to come and pick you up by and spin you around in a field of barley before collapsing laughingly into a heap of joy and romance. I know I can’t be alone?

So anyway……once you have your wasp-waist, you layer on your waist-loving clothes. Think 40s and 50s.

My favourite EVER waist-loving clothing item is the superlative ‘Wiggle-dress’. Marilyn Monroe, Bette Davis, Betty Page… all these ladies know the power of the wiggle. In fact, Marilyn was never OUT of a wiggle dress. Try finding a picture of her wearing anything else and it’s not easy. And that’s because it simply IS the best dress in the world. As you can see:

Now, to crash the dreams of men throughout the globe, Marilyn did not just pull on her wiggle dress and wiggle over a man-hole or two. Marilyn, like most women, was not born a perfect wiggler. To achieve the perfect wiggle, you need…. the cheeky girdle.

The cheeky girdle does for the hips what the corset does for the waist; it primes and curves it to perfection. The green girdle below is a perfect choice for a wiggle dress. It is high waisted so will tuck in your waist at the same time. For the perfect Marilyn wiggle get yourself a girdle.

Girdles are also a more theatrical alternative to suspender belts - they always come with snaps attached. A word of warning here, always look for a girdle with six snaps if you are planning on wearing seamed stockings. Without six snaps, your seam will travel halfway round your leg – numbers five and six keep it poker straight.

The corselette is a combo of three foundation wear pieces. Corset, bra and girdle. It usually comes with snaps attached a separate suspender belt (after all this glorious fancy under wear, you do NOT want to go and spoil the whole look with a pair of 40 denier opaque tights! Silky stockings are a must.) On this point, as a general rule, get rid of your tights. Stocking and suspenders/girdle or at minimum hold ups are FAR more attractive - ask ANY man - and more sensible... if you ladder one leg, you don't have to throw aay the whole caboodle, keep the remaining stocking andmary with another pair!)

In terms of sex appeal, however, the corset and/or girdle are miles ahead of the corselette:

No comparison really.

The corselette mostly comes with a bullet bra built in to it. The ‘bullet bra’ was around aeons before Madonna extended it’s peaks as the 50s was the true era of the bullet bra. Don’t ask me why they like pointy boobs in the 50s because I just don’t know. I just know they did…… strangely.

For 50s fashion and bullet bras by the way, you are looking at poodle skirts and cardigans. Herewith is a poodle skirt complete with poodle motif:

It couldn’t be any clearer than that now could it.

My first corset in fact was purchased to enhance this EXACT poodle dress:

(Oh, and in case you wondered, you need a minimum ‘4 layer petticoat’ to get the sticky-out look. Petticoats have no bones….their purpose it to make you stick out not in.)

This is STILL my favourite wedding outfit so if anyone wants to get married, PLEASE invite me because I LOVE wearing it. And spinning in it on the dance floor………. preferably to the Jackson 5…….. but I digress.

So….we know the purpose of the under bust corset and girdle. How about the over bust corset? This is the one most people know and many will have some variant on in their wardrobe. (Probably, shock-horror, an un-boned or PLASTIC BONED version!!!) As you may have gathered, plastic boning is a no-no. Let’s just say plastic boning is to corsets what Bernard Matthews is to turkey…. Don’t go there……… Leave well-alone. A plastic boned corset will last all of two or three wears and the boning will have bent and misshapen already. A steel-boned corset well-looked after will last you your ENTIRE life. (Thus the reason I can justify my recent £350 expenditure on a single corset! :)) A steel-boned corset will also:

1. Force a perfect posture;
2. Prevent over eating;
3. Adjust to your natural shape over time;
4. Serve as a waist trainer should you want to train it. (Waist training is where you wear a corset for pretty much 24 hours a day for a substantial period resulting in a PERMANENT change to your waist size. It’s what the ladies in the 19 century did, including the freak-woman above, and how Dita Von Teese achieved her burlesque figure. Essentially the corset pushes your ribs up and inches your intestines (YES REALLY!) upwards, allowing your waist to move inwards. It also means you get to prance around in a corset like a queen all day!)

Over bust corsets come in many different shapes – you have amongst other, Edwardian, Victorian. I personally favour the late Victorian look (second of the following corsets):

The over bust will do one thing the under bust doesn’t. It will magnify your boobs and give you a cleavage to die for. It also looks FABULOUS, so you FEEL fabulous. If you think, a woman’s wedding dress is her piece-de-resistance. That’s when she feels her most magical. Almost ALL wedding dresses incorporate a corset, even the floaties. It’s my sincere belief that it is the corset that all women are enjoying here and, as that is the case, why limit it to one day in your life? Corsets can be worn for a multitude of occasions.

Word of warning. If you already have big boobs - stay away from an Edwardian/straight-cut corset. Go for late Victorian or combine a corset with a halter neck, otherwise your boobs will be coming out your ears…… and that’s never attractive.

One bonus practical note regarding corsets, you need a man (or a friend) on stand by for dressing. You preferably need a large, wooden, four poster bed and maybe a big woman called Mammy too. Then you go full out for the whole…..

look.

So that…… in brief…. (get it?) is foundation wear.
It is beautiful and feminine and sexy. For me, lingerie and makeup is one of the BEST bits of being a girl. If you miss out on the likes of corsets, you are missing out on part of the style and fun of being joyously female.

Some of my favourite online sellers of all things oldy-wordly underwear are the following:

Corset history:

http://www.antiquecorsetgallery.com/

Corsets:

http://www.cocu.co.uk/
http://www.ellecorsets.co.uk/

Girdles:

http://www.girdlebound.com/

50s/rockabilly/pinup fasion

http://www.daddyos.com/

God how depressing

2008-01-03T19:04:00.000Z

that we are back at work

Also not happy about the fact my black cardigan is missing a button so gapes open to show my stomach area. What is the world coming to when something like that happens to a professional girl like me?

I thought when the new year started things would change.... what a foolish, naive dreamer was I.

'Tis only the same old same old.

I see I must keeps my wits sharp and my tongue sharper if I am to survive these forthcoming days and months.

Data Girl... saviour of data rooms everywhere

2007-11-21T10:43:00.000Z

When I think of Jon Pickup I generally feel pretty sick.

As my old Classics classmate, I was sickened to my stomach by his superior vocabulary skills and plethora of natural talents. He is one of those annoying guys who seem to be able to do everything. He can draw, he can write, he can play and compose music, he is very intelligent and probably has read more books than me. To top it all off, during lessons, he had the audacity to, correctly, challenge my (mis)use of vocabulary.

Like I say, he makes me sick.

So…… the reason why I am here, talking about Jon, is that this guy holds the key to me achieving one of my '101 things to do before I die' (for the uninitiated - see http://natalieuninterrupted.blogspot.com/2007/11/101-things-to-do-before-i-die.html).

He could be that hero.

Back in the old days of Queen Elizabeth's Grammar School to where I once went, Jon was inspired by his sixth form Latin and Classics class chums, to create comic strips to chart the shenanigans of the classroom. One was based upon Star Trek and the other, James Bond (aptly titled James Blond after Max Wilde, the 'Sun-in' blonde school-boy who was to play the title role).

Jon, in his omniscience, mainly used me as his villain in these creations from what I recall. Apparently I had the requisite authoritarian nature to fill the roles. As the Blond villain my mandate was to rule the world with a social reform that consisted of banning all burping, spitting and farting, insisting upon all woman wearing corsets and dresses and enforcing the rule that men must open doors for women and pull out their chairs. (Fair enough I think.) In his 'The Agamemnon' parody, I took the role of Clytemnestra. In Jon's estimation, audience sympathy for Agamemnon was assured given that the hero of the Trojan war was forced to return to a loud-mouthed, dictatorial and nagging wife who felt she could rule Argos better than he. (She probably could.)

Anyway, despite taking on the role as Blond villainess in the comic strip, I was highly disappointed never to be caricatured by Jon. All you ever saw of my evil persona was the back of my head. (But what a pretty head it was)

Over ten years on, now has come the opportunity for Jon to revisit my role in the comic world by helping to create my comic-book alter ego. I would like him to draw me AS A SUPER HEROINE.

The initial inspiration for my super heroine alter ego is based upon a pseudonym I gave myself as work based upon the unseemly amount of disclosure and data room creation I do.

Need a data room creating faster than lightning?
Need your documents organising, identifying, titling and redacting with the speed of a bullet?
Want some more info on that pesky asbestos issue?
Fear not o'Partner…call Barbosa aka. DATA GIRL.

Yes, that's me. Data Girl. Only problem is, and this is a self-deception I have previously identified….. I am no longer a girl. I am… 'a woman'.

'Data Woman'. There was Superwoman and Wonder Woman so why not Data Woman?

Thing is, it just doesn't sit right. I don't like it. It's not snappy like 'Data Girl'. I thought about simply 'Data' in the kind of X-Men tradition of naming superheroes. Give them a single name - make them more approachable - the People's Superheroes. I like it - 'Data' - but there is of course a 'Data' in Star Trek and so that's a real problem. The name lack uniqueness and could be easily confused in the minds of sci-fi geeks.

And so I'm calling upon the plethora of readers of this blog to come up with alternative suggestions.

I'm not going to outline the full extent of my powers and persona here but in order to think of names, you'll need at least something to go on. So here it is:

DATA……Data is information. Information is knowledge. Knowledge is power. Knowledge is in books. Books should be read at lightning speed by a super reader. A super reader would be super-powerful from their super -intelligence. Super-intelligence at a super-speed….
Have an enemy who is a martial arts expert? Give Data Girl a raft of martial arts books to read at lightning speed and, hey presto, she knows every martial arts move ever written about.
Got a nasty, little complex bomb to deactivate? No problem. Data Girl has read every tome in the British Library on bombs. She knows how to dispose of it in the most efficient and effective way.
Need a war strategy? No problem. Data Girl knows the Art of War like the back of her hand.

You seeing it?

So there's the brief for Data Girl and her powers of the mind.

All name suggestions much appreciated.

IN THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE OF DATA GIRL:
Data Girl…… Where did she come from? Who is her arch enemy? What are the full extent of Data Girl powers? What is her superhero costume? What be her weapons? Find out… same time, same place…

Three further

2007-11-19T17:15:00.001Z

OK, so I could have deleted out three of my current 101, create a 104 list or just add them here.

Deletion of three would mean new additions may go unnoticed by my profusion of readers; I don't like the number 104...... so the new three will just get added here.

Be a gangster's wife.
Be an art thief.
Serve on an MI6 mission.

101 things to do before I die

2007-11-15T12:32:00.000Z

So yesterday, being quiet at work, I spent some time mooching around links from friend's blogs and came across this site http://www.todolistblog.com/

I love making a list as much as the next man (or woman) so inspired by the blog, decided to while away my non-chargeables by constructing my own '101 things to do before I die' list.

It's highly idealistic - I have not limited my goals by realism or achievability in any way.
Feel free to add any list you care to make to the comments section. I'd love to read them.

Live in Calcutta
Start an animal sanctuary in Africa
Meet my soul mate
Weigh eight and three quarters of a stone (as an adult)
Contribute towards the survival of the Mountain Gorilla
Meet Johnny Depp
Write a best-selling and critically acclaimed book
Meet an alien life form
Back-pack around the world for two years
Stand as a Green Party Member of Parliament
Learn at least one non-native language fluently
Understand and remember the theory of relativity
See the inside of the Sistine Chapel
Be surprised by the man I love by a silver service dinner on a cliff side/beach side position and a waiter to serve us.
Go to a masquerade ball at the Venice Carnival
Meet a mountain gorilla
Buy my Mum a house abroad
Buy a house in Tuscany
Drink a bottle of wine that costs over £500
Be a classics scholar
Enter a tango competition
Run an independent book shop
Go to the Hay-on-Wye book festival
Own a cottage in the country with an open fireplace
Work for the United Nations Human Rights Commission
Go to Glastonbury Festival
Become an adept skier
Own a horse
Meet the Dalai Lama
Witness China's withdrawal from Tibet
Learn to recite fifty of my favourite poems
Learn Sanskrit
Be in a Bollywood movie
Go skinny-dipping in my own pool at midnight
Paint a picture that's competent enough to hang above my fireplace
Buy a golden retriever
Go on an African safari
Develop a successful eco-business
Establish a human rights precedent
Go on holiday with my siblings and cousins
Be written as a character in a novel
Spend £1000 on Rigby and Peller lingerie
Invest in the stockmarket
Bake my own bread
Read the Oxford English dictionary front to back
Grow a cottage garden that has a stream running through it
Inspire someone to something wonderful
Learn to play the violin
Be described as 'diplomatic'
Join the Northern Ballet Company
Do a PhD
Solve a crime
Stand at the window of a traditional Parisian apartment with a wooden easel and stand and paint Roll in a field of daisies
Walk unafraid through a woodland at night-time
Camp in the rainforest
Live in Lisbon again
Dye my hair peroxide blonde and wear it with Marcel waves
Find an abandoned bag of puppies and give them a happy life
Learn how to do The Times Cryptic crossword
Have an article published in The Independent
Swim holding on the fin of a dolphin
Become a vegan
Make a chocolate soufflé
Volunteer with Medicin Sans Frontier
Learn the art of Burlesque
Own an LPG engine Nissan Figaro
Cry with happiness
Get jiggy in a library
Visit every country in the world
Have dinner with Bill Clinton, Shami Chakrabati, Michael Moore and George W Bush
Have tea and cake with Alan Bennett
Have a picnic in the grounds of a ruined castle
Star in a musical
Fly first class from London to New York
Work at the Virunga Mountain Research facility
Eat at a three-star Michelin restaurant
Own an Italian vineyard
Create and draw my comic book superhero alter-ego
Wear a white and gold sari to an Indian wedding
Find a dead body
See England win the World Cup
See my critically acclaimed book be converted into a film
Get jiggy in a lift
Win Pro-Bono Lawyer of the Year
Be able to identify all countries of the world on a blanked-out globe
Have a party attended by every single one of my friends
Meet a talking animal
End the fur trade
Become a makeup artist
Design my own range of corsets and lingerie
Spend a night in a museum
Develop and apply my own employee policy
Open a vintage clothes shop
Attend an open air opera in Venice or Verona
Learn how to fence
Be in Strictly Come Dancing with Brendan as my teacher
Live in a hippy eco-commune for three months
Stay a night at the Ritz
Find a treasure map

Have my own library

Head over heels update

2007-11-14T10:16:00.001Z

Trips have been quite low on the ground this week. I suffered one yesterday and one the day before that. Monday's imbalance occurence was a highly dangerous and potentially fatal one, however, and falls into the category of imbalance I call

The Down Stairs Heel-propeller

This is my most feared imbalance. Not only is it rationally the most dangerous but also I have a long-standing phobia of stairs. Stairs will end my life. Stairs are how I will pass.

When I am old and more imbalanced than I currently am, I will fall down a case of metal stairs and hit my head on the bottom stair and die.

I can't recall when this came to me but I know it for sure. Thus the reason for my phobia. (Which happens to be the opposite of my Mum's. She has a phobia of lifts and takes the stairs.)

So, on this particular occassion, I was approaching the METAL stair case that leads down from Darwen train platform to the car park, a stairwell I have to face daily. On about the fourth or fifth step, I did not outstretch my foot enough when passing from one stair to another.... the back of my heel nipped the front of the passing stair and I was propelled forwards treacherously. Fortunately, the treachery was only momentary and I managed to regain my balance. My heart raced but I was fine. I was alive.

The Sidewards Swoon

This is the imbalance most directly descended from my weak ankle genes. The Down Stairs Heel-propeller has nothing to do with ankle/weakness and more to do with a lack of foot/eye coordination on my part (I will return to the subject of this equally worrying and potentially fatal infirmity at a later date)

So I was walking down Manchester's pavements, minding my own business and I came to pass over the bumpy, red concrete slabs that adorn the ends of our pavements for the benefit of the sight-deficient. If you imagine my ankles as personas akin to that of Mrs Bennett, then you will understand that the slightest divergence from the norm is likely to result in fits of faintness. And so it was this Tuesday afternoon. My ankle, finding the red bumps a little too offbeat, responded by simply passing out. It decided instead to lie down there on the pavement and thus collapsed itself sidewards to meet the street.

Fortunately, I managed to remain upright. Which does not always happen. No, on this occasion I stumbled, I called out to the Lord in pain, but I prevailed perpendicular. It was of course the right ankle. It's always the right ankle. It's also always this unnatural 90 degree bending motion that is the imbalance that most often results in a swollen ankle. It is my most frequent imbalance.

(A thought has just occurred to me, perhaps I should dab my feet with smelling salts each morning in an attempt to ward-off any inclination to swooning.)

Head over heels

2007-11-05T18:09:00.000Z

No, I'm not talking about love...... I'm talking about a far more physical phenomenon, a phenomenon I experience daily.

To expand, it is, I suppose, more of a physical instability. A musculoskeletal frailty. I entitle it a 'phenomenon' as bizarrely both myself and my younger sister are subject to it. Not so Caroline though. Caroline, the eldest, has always been the more level-headed and balanced of the lot of us. On this issue, it is no different.

Amanda and I seem (unlike the majority of people above toddler-age and below decrepitude) unable to remain upright for unbroken periods of time. We are prone to, literally, falling head over heels, on an alarmingly regular basis. I'd say I that on average, twice a day I will experience some form of slip or trip or tumble or fall or totter or nose-dive. The most i have experienced in a 24 hour hour (sober) period is four 'imbalance occurrences'.

My former-partner made much of the fact that I am perennially found in a pair of (de minimis) two inch high heels and was constantly heard to wail 'Naaaaddderlie, buy some sensible shoes' 'Hon, you can't go out in thoooose'. And then, when I fell, he would just look at me and shake his head and often (and this KILLED me...or made me want to kill him) say 'See, I TOLD you not to wear those shoes'. I would rejoin with the same argument I will outline here:-

It is NOT my shoes. Ever since I was little, I have had 'weak' ankles and wrists..... when I was FIVE, my Uncle dislocated my wrists by merely picking me up by them. When I was SEVEN, Mum dislocated my wrists by PULLING MY COAT OFF (elasticated wrist bands). It's NOT my shoes.... I have a physical impairment. (note Amanda did not suffer from this dislocation - just me - I am more severe than her i.e. I need more sympathy).

Anyway, the whole point of me detailing this to you is because from today onwards I plan, merely for my own amusement and interest, to diarise in this blog my daily imbalance occurrences along with an in-depth description of the specific 'imbalance-type' and apparent cause.

I will note at the outset that my right ankle has been in a constant state of inflamation since one especially bad stumble some four months ago. It has never healed properly and I doubt it ever will. I think I am terminally injured. I therefore anticipate the majority of injuries to be sustained in the right ankle and to compound my terminal injury.

For your information, said imbalance occurred in a wholely sober state. I was, coincidentally, wearing my wardrobe's highest heels.

Am I wrong?

2007-10-23T16:39:00.000+01:00

I have just received through my inbox news of large wildfires in Southern California and the subsequent evacuation of peoples from the surrounding areas.

My question is this: is it wrong that my immediate thought on reading this news was:

'It's good this has happened to America. The more natural disasters that happen to them, the more the current administration is likely the change its environmental policies/lack of them'

I suppose the real issue is how far can the American people be blamed for the actions or omissions of its administration and be fairly punished for them. Especially this is pertinent in light of the fact that Bush did not legally accede to the presidency. I was going to say that I don't feel the need to apologise for Tony Blair's policy decisions but I suppose that's not true. I do often defend myself when speaking to foreigner about the war in Iraq or the war on terror and am at pains to ensure that I am not understood to be pro-war in any sense and clearly distance myself from the attitude of the government.

I think this reveals more, however, that I understand that often citizens are wrongly allied with their leaders choices and policies by on-looking states and I am thus aware of the need to combat this presumption. Perhaps a better question would be whether I feel responsible for Tony Blair's decision and simply, I don't. I didn't vote for the man and I have taken pro-active measures to voice my objections.Secondly, if I accept that perhaps my response was prejudicial and unfair, can it be defended anyway? Is it preferable, ignoring any sense of retributive justice, for environmental disasters to hit America as opposed to any other nation state? Certainly, it has the economy to withstand the hit more than any other country and certainly its leaders do need a lesson in planetary humility. And whether or not the American people support US environmental policy, each individual US citizen consumes more than any other state-citizen, whether that be food, fuel or materials. Surely it is fair that a modestly impacting nation such as say, Uganda or the Netherlands, is only modestly impacted by environmental disaster whereas a excessively impacting nation, such as the U.S or China, bear the majority of such disasters.

This seems as basic and logical a premise of justice as even a child could grasp. It's the basis on which every modern legal system is based. The more serious the impact of the offence on society/the individual, the higher the punitive response.

Woe is me?

2007-10-08T16:26:00.001+01:00

Today I am blighted with despair and ennui.

In an attempt to lift the ennui, I will attempt to dramatically and metaphorically convey said despair…..

I am a pebble pressed down by the carriage of life.
I am a helpless ant drowning in a sea of troubles.
I am splodge of soot upon the world's blackened brow.
I am Atlas struggling beneath the burden of the globe.

Truly…..this is not a auspicious start to the week.

I felt happy at about 1.53pm when I saw one of my colleagues wearing a yellow tie. And then there was the moment when I realised BOTH options on the canteen menu were vegetarian. Fool's hope! Our canteen food is shite, whatever the dish.

So that's it really, that has been my happiness quota for the day.

Maybe pondering on my forthcoming Death will cheer me up……..

Poets, poetry and a poem

2007-10-05T11:23:00.000+01:00

I've been reading quite a few books of poetry recently and am attending several poetry events over the next week or so (organised as part of the Manchester Literature festival) One of the poets I am going to hear is my long-time favourite - Carol Ann Duffy. I was first introduced to her in sixth form A-level class with 'Standing Female Nude', she has been my undisputed poetry heroine ever since.

Sadly, she will not be reading selection from her love poems collections - which are by far the works of her that I enjoy the most. (Love, passion and death are the subjects that in all poets I enjoy the most in fact). Instead Ms Duffy will be reading from her children's collections, including her latest book, The Hat. I haven't read any of her children's work, so despite being disappointed not to hear some old favourites, I will at least get the joy of hearing some new stuff from the lady herself. I've re-produced below my favourite poem from her book 'Rapture' which collection deals with love - from its conception to its death.

You - Carole Ann Duffy

Univited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,
so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,
like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of bright syllables
like a charm, like a spell.

Falling in love
is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart
like a tiger ready to kill; a flame's fierce licks under the skin.
Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.

I hid in my ordinary days, in the long grass of routine,
in my camouflage rooms. You sprawled in my gaze,
staring back from anyone's face, form the shape of a cloud,
from the pining, earth-struck moon which gapes at me

as I open the bedroom door. The curtains stir. There you are
on the bed, like a gift, like a touchable dream.

The Evil Peacock

2007-09-08T21:51:00.000+01:00

I am scared of peacocks.

I was reminded of this fact when I saw a heron on the side of the motorway today.

Herons share with peacocks the characteristics that I think forms the basis of my peacock fear - the beady eyes and tiny head in comparison body size. It is wrong. And the little head of the peacock with the black beady eyes flits around in an unpredictable, angular manner. And as if one pair of beady eyes isn't enough, it can open its tail and stare at you with ten more pairs of black eyes.

It looks like it is thinking sly thoughts too. It looks like a crafty, evil bird with its pea-head and tiny brain. I don't like it at all at all.

Look at it....

How scared would you be if you woke up to find that peering down at you one night???

Oh evil, unnatural bird, begone with you.

Oh what to do???

2007-09-05T16:29:00.000+01:00

Am in a quandary.

I have for some time had the most ardent desire to go and visit the Mountain Gorillas in the Virunga Mountains. I was doing some research today for a presentation on Dian Fossey I am doing (don't ask why - it's rather geeky and I don't want to destroy the 'cool' persona I have drawn around myself over these many years) and my attention was drawn to a topic that Dian spent many years debating with her peers.

Fossey was a campaigner for (and arguably the promulgator of) 'active conservationism'. Active conservationism espouses directly participatory methodologies such as, anti-poaching patrols, boundary enforcement and the active preservation of natural habitat. This theory posits itself against 'theorectical conservationism' which seeks to protect wildlife through the promotion of tourism and promotes a more spectatorial role from the conservationist with respect to the wildlife and their habitat. (Yes. I made up 'spectatorial' in case you are wondering but it should exist as I can't find a nicer sounding synoynym for 'passive/hands off' ...... inert? phlegmatic? Don't like either)

Given that Fossey is my absolute heroine and I know of no-one who understood more what was needed to rescue these animals from present-extinction, I am loathe, to say the least, the pursue the very kind of activity that she was so vehemently opposed to.

A quick look at the fatality figures for the gorilla population quickly supports Dian's argument that not only is gorilla-tourism morally dubious (are animals there for the entertainment of mankind?) but actively harms the gorillas themselves. In 2005, eight gorillas died from tourist contracted diseases (e.g. measles)

I would be horrified to think that my love of these animals actually harmed them and brought about the very opposite circumstance that I was ultimately seeking to acheive through my visit(I was intending on making links with a view to establishing a small gorilla charity in the UK).

Thus today (or rather, now, as I write this) I have come to the terribly sad conclusion that I should forego my trip to trek them in the Virungas and accept that I should never see these creatures I am so passionate about in their natural habitat.

The best thing I and to promote their welfare is to leave them well alone and support them through other means available.

Bollocks!

The 'D' word

2007-08-23T23:16:00.000+01:00

Ok. So tonight, in order to cheer myself up after a night at work until TEN O'CLOCK I would like to talk about the 'D' word.....

DEATH

I normally rein in my proclivity for discussing this subject with all but my oldest and closest friends who kindly 'indulge' me as I am aware from years of experience that as soon as I open up the 'D'iscussion, most people explode with 'Oh God, Natalie. Stop being so bloody morbid... JESUS!'... or something along those lines anyway. Because speaking of death is apparently morbid. Most people I have come across think seem to think so anyway and immediately because of this 'morbidity' close the shutters on any conversation on the topic.

I find this frustrating, a wee bit bizarre and strangely amusing. It seems so incongruous. We all all going to die. We are all "marching towards" at all points in our life. Life is a progresion towards death. There is very few things so certain in life as death. Or change that. There is NOTHING so certain in life as death.

If this thing or state of being, if you can call it that, is something that so profoundly touches all of us - why don't we discuss it. It's at minimum the one fact we can all agree on and own a common interest in.

I understand the fear factor, Christ. I'm petrified of It. Samuel Beckett encapsulated my personal fear of the reality of death to a tea...

``Instead of zero it may be some ghastly hallucination, such as the square root of minus one.''

But that's just me :)

With all fears, at least, so the shrinks would have us believe, the only way to deny it of its power is to face it. If we all discussed It more freely and with the truthfulness that you can't deny It, It could seem less... well... petrifying.

I think, the closer you get to death, the more willing you seem to be to talk about it. You hear old people lamenting their death and discussing their wills etc. with sense of almost glee sometimes. I wonder if it's a relief at finally being able to approach the subject. Maybe this reveals that what people are really doing is living in a state of denial for the majority of their years. Denying that they are going to die and it's only as you get older that the reality of it simply can't be avoided or you begin to embrace the freedom that acknowledging It can bring. I must say, I do think there are huge benefits to be had from reminding oneself that you are going to die on a quite regualar basis. Sincerely! It reminds me to be happy and joyous and to become aware of my existence. You can only appreciate life if you are conscious of your own existence within it.

It's all too easy to trudge through town on a grey rain day, bemoaning the dull sky and the cold and wetness. Next time you are doing this, try remembering that one day you won't be around to experience the cold and the rain. You remember that right now, you are alive! Then the rain becomes something to enjoy. So what if the sky is grey, it's the "o'er hanging firmament" that is our constant companion through life. In these moods I actually put my umbrella DOWN, slow my walk, HOPE the maximum amount of rain hits my face and delight in the wetter I get. If I arrive piss-wet through back at the office, I'm pretty chuffed. I aim for the biggest puddles I can find and jump in them. It's so liberating and infantile and FUN and this kind of random, uninititiated joy from the mundane can so simply be brought about by mulling on the frailty of our being and the short span we have alive.

(As a general rule actually, I find people far to averse to rain. It was in India that I discovered the only way to respond to rain is to revel in a down pour. In Indian monsoon season, you can't escape from the rain no matter what you do or how many umbrellas you carry - it comes UP as well as down.... the only option was to greet it and get about your business alongside it. It's far more relaxing to uncover yourself, hold your head up into it and have foolish fun than bury your head in the pavement, shrug your shoulders and hurry scowled-faced back to the office. You can be sure you'll arrive in the office with a laugh on your lips.)

A considered appraisal on 'Why baths are SHIT'

2007-07-27T17:56:00.000+01:00

I have, of course, the greatest respect for Sylvia Plath. Anyone obsessed with death, alienation and self-destruction has to earn my vote. BUT I have to say - Sylvia, you got in completely wrong in believing,

“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”

On the contrary, there are few things in my mind that are not worsened by taking a bath.

It all started when I moved into my current abode.
Until then, like the rest of my kin, I was a confirmed shower girl. For me, the second best part of staying in a hotel is the mammoth jet-stream power showers I get to play in.

It was thus with great remorse that I took my first shower in my first home-owned property to discover I had a system built in the seventies and never subsequently updated. The large showerhead that had caught my eye upon viewing the property belied the meek trickle of water it produced.

As I have already expressed within this blog, mornings are not the best part of my day; I have also expressed the daily trauma of temperature change occurring when decamping from my bed. A trauma for a sleepy, cold, naked body that can only be exacerbated by a urinating showerhead. In the very first day under that shower head, I made my decision.

The shower is out, the bath must come in.

And so it was.... my daily cleansing routine became thus:

Morning wake up call. Stumble out of bed. Put on warm clothing. Stomp to bathroom. Stick head over bath. Wash hair with pissy showerhead.
WORK.
Finish work. Arrive home. Do random stuff. Get in bath. hate bath. Fume in bath. Get increasingly irate in bath. Get out of bath seething. Stomp downstairs.

So why the anger?

Well, for me a simple bath is simply a half hour of hot boredom. For those who think a bath is meditative, I pose this scenario as the pure, 'asthetic' bath experience:

You sit in it. It's hot. The steam rises. It makes you sweat. You have nothing to do. You look at a wall. You wait. Your skin starts wrinkling. You wait. You stare at the wall. You notice the grouting needs redoing. You wait some more. You stare at another wall. You stare at the ceiling. You sigh. You count to one hundred. You get out.

This is the 'pure' bath experience and I can't stand it. It bores the shit out of me quite frankly.

And so, to alleviate my boredom, I transform the bathroom each night into a ghetto of activity. I spend a full thrity minutes preparing the battleground.

First: Large glass of wine (must be very cold to counteract the heat of the water)
Second: Book. For obvious reasons - diversion.
Third: Thesaurus. Often the thesaurus is the book choice itself, I only ever read a thesaurus in the bath for some reason, but in any event, it is required in case I come across a word in a book I don't know.
Fourth: Candles. These are optional. The option is - do I feel arsed locating and lighting them.
Fifth. Music. Again - a diversion and mood enhancer. Again, the music is optional depending on if I can be arsed setting up the extension lead.
Fifth: Blackberry.Facebook I mostly check this every ten minutes in between pages.
Sixth: Phone.

So, the bath is full, the accoutrements in place. I get in. I jump out immediately and swear.

I've never yet figured out if it's just me or if everyone finds that the part of their anatomy most sensitive to heat is the leg below the knee. This is certainly the case for me for whilst the rest of my body can happily accept a warm bath, whenever I step in it, my legs go bright red and I feel my skin begin to melt away.

It is a problem. I obviously can't dive in. I can't suspend myself from the ceiling so all parts of the body barr the highly-strung lower legs don't get wounded. I have no choice but to grit my teeth and literally SCREAM as my legs enter the water and wait until they calm the hell down and accustom to the temperature. As I say, my back is fine, my arse is fine, my arms, head, stomach and every other part of my body is A-OK with the water. It's just the lowe legs. WHY????? I just DON'T get it.

So. A couple of minutes pass. I realise it's too hot. I'm sweating, I hate sweating, it's unseemly. I empty some of the bath and refill it with cold.
I realise I'm now too cold.
I add hot. The hot creeps from one side of the bath so my bum is cold and my feet are being scorched again.
I add cold. I add hot.

This farce goes on for about a good five minutes until I give up....usually on the side of too cold.

Accepting the temperature will provide me no joy, I turn to my trusty book.But hang on,I have got my hands wet, I need to turn the page. I can't as this will defile a page.

Inevitably, the only prop I do not have is a towel. So now I have to reluctantly get out of the bath, dripping water everywhere as I go in search of a towel.

I find one. I traipse back to the bath. I get back in, dry hands and turn page.

I get ready to relax. Do I relax lying down or relax sat up? I never know whether to sit in sitting position with book in front or lie back with book above face. Latter is more relaxing but wets hair, former keeps hair dry but not relaxing.

I swop between both, uncertain, curtailing my 'relaxation' to five minutes spurts. Somehow my hand gets wet again and I need to turn the page. Bring back the towel.

And so it goes on.

Twenty five minutes later I stand, light-headed from the heat and slop onto the floor. I face a good ten minutes of putting things back in their place and allowing my skin to return to it's happt temperature before seeking the solace of a cool bed to lie on whilst I try to recover my zen.

Numbers 3 - 11 of 357 of things that annoy me.

2007-07-06T21:12:00.000+01:00

Unlike previously, this collection has no central theme.They are, however, backed by some hardcore opinion-giving so that's OK. As always, please share with me details of what pisses you off and I will adjudicate on the merits or no of your justification.

Even numbers.

Why? Odd isn't it. (Sorry, couln't resist. Cheesy I know.) To me they seem a little too goody goody and a bit smug with it. The number 2 especially gets my goat.

White ford escorts

They're so tacky though aren't they? Snobbish? Most certainly. Am trying unsuccessfully to purge snobbery from my veins at the moment but am finding it trying.

The trees and shubbery planted by the council along motorways and dual carriageways

Sorry, but they are piss poor excuses for arboriage. What kind of environmental heritage are we leaving here. It's the natural equivalent of the 70s architectural legacy to towns and cities. Has the council ever heard of oak? Mountain ash? Sycamore? Christ almighty. I am almost tempted to go chuck some bloody decent seeds around myself.

Big watches

They are simply unecessary and it's presumably meant to be impressive. Especially if you're a bloke. It's a bit predictably phallic in it's intention isn't it? Come on now.....let's have a bit of restrained taste.

People who warble and harmonise when singing along to a song.

This one applies to females only. It makes me cringe with embarrassment and sometimes. If the girl is especially putting in Maria Carey-like warbles, my head
actually spins with embarrassment. Literally, I get head spin. Please stop it. Save my balance. Sing like a normal person for god's sake.

Religious people

It's the self-certainty here that offends.

Pot, kettle, black? Do I give a...? Nothing wrong with a touch of inconsistency every now again....

Ready washed and shredded bags of iceberg lettuce

Especially if it's from Marks and Spencers. You are just compounding utter laziness with complete disregard for monetary value.

People who eat Ryvita and claim they like it

It's just bare-faced lying is all it is. Who are you trying to kidd?

Ellipsis....as promised

2007-07-04T12:00:00.000+01:00

So….. I said I'd discuss my use of the ellipsis, didn't I?

Hmmm. Hardly a topic that sparks a natural array of issues to consider. I can see I am beginning to regret my rash suggestion already.I did state that awarding unwarranted attention to issues is part of this blog's mandate, didn't I? Shame. Anyway, lets see where it takes us.

Well, I suppose I will start with the obvious… let us settle, firstly, what would be the plural of this quaint little word…. makes sense.

Ellipsises, ellipsi, ellipsum?

If in doubt (which I am) refer to the noble www.dictionary.com; fantastic web resource which I recommend heartily….a wikipedia for language.

"Ellipses", apparently.

Makes sense. Doesn't accord with basic grammar rules for formation of plurals though, which would dictate the simple addition of an -es to the noun thus creating 'Ellipsises'. Who ever said grammar was meant to be inflexible however?

Secondly… is my use of the ellipsis indeed appropriate?

Consultation with Oracle again.

Usage: Printing marks to indicate an omission or suppression of letters or words.

Christ. believe me, I would much rather be discussing Derren Brown at this point who is currently backgrounding in my living room. However, I committed therefore I must. I'm sure you'd probably be reading about that too though. Let’s take a break…..

Robbie Williams is today's guest appearance. About to be made a pin cushion if the intro man is to be believed.

Now hanging Jesus-like on the top of a scaffold (why here I don't know, dramatic tension?)

Robbie…..have never seen the huge attraction myself. I must be out of sync with his TV-projected pheromones I guess. From what I can gather it's the 'bad boy' element combined with the 'little boy lost' aura he exudes that forms the basis of his attraction. Appeals to the nurturing element in women I suppose… and the secret romantic vanity that women all wish to realise that their affections and love can save a storm-tossed man from drowning. The saviour complex.

Or maybe that's just me?

Damn you Charlotte Bronte. Damn you and your beautifully drawn Jane and Mr Rochester.

Intermission over. Back to the serious consideration of the life and death issue that is the ellipsis.

I suspect my personal usage is more of a dramatic pause interrupting two connected ideas or statements then a suppression of words. I suspect actually that most current usage falls into this category. Evidence? None to hand and I can't be bothered finding it just to convince you I am right but I am right so just accept it and move on.

Lastly, do I overuse it?

You, readers, are the ultimate judge of that question and I invite your opinions on the idea. This in an opinion-sharing forum after all is said and done.Though I get the last word. Remember that. Only I have full administration rights…...and so it should be.

Ignorance and irony

2007-07-01T23:20:00.000+01:00

So....... the blog's been off for a while.

An expanse of thoughtless silence for near four full moons.

I'd call it a writer's block were I a writer. As a lay-narrator I have no such grandiose and tortured excuse however. I simply ran out of things to say...... I ran out of anything worth saying.

Yes, I will say that again, you are right to doubt your very ears. Yes, you may never hear its like again.

I, Natalie B******a, RAN OUT OF ANYTHING TO SAY.

It knocked me.

I don't mind admitting it.....

it shook me to my very core. I stood shivering and naked in a confused void and uttered not a sound. Silence challenged me. Nothingness caused self-examination more profoundly than any cram-filled conversation could.

Why the confusion, I hear you ask?

In answer: Fundamental to my self-perception has been the belief that 1. I could fill the blackest hole in space with continuous opine, and 2. I would opine whether necessary, welcome, wanted or not.

What could be the future for natalieuninterrupted if this was not so? A rename? Occasionalnatalie? Nataliepunctuatedbyperiodsofmuteness? Thequiescenceofnatalie? (Actually, that's bloody good, isn't it? Admit it. Mental note for the future, let us all use 'quiescence' more).

This was a blog with communication as its central tenant. Where life's littlest details could, and positively should, be freely and intensely mooted, dissected and bestowed unnecessary, maybe even unwarranted, attention. Where to then if a gamut of minutae and circumstance elicited not even a murmur in response? Where a change in leadership went unchallenged. A new President inaugurated without comment. A teen idol group reunification unexamined. A thousand fags and a hundred bottles of wine inhaled and consumed without a single exhortation. The explosion of bloody Facebook for god's sake????

Truly, people, you can see clearly that this called for some contemplation and conclusion. And there, just as I embarked upon my quest for an answer, there it came.....the nub. There, ladies and gentleman, was the rub.

In my search for an answer had I fallen upon the irony that has so far famously elluded the well-meaning young Alanis?

In looking for an answer I discovered that I cannot answer all questions. Yes, even I. Sometimes, and let us have a preparatory deep intake of breath here..... ignorance is wisest. Inaction the best course to take. Yes. I appreciate this may appear blasphemous to all who know me, and yes, it does sit uncomfortably within my soul. I took many a glass of water to drink down this unpalatable truth. But I am convinced now.... finally and humbly, that sometimes it's OK to have nothing to say. You don't always have to have a solution. Dare it even, an opinion!!!

And so, it is in this new spirit of mis-apprehension that I will recommence my blog.

I will undergo and experience and expect nothing in return. I will proudly and freely announce to be non-committal and ignorant in opinion to all the world. And what I truly hope, is that it is in this new spirit of freedom and ignorance, we will all find the answers we seek.

And that, Miss Morisette, would be just a little bit ironic.

NEXT EXCITING TIME ON NATALIEINTERRUPTED: Is Natalie's use of the ellipsis excessive. Discuss.

Enneagram institute

2007-03-23T14:35:00.000Z

Harmless email or ignorant misanthropy - 2/2

2007-02-20T12:39:00.001Z

And from Emily we move on to today.
Women's magazines shriek out the fact that women need not men but the Raging Rabbit for sexual satisfaction. Broadsheets reveal that women exceed men in every subject at school. Internet sperm bank offer an alternative form of father, for as everyone knows, fathers are always absent anyway. Political correctness prohibits the opening of doors and going dutch is the accepted norm for restaurant etiquette. Machismo is wrong and 'being in touch with your feminine side' right. Wherever men turns it seems, they are being told that to be a man is wrong because being a man is violent, selfish, insensitive, power-hungry, emotionally-stunted and the list goes on.
It's the eighties turned on it's head, women shouldn't be wearing suits but men should instead wear skirts.
And so, it's is not the female part of the population who feel ignored, undermined, side-lined and unappreciated, but the men.
Some say this is fair pay-back for centuries of patriachal rule, Eve's reputation must be restored and this is part of the road to recovery. I'm not so sure I believe this. Or even if I do believe that restoration or rebalancing needs to take place, this is the best way to do it. And anyway, isn't it highly hypocritical that those who lambast men for their contentious/over-lording tactics utilise similar tactics to defeat them.
I can recall reading a feminist law books which stated at the outset at the book that 'This is not a forum for debate. Debate is a male form of interactions, we will be utilising the female alternative of 'consciousness-raising'. What the hell is that when it's at home and when was 'consciousness-raising' ever ascribed to females? They went on to pronounce that the 'consciousness-raising' exercise would be in some senses futile from the start as 'we have only a patriachal vocabulary with which to express our ideas and will so will be limited in our expressions to male-bias concepts'. It is at this stage that I begin to lose my usual solid respect for academics and ponder on whether all forms of learning or research are indeed useful for society.
It tires me that what this comes down to is our apparent need to always differentiate between sectors of society and seem to only ever be able to accept the one model or type from which all others should be judged. Deviation from the norm is not acceptable, whether it be because of race, religion, sex, culture, waist size, music taste, political opinion. Why is it that variety and difference is so distrusted and why are we always striving to amalagamate everyone into the same form of being?

Diane Fossey's Gorillas

2007-02-19T14:00:00.000Z

HI,

We've all seen Gorillas in the Mist and know about Diane Fossey and her lifes-work trying to save the endangered Mountain Gorillas - of which there are about 650 IN THE WORLD left. I defy anyone to not worship these beautiful, intelligent and gentle creatures.

Unlike most Hollywood stories, there has been no happy ending for the gorillas of the Virunga Mountains and they are still be slaughtered.... Only last month two silverbacks and one female were murdered by the resident poachers who terrorised the Parks Rangers so that they were unable to remain at their positions protecting the gorillas.

Please go and check out the site - the blog is written by the Head Ranger who tries to report on a daily basis the events in the Park. If you can link your blog to theirs, pass details on to your friends or raise some money we can all do our little bit to raise awareness and support the Virunga Rangers/the Dian Fossey Foundation's ongoing effort.

I am hoping to go to the Virungas next year and see the gorillas - will keep you posted if anyone is interested on my travels plans and if I'm lucky I might catch a glimpse of one (or two) and take a picture.

My breast friends

2007-02-09T17:10:00.000Z

Can someone help me? I've got myself into a bit of a pickle……

I'm too scared to wear deodorant.

In fact, I'm so scared of deodorant, I haven't worn it for about two years.

It all started about two years back………..

I read an article in a silly woman's magazine that described the links between deodorant and breast cancer. Deodorants and anti-perspirants have aluminium. The aluminium is what actually stops perspiration. The mineral sits IN your hair follicles/pores and clogs them so that perspiration (no sweat you note - ugly word) can't get out. The thing is of course, you have not only glands under your arm, but direct veins etc to your breast. It is a fact that most women get breast cancer first in their left breast. Why? Because most people are right handed and so we all tend to put more deodorant on under our left arm. More deodorant means more aluminium which means more carcinogens into the armpit/breast area.

I spoke to one of my health-freak friends who stated she had know this fact for years and herself had stopped wearing deodorant aeons before. It's a problem because, like most people, I do need to wear it. I've not got some hideous odour problem you understand but, like most, I don't perspire rose water and deodorant/antiperspirant masks this fact.

Since the day I read the article, I haven't worn deodorant since, not in usual Nivea/Impulse type anyway. One of the few body parts I'm actually content with are my generous assets. If one disappeared, I swear I would have problems walking in a straight line. I just can't risk that kind of subsidence.

I've tried several organic, aluminium-free versions which are about as capable for their intended purpose as blue-biro rubbers are.

Summer is fast approaching - do I risk social ostracism or my left boob?

2/357 things that annoy me

2007-02-01T16:09:00.000Z

Was disturbed yet again on the train to work this morning by a selfish commuter.
This selfish commuter sniffed every 2 - 7 seconds. Every 2 to 7 seconds for the entire forty-five minute journey. I kid you not.

I counted at sporadic and random periods and not once did the gap in-between sniffs exceed seven seconds. Several came thick and fast in a 2, 2, 3, 2, 4 formation. I tried to catch the eye of a commuter to do the old 'flicking-eyes-to-the-ceiling' look to convey my annoyance. that same look that I hate so much when other people do it to me. I succeeded but felt in a hole when five minutes later I realised she was a friend of the sniffer.

I suppose if you haven't been exposed to sniffing when trying to sleep you may think this is not that much of an inconvenience and how can I become in anyway annoyed sufficiently to share it with you.

Well, let me tell you, unrelentless sniffing is as bad as it gets. It's on a parr with some of the most famous irritants of our time.

Remember the creaking pipe that wakes you just as you are about to drift off into sleep. They went to the same school.

The period when you are nodding off in front of the TV and suddenly your ears zone in on the audio which seems to have leapt in volume although no-one has touched it and you can't turn it down as you would disturb your relaxed pose but you can't leave it on as it is stopping you falling asleep. Best friends.

The nagging need for a wee when you are wrapped up warm and don't want to get out of bed. Teacher.

Why the hell didn't she bring a tissue?

I tried to quench my anger by imagining the various caustic remarks I could attempt at the girl had I the gall and nastiness to make them. I couldn't try to sleep it away could I? I did sincerely consider leaning over and saying 'Could you turn the sniffing down please'. I figure if it is accepted that it is socially-unacceptable to play ipods loud so that tinny music escapes into the ears of passengers, what's the difference with constant sniffing berating my ears?

Harmless email or crass misanthropy?

2007-01-31T16:37:00.000Z

For some time now, I have begun to suspect a growing misanthropic movement and today, receipt of one the usual-style joke spam-emails on the differences between men and women reiterated this belief to me.

I feel it is prudent to spend some time considering this issue, assisted in part by discussing the process of my thoughts openly, honestly and vigilantly in this hallowed forum of truth.

Let us begin in the beginning.

In the beginning there was an amoeba.

Perhaps it was not an amoeba but something far smaller and far more fundamental in it's biological makeup.

Something Wikipedia or Stephen hHwkins could explain but I have not the time to look up and this way I get to use the word amoeba. (In animal form, an amoeba would surely look something like this…. )

No-one knew where the amoeba came from but it was there nonetheless.

And the amoeba created the world when it exploded for some, as yet, non-universally agreed upon reason.

And so the amoeba created man life on earth. And lo the earth did turn into itself and bring forth man and woman.

Lots of things happened and were created on earth. Things like the wheel, emancipation, industry, political theorem, utterly butterly and custard.

From as far back as discernable, it appears the male of the species was dominant in his role. In the time of the cave, man dominated the animal kingdom. In the time of the Vikings, man dominated the sea. In the time of Prince Albert's, man dominated the world.

Throughout this time, woman was subjugated, silenced, abused and held helpless.

Half a century after the Corn Laws, a woman called Emily was born. Emily told her fellow women to burn their bras and to hold fast to iron railings. And so the women did. And lo it came to pass that women in a small island nation were given a vote with which to lift up their voices and be heard.

And that is where the beginning ends.

In tomorrow's blog, I shall consider the present which is also the middle and the end and use this period to enlighten myself more over this issue.

Example joke email

2007-01-31T15:51:00.000Z

How To Shower Like a Woman

Take off clothes and place them sectioned in laundry basket according to lights and darks.
Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
Look at your womanly physique in the mirror - make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc.
Get in the shower.
Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.
Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.
Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.
Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced.
Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes until red.
Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.
Rinse conditioner off hair.
Shave armpits and legs.
Turn off shower.
Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.
Spray mould spots with Tile cleaner.
Get out of shower.
Dry with towel the size of a small country.
Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.

How To Shower Like a Man
Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.
Walk naked to the bathroom.
If you see wife along the way, shake willy at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.
Look at your manly physique in the mirror.
Admire the size of your willy and scratch your bum.
Get in the shower.
Wash your face.
Wash your armpits.
Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.
Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.
Wash your bum, leaving those coarse bum hairs stuck on the soap.
Wash your hair.
Make a Shampoo Mohawk.
Wee.
Rinse off and get out of shower.
Partially dry off.
Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of bath the whole time.
Admire willy size in mirror again.
Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.
Return to bedroom with towel around waist.
If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake willy at her and make the 'woo-woo' sound again.
Throw wet towel on bed.

I KNOW YOUR LAUGHING 'CAUSE MOST OF IT'S TRUE!!!!!!

Ashalayam

2007-01-25T16:36:00.000Z

The place where I work, 'Anon LLP', nominated it's new charity for the year yesterday. Happily my proposed charity was chosen and I am unashamedly happy and proud about this. Anon LLP will now be raising money for children the street childfren including 'The Railway Children' of Calcutta and I am hoping to persuade those in power that a heroes and heroines charity fancy dress Ball is an excellent idea. I have plenty other excellent ideas but none so excellent that wuld permit me to dress up as Scarlett O'Hara (again.) (Designed my 21st around this hankering and held a Corset and Crinolette fancy dress party. We played croquet and had a finger buffet. It was great. I was the only one who thought so I think. Everyone else just thought it was odd. It was, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Now I'm just running on. 'Running on'. How very Alan Bennett. Oooo lemon wedge.)

So I thought I'd give a link to the charity in case anyone is doing a 10 km run and wants an excellent organisation to do it for. I think that supporting smaller charities is in many ways a lot more advantageous to those the charity is there to assist in comparison with their national or international cousins. I know of course all charities need money and even those well-known charities such as The Samaritans have had to take to the streets with collection boxes to pay for electricity etc. to keep their services going but I can't but be disheartened by charities that plough 65% of their funds into advertising. I know there is the circular argument about how else do they raise lots of money without expending lots etc. etc. but to a charity like the Railway Children, £2000 can provide for a quarter of their yearly budget and importantly, goes straight to the source where needed. None is taken out for admin etc.

There is also the consideration that the larger a charity gets, unfortunately, the more distanced it becomes from it's target. Take the charities surrounding the tsunami. Many of them still have sizeable funds unallocated. How can this be? Funds were crucial in the immediate aftermath, years have passed and how is the reconstruction effort being encouraged by such a delay. What are they waiting for? Much of the assistance given wasn't the assistance required either and this is where becoming too removed from your target through bureaucracy etc becomes a real issue. Many charities were sending over school books, pens, pencils, food bags etc. when there were no schools for kids to be taught in and no crockery for food to be cooked in. It was the on-the-ground independent charities and ones that developed in situ in response to the tsunami that understood what was required were tools, cement mixers, hammers etc. to help people start the rebuilding effort.

Anyway, here's the link of you would like to check it out. there are more street children throughout the world than the British population one and a half times over. Calcutta/Kolkata suffers from notorious problems of poverty and I have visited this station myself. The charity has a permanent presence there and addresses the full range of issues raised by these kids situations, education, health, personal safety and emotional well-being.

http://www.ashalayam.org

LET US SHOW OUR SUPPORT FOR 'SHALL'

2007-01-22T13:45:00.000Z

I'm calling on all readers of this blog to make a concerted effort to use 'shall' more often in their every day speech. If you could also enjoin your friend and family to do the same, we might be able to bring back to life this gentle and civil modal auxiliary that has been suffering in this bullish, modern world of ours.

It is a dying form of modal (If you doubt my words, peruse please http://www.corpus.bham.ac.uk/PCLC/CDocuments%20and%20Settings1My%20%20%20%20Documentsassignments-LancasterCorpus%20Linguistics%20Conference.doc)

Given that we have only fourteen of them, (have included 'dare' and 'need') losing one of these endangered species is a cause for concern throughout the entire english-speaking world. If we could all make an effort to at least twice a day choose 'Shall I open the window?' over 'Should I open the window?', our poor maligned hero might be able to start the long journey back to the Land of Customary Use, that safe and popular place where all words long to reside.

And who is 'should' anyway?

Why has he eclipsed his more sensitive, older and wiser cousin?

'Should' - being young as he is - is still unsure of himself. He asks advice wherever he goes and never sounds sure of what he is supposed to be doing. 'Shall' on the other hand, having lived a long life in the mouths of some of the most intelligent men and women in the world, already knows what he wants. He just doesn't want to impose himself on others without asking if his actions will concern anyone.

And what of 'will'? We can't over-look his part to play in this sordid affair, especially his prostituting of himself, his 'special relationship' with they over the Atlantic, the great U S of A - a sure-fire way to ensure his domination at the cost of all others. When being presented with two future-looking modals, our Atlantic cousins became rather confused and decided they must concentrate their energies on only one, thus saving themselves world-ridicule by demonstrating an inability to speak English well.

(Whether they have indeed managed to pull the wool over our eyes in this respect, despite their cunning tactics, is debatable. Perhaps we should look to their leader for an answer on this.)

Let us look at the wil/shall debate in context and compare the impact of using one over the other in a dramatic setting.

(Picture a beautiful and distraught young woman, standing in the doorstep of a large, old white house, gripping the door-frame to prevent herself from collapsing in despair onto the marble-tiled floor. She stares desperately out into the garden where the figure of a strong, dark-haired man is beginning to vanish into the fog.)

'Rhett, if you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?....'

'Rhett, if you go, where will I go? What will I do?....'

Need I say more? I think I needn't.

So I shan't.

Let's get behind this worthy cause and start to spread the word.

2007-01-02T15:48:00.000Z

It looks like a professional took it doesn't it? I know, I was quite proud of it myself.

It's in sepia.

That's the joy of digital cameras. Everyone's an artist. I zoom petals with 6 millions pixels in 'closeup' mode and think how talented I am.

I don't know who the lady is but I like her. She looks solemn and melancholy which appeals to me if only as it allows me to use two lovely adjectives. Could be Cassandra or Medea I suppose. My favourite adjective used to be 'sunlit' but god knows what I was thinking. Far too trite. I also hankered after 'cascade' which is a revoltingly showy word.

Oh how I am waffling innanely. I do apologise.

I have been sat at work Googling for 6 hours and 54 minutes now and have lost the will to live. Coffee machine is on the blink as well so I was dragged to Starbucks for coffee this lunchtime.

Will have to perform at least three Hail Mary's for that one.

Anyone read the latest Lionel Shriver book? I haven't read great reviews on it and wondered if anyone I know has first-hand experience. As you may or may not know I think We Need to Talk About Kevin is a masterpiece. It's inevitable that I'll be disappointed with the next one. I can remember how let down I was on reading Sense and Sensibility post Pride and Prejudice. You think you have found a literary god and then realise they are human after all.

Merry Christmas to one and all

2006-12-20T11:02:00.000Z

This will probably be my last blog before the 25th so Christmas wishes etc etc etc.

My friend Paul who lives in Spain (and enjoys rubbing that in as often as he can) commented on my previous blog how much he prefers the muted Christmas celebrations in Spain in comparison with the consumer frenzy emerging every September in grey, pissy little Britain.

I must say, I agree with him entirely.

Before anyone dismisses these sentiments as bah-humbugging, let us stop and examine the nature of bahhumbuggers before making any judgements because it is my supposition that many people are mislabelled as bah humbuggers unfairly, untruly and incorrectly.

I am sure you all will accept that the traditional response to anyone expressing a negative opinion on Christmas celebrations or making a derogatory comment touching upon any element of Christmas is 'Scrooge' or 'Oooo Bah-humbug to you to'.

I think this is entirely inappropriate on three levels.

1. Most 'Bahhumbug' responses given are completely reactionary in that they are awarded no matter how slight any inference that not all about Christmas is wonderful.
2. Bahhumbuggers are actually the true carriers of the Christmas message. It is those people who purchase the entirety of the Argos catalogue outdoor decorations to adorn the front of their dwellings that misinterpret the spirit of Christmas. The original Christmas was a humble, quiet and reflective affair. Just because Baileys Liqueur and Boots Perfume Counter has jumped on the band wagon doesn't mean we should interpret Christmas as a consumption fest with fluorescent lights and crazy singing.
3. There was a third level and it was a good third level but I can't remember it because I have Alzheimer's and I can't be bothered sitting here for thirty minutes to try to remember it again. It was persuasive, perceptive and entirely true you can be assured however.

If you would like to donate your own point three in the charitable, 'help thy neighbour' spirit of Christmas , please do so.

I'm just going outside and may be some time

2006-12-11T13:36:00.000Z

Monday 11th December 2006.

13.29.

18 days since my last blog.

The loneliness is starting to get to me now…… I thought I heard the voice of someone I knew last night. It was only the wind.

I don't know if anyone is reading this…. I have to carry on believing they are or else…. I don't think I can go on my own anymore.

The nights seem to be getting darker and darker by the day and the cold only makes me more aware of the absence of other human beings.

If can I just ride through these next few days and weeks, I might be able to survive and survive stronger than before.

I pray daily that the good Lord will give me the strength to carry on in the face of such fearsome silence.

Tell my husband I love him.

A thing that is papery and you have it with your dinner

2006-11-27T14:40:00.000Z

15 days since my last blog.

If anyone except my family members have been reading this blog, I certainly don't think anyone will be now. I am bellowing into the void.

I need to keep a 'blog topics' notebook on me because I keep thinking of subjects to write on and then when I get to the site, have completely forgotten what they were.

My memory is not what it used to be. I worry that I'm getting alzheimers.

There's none in my family - I've checked that already, but the fact I seem to keep forgetting simple nouns implies all may not be as it should be. Words like 'bird-table' and 'napkin' completely elude me . I'm only 28; it can't be an typical getting older syndrome. It's surely not normal. Maybe I should start reading the dictionary again.

Ah ha - that was one of them. Favourite quote(s) and dictionaries.

I used to read the dictionary and a quote book daily during my sixth form years. registration every morning a friend and I would go through the quote book and dictionary in our form room, pick a quote we liked and introduce to it to our fellow class-mates. I 'd then commit the quote to memory and made an effort to use the word in that week's conversations to transfer it into my active vocabulary.

Apparently the active vocabulary count of the average person is a mere one thousand. Shakespeare's is/was said to be thirty thousand.

I'd put an exclamation mark after that fact if I agreed with exclamation marks but I don't so I won't.

I can only remember one quote now which is pretty abysmal. A good one though and I use it at all available opportunities whilst trying to make out that I have a store of further hundreds of them. Given my phobia of fame and celebrity and the fact I scathe on this topic regularly, it's come in handy. It's by John Updike (who by the way was great author of one-liners)

'Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face'

Remarkable foresight given that Michael Jackson wasn't even around at the time.

Anyway. Perhaps I should start re-reading my dictionary to help me remember simple nouns.

Alternatively I suppose there is the Chris Tarrant advertised aide de memoire that's on the TV at the moment. Some little gadget that looks like an ipod and helps develop memory. I'd tell you the name but I can't remember it.

See?

Food frights

2006-11-12T16:07:00.000Z

I thought of writing a 'grumpy young woman' type blog this week but once I'd starting thinking it out, I realised I was running the risk of indulging in one of my never-ending narratives again. Writing this blog has really brought home that fact that I need to reevaluate my 'Why say one word when ten will do' philosophy.

So, I've delinenated my topic area and will instead focus on (one of) my favourite subjects.

Food.

I love food. I love food but often my enjoyment of food is spoilt by other people. Other people who don't understand how to handle food, how to respect food and how to interact with it. Despite whatever impression you may have formed of me from this website, I don't actually go around forcing my opinions on people and generally, unless I know someone very well, I don't go around giving a running commentary on what they are doing and inviting them to discuss what conclusions and issues their behaviour gives rise to. Whilst I might enjoy examining these things, other people - and god knows why - can take offence. So, in such circumstances, I fight the URGE. I smother my URGE and wait until I am in an appropriate forum to revisit the topic and release my thoughts.

This is one such forum. I can draw comfort when I find myself annoyed by a food faux-pas that, somewhere in cyberspace, I have noted my objections, I have delved into them and thus perhaps, my urge to purge will not be so strong.

There will be plenty more not featured here. I'll update you as and when I encounter them.

1. People who order melon as a starter.
2. Chips over which ketchup has been squeezed in a zigzag pattern
3. A hot drink with a meal
4. Melted butter running down someone's finger, especially if it carries on by dripping its way down to the palm area
5. The mispronunciation of 'Pinot Grigio'
6. Baked beans heated in a microwave
7. Jacket potatoes 'cooked' in a microwave
8. Anything in a microwave except for canned sweetcorn or peas
9. Hearing the mastication of food or swallowing of liquid
10. A used tea bag
11. Ordering garlic bread at a restaurant and being given a garlic baguette
12. Butter that has remanants of whatever the previous user was eating
13. People who won't split a bill but calculate what they ate and drank
14. People who order a cappuccino for their post-dinner coffee
15. Carrot cake
16. Tomato juice
17. Substituting real butter with plastic spread when cooking
18. Milk dripping off a spoon when eating cereal

No. I've not got OCD. Think of your own pet peeves. You will have them. You will have many more than you thought if indeed you have ever specifically thought about it before.

Tell me about them.

A problem shared is a problem halved.

Together we can get through it.

Together, we are stronger.

I'm in a meeeeting, darling

2006-11-10T18:55:00.000Z

I've not been in a position to write anything since my last entry - which is a bit disappointing. I had hoped to be a more frequent visitor to this page but it isn't looking very promising. I seem to have become one of those people who talks about 'meeeeeeetings' and 'clients' and important 'proooojects' all the time.

I say things like,

'Sorry, I have to rush, I have a client meeeeeeeting'

or

'Sorry I'm late, the meeeeeeting went on for hours'

I feel vaguely ridiculous - like I'm playing at being a grown-up or something. I get this quite a lot which is confusing as I have been a grown up for quite a lot now and I have been going to such things as meeeeetings for many years.

I still feel like it's a completely anal thing to say and I sound like a pretensious prick though. It's so management and faceless.

The most ridiculous thing I have heard myself buying into is the use of a certain expression used at my work place. Instead of saying 'Are you free?' the utilised expression is, 'Do you have the capacity?'

The first time I heard it I sincerely thought it was 'Do you have any pasties?'.

Anyway now I walk around saying 'I have capacity at the moment - do you want me to help out on that project and attend the client meeting'.

What a tit.

Trying to avoid raising trouble

2006-11-03T15:27:00.000Z

Now I'm not at this stage yet and don't intend on being so for some time but as it doesn't harm to be prepared, I've been mulling over what methodology I will evetually utilise when child rearing. as with everything I have to have a direction and a philosophy to guide me through so I have to get pinned which one I will be following.

I've narrowed it down to three types/theories/techniques - whatever you want to call them. I'll sketch them out for you and what I see as their respective strength and weaknesses and maybe I can get some feedback and input and then MAYBE I can finally make my mind up on which path I'm going to take.

OK. Starting chronologically, because that makes sense, is the traditional rearing technique, the 'Mary Poppins technique'. Think ITV's Supernanny and in extreme cases, Margaret Thatcher on a good day. This technique sees children as having and positively WANTING, strict boundaries in their life and has lots of parent-decreed rules that are not up for questioning and must be unequivocally obeyed. It supposes a hierarchy in the family with parents at the top and children at a lower level - perhaps the more liberal practitioners of this conservative technique will allow that, the older you get, the higher up on the scale you climb. Children, says the Mary Poppins technique, should not be treated like little adults, they are children and unlike adults, will actually harm themselves if left with too much freedom. They need boundaries so they can navigate their way more easily through the world in the difficult early years. It would be a household where bed-times were adhered to, kids would help with household chores, smacking might be used and kids would be punished for activities such as swearing, chewing gum, not eating their food, talking back etc. T.V is probably restricted and board-games and imaginary activities games encouraged.

Then there is the currently very much in vogue live and let live theory. I call this the hopeful gardener technique as essentially the adult steps back and allows the child to develop with as little interference as possible - and waits to see what happens. The adult has liberal views and probably believes the government should have as little influence in his life as possible. His viewpoint on child-rearing is a reflection of this distrust of state-power. He wants the child to find their own path, to learn from life itself through trial and error because this will make the child a stronger, more insightful, more independent and a well-rounded person. You can tell the child of a hopeful gardener if you see a child in Safeways wearing a princess outfit. That morning the child decided that being a princess was how he/she wished to express themselves. The liberal parent would of course encourage this and allow the child to become a princess so the child could learn from the experience. They might learn about society's response to non-conventional garb, or that it is better to be warm than pretty etc, or that they like dressing up and want to be an actress/transvestite. Children in the hopeful gardener house are on a parr with the adults, they are equal because all human beings ARE equal where you are an eight-year old human being or an eighty-year old. The child of a hopeful gardener is far more talkative and opinionated than the child of a Mary Poppin's practitioner as the hopeful gardener child is asked how they feel a lot and what they think and are allowed a voice in making decisions from what flavour crisps to buy to where they should go on holiday that year.

Finally, there is the nature's-guide technique. This is a newcomer to the child-rearing scene and is growing in popularity thanks to subscribers such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Britney Spears. It looks to the natural world for inspiration, and particularly to large mammals as our closet natural cousins and mimics the mother-child relationship especially found in nature. Nature's-guide practitioners believe that mankind has fallen from the path that we were born to and evolved from to our damage. It believes we have become distracted by technology, material objects and a confliction society. It looks for a return to a more simple, calm and comforting relationship between human being and believe that like in nature, children should be bonded physically to their mothers until the child chooses to leave or the mother's milk dries up. Nature's-guide parents strongly believe that a person can only succeed in creating strong and healthy friendships and relationships in adulthood if the first relationship they experience in life sets the standard as strong, secure and unshakeable. You can tell the child of a nature's-guide parent because they are often sat in the driver's seat of a 4x4 on a main road in their quest to maintain physical contact with the mother-person. Nature's-guide children also wear no nappies as these are the product of a modern, technological society creating obstacles between mankind and the earth. Apes have no need for nappies so nor do nature's-child, the ever present mother simply hovers the child over the nearest flower bed and returns nature to nature.

So which one do I choose? The Mary Poppins child is surely the child I would happily introduce my friends to, it is only the Mary Poppins child who could safely be taken to a restaurant, use a knife and fork and sit quietly, not disturbing other diners and not running around screaming and pulling faces. The hopeful gardener child, on the other hand, might have decided that that day they wanted to test missiling food onto the neighbouring table and often 'talking through' it and trying to persuade the gardener-child to stop, doesn't work. They are used to having their own way.

On the other hand I AM a liberal and I do not believe in authoritarian rule. Philosophically the Mary Poppins technique presents real issues but practically, so does the hopeful gardeners. So what about the nature's-guide? I do actually gravitate to this one. It would be arrogant I think of our race to assume that we have developed a better technique of child-rearing than centuries of evolution has spawned. It seems perfectly obvious and logical that the first relationship experienced by human sets the standard for their future life. Sociologist have demonstrated this time and again. But then, do I really want to have a baby dangling off my now-stretched tits for five years and do I really want to allow my home to become a happy shit-house?

Alternative and advice welcome.

A public apology

2006-10-31T17:46:00.000Z

I would like to humbly and sincerely apologise to my spouse for telling him to 'Fuck off you annoying bastard' this morning.

Version 2:

2006-10-30T15:51:00.000Z

Mornings are twisted and Radio 1 a sick joke

2006-10-25T17:01:00.001+01:00

As those who know me will know, I hate mornings.

I am a fearsome and unrelentless monster in the morning, both in terms of visuals and audio. Most people who spend any time with me in the mornings quickly learn to avoid me until an hour or so has passed since rising.

I will not try to excuse this behaviour as I believe I have nothing to apologise for. I understand from one lady who would know conclusively that whilst a swaddling child (I enjoyed using this expression in my earlier blog and so, if you don't mind, will take the opportunity to use it again), I used to sleep 12 hours a night straight through - never once waking for feeding and probably pooing whilst unconscious.

*

In fact, question for anyone who can or will try to answer. Do babies poo/piss while asleep or do they have to be awake to do it?"

*

So, the fact that I slept right through as a swaddling child demonstrates that I have a natural - you could say, genetic - predisposition for requiring long spells of sleep each day. I cannot the prevent the fall out when my innate bodily requirements are denied any more than I could prevent my stomach from rumbling if it needed more food.

I only get a mere six and a half hours sleep most days and when being woken in what, to me, is 'deep sleep' mode smack in the middle of my natural sleep cycle, I am naturally and helplessly upset. In fact, "upset" is miserably deficient in adequately conveying to you the experience of waking each morning for me. Let me expand.

First my brain registers confusion - What was that sound. Who calls my name? Am I dreaming? Then horror - Time has moved too quickly, it's not morning yet, this is some mistake - the bed is warm, the bedroom air is cold, this bed is so comfy, my head is whoozy. Stop shouting my name - I HEAR YOU.
I am indignant. I torment myself with the 'just five more minutes' game, knowing full well I will feel no more inclined to rise in five minutes that I do at the present time. I often convince myself I am suffering from a terminal disease and need to stay in bed or else I will die. I feel I will die.
I run through a series of potential excuses that may enable me to stay off work and remain in bed.
The name-calling is continuing.
Fuck off you bastardshit - I KNOW.
I try desperately to fall back asleep in the hope I will discover this early awakening is in fact some sick trick - one of those dreams where you think you are awake but actually you are asleep. It doesn't work, I know I am awake. I am angry at myself because I cannot fall asleep again. I am angry at the shouting person for shouting when it is perfectly obvious I must now be awake.
For fuck's sake……..I throw back the two warm duvets cossetting me in their feathery arms, swing my legs with a bang onto the floor and drag myself upright most angrily and resentfully.

It takes my brain a good hour, a cup and a half of coffee and two cigarettes to lift the immediate fog. It takes a further hour before I no longer run the risk of punching someone or crying with helpless tears if someone tries to engage in conversation or forces me to listen to conversation.

For the second hour, my brain is still tender, it is susceptible to the slightest noise or movement. It requires coaxing round and accustomisation to consciousness.

Imagine then the dreadfulness for me, of standing on a cold train platform in the middle of Northern England, climbing up into a train whose windows don't close properly, where the smell of sweat assaults my suffering senses and I am faced with a carriage carrying three giggling, chatty and energetic teenagers, bouncing of the walls thanks to their breakfast of three poptarts and fruitgums.

They talk. They talk within my radius of hearing. They talk constantly, chirpily, chiruppey. Their girly, high-pitched happy tones burrow into my head. Their conversation is stupid, it's as stupid and mind-numbing and childish as the conversation of every hideous, noisey, energetic Radio 1 presenter who blasts out hideousness every morning to anyone STUPID enough to think that Radio 1 in the morning will make them feel better. Mark and Lard? MARK AND LARD? The mere name is an insult to any vaguely intelligent human being to wishes to be treated by an adult like an adult, not an overgrown seven-year old who finds fart noises funny and prank phone-calls the height of comedy.

They prattle inane hyper babble. They prattle inane hyper babble NON-STOP for forty minutes.

By the time I disembark I am almost ready the throw myself in front of the train and…. oh god, they are behind me. Their chiruppy, syrupy voices are tied to the inner coils of my brain. I consider upon sighting a car lightly stepping out in front of it. This has two advantages. It will knock me out ever so slightly so I can't hear the prattling girls and it will enable me to have a couple of hours kipp in the hospital under cover of a really good excuse to get off work.

My rationale thinking mind, however, has now started to stir. It steps and offers a calmer solution.

It points out the bus stop I am approaching and the seat lining its inside. I walk towards it and sit on the seat. I open my bag and fumble for rolling papers, tobacco and a lighter. I slowly roll a cigarette as I contemplate the morning air. I wait for a long, long distance to build between the noise-makers and myself. I stand up and carry on my way.

The 'G' word

2006-10-23T18:21:00.000+01:00

I have nothing to say today.

I feel suddenly downcast and morbid.

It may have been the conversation I had half an hour ago with colleagues about religion.

If there is anything which is guaranteed to depress me it is religion.

New Book Club

2006-10-21T19:56:00.000+01:00

I started up my second book club this week.

I started one up a year and a half ago and having now moved jobs, I've had to create a new one. It's imaginatively named "The Manchester City Centre Book Club".

I don't think book clubs are particularly meant to have names so I'm not going to start worrying myself about the lack of thought that's gone into that title. Which is the kind of thing I often do. Last week it took me four days to name my cat. I consulted two sisters, a mother, a brother-in-law, three work colleagues, a husband and sixty pages of name search print outs. That's 30 pages of Hindi-derived names, 20 of Greek goddesses and the remainder of literary heroines. Being greedy and showy as I am, I picked a name that combined as many as possible. Now the thing is called "Padme". When people say "Padme? That's a strange name, where's that from?" I say " Padma is the hindi word for 'Lotus flower' and Padme is the heroine princess of Star Wars, I felt the sound of the word was remeniscent of the soft sound a cat's paws make whilst it 'pads' around" Then they look at me and think "Silly cow". Which I probably am.

I do try to think hard about most things though. It confuses me when people say to me - " You think too much" , as though there's a limit to the amount of thinking that one is meant to do in life.

It also confuses me as I don't know what else one's brain is meant to do whilst awake apart from being engaged in thought.

If you average that you are going to be awake for about 16 hours a day, that gives you a lot of time for thinking. You may take an hour or so out for mediatation or perhaps get wankered and black out a couple of nights a week, in which case, sure, the brain is not 'engaged'. But apart from that - what do these people who think less do, or not do, or not think. Perhaps they have a switch I haven't discovered yet that allows them to zone out of consciousness.

I think in reality I think they do think just as much. They just don't talk about what they think as much. Which I personally find suspicious. In fact, I find nothing more suspicious than a quiet person.

What are they hiding? What's going on in there that they don't want to share?

Neo-realism and tag

2006-10-20T12:21:00.001+01:00

Dear David,

The world stage is a junior school playground.

The men who head the world's nations are little boys, showing their toy-guns, wanting to have the biggest.

They play swopsies for oil and weapons, they play war to be the big guy in the world. They keep their 'best-buddies' close and swagger around the yard, arm-in-arm. This way they look twice as big and can shout twice as loud.

In every era there is one boy lucky enough to have the richest parents. He has a house full of toy-guns and because all the other boys so admire the toy-guns, he is in charge. His toy-guns are his power and make him special. (He believes he is because his Mother told him he was special and blessed.)

The other boys want to be like him too. They save all their money to buy toy-guns like his and bring them to the playground. The rich boy doesn't feel so special anymore when somebody else has a toy-gun like his. He'll take it and he'll break it and he'll break them too. He says 'I'm the only one allowed big toy-guns in this playground. You're not special and you can't have them. If I find you sneaking any toy-guns into the playground, I'll break them and I'll break you and I'll break your family too'

Now although it's not fair that one little boy should be not only rich and mean but holding all the toy-guns, if all little boys all had toy-guns there would be chaos in the playground. When boys play with toys their favourite game is Cowboys and Indians. Many toy-guns get broken and all other toys in the playground that aren't even playing the game get hurt too.

Now if all the boys were taken out of the playground and just the girls were left alone, the picture is quite different.

Girls like to skip round and round the playground, hugging their girl-friends and singing songs and thinking about who they can kiss. They bring in little Barbie doll-people and think up nice lives for their Barbies to live out. They put them in nice clothes and feed them cups of tea and do their hair. They talk to the other girls about the future of their Barbies and their Barbies babies and what a great time that will be. They put their Barbies in bed at night and kiss them on the forehead and make sure the dark doesn't scare them. They love their Barbie-dolls and would never do anything to harm them.

In response to the question posed by Lady Eldridge

2006-10-19T14:31:00.000+01:00

Lady Eldridge,

Thank you for your valid and relevant topical question.

This is an issue that I, like many others, have given much thought to. It is hard not to, is it not, given the predictable amount of press-coverage that this 'adoption' has been awarded.
No matter where one's eyes fall within your local grocers, supermarket or friendly newspaper shop, images of Madonna, usually on her way to the gym, or a dark-skinned swaddling child shine from every shelf.

In response to your question, short, I would have to say that I find Madonna's attitude as shallow, reprehensible and thoroughly self-engrossed as I do the majority of the actions of modern-day celebrities.

Like many seemingly altruistic acts, her actions are actually premised upon the vain and selfish desire to 'do something worthwhile'. This translates as massaging one's ego/lifting yourself in the esteem of others/making yourself seem considerate and therefore more popular and loved. it is to do with the giver and not the receiver. Thus is in reality no act of giving, love or charity but an action premeditated to receive and bring self-benefit.

I was particularly horrified to catch an article in one 'Heat' magazine yesterday. Horrified firstly because, shamefully, I was reading the thing. Reading these papers may appear a harmless and entertaining past-time. Do not be so quickly fooled, Lady Eldridge. By reading the abhorrent pages, even in private, you are in fact promulgating their publication and exposing yourself to the insidious phoniness of their philosophy.

My horror followed quickly on the heels of merely holding the rank thing as my eyes alighted on the title of one particular article regarding the Madonna-adoption issue. The article perfectly encapsulates the vile attitude of celebrities that Madonna's recent actions reflect.

The article was titled along the lines of "Shock Report: Madonna a FOLLOWER of fashion in the latest celebrity adoption trend!"

Said magazine was disappointed to reveal to viewers that Madonna had recently lost her crown as setter of celebrity chic by following the 'well-established' trend of 'poor, African child adoptions'. - apparently a road well-trodden by the likes of Ewan McGregor, Michelle Pfeiffer and the Queen of Brown Babies, Angelina Jolie.

Excuse me whilst I expunge my lungs of the bile repeating this accursed name has caused me.

..........................................................

The recent interview with Ms Jolie was reported in Heat in which interview Ms Jolie remarked "It's a very special thing. There's something about travelling somewhere and finding your family." She continues..
"But we're looking at different countries. It's going to be the balance of what would be the best for Mad and for Z right now. It's, you know, another boy, another girl, which country, which race would fit best with the kids?"

I cannot be alone in finding the process by which Ms Jolie 'finds' her children to be in every way akin to the collecting of soft-furnishings for your newly painted living room.

These are CHILDREN, not mohair cushions. Who 'collects' children cultural complements and a pride in a holistic and eclectic variety. Am i alone in interpreting 'which race' as a rather thinly-veiled reference to skin-tone. How else can this be interpreted? You can bet your bottom dollar it won't be porr white South African kid. it doesn't have the requisite 'badge of brownness' to effect the desired look.

travelling round the world, looking for well-chosen items sounds to me very much the activity of gap -year students collecting antiquities from Indian Emporiums or Thai market. We're talking Buddha-heads, Shiva statutes. I do this in lining my mantelpiece. But vases and statues don't' grow up to appreciate the basis of their mother's love is the kudos earned from your presence in her household.

I fear I may have to extend the offer of the Dulux swatches to Ms Jolie also for it will surely help her in identifying exactly the correct shade of brown or yellow to harmonise well with her current babies.

FIRST POST... Possibly last depending on how bored Blair's bobby's are today.

2006-10-19T11:52:00.001+01:00

In the style of the Oscar-laden, celebrity-ridden culture we now live in, can I dedicate this - my first ever blog - to the highly-respected, dog-loving playwright Mr David Albert Eldridge. I would like to thank him for drawing my attention to the potential offered in blogging via his own recently opened space, www.onewriterandhisdog.blogspot.com. Blogging has existed in cyber-space for many an aeon, Natalie, I hear you say. This is true.

I could try to excuse my tardiness in it's uptake by devising a funny story as to why I never fully appreciated blogs before 19th October 2006. I could, but I won't. This blog, like most I would hope, is to be an open vessel for the liquids of truth and honesty.

No entry or entrants should ever lie (knowingly), mislead or misrepresent. If the peoples of the word are to unite in harmony and understanding, the walls of that understanding must lie upon the foundations of truth. For how else can it be... (please refer to Kahlil Gibran's the Prophet, p 28 for the remainder of this touching speech)

I'm sure you understand and agree wholeheartedly.

And to return to my In Honoriam Speech - David, I hope you don't mind me jumping so quickly onto your blogging band-wagon. With characteristic impulsivity, the thought had no sooner crossed my mind that public opining might be the thing for me.... than I was picking out the colour scheme for my blog background.

(It should be black by the way)

Why black?

Well. Of course I intend to deal with serious, dark and often-times disturbing themes. I feel that only black offers the level of gravity of tone to adequately reflect and respect this content.

Perhaps throughout this blogging experience, the background colour may change. Take note of these changes for they will, no doubt, provide an unenunciated expression of my mood and attitudes, perhaps in general, perhaps in relation to specific topics.

In fact, as I wrote these words, a kernel of an idea crossed my mind. And this idea shall be my first expression of thoughts on a specific topic. So here goes.

To those who base their objections to the wearing of the jilbab on the pseudo-sociological theory that communication is impeded by a listeners inability to see the facial expressions of the speaker - I say this. Will colour swatches help?

If you are unfortunate enough to have an undeveloped ear for spoken words and intonation, and a vision so embryonic that movements of the body and head at large cannot compute within you - perhaps a colour chart, perhaps in the mould of Dulux paint swabs will help your deficiencies?Why not suggest to the jilbabed women you undoubtedly pass much of your social life with that they display an appropriate colour swatch alongside each sentence they utter as a visual aid for your better understanding. Perhaps then you will allow them the courtesy to wear whatever article of clothing their heart desires for I'm sure that your objection is truly based in this particular theory of the fundamentalism of an open-face to human interaction as opposed to a prejudice against a group of people due to their cultural or religious beliefs and expressions.

Often referred to in dictionary short-hand as 'racism'.