Knightley or Elton?

Law'mania

2011-08-24T04:09:00.000+01:00

May? That really is embarrassing.

Law school is slowly doing my head in. Actually, the process accelerates exponentially. To think when I began I was so naively self-assured, utterly dough-faced. It was challenging, but in a good, motivating way. Now, I simply over-think; I think. I still enjoy the law - the more I learn the more interesting it becomes, and the more confident I feel about the whole thing.

Sadly, the flip-side to all this the darker side of it all. A hyper-competitive streak appears from nowhere, destroying my generally ethical composition and sending me into a panicked mess. Mind you, that could simply be because I foolishly signed up to the Junior Moot. An excellent opportunity to practice advocacy skills, before studying Advocacy. Excellent indeed, until the problem question arrives. Having idiotically got through to the second round, I have a one in eight chance of winning in the end. Do I really want to win though? I've got this far, have I not depressed myself enough? Of course I want to win, I've got this far! And I've just learned that every finalist receives some sort of prize. I simply must get into the finals. The problem is, they drain so much time and attention from actual assessments. One of which I ought to be doing now, I have to deliver a monologue from Trainspotting. There's a particularly mature-age student who also has to do one, I am eagerly anticipating the amount of times she has to say the F word. It literally is every other word in the soliloquy.

Despite my complaints, it's all really not too bad. I am volunteering as a court welfare officer for Legal Aid (there is a compulsory service component to my degree), which I have to fit around uni and work. I don't understand how some people "have it all." Are they lying? Do they sleep? Are they happy? Are they real? I seem to be real enough, but that was before I studied philosophy (also compulsory). Now I have no idea. There are so many conflicting messages. Living for the moment is a wonderful adage, but it is entirely incompatible with law school. Or any school, for that matter. Work-life balance is hilarious oxymoronic HR speak that means absolutely nothing. Work-life imbalance would be somewhat closer, but it still leaves the impression that a life exists in the true sense.

This is why it is so important to make good use of holidays, for the purpose of disconnecting with reality. In July I managed to escape to Tasmania. Ironic considering it's long history as a penal settlement. It is just so beautiful, it reminded me of home in many ways. Green, rolling hills, pretty buildings, eccentric population. But it has a crispness to it, a sharpness of colour and light. Almost alpine at times, with snow-capped mountains, albeit mini-versions. The food was perfect. The history was fascinating, and at times a little too close for comfort. Our final night in Hobart was, after a lovely dinner, spent on a ghost tour of the Penitentiary Chapel. Converted into court rooms, and the place where convicted criminals were hanged, the place was chilling, or rather even more chilling on top of a bitter night. As lamp-bearer, I bravely led or was at the rear of the group, which of course made me feel wonderfully brave and important, albeit quite vulnerable. After some very interesting tales, we returned via a tunnel to finish the tour. I led. The guide told his final stories and we were about to leave. All of a sudden *CHING*. As if a coin or a chain had dropped to the cement floor. Hastily a torch was thrust into my hand, and I shone frantically, searching for the source of the sound. Nothing, of course. By this point, our small group was more than spooked and we desperately clambered out of the tunnel. While thrilled to have potentially encountered a 'something else' down there, I can't help but feel thoroughly unnerved to have led the group, and been quite distant from them at some points, while that something else was there. Was it watching me, was it aware that I was there? Amazing how important light is: a weapon, a shield, a beacon, sustenance, hope.

Anyway, how are all of you?

LW

An Affluent Struggle in Effluence

2011-05-25T04:47:00.001+01:00

At various points in time I find myself evaluating my life, as I'm sure we all do. What have I done, what have I really achieved and what if any of it was worthwhile? As a person predisposed to viewing himself in a negative light, I very quickly become bogged down in a mire of self-pity and seem to derive pleasure from the selfishness of such wallowing. I have an over developed sense of entitlement, perhaps an off-shoot of the post-Cold War generation. Life is short and indeterminate, so enjoy it while it lasts. Pleasure is inexpensive and freely available. As one fortunate enough to be born into a life of relative privilege, living in comfortable surroundings amongst fellow winners of the lottery of life, I find myself too often feeling discontented. I want more. I covet such a lot, which pains me. I have become conscious of so much vanity, greed and hollowness. Une vide.

While studying I'm essentially living as a leech, 'surviving' off my parents and the Australian government. In that way I'm so blessed. My university takes a number of students in various African nations who must work so hard to study and afford to live alone in a foreign country, far from their families. I spoke to one girl who, now 22, would have been married off at 15 had she not won a scholarship to continue at school. She intimated that she would probably be considered an old maid in her home town. She must work several jobs whilst also studying full time to support herself. She is also afraid to invite her family to her graduation at the end of the year, in case she fails a unit or in some way disappoints them.

The real world can be a very harsh and unforgiving place. My world is comparatively sugar-coated and cushioned. This is why my ability to enjoy the quicksand of despondence fills me with self-loathing. How dare I find the time to sit and ponder, how dare I want the new iPhone, Mac-book, car, house, clothes that all look so pretty in the magazines. How dare I be so ungrateful!

Yet I know I am not alone. Coveting is mentioned twice in the commandments, for different things but for the same reasons. As humans, we tend to instinctively want what the other has, for fear we lucked out, that they have gained the competitive edge. So frequently I just want to remove myself completely from such societal ills. I'd happily live in the middle of nowhere, so long as I had plumbing, hot water, a comfortable bed, laundry equipment, books... Actually it would seem evident I cannot. I love the story of the widow's mite, yet I live as one of the wealthy men.

I am unashamedly wealthy in many respects. I have my health, and I am loved. What more should I want? Hopefully in time I can focus more on the important things in my life, perhaps try and work harder? and try to love back as much as I am loved.

As a post-scriptum, thank you to those who commented on my last post. I do love a good moan (see above), and I apologise if anybody took it too literally. May I also thank you for your continuing support and encouragement. X

Quandaries of Affluence

Oh dear.

2011-05-18T04:48:00.000+01:00

Another sad, abandoned blog. I can even see the tumbleweeds across the ether.

One might cite the 'excuses': university, work, social life. But anybody who knows me will know none of those excuses wash with myself, but then, to whom am I writing anyway?

To be perfectly honest, it has mostly been from a complete lack of inspiration. In London, in Europe, life was full of stories, full of life itself. Here, things take on a sallowed quality. The brightness of the sun (Ozone hole) seems to diminish the brightness of the world. It is overpowering. Thankfully, rain has finally arrived. Perhaps this will refresh everything, from the parched sands to the dry and emptiness of my head.

I think the most likely answer is: stop being lazy and morose and do; be. Shame that taking one's own advice always seems to be near-impossible.

Equality & a Nutcracker

2010-12-20T07:09:00.000Z

In the midst of a socially exhausting calendar and the sensory overload of that treasured season, I was taken to two very contrasting, culture-sating events. The first was at a wonderfully interesting outdoor theatre called Bamboo, the other half of a well-renowned cocktail bar. The stage alone is a terrific, ingenious idea, and one that must be wonderfully good fun to perform on. It mingles the classical Greek amphitheatre with a rather gentle, Balinese-esque place of worship. Although the oriental vibe may come down to the purveyance of bamboo; the name must of course have purpose. Frankly, just being able to see that kind of facility made the night worthwhile. I had been worried about the theme of the performance(s). I tend to shy away from the self-aggrandising, self-interested and self-important performances for which many actors and similar nights are famed. For me the term rather rhymes with bank. (Apologies for hinting at anything untoward.)

And in many respects I was not disappointed on that front. The premise of the evening was an Amnesty International Arts evening. A group of actors, musicians, directors, producers, dancers, choreographers and sound technicians (amongst others no doubt) were given twenty four hours to develop fifteen minute pieces based on the subject of Equality. In all we had six pieces performed before us. With minimal rehearsal time on top of composing a whole piece, the results were impressive. Some a little bankery of course. The problem with collecting a group of very middle-class people and have them try to demonstrate their understanding of and relation to issues such as domestic violence will never work seamlessly. But it was a noble effort. One in particular I thoroughly enjoyed. It was the soliloquy of a university tutor, railing against his apathetic students. He was desperate for debate, passion, life, and it was very funny. I can relate, being the annoyingly vocal member of most of my tutorials as most sit idly by. But perhaps that's how I like it, competition grows dull. I say that as a staunch free-market advocate, mind.

After the thought-provocation at Bamboo, it was to the transporting world of a wealthy German family Christmas in the form of the Nutcracker. I have been incredibly lucky this last year. From Giselle with the ENB to Don Quixote with the WA Ballet. Nothing beats the Nutcracker for pure festive joy. Tchaikovsky composed such lovely music and this production was so charming. By the Graduate College of Dance, the sets belonged to the Australian Ballet at one stage and the costumes were splendid. Having friends perform always adds to the enjoyment of a spectacle. And they cast students of all ages, the miniature gingerbread men were particularly endearing. My favourite fell over as she took a bow, with such grace and poise, such promise! She absolutely made the second act. She looked barely two feet tall on the stage, it was wonderful. We left the elegantly parochial Regal Theatre feeling very much uplifted and full of the spirit of Christmas. In a city where Christmas day currently has a forecast of 38 degrees, I verily need all the help I can get.

To everybody floating about the ether, be you a visitor past or new, admirer or critic, a very happy Christmas to you and yours.

Christkindl

2010-12-01T04:02:00.001Z

"Secret Santa is a Western Christmas tradition in which members of a group are randomly assigned other members to whom they anonymously give a gift. Often practised in workplaces, or amongst large families, participation in it is usually voluntary. It offers a way for many people to give and receive a gift at low cost to those involved." Wikipedia.

One need not scroll far down to see my unbridled enthusiasm for Christmas. Reading Mrs Trefusis's latest post brought on a wave of nostalgia for the simple joy of baking Christmas cakes with my grandmother, running through her garden with my cousins and being frequently stung by bees hiding amongst the fallen jacaranda flowers (forget not that I grew up in the southern hemisphere). It often took several days before the swelling in my feet went down. But now that I have returned to the heat (and gosh it has been hot lately, hottest November on record) I am also nostalgic for peacefully white, wintry landscapes of my spiritual northern home. The pictures of Britain in a cold snap have left me in fits of envy. Though I remember fully the chaos of London snow last year, the memories I take from those days are of strangers playing together in the snow, reveling in a Dickensian world of white. Billions of pounds may have been lost, but after all, it's only money.

Which brings me to Christmas. I feel a miserly scrooge-type character, but I am entirely unhappy about a recent spate of Secret Santas pervading my nice quiet world. I am entirely opposed to the idea. I am a poor student and I object to being forced to buy complete strangers tat. Instead, I am baking gingerbread biscuits, and to hell with people's reactions. You will get what you are given and be happy I am bothering at all! I have long been of the opinion that gift-buying is a most inefficient function of money. We waste money on things people invariably do not, have never, and never will want. It is an inefficiency at both ends. And we all have to behave so politely about being bought such things as wallets. Now, I already have a wallet. I have had for many years. What on earth possessed you? Did you suddenly have an epiphany, Oh! The very thing. A Wallet. I'm almost certain that he will need one. Well, how do you think I have managed to carry around the various cards and monies I have done the past 10 years?

That said, I am always incredibly touched that people would think to get me anything, and feel incredibly guilty if I don't like something. But, I'm sorry. I am an increasingly old and bitter man. I want for nothing and need for little. If you want to show your affection, or to wish me a happy Christmas, write me a card (home-made), bake something, create something. Write me a poem. I want a piece of you, not of your wallet.

I worry this attitude will increasingly alienate me from friends and family. Mr London Street recently wrote of peer pressure. The same side of the family with whom I would always make Christmas Cakes at the onset of Advent has now moved away from the simple joys of Christmas, to a highly organised Secret Santa operation. All family members have strict instructions as to whom they buy for, how much they spend, and frankly, what they buy. I have ordered my mother (who is a reluctant member of the board) to opt our branch of the family tree out of the nonsense. I have told her if she doesn't insist on it, I shall. And of the two of us, she is the more likely to be tactful. Christmas should not be about brutally commercial organisation. It should be fun, spontaneous, well-fed amongst good company. It should be a celebration of life and family (and food). I think when children are involved, there should absolutely be plenty of beautifully wrapped gifts under a Christmas tree. The latest thing simply must be in a stocking, so long as children are giving a thorough appreciation for how lucky they are, considering so many other children have so little.

Am I hugely out of step with the rest of the world? Have I any right to impose my will on the rest of the family? Should I keep calm and carry on? Am I fundamentally wrong? Any thoughts welcome and appreciated.

Melbourne Cup Day

2010-11-26T03:01:00.001Z

This is the race that stops a nation. A public (bank) holiday marks the date in its home state of Victoria. Essentially, it is an opportunity for boozing in the middle of the week (as though Australians need any more of an excuse) and the chance to wear such things as fascinators. Even in the West, as far from the track as one could possibly be on the continent, feathers, dresses and suits pervade the inner city streets. Some with promising all-day lunches to look forward to, others little more than a public house.

One anomaly of life in an isolated economic power-house is the triviality of time differences. This is an example of federalism functioning badly. The West recently voted against the introduction of Summer Time yet again, despite a successful three summer trial. This now has us 3 hours behind the East for a significant part of the year, including the special race day that is the first Tuesday of November. While in Melbourne they wine and dine over lunch before the race at approximately 3pm, we are (usually) soberly subjected to the race at 12pm, before then beginning to lunch. The natural order of things is consequently reversed - the winners and losers decided before the first morsel is even consumed. While fun, it remains regardless and anti-climax.

Tuesday 2 November 2010 marks the first Melbourne Cup I truly feted. I cannot describe the heat. An all-enveloping wall of high temperature that followed wherever one went, a shadow with no shade. No relief, but for the air-conditioned indoors. Thank goodness that was where I was to spend 5 hours of the day. I was fortunate to have been invited along to Must, in Mount Lawley. The gem of Russell Blaikie, considered to be one of Perth's best talents, and boasting one of the best wine lists in the city. This we attacked with great gusto, and whyever not? Must has such a good reputation, and I have so enjoyed eating there in the past, that I think I heaped too much expectation on the food. It was fine, no doubting that. But it wasn't quite there, for what I had anticipated. The atmosphere was wonderfully relaxed and informal, tables were joined and intimately spaced, giving a tremendously communal atmosphere. The joy of the winning was shared, and the pain of the losing commiserated with equal measure.

A surprise highlight came towards the end of the lunch. There had been various in-house raffles and prizes, and Must finished off by awarding some fashion prizes. Hastily before the MC returned to the mezzanine, a waiter had asked my name, saying I might have won a prize. I never win anything, so I was positively beaming with pride in anticipation of what was to come. Best Dressed Lady was announced, then came Best Dressed Gentleman. When my name was not called out, I was forced to use my best "I didn't win an Oscar face". I've always believed it's not how you look in winning, but in losing that counts. Dignity exists far more in the gracious vanquished than in any winner. Though that could well be a lifetime of bitterness speaking. Oh I performed so well, the face I used was so gracious. The rest of the table had erupted indignantly. "Of course that was your prize!", "Only a fool would have awarded that bald-headed, poorly suited troglodyte a fashion prize.", "Do you think it was rigged? Why bother asking your name then...". Quite funny in retrospect. The came the surprise - the award for best tie. In truth, I won this by default, I was the only person sporting a bow tie. But I take the victory regardless. Mounting the stairs, to deafening applause, I shook hands with Mr Blaikie, who presented me with a signed copy of his cookbook and a Must voucher.

I'm sure it isn't hard to imagine what that was spent on...

Mrs Robinson

2010-10-27T04:42:00.000+01:00

I shan't bother mentioning my absence - beyond this sentence - it is utterly pointless, though I do dislike elephants in the room.

Something cultural: The Graduate recently (ironically it was showing when I last posted) visited Perth. Starring Jerry Hall, this was a major coup for such a parochial town. In the quaint venue that is His Majesty's Theatre, a hint of Broadway and West End glamour alleviated the permeating sense of "Dullsville" life. The local papers gloated daily at our successful coup. The former other half of Jagger, the model was in town. And furthermore, dating a local businessman. Curiously enough, said businessman was in attendance the night I went. Not that it's any of my business of course...

The show: well it was itself rather quaint really. It certainly hearkened back to a time of much more simple gender roles, a world with much clearer divisions; black and white. The sets were wonderfully kitsch, and reminded me often of my grandparents old house. Strange colour combinations, modernist furniture and panelling certainly were very transporting.

Of course the moment that really had people excited was Hall's nude scene. "Clever" use of silhouette left very little to the imagination, but was undoubtedly wonderfully, artistically risqué. Now Hall is clearly no actress. She certainly doesn't pretend to be. But she surprised me with her comic timing, which more than made up for what was clearly "acting". And of course, she was not there to act, hers was the star quality that brought in the numbers. And it certainly did, from all across the Oceanic region.

From this, I can only speak of how well I thought the local cast performed, especially the young girl playing Elaine Robinson. The American who played Benjamin Braddock certainly made him irritating. Self-obsessed, self-important, selfish, vacuous, vapid... I felt venomous hatred for his character by the end. I was certainly praying Mr Robinson would prematurely end his days after the discovery of the protagonists' affair.

I am embarrassed to admit I have never seen the film in full. After seeing the play, I am certainly not dis-inclined to see it properly, but I will need to be in a very patient mood that evening. Certainly the Robinson alcoholism may be whence I draw my inspiration..

7/7

2010-09-03T04:17:00.001+01:00

I've just realised 7/7 is in fact a whole. The completion of a picture. I wish I could feel more of a completeness about my life at present, but the more I accumulate, the more that seems to slip through my fingers.

In terms of the things I like, I feel I have covered most bases. Transport to sustenance. Perhaps I can choose something that is important to me, something I do my best to show to whomever, whenever. Mrs Trefusis mentioned me and manners, something about which I can be very particular. Example: I simply loathe people who are rubbish at introductions. It really is too awful, I have no mechanism to deal with the awkwardness of being left to the wayside as a friend chatters on without making any attempt to introduce one to tuther. Are you specifically not introducing me? Or are you simply blind to the fact we are as Adam to one another? Either way, for some reason, it bothers me.

As, yet again, I have descended into writing about that which I don't like, I'd better move on quick smart. There is a vague connection, because what I wish to say I do like is kindness. I think kindness is so very important, it costs absolutely nothing and can greatly affect a person's day to day existence. I have been extraordinarily lucky in that I have known some of the kindest people imaginable. London, one of the world's great metropoles, is not somewhere I necessarily expected to discover it. The vastness of everything and, in particular, the number of people does not necessarily engender a sense of abounding kindness. But it is there that I was the beneficiary of some wonderfully good turns - extra streams of income when they were invaluable; hot, home-cooked meals when they were so very welcome; friendship in some low times and even, in moments of utter desperation, a roof over my head.

Kindness can take many various forms, be it a word, an act, a gesture, even an offer. It can be conscious or sub-conscious. In a world of increasing disenfranchisement, hedonism, selfishness, chicanery and one-upmanship, I think it is important to reflect on what it is to be human, what humanity entails. To me, one of our greatest achievements as a species was developing a conscience, rising above natural selection, empathy and kindness. Yet the downside of our developed thought has been to allow ourselves to divide - be it politically, racially, religiously, by gender, sexuality, background, hair colour, eye colour - and hate. And I'm in no way suggesting I'm above the negativity, I am often guilty of wishing ill on complete strangers. Bus drivers and club bouncers in particular.

However, what I hope by writing this is that it will serve as a reminder to myself, and to anybody else who should stumble across it for that matter, to be better. It costs absolutely nothing to smile. To be kind, in its truest form, can make all the difference between somebody having a good and a bad day. I know on the very greyest and rainiest of days we feel far from any sense of joy, so therefore to share whatever remnants within there are seems ridiculous. But to do so is to multiply it tenfold. I promise. I spent yesterday at the funeral of a good friend's father. He had committed suicide out of depression, quite tragic. Certainly, the sense from the readings was that this was an incredibly kind, honest, decent and noble person, who had been overwhelmed by the horridness of the world around him. What was so touching, despite the grief, was the outpouring of kindness the local community showed this family, and I am convinced that this support was invaluable to them.

Our world can be a desperately dark place at times. It is within all of us to find that metaphorical sunshine, and to perhaps re-assess how we treat our fellow human beings. I don't mean to sound like the resurrection of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but I do believe we can all, even in the very smallest of ways, collectively make our human experience just that little bit happier.

"Give all to love; obey thy heart."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

6/7

2010-08-06T03:18:00.003+01:00

Nearly there..
It's a rather sorry indictment of my work ethic that I happen to be at "work" this very minute, and only now do I progress further with my meme. Oh well.

I could say I like it when I'm not at work, but that would be dull and stating the obvious. I think there are few people who would choose work over play, but I suppose it is only through working one can appreciate the free time. Why is it that I sound more and more like my mother with every passing day?

Right, so something I do quite like is a train. Trains are lovely! A childhood of reading (apologies to Mrs Trefusis) Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie and even J. K. Rowling left me with a distinctively glamorous view of trains. Be they the vehicle for a picnic followed by the inevitable adventure, the scene of a crime, or the means to reach a secret school of magic; there is a definitive style of transportation unparalleled. Now I love flying, and I do even enjoy driving, occasionally. Although motoring laws in this country are so boring, at 30mph I feel as though I might as well just walk. But there is something somehow romantic about trains. It feels so much more communal. Buses I abhor. In London, they're quite charming, but here the very opposite. They are loathsome, space-polluting, noise-polluting travesties which should be done away with. Although my judgement is very much skewed by recent terrible experiences. I do my best to be a good citizen of the world, and not to drive when it is possible to not do so. Well, my goodness is it obvious why people avoid buses. And they almost always smell terrible. But this is not supposed to be a post on what I dislike, is it?

Trains: The shared glances with fellow commuters when the peace is disturbed by some unsavoury type, well it's quite fun, isn't it?! It is a very delicate, dignified way to travel. None of that stop-starting, but graceful gliding into stations, an elegant annonceur informing passengers of their next stop, and an over-whelming sense of being above the internal-squabblings of the road-user world outside. I have found trains to be infinitely more reliable. A train schedule is somehow much more set in stone, and very rare will circumstances affect it. Buses, as the old adage goes, are nowhere to be seen for an hour then suddenly up turn three. Now, I am aware of a great many shortcomings in the locomotive department. The wrong leaves, the wrong snow, the mere existence of snow - all have dented its credibility. But I argue none of the fun of train travel has been extinguished. I'm blessed to have a lovely commute. I walk ten minutes through Karrakatta Cemetery, then am privy to fifteen minutes of very attractive scenery. Half of the journey follows the coast, before reaching the port of Fremantle. It's lovely to start the day overlooking the waves undulating towards the sandy beaches. And then Fremantle itself is lovely, one of the few places in this country to have successfully preserved its heritage. Some of it may be crumbly, but overwhelmingly, it is so gorgeously English. perhaps that's why I like it?

I keep reading of ideas to improve our rail system, of introducing light rail networks to deal with urban sprawl so as to keep apace with population growth. Well I do hope there is some substance behind all the good intentions. A world of more rail is to me, very appealing.

5/7

2010-07-20T17:31:00.000+01:00

This one I rather hoped I wouldn't have to resort to, but I feel in some need of writing for writing's sake. I quite enjoy that food thing. And lots of it. Although that is misleading; I will not put rubbish into my body. I eat a lot, but I'm very fussy. I'm better than I was, and a lot of that came from my impoverished circumstances in London. I would eat what I was given, I had to expand my repertoire. As a child, red meat had never agreed with me. Be that pure obstinacy on my behalf, or a genuine complaint I'm still unsure. Should somebody place a steak before me, my stomach instantly becomes terribly acrobatic, bless it. However, sausages and bacon do the complete opposite, and their respective smells leave me salivating.

A great many of my friends accuse me of being a food snob. And quite likely, I am. I will not touch such things as pot noodle, ketchup, mayonnaise (home made excepted), builder's tea or that nasty pre-sliced bread that always seems so popular. Or margarine. Or caged-hen eggs. Essentially all the things to which an impoverished, student-type ought to defer. The list does go on rather. I hate such things as instant mash. The very idea is, to me, quite abominable. Mashing potatoes is possibly one of the simplest tasks in cookery. Oh dear, the point of this was to talk about something I like. Perhaps I have uncovered the next entry? Right, yes, well.

However none of this apparent snobbery is simply to keep up appearances. Quince could well be having a resurgence, but this doesn't influence me. I love quince because it tastes stunning. And it goes so well with such a lot, not least with cheese. I love runny, heart-attack inducing cheeses on crisp-bread crackers. And prosciutto. All cured meats really. And roasted vegetables. Roast chicken, or goose, or pheasant. I'm afraid this is all going to lack any sort of cohesion. One food will always suggest another. And memory plays such a wonderful role. I used to embarrass my friends terribly when they ever dared come food shopping with me. Waitrose was rather my place of worship for a long time. I was certainly devout. Contrasting the solemnity with which I made Sunday services, the Waitrose ritual was one of excited to-ing and fro-ing in between the aisles. There was always something wonderfully interesting to look at, sourced from somewhere mind-bogglingly exotic. Or so it was for me at least. There is something about fresh, ripe, home-grown, local and tasty ingredients that truly makes me happy. Knowing the meat/dairy/eggs were sourced from happy animals seems to automatically improve their flavour. Is that merely a placebo? I like to think not, although I'm certain various studies have shown no person can ever really tell in blind tests. But then, arguably, is that even the point? The satisfaction of choosing something sustainable and positive over the cheap and negative option is absolutely reward enough. I may have been pounds out of pocket, but I was and remain unperturbed.

The monetary thing has become an issue. I will always, and I mean always, over-spend unnecessarily on food. Today I did start well, I packed my lunch and that was all fine. However I then stopped off at the Boatshed in Cottesloe, to meet a friend. This particular grocer has a reputation for having the most wonderful foods, infamously eschewed by a large number of the locals. For example, they have just started selling Manjimup truffles, something they managed to cultivate after years of trying in the South-West countryside. I love it, and not simply because of the bountiful tasting plates. It was via one of these that I came to taste the Boatshed's chocolate mousse. I had to sit down. On the floor. Such was it's genius. And naturally I've introduced my current wingman to this airy, fluffy, frankly orgasmic delight. And that's what we bought today. For the second time in less than a week.

This is bad not only financially - forget not the turbulent economic times in which we still live, where austerity should be our hallmark philosophy - but it is not at all friendly to my waistline. In London I ate quality not quantity and I walked everywhere. It was certainly cheaper than paying for transport. I also cycled distances too great for walking. I was a bit feeble should the weather have been poor, but in general I would carry on unless the very heaviest of downpours should render me sightless. On the other side of the world, this does not occur. I eat quality and a huge quantity of it. Why? I'm not even hungry. However I cannot sit idly by and allow a sibling to have a larger portion of whatever than myself. I also drive almost everywhere. It's simply the done thing. You can neither survive nor rely on public transport alone, and the distances are far too great to allow for walking. I'm trying to do so more often, simply because I enjoy a good walk. Ah! idea number two from post number five.

Sadly this lacks any succinct, logical thought. I apologise. But perhaps this allows for my genuine like of food to shine through. I do hope so, at least.

3/7 & 4/7

2010-07-17T08:41:00.000+01:00

This one will not surprise many. It is perhaps one of the primary incentives for my push to the green and pleasant land: my preference for colder climes. As a child I yearned for that "rainy day" which almost never came. This is, in my mind, the most likely reason for my inability to save anything. Least of all - nay, especially - money.

I adore a frosty morning, one so cold as to make the thought of leaving the bed quite abhorrent. To sit by the fire, pot of tea (or glass of sherry) and good book in hand. Or perhaps even a very good film to watch. My pleasures are generally the indoor pursuits. But equally too, I love Winter walks. Rugging up and stomping about in Wellington boots - such fun. The sunny Summers sadly do not suit me. I burn very easily, my hay fever is quite debilitating and I do not suit swim-wear. Or shorts. Not that I think they suit many people any way. But mostly, I dislike the heat. I cannot stay cool. In the Winter it's fine, one dresses appropriately - and rather more smartly - and there you are, quickly warmed up.

Not so in Summer, particularly when one lives without the luxury of air conditioning. At it's worst, I cannot sleep. This was rather brought home to me the previous week, on a Balinese sejour. A family holiday, all rather lovely in theory. Escaping the Wintry "depths" for heat and humidity, endless pools, food, cocktails and shopping, it sounded rather wonderful on paper. However I had forgotten how little much of the previous list suits me. I didn't even want to drink the cocktails, such was my misery. Oh dear that does sound oh so pathetic. A free holiday and such was my attitude. I hope my behaviour wasn't too ungrateful, especially as I insisted on cutting my time there short by a week. I simply couldn't have faced two weeks of the place, when all I wanted was my own warm bed, my protector from the winds and the rain. (Yes there was actual precipitation).

Some like it hot...

Linked, but quite worthy of being in its own category, is snow. I just adore snow. Cannot get enough of it. I may have mentioned I grew up in a warm climate, somewhere along the line. Shocking, I know. So I imagine my lack of experience with cold and precipitation has had some influence here. In fact I didn't see snow until I was fourteen. It was on a rather gormless school trip to the nation's capital - a city built by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, it is a civil servant's wet dream (do excuse the vulgarity). To encourage the students to engage with the historical and political bent of the tour, we were also treated to a spot of skiing, which is of course where the introduction to snow came in.

I could perhaps describe our meeting as something along the lines of falling in love. It was certainly an immediate infatuation, one which lingers to this day. There is something about snow's ability to transform a landscape entirely, to silence, to cleanse, to purify. It was also the source of a great deal of fun. A hopeless skier, I am nonetheless enthusiastic and devour the slopes rather like the cheese boards and mulled wine I enjoy afterwards. Perhaps not the mulled wine when I was fourteen, I think it was most likely a very strong hot chocolate.

The mere sight of snow will reduce me to a level of giddiness, silliness and frivolity not known since nursery. It is like seeing a long lost friend, and much like all good friends, one can pick things up exactly where they were left off. I was blessed to experience some of the snowiest English Winters known for years, for which I'm too grateful. Of course, I pretended to tire of the disruption it would always cause. But secretly I was always very amused and rather pleased. The Christmas I spent in Sweden was something else, in terms of the volume of snow, the level of cold and a remarkable ability for a long-suffering population to soldier on. A myth Mr Fry once debunked, was the nonsense that the Swedes suicide abnormally more than anybody else. If you cross the Baltic to Lithuania, well then yes, it is unusually high, but I rather hope my good friend the snow is not a contributing factor.

So there you are; the cold and the snow are two things I like. Good.

2/7

2010-07-02T03:21:00.000+01:00

Should I be concerned that I am finding it quite difficult to find things I like and wish to write about? Obviously I like more than seven things, were it otherwise then I would certainly be concerned. It's just that very little seems to present itself in anything more than a half-hearted sense. But I've just had a thought: what has been tagged numerously on KorE?, Champagne!

Now I enjoy the odd drink every now and then. Yestereve I enjoyed a lovely glass of port with a friend. The day before an ordinary Scotch whisky with the merest hint of water. Followed not much later by some cider and ultimately some champers. In my defense, I was out at the time and in any other situation I would not mix, least of all so haphazardly. I am also partial to sherry, both dry and sweet. But the one thing I will absolutely never turn down, perhaps to my detriment, is a nice glass of bubbles. Prosecco, sekt, cava, sparkling wine and of course the Holy Grail, I'm not usually too bothered (assuming it tastes all right).

I adore that first sip... The bubbles effervescently tickling the tongue, allowing the delicate notes of the wine to appreciate, the golden aroma so teasing; demanding more. And more. I mean I'm no wine buff. The local tabloid is currently poking a great deal of fun at the pretenses of professional wine tasters. Not that I am much bothered by their outdated and pathetically partial reporting. Think the Daily Mail lite. With more adverts. In fact I am bothered by it, but not bothered about it - it being 'that which they report'. But I digress. So I really enjoy a good bubbly, and not simply for the drink itself, but its connotations. The sense of grandeur and elevation it conjures, the decadence. Holding a champagne coupe and I am transported to Prohibition America, the 1960's and Mad Men or even the 17th century English aristocrats who first used the glass. Even the unlikely legend that the original was modeled on the breast of Marie-Antoinette thrills me. And with Wimbledon providing me with lasting evening entertainment, I wish so very much I were there too, enjoying a champagne in the sunshine on Henman Hill. Just glorious.

Another enjoyable aspect is of course, the sociability of the drink. In a strange way champagne is one of the indirect reasons for this blog's existence. At last year's Proms in the Park, my mother and I sat down to a very makeshift bin liner/scarf picnic rug with a few nibbles and a bottle of the Widow. Our neighbour's curiosity was aroused by this juxtaposition. That and our age difference. Striking up conversation, it was simply one of those moments one can only attribute to fate and I am eternally grateful. The rest, as they say, is history. More recently at a friend's 21st, a vast amount of the stuff was quaffed, and possibly the majority by myself. It certainly felt like it the next day, but all the merry chatter was such fun. And there you are: one might have a whisky, a glass of wine, even a beer; alone. However champagne is a drink that I could never envisage truly enjoying alone. Once my income level increases, I shall of course substitute water with champagne, naturally. But until such time, non. To fete, to celebrate, to share in joy and to commiserate, there is nothing quite like champagne. And that is precisely why I like the stuff.

1/7

2010-06-27T06:48:00.002+01:00

Quite why Mr London Street enjoys my writing I as yet do not understand. My naive, spoilt and archaic tone rather chills me as I re-read posts, but nonetheless it is more than flattering to receive a compliment from such an admirable writer. I certainly owe it to him to attempt "Seven Things I Like", the meme in which he has tagged me. Perhaps it will restore me to a more regular writing pattern. This assumes I can think of seven things that I both like and can write at length on....

So I shall start with a place I like a little too much. London. Londres. The capital of the United Kingdom:

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803

"Earth hath not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"

William Wordsworth

I couldn't more eloquently describe my affection for the place. Despite being written more than two hundred years before I came to be in the city, it is as true and stirring a picture of London as ever it was then. What I love about this poem is the extraordinary contrast to his poem London 1802. The two could have been written in completely different cities for all the similarities in sentiment they share.

However for myself, it is this fabulous contrast that speaks to me best. London is the tale of two cities. The darkness and the light, the rich and the poor, the beauty and the beast, the West and the East, the North and the South. London never failed to uplift when I was down, but it could equally bring me crashing back down to Earth if ever I lost sight of where my feet ought to be. It is a city that brought a great richness to my life, and will do so to anybody who is prepared to embrace it.

Although I rather feel my time there ended prematurely, I can at least recognise that I was fortunate enough to be there at all. Many never have such a wonderful opportunity as I had, to enjoy the complete and unattached freedom of youth in London. What I must also do my best to understand is that, while for now we are apart, this could in a few years be remedied with some rather had work. Sadly I have always shied away therefrom, and thus my confidence isn't too high. But hopefully this will give me the necessary motivation... Goodness knows it can't hurt.

Waiting for (Sir) Ian

2010-06-14T07:39:00.000+01:00

Purely by chance I was in the charming company of Sir Ian MacKellan on his birthday. On a tour of the Antipodes with Waiting for Godot, Sir Ian had made the long voyage West from Melbourne. I think he rather regretted bothering, on viewing the measly offering of a Tuesday night in the city. Where a Melbourne, a London, a Paris all remain abuzz in the evenings, Perthshire does not. I came to be there through a journalist friend who had interviewed Sir Ian in the morning. Naturally wanting to celebrate his birthday in some fashion, Sir Ian asked my friend where they ought to go, and my friend offered to provide a semblance of an atmosphere somewhere. At least he had a very useful name to drop.

Besides some very interesting conversation - featuring anecdotes of HM the Queen and Nelson Mandela and even of the fireworks man at the Sydney New Years Eve celebrations - Sir Ian's manager "managed" to arrange us tickets at a much more affordable 1/3 of the actual (and V expensive) price. Thank goodness he did so, because it was just astounding. My memory of the play from English Literature was not terribly favourable. However it is a perfect example of plays being written for performance and not for mere study. It was quite fascinating, and particularly for somebody often lost in introspection it was wonderfully satisfying. Do we exist when nobody else will acknowledge it? And then do other people and our interactions therewith prove that we do indeed exist? Quite marvellous.

I found it quite interesting that the actors used English accents (Sir Ian opted for Yorkshire), most English language productions have been done with Irish accents. There is a scene in which the characters make fun of the word "calm" and it's English pronunciation. However in general it was done quite brilliantly, the quick pace of dialogue punctured by some very clever physical comedy. Naturally MacKellan was the highlight, and he did rather outshine his colleagues, though this should by no means diminish the performances given by the other actors.

As a seventeen year old, it is much harder to appreciate some of the messages of this play. It is a tall order for a teacher to convey its merits convincingly, but now, five years on, I feel that I have a (somewhat) better grasp of the thing. I still don't know that I necessarily like it, but it truly gave me food for thought. Ideas such as our being born astride a grave demonstrate both the joy and curse of humankind. Our knowledge of mortality affords us much dignity, but at the expense of so much. My walk to the train station is a very short ten minutes if I cut through a cemetery (I'm trying to cut down on both fuel expenses and my carbon footprint and also to retain the communal sense I had as a London commuter) and as I wander past so many derelict and forgotten monuments I can't help but think about my own posterity, or lack thereof. Were something to happen to me in the immediate future, KorE? Twitter, Facebook would all still carry on in a dust-gathering form. Do I prefer an ethereal version of myself never to decay, or a humble gravestone or some such physical memorial? Frankly... neither much appeals!

At any rate, I endeavour now to be sure to withhold judgement of any work until I experience it within its proper context. There is a richness to so much that can be rendered invisible and unpalatable by an unfortunate chance of medium. And my over-active prejudices.

Five Years...

2010-05-22T09:35:00.005+01:00

The Rose Beyond the Thames has playfully tagged me in a game. How could I resist?

What a Difference Five Years Can Make.

Essentially:

Where were you five years ago?
In my final year of school. Too busy socialising and trying to be popular to study.

Where would you like to be five years from now?
In London. Doing anything frankly, so long as it's in London.

What is on your to-do list today?
Well to write this, to squeeze various people into timeslots for afternoon tea, organizing my music play-lists and to tidy.

What five snacks do you enjoy?
Biscuits, houmous and crudités, chocolate, crisps and toast.

What would you do if you were a Billionaire?
Ever so much. Return to London, firstly. I'd do my best to leave a positive legacy for the world. Philanthropy and investing in green technology spring to mind. I'd also make use of the freedom to study and work for my own pleasure, but this question has simply made me sad and wistful. Oh and I'd do a lot of shopping, but in one go at the beginning. I'd create a wardrobe which never required any addition beyond socks.

And so, to pass the parcel (no obligation, naturally!)...

Blonde Moments

Mrs Trefusis

Smack Crumple Bang

The Divorcee Dares To Dream

Fashion's Most Wanted

Hopefully theirs are much more inspiring than mine.

Cultural Awareness Programme

2010-05-17T09:02:00.000+01:00

It seems all I do now is apologize for delayed posts. The problem is there is often so little to say, and so little that feels worthy of being written and posted. Upon returning, it has been difficult to avoid the onset of a depressed malaise. I could have fallen into that quagmire, but I have and am trying desperately to avoid it.

The method I have used has been to keep busy. Very busy. Exceedingly so. Difficultly, the first weekend was spent without any form of telecommunications (The Big Storm 2010) and therefore I spent the long days gardening. Almost beside myself with boredom I cleared guttering, swept, pruned and was just generally helpful. I became, in essence, a recluse for some time. Shunning everybody bar my family and a few close friends, I created a heightened sense of isolation, already heightened by the fact I am in the most isolated city in the world. I felt very much an outsider, a foreigner, and stranger. Who were these people, and who was I?

Of course life cannot be lived in that manner. I embarked on a cultural awareness programme (CAP), the sort which would hopefully life my spirits, and remind me of the array of such things available. And also, because I simply do not know what is there any more. A lot changes in three years. Much never does, however the superficial certainly will. And curiously, there has been a makeover of sorts. Some are utter travesties. The village of Claremont has been destroyed by a soulless Westfield-style development. Hideous. But other pockets are thriving. The liquor licensing laws were relaxed in 2007, and because of this, a plenty of small, quirky and quaint bars have sprung up in small alleys and off anonymous-looking car parks. One, named Ezra Pound, has the flair of it's namesake, and plenty of charm. It serves cocktails in jam jars, something that delights me for reasons unknown. Another, named The Bird, could have emerged straight out of Dalston.

The food options are as good as ever they were, but alarmingly expensive. Ditto coffee. This part of the world has always made exceedingly good coffee because of it's very strong Italian heritage. And it is good: certainly no Starbucks here. But equally, one pays for it. I am often asked "However did you afford to live in London, isn't it terribly expensive?". I do so love the opportunity to correct ignorance in others.

Another resolution inspired by the CAP was a determination to meet new people. The bubble in which I grew up well and truly burst when I escaped, and I mean not to let it inflate again, entrapping me. Because of this, I have made some truly wonderful new friends. Of course I shan't ever fully shake off the past, and nor do I wish to. It informed a large part of the person I am and there is still value in it, and in those people. I just wish to not become a slave to it, like so many others.

So, there it is. A small insight to the long weeks past; dark and saddening, yet silvery glimmers of hope for whatever is to come.

Starstruck

2010-03-27T15:35:00.007Z

*Apologies for such a long delay in writing. Spare time has been sparse and intelligent things to say even sparser. My head is an unnavigable mixture of Indo-European languages... Mir geht es bien tack et you?

Shall I be dull and do the "holidays" thing? After the Parisian glamour, the TGV took me to the Côte d'Azur to stay with my soeur d'acceuil of 2004. Laura personifies the word acceuillir. She is utterly lovely and calls me her Australian brother. And the countryside too seemed in a welcoming mood. After the steely grey of the North, sunshine and 20 degrees are marvellously uplifting.

Laura adores horses and riding, so these featured rather a lot in our hectic social calendar. At the Domaine Equestre des Grands Pins, some rather startling wealth was on display. Surprisingly, a lot of it seemed to emanate from Belgium. But for all this, the club restaurant was quite, quite awful. The service was bizarre to say the least, with an old man scampering about congratulating people on their choice of dish. My soup was cold, my pasta suspiciously un-pasta-like and I noticed nothing. Well, not terribly much, because directly ahead of me was the Swiss Miss. One of my absolute favourite tennis players, I used to love watching her. Love. Whenever I played myself, at 0-3 15-30 I would frequently ask myself "What would she do?". This didn't usually work particularly well, but by golly it helped the psyche.

But why should I be starstruck? I'm an equally valid human being, surely? I may not have dozens of trophies and millions in prize money, but I... Well at any rate I was there too, even if by accident, surrounded by obnoxious Monaco money. Of course this is such a poor man's retreat, I know it so well, quite off-by-heart. It's not the money's fault that it is being thrown in my face. This is rather what I resent the most. With such money I would not endlessly play charades with grandiose pretences. Perhaps one or two to begin with, of course, but only very privately. Probably in the antique free-standing bath, for example.

I took to considering life as an investment banker. Could I? I mean, truly, could I? Why not? Far sillier people than myself work in the industry, so whyever not? As I've mentioned before, I tend to think only about the results, never quite considering properly the details. I just want too much. The AbFab lifestyle in which one can fly to New York for lunch simply because there is a rather nice doorknob one saw and it might look nice in the new kitchen. Often insufferably tedious, but this is why there is champagne.

A friend we met in Cannes could quite possibly fit this bill. Nightmarishly manic to shop with, causing me an unexpected overspend just about everywhere and just wonderfully, flamboyantly French when in the Galeries Lafayette, she was hideously fascinating. Striking looks, very much savante, yet equally childish and naive. The highlight was her telephoning her Mother to check which day of the week it was. Charming, and I loved her the more for it.

However, La France hadn't finished surprising me quite yet. Organising passage to Germany (and specifically, Stuttgart) with SNCF was neither an easy nor cheap task to complete. By some bizarre stroke of luck, some of the equestrians were in fact Stuttgart bound, off to collect some horse or other. Four year old filly, if memory serves me correctly. The hilarious twist was that if I were to accept a lift from them, I should be sleeping in the horse van. I mean really, how could I not? A rather bizarre ten hour journey ensued, featuring a swearing German and a very timid Frenchwoman. And a lot of chocolate, inconceivably. When finally we arrived, the German rather officiously told me I should get out now, as they needed to continue East. So out I hopped, suitcases and all at 6am with no idea where I was, where to go next nor how to get there. My "Deutsch", if you could call it that, was about to be tested well. Naturally the only thing open at this hour was the butcher, so in I went, asking for directions. I didn't understand the reply. Thankfully the "English speaker" was summoned. Within thirty minutes I reached my friend's house and, happily indoors, tucking into the wonderfully delicious German bread. It really is so much better than English bread. I eat so much of the stuff on a daily basis. I defy anybody to lose weight in this country.

A week on and I am thoroughly enjoying Germany. Stuttgart is a marvellous city, full of surprises. I just wish that I could communicate better, I were a few inches taller and a few Euros wealthier. C'est la vie, hein?

Adieu Angleterre

2010-03-12T16:19:00.004Z

In the midst of the chaos of a very tiny student bedsit in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the home of Parisian existentialism, I feel wonderful. The muscles in my neck are sore from a combination of a very peculiar makeshift bed and too much red wine. The sirens blare, the bells chime constantly, and I remind myself just how much I love this city. Why? It's hideous in so many ways, so grandiose, so filthy, so smelly, so very un-English. But this city has a complete hold on me, in a way London couldn't ever. London is the best city in the world, but Paris is still remarkable in its way.

There is something so very adulte about Paris, and somehow one feels the energy of Napolean, Sartre and even Audrey Tautou all rolled into one; undulating as soon as one exits le Métro.

But I am filled with sadness, because the white cliffs of Dover seem so far away, and when I shall see them again is uncertain. My final destination is a scorched, barren land which is currently enjoying temperatures in the high 30's (over 100 for the Americans out there). And it feels me with pure and utter dread.

My last days in Britain were an absolute whirlwind. Clubs, countryside, the hospital, a short film (featuring more interesting leg-wear), a great deal of time on the Tube and also a lot of alcohol and wonderful Italian food. I implore anybody who can a) get there and b) find somewhere to sit, try Polpo on Beak Street in Soho. Just delicious. I'm sure I heard the collocation "taste sensation" muttered by somebody. The likelihood was that this was uttered by myself. Mais ça y est. I shall miss so much, and so many. The United Kingdom is one of the very finest countries in the world, I shall not stay away any longer than is absolutely necessary. If they will have me back, of course. I probably wouldn't, personally.

I suppose one other benefit of finding oneself in a pays francophone, is that French is rather the done thing. I have been pleasantly surprised by the ease at which my language has returned to me, and while I am a little hesitant at times, I arrive eventually. Much to my delight, I have twice been mistaken for a native. Or at least a local (NB the difference). I always try my best to be "one of us". Fitting in seems so important for me, I wish to blend in invisibly in one sense, and yet to be taken notice for doing so. Hence my very definite 'Anglocisation' (there may well be an actual word which I haven't yet discovered, for now this will do) while in the Mother country.

Apologies for the highly scattered thoughts, perhaps this is more of an insight into my deranged psyche than normal. Ah, that word is such a wonderful false friend!

Au revoir tout le monde. Je vous remercie pour tout.

Springtime - Sunshine Award

2010-03-04T14:31:00.005Z

The wonderfully glamorous Christina from Fashion's Most Wanted has paid me the ultimate compliment in blogland: an award. She has created a space that is full of such beautiful things; I feel wholly unworthy. It is quite strange how a world created in the ether can be so rewarding, the heightened sense of worth from compliments given by complete strangers. C'est drôle, la vie.

Here are the rules of this award:

-Send it on - nominate 12 bloggers

-Put the logo in your sidebar or within a post

-Link the nominees within your post

-Let the nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog

-Share the love and link the person from whom you received the award

A Rose Beyond the Thames A veritable English rose, we share a passion for walks followed by tea - preferably in the sunshine.

Belgian Waffle Just hilarious. Most of you will know her already, a mere tweet from her and I am in an ecstasy of laughter.

Blonde Moments This writer's moments are so worth reading, she is far braver than I am.

Mr London Street A now officially published blogeur, this man is one of the few to know what is what, and how to put that thought into English. Sadly not quite so keen on getting muddy as I am.

Mrs Trefusis Takes a Taxi Love. 'Nuff said.

Smack Crumple Bang Photographeur, graphic designeur and all things in between, charming and exciting. The title truly does say it all.

Tessa Scoffs "She had a pretty gift for quotation, which is a serviceable substitute for wit." ~W. Somerset Maugham. Of course Maugham had never met Tessa, nor read her haikus.

Age Of Uncertainty Readily admitting that this was intended to be a blog on books, it is so much more and richer because of this. Think forgotten Victorian photographs and scandalous bookmarks.

The Divorcee Dares To Dream A lady who we soon expect to put up photos featuring berets and Breton tops. I shall keep nagging. In the meantime, do read.

Miriam Levine A most faithful reader of mine, she saemlessly ties the background into the foreground and her photography skills put me to shame.

Psynopsis My fellow tennis player, Sabine creates the most inspiring photographs and her interest in fashion has more than taken over that of health. Or at least it has in Psynopsis' case.

The English Can Cook

Have you been living in Mars recently? In a cave? Of course not, and of course you will have heard of the Underground Restaurant. Recently her aga was playing up, but there now appears to be culinary normalcy (which is amazing).

Look Out In The Blackout!

2010-02-26T17:10:00.003Z

Don't you just love some of the campaigns and slogans spearheaded by the Ministry of Information during the war? Of course we all know "Keep Calm and Carry On", it's sensible and very British advice remains equally useful to this day, and as such has had something of a revival. It may also be that the charming red posters are easily transposed to cushions and coffee mugs and as such has been revived to a profitability unthinkable at its introduction in the 1940's. The Ministry of Information clearly missed a trick there. Of course besides the beastliness of war, one would be forgiven for thinking the 1940's as drab, dour, dull. With this island so very near the brink of total disaster, it all must have been rather depressing. Or it might have been, but the indomitable spirit of the British people couldn't have been more underestimated. A group in London is trying to recreate this spirit, and By Jove! it was a smash.

Called The Blitz Party, this bi-monthly night of "Forties fashion and frolics" is a perfect example of what makes London so fabulous a city. The variety on offer on any given night - week or weekend - is quite overwhelming and often rather over-stimulating. The problem with such boundless choice is that, when one chooses to do nothing at all, it's almost a betrayal. A betrayal of London itself. Or perhaps that is just me, anthropomorphizing again. Regardless, last month I made sure my evening did not fall into this treacherous black hole of nothing, and off I went to somewhere beyond Old Street. And with some people from DRA, funnily enough, but oh didn't it take forever to find the venue? We wandered the icy lanes for what seemed an age, lacking any of the remote stoicism for which the Forties is famed.

We were also attired in our forties fashions. Sadly I couldn't locate an RAF uniform (I wanted something passable as authentic. Most costume shops seem to prefer the more is more approach, which is definitely NOT Forties.) So I had to manage with something from my own wardrobe - Tweed and Chinos. It was grandfather-ish enough to work, or I do hope so at least. My friends were wonderfully turned out, although with possibly more of a German feel than anything else. At the time, I suspect I would have been accused of spying, of being a fifth columnist for appearing with such fine Teutonic specimens. But upon arrival, it was clear some people had taken a leaf out of Prince Harry's book.

However people had dressed, such a wonderful effort had been made. All the ladies looked film studio perfect: the hair, the dresses (or trousers in the case of the Women's Land Army), the shoes... It was heavenly. I've always loved the style of the 1940's, because to me it IS style. There is little style in the present day, but then I am old-fashioned and like Boden and Barbour. Of course, it being slightly film sett-ish I doubt that the dance hall was filled with an accurate representation of the "swing bands, sand bags and glad rags" that entertained a war-weary public, but for me, it was jolly good and did the job marvellously. We had champagne in quaint coupes, Spitfire ale, and danced to jazz and swing. The venue also had a slight air-raid shelter quality to it, which added greatly to the atmosphere. Most people were in very high spirits, keen to do the whole thing properly and of course, to keep calm and carry on. I think for my companions there was a lowlight as they queued for their coats. Normally a simple concept for a British crowd, it seems the high spirits may have got in the way of manners and good sportsmanship. I was rather running out of things to say to an acquaintance when they returned, and such a thing would usually take at least half an hour.

Emerging into the cold air of very early morning London, it was difficult to set aside the images of hundreds of people merry-making in a Forties fashion, dancing away in my head. The grim reality of getting home, of trudging through the grey and the cold made me consider those who were doing so seventy years beforehand. How did they feel, suddenly resurfacing after an evening of escapism and a rare opportunity for fun? For them, the return to reality meant remembering there was a war to be fought, things with which they must make do and mend. The very real threat of losing loved ones and indeed, of falling victim themselves. I'm unsure what people of that generation would make of The Blitz Party, nor am I even sure what to make of it myself. Is it somehow distasteful, or a celebration of triumph through adversity? It certainly couldn't exist in Germany, and thus is it disrespectful? For now I shall not mention it to the grandparents...

Whatever conclusion I eventually make, it simply reinforces to me what an incredible Mecca of culture this city is. I'm so thankful to have had the opportunity to see and to do and to try all that London has to offer. Even if I fail to take up an offering, the choice remains there; endless, for another evening.

Let's Get Physical #2

2010-02-23T20:19:00.004Z

Thanks to the joy of South West Trains and their uselessness over the weekend, I arrived in Angel considerably late. But late for what? Some wonderfully charming friends of mine in their final year at university have their own dance collective called DRA. Already in demand for film premieres, music videos and unique club nights, their spectacular branch of contemporary dance with its 1960's rockabilly flair is certainly very much on the rise. DRA is a major player behind an intriguing new concept: getting fit while at the pub. This might raise eye-brows, but it truly worked.

I arrived at The Lexington on the Pentonville Road, quickly changed into some incredibly attractive red lycra trousers featuring stirrups and side panels of red and white horizontal stripes; and jumped onto the dance floor in time for the tail end of the warm up. It was such a fun and interesting experience. Imagine your local pub, preferably one with a medium sized dance floor (possibly upstairs), the dance floor lighting to which one is accustomed, and also that instantly recognisable smell of stale alcohol that you find in public houses when they first open; plus aerobics! The juxtaposition and the exercise in the semi-darkness were almost too fab for me after the simple pot of Nettle tea I had from Orange Pekoe in Barnes only the hour previously.

Almost, but I managed to control my excitement, for the break was upon us all too soon. Now imagine a lot of warmed-up bodies in lycra, half heading for the bar, the other half heading outdoors for a replenishing cigarette - instructors included, of course. It was just too funny, and of course it felt very London and supremely cool. Part Two was the feature, the highlight. After another re-warm up, we were introduced to the main thrust of the event: learning a routine to Madonna's Holiday. Oh the excitement that filled the room! This might have just been myself, as I do have a habit of filling rooms. Off we went. It was here I rediscovered my two left feet, but perseverance and determination saw me passably reproduce the movements of our instructors. Effectively, act and think like Madonna and one is three quarters of the way there. The practice culminated in the class being divided into two, so each group could perform for the other and we could see how the thing looked en masse. Rounds of applause and ta-da! actual exercise completed. Some people changed, others merely draped a jacket or jumper over their wonderfully sweaty lycra before heading to the bar for their well deserved post-"gym session" drink.

The next event is scheduled for March 20th, and at £5 it is incredibly good value. A sort of aerobics-lite for those of us who are more likely to go drinking than to the gym, it combines the two in a safe, un-scary manner and I wish it all the success.

Photo courtesy DRA Dance Collective.

Ms Welch and Mr Chips

2010-02-17T19:02:00.004Z

Thanks again to Mrs Trefusis for a fabulous exhibition recommendation (Beauty Through A Lens). This lady's intimate knowledge on all things to do and see in London is too enviable, but equally she removes all the hard work for the philistines, such as myself.

It is a wonderful exhibition of the work of Terry O'Neill, one of Britain’s most popular photographers at the Chris Beetles Art Gallery in St James's. Some of the images are quite breathtaking, such is their intimacy.

I was also rather struck by how very seamlessly the subjects would fit into a modern context of fashion and beauty. Such people are so extraordinary timeless, the magic translates across the decades, the generations. Or perhaps it is cyclical? To me, the people in the photographs could not merely be limited to the London of yesteryear, but could be quite easily seen promenading the streets of my London.

O'Neill is a wonderful photographer because he truly knew his subjects. As such, he had no trouble capturing that very human sense of vulnerability. Something so intimate could only be offered to a friend.

One such human was Raquel Welch. At one point she was the most famous and desired woman on the planet, but it was only at home that I was treated to a lovely tale featuring Ms Welch. (Such an hilarious name, it reminds me of Wellington boots.) My friend's grandfather spent a long time as headmaster of one of England's public boys' schools, Sherborne. During his leadership, the musical film Goodbye, Mr Chips, starring Peter O'Toole and Petula Clarke was filmed at Sherborne. As headmaster, he was quite involved with the production and often O'Toole would join him for lunch.

The American production team decided to ship the headmaster and his wife to America to help with promoting the film. His role I presume, was to be the stereotypical Englishman that Americans would consider quaint and charming and therefore spend money at the cinema on the film. While not so commercially successful, the film was nominated for Academy Awards and O'Toole won the Golden Globe that year (1970) for his role. It is the Academy Awards that brings me to Ms Welch. This wonderfully innocent and very English headmaster was sat right next to this American deity. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea who the woman to his right was. The photographs show him animatedly discussing something, which my friend tells me was most like something meta-philosophical or some such thing. Despite much of the world's press snapping away at them, he seems oblivious. And Raquel, for her part, seems genuinely interested. Perhaps for the first time in years, somebody was speaking to her without any idea - nor care - of who she was. And about something other than her films, or Hollywood in general. I rather love this.

Breaths of fresh air, physical and metaphorical can be wonderful. They energise with vigour and give us the impetus to carry on, somehow renewed. Both the film Goodbye, Mr Chips and the photographer Terry O'Neill reward us with such a feeling, so go; do!

Images: copyright Terry O'Neill.

Utter TEFL

2010-02-15T23:10:00.005Z

Boring absence. Apologies.

I'm sitting here - having just politely declined an invitation to go out - completely devoid of any analytical thought. My brain is utterly dead and has refused to engage all day. Most annoying and inconvenient. I can excuse it, but only just. It spent the weekend on a very intensive training course, and I know it was intensive because it required movement before 8 o'clock on a Saturday. AND on a Sunday. The whole thing lasted 20 hours and in theory qualifies me to teach English abroad. Or to immigrants/asylum seekers. It was long, arduous, fun, bewildering, maddening, humorous, enlightening and baffling.

The majority of the class were very cut-glass and boarding school, which surprised me greatly. And pleased me in equal measure, a sort of confirmation and reinforcement of the worthiness of being there, I suppose. Most of them were planning to volunteer selflessly in Africa and Asia, all in an effort to gain "life experience". All this sort of thing does look so very good in a CV, and it is a wonderful thing to tell at dinner parties. I rather meanly wonder how genuine people are with these things, especially as now post(ish)-recession, employers want that little something more in their prospective employees. It is after all, their market. I try to imagine myself doing the same, but the image will not fit. Somehow, I feel that being anywhere like the poorest parts of Africa will affect me terribly, and so will leave it all to the lovely friends I made. To whom I offer my support wholeheartedly, and thank ceaselessly that it isn't me.

One such lovely lass, who shall henceforth be known as Miss Aquitaine of Kent, was supremely fun (PS they were all females as well, brilliant!!). A fellow actor and nabber of jobs in post-production in Hollywood, we hit it off from the beginning. I think that anybody suddenly confronted with an hour's immersion in a completely foreign language will find their nearest fellow for support. The Slovenian was quite daunting, yet the purpose was glaringly obvious: How one can teach with no common language. And make it enjoyable, productive and successful. We were also united by our dislike of another would-be teacher. Oh she was painful. Insufferable. I find trusting people with bad skin difficult, it is horribly shallow of me and I usually overcome it, but I cannot help mentally applying cosmetics with a spatula. Anyway anyway, this character also had a hint of the insane about her. I adore eccentrics, as I suspect does Miss Kent, but Silence of the Lambs mentalism? We thought no. It was mainly the off-topic comments that grated. After a perfectly harmless opinion about a cafe in Fulham (Flahm as I now call it), she asks how I could sound "so posh when you're from Barnes when I've lived in Fulham all my life?" I think that one, after a pause, was very much a saved by a bell moment. It was then at morning tea that the most peculiar little piece of information was served up to us. We were discussing directors, and she made some comments (borderline slander) on James Cameron. All fine. Then proceeded to inform us all about decapitations to be found on YouTube. So very charming. In a sense, "Flahm" was perfectly nice, but oh to be stuck working with her, to be taught by her... I pity the Koreans.

The Sunday was, as anybody within earshot of Western media will attest, St Valentine's Day. Hurrah etc. Miss Aquitaine and I got to chatting on the whole thing, and we concluded that we ought to have an anti-Valentine's lunch. I'm not remotely bitter, and not really single, but 'tis more fun to join in and get the actor's juices flowing. We decided we must make a good effort of it, and eschew anything heart-shaped. Silly to wander into Fortnum & Mason for lunch then! But oh it was fab. We wandered around making up silliness about suffrage, submission, loss of identity, all very GCSE English essay. The only thing to do when "down" is to elevate oneself back up again. One must never admit defeat nor lose face. This is how Britain has carried on for the last century. The loss of an empire should wipe away all the smugness, the superiority. Gladly, the opposite is true and the subconscious belief in self and country and status quo keeps the mill turning.

We had our lunch of saumon en croute, roasted English vegetables and chocolate and honeycomb mousse, washed down with an elderflower drink and planned our lesson. And it was fun. The chance to meet new people, the opportunity to throw oneself in at the deep-end should not be turned down. It should be entirely embraced, because whosoever could say what will happen next?

PRECIOUS (BASE ON NOL BY SAF)

2010-02-01T14:39:00.002Z

I have previously mentioned that I often enjoy rather sickly films and preferably British. I am one of the hapless masses, the sheep who need to be fed their silage and enjoy a blindingly blissful existence amongst the general ignorance. My fur is of good quality, my brain - merely fur. In a sudden bout of proactivity, and with a push from a friend, I made it to the cinema. The Vue in Leicester Square, no less. Luckily this friend also has a certain penchant for wine, so we headed for the bar to try our luck with the white wine. And it was warm.

Warm white wine; unimaginable pain. It must somehow allow the alcohol to be absorbed quicker, which was frankly no bad thing considering the circumstances. I hadn't gone to the cinema for a delightful Hollywood romp, but rather its American antithesis: the grittiness of suburban New York City.

Precious is a film I'm sure most people have by now come across in some form or other. Preparing myself for the possibility of public weeping, I tried to forget all the details about the film the reviewers had fed me, all their opinions and most importantly, how terribly painful the warm wine was. Sitting down, obscuring others' views and trying to eradicate my prejudices against obese people, I watched. The film was amusing, charming, delightful, horrifying, devastating, crushing, hopeful, scandalising, tormenting and wonderful. I didn't cry, for I cannot. Tears do not flow so easily for me, but my body ached with the agonising struggle endured by this remarkable protagonist. My bones wept on a level of empathy I have never known.

Perhaps it is in light of some of the tragedies and horror stories that have emerged in recent years that make this film seem all the more real. The frequency of such dreadful tales can often have a numbing quality, much like Holocaust survivors who numbed themselves to the pain surrounding them in order to survive. The "physical and spiritual degradation of mankind in the industrialised world" is as evident today as it was in Lady Chatterley's world. However for me, the horror was not numbed, the pain did not abate. Punctuated by brilliant comedy so heightened amidst the gloominess, I loved it. It even challenged me to question how I view individual obesity, no mean feat.

These films reveal so much about ourselves. Our preconceptions, our selfishness, our isolation, our luck. How lucky I was to be born into a home where I was loved, how wonderfully lucky I was to be encouraged to read, to write, to learn, to try as much as possible, to be told I could achieve anything to which I set my mind. I am forever telling myself to be thankful. Well, quite often I am at least. And now I shall redouble my efforts to take time to appreciate being. It doesn't last forever.

I did scrutinize one aspect of said film. I have never been a fan of Ms Mariah Carey and her utterly awful warbling/shrieking. And I don't believe her last foray into film was successful, so with breath a-baited, I waited. And do you know, she wasn't terrible. "Uglied" to the point of normality, she looked the part. Ish. But the voice... Frightfully husky, the sort of thing a self-proclaimed "serious actor" would come up with and it did grate. I tried to forget who it was onscreen, but the eyes of a diva don't lie. A surprise was Lenny Kravtitz, a man I had assumed dead. Very touching portrayal of "Nursing Assistant". A position one never knew existed and seems on a similar level to "Community Support Officer".

If you enjoy cinema on any level, seek something a little more real than the latest blockbuster filth and are capable of empathy, see this film.

What Can I Say?

2010-01-27T20:55:00.004Z

There are so many things I'd rather like to write about. So many things I could, or could at least attempt. When I started to write, there did exist a thin veil of anonymity. Sort of. A few people had to know, of course. And I wanted people to stop by, read and perhaps learn a little more about me. The cheapest format for this is to recruit friends and family, but therein lies my problem.

I cannot now, write about certain things. I have noticed a similar thread amongst some other writers, and a certain Irish Daily Mail article springs to mind. How truly free is one to write and to express himself? Naturally, I am privileged to live in a democracy, privileged to live a life free of the traumas so many others endure in their vies quotidiennes. Particularly today, Holocaust Memorial Day, we reflect on the many, many things that make us so lucky. The most obvious: I am alive, and I assume you must be as well if you are reading this, so therefore - no moaning. But, I find there are so many underlying constraints to writing. I would love to write about the previous weekend in full. However, I cannot, because too much is too revealing. Perhaps it's the middle-class morality again.

One thing I am pleased to write freely about is the ballet. An incredibly lucky (and kind) connection offered me tickets to Giselle, a production by the English National Ballet. It was the first time in several years I had made it to the ballet, something I really must do so much more often. It was quite lovely, and I had forgotten how moving it can be. I would moan about how I wish I could dance, had done ballet myself as a child, but moaning is banished for the day. I often find the universe so funny. It was only the previous day I was reading the production's review in the Evening Standard, thinking I really must try to go. And lo and behold, the call came minutes later with the offer of tickets. Marvellous!

The prelude to Giselle is Men y Men, which is somehow a most annoying name. I do get it, but it sounds cheap. I suppose then I was most surprised by how good it was. The effect was of a great many floating male torsos, it was entirely mesmeric. Again, I might moan about my torso not looking quite like that, but I mustn't. Though I do feel this is slightly cheating. It was bold and powerful, but very harmonious. Quite stunning. I often prefer contemporary dance to some of the older stuff. Then Giselle started and drove this from my mind. The two pieces contrast well; the strongly masculine with the quaintly feminine. The very nature of Giselle's death is quaint and dainty, and it actually rather bothers me. Naturally, she is distressed, maddened by the identity of her lover, but actual death seems so pathetic. I mentioned this to a friend, and feel much validated by her response. Apparently Giselle kills herself by Albrecht's sword in the original. This makes so much sense, especially as she picks the thing up and threatens to do the deed anyway. Why the change? I sense some Victorian censorship.

Nevertheless, both were thoroughly enjoyable and another reminder of how lucky I am. If you have wanted to do something cultural for sometime, make it this. A glass of champagne upstairs is also thoroughly recommended. Incidentally, so is a Flirtini at Green Carnation, which I happily enjoyed when I met fan of Lambert, Smack, Crumple, Bang. Much of what occurred after this I feel too constrained to make properly public. Definitely stems from the middle-classédness. Such fun.

Cool Britannia

2010-01-20T16:30:00.002Z

Life is a very curious thing. The more I experience, the more pointless it seems. And I've decided that this can only be a good thing, because it means that nothing matters. Absolutely nothing. I don't believe that it is meaningless, but certainly pointless. Perhaps that's how I was able to survive. I have spent the last two days in a most unexpected and uncompromising position. Amidst the bright lights, the chaos of traffic and tourists on Piccadilly Circus, I stood. Absolutely statuesque - or something scarily close, I hope. I seem to remember wishing, not so long ago, to be noticed. Clearly some higher power heard me, and so sent me the uniform of a Grenadier Guard. Complete, of course, with Bearskin.

Uniforms are an amazing invention. They speak to all people on behalf of the wearer. Whether an informed observer or not, a uniform will tell you something. It also speaks to the wearer. In many ways it dictates; it keeps the wearer, literally, in-line. It affects personality, thought, judgement. The simple act of "dressing" will effect this change. This particular uniform was an extremist version. Being tied into the uniform, the force pulling back one's shoulders and therefore delivering an exquisitely erect frame, was very nearly metamorphosis. It made one suddenly very serious. I had always wondered how those wonderful Palace guards were able to maintain their composure, particularly during the public's best efforts at breaking it. Suddenly, the question was answered. In that uniform, any form of speech was made near-impossible. Every facial movement became very forced and uncomfortable. The uniform wasn't in favour of any of that smiling nonsense. The final flourish of the Bearskin made it difficult to see much anyhow.

Perhaps I ought to explain what brought me to this position? Nothing much to tell, really. Sort of friend-of friend-of friend rubbish that flavours most of these stories. Suffice to say, I was asked at short-notice to fill in for somebody, effectively to promote a new-ish, and wickedly kitsch, souvenir shop on the Circus. But my, did I take my Method Acting seriously. The work supposedly entailed standing about and looking pretty, encouraging the punters inside. But to me it was oh so much more. The chance to be resolutely still, unwaveringly so. The chance to be completely silent (an unusual state for me) and the chance to people-watch. Relentless hordes from all the corners of the globe passed before my eyes. With the Bearskin, it was quite easy to completely ignore the passers-by, or pretend to do so. As one might imagine, this was not the same reaction meted out to me by the hordes.

For several hours - odd tea-break excepted - I stood. And the attention people paid me was fabulous. The image of me will now be found on countless cameras, destined for countless tags on Facebook. Ladies held my arm, gentlemen would copy my salute. The people's faces lit up with obvious delight as their turn came to pose. Most would try to make me laugh, or at least smile. I made an effort to do so for children (a tall man in a furry hat and red coat I imagine to be somewhat intimidating), but mostly I remained silent. This, I think, excited them all the more. But, as previously mentioned, speech required a concerted effort. I felt I owed it to the uniform to do the job properly. Several people wanted directions, the best I could manage was a muffled go straight on, complete with hand-signals. Had I doubted it, yesterday would have confirmed the true insanity of most of the world's people. My foot soldier was shouted at, prodded, told he was too skinny, that his cap was made of bear, that he should salute like an American, hugged, kissed, groped, offered copies of photographs and told that: "It'll be all right, mate". Will it truly? I very much doubt it.

My legs certainly were not. Absolutely anchored down by the lack of movement, they were nearly impossible to move. It felt as though they had swollen to the size of tree trunks. Those poor older ladies must suffer terribly. I found myself lying on the floor of the changing room, pedalling my legs in the air in an effort to make them workable again. It was a very strange feeling, and hardly executed in a very dignified way. I don't believe the Uniform was all that happy, but then we cannot all be happy, all the time. How dull.

I'm sure it goes without saying: the relief I felt at shedding the uniform and returning to me. Will I do it again? I'm still unsure... Perhaps with some Dutch courage. But, did I enjoy myself? Absolutely!

Jag älskar dig...

2010-01-12T00:57:00.005Z

How is that I come to be sitting here (again), in multiple layers of knitwear and watching The History of the British Family? Having just watched Delia Through the Ages? Have I, without noticing, aged two score and twain? Subscribed to the Daily Mail, found fault in everything and begun spying through my curtains?

I do not wish to remain like this. I am pro-active, dynamic, entrepreneurial! Sadly, all those are lies. I suppose I was vaguely cultural over the weekend. I dashed madly from Shepherd's Bush on Saturday morning to the Wallace Collection. Which I do love. I like that it is usually the more discerning visitor who makes the trip there. I always wander, wanting to put everything I see into imaginary drawing rooms I possess, remembering things from National Trust properties which would go well together. Drawing room full, I entered the Damien Hirst exhibition currently showing there. Firstly, sorry what? Hirst in the Wallace Collection? I don't follow. Nor did the elderly Swedes in front of me. The contrast between the beautifully ostentatious gold statuettes and scarlet curtains, suddenly with paintings of skulls and daggers on a black background. The colour of which matched the wallpaper well, so noted my companion. Well it had one thinking, at any rate.

What also had me thinking was the tremendous pain my feet were in. Like the pre-recession Mrs Trefusis, I had eschewed sensible shoes. It was nightmarish and complete agony. I'm sure it would be utterly small-fry for any female passers-by, but for the inexperienced, the naive... Oh dear. And the absolute worst thing, is that my Father is a fully qualified podiatrist. Such betrayal and so very pathetic.

Later dinner at Sohojapan. It was quite charming and inexpensive, and I had forgotten how delicious Japanese food is. The stodgy British and Swedish fare I have eaten almost exclusively the last month had left me in desperate need of some variety. Raw fish and noodles and such other things as plum wine. Yummy. Shame about some of the company. I would have embraced a state of temporary deafness the whole evening. I am becoming less and less tolerant as I age. I am turning ever faster into my paternal grandfather. A man loved and feared, though I was the favoured grandchild. One of our party was an insufferably dull American*, carrying on about his intimate knowledge of the DJ scene. It irritates me no end when people lack any real social skills whatsoever. How hatefully dull to dictate the conversation for the entire evening. Thankfully my biting comments went over his head, it's that wonderfully British ability to seem polite and charming and yet be quite nasty. I was feeling positively venomous once the underground music scene in Utah was mentioned. I'm sure it's fabulous, but I have absolutely no interest in such matters and I resent being forced to listen to such things. I had come to dinner with friends (Well, one friend and her brother, an old boy from school), not to a lecture. One of the other's was equally taxing: "Oh I don't shop at Waitrose, only Wholefoods." The most surprising company was my friend's brother. We had met-ish at school and about, but never really spoken. It was nice to see the youngest member of the group being, by far, the most mature and grounded of the lot. And capable of engaging in conversation, not merely regurgitating his thoughts.

Then I saw Frances. Quel film! Jessica Lange is utterly breathtaking. Oddly enough, I was hoping to see a happy film of sorts, something to soothe the beast within. However this film was so eye-openingly wondrous, I loved it. The descent into madness, the life-blood - taken away by higher powers. And so classically pretty, too. It was fabulous. More films of the calibre need making. I had only vaguely known of Frances Farmer, the film made me do much more research. The film is based on a biography, supposedly quite fictional. Artistic license, perhaps? Much of the chronology is very accurate, but certain events (Clue: Lobotomy), are not verified and apparently untrue. But the truth isn't so important. Or the truth about Farmer, at least. But the tragedy of her story, and of the stories of other people who suffered under the system in much the same way. Quite horrific, and not light viewing. But also, touchingly funny at points. I walked from Marylebone at midnight in the snow, and felt so burdened by "sanity". And feet less painful and in better shoes, but nonetheless, sore.

For a surprise Thai finish to the weekend, I found myself in the Faltering Fullback on Perth Road near Finsbury Park. A charming, independent local featuring main courses at £5.50. And thoroughly delicious. I had a chicken, seafood and pineapple rice dish, which I couldn't not try because of the interesting combination. I was given a chipped wine glass, which may have cut my lip ever so slightly, but they were so very apologetic and upgraded my wine, I couldn't possibly let that detract from my evening. And then there were the mad locals, very forthcoming in their conversation. Including one who was off to see his ex in Croydon. Apparently jumping on one's partner is enough reason to separate. Who would have thought. Enlightening.

Now, I am eagerly awaiting a Treasure Hunt through London that a friend has organised for me tomorrow. Such fun!

*I have enormous respect for the American people and many individual Americans. A charming and inspiring nation in many respects. This one was sadly a poor ambassador.

Gramercy!

2010-01-08T14:33:00.003Z

Just a little vieux anglais to thank people for the very kind things they have told me the last few days. One writes for a variety of reasons, but deep within, a little acknowledgment - even praise - spurs one ever onwards.

Having just opened my diary at random, I came to the Oxford & Cambridge boat race day. I have no direct connection with either university, but for some reason have always cheered on Oxford. I do, however, have strong rowing connections. My brothers both row, and very well, for my old school. My father rowed in Australian Surf Life Saving competitions. And friends here have rowed at Henley Regatta (possibly my favourite event in the English calendar) and even for Great Britain in the Commonwealth Games. So I naturally have tried to take an interest, and usually eventuate with a strong desire to look every bit as fit as they do. Then I remember how early they rise and the temperature thereat. And despite the fact I tell anyone who will listen that the Thames is one of the cleanest city rivers in the world, and has welcomed back marine life including sea horses, it remains the Thames.

But I wish to tell no more of rowing. The day preceding this world-famous event, was much more peculiar. On arrival in this country, I made a varied assortment of friends, as I think one does. This happened to include some South Africans. Goodness knows why, but I rather enjoy the lilting accent some of the posher SA's seem to have. The proper Afrikaans leaves me rather cold. One of the better-spoken ones returned home not long after we had met. Naturally, one says in a very well-meaning manner "Oh yes of course, do keep in touch, must catch up if you're ever back again etc. etc."

Imagine my surprise to receive a text many months later. "Hallo, it's *such and such*, how are you? I'm back in town, do you fancy catching up?" Naturally I accepted. I find it difficult to refuse anything at the best of times, and I genuinely thought it might be nice to share a cup of tea, Rooibos of course. Come the time to leave, an eerie, black cloud was bearing down upon Londres. I should have known then and there. Still I carried on; TfL this, replacement bus service that. Meeting in Vauxhall with no Victoria Line is incredibly painful. And dull. Finally I arrived, late of course, with my phone ringing.

"Hallo!" I trilled.
"Hallo?" Blatant unease there.

Quickly I became aware that the voice on the other end of the line was wrong, and for several reasons. One being that the voice was English, another that it was wholly unfamiliar and latterly, it was coming from the man standing next to me - staring and slightly colourless.

"Well you're not the *insert name here* I was expecting! How hilariously awkward." I don't think I was quite so articulate, but then I'm allowed some artistic license.

"Oh. I was very worried *insert name of friend who had failed to mention she was giving out my number to chaps when they asked for hers* had had a sex change."

Worryingly, he looked genuinely concerned as though this could have been the case. At this point, the heavens chose to open, featuring golf ball sized hailstones. As we could both appreciate the comedy of the situation, we decided that, rather than remaining outside, amongst the weather, we should have that cup of tea after all. It turned into a rather funny afternoon. Howsoever could I have been so foolish! To lazily assume that nobody else, similarly named, would mistakenly contact me, asking to take tea. The first twenty minutes was spent laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. Shame that didn't last, because he then became frightfully dull and nouveau riche. Yacht this, broken marriage that, celebrity party this, negative equity that. Dull, dull. Little wonder my friend gave him un faux numéro. How irritating that she should have chosen mine. Why not one of the many people she truly dislikes.

Bored, I made my excuses and dashed into the maelstrom.

What I do cherish is that this and other bizarre modern tales can and do happen. Sometimes they might bring unexpectedly welcome surprises, others... Little more than stories for a dying dinner party. They remind one of the possibilities of life and equally, it's abject pointlessness. For years, my brothers and I have rolled our eyes at our Mother's incessant use of positive affirmations. Irritatingly, I may be doing some unrolling.

Whatever do you Meme?

2010-01-05T19:01:00.008Z

From the Taxi...

A very highly ranked member of the Bloggerati, and incidentally one of my idoles, has sent forth a meme from her Taxi. I shall do my utmost to live up to her immensely kind words.

What is always so difficult with such exercises is the degree of emotional self-examination required. It is in much the same way as my relationship with mirrors; sometimes the reflection is rather terrifying. The next day I may be Narcissus incarnate. Thankfully, I have always found the strength to turn away from the looking glass and unlike Narcissus, have not - thus far - perished. Today is more an example of the former than anything else. Lack of sleep, travel, aeroplanes and Heathrow do not a good mixture make, and this is before I even look at my face. However, ten things it is and will be...

1: I am Australian...
Frequently I forget this, as do many of my friends. There is usually laughter, then shock when new acquaintances discover the truth. It is often quite embarrassing. In my self-important manner, I am embarrassed by my own country and heritage. In many ways it is a terrific, industrious nation, full of enterprise and opportunity. And talent. I was extremely lucky to grow up there. However. It is also severely dull and very, very hot. And I want more.

2: I am snobbish...
...To the point of obsessiveness. What is "done" and "not done" echoes in my head insufferably so. I have known myself to miss my Tube station because of this. A hierarchy exists in my mind and it tends to categorize within nanoseconds. Very bad. I have no idea where this comes from, and how I managed to exempt myself from the scrutiny. I have tried to unlearn this affliction, but it sneaks up behind me all too unexpectedly.

3: I like to be paid attention...
I dislike being invisible. My ego demands fame/infamy on any scale whatsoever, but I hope I keep this much more under control. I think I do so, in public at least. However, beware alcoholic lubrication. This is why I like acting, it is an excuse for public exhibition and the adrenaline rush is better than chocolate etc. etc. I think it was another reason to blog: another opportunity to be noticed.

4: I have embarrassing musical tastes...
I do like some "socially acceptable" music. I can't think of much though. Think Abba, which at least proves the Australian in me. 'Nough said. Just re-read that header and have visions of a choir of taste buds, with the sweet singing soprano and so forth.

5: I am naturally pessimistic...
Certainly if the last four are anything to go by. I measure my achievements against others' and I frequently come out the lesser. Hence the snobbery, possibly. I have impossibly high standards and find it hard to compromise. This does not mix well with my sloth-like being. I would make a fabulous monarch, I just need my own nation. As these first five have invariably been negative, I shall attempt five positive notes about myself. Hmm.

6. I am kind...
Hopefully the majority would agree. It is perhaps a secular synonym for being Christian towards others. I think it is incredibly important to be kind to people. It is a lesson many seem to have lost, or perhaps they missed out on bedtime stories courtesy of Enid Blyton. Real kindness is so difficult to find, yet it is (usually) so appreciated. Small acts can make an enormous difference to people. I find that smiling, politeness and empathy can completely change the outcome of a horrid day. Naturally this need not erode the steeliness of the stiff-upper lip and nothing is more irritating than the perpetually happy chap we all avoid, but I think there is a space somewhere that more people could try to find.

7. I love the countryside...
London is a very oppressive place to be 365 days a year. I think it is the most wonderful city in the world and I have loved (very nearly) every minute of living here. But nothing beats the English countryside. In rain or shine, it is magical. The yearning for fresh air, fields and drinkable water is rather like seasickness, with the obvious difference excepted. Trudging over muddy fields in Wellington boots - bliss!

8. Snow...
I have mentioned the stuff before on here. To many, snow means miserable weather and inconvenience. All anathema to me. I love it wholly and absolutely. I become a toddler, filled with excitement and joy. It's cold! And white! And it's falling on me! Of course, as a toddler this is not actually articulated by words, merely a gabble of noises and giggles. But it must have been hilarious for all the onlooking Swedes.

9. I seek adventure...
I have been incredibly lucky in all my adventures thus far. Things happen, good and bad, but somehow, something has always come up. I don't necessarily crave jungles or desert islands, but exploring the unknown and discovering new destinations, people, foods are all things I truly enjoy. That said, I do have a low comfort threshold. Pickled herring or Västerbottenspaj is one thing, but fried cockroaches? I think not. Ditto walks on the moors versus climbing Mont Blanc.

10. I am not afraid to be myself...
One thing that has struck me is how many people have said they like me because of this. Particularly in Sweden. Do they like "me" or do they just like this trait in others and wish they had it as well? Or both? Overall, I do like myself. I also care about how others perceive me. Which I then juxtapose by not caring so much about what others think. Perhaps I should be allowed to hold two contradictory ideas in my head... I'm not afraid to! I think moving to London has allowed me this freedom. There are infinite opportunities to meet people and equally to forget them. It's too exhausting to remember who one was on that particular day, when one met Whatshisname.

All the blogs on my list I have enjoyed at some stage or another, though I have sadly not kept so up-to-date with all of them. Here are some, an eclectic mix, I think:

Psynopsis
An intriguing mixture of fashion and health, Teutonic style.

Reality Strikes Back
One of my irritatingly brilliant peers. An ongoing story of his charity work in East African refugee camps. Did I mention he established the charity by himself?

Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Why stop at six? So this blogger says, and rightfully so. If you enjoy books, but wish you read more.

The Tea Appreciation Society
I love tea. So do they.

Go Fug Yourself
Because the voice in my head as I read makes me laugh out loud. I can be frivolous too!

Un Vieux Vélo
As a fellow city cycling enthusiast, I must recommend this one.

Miriam Levine
A wise poetess from across the pond.

Mrs Trefusis Takes A Taxi
An extra one, simply because I wouldn't have commenced writing in the first place without her.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-02T16:15:00.006Z

Over two weeks ago, waiting for my airport transportation, I felt rather a lot of uncertainty. Will I love it, hate it, be bored, be understood, be overwhelmed, find congruence? I was at least certain I'd find time for the odd blog, after all, isn't that why I was taking my laptop? Quite evidently, I failed, spectacularly so. I now have less than forty-eight hours in this country, and I am filled with melancholy. I want to stay! I had not predicted I would feel quite so strongly as this. If anything, I was worried I would be far too bored of the whole thing, especially after almost three weeks with the same person. And now, here I am desperately trying to learn a new language, with a view to applying here to study.

One thing I am so hopeless at avoiding is comparing oneself to one's peers. In the last hour, I just discovered an old-boy has established his own charity to help the refugee camps in Eastern Africa, and will also use his research for an honours programme next year. Some have already finished their degrees and many were probably budding entrepreneurs mid-way through. E.G. that chap who imports champagne to sell online, why did I not think of something like that? Oft-times I wonder if I will ever amount to much, too much sitting and not enough thinking to make even that viable.

Passion is a wonderful thing, and some people are very lucky to possess it. I can be passionate, but then I weary of it. I traipse about aimlessly, hoping for something to pop-up and seem applicable, but naturally this shouldn't involve too much work. I shy from work. I want and crave the extraordinary, the unusual, yet I will not work for it. How do I drag myself out of the inert swampland I seem content to mellow in? Even today, one of my last days and one I should really make the most of, I overslept. Who does that? I may have been a little tired from the New Year's celebrations, but I don't think that required missing all 4.5 hours of daylight Umeå offers mid-Winter. I could at least have been practising my Swedish! Jag kommer från Australien men jag bor i London...

Perhaps it is just my traditional New Year's pessimism, resurfacing. I have always been very hard on myself, but similar to Edina from Absolutely Fabulous, "I like results." The problem is, as her daughter Saffron counters: "Life is in the details." Regardless, repetition doesn't help it sink in any better. How does one balance between living in the present and for the future? I expect it would be a good 18 months 'til I were ready to start at university here. Time at least to learn the language sufficiently - or so one would suppose. Many people I have met here compliment me on the incredibly basic Swedish I have learned. This in itself is very heartening, especially as the Swedes are usually quite reticent about compliments. In English we throw them about meaninglessly, they are dispensable, of incredibly low value and clog up one's wallet like the copper coins of the realm. Perhaps I have made more effort than many other visitors do, but then, as my friends here are all native, I am often left out of parts of the conversation. Of course I do not begrudge them that, if anything it makes my pursuit of fluency even more important to me.

Growing up in a hot country, I dreamt of living somewhere cold, where the white Christmas fantasy was reality and everything fits, like a postcard. Or indeed a Christmas card. Many people laugh at the irony of somebody coming from such a desirable climate wanting to leave for colder climes, when of course it is the reverse journey they want to make. I expect it's all a case of "grass is always greener". I do know that I am happier in this hemisphere. So I shall stop moaning, and simply look forward to achieving it, I'm sure that will be another prolonged adventure. To anybody who has ever known the quagmire of uncertainty, I wish you a very Happy and Prosperous new year, and new decade.

Se Fendre La Pipe

2009-12-11T18:43:00.003Z

In my final year at school, the dramatists made the journey to Sydney for a holiday course at NIDA (National Institute of Dramatic Arts). All thoroughly enjoyable, and enormously fun for us seventeen year-olds. Every evening we would see a play of sorts, some very good, others tedious to the point of soporific. By far the best evening was a Comedy Store, I know few of us had ever laughed so hard, nor probably will I do so again.

That was in 2005 and in the last four years I have wanted to see more comedy, but the opportunity never seemed to arise. Or possibly the lack of motivation! However, in the last week I have seen three comedy shows, almost evening out the mean to once per year.

The first was to see Dylan Moran, a favourite of mine since I was twelve and first came across Black Books. Thankfully those tickets were posted by a friend on Facebook, who had foolishly got her dates wrong. Within a week they were mine. The only problem then became finding somebody who had heard of him (an idea that is complete anathema to me), and was free on a Saturday evening. At the last minute, a friend's brother answered the call. And Moran was really very good. Essentially playing his character from Black Books, one wonders how much acting was required for the role. For me, half the hilarity is in his lovely Irish lilt, half lost in his half empty glass of wine. It was surprisingly thought-provoking, too, as he attempted to persuade us all to pursue more pleasure in life. I think he thought the journey becomes easier by escaping London, which could well be right. He advocates a life fallen into, stumbled across and as numbed as possible by alcohol. And why not?

The second was to see Frankie Boyle, the controversial Scot who makes sure the editors at the BBC have their work cut out for them. This was a properly intimate performance at the Riverside Studios in Hammersmith. Probably little more than fifty people in the audience to see him preview newer material. Foolishly I sat right in the light in the second row, in his direct eye line. Now I am hardly politically-correct, and I love the edited Boyle, but so much of his material was... Shocking! He kept referring to his typed notes, which gave him a very casual air, and then he came to his section on "Abuse for Hecklers". Nobody had really heckled thus far, so as I was directly in front of him, he pointed at me and told me to heckle! My father would have been perfect, but all I could manage was a rather flustered "Oh erm, get off!" I don't even remember what the abuse was, but I'm sure my cheeks were blushing permanently the rest of the night. He was quite ill-prepared and I'm sure he couldn't wait to leave. I was picked on later, and this time I do recall what he said, but modesty prevents me from repeating anything!

Unbeknownst to us, the following preview act was Russell Howard. I love Russell, his humour is so innocently schoolboy-ish, his use of voice and constant movement are just so endearing. To me at least. I always enjoy watching him on t' telly. I think possibly it's the whole West country thing, a place I hold very dearly in my heart. At any rate, him previewing material straight after Frankie Boyle - not an opportunity to be missed! Of course it was all sold out, but the same had been said of Boyle's show, and there were certainly empty seats. So we waited, sitting by the river, watching the traffic crossing the beautiful Hammersmith Bridge. Returning to the studio minutes before the show was scheduled to start, we did our very best puppy dog faces, and lo and behold! Two tickets for Russell Howard. What luck! I practically danced into the studio, though swiftly stopped as I felt the whole audience's eyes upon me. How embarrassing. I mean, not really, but nonetheless, after my verbal abusing by Boyle, I was quite keen for a lower profile this time. Oh he was fantastic though! After such bleak, black humour; the bright, energetic joy that Howard brought was just magical, and he has cemented himself as one of my favourites. I will certainly recommend people see his tour.

Heading home with a most uncomfortable jaw, but in a delirious, Cloud Nine-esque way, it was another reminder to me of the importance of spontaneity, of always asking, and of not giving up. Frightfully cliché I do realise, but I suppose they are called clichés for a reason!

Listlessly Listing

2009-12-08T18:09:00.004Z

Opening my diary at random, I came directly to an entry labelled "Week of Action". Recognising my pretentious jargon, I tried to re-familiarise with the person who was writing at the time, to remember the difficulties he faced.

At this point, my role as an Au Pair could no longer continue, courtesy mainly of the credit crunch. As mine was a live-in position, this meant drastic change was afoot. My home for a year was to be no more. In many ways I knew this was a good thing. A year is a long time at twenty, and for some time I had thought about moving on. I had seen, done, learned so much, but perhaps it was right to finish at that point, before too much monotony set in. So the action required involved finding a new job and somewhere to live. Difficult enough to find one of these in a short space of time, but two... I do remember finding this enormously hard to juggle. I think a year of living and partying had left me with little reserves and therefore little breathing space. Most claustrophobic.

However other actions where required that week, too. Things were very busy at Drama School, with lots of words to learn for an upcoming performance. Committing words to memory is obviously an essential part of acting, but each time I would leave it dangerously late, and wonder how on earth I managed it the previous time. I expect I would tell myself to not think about it, but to do. The precedents probably left me over-confident, and I have often been concerned about my hubristic tendencies. With best intentions, I was attempting to get "ahead of the game", by learning those lines as soon as possible. I think I must just enjoy writing lists, because there was absolutely no possibility I would be prioritising words over accommodation. The very idea is laughable, but there it is, in the list. Writing lists makes one feel pro-active, productive, professional - just pro! However it does not; at least not in my case, translate into action and achievement. But the intentions are always there. Can one get through life by good intentions?

The final item on the list of action related to a fellow nanny. A stunning but sporadic friend from home, who came by an ostensibly good position with an upper-class family. I say sporadic because for months we would speak all the time, then suddenly for almost a year I would hear nothing. It was at the end of one of these nothing periods that she contacted me, and naturally I felt rather a friend of convenience. However when in a new country, one must take advantage of as many friends and contacts as one can. And in the course of the year, she and I became good friends once again. However, her behaviour one evening left me utterly appalled.

It was in early December, but already very cold. Her sister and some friends were visiting, and we arranged to all go out. As it was a Thursday, we chose Punk, where we had had many fun evenings over the course of the year, and thought it would be nice to share this with the outsiders. The evening started ferociously badly, as I was kept waiting for ages outside the tube station. I utterly hate being made to wait, and think it most discourteous. Obviously five, ten minutes is absolutely fine and to be expected in a city like London. But almost half an hour? I think not. And I made no secret of the fact I was in a poor mood, which in retrospect was rather graceless. Of course I don't think I was actually rude, just colder than usual. Quite literally. Then one of the friends insisted on finding the appropriate cash-point, for only one would do. Exasperated, I said I would meet them inside the club. Rather low on funds, I didn't want to miss the free entry threshold! Eventually they did find me, and we made full use of the happy hour. Such fun!

Punk is, or was, one of those rather fun and frivolous places. That night there was the usual dress-up box and also a hair stylist. Naturally I wanted to take full advantage of this facility, enjoying several style changes. The friends found me - or so I assumed - terribly amusing, which probably spurred me on. It was also a good excuse to leave a circle of chatter focussed on small-town gossip over cheap white wine. Most dull. I am of course always keen to catch up on news, but London quickly makes anything else very insignificant. When I go out, one of the things I love to do is dance, good music allowing. It certainly was that night, and I tried to encourage people in my group to join me. No deal, apparently. Bored of them, I went by myself and made some new friends, hopefully in a less twee manner. After some time, I went looking for my friends. Absolutely no sign inside. Nor were they outside, amongst the smokers. Unbelievably, they had left me by myself without even saying "good night". I was furious, and appalled. I chose not to think about it then, and returned to the people I met dancing. Much more fun and the night carried on much, much later.

Weeks passed before I heard anything from my friend, and I was so cross I completely ignored any contact from her. The series of events that this incident began have been some of my most memorable. In a strange way I am grateful for her unfair behaviour. But I was not brought up to do such things, and find it very difficult to forgive others for this reason. Again the middle-class demon rears his well-washed head. However I included her in this list of action, because her departure from London was imminent. I very nearly decided not to meet with her, but felt this would be petty. It would not punish her, but myself. So I did, and I am glad I did. We had a lovely evening and I was able to put my grievances behind me. I don't think I will ever be able to see her or the others in the same light I once did, but I harbour no resentment.

And of that week of action, I can quite clearly see that I did manage to achieve things. Perhaps not all of those things on the list, but then lists are dull.

Somewhere In My Memory

2009-12-04T14:47:00.007Z

December. The darkest (or lightest) month of the year. I am in the shadows, whilst my family basks in the sunshine. It's certainly how I feel at present. How is it possible to entertain two entirely contradictory ideas in one's head at the same time? It is, as the song says, "the most wonderful time of the year"...

The diminishing warmth in the atmosphere is replaced by one in the hearts of people of all ages. Togetherness, giving and sharing and of course over-eating, are hallmarks of Christmas. I have my health and I am not (yet) starving. But equally I feel very saddened, perhaps ungratefully so. It will be my third Christmas without my family and I feel suddenly very alone. It is all entirely my own doing and choice, and of course I could go back. Yet I cannot bring myself to, an inescapable internal conflict I have developed. Hurrah.

My last two Christmases, in France and England, have been spent with surrogate families, both of whom have made it clear I am welcome back this year. Both times were wonderful and I will cherish the memories. Perfect examples of the generosity of this season's spirit. However this year brings something new and exciting again - Sweden! As I wrote last month, another friend got there first by inviting me to Umea for Jul. Naturally I cannot wait, it will be my first white Christmas, but also the first time I will be celebrating on Christmas Eve, which is the custom in Sweden, and certainly with my friend's family. Which reminds me: must brush up on my non-existent Swedish...

So there is all that excitement, plus the joy of the season already overloading my increasingly feeble mind. Then something else looms up at me, and that is the absence I feel. It makes me sad to think that once I again I will not see my family for Christmas. In two years I have seen my Mother once, Father twice and my younger brothers not at all. It was my choice to leave, and that is after all what children are meant to do eventually, no? Perhaps I simply wasn't mature enough then. Or I am overly sentimental? Watching the Home Alone films isn't helping! At least he gets to see his Mummy again for Christmas.

Selflessly, I want a white Christmas, and all my family to join me. I hope Father Christmas is listening! I think I have been quite good this year.

On another note, just back from Istanbul. Sunny and warmer (ish), it was wonderful. Certainly as I was there for Eid, it was my first real exposure to a non-Christian holiday. It was marvellously exotic, but I have no plans to convert. Least of all because of the early morning call to prayer. Church at 11 is much more civilised. But I certainly recommend staying at the Kybele Hotel in Sultanahmet, part of the old city. A lovely boutique hotel with countless lamps decorating the ceilings and walls. Literally thousands of them. Equally good was their food. I'd also recommend the Galata Tower for it's magnificent views, though less so for the restaurant. Another gem, if you're game, is to reach the Western Districts of the city. They house the old Jewish quarter and some beautiful Orthodox churches. Few tourists make it. The other brilliant thing about the city is that, despite its vastness, most things are completely walk-able. The tram is good, but merely speeds up a relatively short walk.

Do try: A Hamam if you are comfortable in your own skin, and a Turkish barber if you are prone to beards and feel adventurous.
Don't try: Any food from a street vendor.

Hopefully I will come up with something equally comprehensive on Umeå.

Time Goes By - So Slowly

2009-11-25T19:40:00.007Z

My most-loved song of all time is (somewhat embarrassingly) Hung Up, by Madonna. The searing desperation, the entrancing movement, retro glamour and the undeniable call to the dance floor from the icy Queen of Pop somehow, four years on, still gives me the cutis anserina it gave me when I first heard it in 2005.

The line that most hooks me is "Time goes by so slowly". Time is such a curious concept. The first half of my life was probably too primitive to contemplate it, beyond the fact that bedtime was at 8.30pm and whether I could push this any later. Then secondary school, and with it, thought processes suddenly much more sophisticated. The first time I actually thought about it was when, in Religious Education, our Chaplain asked "What is Time?". Naturally, when things are so black and white, my hand shot up and I announced that Sir could read it on the clock above the whiteboard, and see how slowly it was passing. Obviously I said the latter part in my head, but this suddenly became a debate.

St Augustine, in Book 11 of his Confessions, asks, "What then is Time? If no one asks me, I know: if I wish to explain it to one that asketh, I know not."

What IS Time? How does it work, where does it come from? Overloaded, my brain kept me quiet the rest of that lesson. I think everyone has noticed and commented at one stage or another that the weeks have gone so quickly, the working day is passing at a pace to rival a snail. Christmas is nearly here again, when once Christmases seemed so very far away. When danger is afoot, time stands still. Or so I am told!

In modern society, Time is essential to functionality and as such is coordinated on an international scale. Leap years, leap seconds can only make sense when the rest of the world agrees with you and participates. Though our Gregorian calendar is a corrected version of the Julian, it still has not become entirely universal. Globalisation and the internet have all but removed the barriers of time differences, but humans on the whole remain diurnal. Time is argued by scholars of Science, Philosophy and Religion, and many within have vastly differing opinions. In Economics, "Time is Money" is an ethos populated in the City and Wall Street.

"Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once" Albert Einstein OR John Archibald Wheeler OR Woody Allen.

I am aware I have thrown a whole lot of disjointed and barely connected thoughts on Time together, but possibly because this is where my head is at. And also I am short on time (Ha Ha). Which leads me to the thought on Time in a personal sense. We are all aware we have a limited amount of time in the day, and limited lifespans as humans. Many seem to be challenging mortality, but I doubt it will come to fruition in my lifetime. But it does scarily make one value how one spends one's day, and to question life in general.

Perhaps this is the onset of an early life crisis? Or perhaps to merely aspire to make better choices, enjoy and LIVE.

Total mentions of the word "Time" in this post: Twenty.

No-One Expects A Spanish Inquisition

2009-11-21T13:55:00.008Z

One of my guilty film pleasures would definitely be the Rom-Com genre, Brit-Rom-Coms in particular. I am sure I can in part thank my Father for this, the man who counts Notting Hill and Love Actually amongst his favourites. Our tastes diverge once the Westerns are reached, which is fine. In fact, I should probably be grateful as I usually used the television void for reading.

One of my favourites would have to be Sliding Doors. I think it is often overlooked as a film... Unsure in itself where it fits into the genre. For me it has everything: London, Gwyneth, Calvin Klein, a thought-provoking premise and an ending left for us to draw our own (hopefully happy) conclusions.

It is the premise that most fascinates me. The what-ifs of life can be all-consuming. The idea that the chance missing of a train/tube/bus/ plane/meeting/whatever could have such an impact upon one's life. The infinite copies of me who enjoyed better (or worse) fortunes than me throughout all the daily minutiae. I think it resonates particularly for Londoners. We all hurry, ignoring our fellow commuters (unless you're a potentially deranged Scot) rushing from A-B-C-A or worse.

Last night I had some very pleasant cheese and mulled wine at The Providores on Marylebone High Street, enjoying people-watching beneath the rather naff Christmas lights. We watched with bemused horror at rather hairy incidents of road rage (definitely not pursuing a career in taxi-cabs now), middle-aged, middle-class ladies falling off the kerb completely trolleyed and blatant attempts to ignore the polite queuing system.

Returning to Islington late in the evening led me to Bond Street station, where an infuriatingly inaccurate timetable board left me waiting amongst the vomiting (and probably worse) late-night passengers for far longer than tolerable. Finally, on the way to my connecting station, I knew I would be cutting it fine for the last Victoria Line tube.

Jumping out and navigating the jostling crowds, filthy looks from enormous, security-guard sized men, squeezing between people and the carriages and then a mad-dash though a labyrinth of tunnels amongst dozens of like-minded others. Breaking into a sprint up the stairs to the platform, there it was! The last train. And a seat too, so civilized. Of course I had to get through the closing doors first. Naturally it is not a wise idea, and is very bad for the trains apparently. Well-practised though, I sneaked through, only for the train to pull away from all the people who didn't quite make it.

It is quite iconic. The doors closing, and that very wicked sense of schadenfreude. Well possibly that is just me, but it certainly gave me something to ponder on the journey home (very unattractive passengers). What if I had missed it, how would I have got home, at what time would I have finally made it, would any good come of it, or something bad? The same for the journey I actually made, would I discover something awful, be mugged, lose my keys... Infinite possibilities for mayhem!

Thankfully, I returned safe and sound and even had a brief chat with my youngest brother. But one never really knows what will or will not be, which is - for me at least - a huge part of the joy. And the infinite possibilities this city possesses. Good AND Bad, but always exciting.

Shall We Dance?

2009-11-16T14:20:00.004Z

Curiously delightful weekend past, and thoroughly exhausting too. One of my Saturday devoirs is to read the Saturday Times Magazine, if just for Slummy Mummy and Giles Coren. However I found myself incredibly moved by one of the articles.

Having completed their final exams, the school leavers of South Africa, like those of many other Anglo-influenced nations, celebrate with a Ball. Fondly referred to as "the Matric", which comes from Matriculation (each to their own), I suspect for many it is simply a good excuse for a large party.

However, the article does not defer to this, more visible, group. Instead it focuses upon those living in the slums of outer Cape Town. In Dickensian style poverty, many families live in a single room surviving on less than £10 per week. For this oft-forgotten section of society, the Matric is by far the most glamorous event most of them will ever attend. Many will probably never again have the same opportunity to let their hair down (in a decidedly unliteral way, of course). Most spend months saving. Some barely eat to save the few Rand they can for their dresses, but this is certainly not restricted to the young ladies. The boys also dress to impress. One delighted in finding his father's white gloves he once wore whilst working in catering. Many simply cannot afford to go to their Ball. In some cases, whole villages have chipped in whatever possible. One girl whose parents simply couldn't afford it was helped by her teacher.

The battle just to be able to enjoy a party is phenomenal. Most of the girls on a daily basis wear a uniform of jeans and hooded jumpers so as not to encourage assaults and rape. In their full regalia, barely seconds are spent outdoors before jumping into waiting limousines or Hummers. Goodness knows how they would perceive the overt fashions at the average Oceana. The boys are little braver. One did touchingly say he felt worthwhile, important, as neighbours watched him through chinks in their curtains, in his "Prince Charles" inspired costume. Featuring cane and diamante earrings. Full of self-loathing, I fight my inner snob.

The story that made me saddest of all was of one girl, who was wearing a Buttercup yellow Bo-Peep inspired dress. Apparently a popular style, this girl had struggled incredibly hard to be able to go to her Matric, relying on help from her extended family. However, a long-term illness became too much for her shortly after her big night and she passed away. I mean, I could almost cry now, such is the empathy I feel.

The worst thing is, I must sound horribly twee and patronising as I write. I readily admit to having led an enormously privileged life, for which I am incredibly thankful. And that I have often been lucky. The view of their world from mine is very much in the darkness, so such glimpses do tend to affect me.

Particularly as I contrast the Matric with my own school Ball. Finding a partner - not easy at an all-boys school - then a series of satellite parties before and after the event. All were full of (generally) tasteful glamour, champagne, fun, naughtiness and freedom. Though no-alcohol was a strict condition at the Ball proper, people managed it (or worse) anyway. None of the girls needed to worry about being attacked on their way to the next party, or when milling about in parks or at the beach for photographs. The only severe problems emerged the next day, as several incidents of alcohol poisoning came to light. Unfortunately I was possibly the worst of those cases. The memory fails at about 8am the next day, only to resume at 3.30pm that afternoon. The image of my body in a hospital bed with several tubes attached to me will not easily be forgotten. Nor will that of my collection by ambulance be by my friends!

While I may dislike the fashion, I am incredibly moved by the dedication and hard work whole communities share for that one purpose. To ensure their loved ones have the chance to escape reality for one night, to "have a ball" is one of the most selfless things I have known. I consider myself the lucky one, but again, my school Ball was just another night. It was a very good one, mind, but for them, the Matric is the night. The night they will never forget, every moment etched in dreams and memories.

Perhaps I should think again?

Houmous and Crudités, or Champagne?

2009-11-11T01:05:00.006Z

So I am feeling unwell today - sore throat and just generally disillusioned with life and myself. Even writing now, in bed wearing a scarf, I am thinking of all the things that must be done. *Coughs*

Blast. Naturally I refused to expose myself to the elements today, as I blame them for my ill-health. Though drinking the last 4 nights in a row will not have helped. A bottle of wine at home over dinner is fine, but two plus cocktails, followed by a freezing journey home do not good health upkeep.

But this did pose a problem. The fridge contained a couple of of carrots, half a pot of houmous (week-old), spinach, 2 eggs and a pepper. Oh and a bottle of bubbly. Because that is clearly the priority. I mean what is that? So that's an omelette for breakfast (something I was just never able to master properly anyway) and some sort of dated picnic platter for the rest of the day. On a friend's recommendation, I added a whole clove of raw garlic and a little raw ginger to the houmous. Appetising? Yes/No? If that combination does not shock my system into gear, then there must be something seriously wrong. And the terrible breath others may have to endure will be for nothing. Perhaps the silver lining to singledom, nobody need see the moment of human weakness. Nobody need be repelled more than usual.

Tomorrow, I will have a choice of a carrot or the Champagne. Hopefully I will be well enough to brave the outdoors. Two days without any toast would be unthinkable. Or have I miraculously stumbled across a forgotten cure for the common cold? Alcohol! And as it is grape based, surely there must be some uber-antioxidants up for grabs. Those little hand sanitizers are almost pure alcohol aren't they, so there must be something to the stuff. Yes. Yes, I think if there is no improvement by tomorrow evening, I shall completely empty the fridge. It is almost leading me to hope my condition worsens. Obviously I don't, that would be Blatant Stupidity. Incidentally a character in one of my favourite parodies of Dynasty. I love parody. Done well, few things have made me laugh as hard.

Maybe I should try the old "laughter is the best medicine" lark. I did watch Come Dine With Me, always amusing grace a Mr Lamb. And all the soaps I have caught up with, one of the few joys of illness. Or reasons for a mass-hatred. And investigating the Zeitgeist i.e. Lady GaGa's new music video. She is a cocaine inspiration... Reason alone to do massive, solo binges if her success could be replicated. Maybe if the champagne doesn't fail, I will try that, just call up the old dealer as you do.

Yes I am clearly delirious with fatigue/boredom. Speak anon.

Capturing Claudia and other stories...

2009-11-07T23:56:00.009Z

After another fabulous post from Mrs Trefusis - http://mrstrefusis.blogspot.com/2009/11/life-imitates-art-claudia-schiffer.html - I had to take advantage of the final day of the exhibition at Colnaghi in Mayfair. Sorry, did I mention the subject was Claudia Schiffer? Dragging a rather tired ex-colleague along, promising something fabulous and unstrenuous, along we went. Thank goodness, I loved it. But why did I love it?

I am not sure whether I love it because it is Claudia Schiffer, or because it is something very close to those in the fashionable circle, because I think I should, because I am just pretending, or, because I just genuinely liked some of the art for its own sake. Naturally the former and latter form my exterior, but I wonder whether, armour pierced, it merely is a question of snobbery? Thankfully in this case I can unreservedly say I did really like some of the pieces, and not necessarily because of the muse. Amazing though she is. The Jason Brooks pieces are certainly a testament to bravery. The above link not only offers a glimpse at some of these works (unfortunately no longer on display), but also a glimpse at their subject matter in human form, posing alongside.

Artistically sated, my friend and I did one of those rather pleasant walks with no sense of purpose or direction. Criss-crossing the streets and narrowly avoiding speeding taxis, an encyclopaedia of subjects were discussed, stories started, half-swapped, forgotten and re-started again many syllables later. It is wonderful how in the midst of the grey morass of people, cars and city, a little bubble is formed inside of which is a wholly unconnected world. I think there is more magic to the world than we give it credit. Spells and potions pale beside the human mind. Naturally, our subconscious (is it pluralised?) knew when we would hunger, and it deposited us outside one of my favourite spots at exactly the right moment. (Sorry, cunning plan? Nonsense.)

I like good food. That is to say, I like food done well. It need not be anything remotely fancy or expensive, (think sausages, proper Butcher's ones are delicious and will hardly break the bank) just of reasonable quality and well cooked. Mrs Marengo's does not serve sausages, not even the vegetarian kind. They DO do very good vegetarian burgers, as I have previously mentioned. And omelettes. Haven't bothered with a great deal else, because you see... It is all about the white chocolate and pistachio cheesecake. As a child I turned my nose up at cheesecake. Quite literally, so my mothers tells me, and at a great many other foods as well. I found it too, well, cheesy. NO longer. This is quite literally a heaven on earth. Do try it. I ought to try other things, but I just cannot bring myself to. And I justify that by asking myself: "Well why must I?" Why indeed.

I believe I mentioned my friend was quite tired. So I did what all good friends do - went back to her house and had a late supper. And Prosecco. And even a little Champagne. Poor thing she must have been so tired of me. She is a very good actress though, because I barely noticed it if indeed, she was. To top that off perfectly, we sat down to Audrey Hepburn. Initially aiming for one of the classics, Roman Holiday or Sabrina, we decided on a forgotten member of the collection. One neither of us had seen, Paris When It Sizzles. What an interesting, funny, surreal treat it turned out to be. And with my old friend Tony Curtis playing a rather funny supporting role, I think it could become one of my favourites. She does look emaciated in this film though. But in an endearingly delicate and pretty way. But it is just SO funny, and the film within a film within a film that we, today, are no longer strangers to, must have made quite an impact. I think a perfect Absinthe film. Or possibly vodka. But some spirit accompaniment is highly recommended!

I would love to replace all (or at least several of) the talentless, lecherous nobodies who seem intent on bombarding us daily with their dull, self-important rubbish with another Audrey. It is, after all, nearly Christmas!

God Jul!

2009-11-05T21:31:00.004Z

Or how one says Happy Christmas in Sweden.

I know it is 6 weeks early, but I am spending Christmas with my friend in Umeå, north Sweden. She has just posted a picture (albeit of miserable quality) of the snow, now beginning to settle. Having grown up in a Mediterranean climate, snow is something psychological. A childhood of hot Christmases... the clash between the carols, the decorations and the story of the birth of the Lord himself, with the reality of opening presents in 40 degree heat. I am convinced it is somehow damaging. My younger brother has never even seen the stuff in the flesh - nothing wrong with that, of course, but I do rather feel he is left out.

And of course snow has many downfalls. London in February after two days of snow is a good example. But that night of the first of February 2009, there was some wizardry about. Something very enchanting about this great city being silenced by a white down. A childlike instinct led me outside to Fitzroy Square, and what a sight. Cries of joy, snowballs, armies of snowmen, friends and complete strangers together being playful and having fun. I hadn't been so touched for some time. Naturally I joined in the revelry and made some fabulous friends. One of whom had the most adorable lisp. Was the lisp the highlight or the snow? Who knows.

At any rate, I eagerly anticipate the ice skating, skiing and snow mobiling of a Swedish Christmas. Hejdå!

Ich hocke...

2009-11-04T22:50:00.005Z

Since arriving at the Hill of Crouch, I think I have begun to settle. It is quite fun exploring a completely foreign area, learning the best walks, cafes, restaurants - the all important familiarity and all that. Certainly yesterday I was enchanted by the season as I wandered along the Parkland Walk. Though a sign indicating Richmond Bridge 26 miles away did bring on a wave of nostalgia. Through a gate in the garden of my new home, I could walk all the way to Ally Pally, or Alexandra Palace as most non-staff would call it. Quite, quite magical. Like a secret, very long garden in the middle of London that is practically deserted. A very good Wellington boot opportunity, particularly with all the mushy leaves underfoot. And some giant puddles! Such fun. Splish splosh!

To be perfectly honest that remains the bulk of my achievement. Rather pathetic really, a 3-mile "trek". The problem is my frequent procrastination. I am so dreadful that I don't think I will ever manage to do much with this life. Which is utterly silly as the next is hardly confirmed. Very well I see your point, the joy of tomorrow.

Today, at least, I was productive. I had lunch at Borough Market, which involved a delicious selection of Tapas. I think the tapas fad is long dead, so I hope people will not think me painfully behind, though I rather skipped it before. I am just not so keen on it for some inexplicable reason. It has lots of elements that on paper I should like. Yet I avoid all things Spanish regardless. Perhaps I am just suspicious, being such a franco/italophile. And I'm purely speaking culinarily. Which I do pronounce correctly. Even if it makes me sound archaic, I don't care. The "u" is as in "moon". Orrright?

I so rarely go to London Bridge area, it has such glorious views and makes one feel quite the tourist. Well me, at least. It is such an industrious centre, the smell, the wind, the cranes overhead, St Paul's, The Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Tate Modern... The energy is so strong, so invigorating. One feels so insignificant, yet enormously empowered. I am currently working on a business plan for a new bank. Recessions are the best time to begin them, and I am sure I could compete with the likes of Barclays and Lloyd's.My only problem is the lack of capital, so if anybody would like to invest, do please let me know. I would reward well with shares in the company! And I think with the sale of parts of Lloyd's coming up soon, there's space to capitalise. Name also open to suggestions.

I then spent the afternoon shopping in Kensington, spending hours in Hornet's on Kensington Church Walk... Just the most incredible shop. I don't see any need to shop anywhere else now. They have everything one could possibly need, and nothing outrageously expensive. By everything I do mean in a very conservative, Balmoral-esque way. But frankly I feel very on trend in tweed and velvet jackets, and dearly wish my head would fit hats properly. Alas mine is outrageously small, suited to visors and a plastic fedora I once danced in for a school performance. And I didn't even get to keep it. The problem was all the bags. I forgot how impossible navigating London with lots of shopping bags is and in particular at peak-hour on the tube. Thankfully I stumbled upon Ottolenghi, which I had never heard of before. What stunning food. My mouth is still watering, and it certainly hungered on this tube journey for a most delicious white chocolate cheese cake with raspberry coulis I decided I couldn't leave unsold. Pool little thing, he did need a home. Apparently my choice was a very male one, as in a common male choice. I did point out that biologically this would ring true. Unfortunately my helpful assistor was not of Anglo heritage and any vague humour was lost. Shame, I know. But it was delicious.

And now long gone.

January 24th

2009-11-02T20:25:00.003Z

I planned to do pieces in retrospect. Opening up my diary randomly, I came to the 23rd and the 24th of January 2009. I cannot decode my notes from the 23rd (a total of 5 supposedly significant words) so naturally that left only the particularly cold winter Saturday.

The birthday of my Swedish friend Nina, it was unusually busy. Some time beforehand I volunteered to help Lucinda with Kit4Kids at one of the halls in Barnes. The early morning was unfortunate, but other than that it was a simple matter of manning one of the clothing stalls. My retail experience was blatantly obvious, and I thoroughly enjoyed charming all the yummy Barnes mummies. At the height of the credit crunch, I think they were expecting a much stronger showing, at least a more useful politician:citizen ratio. Thanks awfully Lib Dems. An enormous help, I am sure.

My brownie points won, I got on with the rest of the day. Mainly costume choosing for the evening. I don't recall the theme (I invariably bend them), but it led me to white everything bar a llama wool waistcoat of interesting colours. Visible in fact, in my profile picture. . A-ha! I found it in Memories of Mortlake a very sweet shop run by a German lady, trying to sell a very bizarre accumulation of "pieces". One's rubbish is another's etc. Certainly helps satiate one's inner voyeur.

Being my friend's birthday, her choice of dinner venue. She is vegetarian, an ism I follow part-time, though less and less of late. So therefore the cuisine is something I enjoy, but being me I know where it is reliably good, inexpensive and in a good area (IMHO of course). She chose Blah Blah Blah of Shepherd's Bush. A rather serious mistake, but there's only so far one's influence stretches! While pleasantly decorated, the service was PAINfully slow. Despite being the only people there, the staff seemed entirely uninterested. From memory we ordered at 7pm-ish. Fine, though we had been there almost an hour already. Naturally by that time + wine, people are hungry, and getting irritable. Of course we are all adults and able to control ourselves, but as time went by, things deteriorated.

It turned out that half the people there weren't really friends of Nina's, but more people that had gathered together through friends and had asked to come along. Most of the people there, she disliked immensely, but with mutual friends and in the hope of avoiding awkwardness, the poor thing graciously allowed all these effective strangers to her dinner. I didn't help by bringing along my best friend whom Nina hadn't met, though I am assured we were the most welcome there by far. Here's hoping.

Finally at about 9.30pm our food arrived. Passable, but after two and a half hours of hunger pains anything will do. Certainly NOT worth such a weight. And too late to avoid outbreaks of rather emphatic debates. The worst began with a flippant comment about whisky. I had said something along the lines of:

"Good whisky should be enjoyed with a very slight splash of water," or something similarly pretentious.
This prompted some backlash, followed by ferocious support from the BFF. Then an incredibly nasal, Australian voice rang out:
"I like my Jack Daniel's with coke."
"Oh my god, what a classless individual!" blurts out the BFF.

Oh dear. The classless individual in question stormed off, pausing at the stairs to shout "Are any of you classless individuals coming with me?!" before disappearing. The stunned silence was punctured suddenly by half the table reluctantly deciding to follow her. This left four of us: Nina, her boyfriend, BFF and myself. Bless the birthday girl, she laughed and said how relieved she was most of them had gone. Mollifying my mortified friend, a little at least. Left with all the wine, we carried on merrily.

Having caused enough trouble for one evening, the BFF departed en taxi, while we headed East for Electrotherapy IV. A new-ish charity night begun by a friend of mine and still going strong, though in a new location at Elephant & Castle, I believe. We didn't stay long. Just long enough to dance a little, but my music tastes had moved on, I must say.

During said dance, this friend came up to me and unbuttoned my shirt, telling me it looked frigid and that I would never get a boyfriend if I carried on like that. Well! What presumptuousness. Firstly, who is to say I don't already?! And secondly, boyfriend... You can't just assume these things! It's as offensive to a man as the assumed pregnancy of a woman without child. Well so I assume, anyway. Possibly this put me in less of a mood for the evening, and we cut things short, Nina and her then boyfriend heading to Canary Wharf and myself to seek bagels and then the night bus to Stratford.

Have I now learnt anything? Ayo Gorkhali.

Cirque de Harsh

2009-10-29T11:22:00.002Z

I'm so rubbish, I wanted to do these at least every two days. I think it barely averages out at that! Oh well, things have been hectic-ish.

The weekend was grand, stopped by Ghost in Farringdon for catastrophe du moment, Jodie Harsh's travelling Circus night. Was enormous fun, though mainly because I consumed far more than at William & Son. Had I not, I doubt I would have enjoyed myself so much. As it was, I was there to see some friends performing in fabulous Union flag bodysuits with bunny ears. I kid not, they form part of an army in Bishi's One Nation. To (possibly, whosoever can predict these things) storm the charts soon. I don't even know what it sounds like, I was too busy dancing on a platform to indiscernible bass.

The crowd was equally indiscernible. Who are they all? An uber-fashionistic, wannabe, out-there generic, "avant-garde" attempt at cool. I can hardly talk, but I was at least the sole person (so far as I could see) wearing a poppy. And I judge people who don't wear them. Which is difficult today, because my poppy disappeared yesterday and I haven't found them anywhere to replace it. And I worry others judge me.

"No no," I protest as I feel their glances, running over my bare, naked, poppy-free lapel.
"I lost it, I'm getting another, point me in the right direction, don't judge me, please. I am one of you, I truly am! Believe ME!"

And so on. Because it IS important to me. Particularly as our soldiers are still fighting so far from home and on our behalf. I don't think there could be many people with no connections to this and former conflicts. And I think it is very important to recognize their sacrifice.

But I digress. A good night, but I fail to see the hype. Pretentious drag-queens and an overweight man wearing little more than tights does precious little to inspire (and at worst puts one off food). But all in the name of fun I suppose, and admittedly I paid nothing to get in. Equally someone at the bar looked after me, even creating a drink out of... Well I think he said Rum, amongst other things. It must have been lethal, because I woke up the next day on the floor at a friend's in Southgate. Grand!

A day in bed and then ready to face Part 2. A charming night at the Lexington, courtesy of fiancée Treacle. She is an amazing DJ, though admittedly if you dislike Northern Soul you may find it a tad dull. But then who would care, you would be ignored.

A dull live band, sneaked-in Vodka and then some Champagne later, there was much rejoicing. I much preferred it to Circus simply because there, nobody paid much attention to you. At Circus, it feels like the whole club is staring at you and making its judgement. Which is fine, and quite amusing. But not for every evening, if you don't mind.

Toodle pip!

Faber-Castell

2009-10-23T17:35:00.002+01:00

The 2009 Pen of the Year is a marvellous hand-woven horse hair instrument.

And should you wish your own stallion to be immortalised, pluck some tail hairs and send them off to Graf von Faber-Castell, a charming member of the German aristocracy. He knows the only woman in Europe who hand-weaves horse hair. Fabulous.

Sans doute, I owe William & Son for this introduction. They put on a grand evening... New cocktail from the Connaught, a Handwriting analyst, people in Polo costumes - endlessly charming. Naturally, regulars to such events have heard it all before, but I am not. So brag I shall! I learned from the analyst that I am: brave, bold, prefer to be organised yet appreciate spontaneity. And that I am quite honest, I don't hide. True-ish. Effectively, it was a lot of compliments and whosoever wouldn't feel flattered?

Unfortunately, the quantity of champagne had a peculiar effect on me. I had no idea excess consumption of alcohol had such symptoms. Where on earth have I been? Most things were amusing, particularly the recession-proof stock at William & Son. The Perfect Pencil is a joy of modern engineering. Perfect indeed, it is naturally high-quality wood, with a special lead that will not break (quite so easily, anyway). But most entertaining is the inclusion of in-built sharpener and replaceable eraser. It really IS perfect. And you would hope so at £175. I did love one spokeswoman telling me "Everyone can afford it!". Yes of course they can. Absolutely. The logic... faultless.

Regardless, a must for stationery fetishists. A must.

By the end, the vision becomes foggier. However I take consolation from the fact I was invited to dinner afterwards by complete strangers. And I went gladly, like the sheep I am. I must therefore have been somewhat amusing, still. But it was all perfectly lovely. Of that, I am sure. But then what isn't perfectly lovely about late-night wanderings through Mayfair. I'll tell you what. Nothing.

Dear William & Son, let me know should you be recruiting!

Answer Time

2009-10-23T00:54:00.003+01:00

Well done BBC. However, I think it's rather easy for a sophisticated, left-leaning, Question Time-watching audience to vilify Nick Griffin. Frankly, it isn't necessary as he scores spectacular home goals the second he speaks. (Hurrah, sporting metaphor!)

I doubt that much of the QT audience has ever even contemplated voting for the BNP. It would surprise me if many of its core voters could describe the programme in any detail. And I think that what happened on the television this evening is part of the problem.

Attacking this group of people for their "un-PC" views is unconstructive and ignores the fact that it is a significant number of people who share this view. What is the natural instinct when one is being "backed into a corner"? I think it will only increase their support base. The mainstream has given the BNP a major PR coup, because none of them really (Baroness Warsi excluded) tackled the main issue that garners Griffin support: his stance on immigration. I believe the vast majority abhors racism, but I am sure many find it difficult to discover their neighbourhood is no longer what it was.

There is, of course, nothing inherently wrong with this change. But it is human nature to fear the unknown. The fact that so many embrace it is clearly a positive sign. At any rate, it would be hubristic to ignore the views of such a large number of people, though Baroness Warsi did appear to offer a much more legitimate alternative in the Tories. They must be utterly overjoyed at having her as a spokeswoman, though her electoral failure then subsequent "promotion" does provide more ammunition for the BNP and it's anti-mainstream party propaganda.

As Bonnie Greer said (albeit during the hilarious 'Let's not talk about the BNP for 5 minutes' period), "That's called Democracy. It ain't pretty, but it's the least evil we human beings can make." I rather think that sums up the whole debate. Hmm?

A-Muse.com

2009-10-21T14:35:00.002+01:00

Having spent the morning almost entirely devoted to Rachel Weisz and her previous 5 years of living, perhaps you will forgive me for being less than taken by her. But you simply will not have to. If anything, I love her more, she is just breathtaking.

I am also encouraged by her use of stalking to land her role in A Streetcar Named Desire. "Nothing illegal," is more than a green light for me. I am a little amateurish though, I don't think I could compete with the competitive world of the insane. I might be eccentric, but I mean, you know and all that, what! However if even Sir Stephen Fry could engage in covert operations over a school-ground infatuation, then - actually I have done that already. Possibly most of us have, at that age. Or is it simply His Lordship and I?

While clearly I haven't the will to actually go through with the nonsense (Heaven forbid), I can return to my over-admiration of this ravishing lady.

Emma

2009-10-20T17:10:00.004+01:00

Now that it has the name...

I have been thoroughly enjoy the BBC's latest Austen adaptation, Emma. Perhaps it is a sign of my age that I am enjoying the 'modern' feel. Which is odd because I have always viewed myself as a purist. Quite conservative and all that. I think it's possibly more to do with a burning desire to return to a life at Highbury.

Oh bother the biscuits have all gone! I turned my back not 10 minutes ago, too. And La Roux is playing. Oh dear La Roux, such... joy. Or joie, I suppose. I don't think the name very fair, The rusty one is actually two. It should really be Les Roux, just to be fair to whatshisname. Though possibly he isn't redheaded. Oh dear.

In Emma (and oddly I do this for many period pieces), I have tried to decide which character I should be. Obviously I couldn't decide. I think none really, but I just like the idea of swanning about in riding gear 24/7. I am on that note hoping to go riding next month. One has to plan these things, you see! And actually I have realised how long it has been. Quite long.

Presently I am of Reduced Circumstance. It makes things difficult, but I am sure I don't need to remind people struggling on the supposed tail-end of the recession. At least most of you have somewhere to live. I currently do not, and it really is a pain. Generously, I have been allowed space underneath a roof, and with the current weather I am enormously grateful. But how awful to have live in the shadows of gratefulness. So straitjacketing. And to constantly feel indebted. Possibly that makes me more of a Miss Bates type. How dull! I truly hope not. Constantly tittering about endlessly, insufferably trivial subjects. Ho! Well at least the dour middle-aged woman part rings false.

And I like to think I have done some interesting things thus far, am significantly more worldly than many far older than myself. Then again what does that matter? It is all so highly subjective. I am frequently accused of snobbery. The bearer of 'hatred'. It is probably justified, but the face-value is just that, isn't it? Underneath my cold, uber-middle class exterior there does lie something... less Frigidaire at the vest least. I do like italics.

I think what my aim in starting this was to begin a retrospective upon myself. Just for my own benefit. At least here the thoughts will not clutter various notebooks and Moleskines. Because there are many. And countless doodles as well. My, I am good for timewastery.

Because of my RC, I also have an abundance of free time. Time for which I have lots of good ideas, but nothing will get done without the necessary motivation. I will try to implement some sort of regime, but who is it accountable to? Oh yes, such a handsome chap too. But therein lies the danger. I have often though about writing, but fell at the first hurdle. The beginning. Even at school my essays would not get off the ground without an introduction. That does sound obvious, but many people would complete the main body of work first, before finishing at the beginning. Ah confusion.

Many bloggers seem so effortlessly cool in what they write, why do I sound like a bizarre mash-up of Mrs Thatcher and The Famous Five? Well I soldier on regardless...

Today I noticed from the window by my desk an odd cigarette shaped thing, spouting smoke from its summit and creating a rather eerie setting for the Newburgh Quarter. Naturally I went to investigate before lunch. (Which was entirely delicious - Aubergine Burger with sweet potato chips at Mrs Marengo's on Lexington St in Soho. Naughtily indulgent considering the RC but so worth it. And it sated a craving for sweet potatoes I've had all week.) Turns out the cigarette was a thermometer in a rather shrewd publicity game. The upshot being that whatever the London temperature, that would be your discount on purchases in the shop. Above average temperatures notwithstanding, I don't envisage a sudden heat wave leaving Soho dehydrated and mal-coordinated (I suppose that role has been filled), and therefore much more prone to buying more luxury fashion items. But I must admit, I quite liked the idea.

I'm sure it's been done (possibly several times), but I don't think it detracts at all. So best of luck. And equally to the consumer should the mercury rise above 15*.

So to embrace said mercury (about 8* I think), I say adieu.

Cheerio!