Batmania

My intense enjoyment/obsession with The Dark Knight continues.  I am currently using the soundtrack, through my iPod, as a soundtrack to my own life, with powerful effect.  I no longer change from platform 5 to platform 4 at Finsbury Park station: now, through the power of the soundtrack, I change from platform 5 to platform 4 at Finsbury Park station in the single most dramatic and heroic way that anyone has ever changed platforms.  Similarly, simply lying on my bed, as I am now, is tinged with such huge sadness and longing – through the power of one on the more melancholy pieces – that I am on the edge of tears.  Heck, it’s even promoted me to use a colon earlier in this paragraph, even though I’m not entirely certain how they work – such is the inspiring reach of the music.

Occasionally I wonder if my obsession with the Dark Knight is unhealthy.  And then I remember how good it is and my concern just goes away…

Obackma: because I’m back

Like some rap dude was once “all about the benjamins”, I am now solely concerned with pomegranates.  What a wonderful fruit they are.

Inter-city blues

It’s horrible when what you’ve thought of as an unecessary, almost OCD-style worry turns out to have been justified.  Whenever I am on a train I worry about my luggage being stolen.  I can’t just dump my backpack in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage and continue with my journey like everybody else seems happy to do.  I get uncomfortable if I can’t see my luggage – convinced that someone is going to steal my bag of books and shoes and pants.  I even get a bit edgy if I have to put something in the overhead rack – even if it’s right above my head.  What if I fall asleep and someone creeps up and takes my small rucksack full of worthless items?  I even worry about leaving my coat up there.

I try to rationalise the situation: why would anyone want my valueless items?, I ask myself.  “These people are opportunists, Caz”, my neurosis responds. “They just take anything they can.  Then they rifle through it in the toilets and if it’s no good to them they just throw it out of the window onto the track.”  Then I imagine my favourite orange woolly hat landing on the rails, on one of those distressing piles of toilet roll and other unpleasant matter that are made when the toilets are flushed (which railway workers call “rat’s banquets” apparently).

And so I have to either sit with my luggage on the floor by my feet so that I can remain in continual physical contact with it or else spend the whole journey periodically leaning into the aisle to make sure that no one is tampering with my rucksack.

So when I read today that of a man who has been convicted of stealing items from the overhead racks of trains in the South East I was very distressed.  Though, reading the details of the case, one of his victims had left over six hundred pounds in cash in their coat and put it on the overhead rack.  This is surely the behaviour of someone with either absolute faith in the honesty of other people or very little common sense.

Also when the thief was finally caught he had £280 pounds in cash between his buttocks.  Clearly his criminal activity had demonstrated to him how easy it is to be robbed and he decided to take the ultimate step to protect his ill-gotten gains – namely shoving it up his bum.  Compared to this man I am the very model of a relaxed train passenger.  At no point have I ever tried to hide my backpack in my pants.

Mixing up the medicine

For every up there must be a down and for every bad wine there is also a good wine. After my traumatic Londis wine experience the other day (not that there is anything wrong with Londis per se, it’s just that I’ve never had good wine from a Londis) I am glad to report a happy wine experience.  And it’s currently on offer too.

It’s called Kumala Zenith Merlot Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz and it’s currently £3.99 in Somerfield, reduced from £7.99.  There does seem to be an awful lot of grape varieties in there – which, knowing nothing about wine, I would imagine might be a bad sign. But it’s really rather tasty – especially with mature cheeses – and it’s less that a fiver. As my Dad would say “it’s a bloody bargain – get down there!”.

Can that many grape varieties be wrong when it tastes so good?  And is that statement the kind of thing that would cause a wine expert to put their head in their hands is despair.  Not that I care – I’m drinking my wine…

Cher Genius

My fascination with the genius of Christopher Nolan continues. Now I learn that he is casting Cher as Catwoman in the next Batman film. The man is super-humanely clever. Since the release of The Dark Knight there has been speculation all over the internet that Angelina Jolie would get the role, which would have been dully predictable. Not that there is anything wrong with Jolie, it’s just that Catwoman has twice been played by the hottest female superstar of the day (Michelle Pfeiffer and Halle Berry). And both times it was pretty much what we expected – skin tight PVC, slightly demented acting, the whole dominatrix vibe.

But as a ‘villian in her twilight years’, as Nolan is reported to have described the new Catwoman we can expect a totally different kettle of fish. Presumably Batman won’t fancy her, which will allow a whole new dynamic between male hero and female villain. Or perhaps Batman will have the hots for her – Cher’s sexual magnetism, as evidenced by her music videos, is undeniable. Either way Christopher Nolan is bound to come up with something supernaturally clever once again.

I wonder if he has plans for bringing back Robin…

Near wine heaven – not near enough

There’s an exciting new element to this blog now: namely my search for a decent bottle of wine costing around five pounds. Like how a character in a film I can’t really remember once said ‘no to crap sex’ I am saying no to crap wine. No more wincing and ‘making the best of it’. No more denying the revulsion as the taste of vinegar assaults my tongue. And so I shall be using this blog to ‘out’ crap wine wherever I find it, in whatever form it takes.

First up one of the most disappointing wine experiences of my life to date – the experience that inspired the campaign. The culprit: Organic Rosso wine. It cost about seven pounds (I didn’t buy it in person – in fact I acutally gave the person who did buy it (my brother) a tenner and I didn’t get any change back so it actually cost me a ten pounds, which only makes it worse. Though he did get me a King Size Twix and it was drizzling slightly so I feel only slightly screwed over by the deal). Anyway – back to the wine. The wine was brought from Londis. I knew not to trust Londis – something deep in my bones told me that no good would come of its wine. Yet it was late and we were weak and so off to Londis went my brother.

‘Organic’ he said as he came back in, like a hunter from the hunt. ‘Organic’ I said as I opened the first bottle, ‘bound to be good. Organic is good.’ ‘Organic’ we said as we took out first sips. ‘It’s a bit earthy’ said my brother as the strong taste of mud hit us. ‘Definitely quite earthy’ I replied as I took another hopeful sip, getting the flavour of the ground once again. It took a whole two glasses each for us to get up the courage to admit to each other that it was in fact rank. Glumly we looked at the second bottle. ‘Perhaps there’s a defect in this bottle’ ventured my brother. ‘Perhaps we should just take the second bottle back and get a refund.’ I suggested. But we bravely opened up Number Two and found that it, too, was rank.

Conclusion: bad wine.

NB: A quick Google search informs me that there are various kinds of Organic Rosso wine available, including one from Waitrose. To ensure I don’t defame an innocent wine I have included an image of the bottle we tasted.

Operation Insinkeration

Cavity Sam from the game Operation, ready for me to stick my tweezers into his cavities

Like pretty much everyone else in the Western world I played the game Operation as a child.  I never played it for very long because it immediately induced an almost psychotic level of rage in me as I pinched at the edges of the tiny plastic shapes with my inadequate electrified tweezers.  I could never see what the point of it was, either.  ‘To have fun’ people would say – but I never found it fun.  Yet today I saw the point of it. As I attempted to pick first an egg cup and then a pen out of my sisters ‘Insinkerator’ waste disposal unit using a breadknife and an up-ended spatula as a makeshift tweezing device suddenly it all made sense.  And just like the old days it put me into a rage so powerful that I had to warn the other people in the kitchen to keep away from me for fear I might turn and stab them in the heart with the handle of a spatula.  It was as if one circle of my life had completed.  I now await the situation in which being able to remove straws from a plastic column without dislodging a pile of plastic monkeys is of any use.

Highlander

I spent last week on the Isle of Skye, walking and taking things in and out of my backpack. I did so much walking I wore my ankle out and my foot swelled up on the thirteen hour journey home. I can report that Munchies in Inverness (opposite the station) makes the most horrible chips I have ever tasted. However this was the only negative in an otherwise amazing holiday. I recommend a trip there should you ever be in the area. It’s like Lord of the Rings only with a very good local bus service and none of the evil hoardes. Although there are midges, which are quite a lot like the Nazguul.

Recession obsession

Okay so there’s a recession coming.  What am I supposed to do about it? It’s not my fault.  I didn’t get involved in the sub prime housing market in the US. It wasn’t me offering dodgy loans.  The only thing they can pin on me is that I have on occasion talked about a desire for house prices to come down so that I might one day be able to afford to buy somewhere to live.  But this wasn’t a very sincere wish anyway – basically I just want to be able to put up coat hooks – an act forbidden by my current landlord.  I don’t really think that this could have had much of an impact on global business confidence.  But if it has then I apologise. And if not then why is this whole recession thing making me so edgy?  If I could make a massive investment in the UK economy to put things right then I would.  But I just don’t own BAE Systems or Microsoft so there’s nothing I can do.  Sorry about that.  But it would be nice to have somewhere to hang my coats.

Testes on The Level and a Glimpse of Silk

So today I took to the streets of Brighton looking for a good time.  The day started with a glimpse of the Brighton Naked Bike Ride. There were about eighty people gathered on The Level in Brighton.  I tried not to gawp in case I made anyone feel self-concious.  Good for them with their open nakedness.  I witnessed one of the participants talking to a policeman, totally naked of course, his bits just casually hanging there as he showed the officer something on a map.

Then I put on a lot of eyeliner and hit the pubs of Brighton.  I ended up in the Funky Fish, which people had warned me was ‘like a wedding reception’ and indeed it was.  There was a man in suit who flapped open the front of his jacket to reveal the silky lining each time the DJ dropped the chorous of ‘Jungle Boogie’.  And in a weird way it was oddly alluring.

Crowe Magnon Man

I can’t get enough of Russell Crowe. He moves me in a deep, archetypal way. It’s the same way that Kevin Costner moves me – only deeper. It’s as if Crowe’s resonant, chunky energy comes off the screen into my being. It sounds sexual, I know, but it’s beyond that. My love for Russ is spiritual. I can only hope that, like Costner before him, Russell takes to directing himself – ideally in a movie he wrote himself, having also designed all of his own hair styles. Russell – I salute you. You make me happy. You make me stronger. You fly the flag for portly men with bad hair. You mumble incoherently but with great self-belief. Watching you makes me stronger.

It’s been a while – I know

Firstly to update on the free fruit at work situation I detailed in my last post: I am now regularly eating a banana in the workplace on most days.  Bananas are easy as they make no noise and so I don’t feel too self-concious as I eat at my desk.  I’ve had a couple of apples but these have not worked so well on account of the noise.  Given that the office is totally silent at all times the sound of my crunching through a Braeburn seems deafening and I can almost feel the annoyance of my co-workers.

Yet I grow more daring every day (I even made coffee in the cafetier the other day).  With another four weeks to go on my contract who knows what acts of bravery I make undertake.  Will I perhaps go into the managing director’s office, sit in his fancy leather chair and spin around in it like a loon?  Will I get up the courage to open a window when it gets a bit warm?  Will I ever feel comfortable enough to eat a sandwich at my desk?

No one can say my life isn’t interesting.

Banana drama

I spent my first day in my new job today. They have free fresh fruit, which I found very exciting and intensely humane. Sadly, as a temp, I felt too lowly to be worthy of the fruit and simply looked at it longingly as I filled my mug with water.

Also no one else ever seems to go to the toilet. I can’t recall seeing anyone leave their desk the whole day, even at lunch time, when then all just whipped out packed lunches and munched while watching You Tube. As for me, I’m not ashamed that I felt the call of nature several times during the day. I fear that with their seemingly infinte bladder capacity they may not understand why I keep leaving my desk. Perhaps they think I am a heroin addict off for a shot of skag in the lavs every couple of hours.

My mission for the week is twofold: firstly to refuse to buckle to peer pressure and continue drinking as much water as I feel I need. Secondly: to develop sufficient feelings of professional self-worth to openly take and eat one of the free bananas. The challenge is set.

Search for the perfect cup of Joe

I am the advertiser’s dream.  I am a consumer actively looking for a brand to be loyal to.  For months I’ve tried lots of different kinds of coffee and I’ve still not found ‘the one’.  Actually, that’s not true.  ‘The One’ is the coffee produced by the Red Roaster Coffee House in James Street, Brighton.  Sadly I live in Wolverhampton and the best I can get here is Somerfield Indonesian Sulawessi (strength guide 4), which is not great.  Maybe it’s my own fault for letting it cool too long.  It looks like a pot of water that’s been used to clean painbrushes in and it tastes like something you’d find in a mug left sitting on a table in Starbucks.  Caz star rating 2 out of 5.

Jimmy Dean’s gligs

Greetings, sweet blog reader. I hope your day has been fruitful, if not in terms of actual fruit then in terms of something else succulent, whether that be in the realm of sport, leisure or business.

I’m wearing sunglasses in bed – this is to invoke a renegade frame of mind while I do my daily writing quota. I figure only a renegade would wear sunglasses in bed. I’ve only got my 40 watt bedside lamp on and not the main light – I can hardly see a thing – I bet this is exactly the kind of thing known renegade James Dean used to do. Before his renegade ways ended his life, of course. I will bear this in mind when I pop down to make a cup of tea shortly and take the glasses off before I tackle the stairs in semi-darkness. It’s all very well to be renegade but it’s a lot easier to do it when you’re still alive.

Not that you care but I’ve spent the last week watching three entire series of Sex and the City. Now every time I close my eyes I see Sarah Jessica Parker’s face. Still – better to be haunted by her face than by her Lovely. Which reminds me – I’ve still not managed to catch a whiff of said Lovely.

‘Lovely’ easily beats Robbie Williams’ offering of ‘Rudebox’ as winner of the worst product name award. Justin Timberlake came close with ‘Sexyback’ but, for me, nothing beats ‘What’s that smell?’, ‘Why, it’s Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely’.

In other news, I did feel rather sorry for Rowan Williams the other day, when he wandered into that whole Sharia law controversy. I’ve never felt sorry for an Archbishop before. Given that previous holders of his job have been beheaded he probably found the whole thing rather stressful.

I wonder who the Archbishop of Canterbury’s line manager is. Is it God? I can’t decide whether He would be more or less harsh than the average boss. On the one hand there’s the omni-presence (no chance of stealing any stationary or messing about on YouTube of an afternoon) and on the other there’s the unconditional love. Not much beats unconditional love.

I wonder if Rowan Williams submitted a CV when he applied for the job of Archbishop of Canterbury and what skills he would have listed on there. ‘I have extensive experience of communication with Our Lord, having reguarly received his instruction during prayer’. ‘I am looking for a position as spiritual leader of a nation and feel particularly suited to the Church of England as I am English and have recently relocated to Canterbury’. ‘My faith is very strong and I have applied it in a wide range of situations ranging from national disasters to personal disappointments.’

It makes me glad each and every day that the newspapers aren’t openly criticising me for voicing controversial opinions, like they are the Archbishop. That’s the kind of stress I can do without. Even if I am a renegade like James Dean, only alive and careful on the stairs.

Purrr-lease

Come on, The Daily Mail. Lily Allen’s tights do not a story make. Thanks to the wonders of the Internet and the dedication of men with cameras, I’ve seen Britney’s actual interior lady parts. A glimpse of 70 denier hosiery does not cut the mustard. You’re going to have to do better than that. Can’t you get images from inside Natasha Kaplinsky’s colon or something?

Facebook face off

Facebook is trying to degrade and humiliate me and I’ve finally had enough. ‘What celebrity bootay do you have?’ said a sign on the profile of one of my friends. Having never before had the opportunity to complete a questionnaire on behalf of my arse I immediately started filling in the questions. They were fairly obvious, things like: ‘What do men say when they see your ass?’ to which I could provide three responses ‘DAMNNNN’, ‘Nice ass!’ or ‘Baby got back’. I struggled to differentiate between the first two whilst the third would clearly put me in some sort of ‘big ass’ category. But, given that I was answering on behalf of my buttocks, I suppose simplicity was in order.

Once complete I eagerly awaited the results. What famous woman would I be told my backside was like? I could hardly wait. Sadly, however, I never found out. In order to access the results I had to invite some of my friends to take the test. To do this I had to agree to Facebook sending them an email, which included a picture of my face, underneath which was written ‘I need you help to unlock the truth about my bootay’ Surely, the only purpose of such a thing can be to humiliate and degrade. Outraged, I refused to send the email, hoping to prove to myself that I am not actually Facebook’s bitch.

I realise it’s too little, too late – given the hours I’ve already wasted thinking up amusing status updates and selecting satisfactory profile pictures but I felt some sort of resistance was called for. Even if, as a result, my arse will never know whether it is a ‘Beyonce Butt’, a ‘Shakira Posterier’ or a ‘J-Lo Payload’.

Don’t tell the RSPB

I’ve been feeding the birds of late.  In Mary Poppins feeding the birds costs tuppence a bag.  In today’s economy the cheapest bag I can find is £1.75 at Wilko.  But I’m willing to fork out for the birds.  I want them to think of me as a kindly human aunt, always ready with a smile and a strip of bacon fat.  I even bought a fat ball (£1 for a pack of four) for them, having once heard on Blue Peter that birds need fat in the winter.

It’s not quite turning out as I imagined though.  They are getting through the seeds in the feeder at an unbelievable rate.  I’ve gone through 3 half kilo bags of bird food in the past month and I’m having to pick my way down the garden in my slippers to refill the feeder on a weekly basis. 

What were they eating before I came along?  Were they all just starving quietly in a bush somewhere?  And if they are so very hungry then why, oh why, have they not even touched the fat ball?  There’s not a single peck mark on it – just a light covering of mould.  I was forced to take it down and throw it behind the shed.  Perhaps a fox will see past the mould to the fatty goodness inside. 

I don’t want to get into feeding the foxes as well though.  Feeling responsible for the birds is bad enough.  I was away for a few weeks at Christmas and when I got back the bird feeder was empty. I felt so guilty.  I’d let the birds down.  Plus the massive group of sparrows who normally spent the entire day camped out on the feeder were suddenly absent.  It appeared I was responsible for the loss of a whole generation of young sparrows. My conscience gave me a very hard time. 

Luckily the sparrows came back.  Or maybe some new sparrows came into town to fill the gap left by the ones I killed. Either way the feeder is being drained again and it’s back to Wilko for me. 

Back in the grip of the man

I can’t hide any longer. I need cash. Financial circumstances have driven me out of my burrow back into the harsh, brightly lit environment of the job hunter’s world. In the job hunter’s world I am expected to be ‘highly motivated’, ‘vibrant’ and ‘passionate’. Or at least pretend to be.

I’d forgotten how upsetting the language is. Combing through job adverts this morning has given me an inferiority complex and a headache. I keep forgetting that I am highly qualified and competent. In the face of job-advert-speak I feel unmotivated and fraudulent. I keep forgetting that no one is ‘highly motivated’ when they are working for someone else. How many people do feel ‘passionate’ about getting out of bed on a cold morning and going in to work? Aren’t we all just trying to pay the mortgage?

I suspect that the people who write the ads are taking the opportunity to get a little vengeance on the rest of the human race by making them feel inferior for not being ‘thrusting’. ‘Are you a dynamic, passionate marketer with a flair for design who thrives under pressure and loves a tight deadline?’ they write, knowing damn well that they aren’t, so can’t very well expect anyone else to be. They’re just a person who needs to pay the bills and sometimes gets anxious about losing their job. And aren’t we all.

I am trying not to succumb. I will not give in to job-search-speak. I will never describe myself and ‘passionate’ about something I am not passionate about. No matter how much money is on offer if I do.

Galway

In a moment of revelation last night I decided that I quite fancy moving to Galway.  I’m not quite sure yet if this is the plan of a madman (madwoman) or of a genius.  Time will tell.

Back on the bike

Who needs crack when you can ride a bike through a mildly busy suburb?  I’ve just got back from going to the supermarket on my bike and I’m off my face on adrenalin.  It’s simultaneously the scariest and most fun thing ever to ride in traffic.  And it’s not even like I’ve been on the dual carriageway.  Shleping up evil 40% gradient hill on the way back was no fun though, especially since my backpack was full of wine.  Still, you get the wine up the hill and when you are at the top, you drink it.

The snake

Lambrini are advertising their product using the Northern Soul tune ‘The Snake’.  The song is about a woman who takes a travelling snake (a kind of hobo, if you will) into her home after finding him thin and cold in the street.  She takes care of the snake and he gets better.  Then one day he bites her on the face, having resorted to his true nature i.e. a snake.

Having drunk Lambrini regularly for several months as a student I can confirm that drinking it is rather like being bitten on the face by a snake.

On the road again

As a child I owned a bike, which at the time I thought was a BMX but looking back realise was not a BMX, it just had plastic covers on the handlebars that made me think it was a BMX. Anyway, I called the bike Speedy and I would ride it around and around the back garden at high speed. I was allowed to ride it on the pavement at the front of the house but I was only allowed to go about 500 yards fro m the house in either direction which prevented me ever getting up a lot of speed. So I churned up the lawn instead.

Today, aged nearly thirty, I rode a bike once again. Still not a BMX and to be honest I’m still not entirely sure how the gears work (it has 16 for god’s sake, how can anyone need so many gears, Speedy had none and we did fine) but I rode that mother across a common, up a hill, through a country park, down a really massive hill, across a dual carriageway and it was all good. I’m not sure I will ever have the nerve to ride on the dual carraigeway but you never know. Once more I know the thrill of cycling. Speedy 2 and I are going to have great times. Now I just need to work out why there is a horrible squeaking noise when I apply the back brake.

Also, in bird watching news: I saw a nuthatch and a buzzard today at Baggeridge Country Park. There is a flock of sparows hogging the bird feeder in the garden and the fat ball I hung in a tree three weeks ago is still completely spherical – what is so unappetising about the fat ball?

Under pressure

Today I am still reeling from my discovery that people will pay money to put a small picture of, say, a poodle on a lead on their friend’s Facebook page.  Those Facebook guys are geniuses.  I would love to have been in on the meeting when an executive stood up and pitched that one: “people *will* pay to put drawings of toilet rolls on their friend’s pages, trust me, we can charge a dollar and they will pay”.

Those Facebook guys deserve every penny they make.

Failed horticulturalist

Okay.  I’ve been on my spiritual odyssey for two months now.  Time for a progress report – here are some highlights.  I still can’t spell odyssey.  I’ve stopped reading newspapers.  I’ve started eating fish.  I’ve given up dairy.  I’ve re-discovered peanut butter.  I’m more determined than ever to keep chickens at some point.  I’m not smoking anymore.  I’ve made a scene at an important event.  I’ve decided never to stop myself having chips if I want chips.  I’ve started using phrases I learnt off Alan Sugar.  I’m getting a slight Wolverhampton accent. I’ve bonded with the cat.  I’ve mown the lawn twice.  I’ve put the bins out on the right day three times.   I’ve seen what I want my next hairstyle to look like.   I’ve realised that Friends is actually quite good.  I’ve been freaked out by an Ingmar Bergman film.  I’ve been to the postbox twice.

Cheesy compromises

So.  I’ve been in Wolvo for four weeks.  I’ve managed to find a rye bread dealer, several shops sell alternative milk products and aside from not being able to buy aubergines at midnight I’m surviving very well indeed.  I’m finding it very hard to maintain my attempted veganism when it comes to eating out but that wouldn’t have been easy in London either.  And I don’t think the occasional bit of goat’s cheese will harm anyone.

I’m settling in nicely: the cat seems to have accepted me, I’ve washed the curtains and seem to be getting a grip on when the bin men come.  I had a slight set back on the horticultural front when a freak wind blew over the flimsy plastic greenhouse I was starting all my crops in, destroying them all.  But I’m not going to let this get me down – I’m going to re-sow them tonight.  Only this time I’m going to put down some newspaper, bring the compost inside, pour myself a large whisky mac and do my gardening indoors while watching Peep Show.

Well then

When I left Wolverhampton, aged eighteen, with nothing but a place at university and a cheese slice with a shonky handle donated by my mother, I swore I would never come back.  To the eighteen-year-old me Wolverhampton meant comfort-eating cheap Cheddar by the pound, having really really dry frizzy hair that sat in a triangle around my fat little face and spending the majority of my time wearing a deeply unflattering lurid green jumper my Dad rejected for being a bit too loud.  I was aware that there were such things as joy and glamour in the world: I watched Moonlighting every week, mesmerised by the awesome beauty of Cybil Shepard.  But no joy or glamour seemed to be coming my way.

And yet today I woke up in Wolverhampton, in the very room in which I spent so many hours fantasizing that I owned a silky night gown like Cybil Shepard’s instead of the pink nylon one I had that was a bit tight across the shoulders and which, for reasons best left unexplored, my Dad took to wearing to cover his modesty when he burst into our room at night to tell us off for talking too loudly and drowning out the Book at Bedtime on Radio 4.

But I’ve learnt some things while I’ve been away.  Firstly that it is possible to make a human being pay over three pounds for a cup of coffee, but that’s besides the point.  I have also learnt that I do actually have cheekbones, they just weren’t keen on all that fat I was eating and decided to lay low until I learnt that cheese was not the answer.  I’ve also learnt that you can actually buy a silky night dress in many high-street stores, you don’t (contrary to my firm belief during the 80’s) have to wait until you are magically transported to another universe in which, like Cybil, you are running a detective agency with Bruce Willis, spending each day engaged in extremely verbose flirting and being filmed in soft-focus.  And finally I’ve learnt that, hey, I am the god damn joy and glamour around these parts.  Wolverhampton has never been so lucky – I’m back in town with cheekbones, a silky night dress and a firm concept of how much I am prepared to pay for a coffee.

Goodbye the Smoke

This is my last day in London after six glorious years of Tube tetchiness and Oxford Street misanthropy. I have a very slight fear that I’m so accustomed to the ridiculous level of ‘facilities’ London has that I might not be able to survive in Wolverhampton. What if I can’t find rye bread? Will I ever taste sushi again? Do they even have Rice Dream in the Midlands?

This self-absorbed worry about ‘facilities’ is one of the reasons I want to leave London – because I have become a pampered, Oyster-card waving, pavement-bar-drinking child who (to quote a generic Yorkshire man) ‘doesn’t know I’m born’. I don’t need falafel at midnight to feel good about my life. British people did perfectly well, and even won a war, without access to authentically made Miso soup. Feeling a bit sick and wrong handing over money to a landlord who won’t allow me to put up coat hooks even though I pay him five hundred pounds each month does not by itself give life any sort of meaning.

And when I’m in the Penn branch of Spar two weeks from now, in the milk section, staring uncomprehending at a jar of Marvel sitting where the soya and rice milk alternative products would be located in a London shop I hope I will remember that.

And so it begins

So then. I left my job on Thursday. Five years of captivity and I am back in the wild. People have warned me that I may succumb to depression, a feeling of emptiness and lack of meaning in my life. So far, however, far from sliding into ennui, I have in fact been almost euphoric. I’ve sipped Earl Grey in the afternoon, I’ve had a series of enormous lie-ins, I’ve spent several hours lying on the floor in my room looking at the cherry blossom tree outside my window and I’ve watched seven classic episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine back to back. Life doesn’t get any better than this.

God damn it’s good being unemployed.

There I was, feeling guilty because I keep putting organic waste into the normal bin and not the recycle bin.  And then I found the Lakeland Catalogue.  And then I didn’t feel so bad.

For example, the ‘avocado scoop‘ – a special tool to remove avocado flesh from the skin.  Surely that tool most households already have known as the ’spoon’ has got this job pretty much covered.  Oh, okay, so the ’scoop’ also has serrated bits across the middle to slice the avocado as it scoops.  But surely this task could carried out by a ‘knife’.

And let’s look at the ‘fruit and vegetable cushion‘.  Does veg really need a cushion?  What are we doing making our bananas more comfy when people are dying of starvation.

Now I’m not saying that the people who run Lakeland are bad in anyway.  They’re just making a living. And they are a succesful company, so there must be a demand for these items.  And I have to ask myself if deep down inside I do acutally think that my salad draw might possibly be a bit cold for my delicate little kiwi fruits and if maybe I should buy them some special woollen jackets to keep them from catching a chill.

World at War Update

It’s all over.  Just the ‘making of’ documentaries left.  The end of a box set is a difficult time.  I’ve been looking around to try and get interested in a new box set.  I was looking at the final series of Six Feet Under but I realised I’m not ready to move on yet – I want to hold on to the great memories I had with the World at War.  Those great times in the Battle for the Atlantic when I though I was going to hate the episode about U-boats but it turned out to be the best ever!  And when Olivier says ‘Soviet’ like he is a Russian.  And ‘Wehrmacht’ like a German. I miss you, World at War.

The Costner limit

I am strangely fascinated by Kevin Costner.  I’m not going to go into the details of it but, to cut a long story short, sometimes I feel compelled to watch films he stars in. I will say this now and you won’t believe me: Kevin Costner has a strange and wonderful power.

I still haven’t quite worked out what it is about him that I find so compelling.  Perhaps it is the total stillness of his face, even in moments of high emotion.  Perhaps it is the obvious ease with which he rides a horse.  Perhaps it’s the really atrocious hairstyles he has in the majority of his films.  I may never know for sure.

I got the Costner urge this weekend and watched Wyatt Earp and the Untouchables.  Over five hours of Kev.  As a result I feel, as always, very positive, extremely creative and bursting with energy.  See – I told you he was powerful.

I almost watched Dances with Wolves last night (over three hours, directed by Costner, produced by Costner, starring Costner with additional Costner voiceover on a lot of scenes) but something deep inside held me back, as if protecting me from forces too strong for me to handle.  As a result I have become aware that I have a Costner limit. And that limit must be respected.

Post Ray high

Tonight’s episode of Ray Mears’ Wild Food was phenomenal.  Without doubt it is the finest television programme of the last ten years.  Tonight he showed us how to forage for berries with a special ‘claw’, stalk and kill a deer and make tartlets in the wood.  He even had a tiny camping rolling pin and whisk.   It’s never less than a spiritual experience watching that programme and I urge all humans to watch it.  BBC2, Wednesday 8pm.

Worship David

The secret of a good birthday:

1) Watching David Bowie performances from the seventies and eighties

2) Going to an esoteric bookshop

3) Having a drambuie on waking

More festive injuries

One blood blister right hand from cracking walnuts under the influence of sherry.

Small burn left forefinger from roasting marshmallows on too short a kebab stick.

Tenderness of sole of right foot caused by treading heavily on a spikey pilates ball while excited about hot mince pies with ice cream.

Sore lungs from the smoking of mugwort in attempt to deal with emotional stress of Christmas dinner roast potatoes taking two hours to brown properly.

Seasonal Injury 2

Second seasonal injury sustained.  Whilst peeling an orange I’ve rammed a sliver of peel down the back of one of my fingernails.  And it hurts quite a lot.

Bus DJ

Phones with speakers were a very poor idea.  As a result children with very bad music taste have become bus DJs.  I’m used to offensive music in shops and in bars that let ‘ladies’ in for free before eleven but I’m not happy about being forced to listen to Akon album tracks through a tiny tinny speaker.

Yet I, and everyone else on the buses, would never go so far as to ask the offending youth to turn the volume down, let alone take the phone from him or her, shout ‘R and B is rubbish. Admittedly I like a couple of Sean Paul tracks but in the main you have to agree it’s really not very good.  And Pharrell is really over-hyped, that Gwen Stefani thing he did with the sample from the Sound of Music was just really bad – no two ways about it’ and throw the phone out of the window. Because we fear we would be stabbed.

It has to be accepted: the kids of today are just a lot harder than we were.  And they like really bad R&B.  The bus DJ is here to stay.   Soon R Kelly will be as synonymous with public transport as that nasty municipal carpet they cover the seats with.

Getting jazzy in my old age

I used to be so averse to jazz in my youth.  Now I’m nearing thirty I’m really quite into it.  I’m not sure whether this signifies anything but I thought I should share it with you.

I am still not a criminal

And if love persecution wasn’t enough I was walking along the street in East Dulwich today, having some really deep thoughts about the nature of the universe when a woman said ’smile, love’ at me in a really patronising way. This has happened to me several times in my life.

Comments about me looking miserable distress me. They make me doubt my own face. Can a woman not walk down a road having a mildly revelatory thought about the meaning of existence anymore? I mean, for God’s sake I was wearing a six foot long multi-coloured scarf and had a moose brooch on my lapel – surely these are sufficiently light hearted to assuage any fears she may have had about me being depressed. Maybe I just have a really sour face.

I am not a criminal

Yeah – I find Gene Hackman attractive.  Okay?  Yes – I do know he’s an old man.  And yes – I realise he’s not even a particularly good-looking old man.  But I like him.  Why must I be persecuted for this?  Is it such a crime?  Is there anything wrong in having a bit of a secret perve on him in the Poseidon Adventure when he’s an angry vicar in a polo neck? Open your minds people.  Let Gene in.

McGann and machine

More celebrity news. On Sunday I saw Joe McGann, star of late nineties ITV sit-com ‘The Upper Hand’ using a cash machine in Crouch End.  He took out so much cash that the machine went out of service, allowing me to say to disappointed would be cash machine users: ‘I’ll tell you who broke that cash machine – it was Joe McGann, star of the late nineties ITV sit-com ‘The Upper Hand’ .  Oh, how they laughed…

Even Gollums get the blues

Whilst waiting for a train in Finsbury Park station today I saw the actor who played Gollum in the Lord of the Rings.  He looked extremely glum, no doubt dreading going back to work in the Mines of Moria for months now that they’re making ‘The Hobbit’, chasing sodding Bilbo around in the dark all day everyday.  All he wants is to get his ring back and he has to scramble about all over Middle Earth getting more and more mentally disturbed, chasing a short-arse in a cape.  And we think office jobs are crap…

Mugwort results

I have realised I never posted the results of my mugwort experimentation.  Apologies to anyone who’s been waiting with baited breath for this extremely interesting information.

I decided to make a ‘dream pillow’ from the mugwort.  This essentially amounts to putting it into the foot of a pair of old tights, tieing it off and putting it inside one’s pillow.  Having done this I sniffed heartily at the ‘dream pillow’ for several minutes before falling asleep.

Whilst my dreams that night were not noticeably more lucid, one did feature a small smokey diamond mouse with tiny black eyes and cute little whiskers which sparkled with an almost holy light and gave me a sensation of extreme peace and wellbeing for the entire of the following day.

Not bad for eighteen pence’s worth of mugwort and the toe of some old tights.  I would suggest to anyone attempting to make their own ‘dream pillow’ that they check that the tights have been laundered before committing their mugwort to them to save having to decant it into a fresh pair upon realising that the heady mugwort smell is tainted with strong undertones of ‘musty foot’.

Lifetime ambition achieved

I went to a rather pumping nightspot in Brighton last weekend to attend an extremely ‘phat’ night of pumping drum and bass.  I was wearing a black zip up jacket, a demin skirt, a dark green beanie hat and some black fingerless gloves.  As the night wore on myself and my dancing companion decided to move to a spot near the side exit to get some of the fresh sea air.

We stood in the aforementioned spot, eating fruit pastilles and generally enjoying the really rather excellent and extremely intense tunes.  A lady came over and asked me if I was selling ecstasy.  It appeared that she had mistaken me for a lady drug dealer.  I explained that I was infact just wearing a beanie hat and we both laughed at the amusing mix up.  Secretly, however, I was extremely pleased as I have always rather liked the idea of being mistaken for a criminal of some kind.

I am tempted to get a black and white stripey jumper and develop a ‘cat burglar’ look for the New Year.

Owls, owls, owls

I’m just really into owls at the moment.  Long-eared, short-eared, barn and tawny.  What super winged fellows they are.  And not at all sinister.  David Lynch is wrong – owls are alright by me!

Advent of injury

First seasonal injury sustained:

13:48 December 2nd 2006

Tore a significant number of layers of tissue off my top lip whilst attempting to cut special metallic Christmas sticky tape with my teeth.

The humanity

Today I sat next to Jim as he edited our second podcast on his agonisingly slow mac.  Even the smallest action made the cursor turn into the ‘bad rainbow wheel of death’ that signalled the computer was busy and needed some time to get its head together.  I tried to knit in order that the time wasn’t wholly unproductive but the tension got into the wool and so the resultant section of scarf will be a lot more taught than the rest.

I am listening to the Moonlight Sonata as I type this and it’s making it all seem somehow really poignant and a bit tragic.  If I concentrate hard enough I think I may produce a tear.

World at War update

Episode Nine

America have joined in now, so I think that the Allies stand a better chance.

It would be something of an understatement to say that Stalingrad was a tough battle. The phrases ‘the Germans were eating raw horse flesh’ and ‘every seven seconds a German soldier was killed’ and ‘the city was bombed continuously, for three days and nights, by the entire German Air Force on the Eastern Front’ say it all, really. Those Russians are plucky fellows and that’s for sure.

Britain haven’t been doing a lot in the last few episodes. Presumably we’re just getting on with being bombed and listening to Vera Lynn. But our day will come.

Mugwort experimentation

Tonight I shall be investigating the effects of mugwort on dream vividity and recall.

Squashes

I am going to grow some squashes in the spring.