little.red.boat.

Thursday, January 31, 2002

New theory.

Friendships, or relationships, whatever, should last either two days or forever.

It's the 'two days or forever' theory, and it's building the more I think on it.

If you don't know them after two days, or two dates, whatever, then what more are you going to learn? If you have to learn to love someone, then the bits you don't love will resurface and bite you at some point. So, Either you click or you don't, surely?... In relationship terms, if you have to work for more than two days to try and make them love you, then is the love you achieve ever going to be whole-hearted? If you have to spend two days working out whether you want to be with this person or not, and you've only just met them, then surely the answer is no, no, not really.

the idea's just forming.
And maybe would be dispelled by someone pointing out that i'm an old cynic. Or a hopeless romantic lost. But we'll leave that be.

I'll build on it later.

Thursday, January 31, 2002 |

Oh God, but I need something more to do with my life.

I start work again on saturday, and not a second too soon.

Do you know what I did today? I woke up. I made coffee. I sewed things. And while I sewed I watched six episodes of er and two of sex in the city. I made carbonara. For just me. I said goodbye to a good friend in my own mawkish and reluctant way.

I'm So f******* bored.

Thank you for listening.

Thursday, January 31, 2002 |

Wednesday, January 30, 2002

Incidentally. Last night I was having dinner with someone that almost bought Sir Jimmy Saville's Camper van, once.

He didn't actually buy it. But he did have a look around.

He said it was very nice, but a bit pricey.

Wednesday, January 30, 2002 |

We were talking, this evening, about airport announcements. Prompted by some thing or other. I’ve never heard a funny name. Not over a tannoy. I do know someone called ‘Dick Toy’ (let’s see how many search engine requests That gets me). But I’ve never heard his name over a tannoy.

But in Monastir airport, they do have the best tannoy in the world. Before every announcement, good or bad, it goes…bam bam baaahhhhh! In exactly the same way that a 50’s horror movie would every time Count Dracula came on. A serious, descending chord build-up, and then a nice-as-pie woman’s voice;
Bam bam Bahhhhhhh! ladies and gentlemen, your flight is delayed by an hour and a half…or
bam bam baahhhhh the duty free shop is open for all your consumer needs or
bam bam baahhhhhhhh the prince of darkness is coming for your soul! Succumb to him! You must! Nyeaa ha ha ha ha ha!

Except in french. Then Arabic.
But I don’t speak French. Or Arabic. So I have no idea what she was saying. It was probably something like that.

In a favourite moment recently, I was sitting in Bologne airport alone, at the gate, listening for my flight call.

The tannoy system flicked on;

‘hammana, hammani, hammila, pesto, lasagne!’she said. Ish. Vile stereotypes aside. I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian either. But my point, to continue…. hammana hammana hammana, linguini, risotto, anti-pasti, hammana’ she carried on. Long announcement? It seemed so…hammana ah! Ah! Oooooh! Ah!Ah!Ah!!…. Ah!!!! I’m sorry, I don’t like to be terribly British, but some woman seems to be ‘having her moment’ over the tannoy. Has no-one else noticed?oooooooh! Ahhhh! Ciii! Ciiii! Mio Dio, ciiii!!!!!! Colour me shocked. aaaahhhhhhh!!!!!! ………(pause)
Hammmana hammana, haamaani….

I was staring hard into my book. As a proper girl should.

and then I realised that the café staff were looking way over my shoulder.
and so was everyone else.
The TV was on in the corner of the room.

There weren’t people having sex over the tannoy after all.
Which is a shame. Because that sounds like a great job….

Wednesday, January 30, 2002 |

another evening saying goodbye.

trying to fit all the conversations you haven't finished, and the ones you haven't had, into a couple of hours, the only couple of hours you'll be only the two of you, is too hard.

I hate saying goodbye.

Wednesday, January 30, 2002 |

Tuesday, January 29, 2002

Being without electricity in a tent is expected. You don’t get electricity in a tent. Not unless you have a really posh tent. With electricity.

Being without electricity in a romantic hide-away is lovely. You have a roaring log fire, scented candles and it’s romantic. And lovely.

Being without electricity in a field is not uncomfortable. Especially if you’re a sheep. And don’t have the opposable thumbs necessary to operate most electrical equipment anyway.

Being without electricity when you’re alone in a not-yet familiar house, with a force 10 gale whipping against the walls, a phone that keeps threatening to cut out, and many heaters (but all electric…) isn’t so good.

It’s a bit scary.

You don’t quite realise how used to electricity you are.

-Every time you walk into a new room, you flick the switch. Then you flick it back again, cursing.

-You turn on the kettle. Turn it off again, and feel stupid.

-You feel it’s a bit quiet, so you turn on the radio. Then you turn it off. Then you throw it on the floor.

-You feel hungry. So you get the bacon out of the fridge. Then you put the bacon back in the fridge. Then you stick your head in the sink.

After twelve hours yesterday, after the storm, the power came back on. Hoorah!
But the television aerial was broken.
Hurroo.

(So if anyone watched the second part of the detective drama that was on on ITV on Sunday/Monday, ‘frost’ I think it was, can someone tell me whodunnit?)

So to sum up, the message is this;

love your lightbulb.
drink a toast to your toaster.
say ‘rah!’ for radio.
your fridge is your friend.

Tuesday, January 29, 2002 |

Having picked up my post as soon as I got back, I carried it around in my mouth while I did the rounds, saying hi to people, (or rather ‘hhhu.’ With three envelopes in the mouth) grabbing my bags and taking them to my flat.

Great.
I got my post.
And the really important application form in one of the envelopes now has bite marks on it.
Great

Tuesday, January 29, 2002 |

Saturday, January 26, 2002

Okay, having said I'm going away, I can't sleep. But I'd like to point out that;

a: I just really hurt myself trying to open a first aid box

and

b; I forgot, my mother, who refers to the food people cooks by their name, and then the foodstuff - 'would you like some lovely anna-pasta/some meg-cheesecake?' - today offered me lunch cooked by the winter volunteer here. His name is Dick.

'Anna? Can I get you a bowl? I know you'd hate to miss out on curried Dick-soup!'

I had to explain why I was laughing.

I'm now going away for a few thingeys. days. I'll get better, I hope.

Saturday, January 26, 2002 |

Young as I am, I have a certain self-knowledge.
I know when seeing a lot of someone is good, and when it isn’t.

The thing is, when you’ve been shutting a certain feeling out of your life for some time, you notice all the more when you feel it again.

I’ve been watching too much television.

I wouldn’t notice but, in my break from television, working too much, spending too much time socialising, my knowledge of how television manipulates me and how I manipulate television have somehow been cemented in me.

Particularly detective things. I’ve been reading books, see. About detectives. And detective dramas. And I’m a grown-up woman and I won’t be manipulated anymore.

Or so it seems. Tonight, trying to calmly inhale a detective drama on the TV, not only was I struck by my usual reaction after 15 minutes – “Oh! Oh, I see! It’s ……! Because of the ……! And they did it this way, ………!” - (I swear, I could work with most of the script-writing teams of British Crime dramas. But then, so could 60% of the British TV watching population. They’re a little obvious. Anyway. Not only was I… Ooh, I’m still in brackets.)

–Not only was I struck by that, but by an impulse to phone ITV and say “Oh, come on, the body wouldn’t look like that! Not if it was lying in that position! Not after four days, ,with rigor mortis and movement of blood! And what was a coffin doing at the crime scene? That’s just silly!”

Surely this is too much knowledge for someone like me to think they know. Surely?

I’m moving away from television. We shouldn’t see each other for a while. Maybe, when it feels right, we’ll try again.
At a comfortable basis.
Softly.
Maybe Daytime TV.

I’ll be back in the middle of next week. I’ll test the water then.

Saturday, January 26, 2002 |

Friday, January 25, 2002

There’s suddenly lots of weather again, so I can’t leave the island as planned, because the ferry’s gone back to bed.

It comes up so suddenly sometimes. The wind is whipping around the building, through the cracks in the doors and down the chimneys. There’s no where to get warm. The Atlantic ocean is being thrown against the windows, one bucket at a time, and from this desk I can see the waves crashing over and above the rocks on both sides of the Sound.

And it was so beautifully calm yesterday.

In a way, it’s a bit like being in a snow-dome. Everything’s plodding along, calm and serene and exceptionally beautiful in cold winter light, and then – bang – someone comes along and shakes everything up and it’s all churny and restless and wet.

But not with snow. So not a snow dome. Like a rain-dome.
If that exists. Which I don’t suppose it does. The water would just fall down, all of a sudden, almost as soon as you’d shaken it up, wouldn’t it?

Unless you put glycerine in it maybe. Is glycerine the word I’m looking for?
Gelatin? Silica? No, I think I mean Glycerine. Like a lava lamp.

But being here is not like being in a lava lamp. Not at all. Being here is a bit like a wind tunnel. But wet. Or a washing machine on spin. A cold washing machine. Or in a blender, if the blender was blending ice and rain and wind. A big, cosmic, wind blender.

Or like sitting under a hovercraft.

Or perhaps like being on the moon. If there was rain on the moon. And grass. And sheep.

I suppose in many ways, being here is like being on a really small island in the middle of winter.

Which is not entirely surprising.

Friday, January 25, 2002 |

I’ve just discovered that Steps broke up. In December.

How did I miss that? Did everyone else know? Did I have my head stuck in a christmas pudding at the time?

It may explain the behaviour of the man on the train.

I was sitting opposite this guy, all the way down from Oban to Glasgow, and after a while I realised that, even though I had my own walkman on, I could hear the beat of a different song.

It was coming from the seat opposite me. It was a slow, pop-like drumbeat, coming from the ears of the large, butch, rugby-playing type opposite me. A huge bloke, all sportswear and neanderthal expression, and the strains of young females straining their poor voices in some pap song about losing their boy to their best mate, he was listening to this song. Rapt expression on his face, staring sightlessly out of the window, eyes glazing over, and then one after another, fat teardrops started to roll down his face.

He was crying. I thought he was crying about the content of the song, but now it strikes me that he may have been crying for Steps.

Anyway, I felt duly sorry for him, and went back to my paper. Then, at the end of the song, he flicked back a track, on his fancy CD walkman, and played the song again. A bit louder. I felt a little sorry for him again, but straining to hear the jazz playing on my own walkman, I turned it up.

He finished the song. And played it again. Louder.
I turned my walkman up. ‘Nina Simone Shouts the Blues’.
He finished the song. He played it again. A little louder.
He finished the song. He played it again. Louder. Still crying.
I didn’t care anymore. I switched my tape to a spare Thrash Metal one I happened to have in my bag, and pressed play. And near blew my head off, the volume can be a bit wonky, and I hate Metal, but it seemed to work. I couldn’t hear him anymore, and he gave up.

And, not wanting to look like a combatant, I couldn’t take my walkman off, for fear of looking like I’d just been doing it to annoy (which of course, I had, but that’s not the point). So I was forced to listen to Heaving guitars all the way ‘til Glasgow. Or ‘til the tape ran out at least. I’ve never known a longer tape.

I think we both learned something that train journey.
I’m not sure what it was, I'll get back to you on that.
But I think I’d like to start learning lessons from everything. Then my life would be like ‘The Wonder Years’.

And I would be like Fred Savage.

Friday, January 25, 2002 |

I want a trampoline.

Friday, January 25, 2002 |

Some day I think I might reach somewhere and just, maybe, stop.

Just unpack bags and hang pictures and throw away the boxes that hold all the stuff because they're not going to be needed for a good long time.

I'm not sure when that time will be, it's not this year, and almost certainly not next, but at some time. And for some time.

Having been staying in my mother's new house since only the beginning of last week, off and on, I now have to ruun away from even there in a few more days.

To make room for 'the woodworm people'. The woodworm people are coming.
I'm not entirely sure if that sounds more like a laughably ludicrous 70's horror remake,
or absolutely terrifying television for toddlers.
"Hello Kiddies! It's time for the woodworm people!
Ooh, I wonder what Papa Woodworm is doing today?
Look!
He's burrowing into the head of your favorite doll!
And now he's coming out of her eye socket!
Gosh! Papa Woodworm Does look funny doesn't he?"....

Thursday, January 24, 2002

My palms are covered in little pock marks and dried blood. I was going to wash it off, but I'm kind of proud.

I've spent the day learning how to make stained glass things. And I'm bad at it. Bad in a bad way. Not in the other way.

I really suck at it. A great deal. And that's kind of interesting to know. Just when you start to think that you can do anyhthing if you try hard enough, it's nice that something will come along to prove you inept again.

The one thing it demands, more than any other thing, you see, is patience. Patience and a certain meticulousness.
Two then. The two things it demands are patience, and a certain meticulousness. And a calm approach.
The three things... shit. I'll come in again.

Sod it. Because, you see, patience I just don't do. Nor any of those other wussy things. Not in art. I like things that you do fast, or at least with passion. None of this fiddly nonsense.

I don't think my concentration span is long enough. I just get led off easily.

Sometimes,

Thursday, January 24, 2002 |

Note; to the person who found my site looking for 'breasts the size of balloons', what size are the balloons?

Else, how would I know?

Thursday, January 24, 2002 |

Wednesday, January 23, 2002

growing up - the rules
Two nights in my mother’s new house. One day and night of pure silence, no TV, no Radio, no-one to talk to, no idea when the phone would be connected. Basically, one day in hell, in my opinion.

Then a piss-wet day, the radio delivered, the phone connected and anna in little piggy-heaven. But what radio station to listen to?

Radio one? My usual, or used to be, but suddenly really shouty.

Radio two? Or as my sister calls it, ‘slacks’ fm. Alright now and again, but there’s only so far a girl can be amused by smooth voiced geriatrics playing endless soft rock.

Radio three? Tried it, but (comment of an artless soul coming up) after a while all classical music sounded the same, just whining strings, pianos played by people with far too many fingers and no apparent bass lines at all.
Failed miserably in the ‘catchy chorus’ category.

Radio four? They seemed to be talking interminably about haemerrhoids and the best place to put your flowering shrubs.

Radio Scotland? Deediddlydiddly diddly dee, dee diddly diddly diddly… oh, just piss off, will you?

I ended up flicking between the lot of them, never satisfied. But I’m starting to adhere to one more of the rules of being a grown up.
Some of which are as follows;

1. You will suddenly find yourself doing the dishes without thinking about it. And without feeling resentful about it. At all.
   
2. You like gerkins.
   
3. And coleslaw.
   
4. Your usual radio station has become ‘too loud’, and suddenly, you don’t seem to understand the music. The other radio stations, that you always considered played music for people with estate cars and pension schemes, are suddenly playing songs you know and like. So more and more often, you re-tune the radio. In your estate car.
   
5. Days are no longer fuelled by ‘hamburger flavoured puffed wheat snacks’ and improbably flavoured, highly coloured fizzy pop. Like cherryade. You are now powered by harder drugs. Like tea.
   
6. Rebellion is a large slice of cheesecake.
   
7. Midnight is “late”
   

There are more rules, but I shan’t write them now. It’s time for my Ovaltine. And there’s a cooking programme on in 5 minutes…

Wednesday, January 23, 2002 |

Monday, January 21, 2002

Off again for a few days. Knitting convention.

Incidentally. I've been meaning to ask. You know those CD's you bought that seemed a really good idea at the time? 'Fresh hits of '94', 'the best disco alum in the world... ever!', that sort of thing, well, you know, if you don't want them any more, can I have them?

I'm serious. This is an amnesty. I think I'll probably be the only person to dj Most of the disco's next year, and my personal CD collection is wilting...

Well, just thought I'd ask...

Monday, January 21, 2002 |

Something struck me first thing this morning.

Moving from house to house to house, from area to area, I noticed how hard water and soft water affect the skin on my face.

Last night, acting on advice given by the older and wiser, I put toothpaste on something that looked like a pimple on my forehead.
Then toothpaste on something that might have turned out to be a pimple on my chin.
Then, feeling the hard-water affected oily-ness of my nose, I covered the whole damn thing in toothpaste.

This is when I realised I'm glad to be single.

This is perhaps why I'm single. We'll leave that go, for now...

Monday, January 21, 2002 |

note to self;

at one o'clock in the morning, sitting in twelfth century cloisters, half-cut, reading the weekend paper, listening to the rain and smoking the cigarette you've supposed to have given up is a really good place to be.

just wantedd to capture that moment for the next time I'm down.

Monday, January 21, 2002 |

Sunday, January 20, 2002

A gorgeously sunny sunday, with an afternoon spent in my studio with two gorgeous children (for gorgeous read 'cute ones that you can give back to their parents if they start whinging'), topped off, of course, with a warm room, a glass of wine, and 'The Antiques Roadshow'.

I love the antiques roadshow. I shan't pretend to be ashamed, because I'm not. It soothes me. Lots of old ladies falling off their chairs with excitement, experts talking enthusiastically yet monotonally and ungrateful middle-aged office workers desperate to rid themselves of their lovingly given inheritance for as much as they possibly can.

I've been told a good many several times that of all the people in the world to utter the words 'Ooh! I must dash. The Antiques roadshow's on in five minutes...', no-one ever expected the words to tumble frrom my mouth.

And most of the time, I barely even listen to what they say. It's just the constant enthusing about something I care nothing about that helps me to switch off. Televised darts has the same effect. I really miss 'Come Dancing' for similar reasons.

But the best soothing television in the world, the one I could watch, and do, given half the chance, for hours and hours on end, is a good shopping channel. I sit cross-legged on the sofa, switch on, tune in, and slip into a state of peaceful meditation as Barry and Babette with their Huge hair and perfect teeth, take you through the 4-CD package of 'The Best German Country and Western Music in the world - Ever!' over and over and over again, ,enthusing a little more strainedly each time.

bliss.

Sunday, January 20, 2002 |

you're looking at the proud owner of a party penguin.

Sitting around in a big house in the woods, a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned to a nice loud american man that ever since I was quite little, I'd wanted a Mr Frosty.
You know, for margaritas.

For those unaware of the frosty empire, Mr Frosty was a sinister looking snowman, made of brightly coloured plastic. You put ice cubes in his head, turned the large handle on his back, and after some time, long enough to make your wrist ache, at any cost, Voila! - shaved ice came out of his tummy.

Then you poured some sickly sweet syrup over the ice, or juice, or Margarita mix, and enjoyed.

And I've wanted one for ages. And now I have one. Not Mr Frosty, but his little friend, the Party Penguin, instead.

It arrived in the post.
And I'm quite disproportionately excited about it.
Margaritas are on me.

Not literally of course, that would be sticky.

Sunday, January 20, 2002 |

coach story number two - the old lady in the seat in front died
london - darlington, july 1987

That's it, actually. She died. The first time I ever travelled by bus, an old lady died.
I was young, and it was the first time I was ever the seat behind death.

It was the last time I travelled by coach for the next thirteen years. And the next time I did, someone masturbated at me.

but that's another story.

Sunday, January 20, 2002 |

so,this made me laugh. we like toetag, we like him a lot. he funny. and that means a lot, believe me...

Sunday, January 20, 2002 |

Sunday, January 20, 2002 |

So, a long dinner party later, a dinner party that consisted of lots of me being diplomatic, and lots of conversation diversion - "look, the fighting nun!"

I should explain - I got a fighting nun for christmas, a hand puppet, and now it serves as a handy conversation tool for whenever conversation gets too deep, or too difficult, -
"Why is jesus, the socialist, the tool for the conservative bible-ists?" "ooh look! a fighting nun!"
"so, is God the vengeful god of the old testement?",
"look! a fighting nun!"; "So, anna, what's your view of religion?" "Look! a Fighting nun!"

my view of religion is strong, and secret. Apply to te e-mail address for something realistic. Or to the fighting nun.

Sunday, January 20, 2002 |

Saturday, January 19, 2002

Coach story number one – The Wind-up baby Chronicle
glasgow - carlisle, january 2002

I don’t do it on purpose. I don’t climb on a coach and take a good look around, searching for the perfect seat – the seat where I’ll be disturbed and irritated most. The seat opposite the masturbating man, behind the heart attack victim, in front of the loudest apple eater in the world, next to the baby that screams for England, and vomits for fun. I don’t sit in these seats on purpose. I don’t do it intentionally.
It just happens. Call it a skill, call it coincidence, call it the luck of the Irish.

All the above people exist. I find them, or they find me. And we sit together.
For as long as it takes.

This wasn’t a long journey, but as with every journey I’ve been on in the last couple of weeks, the baby was there. That baby. You know the one I mean, It’s really loud.

When they got on the coach it was whimpering, by the outskirts of Glasgow the whimper was an aggressive moan, and by the time we hit the motorway, the howling was coming along nicely. She can only have been about 19 months, and desperately wanting to crawl around or stumble around the coach as best she could. But her parents decided this was a bad, bad idea. They wanted her to stay very still, and very quiet.

I saw the dad fumbling in a bag at his feet. “Ah.” I thought “He’ll be getting a dummy.” I was wrong. It was a two-litre bottle of full strength Coke. Which he tipped to his baby’s lips and made soothing noises as she guzzled down at least 12 teaspoons of sugar and Christ knows how much Caffeine. Two minutes later, she was becoming quite painfully restless, desperate to get off her dad’s knee and run around. So, to persuade her to stay still, he’d give her more Coke, which made her want to run around more, which made her cry much louder, which led to more coke.

I turned up my personal stereo as loud as I could bear, but all the same, from Glasgow to Carlisle I listened to

1. Ella Fitzgerald, with Louis Armstrong and the Wailing Child Orchestra
2. Gorillaz, the high pitched keening remix
3. Dean Martin, the Bawling years, and
4. Bach’s ‘screaming really loudly’ suite, for string and caffeine-baby quartet.

Saturday, January 19, 2002 |

Friday, January 18, 2002

By the way, back in the wonderful world of my personal stereo, we've now come to a decision- or rather she has, I have nothing whatsoever to do with the mind or inner workings of this machine, I just supply her insatiable battery habit - A good decision in many ways, that now she will play both sides of the tape with equal verve, without chewing, squealing or hissy-fitting too much.

Unfortunately, she's playing both sides of the tape At the same time , one backward, one forward, which I can't say adds to the listening pleasure much.
However, looking on the positive side of things, listening to a backward/forward mangled remix of favourite albums is, in a way
1. Time saving and
2. Great value for money. Two sides for the price of one. That sort of thing.

grumble

Friday, January 18, 2002 |

Thursday, January 17, 2002

My retreat into and away from the rat-race is going well, thanks for asking.
So far, I've spent three days in the middle of the woods playing scrabble (and I hate scrabble. with a passion unbounded I hate scrabble)
And a week and a bit in a nice converted chapel that smelled of cow (not particularly a bad thing, all countryside smells of cow) using someone else's studio to scratch glass and burn wood with tools I never knew existed. I am now carrying much extra luggage with etched stuff in, and if it gets any heavier I'll consider selling it on the streets. "alright mate? want to buy a tastefully engraved olive oil bottle?"

And, for a short time, I'm in a city again. And now that I'm here, I really don't want a burger. Or a pizza, Or a kebab. Which is Really very annoying because I know full well that when I get back to the island, that'll be exactly what I'll crave, all I'll want to eat, exactly when I can't.

Thursday, January 17, 2002 |

I've been remembering, sitting in bus stations, on coaches and in waiting rooms, how much people in cities smell. Not all of them, you understand, and not all the time, but certainly proportionally more than smell on islands.

Certainly more people here than I've noticed being smelly on islands. Or maybe it's me that smells. We'll leave that go for a minute.

It's a particular perfume, and a mighty powerful one;
The heady aroma of cheap cigarettes and eau d'last night's binge drinking session.

Once I'd seen it once, I started to notice it all the time: Men, whose job seemed to be wandering round the bus station being smelly. Maybe they don't drink that much, maybe I'm leaping to conclusions. Maybe, if this is indeed their job, they get issued with a whisky-soaked woollen coat as uniform, and the stench of stale tobacco sprayed on as an extra.
Perhaps the higher the rank, the more rank you get to be.

But even if they're not employed for their ability to make eyes water, it does make me wonder if they actually drink at all. Or whether they just splash low-price, high-strength alchohol all over themselves as a status symbol. It would seem that social standing is high if you can actually scorch the hair inside people's nostrils as you cross the other side of the hall.
Perhaps I just don't move in the right circles.

It may well be the same reasoning as having a large beard. As in the proverb, 'The larger the beard, the more chance of finding bits of lunch lurking later to tide you over until dinner.'

So surely; The more strong alcohol you can distribute on your clothing, the more you'll have to suck on in quiet moments to keep you going until the pub opens again. The stronger the alcohol, apparently, the smoother the day will run.

Which is why, I'm pleased to report, in the interests of empathy and investigation, I sit here thoroughly doused in meths, sucking happily on a cuff.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll post more later, but I'm absolutely Dying for a cigarette.

Thursday, January 17, 2002 |

Saturday, January 05, 2002

Freeze-frame ;

Anna on the jetty, with a knapsack on her back, her ticket in her hand and just enough money to get somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Probably.

I'm going away this afternoon. I'm not sure where yet, but when I find out, and get there, I'm pretty sure it won't have a computer.

Not sure when I'll be back either. Pretty soon, either a week or so or a month.

The archives are just over there ->
and down a bit, some of which are worth looking at.

And anyone who'd like to, sign here.
Or mail me, I barely ever get mail.
'part from spam-mail. And I'm finding it hard to form a lasting friendship with the discount golf man.
Tell me who you are, how you are, how your day is going. It's good to offload.


Bisy. Backson.

Need hush and no people.

kisses.

*a
x

Saturday, January 05, 2002 |

Friday, January 04, 2002

Well, I think I may have made into at least one postcard today;

dear all,
having a lovely time, although Scotland is cold and grey. Funny thing happened while we were enjoying the medatitive atmosphere in the 12th century cloisters. A woman shuffled through in slippers and with a towel on her head, carrying two pillows, a stuffed rabbit, a small set of shelves and an extention cord. Must be some form of post-hogmanay ritual!
All our love
Mr and ms R. Tourist.

mmm.

Friday, January 04, 2002 |

Thursday, January 03, 2002

My torch has been smitten. Or smote. Or smited.
Whatever's happened, it doesn't work.

I was talking to a friend just now, said something blasphemous, she glared at me disapprovingly, and when I tried to turn my torch on only minutes later, it was broke, and wouldn't be fixed.
And it's been working fine. For days now.

The last time I got punished for blasphemy was in secondary school. But that wasn't by God. That was by Mr Bennett. Or God through mr Bennett. Who knows. Moving in mysterious ways and that.

I was in a Design and Technology class, why, I'm not sure, apart from the fact that I had to be. Sitting on a high stool, working at a graphics type drwing board, with the class in silence, my bag at my feet, my Blue v-necked jumper knotted around my waist, my stripy shirt undone to a slightly risque second button, and my blue wool pleated skirt falling in perhaps the least flattering fashion ever to just below my knees.

It was a Church of England School, quite strict in that way too, compulsory assembly with hymns and prayers and everything, for everyone apart from the lucky few who had a note from their mum or circumcision to prove they were another religion entirely. Agnostics were counted as 'just being difficult' and had to sing along whether they liked it or not.

So there I am, happily drawing away, when I suddenly feel a tickle on my leg. I look down, and King Spider from the Planet 'Really Big Spider' is making his way up my shin.

In some instinct of ultimate disruption, I stand up, kicking my stool backwards, my desk forwards, my bag flying sideways, and shout, very loudly;

"Jesus H F***ing Christ!"

for no discernable reason that anyone else in the class could see at all. The spider must have been thrown somewhere on the other side of the room, for suddenly, I had no excuse for my outburst, none at all.

"spider."

I said. Unconvincingly. And meekly. And I picked up my bag, and put on my coat, and before the teacher was halfway through speaking I had walked out of the class and into what I knew would be at least 3 weeks detention.

It was. Three bloody weeks. Jesus.

So there you are, torches breaking, weeks of detention or bolts of lightning. You'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you?

Thursday, January 03, 2002 |

I have to read before I go to sleep. Otherwise I can't sleep. So there always has to be a book on the bedside table. Always. Anything will do. Usually.

Having completely run out of books to read, I'm at the moment stuck with one that I found in the tiny library (an entirely donated and eclectic collection) under the stairs.

I should have learnt by now, everytime I approach these pretty little shelves, to turn and walk away, there is nothing for me there.
At The top of the sheves, Theology. In the middle, Feminist Ecological theology. At the bottom Biography and autobiography.

Now, out of those, the choice is clear;
Television.

But when there is no television, I always find myself picking out something from the biography section, or the autobiography section, and hating them and hating them and hating them until I can find something else to read. A cornflakes package or something.

At the moment it's the heart-warming and inspiring story of two almost entirely clueless posh oiks, who throw caution to the wind and go and live on a small island in the hebrides. And there they mingle with the islanders and eat sheeps brains and offal and grow their own vegetables an make a big song and dance out of Everything. Every chapter seems to want to end with;
"So, Aren't we clever?!? Aren't you terribly impressed at us'

And I Know that I'm treading on thin ice here, what with deciding to live and work on a small scottish island, and then writing about it sometimes in a blog kind of way, and then ranting on about how much I hate Autobiography.
But I don't care.
That's completely different. And I do. I Do hate autobiography. I've never read one that I didn't hate, and these people I hate more than most. They're just so bloody Smug.

'Surprisingly, the crop of radishes turned out more robust and plentiful than we could ever have hoped for. Although the soil does have a natural aptitude for them, I must say it was also probably due to the mounds of rotting seaweed we had so painstakingly gathered the previous winter. At the same time as peat-cutting, community social things, entertaining family, all the usual domestic chores, And holding down a teaching job too! My, isn't that amazing!

To celebrate, we invited our most helpful neighbours around for a radish and sheeps-lung fondue, which went simply marvellously! I have never eaten so cheaply and yet so well before or since. Apparently, most of the islanders had never experienced anything like it, which we found unsurprising as most of them are rural and poor, and have never had access to a fondue set before. Anyway, seeing as we don't use it all that often I oftered it on loan to anyone who wanted it, and there were many murmurs of suprise and joy at our generosity. At least, I can assume they were those sorts of murmurs, my gaelic, alas, improves but slowly.'

I hate them. I hate them, I hate them. They're smug and patronising and self-congratulatory and horrible. I hate them. I need to find something else to read. Desperately. Else I will track them down and kill them.

And I know where they live.

Thursday, January 03, 2002 |

incidentally, whoever's out there searching for-
'big nose girls kissing, problem?',
believe me sweets, it's not such a problem at all.

Once you get round to it.

It's the getting round to it.

Oh, don't get me started...

Thursday, January 03, 2002 |

Once upon a time, in south manchester, behind a toy shop and in front of a railway line, I encountered electric genius.

I knew my flatmate was good with electrics and stuff, -hell, that's half the reason I was living with him -, but I never realised he was this good.

He'd moved the video from under the TV, to the shelves with the books and videos on, right next to the sofa.

The video on the shelf. The video on the shelves, next to the sofa, on the other side of the room from the television. I never realised it could be so.
The last barrier, broken down. When you have remote controls for everything else, still you always had to leave the sofa and change that tape manually. And suddenly that was no more.

I'd always assumed the tv and video had to stick together, for moral or emotional support, for love when they needed it most, for communal desicion to strike in the middle of a all-night-john-hughes-a-thon, for the important moments in life.
Apparently not.

Now all we had to do was get the video to decide what we wanted to watch next.
Then, we would be made.


I'm sorry, I've just realised I'm talking shite. I'm going to bed.

Thursday, January 03, 2002 |