little.red.boat.

Friday, February 28, 2003

Just to fill you in...

I've just had the war debate explained to me by Rachel (7 years old), and now she'd like to tell you.
I'll take a basic dictation;

Apparently;

Tony Blair is our Prime Minister, and his friend is called George Bush and he's another Prime Minister of somewhere else and she thinks that he might be the Prime Minister of America.
And they're having an argument with another Prime Minister who they don't like because he's bad, and he's got a moustache, but she can't remember what his name is, or where he's the Prime Minister of.

(Iraq?)

Yes, he's the Prime Minister of Iraq and they don't like him because he's bad. And they're having this argument, and that's basically what a war is, it starts as an argument, and that's what's happening.
There are lots of armies and soldiers and they're practicing, because Tony Blair is cross and he thinks they should have a war against the bad Prime Minister. And his friend thinks so too. But not many other people do.
And Tony Blair says this is the hardest decision he's ever had to make while he's been the Prime Minister, and Rachel thinks that that's probably true, because starting a war is a very difficult decision to make.

It's very difficult to decide to start a war when everyone thinks you shouldn't, and if you look here, there are pictures of people who think that he shouldn't in the newspaper.

And he says that they should because the other Prime Minister with the moustache is a bad man.

And the people that say he shouldn't, say that he shouldn't because there are lots of people in the country, and not all of them are bad like the Prime Minister, and some of them might be really good or really nice, and it's not good to start a war with lots of people just because you don't like their Prime Minister, even if he's bad and has a moustache.

And she thinks that if she was Tony Blair she'd say "No, she doesn't want to start a war after all". But she thinks that if she was Tony Blair and thought all the things that he thought and had the friends that he had, she probably would.

That's all.

Thank you.

Friday, February 28, 2003 |

Boys are idiots, and if you fancy them they should be able to tell and be bloody grateful for it too.
And then they should do something about it so you wouldn't have to.
And if they think you're lovely they should do something about it and not pretend that they're hard to get.
Boys. Idiots.
No offence intended.

Friday, February 28, 2003 |

Dum dahdahdah dum dee dahdah

It's starting.
I'm 25 going on 26 and it's starting. This year I know three couples getting married.
Last year I knew one couple to do it, and at this rate of growth next year it'll be (lets see,... hang on, I'll go and draw a graph)
482 couples
(No, that can't be right. damn mathmatics bollocks).

9, or something. And the year after that? Erm... loads, probably.
But it's starting. I always wondered at what age it would start, at what age everyone around me would start geting married.
And now I know.
25. Going on 26.

25 going on 26.
There's a song in that, I'm sure...

Friday, February 28, 2003 |

Thursday, February 27, 2003

Now is the winter of our niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeeeee.

So I went to my new dentist again today. Again again. Mr MacBurrrrnie. Sounds good and Scottish.
And he is good. And Scottish.
And very different from my last dentist. Or my last three dentists, whatever - understand, it's that I move around a lot, not that I wear them out.

Mr MacBurrrrnie tells me nothing. Nothing at all. He doesn't tell me what he's going to do, doesn't tell me what the x-rays showed, doesn't make reassuring explanatory noises, doesn't tell me how many more times I'm going to have to see him.
Just says hello as I walk in the door, barks simple instructions at me - open wide, bite down, rinse, open wide - plays with my teeth for a while, then releases me again into the wild.

It's very much like having a vet, I think.
And that's fine.

Anne-Marie, my first dentist when I moved out of London, was compulsive about telling me what she was doing. She'd introduce every foreign object to my face before she introduced it to my mouth, and probably thought that that was a very reassuring thing for her to be doing.

Except that she didn't do it with every object, she only did it with some. Like cotton wool. And mirrors.
But not with others. She'd never introduce the scary things. So she'd say "Alright, I'm just going to put this little cotton wad between your lip and gum, so that they don't touch, is that ok?"
And I'd say yes, and then she'd shove some big metal something that looked like it was normally used for peeling hamsters in my gob while I was distracted by the squishy cotton wool.

Keith, who came after Anne-Marie, was a very talkative and jolly dentist. He would talk about anything but dentistry apparatus while I was in the chair - probably because he twigged quite quickly that conversation about dentistry made me cry.
So he'd talk about other things. Channel four was a big favourite, and how bad he considered it to be.
Then he found out what I did, and would get me to recite Shakespeare. With my mouth full of cotton wool and bits of metal.

Mr Mac Burrrrnie, at least, says nothing, and requires me to say nothing. Of course, sometimes I worry that I'll go in there and he'll calmly pull out all my teeth, and I won't be able to say anything because I'd never shown any interest before that point.

Still, at least it cuts down on the ritual Shakespeare humiliation;

"'Oo wee oh no' 'oo wee, ha issa hess'ion. Ow!"

Thursday, February 27, 2003 |

Somewhere in my stats it said;

Number of unique visitors - 111111.

Which I think is quite pleasing. Y'know, aesthetically.

Thursday, February 27, 2003 |

"It isn't what you know, it's who you know"

Has to count either as one of the most depressing or most exhilarating phrases in the English language, depending on your point of view.
Depending, I suppose, on who you know.

Thursday, February 27, 2003 |

Wednesday, February 26, 2003

The pros and cons of procrastination

Con - The thing that really needs doing doesn't get done.

Pro - A big fuckbunch of other things do. And then that makes you really happy. And that's all.

Wednesday, February 26, 2003 |

Tuesday, February 25, 2003

I was intrigued the other day when, while watching children's television (with children, I'm not that much of a student...) there was an advert for 'Happy Families Barbie'. Well, I say intrigued, more appalled.

I hadn't realised there'd already been some controversy over the dolls.
Something about giving birth involving the clean removal of a magnetic stomach and the gentle removal of dressed baby within.
(Two great arguments for and against can be found here and here.)

I don't know what it was I didn't quite like about it, it was mainly the terribly proper image of 'happy family' wife Midge, husband Alan, three year old ryan and baby in detachable stomach. As the 'pro' mom/reviewer says;

I like the fact that Midge has a wedding ring, is married to Alan, and that baby has an older brother – Ryan. This resembles the thought process we portray to our children – marriage, then children. My daughter has enjoyed playing with this family. She mentioned to me that it is fun to have a Mommy, Daddy, and Two Kids.

Which is great, apart from the fact that lots of children don't, and that's ok too.

Still, and this was the thing that intrigued me, all the figures are sold separately, so you do at least stand a chance of building for yourself a non-conformist family unit.

Several Alans and several Midges? The Happy Commune Barbie set.

Midge alone? An individual woman, going it alone with her child.

Two Midges? How lovely.

One Alan and five Midges; Mormon Barbie. Big in Utah.

Two Alans and a Ryan? A fine example of clean-cut same-sex parenting. (n.b. any more Alans and it may start to look like a paedophile ring)

Ryan alone? There's no shame in being an orphan, much love and support can be given to the child

Alan alone? There's no shame in being 30 and single.

Of course you can't have Midge alone and unpregnant, but that's what you've got Barbie for, the constant bachelorette that she is.
And she's a doctor.
(And an airline pilot....)
(This is starting to sound a bit 'Catch me if you can...')

Tuesday, February 25, 2003 |

This morning I am;

* Not Hungover! *
Well, maybe a little bit hungover. But that's acceptable because it's Tuesday you see, and Tuesday comes after Monday, and Monday's always the quiz night, so Tuesday morning is always just a little hungover. But not very.
Really. I'm not as hungover as I am;

* Full of Snot! *
And constantly surprised at how much snot the human body manages to produce. I think it's simply amazing. I'm exploding every minute, on the minute, it seems, into soggy tissues that could now, I think, fill the Grand Canyon. I apologise to anyone that needs a tissue in the future, because I think I'm going to use them all. All of them.
I'm a very Snotty person. I'm also;

* Still Single! *
Go figure.
It's not for want of trying, I assure you.
Still, I'm;

* Listening to Olivia Newton John singing 'Hopelessly devoted to You' on winamp.*
And singing along very loudly.
Some people just shouldn't be allowed to have a computer.
I'm so glad I don't have a webcam.

Tuesday, February 25, 2003 |

Monday, February 24, 2003

Does anyone know a German term for Nipple Tassels?

Or - Come to think of it, the French for Galactic Toss Monkey?

Monday, February 24, 2003 |

Gracious smile.... dignified small nod of loss... Polite applause

"Witticism witticism, concession to national audience, reference to international audience, small fawning build up..."
Lighting change, appropriate big band theme music, flattering camera angle, zoom in to entrance from backstage, winning smile to audience, age-old-friend-esque smile, embrace and murmur with never-before-met Host, turn to audience wait for applause to subside, modest smile.

"Over the top sentiment about important role of nominees within society"
brief wistful smile, "straight-forward reading of names"
slight pause, rustle of gold envelope, camera flicks between faces of nominees, all hands ready to applaud, all with cold, dead eyes.
"name".

Applause applause, camera flicks straight onto face of winner upon whom realisation is 1 1/2 seconds arriving, then very brief millisecond of egotistical ecstasy and honest triumph, replaced almost immediately with badly feigned shock, surprise and modesty. Walk to stage.

Camera flicks around faces of losers, gracious smiles, polite applause, nods of good-loserness, jealous hatred deep in eyes.

Winner arrives on stage, shakes hands with never-before-met-host as if long time friend and benefactor, embraces award giver whom in all other business would be detested as diva. Shoulder diva aside. Stand before microphone. Grasp lectern earnestly.

"Stumble. Stutter. Attempt to sound like have not practiced speech in front of mirror for 28 years. Threaten to weep. Suck up to studio, ensure money for next project. Suck up to director, ensure no more diva-rumours in industry. Suck up to colleagues. Fawn fawn..." (Actually feel extremely smug. knew was better all along) "Fawn. Look soppily at trophy cover-up spouse, passing glance at co-star lover. Random non-career-harmful political statement about trees or babies that no-one could disagree with even if they tried. Attempt to crack joke, turn joke into fawning statement when raises no laugh. Pretend to start crying. Fawn. Thank everybody. Make unexpected religious conversion and give thanks for it. Suck up, suck up, dry up, shut up...
Modest smile, biting lip,
pick up award (white knuckled grip), rustle off stage.

Applause applause.

"Witticism Witticism....

I love award ceremonies.

Monday, February 24, 2003 |

Sunday, February 23, 2003

"Catch Me If You Can", How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways...

Well, for one, there's always the whole, y'knw, him thing, so that's one, and then there was the scene where, two, three .... ooh, that bit... four. And the whole fabulous story, and how they did the ... erm ... thing with it, and then there's the whole moral and directing and the bit with the, and the right, so that's five, six, seven, eight. Eight? Eight.

"Catch Me If You Can", I hate thee eight ways. That's eight.
Count'm. 8.

Oh look, the newspaper says that there's a three week ultimatum 'til war...
Who'd have thunk it?...
Wanders off distracted.

[Three hours later]

Sorry. Where was I? Ah yes.
Catch me if you can, if you can, or if you feel like it, if you want to.
For if the film was referring to itself, which it isn't, then it would be hardly any challenge at all.

You wouldn't have to try very hard to catch "Catch me if you can" running, as it does, at the pace of the slowest runner, while constantly looking back and making sure that they know what's going on.

It's only a game of 'catch me' if, while running away, people usually said;

"Ooh, you're looking a little out of breath there, shall we just hold on a moment? No no, that's fine with me. Ready?
Oooh! Chase me, chase me! Watch out for that curb! I'm just going to run around this obvious plot corner, make sure you don't lose sight now! No, there you still are. Well, you see that big florescent purple tree you're passing? That one. That one on your left.
Well, that's going to be important later on.
Yes that one. The one with Obvious written on all its leaves.
Don't worry, I'll remind you in five minutes time.
Hey look! There's a happy family with matching
"We're Symbolic, You know!" t-shirts.
Wave to them! Wave! It's alright, you don't have to notice them now, they'll be hitting you in the face with metaphors later.
Shan't hurt. Not Much.
(Or at least only if you choose to smack your head against the seat in front in protest...)
Watch out for that ridiculously obvious red herring I've just put in your path, wouldn't want you to actually get distracted by that!...
Chase me, chase me!"

And no one playing chase does say that. Or at least no-one I play chase with does anyway.

Maybe I should play with Steven Spielberg.
I'll e-mail him and ask.

[Two hours later]

He said no.

I mean, it was just such a fabulously great story, and you wanted it to be all Oceans Eleven and witty and classy and then it gets all Family and America and Moral and 'Sad' and, Ah, I don't know. It was just such great material.
It's such a shame. And yes of course Leonardo di Caprio is a honey, no-one said he wasn't.
(Although now they will...)


****


How did I hate thee, 'Catch Me if You Can'?
Thus did I hate thee, 'Catch Me If You Can' and for the sake of these;

1. For the sake of Mr Hanks and his big smug face.
   As usual.
2. For the sake of Mr Hanks and his... did I say that one already? Well, I do hate him a lot.
3. For the sake of the argument that broken homes create master criminal brains and all that a con man needs is a daddy.
4. And that aforementioned daddy should be Tom Hanks.
   Euw. Peh. Wah.
5. For the sake of the capture scene at Christmas eve at midnight with French peasants singing by candlelight. So bad I assumed it had to be a dream sequence.
   It wasn't.
6. For the sake of happy families holding the key to moral upbringings and upright citizens. For the sake of small children that do not scream when bedraggled criminals appear at the window enquiring after the whereabouts of their 'mommies'.
7. For the sake of Mr hanks and his big stupid smug face.
8. For the sake of the necessity to take a criminal to America, where his crime will be treated sympathetically as the lost-daddy syndrome it obviously is, a socially useful but sadly misdirected skill (but only because of the daddy thing, remember). For the sake of the necessity to remove that prisoner from evil European prisons which have no roofs or, seemingly, electric lighting. But do have lice. And wardens that spit at their prisoners, and deny them all hygiene, medicine and, it seems, food.
   Europe, eh. What a hotbed of human rights abuses.
9. For the sake alone that it could have been such a very, very good film with the material, that the colours and atmosphere were so promising, the whole thing could have been so rich.
10. And for the sake of Mr Hanks.
    And his Big Smug Face.

Thus do I hate thee, 'Catch Me if You Can', thus and, yea, triply thus for the same reasons alone.

Terribly entertaining though.
Good afternoon at the cinema. I heartily recommend it.

Sunday, February 23, 2003 |

I may not know much about art, but I know quite a lot about diarrhoea.

I'm better now, in case anyone was wondering, and am not going to make any great stories out of diarrhoea or vomit, because quite frankly, I don't find it very pleasant material to work with.

To write about, I mean.
We're not talking post-modern performance sculpture here.

Which reminds me of a piece I saw the other day
(n.b. We are now talking post-modern performance sculpture now. Or rather, installation)
You walked into a pitch black room, and on a screen in front of you, obviously triggered by the door, appeared the words ;

"In 30 seconds you will be possessed by love"
"30"
"29"
"28"
etc, etc. In big, plodding, slow countdown, huge characters in pink, a steady build-up of suspense that was actually quite terrifying, until after;
"4"
"3"
"2"
"1"

The word "Love" appeared on the screen, bright white, a sudden flash.

And for 15 minutes afterward the word was burned onto your retina.
Every time you blinked, every dark surface you happened to look at said "Love" to you.
And you couldn't get rid of it.
So you were, in one way at least, possessed by love.

I like that kind of thing.
It does exactly what it says on the tin.

Sunday, February 23, 2003 |

I've decided to write lots today.
Just to warn.

Sunday, February 23, 2003 |

Saturday, February 22, 2003

I went to see this guy yesterday in a lecture about his work.
Damn, his website's down, I'll add a link later.

He talked about his intense wish to have a third ear added to his face, that would produce noise rather than recieve it.
He talked about hanging 'the body' from 18 hooks, straight through the skin (art, y'know) because he thought he'd need ten and a doctor friend of his had advised 36 as the bare minimum.
He talked about himself as 'the body', never 'me' or 'my body' or only very occasionally;

"Of course, when 'the body' reaches 70 feet in the air, all it could hear - all 'I' could hear (small laugh) was the whistling of the wind, and the erm, the creaking of the skin (bigger laugh)"

And when he laughed, he actually laughed like this;

Mwa ha ha! Mwa ha ha ha ha!

with a little gurgle.

It was quite the best thing I've seen in about, ooh, this long.

Saturday, February 22, 2003 |

Friday, February 21, 2003

bleurgh.
yesterday, my one true love turned on me.
and the pain continues right through to today.
I don't know if I can ever trust pepperoni pizza again.

Friday, February 21, 2003 |

Thursday, February 20, 2003

Saying 'bored' bad idea.
Food poisoning started 10 minutes later.
Now not bored.
pukey.
not an improvement.

Thursday, February 20, 2003 |

bored.

Thursday, February 20, 2003 |

"Oooh, I've got a vagina! And I'm very cross!"

So, we've been talking a lot about feminism.

Directly in response to plays, drama, that's what we do, that's the medium through which we discuss stuff.
It's a play, or it's a feminist text. It's a character, or it's a feminist issue.

And I am sick of it.
So sick.
If a play is written by a man, and has a female protagonist, then it's a play.
If a play is written by a woman, and has a female protagonist, it's a feminist play.

Why?
Why do we continue to distinguish ourselves by gender?
Why can we not, having acknowledged the difference, now celebrate the similarity, the humanity?
Why do we have to continue being 'women' playwrights, or 'women' directors, or 'women' in power?
Why can't we be 'playwrights' or 'directors' or etc etc etc?

Yes, I acknowledge and thank and admire first wave feminism - I thank them for giving me the vote, I thank them for making me socially acceptable as a worker, I acknowledge and thank and admire them.

And I realise I have to thank second-wave feminism too.
If you guys hadn't stood up, burnt your bras, vocalised your crossness and proved yourself as vocal and as argumentative as your male counterparts, then probably I would be in the relaxed position I am today.

But I am in a relaxed position today. I don't want to stand up and shout.
I don't want to tell people that I have a vagina, and I'm very angry.
I want to be treated as a person.
A rational, intelligent person. A creative, passionate, active, opinionated, ambitious, interesting Person.
Not Woman, person.

I want you to deal with me on my terms, at work.
I'm a director or writer first.
Me second.
A person third.
And then I'm a woman.

Why we keep having to refer to ourselves as different pisses me off. Why perpetuate the difference? Why continue to be the 'other'?
If we believe we are all equal, there is no reason to differentiate, no reason to fight for one corner or another.

I am, I swear, grateful to the feminists, first wave, second wave, wave after wave after wave, I realise that because of what they did, I can be. But I don't want to be a feminist.
Nor, as has been suggested to me, do I want to be a post-feminist.
Or a proto-feminist.
Or a de-feminist.
Or a proto-post-de-feminist.

I would like to be Anna Pickard.
Thank you.

Actually, I've more to say on this, but if I get any more worked up, I shan't sleep.

(1 of 2. Probly)

Thursday, February 20, 2003 |

How hairy is *too* hairy?
Are man-breasts a problem?
Do we have to decide these things beforehand?
Questions, questions...

Thursday, February 20, 2003 |

Wednesday, February 19, 2003

An open letter - to someone who's never read this site, and probably never will.
So, in that sense a closed letter.
Unless he does.
In which case an Open and Closed Letter.
Like an open and closed case.
Except a letter.

Dear sir,

It has come to our attention that you may, at some point in the future, be intending to purchase or lease with intent to purchase a one of our '1977.05brnte' girlfriends.

Our policy, when it comes to second-ownership status, is to inform the potential owner of any running problems associated with the particular girlfriend in the past, in order to avoid part or full exchange within the first several months of lease and/or purchase.

While not intending to render our girlfriend unsalable, we wish to inform you of all possible potential differences in this, your new girlfriend, to any model girlfriend you may have previously owned. Rather than alerting you to smallprint after purchase, we wish to make you fully aware of your model capabilities before you buy (/lease/hire)

Our records show that you are presently interested in lease or purchase of our 'Anna' model girlfriend.

Please be aware that this girlfriend can be;

1. Stubborn.
2. Argumentative
3. Under attentive in public situations
4. Independent.
5. Messy.
6. Possibly 3 hours in getting ready for any major (or minor) occasion.
7. Perfectionist.
8. Unpredictable.

These points were highlighted in our original brochure as;

1. Loyal, loving, determined, unshakable.
2. Passionate, Intelligent.
3. Over attentive in private, herself elsewhere,
4. Plenty of time for personal leisure activities. Also hates sport (though understands offside rule) so plenty of time apart with other people.
5. relaxed,
6. Wanting to look fantastic. Always,
7. Always, always. Wanting to make all times good and happy and nice and perfect, see 3.
8. Exciting (or 'pretty fucking exciting', depending on previous model...or 'not very exciting at all', or 'quite')

Pending signitures, your Anna girlfriend is available for collection at the showroom.

If, however, any of the above points fail to comply with the standard you expect from your 'girlfriend' dealership, please return this form unsigned, and we will proceed to check you off our list.

Thank you for your interest shown, time, and co-operation,

Your sincerely;

Yentl Hetro

Grilfeinds-r-us, glasgow.

p.s.In case our other correspondences failed to clarify, you may, in fact, only purchase/hire/lease one girlfriend at a time.
If, should your current choice of girlfreind (the 'Anna' according to our records) be insufficient for your needs, please return her undamaged, or submit her to the shop for more neuroses to keep you busy.

We trust in our product.
We believe that we supply only the highest quality goods.
But if she's more than you can handle,
you just let us know.
You may well be right.

Wednesday, February 19, 2003 |

Tuesday, February 18, 2003

I am now utterly sober, and will never say anything silly ever again.

Tuesday, February 18, 2003 |

I have no idea.
Sorry.

Tuesday, February 18, 2003 |

As promised, drunk.

Not terribly, but happy and drunk, so good for babbling a little.
Now, it could be the fact that the sun is shining,
it could be the fact that my fringe is long enough to tuck behind one ear,
it could be the drugs kicking in,
it could be the advent of spring,
it could be fate finally getting its arse in gear, it could be my luck, having built up over the last 6 years or so,
it could be God, trying to prove point,
it could be that wish I wished on a 13-light-years-away star 13 light years ago (don't bother),
it could be taurus in the seventh house of Uranus,
it could...

(I don't think the seventh house of Uranus exists, I just like saying Uranus. The old way. Uranus. It's comedy. Uranus. Like that apocryphal newspaper headline - "Is there debris around Uranus?")
(hahahahaha)
(where was I?)
(drunk. Glasgow)
(I know that but... where in the post?)
(post?)
(post)
(Anna, you're talking to yourself)
(I know, but.... )
(But?... )
(But I was just asking... I'm still doing it. Right?)
(mhm)
(Who am I now?)
(What?)
(Am I the first or second set of brackets? Where was I?)
(Drunk, Glasgow. Get on with the fucking post.)

Boys.

Nice boys.
Fucking *Everywhere*.
The rough estimate said that there were three boys in the room wanting to ask me out tonight.
Or at least admiring.

Which is fucking ridiculous.

But there are other boys, elsewhere, some I've only just met, and some I've only just rediscovered, and well, spring is springing, and a young woman's folly turns to thoughts of love...
Well, if not love, then certainly...

I asked people to vote.
And then I said I would write about boys.
So, Boys.

There are.

Some.

I should, you know, go to bed now.

mm.

You should.

(talking to yourself again, anna.)
(I know)
(shh)
(mm. g'night)

Tuesday, February 18, 2003 |

Monday, February 17, 2003

Stupid report three thirds down, none to go.
Thank fuck for that, let's go and get drunk.

Monday, February 17, 2003 |

wibble.
sob.
mong.
Feh.
*sound of brain running out of ears*.

Monday, February 17, 2003 |

Stupid report two thirds down, one to go.
Rock on, little Jedi.

(Eh? That's not a phrase. Surely.)

Monday, February 17, 2003 |

Stupid report one third down, two to go.

Cannot cope anymore, exploding pie charts starting to resemble Pac Man eating mouldy cheese, can imagine tiny men in top hats and tails high kicking down many steps of bar charts.

Hate Arts funding with never before realised passion.

Going to bed for nasty net-&-gross-operating-subsidy filled dreams, will hopefully get up at silly o'clock with renewed passion for subject.
(NB, 'net' dream nothing like 'wet' dream, though both slightly gross)

Do not have faintest idea what 'ancillary income' is and how this can be differentiated from 'other income'.
This is a problem and yet cannot think about it anymore.

Moan, grump, sulk, bleugh.

Monday, February 17, 2003 |

Sunday, February 16, 2003

I am currently having seven shades of hissy fit over a stupid report I've got to do for tomorrow.
If anyone feels like saying anything calming, y'all go right ahead.

Sunday, February 16, 2003 |

Of course, the problem with 'enormous eyes' mascara is its composition, remarkably similar to porridge with golden syrup or that glue that they make out of horsies.
The main problem being that when you get home at 3am and can't be arsed to take your make-up off, you wake up with your eyelids stuck to both each other and the pillow, and black spread widely across your face making you look like a sad badger.
A bloody good thing it is that we wake up alone on mornings like these.

Actually, I say alone, there was a cat, and a copy of the Guardian Weekend from yesterday, which I was reading as I fell asleep (the Magazine, not the kitten).
So I woke up, and through my bleary, gummy eyes, could see only an enormous picture of George Clooney's head stuck on top of a small hairy, four legged body.
Which was nice.

Sunday, February 16, 2003 |

I have some new mascara which, when I put it on, makes me look like my eyes take up more than 50% of my available facespace.
This is a good thing, if a little Manga.
It is a good thing, isn't it? Big eyes are a good thing, right?
Everyone loves Bambi, after all.
(Everyone except me, obviously...)

Sunday, February 16, 2003 |

Saturday, February 15, 2003

I think my brain fell out of my head last night as I slept, and someone, or something, has eaten it.

There is no other explanation.

Saturday, February 15, 2003 |

Friday, February 14, 2003

Yay! I have to go to work.
Work is exactly the thing I wanted to be doing tomight.
rah.

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

Are my sister's genius anti-valentines cards just a little too tasteful for you?

How about these?

Euw euw euw euw.

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

Why has Google gone all valentiney?
feh.

*sulk*

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

I want a t-shirt that says 'What would Scooby Doo?'

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

Soft dull thud of envelopes on the doormat...

Valentines Post;

One Bank Statement.

So I've folded it in half, drawn a large heart on the front and propped it on my bedside table.
I'm not fooled, but I think the cat might be.
He seems jealous.
Or there might be some other reason why he's trying to go to sleep on my face.

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

A part of one of the Performance Art pieces I saw this evening.

We stood in a small black tent. Three of us.
The performances were for three people at a time, and lasted three minutes, or about three minutes.
It was part of a much larger installation, and we were only in the tent because the artist, standing at the back of the room, had told us that we should.

We stood, with our backs to the wall, and were told that if we felt claustrophobic, we would be let out.

A metre in front of us, there was a piece of glass. With the torch of our guide, it had been a mirror.
Then there was darkness.
Then there was nothing.
For 30 seconds, nothing. And then a sudden light.
A pair of eyes, staring at one of us, then disappearing, then at another, then disappearing, then at the last.

All on the other side of the glass.

Then complete black, utter darkness for 10, 20, 30 seconds.

Then there were hands, lit, on the glass, then a part of a face. then, a light further away, still behind the glass, hands, moving.
Then eyes behind the window again.
Then a face.

10, 20, 30 seconds.

Then hands, further away, moving, touching. Then

10, 20, 30, 40 seconds.

And I knew, because it's just me, that something would happen. Something would jump out from the shadows and go 'boo!' or i would feel a cold wet touch on my neck.

But no.
More dim lights, parts of faces, an eye, a mouth, and then a hand, touching the glass.

I raised my hand to my face, bowed my head, closed my eyes, waiting...
And when I felt someone in front of me, I opened my eyes.
A boy, dark haired, no one to me, and everyone to me in the darkness.
He stood, and I couldn't tell how far away, my eyes couldn't see the darkness or the glass anymore.
He reached out, both arms, I thought, on the other side of the glass, and then, when I felt the warmth of his palms by my cheeks, I realised he was right there. Right before me.

In the dark, silently, he'd moved in front of me, and he stood there, placed his hands on my cheeks and said one word.



You know, imagining myself in that sort of situation, a 'fight or flight' situation, I would have presumed myself to be the 'flight' type.
I would have imagined myself shouting 'OOoooh! FUCK!" and hurtling backward through the black tent wall.

But I didn't. I stood, and I stared at him with an incredible 'Don't Fuck With Me' stare.
And I held that feeling, long after the door had opened and I'd walked as fast as I could with dignity away,
and around as much of the installation as I thought I should, and into the bar, and onto the next show
And I still have it now, that feeling of 'fight'.
That someone did one of the things I fear most, appeared, surprised, and physically confronted me.
And my instinct was the opposite of that which I'd thought it would be.
It surprises me.

And I like it.

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

(to the tune of that song that 6 year old children always sing....)
"A boy gave me a lift home... Lala lala la la."

Nothing of it. Not even on ... No, I shant say it.

Friday, February 14, 2003 |

Thursday, February 13, 2003

The VD countdown that's going rather badly

Christ it's Valentines Day tomorrow and I completely forgot.
Not completely forgot it was happening at all, the four florist's windows on the way to school wouldn't let me.

I just forgot that I'd said I was going to write anything funny about it.
dang.

Well, it's tomorrow. And I was supposed to have a shift at work, so that was going to cover the 'what are you doing on Valentines day' question.
But the person I was doing the shift for can do it after all.
So plan B was to go and see some stuff that I have to see for college.

But then I thought - 'Do I want to spend valentines day evening watching big poncy pseudo performance art?'
No.
Not that the place will be full of couples
("Surprise, Darling! Happy Valentines Day! I've got us two tickets to watch two people throwing up on stage and then trying to become stone while standing on a goat's head. Oh, I love you too, darling")
But I've just got this idea that whatever I'm doind , it ought generally to be somehing I enjoy.
But doesn't that apply to every night?

Oh, I don't care.
Really, I don't. I don't.
Really.

Thursday, February 13, 2003 |

Anyone who's read this blog (journal? site?) for any length of time knows that I live next to Mr and Mrs Onthetoilet.
In fact, since writing that, I've discovered that I also live next to Master Onthetoilet.

The Onthetoilet family and I have managed, it seems, to entirely synchronise our bladders, so that whenever I enter our bathroom, I can see Mr, Mrs or Master Onthetoilet on the toilet.
The window's slightly frosted, but I can make out features, clothing, posture, I can almost imagine the look on their face.
I don't want to see them, but I can't help it. My switching on the light attracts their attention and they look over, and up slightly, and the picture is complete.

Either we've sychronised bladders, or they simply spend all day, and all of the night on the bog.

Whichever it is, it's an embarassment.
Last week I took a package for the Toilet family. They weren't in, and the courier dropped it at our house instead.
When the bell rang a couple of hours later, I knew presicely who it would be (I'd just seen them on the toilet), and I went downstairs, opened the door, handed over the package and closed it again after them.
Neither of us mentioned the whole toilet thing. But amusingly enough, neither did we introduce ourselves, a silent acknowledgement of our bog-side familiarity.

Anyway. That wasn't the point of my story.
The point of my story was that, outside last night at half past midnight, having a cigarette in the back garden, I was aware of noises next door.
I looked over to the toilet household, and noticed that Master Onthetoilet was climbing out of his window. He got halfway across the gently sloping roof before he noticed me and tried to sneak back in like it had never happened.
I could see his shadow in the window, waiting for me to go so he could flit.

Oh, did I mention that I found out what the midnight carpentry noises were about?
Mr Onthetoilet is building an Organ.
You know, like in Phantom of the Opera. He's building an organ in his spare bedroom.
As you do.

I'm so glad I have some of these families living next door.
They add a bit of, y'know, really fucking wierdness to your day.
Bless'm for that.

Thursday, February 13, 2003 |

Pleasant ways to fuck with your mind - number 378;
"Fly little text message, fly".

I pressed the 'send' button on my phone, and there was the little logo, the envelope with little flapping wings, and away went my text message, flap flap flap into the air, magically knowing just where it was going, like a tiny 2D carrier pigeon.

Sometimes I think about how text messages find the right phone
(the even more fantastic thing about my logical leap is that I believe that voices don't have a problem finding the right phone, but somehow text messages do. Obviously)

Suddenly, you can imagine the air full of them, tiny buzzing envelopes, whizzing past your ear, on an important errand, trying to find the right phone.

Imagine if you could see them all, and imagine further if you could see the words, floating past you;
'I miss you',
'I love you',
'Phone me',
'y r u ignoring me?'
(and other mis-spelled annoyances. I'm ignoring you because you don't seem to 'b' able '2' spell 'are', even though you're a university-educated executive. Twat.)
'I want you'
'You busy?'
'Your orange bill is due for repayment, please contact us on 152'
'Where are you?'
'I'm wearing your pants'

Imagine if you could see the words, all those conversations floating, zipping past your head, around buildings, over bridges, tiny little things, size of a fly, but an envelope instead. With wings.

Try it when you're walking down the street...
If you try hard enough, you can see them everywhere.

Thursday, February 13, 2003 |

Wednesday, February 12, 2003

Search referral of the day;

english spelcheck

ha ha ha ha ha.

Second favourite Search referral of the day;

Peeep.

Which is what happens, I suppose, when you let your modem use Google.
I'm guessing the other searched for terms around that included
'meaeeeeeeeeeeaeeeeeeeeaeh'
'gdoing, gdoing'
and
'Wheeeeeeeeeeeee'

Wednesday, February 12, 2003 |

10 reasons to hate Christina Aguilera

a) Because she's turned 'looking like a slut' into a valid image choice. When Britney was pure, Christina was naughty. When Britney got naughty, Christina had no choice but to move further into prostitutal territory. It's a bit like the movement of British politics after the birth of 'New Labour', but with shorter skirts.
And body glitter.
b) Because her songs suck shit.
c) Because when she starts singing, or starts a new line, she does that annoying slight growl/straining noise, a noise that the rest of us associate with potty-training rather than passion.
d) You actually need 10 reasons? You don't need ten reasons. You don't even need one reason. You already hate her.

Wednesday, February 12, 2003 |

Can we have a vote, please, on the content of this website...

Do you want to hear me talk about
1. The problem with 'feminism'.
2. Kittens.
3. Random comedy stuff what has happened.
4. Theatre.
5. Popular music as a form of modern art. Particularly football songs. Particularly (obviously) 'Vindaloo'
6. Boys.

Your voice counts...
..
.

Wednesday, February 12, 2003 |

Bed at 2, Up at 5, just home now, way after twelve.
I went to Manchester, and I think I'm the tiredest person in the world.
Hours on train or waiting for a train; 9 and a half.
Hours spent in library; 1 and a half. Ish.
Hours spent doing other proper archival proper research; 1. And a half.
Cups of coffee drunk; 5.
Pints drunk; 3.
Bottles of wine drunk; 2 and a bit. (not just by me...)(honestly)
Separate lovely people met for coffee or drinks or talking; 7.
Number of those friends that were male; 7.

Next time I go to Manchester, I'm telling less people that I'm coming. Or I should like less people. Or I should go more often.

I officially 'grew up' in London, form age 0 to 16.
But I did my proper growing up, exploring, life-changing things, in Manchester, from 16 to 22.

Which is my 'home town'?
(I can do the accents of both equally well, if that makes a difference...)

Wednesday, February 12, 2003 |

Tuesday, February 11, 2003

Why is it 5.15 in the morning?

Tuesday, February 11, 2003 |

hm.
not sure.
if someone comes to talk to a table of five girls, that's pretty brave, right?
But what if he's heard all of your jokes before?
That's going no-where - right?
If the barman's chatting you up, that's just a barman thing - same as I do, when I'm trying to get tips - right?
And that other guy, he's just desperate, I'm guessing, not really chatting up at all.
Oh, arse.
But I thought....

But I'm going to Manchester in 4 hours. That's good. yay.

Tuesday, February 11, 2003 |

Monday, February 10, 2003

Wish me luck - I'm going over the top.

(not literally of course, I'm not starting a sudden second career as a Shirley Bassey impersonator, I just meant that I'm metaphorically going over the top. I'm starting a Metaphorical second career as a shirley bassey impersonator.
Not really, I meant in the sense of... Oh, it doesn't matter anymore.)

Wish me luck - I'm going in.

(No, that sounds rude, hang on...)

Wish me luck - I'm going to the quiz night
and, you know, there'll be, you know, a quiz, and kinda, ....

Oh, I'll tell you when I get back.

Monday, February 10, 2003 |

Favourite Search Refferal today?

Pornographic wallpaper.

I realise they probably mean for their computer desktop, but my first mental image, and my favourite, is of wallpaper for the walls.
Pornographic wallpaper, all over the walls.
I can just imagine the home improvement shows now...
"Yes, we decided to do the kitchen with a 'doggy-style' theme"
I wonder if you can get matching borders?

[Please note, I'm asking the question, but I don't actually want to know. If you do know, please don't tell me, it's not something that I want to know that you know.]

Monday, February 10, 2003 |

We need completely kick-arse name for the quiz tonight, for various, erm, reasons.
Any help would be deeply appreciated. Something witty, yet current and oh, just good.
We're bad at thinking of good names...

Monday, February 10, 2003 |

Sunday, February 09, 2003

My other hangover is an e-type.

I have a type 'C' hangover, low-powered but persistent, a continuing feeling of gentle nausea with feneral floppiness and apathy attached.

I prefer the type 'E' hangover, but can't remember what I have to drink to attain it.

Type 'E' is the wistful or 'romantic' hangover, the one that leaves me sprawled on the sofa, pale and wan, watching anything on television and wishing myself into any number of lives, people, situations, and beards.

No, didn't explain that very well (it's the hangover). You see, the type 'E' has the effect of me wanting to be everything I see. Everything that seems more fun than lying on the sofa with a hangover, which is everything.
And I can't stop myself from vocalising it either.

So, for example, I'm lying on the sofa with a type 'E', watching Jason and the Argonauts because pressing the button on the remote control is too much bother.
And every now and again, I'll feel a pang of wistful jealousy for the more exciting lives being led on television, and I'll vocalise it, and it'll sound like this;
Silence........'I wish I was Greek.'... ..... .... ... 'I wish I had slaves' ...... .... .... ...... .....'I wish I had a tumble dryer' (advert break) ... ......... ..... ..... ..'I wish I had a beard' ....... .... ....Silence .... ....'No, I've changed my mind about the beard' .... .... ..... ...'I wish I had a golden fleece. Golden fleeces are cool.' .... ..... .... ... Silence

It's a very relaxing way to spend an afternoon (mornings don't exist with a type 'e'), when only the wistful gland is working and nothing else is needed.

Much more fun than the type 'C'. Which reminds me.
I was going to bed. With Nils Bohr and Werner Heisenberg.
I'm such a dead-physicist-hag.

Sunday, February 09, 2003 |

"Fuk Fuk" said the little yellow duck.

I love the fact that animals make different noises in different countries.
In English dogs say 'woof', while german dogs say 'bow'
In English Cats say 'miaow' while french ones say 'miaou'.

I heard a rumour once that polish ducks say 'fuk'.
I've decided to make a collection.
Any contributions would be appreciated.

Sunday, February 09, 2003 |

Saturday, February 08, 2003

Best search referral so far today

Fuck! why is everything making me giggle so much today?">'cucumber growth "powerpoint presentation" .'

Saturday, February 08, 2003 |

Hahahahaha.

Hahahahaha

In fact, everything on despair.com, the site that no-one ever told me about.

ahahhahahaha.
hahahahaha.

Saturday, February 08, 2003 |

I have a crush, a little crush, but shan't say much at the moment.
All I shall say is this...

It's all very well having an arch-nemesis.
But what if you find your nemesis actually quite attractive?...

Saturday, February 08, 2003 |

Favourite overhearing this evening, on the way out of the train station;

"Extending your vocabulary, it's, it's really fucking great, but."

(but being your Glaswegian equivilant to 'though')

It is. It's great. But I would have honoured the sentiment more if you'd thought of some words other than than 'fucking great' to describe it....
'Indescribably sublime'? '
Indisputibly remarkable'?
'Fucking Great'?

Saturday, February 08, 2003 |

Friday, February 07, 2003

I'm not addicted to any soap opera.
Particularly not neighbours.
I'm not addicted to neighbours, I don't compulsively watch it if I'm at home of a lunchtime, and if something happens that looks like it's going to be exciting, I don't go and look it up on the Neightbours website to see what happens next.
Nope, not me.

I'm not addicted to Neighbours, really I'm not.

Friday, February 07, 2003 |

The play I did went to go and see just now. This evening.

The set was gorgeous. Sumptuous, classy, slightly decadent - an atmosphere of the Thirties, but with a modern design twist, there was good use of different levels, colours, lighting, mirrors, and the rain streaked windows that parted to reveal the apartment were simply stunning.
The breakdown of the order of the flat - from pristine yet cluttered at the beginning of the play to a bare squalor at the end - was an interesting mirror of the journey of the protagonist, and a perfect frame for the changing fates of the characters, the lies, the 'framing' itself.

The set really was gorgeous.

It's a shame, then, that the rest of the play was quite such all-round, and complete, shite.

No, then again, it isn't a shame at all. There's nothing better, when you're feeling a bit lacklustre, than seeing something really good, or utter toss.

And this really was toss. Pants. Guff. Shite. Duff. Pish. Twaddle.
Oh, maybe I'm being harsh.

No, no, it actually was that bad.

Having created this incredible set, and having spent a great deal of time, and money, on it the director/designer (same bloke, never really a fabulous idea) obviously sat back and said;

"Oh, isn't that super? Haven't we done well?
Hang on, who are you people? What are you doing on my beautiful set? Actors?
In what?
Oh! Bollocks! I'd completely forgotten!
Oh, well, just ponce about a bit will you?
Oh, only for a couple of hours.
Marvellous.
Bloody lovely.
Darlings."

Very little happened in the first act, four very posh people loafed around and drawled (They went "Rah rah rah rah rah". I'm willing to swear that that was exactly what they said).
And chain-smoked.
By the end of the production these people are going to be very sick indeed. Each of them must have smoked at least 76,400 cigarettes in the course of the play. There was one point where the lead man was smoking three.
Three at once.
I feel for their poor little bronchioles.

So on they went...
"rah... puff.... rahrahrah.... puff .... rah rah.... puff, slurp, rarah rah."
(They also drank a lot of brandy).
"Rahrahrahrah ....puff, slurp... rah rah... rah puffpuff slurp rah..."

There was a man with a face like a grieving weasel on a wet weekend that incessantly talked out of one side of his mouth, and stared at everything with an intensity that suggested he was trying to set it on fire with his mind.

He was married to a woman who'd obviously had something uncomfortable shoved up her arse - from the look on her face, I'm guessing it was an ornamental obelisk.

And she was having an affair with a man that looked like a smack addict but not quite so happy. He, at least, had a nice hat.

The fourth person in the first act, the accomplice, had something on his face.
It may have been a moustache, but could also as easily have been an eyebrow, a small line of insects or some treacle.

And at the end of the first act, there was a violent murder, which you couldn't bring yourself to care less about because you hated all of the posh twats so much by this point that you would happily have got up and strangled them yourself.
Or at least I could have.

And then there was the first of two intervals.
I was going to write about the second act, when they tried to blind us all, and the third, when I couldn't stop laughing, but I've already gone on for too long. And I need to go to bed.

Shit, how do people fit those reviews into such little spaces?

Friday, February 07, 2003 |

Thursday, February 06, 2003

Countdown to VD - It's not what you ask, it's the way that you ask it...

So looking at romantic things, I thought I'd go on a wander round and look up some of the mechanics of dating, marriage, etc.
And it seems, as important as who's doing the asking - if not more important - is what exactly they're asking and how they're asking it.
First - Marriage Proposals

And there a half a billion women out there, all wanting to tell the story of their romantic other, his originality, how much he planned, how much she cried, the eventual yes, the rounds of applause. And there really were a lot of very, very sweet stories.
And some very very strange stories.

It seems that the more outlandish the proposal, the better.
Sunset on Valentines day, Piazza San Marco - Venice, diamond solitaire, down on one knee?
Please, you're boring me to tears here, wrap that ring in a performing pigeon and maybe we'll have a deal...

It would seem that the only kind of proposal worth anything is one that no-one in the history of romance has done, or even thought of before. Anywhere. Ever.
It's all;

"We'd been out for a romantic meal, and although Frank was drinking twice as much beer as usual, I didn't think much of it, us being on holiday and all. When we got back the hotel, and he excused himself, I thought he must need the bathroom, as he'd been looking uncomfortable for an hour or so. Imagine my surprise when I got a call from the lobby telling me to look out of the window... There, in the snow, all the way across the front lawn, he'd written "Mary Elizabeth Frances Robinson will you do me the great honour of agreeing to be my wife?" All in his own urine! How could I say no? I cried for a solid four hours."

or

"My boyfriend knew I'd been having trouble with my suture skills, and, a medical student himself he offered to help me practice. Well, imagine my surprise when, under his direction, the seemingly random cuts on the practice limb were stitched together to read 'Marry me Eilee', he even apologised for having reached the heel before he could finish my name. What a sweetheart. I cried for three days solid."

or

"He showed up at my office around 5:00, dressed in a Winnie the Pooh costume, complete with big head. He played the Pooh song on a Fisher Price tape recorder, read me a poem he found on the Internet called "God placed me by your sweet side", took off the head, got down on one knee, presented me with the ring and asked me to be his wife."

Of course, unlike the others, that last one is entirely true.
Well, almost entirely.
I don't know what I like most about the Pooh one, but it's either the Fisher Price tape recorder or the affectionate mention of 'the big head'.

They were really very touching stories, and it's clear that of all the landmarks of a relationship, this is expected to be the best-planned, most original, all that.
I've had proposal fantasies since I was about 12, I know it can be a deeply significant and beautiful moment.
I'm not debating that.
Little things are touching too though.
I don't know, I kind of liked the one where, looking at rings in a marketplace, he said "You'd better marry me then", to which she replied 'Yeah, whatever...', and wandered off before realising that he might have been serious.

But, it seems, you don't have to fly out to the Grand Canyon or hire a sky-writer, to ask your honey to be yours.

You could always design or commission your own jigsaw.

Or if you're really short of imagination and/or cash, why not just send them a free e-card ?
You're only asking them to marry you, after all...

Thursday, February 06, 2003 |

Wednesday, February 05, 2003

Root of the word 'wanky'

So at the moment I'm taking a class on 'Contemporary Performance and Live Art', which is fuck-all use to me but extremely interesting, and we spent the first few weeks going through stuff that I enjoy and appreciate; conceptual things, minimalist things, earth art, fluxus, happenings, that kind of thing.
People doing random things and 'calling it art'. It's interesting, thought provoking, and with a lot of the atists, you get the feeling that they're not taking it too seriously. Which I like.

Yesterday, however, I hit my personal 'pseudo dipshit wankiness' tolerance.
We were talking about Body Art, in the 1970's and all, and I just found myself on the verge of giggles and eye-rolling, and, oh, I don't know 'and' what...

It's just, you know, when does a man sitting in a cupboard talking to his penis (and dressing it up in little hats and moustaches) leave the realm of 'simply quite fucked up behaviour' and enter the realm of 'art', and when does it pass out the other side, back into 'No, just simply fucked-up, and now quite annoying'?
Where, exactly, has it become something that people 'want' to look at? (even if they could, which they can't because he's in a cupboard)

I'm not quite sure what, if anything, I'm learning from the woman standing on a stage reading from the scroll of paper she slowly pulls out of her, y'know, twinkle, apart from the fact that;
a) Such a thing is possible, although I'm still not clear on the logistics, and
b) I've found yet another thing I don't feel that I have to do before I die.

The artist who stands in a gallery, and, having asked his friend to shoot him in the arm with a real gun gets shot in the arm, may say that the point of the piece was that the audience stood and did nothing to stop them, but I say that he could have got the same non-reaction from the audience if he'd asked his friend to hit him with an inflatable banana, or pour a jar of honey over his head.
What it comes down to is someone asking his friend to shoot him in the arm, and wanting that to be something that people watch.
Which doesn't sound entirely rational.
In fact, it sounds a bit irrational.

Oh I don't know.
Maybe I'm a prude.
You're walking around a gallery, with a large ramp, there is very little in the gallery, apart from several loud-speakers, and a man lying under the ramp, tossing himself merrily and talking about it. He's the artist. And that's it. He's been doing this for 8 hours a day as long as the instillation has been going on.
Masturbating, under a ramp, with a microphone, in a gallery.
These are all real pieces (seminal ones at that. Seminal? Semenal?)

Am I going nuts? Or is that actually just a lot of pretentious Wank?

Wednesday, February 05, 2003 |

An unrelated (to anything) slipper-eating cat story.

For Christmas, my mother gave me, among other things, a pair of slipper socks. They're black, and white, and patterned with stripes around the bottom. They have suede bottoms, which makes them a little bit slippy, and doesn't stop wet from getting in.

Being from my mum, they're the most ethical slipper socks you could ever hope to see.
They're spun of wool from free-range vegetarian Llamas.
They're sold by a company that specialises in organic, fairly-traded clothing.
They're made by disabled Afghani refugees.
Seriously.

But if there were any evidence at all for an axis of evil, it would begin with these slipper socks.
If I were condone, in any way, a war with Iraq, which I don't, I would do it on the basis of these slipper socks
(connecting, therefore, completely erroneously, Iraq with Afghanistan, Afghanistan and its civilians in general with the 'war on terror', we'll not get into this discussion, shall we?... were was I?...)

Actually, I'd be better to lay blame for these slipper socks at the feet (ha!) of the war-loving far right, the point being, it seems, to kill off wooly liberals one by one by one.

They're 'one-size-fits-all', meaning, of course 'one-size-fits-fucking-nobody', being, as they are, somewhere between shoe size 10 and 13 (British sizes, so that would be, erm, 11-14 - American, 44-46 - European. Or 'really fucking big' - universal).
So I fall over them. Constantly. Anyone would, apart from Krusty the Clown.
I wear them outside to smoke, which makes them leak and the wool smell of wet unhappy sheep.
The bottoms flip under, and I trip, particularly on stairs, which would seem to be particularly dangerous. They slip on lino, they allow in pneumonia-creating foot-puddles, and catch on nails at the edge of carpets.

I like them, I really do. They keep my feet warm. And my mum gave them to me, and so I like them.

Well, I say 'them'.
I mean, 'it'.
They were a 'them', but, for the last two days, they've been an 'it'.

The cat likes the left slipper sock. I don't know what it is about my left foot that isn't about my right, but whatever it is, the cat fucking loves it.
He loves to wrestle with it, dance with it, chew it, cuddle it, maul it, kill it.

And for the last two weeks or so, he's been prepared to love it in my room.
It, the left slipper sock, has been becoming tattered and pulled and raggy, but at least it's been in my room.

And now it's gone. He ate it. Or he took it somewhere else.
And now I'm left. (Or right). With the one slipper sock. Just the one.
I hopped into the back garden just now. My left foot is chilling as we speak. I'm going to have to decide soon, between two cold feet or one warm one.

If I had all the money in the world, I'd make slippers, perfect feet warming (although not too warming) slippers that would never fall apart and never get eaten by cats. And everyone would wear them and we'd wear them all the time and never have sad or uncomfortable feet again.

And in the meantime?
My left toe is cold, the big one. I think the others might be cold too, but I can't feel them anymore.
I still like my one slipper though. My right slipper. Even if it is the bottom right-hand corner of the 'axis-of-evil'. And I'm not quite sure that it is.
Well, it might be a different axis of evil.
Axis-of-evil - the slipper-sock division.

My cat's battling to defeat them. One by one by one.

Wednesday, February 05, 2003 |

She rocks. Is all.

Wednesday, February 05, 2003 |

Tuesday, February 04, 2003

Valentines day countdown - day 2

So, wandering around the whole internet thing, I found this list.
Don't look it up, I've pasted the whole thing below.

So, on a site dedicated to romance we have:

The ten best places to be kissed

Now looking this up, I have to admit, I expected to find;
1: Your face. Specifically -
2: The lips on your face. Then your -
2: Neck
3: Nipples
4: Something rude, or if you believe the current deoderant campaign, your underarm pit things.

But no, when I came to look at this list (on 'romance.lovingyou.besickintothenearestdishwasher-safe-recepticle.com') I found that they meant the 10 best geographical places to be kissed. Which were;
1: The Beach
2: Anywhere
3: In Bed
4: At Home
5: Under The Stars
6: In The Shower
7: In The Rain
8: At The Movies
9: At The Park
10: In A Public Place

Well, excuse me for being horrifically single, but these, or most of them, are also just the nicest places to be.

You could rename the list 'the ten best places to cough' without harming it too much.
'The best places to breathe', or 'To feel a bit happy'

Kissing in them may be nice, but then, when it comes down to it, kissing in a bus station is nice, kissing in a corridor is nice, kissing in a taxi kicks arse;
and being alone under the stars is nice, alone on a beach, alone at the movies, in the rain, whatever .

This list seems to cover too little ground and too much.

Still, as a hint for valentines day, these were the top ten places to kiss someone.
Personally I still would have gone fo 'the face', as first.
But maybe they're all innuendo.

"We went out last night, and I kissed her on 'the beach'"
Actually, that does sound rude…

Tuesday, February 04, 2003 |

Monday, February 03, 2003

Febuary the second.
We've only twelve days to go 'til Valentines day.
And this year, I've decided, I'm going to make myself useful.
Mark it in your diary, 'littleredboat - for all your lovin' needs'

Together, we'll prepare, and you know what?
I won't feel so bad, not getting anything myself, nothing at all, nada, zip, if I know that someone in the world someone, is being sent a card like this.
Or perhaps a delivery of these.

No, don't thank me. I've only just begun.

Monday, February 03, 2003 |

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Oh my God, it's snowing. What do we do now?

I love this country. We can't cope with anything more than drizzle. We seem to understand the concept of snow, we nod sagely when presented with the prospect in a weather report, but be utterly confused when presented with actual white stuff.

The British Isles; "Why isn't my car moving? What is this stuff lying on the ground? Why isn't it going away? Should we eat it? What happens now? This is too much. My head is going to explode. I'm just going to sit here and do nothing and if I do nothing maybe it will go away. Oh! I don't understand! It's still there! *head exploding noise*"

I specifically loved the bit about the people who drop grit on the roads thinking "Ah, well, it's probably not going to snow much" and knocking off for the day, only to be called in on an emergency basis a couple of hours later, and getting stuck in traffic on the way there because - yes, that's right - no fucker had dropped grit on the roads.

I was half expecting for this to become a national crisis, for Tony Blair to announce that it was all Saddam Hussein's fault (he's got an undeclared weather machine, don't you know....) and that two inches of snow were therefore reasonable justification for bombing fuck out of Iraq.
Actually, I'm still kind of expecting that.

Monday, February 03, 2003 |

Sunday, February 02, 2003

An overhearing that sums up one of the things I love about my country;

"Excuse me, did I hear you say 'complimentary'? I'll have some. What is it?"

Sunday, February 02, 2003 |

The thing I love most about snow

is watching it fall, the slow silent spirals, the sky filled by a billion shifting pieces, the eyes drawn by the hypnotic grey swirl. The slow settling, merging, melting.
That's the thing I love most about snow.
That may, in fact, be the only thing I love about snow.

I thought I loved more things about snow, but it turned out that I don't. I love watching snow.
Watching snow makes me happy.
Otherwise, I discover, snow makes me;
Cold
Late
Grumpy
Soggy
Tired
Anxious
Late
Grumpy and
Tired.

The main reason was that the one thing I didn'tget to do with snow, was watch it fall. Where ever I was, it was either snowing somewhere else and causing havoc where ever I was, or it had snowed recently, and turned to grey, wet, havoc-causing slush by the time I got there (that's right;.. Snow? All about me)

So I missed out on the magic and the beauty bit, and instead got the 4 hour plane delay and blocked roads in Hertfordshire. Then there was all that soggy socks, bruised arse and wind chill shit.
And that bit where, standing outside my dad's back door smoking, a small roof's worth of melting snow fell on my head.

Snow's not my favourite thing anymore.
Or it wasn't.

Until fifteen minutes ago, when the mixture of tiny flakes and rain falling outside my Glasgow window turned suddenly to enormous swirling flakes, and made me fall in love with snow all over again.
And then I'll go out to work, and change my mind as I trudge through the grey and the wet and the cold.
It's nice though, at least I know I have the ability to fall in love over and over and over.
Even if it is with weather.

Sunday, February 02, 2003 |

Some Things I meant to say here several days ago

I'm going to visit my dad, I'll be back on Sunday.

Some other things.

Sunday, February 02, 2003 |