Thursday, September 29, 2005

walking wounded
TA told me this morning that I've become cold, mercenary and nasty. Where has nice, compassionate Lisa gone, he asked in a voice that sounded lost. Meanwhile, our home life makes the thought of actually going to hell (in a handbasket, natch) rather appealling. After last week's round of intense and scary meetings, work has become dead calm, worryingly so, and I have begun the boring process of applying for jobs again. The solicitors are dragging their feet and our escape route seems to be overgrown with thorns. I keep having existential crises - who am I, what am I doing here, what would happen if I just cleared the bank account and disappeared? - and suddenly I think I understand why people just up sticks and vanish leaving everything and everyone behind to set up home on the streets of a city far away and lose their shoes and forget their lives in a soup of Special Brew and meths. I'm tired and bewildered as well as, apparently, cold, mercenary and nasty.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

lost in the post
Sorry, believe me I’ve meant to write but you know how it is – the Palais is a zoo, work went mental, I had a crisis of confidence, TA and I were being social, I’m trying to chase the solicitors without actually taking up any of their time, which – of course – they bill me for. And for each episode – work suddenly getting all Office Space; home life turning into a badly acted, low-budget Channel 4 soap (think Brookside’s body under the patio, crossed with Hollyoaks’ reliance on a constant stream of interchangeable young starlets willing to wear revealing and wacky outfits, combined with the Antipodean quotient of Secret Life of Us); the house buying; the in vino veritas complex...I started to draft a post only to be distracted by fresh developments in the real world. I’m here and I want to write (and write well) but events are conspiring against me.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

This post was going to be the Israeli soldier story, then it was going to be a history of my love affair with drinking (the two topics are related, but not in the way you'd expect), then it was going to be a story about tadpoles but I couldn't remember if I'd written that here before...and then work went mental for a few days and there was no time for any story at all. And now all the stories have kind of got mushed up and are blocking up my brain a thought jam ready to be spread thick and sweet on the toast of your screen if only I could get the knife into the jar. And when that happens I end up wanting to write about something else entirely, I'm just not sure what.

Friday, September 16, 2005

mooning at honey
TA asked me to buy wine on the way home so I got three bottles thinking, 'that Free Man fella and his missus might be thirsty over the weekend and anyway it's three for two at Threshers.' While waiting for TA to unlock the front door (yes we're still sharing one set of keys) I spotted vibrant blue roses on the dining table. Stepping through the door the smell of sizzling steak smacked me on the lips. 'What are we celebrating?' I asked while grinning like that cat with the cream. Over dinner, which was lovely, I asked 'yes, but what are we celebrating?' I'd scored a blinder with the wine, which was both reasonably priced and a pleasure to quaff, and as the meal progressed at a leisurely pace began to feel expansive and even more blissed out. We talked about our days and a few more snippets of TA's experiences in Montreal were shared - trips can often be too overwhelming to explain all in one go. The engrossing topic of built-in wardrobes and converting the bed for the sett was discussed with gusto once more. Gradually I realised that we were celebrating the here and now, nothing else (which is kind of a shame because for a while there I was convinced that TA was about to admit that he'd landed a job with Sony and been keeping it a secret). Pudding was brought out - TA had squeezed and frozen orange juice and served the resulting sorbet with lemon mouse and grated orange chocolate from Lindt. I tell you, that combination was a fabulous success. Dishes were washed and night attire donned (you should click that link, it's worth it). Later we shared a whispered conversation about our upcoming wedding anniversary celebrations. The only trouble with this much celebrating of everyday life is that it leaves very little time for everyday life.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

raspberry swirl
When making up is this sweet it almost makes falling out worthwhile. Last night I baked a pie – organic beef mince, onion, garlic, oregano and red wine-enhanced gravy encased in puff pastry. The pastry was shop bought, which I’ll admit is cheating, but what the hell it was a pie and I made it. While I was making pie, TA took care of the veggies. I like it when we cook together; it stops the chef from feeling lonely and unappreciated. And we do it well; when we’re good everything is good and preparing food becomes a ballet around the kitchen, with the dancers pausing for frequent embraces. When we are in this state of heightened awareness every shared moment, no matter how mundane or routine, has its own significance and is imbued with tenderness.
TA and I ate pleased-with-ourselves pie and smiled at each other over ruby red glasses of Fleurie. Everything is bathed in a rosy glow at the moment, even without the influence of French grapes. We talked a little about our plans for the sett (I spoke to the surveyor yesterday and his verdict was: good little flat, will need new windows soon, kitchen a bit worn, but you’re paying a good price for it and it’s better built than I expected), TA’s plans for finding a new job and my day at work; we talked about the surprisingly good pie and really rather nice wine.
When dinner was over I suggested that TA talk to his sister while I clear up – since he hadn’t said more than the briefest of hellos to her since returning. I tried to not let the state of the housemate-blasted kitchen annoy me and spoil my happy mood and luckily the dishwasher was able to make light work of the majority of the mess. J and TA obviously had a lot of catching up to do – he had missed the whole “discovery of infidelity thanks to searching D’s text messages” incident and D’s subsequent eviction – and after I’d finished the chores, but TA still hadn’t appeared, I got ready for bed. That sounds dull doesn’t it, but it isn’t because now I have decadent black silk pajamas from Montreal. I love wearing these pajamas – I am a goddess of the silver screen, I am the queen of louche lounging – I reclined on velvet cushions and passed the time by rereading Oscar and Lucinda. TA came in after a few chapters had been read…And so to bed, as the most famous diarist used to write.
In the warm, melting space before sleep I heard TA say, “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.” It’s a feeling I understand, share and cherish – it’s not that we fell out of love; it’s that we stopped noticing it. It seems miraculous and wonderful that, after three or more years of feeling pulverised by circumstance and unable to really pay attention to each other, just as we’re about to embark on living together in a home we own, we’re back to where we were when we first talked about living together. I had been so scared that we wouldn’t move in to the sett with happy hearts and that this new home would always be tainted with feelings of inadequacy, but now I know that we’re both thrilled by this return to form and now that we’ve found it will do all in our power to stop it slipping away again.
And perhaps now we will recognise future short-term contracts that require travel as welcome and necessary – I think we both used the time apart to concentrate.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

homecoming king
I wrangled a working from home day yesterday and even worked a little. I got my hair cut at the weekend and, with Aveda makeup, was looking glamorous in an understated ‘at home’ way. I ran round like a mad thing cleaning the bathroom (the temporary housemate* seems unable to leave the bathroom anything other than filthy every day) and made sure that the bed was made and the bedroom welcoming for a weary traveller. At around midday TA walked through the door and, to my eyes, he looked like a picture of himself; familiar and yet not – hyper-real and in sharp focus. What followed was an almost ritualistic period of re-acquaintance. Where he was I followed and when I left a room, within seconds, he was at my side reaching for my hand. We were both aware that we had some bridge building to do and talked in gentle voices, treating each other like fragile and precious porcelain figures. There was an intricate dance as space that had been all mine was ceded back to him and many, many displays of tender affection. Caresses, kisses, cuddles – it was a good job that none of the housemates were home. We talked and showed each other tokens of our time apart – my new dress was held up to admiring eyes, presents and new clothes were taken out TA’s luggage. We watched a film in bed and sipped Frangelico on ice. Takeout pizza for lunch and dinner at Vinopolis, conversation ebbed and flowed over food and wine. A good day, a precious day. We both slept well but woke tired – “I wish you didn’t have to work today,” he said in a plaintive voice. “Me too,” I almost mewled.
* I may have not explained the revolving door housemate policy before as it’s been too exhausting to figure out, but I think I’ve grasped it now: housemate M had temp housemate to stay for a few days, then temp housemate went to Iceland and M went to Spain. Then M returned with another friend to stay for a few days, meanwhile, temp housemate came back from Iceland. On Sunday, M and friend left to tour Greece and Italy, leaving temp housemate behind for a month. Temp housemate has done little to endear herself to me – so far she has flooded the bathroom, left the bath coated in a layer of scum on multiple occasions, rearranged my groceries in the fridge, requested that I fix the modem when she was connected to the wrong network and couldn’t figure out why she couldn’t get online, played loud music and generally been annoying. (Housemate D has, of course, been banished for quite some time.) So we are currently running two housemates – J (TA’s sister) and the temp housemate.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

So many times when I write - I'm going to admit a weakness for writing bad poetry, please don't hate me - what thrills me is exploring the dual meanings of words and right now concentrate is where it's at for me. You see - surprisingly, suddenly, thankfully, unlooked for and wonderfully - TA is home in three days' time and now, with a sense of immediacy, I realise that I'm going to need to hold on to something for dear life and it's going to mean that I need to concentrate on something difficult to grasp, something slippy and slidey, something that I don't know how to quantify or qualify let alone value, something that's difficult to pin down. And it's that contrary thing, the thing - possibly - that he fell in love with those four long years ago. That heady, intoxicating, sickly sweet concentrate of me that somehow gets diluted when he's around. That little mad bit of me that sits here typing and singing at the top of my voice - that part of me that runs down the street topless and blind (it's a long story) to unwittingly bare my breasts at Israeli soldiers, that part of me that says fuck it when things get too much, that part of me that is just a little bit mental, that part of me that I've been trying to disown and neuter for, sigh, twenty years, that part of me that is wild and exhilarated by craziness. Because that's the part of me that keeps life worth living and refuses to be ground down by responsibility and those bloody "client deliverables". It's that essence that makes me brave and willing to jump off the cliff just to see what falling feels like. And I know that's why he loves me, even though it scares the crap out of him. And that's why I love me, even though I am conflicted and scared, because it's that self-celebratory, caution-to-the-wind part of myself that creates all the best (and worst), makes living a rollercoaster, it's the wind in my hair and the butterflies in my stomach. And I've been playing safe for so long that it feels like playing dead.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

making a mountain out of my molehill of shame
Today I learnt that the Latvian word for the mound of Venus translates as molehill of shame. As soon as I heard this I just had to shoehorn it into a blog post. Perhaps this will garner some comments? Being a whore for comments, I've been very disappointed that my lengthy and heartfelt posts of the last couple of days have garnered so few now I'm begging you - please stuff my box. Yeugh, enough double entendres!

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

my mind map looks like a two year old drew it
Which is to say a multi-coloured scribble - possibly it's a picture of a lovely flat, possibly it's a picture of my frustrations with work, perhaps - if you turn it round a bit and squint - it's a beautiful portrait of TA and me standing together (look - those two red loops are our clasped hands reaching across the Atlantic). Of course, it could just be an accurate representation of a complete lack of rational thought, in which case we're all in trouble.This year seems to have more than its fair share of massive, terrible human tragedies - the war, the tsunami, the terror attacks, the plane crashes, the hurricane - and I've been trying to think of a way of responding that's meaningful, not mawkish.Most mornings I walk through Embankment Gardens in the final few minutes before I get to the office. In the days after the London bombings part of the Gardens were cordoned off and a covered stage was erected - inside there was a book of remembrance and some flowers. More flowers were left under a tree on the other side of the path. When I came back from the US - around a month later - the flowers had gone but the stage was still there and I began to wonder if there were plans to make the spot a permanent site of remembrance. The next day the stage had been dismantled, but the ground bore a huge scar - all around where the stage had been was gorgeous, lush green turf, but where the stage had stood the ground was jaundiced with bleached tufts of grass and disfigured with muddy earth. Day by day I've watched as the grass that was yellow has gradually returned to health. Until - at the moment - the grass is healthy enough to have started to make inroads on the mud. Soon you won't be able to tell that anything untoward had ever happened to that grass. But you see the healthier it gets, the sadder I feel because it strikes me that most of us experience these grand-scale tragedies like the grass did - they sear themselves across our consciousness for a few days, a week, perhaps even a month or two if we really get carried away with the media storm, can tell ourselves that we might have been there or have a tenuous link to the event. But sooner or later our thoughts return to their normal pattern and the tragedy's imprint becomes less than a shadow, less than a ghost. And perhaps that's the healthy way of it. Only I can't help but look at the newly green grass and feel it's betrayed us, because every time I see it I think of the families whose scars won't fade, whose hearts, spirits and flesh will always bear the brand of that tragedy, even as the next one has happened and all eyes are looking elsewhere. So you see I am thinking of New Orleans, the plane crashes, the bomb victims, those caught up in the tsunami, those caught up in war and all those suffering griefs no less crippling for not being covered on the evening news and I'm wondering how to turn that outpouring of compassion into something a little more concrete, constructive and meaningful than an absence of photosynthesis.
(And, yes, I really must start typing my posts in Word first, especially when I write late at night and when I'm emotionally engaged with the topic. The typos have now been fixed.)

Monday, September 05, 2005

In a breach of blogging etiquette, I have posted the second installment at the bottom of yesterday's post to maintain the correct order.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

pumpkins and glass slippers
Let me tell you about my 'Lady Day'. After panicking a bit about what one should wear to a designer and vintage clothing sale in Chelsea Town Hall (nb. for the Yanks - Chelsea is very much the posh nobs' end of town) I got dressed (tailored black wool skirt, grey shell with a yoke neck, black sandals), hunted high and low for an A-Z and finally set off with directions hastly copied down from Streetmap. I found said event and gleefully pottered around for an hour or so - I tried on a Victorian-style white blouse with buttons up the back, but it swamped me and a beautiful Katherine Hamnett black velvet frock coat that was sadly too small for me. I thoroughly enjoyed poking through rails of outlandish costumes from yesteryear...particularly the clothes that had belonged to a sixties caberet chanteuse - judging by the size and length of her dresses she was more she-male than female. I was tempted by neck to ankle sequins but in the end sense prevailled and I decided that this would not be the best look for a barrister friend's black-tie fortieth birthday celebrations. I was also sorely tempted by the most amazing pair of tan Victorian boots - tight lacing and a tiny but sturdy kitten heel - but feet back then were small and narrow weren't they? (They looked much better than these, but sort of the same style) The time had come to brave the King's Road.
I'm quite a nervous shopper and, without TA to insist that I have every right to be there and hold up possible items for me to look at, I easily become disheartened, intimidated and bewildered. I'm not too bad when I know what I'm looking for, but all I knew yesterday is that black tie means posh and dressy but not a ballgown (annoying, since I already have one of those). I'm not a fan of SatC but still my mantra was - what would Carrie Bradshaw do? I'd more or less narrowed it down to a little black dress with strappy, glitzy sandals - but where was I to find these articles of attire? What would Carrie do I mumbled to myself as I stumbled in and out of boutiques. Then a ray of light - a helpful shop assistant asked, very humbly, if perhaps I was looking for a special occasion and could she perhaps help me. After I had explained my predicament she led me over to a rail I had not noticed before and pulled out what can only be described as a perfect princess dress. It was little, it was black, it said Carrie Bradshaw whimsy with its floaty diaphanous overskirt, black silk-satin ribbon that tied under the bust with a bow and a slightly ruched bodice. I tried it on and even with my heavy walking-around-town sandals, bare legs and no bust support garment I could see that this was a dress that did things for me. It was not in the sale and was, as you'd expect, pip-squeakingly expensive, but within fifteen minutes it was mine nonetheless.
Next stop: shoes.
I carried on down the King's Road but no joy. I had a 3pm appointment in Holborn so decided to stop off first at M&S to get some sheer shiny tights and then at the Clarks on High Holborn to see if they had a black strappy, sparkly sandal with a heel that wouldn't cripple me. And do you know what? They did! Comfy fit, glamorous detailing, not too heavy, not too precarious... But then I spotted another pair of shoes and there was just something delicious about them. Strappy sparkly sandals are a bit cliched these days aren't they? It's a look I've been working on and off ever since my first university ball. These shoes were different, the tiny heel and round toe stopped them from looking too eighties (and the fact that they were satin rather than velvet). After trying on both the champagne and the black variants, I walked out of the shop the rather amazed at herself owner of a pair of Calvados shoes.
Next stop: Aveda!
Thanks to my passion for Shampure, I'm a member of their loyalty scheme and they'd invited me to come in for a cut-price makeover and mini massage. As I was having my make up done the wonderful make up artist asked if I'd like to have a free wash and blow dry with one of the stylists - of course I would! Then we were discussing eyebrows - I never really touch mine apart from putting in a centre parting - and the lovely, lovely make up artist got the resident threader to squeeze me in (I paid for this bit of the day) mid-make over. Oh. My. God. The transformation was/is amazing. My whole face looks different - more angular, my eyes look more open and, quite simply, I look prettier. And although it hurt the feeling was so odd, so unlike what I expected, that I was too busy being fascinated to worry about the discomfort. I now know what a hedge feels like when it is trimmed with a chain saw; what a weed feels like when it is whacked with one of those contraptions. After she finished threading she even gave my Denis Healys a trim with scissors. Apparently it lasts three to four weeks - I think this is going to have to be a regular indulgence - it's cheaper than surgery or teeth whitening and the difference/improvement is of the same magnitude.
The blow drying was slightly less successful in the transformation stakes than the rest of the day had been but it was still fun. He set my hair on enormous velcro rollers and created lots of glamour with soft face-framing waves and glossy body. Unfortunately, my hair just will not hold any kind of shape except for straight and hanging - it had slumped before I reached the tube.
I'll tell you if the party was worth all this time and expense tomorrow.

pumpkins and glass slippers (part deux)
As soon as I left Aveda I knew I was running late – it was already nearly six in the afternoon and I was pretty sure the party started at seven. I know it’s okay to be a little late but still I was worried that I might get there so late that I’d only have time to say hello before needing to catch the last train home.
I ran from the tube to the Palais, freshened up a little and put on my (strapless) wedding corset and new posh frock. Oh dear. In the shop the assistant had helped with the zip but now I discovered that it was nearly impossible to do up solo. I worried that the corset was adding an imperceptible but ruinous extra millimetre to my circumference, but frankly the idea of going to a party with an unsupported bust was too terrible to contemplate. I gave up on the struggle and started to hunt for the invite so that I could check the address – I turned the bedroom upside down and became frantic, but no joy. Wait! Their address was stored in my phone – all was not lost, but then I remembered that I’d left my phone in the office. I called directory enquiries and got a phone number for what I hoped was their house. The phone rang but no one answered. I returned to tugging at my zip, trying to get the thing done up – at last, success. I put on my glossy tights and cute shoes while wracking my brain – where is the invite, how can I find out where they live, how am I going to get there?
I had to resign myself that I wasn’t going to the party. All that effort, expenditure and glamour wasted. My eyes fell on my laptop bag; it has a mesh pocket at the front and, would you believe it, there was my mobile! There was their address! I grabbed my coat, pocketed my phone and purse and headed for the door. Wait! Feck! I’d forgotten, in all the joy of spending money on me, to get the birthday boy a present. And now I come to think of it a suitable present – a very nice bottle of wine, a pair of cufflinks – would add another forty pounds to the day’s expenditure, not to mention take even more time and make me even later. I feel bad about this, like I’ve been stealing, but it had to be done. I took the Chateuneuf du Pape that TA had brought back for me from duty free when he went to the wedding in Ireland from the shelf and ran for the door.
Tube to Waterloo and – miraculously – there was a train waiting at platform four about to leave for Kingston. I ran to the platform with minutes to spare not worrying about getting a ticket as there are usually staff on the platform to sell tickets. Nope, no one there. Okay, so there will be a ticket person on the train. Nope. I got off at Kingston and asked the helpdesk person where I could buy a ticket and for directions to the road where my friends live. His directions sounded fairly straightforward. I went to the ticket person and told her I joined the train at Waterloo only to get a twenty-pound fine for my honesty – must buy ticket before getting on the train at Waterloo apparently – I hadn’t got time to argue, I paid the fine and fumed. (I’ve been to S&M’s house twice and both times due to train problems it’s ended up costing huge amounts of money) I try to follow the directions but am lost within minutes of leaving the station. There is a car with a big aerial pulled up in what looks like a taxi rank – a minicab? – I knock on the window, but no it’s just a man sitting aimlessly in a car with a big aerial. I ask passersby for directions to the street but get lots of blank looks. I then ask where I can get a cab, get directions and head back towards town. The taxi rank is empty. I consider turning around and going home but look up in time to see a welcome orange light approaching. Desperate, I hail the black cab (a miracle since we are so far out that the streets are empty of cabs) by literally standing in the street in front of it until it stops.
I arrive.
S&M live in a large and immaculate Victorian town house, they are barristers and quite posh. I met Shanthini when I worked in media sales. She was taking a six-month break from her pupillage to earn some money. I was useless at telesales but she was fantastic at it, she did indeed earn money. However, in that six months we also spent a fair amount of time chatting and bonding – she’s a great raconteur and her family background is so different to mine that I was transfixed by her stories. S is Tamil and her family comes from Malaysia, her father is a pharmacist, at the time she was living in a flat on Sloane Square owned by her parents, she went to a private school – she wears her privileged background lightly and is great fun. However, I do sometimes feel a bit in awe, particularly when I meet her other posh friends and her fabulous family.
I gave Martin his bottle of wine. A girl on the door took my coat another girl got me a glass of champagne. I was shown through to the garden where a marquee has been erected it was almost the exact length of the garden and the sides were open to show the flowers. Thankfully, I am not the last guest to arrive but already the party is in full swing. Anxious not to be a burden I ask M if S’s cousins are at the party and get ushered to their table. I met the cousins at S&M’s wedding (which TA couldn’t attend because he was sick) and had a whale of a time with them. I reintroduce myself and take in the sight of eighty posh people mingling and sipping champagne. Shanthini and her cousin Sarita are both wearing the most beautiful saris while everyone else is wearing full-on formal black tie: the women are elegant and immaculate; the men are smart and tailored. As far as I can tell, no one has resorted to Moss Bros – these are men who own their tuxedos and dress shirts and wear them with ease. I had briefly worried that I might be over- or inappropriately dressed, but actually the lovely shop assistant and the miracle workers at Aveda had ensured that I absolutely looked the part.
I start to make small talk with the people at my table – Sarita and her husband I remember are a GP and a paediatrician, respectively; Sarita’s brother is also a paediatrican; Shanthini’s brother, Bala, works for the NHS and designs/engineers medical devices. There are two people at the table I’d not met before, Bala’s friend and his girlfriend. “Legal or medical?” I am asked. Neither, I work for a PR agency I reply sheepishly. I discover that the three of us are pretty much the only people at the party who are neither legal nor medical – he works for a film studio as an associate producer while she does something hush-hush at security firm staffed mainly by ex-SAS hotties. She’s American while he’s Scottish-Nigerian. Later we are joined by a neighbour from down the street who, it turns out, invented his own field “public health impact analysis” and contracts for multinationals, most recently Shell, that want to minimise the impact of their operations on public health. I’m glad my dress and shoes are glamorous enough to pass muster since my career clearly can’t.
Food was served – a delightful and delicious blend of Indian and traditional English finger food – smoked salmon sandwiches vied with samosas and spicy mutton nuggety-type things (called mutton rolls by Bala). The champagne flowed. I missed the last train back to Waterloo. Coffee was brought round by the waitresses and decadent petit fours. Cigars were smoked, although not by me. The numbers thinned; eventually it was me, Martin’s friend (who was best man at his wedding), Shanthini and a friend from her law degree days. We sat around drinking brandy until three in the morning. I hadn’t planned on staying and didn’t have a toothbrush or change of clothes but by that point there was little option. I slept in the converted loft, M’s friend slept in the study, S’s friend slept in the blue room, the nursery was empty as S&M’s eight-month-old daughter was staying with her grandparents. I got about three hours’ sleep, breakfasted on strong tea and, mid-morning, made my way home exhausted but so pleased that I’d managed to go and go in style.
After all that excitement I needed an early night and turned in at eight last night. The phone rang at around one in the morning. “Hello,” said TA quietly, “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, I just wanted to hear your voice.” I was in high spirits despite being woken up with a start and regaled him with stories of pretty ribbons and bows, diaphanous dresses, champagne and posh people. He told me about his shopping trip in Montreal - to Aveda! - and wished that he could have accompanied me to the party. I told him how pretty I’d looked but that, no, there were no photos to record the event. I cradled the phone and curled up under the duvet. “When are you coming home? I miss you.”

Saturday, September 03, 2005

bonus post
For the sake of argument, an argument I've having with no one but myself, here's a list (in no particular order) of women whose babies I'd like to have, were such a thing biologically possible.
  • Angelina Jolie - obvious really isn't it, I'll join the queue of thousands ready to pay homage
  • Tori Amos - "blanket friends"? yes please, not to mention to hear her caress a piano key...
  • PJ Harvey - scary, intense...oh my!
  • Tilda Swinton - untouchable, perfect
  • American K - your genes are very precious to me and I'd like to see them survive
  • Redbee - (making her first official cameo here) works of art should be immortal

And as for men, since such a thing is biologically possible...

  • TA - it's like looking in a mirror and seeing only the best things reflected back

How's that for validation? I genuinely cannot imagine another man I could possibly ever want to be with.

Friday, September 02, 2005

I'm in love with the word rattlebag at the moment and I'm finding many opportunities to use it. So I'm going to stuff lots of odds and ends, willy nilly, into a paragraph or two with no rhyme, reason or logic. You have been warned.
Yesterday I got an e-mail from Bar People stating that - as a cool, sexy, hip, urban, bright young London-based blogger* - I was just the kind of girl they wanted to join their social networking site. It was my Billericay moment! A company's terribly misconceived marketing plan revolved around me! Instantly, my world was invaded by the copyrighted exclamation marks. I was a bit flattered and perplexed, since the UB is not a brightly shining star in the virtual firmament. At first I thought the concept - people with similar interests share similar spaces and, a leap of faith here, they should probably network a bit - was interesting. But then I thought about it some more and it's redundant isn't it? I mean consider this - I live in Southwark, I like to blog, I'm going to meet other bloggers, I click on to the organiser's site and there's a description of 'my' corner of London. I have yet to discover if I have anything in common with Mr Wibble...but the important thing is that the connection between us, space we share, isn't Southwark or even the Anchor pub - it's here, here and here; the hyperlink signposts and virtual homes that we visit are the geographical connections between us.
I'm going through another high-maintenance phase. It's odd and unsettling, suddenly shaping my eyebrows seems worthwhile enough to spend time on and wearing heels might just be worth the blisters. I hope it passes quickly; I sort of feel ashamed of myself for even noticing the passing whims of fashion and yet tomorrow I'm going to go to a designer sample sale and then for an Aveda makeover and the worst bit is I'm excited.
*Actually, they left out the "cool, sexy, hip, urban, bright young" bit of the description, the idiots.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

the post that tells you I'm still here, but not much else
Sorry, I've been meaning to post I really have but I'm sort of all 'worded out' and sleep deprived. Luckily, the Palais is very quiet and calm at the moment with D long gone, M on holiday (I believe she's throwing tomatoes in Spain) and TA in Canada. The sister-in-law has started dating a new fellow and is quietly joyous while at the same time still feeling angry and betrayed by D. I know this because we spent a good two hours having a heart to heart last night. I seem to be having a lot of D&M conversations at the moment and, while I'm bonding with new friends and reaffirming why I love old friends, I think there's only so far the talking cure can take me.
Today I'm going to abstain from sending multiple e-mails to TA (and reading his replies multiple times) and just forget about recent events; tonight I'm roasting a chicken, eating figs and drinking red wine with someone who makes me laugh. And hopefully as a result I'll be able to sleep properly.
In total meta-blog-world-not-real-world news, after being encouraged by my fellow lanky lass, I've decided to sneak in here.