Diary of Lisa Taylor, reluctantly 42 (and a half)

Or.. 'f.ck me I'm forty.. two.. and a half', though can look 38 on a - not so deluded - good day. Or 'How to reconcile a well experienced mind trapped in a still - but for how long? – youthful body.' Don't have the 30somethings angst/problems, neither have the resigned (?) ageing baby-boomers in safe family territory outlook yet. Here's how I cope, one day all sexy women will get old... but never invisible. © Lisa Taylor 2005/6/7/8/9. Jeez.. so much for the 42 and-a-half delusion

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

30 August - Too ageing, Too Fast & so Too Furious

Shit shit shit it’s happening. I’’m getting old (again). This time it’s official. A week ago I saw on the feet ofa 50 something Spanish tourist a pair of summer version MBT’s, you know those horrendously ugly, chunky trainers that are supposed to improve your posture and core strength because they make your heels roll back? The summer version was a bulky sort of white Birkenstock sandal. I think I read about them a few years back and Cherie Blair was seen with some (she needs all the help she can get frankly). Then yesterday I spied the regular version under the trousers of a City woman. It was her suit I was admiring at first, a very subtle feminine Prince of Wales check which was one of my father’s best suits so there’s my Freudian moment for all to enjoy. I thought, well if worn under wide trousers those ugly shoes are not that noticeable? (they are Lisa, they are said my other voice). Maybe I should invest in them carried on sensible voice being that 3 sessions with the marvellous osteopath Guy Gold (works out of Triyoga if you need him) have cost me £120 anyway (shoes are £135) and I went because of some glitch with my right knee and feet anyway. What if the MBT’s turn out to be magic for the knee and thereafter I’m tempted to ignore the spindly high heels? This is how ‘old’ starts surely, with comfortable coming B4 fashionable? Though my mother has not yet succumbed to elasticated waists and I hope she never does? I compromise by deciding to resist for another couple of years at least.

29 August - RIP Reading Fest

Caught a bit of it on TV. Didn’t know who the young presenters were next to Jo Whiley. Was it on Popbitch or not that Lord Bono was banging her? He of the blameless reputation? If not ohmygod U2 will close down my blog for libel. And no, I don’t have any proof, it’s all hearsay. But then again, look at George Michael. He is gay, but back then in Wham days the papers never told you, though they knew. There seems to be a complex system that ‘decides’ when it’s time to go medieval on celebs ass. So, Reading Festival… Well, I see no reason to go unless I’m at Dave Grohl’s BBQ backstage (he is an enthusiastic barbie maniac, or unless someone’s paying me, like that year we sold the most useless piece of info to the Sun. A friend was linked to Rav, then presiding over the gossip pages, and he told us to let him know of any goss. This made going to the festival slightly less boring as we fancied ourselves intrepid detectives. But we spent a fruitless w/end coming across nothing that seemed that interesting to us. Then one of my exes told me how much the headliners, Blur, were getting paid. It was possibly the first year the fee went over the £1m mark. Again, who cares? You may say, but in desperation we offered the snippet to Rav. Imagine our surprise when the Sun run a whole page thingy with a picture of Damon’s new house in West London which was his new home with new post Justine girlfriend. How much did it cost? Well, £1m of course, it was very very big but not in the country (that was his record company boss). Never mind that there were 4 Blurs to share the bonanza, there it was, our bit of info crossed with another bit of info and voila’, scoop. Our eyes were opened to how papers concoct an article out of nothing remotely earth shattering. We did provide another one on Fatboy Slim but it must have been such incredible news that I totally can’t remember what it was, though again, it was a full page. But my co-snitch who’s in the legal profession had too much guilty conscience to continue and thus ended our tabloid career. I think we were paid beer money (or vodka in our case) anyway and it was hardly worth it. Last time I went to Reading Fest we had to stay in the Holiday Inn and frankly the time had come to give it up.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

28 August - Small Kiddies & Happy Meals

If you’re staying over at friends who have small children and infants… don’t forget to take ear plugs. And if your friends don’t have a spare room to put you up in, just don’t go. It’s your w/end too. Then when you wake up and are asked to play or take them out to bond etc. , remember to remove your watch so you don’t look at it a million times. There’s a chance the older kid at least will tell the parents and you’re stuffed. I even lied about what time my train left so I could be left at station earlier to read my book/paper! Earlier at the shops earlier with the 4 and 7 years old , the 4 year old called my name a million times, to look at stuff etc and I'm like ‘Baby girl? I I heard you the first time and I turn to you the first time you holler , no need to repeat my name 5 times’. Still, this must be how Paris Hilton feels when she leaves the hotel and the paps are in waiting. Thank god no hidden cameras to show my lack of interpersonal skills with kiddies.
The visit to Macdonalds was also enlightening (yes folks, I had established with parents that no previous visit had taken place within a month at least so my conscience was assuaged) as I discovered that happy meals are cheap as chips, literally less than the price of some handcut fries in a gastropub. People can eat for next to no money. Wow. The happy meals even included annoying toys that sang endlessly ‘I like to move it, move it’. And I had that in stereo. I was informed that this ditty appears on the OST of Madagascar, which of course I only know as a large island where I nearly went back in June. In comparison the infant was a doddle, she's just so cute and just needs to touch your red toenails to be happy. The game is of course extra simple. Retract foot, or offer foot to her touch. Easy.

28 August - Thugs & South Bank

My friend P. was attacked for the second time nearly a year after he was attacked and robbed of his laptop whilst walking home from Embankment bridge via South Bank complex. Around midnight on both occasions. This time he did not suffer cuts and bruises as he managed to fight the guy off (previously there had been several so no chance). But he's very shaken of course. I got very cross as never mind that he likes to walk and is 6ft tall and sort of burly and currently not in possession of much cash for taxis (but enough for drinks in WE), mate, learn your lesson. Some guy got killed on the South Bank last year and I've read of other robberies so here's my public service announcement. Don't walk on the South Bank side after dark. Or I won't feel sorry for you.

27 August - Thieving & Tesco

Pick the Saturday before Carnival and of course the Tesco on Portobello Rd is heaving. I pick up a Saturday paper by the entrance and go look for some tomatoes to snack on later (so as not to undo the good work of lunch at Fresh & Wild with.... CAKE). Tomatoes in hand I turn a corner and see there are massive queues at the tills. Quandary! It's 6pm, I really want to read a paper now after wandering for hours and chatting to Mandie (highlight.. describing how the ex once told her v. v. excitedly that he had a great present for her, like really a good gift. That evening she gaged the box and thought 'MANOLOS, finally' but upon tearing off the wrapping paper she discovered a sodding docking station for her i-pod. The ex had made the fatal mistake of buying a present that HE would like and not thinking about what she really really wanted. Plus he was about £250 short of the recommended value). I digress as usual. So, I put the tomatoes down and exited with the paper. This is a first folks, I don't thieve, in fact I tithe usually. But in my defence I had picked up the Independent because there were tons of them left and looking forlorn and that confirmed my idea that they should really give that paper away for free as every day they must send thousands back. If they don't read it in Portobello.. then again it was Tesco we're talking about not the aforementioned Fresh & Wild. So Mr Tesco, I owe you £1.50 or whatever it was but... if you don't mind I actually gave it to a tramp outside so I guess we're even and I don't have to add this to the sins?

26 August - Bootcamp vs Beautcamp

Conversation with an ex employee of Mr C Birkam, who tells me that my former yoga god (I do like his sweaty classes) is wanted for tax evasion and has escaped to Hawaii!! So much for wanting to do the course and open a studio (see entry from last 21 April ‘05) and for anyone who then noticed I dislike the idea of yoga teachers (see entry of 18 July 06 re Toph/Danny Paradise, another resident of Hawaii no less), I only wanted to run a place and make mega bucks not buy into the hippy dippy stuff and actually have to teach. Nothing was done about it as Mr Bikram insists you have to do 6 weeks with him in LA (before he became a fugitive) and I just thought it was a bit too controlling and totally expensive. I have to say that my views are coloured by the fact that in the top fashionable studios in London, one gets the impression that the clients view their yoga teacher as another type of psychoanalyst/psychotherapist… the clients are by and large needy children with money (classes don’t come cheap folks) and the need to belong to some church of the trendies. As I’ve spent some time after the classes with some of them (no, I don’t go but I meet friends who drink with them and believe me they undo the good work by guzzling pints and stuff) and I get to hear their stories, a more dysfunctional bunch is hard to imagine. So that’s why I dislike some centres. My own form of snobbing the snobs I guess. Anyway, I have of course moved on to the newest import from the USA, Beautcamp Pilates. Only available in one studio in the UK for the moment daahlings. Only 6 people per class. Go google it. Great pun no? In case you wonder why I don't add those easy internet links to stuff, my philosophy is that if you make the effort to find something, it may be that you really want to look it up.

I love it and am aching aching aching, so it must work. I mean aching as in nearly throw up achey. Love my new classes, even more since upon booking one and looking directly at owner’s computer I saw the first name at the top of list of clients is Abi Titmuss. I mean, a hero of mine! Love her! All gone a bit quiet for her, where is she? What’s up Abi? Write and tell me. In LA of course they have Nicole and Ben Stiller and Jessica Simpson going to classes, here they get Abi and the ugly journalists who usually interview stars, like Chrissie I. Meow, but am allowed it, an ex boyfriend slept with her a few times before becoming entangled with me. If he'd mentioned this before 'our' deed, I would have called it off of course.

25 August - Jim Davidson & Ronnie Corbett

No, not part of my six degrees obsession....
Remember I said somewhere else on this blog that the idea of Dubai as a resort makes me pretty much vomit? I know it’s supposed to be for people I have nothing in common with anyway, but at least I thought it was meant to be an exclusive, luxurious sort of holiday place, seen as they have the only 7 star hotel in the world – can someone tell me what it offers for the extra star/s? So what’s this I read?
Get your tickets to Dubai for the comedy festival in November. Highlights include,
11 Nov "An Evening with Jim Davidson"
12 Nov "Richard Digance In Concert"
14 Nov "Blackpool Night Out with Frank Carson"
15 Nov "Bobby Davro at Large"
17 Nov "An Evening with Ronnie Corbett"
Do you think this is a joke? They’ll probably have Elton John at Blackpool instead then.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

23 August - More Fashion puzzles

Still on the subject of fashion and following part 2 of the Asian wedding. I know that the material for saris comes in a standard length of 5.5 metres. The lady guests at the wedding were a varied bunch but certainly proof that obesity is not just a Caucasian problem in the UK. Voluminous and billowing is the word that comes to mind though of course the drapes of the saris make every fat lady look sort of gracious. Naked would be a picture I just don’t want to conjure. Sorry, I have a thing about folds of flesh over fannies. Conversely there were also tall and skinny women and a fair amount of Kylie sized ones. So my question is… do the tiny ones not use all the fabric out of the 5.5 metres? And do the giant turtle ones have to buy 2 x 5.5 metres? And if so, where’s the seam that joins the two panels? You see, I’ve got time to wonder about this stuff.
Much as I wonder why a percentage of women who buy new shoes, fail to remove the sticky labels on the soles. I know it’s hard work. I have cursed manufacturers many times because no one is that blind and so the label does not need to take up the whole sole (this is at sales times especially) and because the only way to remove them totally is by using a kitchen scourer and wetting the label. Boring. But I do it because the alternative is just too awful (am talking high heels here). As for labels on clothes, yes I know they’re there by law and even then they don’t tell you the full story ‘Manufactured in China but if you think no one used child labour you’re wrong, think again and besides you know that’s not even the worst of it, there’s other crimes against human rights committed in that country… ‘ and so on. But you don’t have to keep the label! Maybe I’m mad but I cut them off pretty much as a rule. I razor off also the actual brand labels very often. Especially if I have succumbed to buying a pair of £3 knickers in Top Shop. No one needs to know and as I have advised girlfriends in the past, your average man cannot tell the difference between a £3 acrylic lacy panty and a £60 real lace La Perla one. Try it one day, it’s not even close in a Coke vs Pepsi contest, no, it’s truly chalk and cheese but they can’t tell. Hence, labels off. Also the long ones scratching your waist on the inside of tops and bras and so on. Ok, everyone is allowed a mild obsessive compulsive disorder. I mean, I don’t as a rule avoid touching handrails on the tube for fear of germs so I don’t think I need to see a doctor, yet.

Oh and another note on Asian weddings. They’re very democratic, especially the ones where they hold a buffet (been to only two and both time it was a buffet), there’s no need for top tables or table settings, you just sit down wherever. Though there was no mingling of conversation between the Asian heritage and the UK guests. Not much said. Weird. And as was Hindu wedding, no alcohol. Saves lots of money and bad behaviour when you think about it.

ps. the fact that men can't tell quality fabrics from non-quality is no excuse for them to buy you £3 panties from Top Shop. Just in case any bloke is reading this. Beware.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

22 August - Tartan & Old kilts

Well, of course it couldn't be just the leopard prints that get dredged up again. Not having any new fashion ideas means you can rely on that other old faithful: tartan. Now, I know that Vivienne Weswood uses it ever year, but she's allowed, she's made it her own and I forgive her. As for finding any tartan in my old wardrobe, it's difficult. Once you're not a slip of a girl or an old dame like VW then you better leave it alone. I do however have a tiny red kilt which can never be worn outside on accounts of its indecency, mutton dressed as lamb connotations, but... it was passed down to me by a friend who was taking some photos one day and who I shall forever be grateful to for telling me this very useful piece of advice 'You wanna pull? Don't go out in trousers!' 'But what if my legs are not the greatest?' I said and he replied 'Men don't see shapes, they see legs and above legs there is ass'. 'Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh, thank you'.
So, he seemed very positive about the powers of the tiny red kilt and shortly after I wore it in the flat (basically only had time to step into where S. was sitting) and S could have practically come just watching me walk towards him. So now it's my lucky skirt you see? And I bought some other tiny tartan skirt in blue, but red is best. More traditional. Once I brought it to his house and said it wasn't fair that he never wore a skirt and lo and behold he went scavenging in his wardrobe and produced a manly kilt he'd worn at a friend's wedding, and boy did I enjoy giving him a few whacks on his derriere. The moment he was in a skirt he was no longer my big SAS soldier but... my bitch basically. One day he'll open that little purse they wear at the front (sorry what's it called?) and find a note from two years back... I also remember I had borrowed some poptastic red vinyl buckled platforms boots by Pam Hogg but they did nothing for S. Only the skirt. I know some women are awkward with skirts, but trust me and make it short, even if you have Cherie Blair legs. It works.

Monday, August 21, 2006

21 August pt 2 - Rimming & Oversights

Great, came into work to find the following page on the printer at work. Yeah, I know I said 'at work' twice. Am in shock. It starts boringly enough…’As he left the house to begin his journey north, my boyfriend turned around and said…….’
A quick scan and line 11 was a different story ‘When was it that I cried buckets over Luke, the man who only wanted me to rim him for hours but would nay on never return the favour?’
Shocking stuff non? Except that it is me who wrote it, printed it at 5pm on Friday to take with and add to (what do you know, sometimes I indulge in fiction fantasies) and f kkking left it on the printer over the w/end. GAADS. Ok it’s not the main printer, and thank god several people are on holiday this week, and thank god I came in rather than, you know decide not to, and thank god, oh I don’t know…..
As it’s written from female POV and not many of those here, it would be easy to assume it could be me. I decide to go on the attack and send a stroppy email to the whole office regarding some storage crate that’s disappeared from the side of my desk. Two people confess straight away. Must have been my tone.

21 August - Artifice & Armistead

Found this quote. Like it. Applies to blogs.
"Once you start to tell tales about your own life, it's impossible to keep the artifice out of it. No matter how frank an autobiography may appear to be, it's still a very carefully contrived contraption. " - Armistead Maupin, revealing that he may never write a memoir.

20 August - A personal marker

For no other reason that sometimes I forget this is a personal diary and so I can have my own in-jokes, personal mythology or shorthand to things only I know and can make sense of. Today's fast track to happiness is a thought that just came into my head: remember the sequence in American Beauty where the empty carrier bags are being blown by the wind and dance and float to the sounds of one of the best soundtrack moments ever?
... I'll never forget what that means.

19 August - Pink Hats & Poles

Out with the colleagues on a Chablis bender recently. Eventually the high rankers slunk back to the office or to their long suffering wives (the ones campaigning to have a third kid because you know, they need to keep busy). So was left trying to keep up drinking with a 25 and a 30 year old women. They were chatting away and I was surprised when I looked at my watch that at 10.30pm they’re still going strong. Then it hit me that it’s because they’re so much younger than me (and one is a Kiwi considerably taller and larger than me) as to be able to withstand the sapping qualities of the wine. I made my excuses and left, not before considering that the conversation had been about relationships for most of the time. Mismanaged ones at that, so no change there whether the age group is 20/30/ or 40. But I kept quiet about my wealth of examples and played the optimistic card. It was all as tedious as I remember it.

A couple of nights later we were out again for a hen night. My first in years so had to check if they still run in the same fashion and they do. This group was well mannered and well behaved, average age mid-twenties. We went to an 80’s disco, the Reflex which pound for pound was probably better value than Chinawhite or any of those. Top place, reminds me of clubbing as a teenager, basically on Sunday afternoons, shake your booty to Lady Marmalade from 3pm till 6pm be home by 7pm with serious pout lips due to sucking face with some other 15 year old. Can’t believe they let us into discos underage but they did. Or maybe there were no laws about underage?
At the Reflex I walked down the stairs to the sounds of Tainted Love and it got better, New Order’s Blue Monday , then it gets worse, Rick Astley and Bananarama but it was all bad in a good way. Crowded at 8.30pm, I could take the tackyness factor till 10pm and then I left a dozen women intent on getting more drunk in their pink cowboy hats (they make everybody look v. good) as once again I had to admit I don’t have same stamina. Never did in a way. Was relieved they were relying only on alcohol and not coke. Read this great comment by journo about all of those liberal people who buy Fairtrade prods but then contribute to the blood economy of the same countries by buying coke. Maybe they can plant a tree for each 10 gms they buy? But, having fewer inhibitions whilst sober than a bunch of pissed youngsters, I was first on the pole. Didn’t get very far up. Had the wrong shoes. Or that’s my excuse.

18 August - Gyms & Death

New gym, new induction. Ok, I’m not a fan of gyms as I think you can basically do anything you need pretty much by yourself outside or inside and save the membership fees. Though am a sucker for new types of exercise (more of that later… Beautcamp Pilates anyone? No, didn’t think so as only one gym in the UK so far). Anyway this was provided for free by caring employer so why not. Of course you need an assessment to use the ever changing machines, though kind guy who walks me round admits that the rowing one (pretty basic invention from probably a hundred years ago) still is the best all around warm up compared to steppers and cross trainers, in fact he goes as far as saying I could just go for a jog. My point precisely. Anyway Personal Trainer chap, aged 25 or so, is filling the questionnaire and asks ‘What’s your goal, what do you want to achieve?’
Mmh, I think… am reasonably fit, toning seems a boring answer, don’t have too many body issues that a gym would solve… more like plastic surgery thanks, so I settle for ‘Stave off the ageing process, thank you’.
He deadpans ‘That’s not possible, am afraid’
I look at him and am tempted to give him a quick lesson in psychology which would come in handy when dealing with clients. First of all look at my DoB on the sheet. Got it? Right, then do not tell a woman over 40 that delaying the ageing process is not possible. She kind of knows that, but please sell her the dream. She said ‘delaying’ not ‘reversing’ (which is probably what Sting and Madonna are trying to do).
Talking of which, Madge, if it’s true that you really think that water that’s been chanted and meditated upon can make nuclear waste holy and non nuclear... then you’ve totally lost me now. First the £180 tickets, now this.
Back to Personal Trainer.. I make a mental note to go read that Tibetan Book of the Dead. I think it deals not just with final death but with getting there. I think am lacking the necessary acceptance that ageing precedes death… usually. I make another mental note to chose a PT who's not 25 next time, but one who has read some philosophy. After all I do not mean to shag him.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

17 August - A Column & not made of stone

Finally got round to reading Belle de Jour’s book. Pleasantly surprised indeed, I can’t slag it off at all. It is miles better than subsequent blogger efforts gone into 'novels'. And I’ve learnt a thing or two that will come in handy. And one that I wished I’d known night Toph went away for 3 weeks and wouldn’t you just know it, I’d just come on! Neither of us is squeamish but had I known about ‘the sponge’ , life would have been easier. Thanks Belle.
I then went on to read her blog again as you do and that’s got useful info too. I now know a newspaper column is roughly worth £25k a year. Assuming a column per week that’s £500 so not bad if you can add that to other income and not pay too much tax on it. Would that someone give me a column. That would just be my holiday money. I can definitely mention underwear as much as she does. Hey Belle, want to meet and show me yours/I show you mine sort of thing? Of course I don’t spend anytime much making lists or telling you which books I’m reading as she does, but that can easily be modified (this week we're grappling amongs others with an early WG Sebald. thank god I read 'Austerlitz' first or would not have proceeded further with this difficult writer. I'm also reading Jonathan Safran Foer. With books, am always a couple of years behind the publication date. It just works that way, though I heard David Mitchell read some of his latest at Hay a couple of years back. There you go.
As for the column, we could do it as a retro wishful thinking one. And as one of my friends just put it ‘You have a most delicious past miss taylor’. That’s debatable as all I’d said to her, was that I’d met finally a bona fide 80’s chart topper who I should have met ages before on account of him being my friend M’s cherry taker when she was very young: one bad Mr. X of an early 80s chart topping band. Now thanks to that connection I had a very good time spent with the about to crash down and burn Stone Roses -ok, just the keyboard player, a hired hand - and no one would ever mention those two bands in the same paragraph but me. Mr X also could have been more useful to me had I know it at the time that a couple that was considered very solid, could be parted. Unless my memory is shot, I think he went out with Mrs Edge and I’d have moved closer to wherever U2 were and made a valid attempt at the bald one. Don’t pity me. We all fancy people that our friends go ‘WHAT?’ Edge is my secret shame. I also fancy Viggo Mortensen so you can see I can cover the spectrum from sort of ugly to handsomest.
Anyway, besides a column, I could also do with some techie savvy person to adjust this blog’s appearance. I truly have blog envy when I see some of the (usually American) sites I get lost in on an average day. Volunteers?

16 August - Leopards & Diamonds

Am sure sometimes fashion designers sit there and feel like s hit at their own utter failure to come up with something new. If they don’t, I’d make it compulsory for them to be flogged in the windows of Harvey Nichols or some such. A quick ten mins on the high street have revealed that what I saw in some magazines for Autumn is indeed in the shops. Guess what.. we don’t know what to propose, so why don’t we come up with LEOPARD PRINTS AGAIN. Gee, yeah, great idea. Never seen those before. They look sophisticated on Sophia Loren, but on your average British girl they look like trollop prints a’ la Bette Lynch. Lucky me I’ve kept some from 2 revivals ago and a few months ago was quick to snatch a wonderful D&G jacket a friend was discarding. I grabbed it on account of the fact that yes surely this shit would come round again, I'm more Sophia than Bette and at least if it’s a D&G, it could look ok were I to go to some club infested with Russians. And in fact I may have to go on account of Leela’s sparklers of which more below.
But seriously, I know in music they keep recycling stuff; am sure the same happens in art and books but does it happen with everything? Do folks at IBM suddenly see an ad for a Xerox machine and go ‘But.. that’s the 1987 4761X model, look they’ve just changed the position of the out tray and re-designed the feeding thingy at the top but,. Gosh, it’s our model. Why don’t we re-design their 1988 7654SX best seller and just pass it off as something new??? After all, offices are full of people who were not around in 1987/88.’
I mean???????? Give me a break. The ex boyfriend who’s a trend predictor, seems to have gone into print in 2005 predicting we would be seeing a return of traditional brands like Carnation Milk. Like, er, yes, that really was a supermarket phenomenon last year. NOT! I wish people boycotted animal prints like they didn’t take a blind bit of notice of carnation milk, then the collective fashion industry would learn not to take us for fools.
So Leela….she came back from India where a business deal is going ahead for her and her partner and their associate there paid his share in diamonds. Some £6k worth at source. So she let me open the black velvet purse, and fondle them and examine them with a lens so I could tell which one was the clearest, better quality etc. MAGIC. She went to answer the phone at some point and I thought oohhhh, she won’t notice one missing. But uh, no, they’re there for her to find a buyer. Of course she could take them to Hatton Gardens but that would be too simple. I want her to go to South Ken or Chelski and exchange them for wads of cash in the Wellington Club or something.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

15 August - Two wombs & two tales

I get a text from Millie to say she’s made contact with a friend of mine (an ex) who I put forward as possible sperm donor as she’s going to have IVF and do it all on her own as she’s single, over 40, but strong, determined, surrounded by supporting family and has the financial means to achieve this. But it’s all in the hands of fate as she’s well aware. It will be fantastic if it all happens and am going to be proud if my role in facilitating this event. I don’t think it will be that strange to hold a baby born of my friend and an ex. After all, it’s in the past and I can’t do it. He’s fit, healthy, intelligent, full of s punk, not exactly caring but that’s good also as my friend welcomes his plans to have no role whatsoever after providing the raw material. And he’s adamant she has to stop smoking or else…. Which will be good for her.

About an hour later, after having replied to an email from a few days earlier inviting me to Gigi’s 35th b’day and housewarming in September, I get this reply from her “Baby-I'm pregnant! Call me when you can to discuss. Xxx”
Ok, I know there’s no other way of saying this, whether you say in an email or text or phone but WOW!! That’s totally unexpected. Not only has she split up from the boyfriend who was not a long fixture anyway, but she’s just posed for a newspaper in her g string. However when I call her, she tells me the ex boyfriend is back on and wants to stand by her (I love that expression) and is looking forward to the scan etc. She however is terrified as totally unprepared, didn’t think it could happen due to some medical history, and there is the small matter of having gone back to previous boyfriend for some TLC etc. I find am assuming old person’s advisory role (ok thanks for pointing it out, sometime 42 and a half really is old and not the new 25 as I'd like to believe the rest of the time) and urge her to go ahead/through with it because what you think you can safely put off at 35, will be almost impossible to attain five years later. Now, what was I doing at 35? Still on my way to world domination career wise, a kid was not in the planning. Don’t regret it, as right now would have to be readying him for school in September etc., but….

14 August - Iceland & Stories

Toph is laughing and laughing at dinner with his two old friends, the Icelandic girls (now Icelandic women as both in possession of husbands and children). You can tell they loved a party, they’re several years younger than me, but their skin is older. Meow.
A few days later or so Toph is laughing and laughing again when we’re out with the visiting top icelandinc poet. I mean, laughing showing teeth which is not that common with him. After these two displays, I can only infer that the people he’s most comfortable with hail form that small, dramatic and extreme island. And of course he loves Bjork, don’t we all. Am less keen on Sigur Ros, which he also loves. But that’s ok, am sure he could do without my bursts of Tiga or Scissors Sisters. I like the Icelandic because they’re quite direct… and they have stories, something to do with having to come up with entertainment when there’s bugger all to do out there in the cold probably. But the Greenlanders probably don't relish telling stories that much and they're also cold for months? I don’t know why am telling you this, apart from forming some minor plot to go to Iceland soon to see if I can hold my own there. I did go many years ago but was sort of a work thing so never really had that much fun. Slow day.

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Sunday, August 13, 2006

13 August - Socks & Phones

Am officially 12, the regression continues apace. Am in a newsagent buying the Sunday papers and cursing the plethora of magazines that carry giveaways. Surely nobody needs any more stupid flip flops? (see previous entry), what’s so new about them as a giveaway? Plus I nearly killed myself in some of those KG ones I got free with whatever it was that I read in five minutes and chucked. It had rained and they were so slippery on the pavement, I had to take them off after the fifth skidding incident and realising a possible lawsuit against the magazine was not going to work. So, there I am annoyed about all this ,when a magazine for teenagers catches my eye. It’s not the frankly awful plastic beach bag that it’s offering on its cover. Oh, no! It’s the sock for your mobile phone. Yes it looks like half the sock that would go over your toes and ball of your foot. It’s for you mobile phone! Wouldn’t you just know its use? Moby phones need to keep warm against the chilly weather! I have to have it! The magazine is £2.20. I can post it to my friend’s daughter later, as am loathe to just throw anything away. The moby sock is mine. Makes me happy for the drive home. What hope of growing old gracefully for me?

12 August - Road Rage & Moon Safari

Driving across London with a friend... it’s beyond maddening how long it can take to cross town and not even from the outer edges. Well, the destination is… Croydon which just makes it withing the boundaries of the A-Z. Yes. 80 minutes and counting and we’re not there yet. The worse thing is not the traffic, not the awful scenery provided by the uniform high streets we cross but that she has only minidiscs in her car (radio doesn’t work, ipod’s not charged). These md’s are circa 1996 and incredibly dated. Especially the dance music ones. We can save U2 out of 20/30 md's but who wants to listen to Bono going on and on.
We’re stuck with the Chemical Brothers and in trying to avoid hearing Block Rockin’ Beats or something now very disturbing, we concentrate on the filler tracks. Wow, it’s like we never heard any of these before. No, really, what were we listening to? Were we fast forwarding to the obvious hits? Because some of this filler stuff is not that bad.
We do however come to rely on Moon Safari by Air and keep the first track on repeat. It seems to act as a pacifier as we increasingly get frustrated trying to get out of central Croydon to find West Croydon. Don’t ask. We’re going to an Asian wedding dance. Yes, here’s a suggestion to the traffic police. Force all the radio stations in the land to transmit once every hour at least track 1 of Moon Safari. Sorry no titles on Md. It works.

10 August - Matalan & TK Maxx

Am blessed with a boring job.. how else would I have time to write this blog? In fact it’s so boring (I chose it deliberately, dont' feel that sorry for me) that these days my wrist aches from mouse over action due to spending hours on webistes. Should really use those old keyboard shortcuts learnt in about 1982. Anyway, what you have to do is always aim to have your desk positioned with your back to a wall so no one but the IT guys know how long you spend surfing.

Was considering what to do tomorrow and of course am not insensitive to ads and thought ok so 70% off at Matalan, could go take a look. But! Saved by the internet. A quick tour of their website reveals that there is nothing I need or stands out enough. Hurrah! Besides I'm not a Matalan person, which is sort of a Next person if you think about it. Before I give up, I go look at TK Maxx. They don’t show their merchandise, but they helpfully put together some looks for you, you know, the ones as seen in Heat magazine on Kate and Sienna. Why would I want to wear the same? In one they feature some blue flip flops that cost £8 (down from £18). Ahhh, that’s how they make the money, selling 50p rubber to suckers! Not going there either.

9 August - Seb & Bryan & Shane & Nick

Well, yes you wish, Lisa's had a fivesome. Not really. I missed Sebastian H’s birthday party at which g/friend gave him a girl as a gift, and no I don’t mean she gave birth to one. Bryan Ferry (only came to mind a few days ago) and Shane McGowan were in attendance. Nick Cave was invited but didnt' show up. He’s barely changed his hairstyle I see a few days later in ES, flanked by two handsome sons. These days nothing brings me up sharp faster than seeing former everyday hangabout people with their grown up kids. I want to scream 'We're not old, no, no, please really!' Wonder what one thinks about life .. take Shane, always was incredibly ugly/toothless and so on, whilst Bryan was an object of desire (not to me actually, though one of the first boys I kissed properly was an uncanny lookalike only 16 and much much shorter, did sing Virginia Plain quite well).now that they are older.. it’s like Shane’s never changed, whilst Bryan has altered a lot. Do handsome men find it harder to age than average ones? Bit like women? Wonder what he was wearing. White lace up shoes still a staple?

8 August - Guilty & Pleasures

Haven't done masochism for a while so it is that I go along with Ezzie to the 23rd birthday party of this girl Holly who works as PA to Charlotte Church. All guests are similarly fresh faced/eager/in second or third jobs and looking to go forward, become more successful: this one books talent for a TV show, that one works at some ad agency that no longer has the names of the owners in the title like in my good old 80's you know, Bartle Bogle Hegarty and so on. Enought to make you feel sick, but for some reason they like us being here. As they are however below the age of my minimum young person to my Mrs Robinson, I just drink my rose' and gaze into the distance.
Holly and her best friend dance professinally in their spare time and also at Guilty Pleasures, the club. I shagged their main Mr dj (hi Sean R) when he was only djing at work parties back in ’87 and the E’s were good. And Holly was four years old. Oh dear. Now am going to cry about lost youth indeed. And my old Beetle, and my old flatmate Danni, and that other friend who that night had to come down on the sofa whilst listening to me and Mr Dj keep it up for hours. I told you the E's were good then.
I ask her friend how is it possible that the music is guilty pleasures for them as the connotations of its shamefulness/cheesiness are surely lost on people who were not really there then in the first instance, but she doesn’t comprehend the question and just says 'It’s nice music'. But she didn’t slow dance to Can’t live without you by Harry Nilsson in 1974 so.. here you go, in case you’d forgotten, my guilty pleasure #1, and the lyrics go:
"No, I can't forget this eveningOr your face as you were leavingBut I guess that's just the way the story goesYou always smile but in your eyes your sorrow showsYes, it showsNo, I can't forget tomorrorowWhen I think of all my sorrowsWhen I had you there but then I let you goAnd now it's only fair that I should let you knowWhat you should know.I can't live if living is without youI can't live, I can't give any moreCan't live if living is without youI can't give, I can't give any moreNo, I can't forget this eveningOr your face as you were leavingBut I guess that's just the way the story goesYou always smile but in your eyes your sorrow showsYes, it showsCan't live if living is without youI can't live, I can't give anymoreI can't live if living is without youCan't live, I can't give anymore(Living is without you)"

However, whilst checking the internet for these lyrics I also found this other song Harry Nilsson wrote, presumably several years later and after not getting the girl, repeatedly, turned him into a bitter and twisted chap. Don’t think I ever heard it on the radio given the fucks in the lyrics and am not as sad as ever going out to buy a Nilsson album… so can’t think of the tune.

"You’re breakin’ my heartYou’re tearing it apart so fuck youAll I want to do is have a good time now I’m blueYou won’t boogaloo,Run down to Tramps, have a dance or two, ooohhhYou’re breakin’ my heart,You’re tearing it apart but fuck youYou’re breakin’ my heartYou’re tearing it apart, boo-hooYou stepped on my assYou’re breakin’ my glasses tooYou won’t drive my car, might be a starI’ve had enough of youI’m goin’ insaneThere’s no one to blame so fuck youInstrumental break #1You can’t have your wayThere’s nothing left to sayThere’s nothing left to do, ooooohhhYou’re breakin’ my heartYou’re tearing it apart so fuck youInstrumental break #2You gotta have your wayThere’s nothing left to sayThere’s nothing left to do, ooooowwwYou’re breakin’ my heartYou’re tearing it apart but I love you"

6 August - Posh fruit and drinks & Crap music

First of all it’s not a festival if it doesn’t have tents. What calls itself a festival these days is a mere local summer fete type thing. There are so many this Summer in and out of London and there’s fuck all to differentiate/recommend them. Sick of marketing/sponsorships events masquerading as entertainment. You might as well be in Earls’ Court or Olympia. Thank god I got out of that business a long time ago and don’t have to pretend am doing something interesting. I’m not going to any, especially if the bands are as crap as Fruitstock in Regent’s Park. Yes, ok it’s free so don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and the Cuban guys.. Los Van Van? were good old timers, but Arrested Development? The London Gospel Choir? I don’t care who they’ve sang with.. their main singer was flat a few times. There was some other band whose singer had zero charisma and I asked their name twice and I still can’t remember it. Plus, we must be old.. we’re so in love with the stands that sell gourmet food, the champagne, the pimms, the fresh fruit and the farmers market, the triyoga tent, the friends of the earth van and so on, but not so old as not to register the ludicrous prices of stuff. This is not the bar at the Sanderson, so thank you for selling me nachos for £6 and a bottle of Mumms for £37. Are you nuts? Still, it just went to prove that I can take maximum 3 to 4 hours of this and be happy to drive off home in my car. And yes, some kissing in the sun, on the grass, is welcomed and this being London the crowd was pleasing on the eye and we run into several acquaintances/friends. Useful instead of a garden party at home I guess.

3 August - What I know about his wife's brother

Dinner with some friends of a friend. They all used to work together about ten years ago. At some point the conversation turns to ‘You’'ve changed or you've not changed or do you think you’ve changed? ' And so on. I've known them all less than 8 months so can't judge. I’m inclined to say that the my main friend here hasn't.
I tell them if you keep a diary, those things we wrote before blogs, and you happen to pick up one covering, say '82, as I did recently, you'd be surprised or not to find how your views were fundamentally the same. I for example, was out every night much as I do now and my favourite fruit is still peaches (the hairy ones not the smooth ones) and I didn’t care about pets and neither do I care now.
At this point the youngest in the group, Maggie, deadpans 'I was five in '82'.
There's no answer to that. I’m speechless as I flash back to copies of magazines that no longer exist…. Flexipop anyone?
At some point we’re joined by yet another ex co-worker of theirs, L. who’s been having on off awful marital strife, moving out, moving back in, there’s a small child to make decisions even harder to take.
‘s funny how I happen to know a lot about his bro in law B who sort of broke a friends’ heart a couple of years back or so. B was also was one whose wife had an affair and treated him like scum (or so we think, only ever had his side of the story) but with 3 young kids involved separation was difficult. There’s a lot of to and fro in these things, but the annoying thing is when they still share same house as they break up and tell you that they can’t make their thing with you public yet as spouse (remember it’s her who’s leaving him) would still go ballistic if she knew. Thus my friend was consigned to the restricting role of mistress, though how can you be one if he’s separating? Are you sure he really is separating? But all those issues to do with sharing property and money we do know can get vicious (macca/lady macca?) so yeah, it’s not about the kids that much, it’s about the money.
Anyway, I keep shtum obviously, especially as now it hardly matters; my friend is over B, who’s gone on to several more relationships including one with another good acquaintance of mine! But am trying to work out if L’s wife being that she is B’s sister may not share some characteristics with B’s ex wife. I mean she sounds like a bit of a harridan and so is B’s ex. In fact her newspaper column photo confirms it. As I have several male friends who’ve married versions of their mothers or versions of their sisters, I find this fascinating. Though it could easily be argued that I look for some characteristics in my men which I can trace back to my father. But physically… no.
Feels voyeuristic somehow to know this much about L and his relations and he knows nothing about me.. Oh and my friend has clearly not learnt her lesson as she’s currently dating another man in process of separating, but still living in same house as spouse only she seems to dump their children on him often/when it suits her, and this is his excuse for not being able to see my friend very often. Do I believe this? Only partly.
One last thing about B, he has the same surname as a famous radio dj with whom my friend also had a whirlwind liaison of a week or so duration. She was sadly supplanted w/o any explanation by many more after as there had been many more before. She says the week was worth it for the sex (and no, no one would ever believe he’s any good, makes most people barf in fact, but I take her word for it) and she was thankfully kept out of the Sunday papers. They don’t bother with his conquests any more as they are so frequent and he never aims too high. Remember Gerrie Haliwell???

Friday, August 11, 2006

2 August - In Every Dream Home & Heartaches

A friend lives on a highly rated street near Portobello, you know, Cambridge, Oxford, Bassett. He owns a bright and atmospheric and cosy top floor flat, but not an entire house like Kirsty Young does, Rick Mayall does, Harry Potter’s director does, Damon Albarn does and god knows how many other non-celebs with City salaries or trust funds.
His girlfriend says that, nearly every time they approach his building or leave it, the talk turns to the properties around them or prices or if it doesn’t it’s still a thought he holds in their heads. They never tire of staring at the cream facades, the imposing grey steps, the gleaming black gates, the small front gardens no one ever uses. They lament ‘How could we own one of these?’ And swiftly follow that with ‘Well it’s not very likely is it?’ Though it’s always possible, but at 40 maybe they have learnt to be realistic about their ambitions. They can think about a number of things, but are not sure they want to burn themselves out trying to make them happen.
This thought cannot fail to make them feel bad even when the sun is shining through the blossoms of the cherry-less trees ‘We are losers who only have a flat in this road, not a house’ they think. ‘How did we let that happen?’ Selling the flat in this road would allow for a house elsewhere, but … it wouldn’t be the same. It’s these roads he wants. It gets worse if they then drive past Holland Park streets where the houses are even grander and not blighted by Westway noise and pollution. But they don’t go that way. Eventually, as they walk to a coffeeshop in Golborne road and have a wander, the thought recedes….till they go back.
She thinks there’s a documentary in this. Maybe in fact one is already done and dusted. You know, here’s one of these houses to live in for a year or forever, (actually you’d have to say forever and then take it away – who’s ever heard of a programme that really lets you keep the spoils - or you’d prejudice the results of the test) and see what changes in your life. Of course lots changes, but how much and how? When you’ve finished re-decorating and giving dinner parties to show off? What happens then? Do you then worry you still have a job that’s no longer that inspiring or that your grey hair multiplies no matter where you live? Or that the house sucks all your money and you can’t feed a dog or that you can’t afford the modern art that surely should be adorning your walls?
Does it make him feel worse because he can’t sort of provide for eventual partner/family? Does he ever worry she may leave him to go out with someone else (they have friends like that) who has a superior property portfolio? Maybe even another house out of town in the country? Never mind that anyone can drive to the country at the weekend if they so wish? These two never do for example. Does she feel worse because hey, she’s not the MD of some super duper hedge fund or of The Groucho (or divorced from such which is usually the preferred route) and thus able to say ‘Darling, do not worry, Daddy says I can buy 1000 sq ft in Mayfair, next to the Jimmy Choo shop. Isn’t that supah?’
Funnily enough (or thank god at least) they do not trouble their heads with car envy. For some reason they drive what they drive and never give longing glances to the Mercs, the Beamers or the Classics. Same for clothes… they don’t feel so bad that they can’t shop in Bond St except that at sales time.
The girlfriend lives in a not so great neighbourhood in another side of London. As she walks down her street there are better houses than her flat of course, and even better ones a few minutes away and she could maybe get one of those if she wanted. The gap is not so unattainable. So she never feels that bad about life. She wonders if this is how it feels if you’re ugly and every morning you bump into Cindy Crawford buying the newspaper at your local? If she weren’t there, would you notice it so much that you’re missing what she’s got? Ie. height, boobs, luscious locks, a beauty spot and a Rolex? Would you be happier standing next to Kathy Burke? Hang on, she has a Bafta right? And Cindy doesn’t…
So, she sort of dreads walking down his street with him sometimes for fear of voicing ‘God this is such a broken record conversation’. She wants to say ‘You’ve never asked me what some of my favourite lyrics are, I can sing them to you… One day I’d like I hope to hear them sang to me.
"I wanna love you - I wanna love and treat - love and treat you right; I wanna love you every day and every night: We'll be together, yeah! - with a roof right over our heads; We'll share the shelter, yeah, oh now! - of my single bed; We'll share the same room, yeah! - for Jah provide the bread."
His girlfriend doesn’t like reggae, but this is her exception. She’s sentimental like that, all you need is love blah blah. Admittedly, she’s never asked him for his favourite lyrics either. Perhaps they’ll surprise her just as much.
Me? When it comes to this I must confess to some Bryan Ferry cynism....
"In every dream home a heartache/ And every step I take/ Takes me further from heaven/Is there a heaven?I`d like to think so/Standards of living/ They´re rising daily/ But home oh sweet home/ It´s only a saying."
And I'll stop there as I think the song is about inflatable dolls no?

30 July - Horrids & The Masked Ladies' underwear

We’re in Horrids for a while. We didn’t plan to come here on the last mad day of the sales, but we’re entertaining friends from abroad. Of course we go and hide in the Georgian Terrace restaurant on the fourth floor. It’s not as empty as on a December afternoon, but affords some space, light and escape from the throngs. Ludicrously priced of course.
It’s the second or third week of Israel vs everybody. We talk politics whilst eating our delicious afternoon tea (cost vs quantity whe-hey, not a bargain) and as we can’t solve the Middle East 957th crisis (surprise! Cannot reach where Condi and UN fail to do anything much either) we turn to other matters. We look at the masked ladies gliding by, flashing a few jewels on their fingers, wrists and toes. The young nieces stare (not many masked ladies in Connecticut, and to be honest not that many in London, but lots in Horrids). Someone wonders if they wear nice clothes under their tents and masks. But of course, says Toph who’s spent some time in Arabia. He tells us of a shop called Ladies’ Pleasures which simply meant that being staffed entirely by females it allowed the masked ladies to take off their coat so to speak and shop for La Perla and so on in civvies. Not for the first time he mentions the allure of only seeing a woman’s eyes through the slit in her headdress and how she appears to be flirting with you, just with you! As if ! I wonder why no man ever imagines that under the cloack there could be an average or ugly or fat and ugly and old specimen instead of some exotic eastern equivalent of one of our top models.
However, in a quick dash around – ok, had to be done – I lied and said the queue at the ladies took 40 mins but in reality 25 of those were spent acquiring a skirt, some tops, a hat and small stuff – I find a tremendous black silk ‘apron’ type thing – god knows what it’s meant to be but the silk is divine…. Fast forward to night and I tell him I have a sexy surprise. He closes his eyes and I approach with my makeshift chador – have also got a black scarf covering my hair. Of course underneath am wearing my usual...enticing array of underwear (I so enjoy being asked 'Have I seen this before? ' and answering 'No, you haven't'. When he opens his eyes he’s very surprised. But we get it on famously. Only problem with these scarves scemario is that you can’t kiss really unless you lift it. Of course I know none of the masked ladies would go to bed like this, or keep it on for long, bit like going to bed in your parka? However, Toph begs me to take it off soon after because it’s too much like comedy and he’ s not into me being Fatima and him Mohammed or something. I tell him fantasies are just that.. when you make them real often they lose their attraction. Admittedly I’m a poor imitation of some gorgeous Yemeni princess but yeah… I’ll give it another try when I next pass Finsbury Park’s mosque and buy the real outfit and learn a few words. Inshallah?

28 July - Fear of Fifty? Fear not!

to be continued. The main thing to add to the adventures of Stacey Parker is the very positive conclusion we were able to draw one day when discussing the staggering amount of sex and its length and breath... I just happened to say 'Hang on, remind me, these guys are all over 50 years old?' She confirmed it. 'But... how can it be possible? Aren't they tired or something?' and she said that only Mr Tongue uses Viagra but only to boost himself if he wants to go past shag no. 3 in same night. The others don't. This, ladies, is fantastic news! It means Grey Power does rule. I wonder if they write about this in Saga magazine?? It would mean that your over 50 bloke is more likely to be like Sting or Mick Jagger than... your old history teacher. And you'll never be able to look your father in the eye again!
More reflections on this to be added, when I take in the realisation that I can ditch the 25 year olds and fish from a larger pond!

28 July - A much healthier attitude

to be continued. The adventures of Stacey Parker in casually dating millionaires.
I kid you not. In 2006 Stacey has gone from negative figures to double ones and we've still got a quarter to go. And bonus time if we stay with the lingo of millionaires and their budgets. She's still wondering about it all as before she re-awakened her appetite for sex, she'd not exaxtly been banging her head against a wall. But nothing like turning forty and those little brain cells start pinging about with thoughts such as 'Only ten years to menopause, if am lucky, better get some shagging in now'. She's been using the best method, a combination of own contacts, saying yes to friend's set ups and good old Craigslist. I shall detail adventures below (or at least try) but to follow on from previous post, Stacey is not remotely falling for the 'oh but if only this could turn into a beautiful relationship, marriage and so on' and remains practical. If it's sex you want, sex is what you get, not week end trips to survey possible extra homes to buy together. Besides, all of the men she's met are MARRIED. Now, if there's someone out there who still believes their husband to be above betraying them... then don't read on or you'll be very upset. Lisa says 'They all do/have done/will do at some point' . Get over it.
So there's:
the story of the 4 titled men, 3 of whom are brothers.
the story of Mr Tongue
the story of Mike the Millionaire (MTM for short)
the story of Naughty texter
but you'll just have to wait till I get a few hours to fill it all in.

27 July - Mad TV princesses & Millionaire weirdos

Picture.. Sicily 1933 ... No er, that was the Golden Girls. Which reminds me I liked shows about old women before I started training to be one.
Ok, picture: high flying exec at TV co. Just divorced - she had married him sort of just to spite her father who said ‘Not right for you’. A couple of kids later stays in marriage for them. Eventually can’t stand it, kids older, long drawn out battle to share the spoils. She’s in new million £ house in Fulham. Flying off here and there to TV festivals picking up lovers as she goes. She currently has 4 on the go but for some reason keeps trying to entice a friend of mine with ‘Why don’t you come with me to Johannesburg or Vegas and so on’. My boy/friend keeps saying 'no' for the simple reason he doesn’t fancy her (nothing about how mad she is, shouldn’t that be the main reason?).
Recently she was in NYC, in a swanky hotel and after her 6am session at the gym, another early riser master of the universe offers her a coffee, then asks for a drink later on. She accepts, and before she knows it (well after she’s googled him and found out he’s worth a few millions in Washington– darn, can’t remember what business he’s in) asks her to join him in Boulder Colorado for the w/end. She says no, and no, but then probably thinks ‘What the heck!’ He sends a limo to pick her up and of course she finds out that she’s booked into the same room as him. WOMEN, WAKE UP? What did you think he was getting you? Another suite? She argues she wants another room, there isn’t one, so she stays. WOMEN! If you really don’t want to sleep with him there are other hotels in town, stop this silly charade. You're high flying TV exec in your forties, surely you can sort out other arrangements or get your PA to do so.
So, they go to sleep and nothing happens. Women mostly always say this about sharing a bed with someone who they're basically telling you they didn’t much like, ie. they’re testing your reactions. Of course they slept with him, they just don’t want you to think they were slutting it. Like my friend F. who always admits to going down on them and viceversa but denies penetration as if that made her less reproachable in the eyes of whom exactly? Some mother superior? But I digress.
I presume they had dinner and eventually made it to the room where she discovers he goes to sleep naked, but with a t-shirt OVER HIS HEAD. Why? 'Because I can only sleep this way' he says. Instead of checking out next day, TV exec proposes they do some activity. He says 'no' to cycling BECAUSE IT’S DANGEROUS! She says 'Ok let’s go for a drive.' He says HE CAN’T DRIVE (an American, go figure). I don’t know what they did for fun but later on she admits she had sex with him and says it wasn’t great (ie. euphemism for total crap) and that at dinner he told her ‘Babs, I really, really like you, but you also irritate me a lot’. Charming first date/days type of talk but he’s Jewish, perhaps if you imagine this said with an East Coast accent she found it funny, or perhaps being a powerful exec, having someone tell you that you are an irritating bitch is actually a sign of ‘Wow, this guy knows how to control me, it's what I liked in my ex husband after all....'
She didn’t however reply ‘Bertie, you’re shit in bed and you’re a weirdo who goes to sleep with a t-shirt on his head, get lost'.
Oh no, she’s now sort of seeing him, you know because trying to have a relationship London/Washington is fun. It has to be. Right? And she's still after my friend. In fact she told him this story as a sort of courting ritual no doubt and is asking him to have a joint birthday party with her. I mean... they have no other friends in common so she probably wants him to picture himself in her swanky home and get used to the idea this could be his big bathroom and this could be his large master bedroom. Clearly the woman will eventually bunny boil someone and I'll let you know who/when. Hope it's not my friend.
Ps. I got out of a certain career path many years ago so as not to have the remotest chance of turning into the above anectdote.

24 July - Yes he really could be dead/unconscious/amnesiac

Oh my god, back in April went to lovely wedding and bride had been worried about some non responses from some friends.. albeit not some she keeps in very close contact with but.. you’d expect a call or email back to say 'I can’t make it because' .. and so on.
Now, you know when girls wait for the phone to ring and then when it doesn’t ring they worry because ‘he could have been in an accident, lost his memory and can’t call me'? Instead of the more usual, more realistic route id. he hasn’t suffered severed fingers, atrophy of vocal cords etc, he just doesn’t want to speak to you?
Well strange things do happen. So, unresponsive wedding guest couple #1 were busy dealing with Kiera falling off a horse a month prior and no major injuries at the time, but persistent headaches and inconclusive tests, ruling out strokes ....till eventually she gets committed to St Thomas straight away after one more check up, as has suffered not one, but two brain haemorrhages and now has bruised/congealed pockets of blood to be removed from brain by drilling skull etc. All v. scary, hence forgot to reply 'Sorry, can’t come to wedding.'
Wedding solo guest #2… was also uncontactable, all traces lost despite working for major broadcaster… turns out was arrested in another country on charges of supplying Class A to brother who lives in such country. Did six weeks in jail there and now still waiting for trial (out on bail) and can’t leave country. Is in the meantime on unpaid leave from employer who threatens to dismiss etc. Blimey!

22 July - Festival & Old timers

Gosh, that time of year… a festival on the beach. I may have missed Sonar in Barcelona but never too late for Benicassim in Valencia. It seems to attract a more gorgeous type of festival goer from Glastonbury. Clearly they are mostly Spanish, hence, attractive. Plus no need for wellies which only look good on Kate Moss and even then only if she makes sure to wear very little else with them. However, Glasto it isn’t despite the descriptions I’ve read in the Guardian and NME. I should know that everything gets spinned but it’s easy to fall for the spin. I’m struggling to find the vibe of the place (the town itself is v. ugly though clean and stretching for miles, in fact it’s not a town, it’s just a Med beach. Mol is very pleased we’ve got the nearest hotel to the festival site thus saving on the traipsing to and fro, but this becomes a nightmare when we realise how well sound travels and I’m awake on night #1 hearing the Scissors Sisters set at 3am. Yep, I kind of knew bands went on late but not really given it any thought.

The next day we join in and there’s the famed backstage swimming pool. We think it’s fine for Pete Docherty and Chantelle but not for us ladies, especially as later on in the night Anneka spots floating condoms in it. Anneka is six months' pregnant and keeping up wiht us splendidly. What a picture of health! Though she's straining at the leash to have a sneaky fag. Tremendous good example to us all. Shame she can't sleep with the air con on and thus I feel like a pizza going into an oven everytime I go to bed. Wonder if the vapours will feel this way? At this age in a ladiee’s life, it becomes also increasingly difficult to leave the sanctuary of backstage and TV screens to actually go and be bothered to watch the performances from the audience. In fact, any foray I make, I last ten minutes and I return. It gets even worse as thanks to various associates and friends of, we watch some of the headliners from the safe confines of side of stage. Which is fun for a while, darn, wish it was me that the 30,000 are cheering but it’s Alex Kaprano instead. Backstage one can also indulge in collecting gossip – it was not that interesting after a while, surely everybody knows that Dave Gahan and Fletch in Depeche Mode hate each other or that DG has two buddies to whisk him away after a show and before he gets tempted by a drink? Or that Moby is a prima donna arsehole? Thought so. Backstage is also where you don’t really have to go fetch anything. There seems to be an officially sanctioned drug peddler woman, v. attractive, and considering the lateness we are required to prop our eyeballs open until, it so happens that one accepts what’s on offer. And lives to regret it. Mostly a case of ‘didn’t read the label officer’. Did we have fun? NO. Did we dance for hours? NO. Did we get into incredibly interesting conversations with new people? NO. We practically appeared to be two doughnuts lieying on fake grass and staring at the sky (not that different from usual sky). For toooooo long. The following day, many many hours into an ordeal of sleeplessness (as you know for every hour awake at 3am, sleep then doesn’t come when you wish for it at f kking 8am!!!) we get told a) ‘You put how much into your bottle of water? What ??????? half a bag? You’re mad! It’s meant to be something you dab at’ - and b) everybody knows that chemicals in Spain are so much stronger than in the UK’ THANKS! Where were you? As it happens a small amount of sensibleness has been acquired to reach 42.5 years (yes, not had a b’day since this blog started, have you noticed?) and I refrained from adding the remaining half bag when at 2am I thought this shit is not working, let’s add some more. No, something made me stop. Possibly enjoying the 2Many DJ’s set too much.

Anyway, the following evening as I plan to exchange the remains of the evil crystals for … I don’t know? A veggie kebab perhaps? I can no longer find it in my small festival handbag. This is tragic as it’s here somewhere and if I forget about it, customs will find it. Plus, I now have several musicians monsters totally unfazed by my ordeal, wanting to get their mitts on said sub. No, can’t find it, and so one has to be bored through a Placebo set in order to get to the wonderful dEUS's one enjoyed in the company of Mr CP and his handsome sidekick Dirk (I spend all night trying to come up with another Dirk apart from that actor and the guy in Adam Ant's song. The following day the baggie will be found lying in full view on the bedside table but then again, the Spanish chambermaids must know that this is the latest botox or something.
All I can say is tk god for the hotel shaded gardens and excellent pool. Made recovery a more pleasant experience than a field somewhere in Dorset.

Reasons to be grateful you go out with someone of a similar age… during Depeche’s gig Toph and I trade lyrics back and forth. ‘All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms’. To which he replies ‘Words are very unnecessary’. Aahh, poetry.
And during Echo & the Bunnymen’s set, I text him to remind me ''How does Villiers Terrace go?'(possibly not the title? At some point I knew them all) and he comes back with the opening lines. Sweet. On day #4, the 19 year old girlfriend of the 20 year old son of one of Madness maintains she has never heard of Depeche Mode. Naturally. I am however reminded of the fact that some of my fastest friendships date back to the days where I met these 4 girls who had travelled to London to go stalk DM in fact. All the way to Basildon camped outside the bands’ mum’s homes. I was of course scornful, preferring more sophisticated (at least verbally) songwriters, such as The Pop Group or Scritti Politti. None of that matters now, the friendships remain, though some are lapsed to communicating once a year as I truly have nothing much in common anymore with one who lives in a small town, has kids and is not working and is married to a garage mechanic. A fair cry from her first choice, the bass player in Simple Minds I think, but happier probably. What was his name??? Can sort of picture his dyed blond hair... Derek something? Am trying not to resort to internet.

18 July - Paradise & Yoga

Oh no, just checked Danny Paradise website. Awesome. No wonder Toph wants to achieve similar stage of perfection. He’s now talking of going on jungle retreat next January with said Danny (if he gets invited, you can’t just pay and go you know). Danny has no fixed abode or lives in Hawaii. And has a gorgeous assistant/lover also on website. I’m all for practicing, should try and keep up and Toph breathing/stomach rotations clearly improve his lovemaking as there’s no stomach rotation without attached co ck movement but… I sincerely hope this is not the route of work Toph wants to embark on. A long time ago when in the midst of close to 40 ‘what to do next/forever’ stage - we all have to go through it, I said to various friends to please shoot me if I came up with the ‘I’m going to become an ayurvedic masseuse/yoga instructor’ line. It seems a cop out route somehow, though some people are very talented and yes, I do need their services myself. And at sometimes £80 for 90 mins, it clearly makes financial sense to them. It’s just that despite the fact that they teach Sting and Madonna, and can become very rich, they still end up having to have long hair, talk a lot of spiritual bollox and wear lose clothing or… conversely never wear spandex and platform shoes. Don’t ask but have you ever met a yoga teacher who also wears Vivienne Westwood shoes? I don’t think am making a very valid case for what could be my objections to Toph becoming a yoga teacher. Possibly the fact that they all end up shagging their students? But he could shag his researchers and that doesn’t seem to be so worrying? Not all yoga babes are babes and not all researchers are ugly. Mmhhh… I clearly need to meditate on this and get to the bottom of antipathy.

17 July - A new sex hero is born

Toph is my sex hero now, it's official. it may have rained plenty in Zanzibar but the holiday has given him new horizons to explore, namely my body. On Saturday he swims a few lengths, goes to yoga and then fucks me v. heavenly. On Sunday he goes to his yoga guru Danny Paradise (apparently real name, but I believe deed poll is not that complicated) for a 3 hours session + 1 hour talk and then fucks me even better/longer/deeper. I mean, I’m tired, and believe me I didn’t do much. In fact I think I get off lightly with someone who doesn’t usually require deep throating. I should be so lucky. Yes, This everyday sex is to my liking. How can we make it last exactly like this for the next however many years, apart from the obvious ie. never moving in? Maybe I should chronicle this experiment?

16 July - MySpace & Babyboomers

Read Sunday Times with Myspace.com etiquette article. Tk god I had already signed up before I read it. Hate to be too late on trends, though of course cannot claim to have launched any, but i was tieing lengths of ribbon around my cardies long before Carrie Bradshaw.
I put on my profile that it must be surprising for the ethos of the web to have babyboomers swelling the ranks of what was surely intended as a teenage/young persons forum and b) be owned by the Murdoch empire no less.
Am flabbergasted to see that the masthead ad on the site is for that renowned cutting edge company: Churchill’s Insurance. The one with the dog! Surely a symbol appealing to pensioners who remember the great statesman. As proven by some quiz on Love Island, non babyboomers and non celebs do not know who Churchill was. Still, I set about checking it all and realise two of my friends who are on it (46 and 54 years old!) have v. cool friends themselves. I mean, one counts the Aphex Twin in his inner circle and Unerworld. V. cool. The other one knows Madonna and Britney but the two ladies have not been invited to join his cast. I doubt they could have refused if asked. I vow to be the one with the coolest friend online but this is difficult. I set my sights on Paul Allen and Bill Gates. And Angelina Jolie. I’ll let you know how this gets on and only then will publicise myspace.com address. In fact I probably can’t as that’s in a different name and slightly closer to the truth. It gets complicated to keep track of lies.

In same issue of Sun Times, there is also a two pager from the book version of GirlWithAOneTrackMind blog. Once again extreme envy assails me coupled with ‘but it’s fake, it’s badly written’ but there you go. She’s in print and I’m not. And possibly already spending the advance publishing cash on botox. She’s ‘only’ 30 so maybe not. Then again, teenagers are asking for more and more items of plastic surgery so who knows.

13 July - Johnny Depp & Me

A sign of the times ie. ageing… on the way to see Pirates 2 or Dead Man’s Chest with friend’s daughter (her idea, I’d rather go and see Atomised, it may be a flawed film but I loved the Houellebecq novel) I text a friend that the movie is two and a half hours long and am not sure I can stand it. He replies ‘But it’s got Johnny Depp in it!’ To which I swiftly reply ‘Yes, but cynical and disabused of fanciful dreams as one becomes, I now accept he’s very happily married to the superior Vanessa Paradis and no longer believe that should we accidentally meet at a social event, he would find me irresistible and start a whirlwind romance. Once I stop believing that… I don’t fancy him anymore’
Ok the text was shorter but expressing this sentiment exactly. Ah well….

10 July - World Cup Final & Midwives

You’d never think the headline makes sense, but follow me…
Came into work this morning wearing dainty Italy football team shirt, and, proof the locals as varied as they may be in fair London, are by and large not the friendliest of people (present readers excluded of course), do you think anyone on crowded tube, corridors, escalators, pavements etc., gave me a friendly nod? Or even a cheering word or two? Ok, it hadn't been the best of matches and am sad about Zid Vicious (Metro headline, I love it here for the puns, believe me you couldn’t make them in French, Dutch or Greek) and the penalty shootout ending but still.....NIENTE.
My world cup watching at friend's house was sort of spoiled by 4 women who talked at the top of their voices throughout the game about birthing, giving birth, midwifery and so on (one is a midwife, the others have expelled kids at least 3 times in one case). it was hilarious/insane. We (ie other guests and hosts) couldn't shut them up and gradually all left the living room with huge TV screen, to go watch in the kitchen (small screen) as repeated requests to abort talk of placenta and misdemeanours by NHS staff gynecological staff were ignored and nobody wanted to end up head-butting women.
They were all around 40-45 ie my age group. Shocking. Thought only white trash teenagers were so clacky/obnoxious/rude/selfish. I stand corrected clearly, though two work in film/TV PR and one in a woman's magazine so what else are they going to talk about when finished about jennifer aniston, size of daniel craig's trunks in 007 and so on? Not to mention that some of us other women who didn't join in the conversation may be ones who were either trying to have a baby or had some tragic baby story of our own/miscarriages and so on to dwell upon. Not my case, but am still annoyed about all the 'It took only 30 mins with the second kid' and so on. If only I could remember some contrasting inane TV commentator's pearl of wisdom and the screeching stuff about 'Iwas dilated to 10cm and doing my breathing , I was down to 2 mins between each contractions and...............MY WATERS STILL HADN'T BROKEN!!! ' , I’m sure I could transform this silly anecdote into a top play for radio or something.

7 July - Burlesque & Single Blokes

A lucky night. For some reason I go to the burlesque night in Hackney with 3 men and once upon arrival I spy 2 more good friends, my skiing pals, which brings the total of my entourage to 5, different ages and looks. Am a lucky girl, but of course am taken. So my mission this evening is to facilitate encounters between my testosterone heavy friends and some of the local damsels. Gareth in particular is taken by a blonde slip of a girl who is a Mossie cutie and already surrounded by admirers. I ask him for a tenner and within minutes return with her name, Jane, and her admission that Gareth is not bad. Basically when she turned to look at the 5 of them standing in a row by the dance floor, I said ‘I quite like the tall one on the right myself’ and she agreed. Armed with this info he should have been well on his way but alas, at 30 odd, he’s still shy. So he kept circling around but never plucking up the courage of talking to her. An hour later or so, she was kissing and beyond (hand down his trousers, hand up her skirt) sat in a corner with a drainpipe jeans clad young rocker. Oh no!!! As I saw Gareth making his way across, I tried to protect him from the heinous view of her tonsils and steered him away, but, check this out for manly solidarity, Chris delighted in making him turn and be greeted by the view of his defeat.
By this point things were getting to a close and though I found the burlesque on display to be very amateurish and not v. titillating, (though I’d love to learn tassels spinning if I had the time) the boys had been sweating and dancing and drinking and were clearly worked up. The chase moved to Anna the girl in the white adidas top, bare back, no bra and pert nipples, glasses (not v. burlesque, why do clubs let people in who haven’t bothered to dress up in the slightest?) At fifteen minutes to closing time seasoned Paul did a Ian (who I've watched routinely take the girl from under Damian and Gareth's noses) as by 40 you have learnt to move in even if the pack is salivating all around you, and I thought he was in! But no deal and he was rebuffed. Still, he tried. Sindri and Chris in the meantime would have gone far with the eastern European girls met in the queue to the ladies, had it not been for my company. A lovely moment of minor competition ensued but the look on my face sent the Russians away. These men are with me, was my message. The evening ended with Sindri ‘It’s a very long story, if you drive me to Peckham I will tell you’ attempt at getting a lift to what I consider outer Siberia. He’s a good raconteur and I was tempted, but I dropped him off at London Bridge nevertheless.

2 July - Everyone is connected

Synergy or whatever else this is called… I tell Seth that Toph is going to film a documentary re the volcano eruption in Montserrat 11 years ago and Seth says he was there as emergency coordinating chief medic for 3 months at the time of the tragedy. Daftly or not I tell Toph he should speak to him on the phone just in case he has some great survivor’s story that his researchers have not unearthed yet. So they do. Toph tell me he gets the impression Dr Seth is a very charismatic man (spot on) and that he didn’t like his time there because people did not cooperate with his plans. For example he organised some briefing and no one local attended. Ha, that would be it, Seth is a leader and they don’t like it when there’s no one wanting to be led. Well, at least it’s all covered by a phone call and will not go further. I suddenly realised I did not want the two of them to meet and measure up. A few days later Seth rings as he’s in my street (I’m at work) with a friend of his who lives near me. Woman called Katie. Very similar to me apparently, only 20 years younger than me or so he informs me. Thanks! A nurse …. thought he didn’t do nurses. He says we should meet as we’d like each other. I reassure him that we’ll cover his sexual exploits in five minutes, (as I did with Babette re. Dear John) and then we’ll move on. If the upper classes can mix and match and frequent each other after the event at all those polo matches and so on! So can I/we.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

26 June - Real smile sort of


A clumsy attempt to get with the techie world. Really wanted to post this on the dashboard of this blog but it's ended up here. When I've got time, I'll photoshop it a bit too!

25 June - Zanzibar & Goodbyes

We’re demob happy at Nairobi airport with a 5 hour stopover but guess what?, We love it! Finally we can happily sit and watch a variety of people go by and there’s a full room of Africans and western watching football on TV. Admittedly no one is whooping it up too much but we’re a throng compared to our solitary existence in Zanzibar, which we like. Plus, we have fresh images of Kilimanjaro in our eyes, the plane coasts along the top for a while. As we look below and see nothing………we’re planning the next trip. The book we’re reading on happiness seems to say it’s all a question of gaps between what you expected and what you get. We didn’t get the sun for long enough but we got unexpected other stuff. Toph got me and I got him.
We’ve finally had a nice couple last days/nights to round it all off.
We returned to the night food market and the Bawani hotel disco. We did all this on our first night in Stone Town and now we feel like it’s home on account of the familiarity afforded by a second visit. It’s still a bizarre experience. The Bawani Hotel is described in the 16 year old travel guide I read as the place to be, modern with a rooftop pool etc. Now it’s a shell of its former self, but home of the only disco in town. The pool is indeed v. deep but empty and there’s only a piece of string to signal the perimeter. I guess these people don’t get too drunk because if they did they’d trip in and die falling twenty feet below. There’s concrete everywhere, including a futuristic ‘mushroom’ feature. Ah, the joys of being re-united with the sullen bartender girl who serves you from behind the metal grate/bar; the toilets without a door and where I encounter two girls as interested in my whiteness as I am in their blackness; the sad Arabic midget singer with his electronic keyboard; Barbara and her friend who can only be young prostitutes as any self respecting good Muslim girl would not be out here this time of night; the woman with the blue trainers, her Italian husband bought them for her. Is he a real husband or one who comes back every year for his dose of tourist sex?; the tall boy from SA who plays basketball and tells us to get the company of the ladies all you have to do is buy them some food; the Omani guy whose grandfather lived in Pemba to an awesome 105 or something (thanks to having two wives, no doubt, as the younger was is in her sixties. Muslims are allowed more than one wife to exploit or worship… I suspect the former. And there were more. We, playing anthropologists with them and they no doubt doing the same. The useful revelation of the evening is that Toph likes thongs that peek above the hipband of your jeans. Gosh, and there was me thinking it was vulgar, but these kids know how to get a man’s attention.
Upon our return, we went to the only other bar with a bit of action and which conveniently was behind our hotel. Here, anthropology was cut short as the women gave me dirty looks, possibly as had own man in tow and he therefore couldn’t be a customer? But at least wasn’t here to interfere with their quarry? It seems like most of the other workers in Zanzibar, the sex industry also avails itself of women from the mainland. I guess it’s like the UK, you can go whoring in Newcastle and nobody back in Bradford needs to know what you’re up to?
The next day was glorious, the terrace of the Africa house finally full of people waiting for sunset drinks and music, the turtles on the facing Prison Island were a highlight - never knew their rubber necks could be so soft… they looked like ET, and so were the peacocks. I was very starved for colours. The boat skipper was a handsome man from Pemba, our photos are pure Hollywood and the crumbling houses in town were bathed in light and cheap lunch was delightful. And we found the fish market after looking for it for a while. We could finally see the potential of our host town. And the day before the monkeys had duly showed up in the remaining post stamp size forest. Yes, said Toph, “I’d come here again!” I agree and he owes me swimming with dolphins!

21 June - Zanzibar & Smiles

Once again the sunset car ride to another part of the island (up north to Nungwi) is tantalisingly promising. We’re sorry to leave the lap of luxury but we want real life. It’s dry, the sun is out, our road has at least a few miles without giant potholes. I’m not complaining, they’re much worse on the Vietnam south border into Cambodia route (don’t hate me for dropping in my ‘been there/done that’ moments). Tomorrow will be a great day we think, but oh no. This time we arrive in a hotel where we are the only guests (another couple we run into will leave in the morning). We go look next door at the much more expensive one – we wouldn’t mind some more luxury, but it’s for ‘newly weds and nearly deads’ as someone will tell us later. No vibe. And all this thatched roofs and natural materials seem old fashioned compared to our Kempinksi 21st century. So after a few chats with the manager - seems the hotel is owned by some British woman who came here and married a fisherman from nearby Pemba Island but it all soured and she’s back in Britain, next day we transfer to one in town. We subsequently encounter more people with tales of Shirely Valentines expanding the Zanzibarian tourist industry. And when I finally lay eyes on a fisherman from Pemba I can see why. Not bad!
As soon as the sun is out, and it’s pretty fierce and offers dramatic light, Toph takes zillions of photos and I’m in most of them. I’m liking the attention….in this extraordinary light you can’t take a bad photo and I feel justified in having brought an array of different outfits and bikinis that stand out against sea/sand/sky. But mostly it pours. Though we have a hug and decide not to blame one another for having brought us here and hey, make the most of it. Back to reading novels and watching World Cup.
We work out later when we get to Nungwi central and there’s still nothing to do, not even a funky happening bar, that Muslims have a real shit time as they can’t have fun, do the basic things in life that are almost free, like dance and have a drink. They can play football on the beach though. I wonder if that’s enough of a diversion.
I’m used to travelling, so is Toph but here even the local village is sad. It’s a collection of breeze block huts. So is the Caribbean perhaps but there they paint them some bright colour and it helps . here it’s all grey. I guess importing paint is costly but boy do you notice what the absence of a bit of pink, blue, green and yellow does. Depressing.
The roads don’t get fixed until the rains truly stop ie maybe next month, so no question of going anywhere when i takes this long. Somehow no one has brought motorbikes over. Sturdy ones would help, like the ones that allow you to travel across India or go Vietnam to China and Russia (there I go again) But no… The only people who can make any money are the minivan /jeep drivers who ferry tourists at a rate of dollar per km.. A trip is someone’s monthly wage, though petrol is not cheap.
All in all we fail to have a good time in Nungwi as we never muster the desire to go diving, the main advertised activity here. Me because it’s a tad cold and I’m not that keen, Toph because he’s never done it and doing his Padi here right now seems too much of an effort. Plus he gets sick and like a true bloke refuses to heed my plan for cure ie.boiled rice or boiled pasta only. He even has some fruit on day 2 and the acid plays more havoc with his upset stomach. I’m worried if he doesn’t get better we won’t have a repeat of what is now in our personal folklore as the snoop dog adventure. You picture it… secluded part of a beach, low tide getting higher but enough pedestrians walking along it with an unpredictable regularity. You, however, are getting horny after feeding ants to the tiny crabs… all that death… and as missionary means you can’t keep watch on the beach walkers and we’re not in Spain where they may not be that easily offended, the only position that remains is … Anyway enough said. Later on the same day, whilst Toph is getting massaged by Marian and can’t get over how come these muslim women are all wrapped up but can touch a man’s body so intimately, I go off to have a henna tattoo. Thank god it’s only henna as having decided to have it done on my back and having written down what I want (something along the lines of Toph’s Bitch), when five minutes later I examine the work, I notice she’s misread my writing and I’m someone else’s bitch, not Toph’s. Oh dear! Take a friend if you ever think of having something permanent tattooed to your back. Still, it’s worth hearing his laugh later. And also, henna doesn’t last anything like a week. I paid top dollar for that.
One evening we meet some Italians, one is from Florence. He’s comical in his despair that having added on a few days on the beach from their Kenyan safari, he will have to spend them in a small room (they are on a cheap kind of group tour) and without escaping the people he’s been with for days already. They are all much older than him so can’t be that fun. He teaches us a very complicated card game that involves keeping track of points. It takes longer to learn it than we spend time playing, but concentration blocks out the sound of the rain.

A walk on the beach reveals another top hotel, Gem of the East, which I’d been recommended but had been unable to find on the web because its name bears no relation to the actual name of the holding company website. Doh, congrats to the marketing manager. Maybe they want to keep it a secret. It’s fab, owned by the Italian Murdoch cum ex PM Berlusconi and has another incredible pier. Only here they’ve illuminated its underbelly and at night you see Grand Central for fish. Thousands come flocking. However, we’re too fucked off to want to make the effort to move which is perhaps a mistake as am tiring of hearing waves splashing under my balcony at night. They’re too violent. The receptionist tells us that next week Elton john and Eddie Murphy are checking in. Not together… What a shame. Could have done with witnessing some histrionics.

By sheer virtue of being in the same place for a few days, we get talking to the owners of the hotel complex we’re in and the lovely café Namaste and the tour agency, the gift shop and the restaurant. They have a monopoly. He’s Zanzibarian emigrated to Canada when the revolution came in ’69. And she’s a top chef from Toronto with plenty of stories about customers of fine western establishments who go to great lengths to get something for nothing. At least they’re not boring and they see how close to breaking point I may be. I also meet an older woman from the UK who’s in property blah blah who’s here with a beetroot faced South African man in the oil industry who used to be married to some top actress, not Barbara Hershey bus similar! She’s not into him though and thinks he’s selfish for not wanting to do this or that with her on account of having already done it so she moves on. It seems you can find yourself at 60 in similar situations to when you were 30. Am not sure if this is enlightening but at 60 and with property, she can walk off and not have to rely on a man. It seems many people come here form SA or from the interior of Africa, aid workers especially, for a bit of a break. Even in the rain it must be a relief from.. relief work.

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19 June - Zanzibar & Sex & Bartering

The highlight of our first few days at the Conde’ Nast hotel is the outdoor shower cum secluded patio/bench. Toph is great like that. Has this knack for making you think he’s only having a shower, you’re only having a shower, and before you know it, he’s dragged you around pretty much the gamut of possibilities offered by the furniture and hangings and you’re very, very clean. He looked up slightly worried at the apartment above ours (frosted glass overlooking us) but I do wish they had a video camera, I’d buy that DVD right now. We were awesome. And we carried on. The indoor bath tub was pretty good too. Am having one of those in my next move. As was the bed. Shame no mirror in front. But Toph doesn't really look at reflections. Felt like writing in the guest book 'Please tile the area around the shower so that one doesn't scratch one's back on the wall, or better still rubberise it or you know, think of something.'

Toph looks forward to dinner which is always delicious and plentiful and to a decent bottle of wine to add to our bill (low season means we can stay here, at double the rate in high, we would think twice, and we can pick the nicest wine) but I’m a girl and loading up with food to counteract boredom and depression is not a preferred route. But I’ll have the bread, just this once. Oh, ok, I'll finish the basket. The restaurant is full of (actually make that empty of) people like us. Couples. Yes, Zanzibar is not a solo or group holiday much. Thought 15 years ago according to my ancient travel guides you had to be a backpacker to venture here. Current couples are probably making the same considerations on how much it cost to cross the world whilst it’s sunny till ten at night in the Med and the World Cup is on! Oh dear. Thank god the World Cup is on and we don’t miss a game though again, the atmosphere is not right. 2 of us here and 2 of them there, plus the staff at the back to watch a game does not make you want to talk at the screen or whoop it up. It’s the largest screen ever as well. Thank god we’ll be home in time for the final. It’s got to be Brazil or Italy. We’re both four year gap football watchers ie. we only watch world games. At least we don't have to listen to shagger Lineker but get a tremendously enthusiastic SAfrican commentator in the simplest of TV studios. The ads are simple too. Simple slogans, simple images. Of course they're boring.

After a day or two we ask how much the presidential apartments are, and upon finding they cost $2,500 a day (ok larger than our room and with own infinity pool facing the ocean, but essentialy the same) we decide to pretend we own the resort and the island and it’s all just for us. That is approx. twice the yearly salary of young Physics the security guard posted outside. He’s listening to bongo flavour music, nothing more than the usual hip hop with a dash of African guitars and longer in minutes, though his heroes are Sean Paul and, worringly, Celine Dion. Guess when the nights are dark and long, sitting on a chair watchful for intruders, Celine can soothe you to near sleep? Or keep away the evil spirits?
Everyday we have the pier to ourselves though we stick to the same two loungers. Everyday staff come down to offer/bring drinks and food and everyday we look from this height at the passing life below on the public beach, so defined by not being protected by security guards. Our fab hotel has a cliff path that closely resembles ramparts if you wish, though flanked by shrubs and flowers. I can see you need enclosed resorts in places like Jamaica (two different people have told me recently to avoid it or wear a bullet proof vest) but here? Perhaps it’s not to keep them out but to keep us in. In this muslim country there are signs politely asking tourists not to 'mouth kiss' in the streets as it offends their values. As for our bikinis.. we’re positively naked.

Down on the beach there are: locals riding their bicycles, the odd fisherman on foot with a small spear ready to catch octopus and the women who go to the seaweed lines at low tide to harvest the grass. We later read that the seaweed is a recent business. The locals don’t eat it, it gets harvested and sold to the Chinese! Wonder who had that enterprising idea and how you come to ‘buy’ that particular square bit of the reef where you string your lines. But if this island is densely populated, they mostly live along the main road intersecting it north to south. Here, there’s only a few vendors. In high season their numbers will soar to cater to the thousands of tourists, right now…we are their only option as potential purchasers of the usual knick knacks we don’t want, the wood carvings, the bead necklaces. But they’re not that pushy. The day Toph decides to buy some of said necklaces he gets totally done for and hands over nearly a month’s rent as paid by our pool boy. I berate him for his lack of negotiating skills (as said before I don’t haggle much, this is people’s livelihood and I don’t begrudge them, but having them walk off for the day as they made enough money for the week is…….gallling). Conversely, our fisherman guide, Fimo, just accepts what he’s given for his two ours steering us away from sea urchins and probably pay the price, as we are less generous with him. Toph agrees from now on that I’ll do the negotiating. I’ll prove my worth a few days later by buying nearly 30 scarves and pushing the price down as I start with ‘how much for two? How much for ten? Ok I’ll have 20. Actually here’s 30 bucks and I’ll take 30. The vendor still takes my money ie. he’s still made a profit. So…Scarves were the only thing to buy for any friends back home. I did search for evidence they were not imported from China (maybe some trade swap for the seaweed?) and couldn’t find it, but suspect I’ll see them also in Portobello when I return. I can't tell if they are cotton or acrylic either. Am losing my touch, but they're soft enough.

By day 4 the staff were probably thinking we were undercover hotel owners spies as we asked so many questions. One of our waitresses was quite chatty, Witness. Don't you just love unmade up names? Why chose Beyonce' when you can be Socrates? Well, without giving too much away, I’m an ex journalist and Toph has been known to direct/produce documentaries so it’s second nature to ask questions, look for some kind of story. But there was no story except that all the staff is not local but from the mainland. Zanzibarians are not even used as manual labour for these hotels, everyone is shipped in and out or those who stay create mini shanty towns outside your walls. Presumably the locals are note educated enough or skilled enough to put a brick on top of another brick. As for everything else, even our toilets are imported from Germany. So we're totally not benefitting the community one bit. Thank god they don't decide to stone us to death. The better class of workers, like the smiling but oh so lonely, staff or the Thai spa in the hotel, live in a nice building on the grounds. They have hardly any reason to go anywhere else. They can’t go back home for at least a year. Guess it must be like being on a cruise ship or so… but less fun. Then again, I seem to no longer belong to a culture that appreciates that you do things as a sacrifice for your family's better welfare and that a year here probably buys college fees back home etc. I have enough time and clothes and accessories to go change for dinner. Who'd have thought?