31 March - GD or DG

Am reminded by reading a post on friend’s blog that when she was out with Toph last week, Geoff Dyer walked into the club they were in, but though her agent knows him, there was no time for an introduction. The boy then told them of how he’s accidentally nearly met GD 3 other times. At a talk on photography at the ICA, whilst parking the car in Highgate and GD cycled past. Another time in north London and again GD on crossed the road in front of him. Then of course there’s an old professor of mine who’s bezzie mate with GD but has not yet arranged for us all to meet. Professor in fact knows David Gilmour very well and between the two, sorry to be sad, but I’d rather spend time with DG rather than GD. Though they're both pot heads or have been, and I don't usually get very far with the way their minds wander.

So, if anyone knows Geoff or if he’s reading this, (stranger things have happened in this small Lodon universe), we have some spare tickets for the Ibsen play at the Donmar on 11 April. Tell him to get in touch and he’ll be sat next to Toph who has no clue about this and it would definitely make him believe in chance and fate and all that, things that he’s rather too scientific about, whilst for me, well, it’s obvious I believe that’s how the world works. The boy is a fan of GD’s books so that helps, though he’s not been moved to compose any fan letters to him yet. That honour goes to Robert Fisk, whose lengthy tome on all the political crises in all the bars he’s ever frequented, Toph has taken to lugging about everywhere. I fear for his sanity when he finishes that book, though am sure it’s the kind of thing you can just start re-reading straight away. He'll be safe on the desert island.

30 March - Waffles & Fashion

A friend has asked me to translate some press releases and small editorials appearing in the press about a client/fashion products she represents. It’s tough. Not so much the languages involved; you really have to translate, then sit back and look at it again later to go pick all the wrong words and wrong syntax you used as it’s not like I switch between my second and third languages too often. No, it’s not that that’s tough, it’s because an A4 page of press release shows itself to be nothing but ¾ WAFFLE. Nothing like translating to notice how many times you’d be repeating the same concept if it wasn’t for the alterations in vocabulary. After the third paragraph telling you the same thing in a slightly different way, you want to scream: it’s all WAFFLE!!!!! Think of it, when applied to fashion it’s so obvious. 'The Winter '07 collection features luxury fabrics and bold colours'. Try and say that in four different ways. They don’t exist. You end up coming up with nonsensical descriptions. You may think you’re being clever and a tad surreal but it reads like NONSENSE. And try and explain in what ways this is revolutionary from what the same brand proposed last year? Unless they were previously making the clothes using cardboard, it was sophisticated fabrics and… colours. My favourite bugbear has to be ‘attention to detail’ or ‘unique details’. Yes, isn’t that a given or can I expect all the other fashion brands to just produce shoddy stuff that’s average? I bet even Primark have some clothes for which they use luxury fabrics and unique details. It’s just bonkers. I did it. It was a favour. I’ll get some of last season’s togs in exchange, not something I scoff at. But it was tough. If there’s photos to accompany the products especially, then let them speak for themselves. ‘Oooh check those strong blues and strong browns. Aren’t they bold colours’. You get my meaning.

So glad I only had a brush with PR back in the days and intermittently since. I hate it. Admittedly, it would be worse to have to do the same about ART. Another area where reading press releases (or lazy critiques that just use the press release almost in its entirety) makes you want to kill the entire industry.

29 March - Eve & the Mandarin

Modesty prevents me from describing in depth a sudden bout of extreme flirtation that took place whilst I was having a drink with a friend in the bar of one of those hotels I love so much. He caught my eye, I held his gaze. Old habits are hard to break. He was young, tall and v. handsome and as a non-suit he stood out, so he came over to me and the equally mature girlfriend complete with fetching grey hair, and bought us a drink. He was paying equal attention to both of us in a ‘don’t mind which way this one goes and I’ll edge my bets’ sort of way. I left to go to the loo, came back and they were deep in laughs, she went to the bar and I took her seat and my hands were taken. I didn’t pull them away. She came back and we carried on. I had to leave, he begged us not too (only because he had another hour to kill before his friends turned up from a shoot. He’s in TV, knows people I know) but I clearly was in danger and g/friend must have felt equally unsteady under his charm assault. Outside she berated me for not mentioning the boyfriend and how would I feel if he did what I did. For sure I’d feel bad but I blame it all on Ez (and alcohol of course) . Earlier had met her briefly to coo over her all dolled up and ready to go to meet a foreign lover she’d met on internet last Autumn and who had provided hours of delights with his prowess, and all in the superb surroundings of a top hotel. She was very excited as a repeat, if not superior, performance was expected and she wasn’t stingy on the graphic details. They can’t fail to get you going, and that made me think about a time not so long ago … and well, there’s always a moment in a coupled up person’s mind when they wish they could just go with the flow and the young man definitely had a flow and seems to know that if aiming for oldies, he’s safe from even getting any texts the next day. Use and throw being the modus operandi applied. But, sense of course prevailed. I didn’t even take any phone numbers. I reached the boy shortly after and covered him in kisses, though that didn’t break his concentration from watching Kidnapped, which as we know is 2 hours long, so I gave up and snoozed. I didn't think of handsome George as I fell to sleep, but better steer away from seductive hotel bars for a while though…

28 March - Car boots & sex toys

A friend wants to do a car boot. Well, they are fascinating insights into another reality and at the very least are a reality check where you count yourself lucky you’re not a just arrived immigrant who needs to haggle you down to 20p for a used Dyson hoover. Or maybe they’re just crafty businessmen and don’t need my patronising. Ten Dysons bought at a fiver each and hey presto, resold at £40. That's a better paid day than I do.

Am considering it, I do have rubbish to clear out but more than household stuff I’d like to get some money for the sex toys I’ve accrued and would like to upgrade. It feels sinful to buy more when so many lie dormant. But the car boot is not a suitable shop window. Surely there’s a website where you can get rid of these things? Make me an offer. I could swap with the girlfriends you say, and yes it’s all plastic and washable and washed, I never put it away without serious soap and hot water, but I just want rid of half of it, not to acquire more… of theirs. I never had a rabbit and am not going to start now, but Shh!! have some items that definitely make me curious.

Anyone want a never used strap on? Well, not by me at any rate... the boys say the want it and then they get scared. Life is clearly not the porn video they have running in their heads. Or some incredibly large dildo? - bought by someone who clearly didn't worry about the competition - I had to say 'have not given birth 5 times yet, it's ... too big'. Drop me a line.

26 March - The Actor & The phone & someone called Neil

We can’t avoid the celebrity trail on this blog. It’s not my fault but… the other day DD. Found a lost mobile phone on the street. She took it into work and as it was not a Nokia like hers it took her a while to crack how to read the contacts. She’s 46 and my techie guru for all things downloading but sadly we’re foxed by things that would take a 9 year old 5 mins to do (in fact, to digress, a friend’s 9 year old recently played with my phone whilst I was at dinner with her mum and jazzed it up, sent me photos, changed settings and so on. Staggering knowledge I thought till I asked her what the capital of France was and she wasn’t sure). As DD. was scrolling down the list of names to get to D for Dad and call, she found under C a Chiwetel Ejiofor …. None other than the gorgeous actor who played Trigorin opposite Kristin Scott Thomas in The Seagull which I saw a mere month ago. So she called him instead of Dad. Chiwetel answered with his incredibly sexy actor’s voice and suggested he’d go and pick up the phone in Chelsea where she was and then deliver to his friend. Cue: DD in make up and heels going to reception to find handsomest, tall man leafing through one of the downmarket magazines her employer publishes. And we mean ‘My mother run off with my alcoholic dwarf husband and now they have children whilst mine have been taken into care but am still hoping to have my double DD implants and thus become a top model like Jordan and move away from crap council estate in burbs’ kind of mag. Though let’s not scoff. Someone tried to do that recently but then he asked ‘What’s the circulation?’ Upon being told that it’s a few thousands short of 500k he almost spat out his V&T, whilst DD. smiled sweetly.
Sadly, Chiwetel didn’t ask her our for dinner but the loser of the phone subsequently sent her a huge bunch of flowers. They are a good lot these actors. However, DD. clearly needs some advice to improve ligging skills. She could have asked for tickets for some performance or actually scrolled down the entire address book, who knows who might have been there? But she didn’t, the silly girl.

As my 3 or 4 or 5 degrees must be kept up, Chiwetel first came to attention on stage in Joe Penhall’s play Blue/Orange in 2000. Now, I think a brief lover of mine was in this play, I think I saw it for that reason but can’t remember at all. Maybe he was in something else? Neil. Neil.. what was his surname? We met when you were a bartender at Freds in the legendary late 80’s and I went to see you in your end of year production of either a Chekhov or an Ibsen up in Swiss Cottage. And I’ve seen you on TV a few times since and the last time we spoke you had taken to sending me kinky messages late at night but when I challenged you to just come on over, you mentioned you were downstairs in your study whilst wife was upstairs sleeping so I sort of put the phone down on you and that was the end of that one…(the wife was a surprise).

His surname will probably come to me in the next few days, the wheels are that slow these days, but in the meantime it’s triggered memories of running into some London people one NYE in Venezuela in Isla Margarita to be precise. The link being this would have been same time I knew Neil. So, am there with my sister and a new group of friends and suddenly next to me is John (know him as kid brother of girlfriend) and his sidekick Matthew. At the time one was a lawyer, the other one in TV production. We then hung out together and it was fun, including the boys using me and innocent kid sister as stooges in a bar where they were hoping to buy some cocaine. John’s refrain was ‘I can’t believe we can’t get any in this country’. Clearly he had made a mistake in not booking a holiday in Bolivia instead. Come to think of it, at the time he had a South American girlfriend but she was not from Venezuela or she’d have been there and procured the hoodlums and their wares. Mystery. So. Never mind that in Venezuela they had something akin to the death penalty for drug offences, he was intent on buying cocaine as in London he was totally addicted and the rest, this was a man on 20 E’s a night. I remember the both of them going into the toilet to taste/check the purchase whilst me and sis sipped our drinks waiting for the police to burst through. Having already been on holiday in Jamaica I was well acquainted with the strategy of setting up tourists to buy something for which they could be arrested, pay blackmail money whilst the same amount of drugs went back to get the next stupid tourist and no, it didn’t happen to me. Luckily as gangster’s molls nothing happened to me and sis, though wouldn’t have shagged either on account of a) ugly, especially M who had none of J’ s charm and b) younger than me by 5/6 years. You know, when you’re 29 you can’t do that with a 24 year old. So, a few days later the amount purchased had been consumed, and John was going stir crazy and writing with a stick in the sand in giant letters, ‘I want cocaine’ (hoping a passing small plane may see it and drop him a red cross parcel) with me busy following him around and erasing such heresy from the pristine beach.

Thing is... when they tell you drugs are bad for you, it’s not necessarily true. Jonh had a great time on them and has never not had a fantastic high powered job and he’s still healthy and proud father of small daughter, whilst M is now some movie producer. Ok, it’s the UK so you’ve not seen these movies but there’s one in production that may just be the one to sort him out. On a more spooky small world connection, his wife or g/friend is best friend of my beloved’s ex. Just as well have not kept in touch with that particular mob or a Sunday lunch could be awkward. So, Neil, still can’t think of the surname whilst J and M’s came to mind instantly. Funny how the brain works.

24 March - Mayfair Hotel & Avril

To the Mayfair hotel to have a look at the recent refurbishment. Not been there since Luther Vandross tried it on. Ok maybe I’m imagining it, considering the sexual orientation. Oh, I can’t remember if was straight or gay or just fat and thin. When I die I want to come back and live on the top floor with the terrace and some nights of the week I want to go down and stay in the Schiaparelli suite. I’m with some mid-twenties female colleagues.

In the car to the hotel, the radio is tuned to dreadful stuff and I’m about to ask the driver to switch it off when J. who’s singing along as well as talking on (this girl can talk) asks him ‘Is this Heart FM?’ He confirms ‘Heart FM play all my favourite tunes’ she thrills. I am appalled. Who are these old people masquerading as young ones? Then again she said that she had to ring the suicidal line when Take That broke up and they were obviously cutting edge for her… mum and dads music. She’s a lost cause. Later on at dinner she’s being teased because on a recent trip to Tokyo she hated all the food ‘I’m a steak and chips gal’ she proudly announces. Ok, sea urchin may not be to everyone’s taste but the closure to different food and it follows culture is surprising in a young person. Am this close to asking her if she likes going on holiday to Benidorm, but she probably goes to Ibiza in chavtastic outfits. I better shut up.

The hotel doesn’t interest me as much as L’s current step dad who she tells us is the army training officer to Prince Harry in Afghanistan (her mum is on third marriage. She’s only 44 crikey that’s close to me. Scary, L. could be my daughter, all professional 5’10’ of her and Blackberry at the ready). He works 6 months with no return trip. Will be back in June and then October back to Afghanistan. Barrel of laughs this job must be. Out there they can’t drink. Wish I could ask if it pays well at least but I ask another stupid question instead, how are they going to keep Prince Harry out of trouble? Surely he wants to see some action. She’s adamant he’ll never see. They have ways to keep him out of harm’s way. But wouldn’t a self immolating bomber just aim straight for him? Then again no one ever got to Condoleeza and other visiting heads of state in any war so uhm, maybe there are mysterious ways. Any army person reading this, pls enligthen me.

As we’re discussing how to obtain invites for the Puff Daddy and Snoop party and discover it may be difficult considering 55 extra security guys are being drafted in to keep people like us out, Avril Lavigne walks through the bar with a tall, lanky bloke in white trousers. This form of 80’s thing is back. It’s winter still, please don’t wear white trousers away from yacht moorings, that’s what I say. I’d have got up for Madonna but not for Avril so I sip my cocktail whilst the 20 something go make their feelings of adoration known. Though am worried about A. who calls her ‘Avril Latrine’.

Later, I had to go on a website as truly could not remember what she sings etc (still don’t) and so found that she said a propos her wedding that she wanted a white one /traditional and with all the trimmings because she didn’t want to look back to herself 20 years from now and see herself wearing some goth and punky outfit and think o g god why did I wear that? The girl is 22. Sue Catwoman or Siouxsie /Banshee or Ari Up would have never made the distinction between who they were on stage and who they were in life. There was some integrity. Heck, that Siouxsie probably still wears too much funny eyeliner in her farmhouse in France (like Chrissie ‘I will never change my trademark make up till I die and I don’t care if it’s hopelessly out of fashion’ Hyde. But a comment like that would point out to me that for all their posturing these kids are not 4 real (as Richie Manic was to carve on his harm, poor creature). Hence, I would have smacked Avril one if had read this before meeting her

23 March - David Lynch & The Lost 3 hours

Words fail me as I want to describe the excruciating pain of sitting through a David Lynch film but I would really like to spare further suffering. Of course the movie has been out for a few weeks so this warning may come a little late but if I can spare only a few people, I’ll have achieved something.

Had not seen E. for a while and so when he suggested the movie and catch up drink beforehand I didn’t have the quick reflex to say ‘I’ll do the drink but not the movie thanks’ . When I met him at the bar, he’d already bought me a ticket so I felt I had to go. What the heck, it had taken several months to watch Mulholland Drive in sections and I had liked it (for the record, I have seen all the Lynch movies, and was stuck on Twin Peaks back in the day, was even a fan).
This started fine, we were laughing at the people with rabbit heads on their heads and thought ‘Ha ha ha, yeah, there would be no Donnie Darko were it not for Lynch’. But only the hope of an eventual pay off of some kind kept me in my seat for 2 hours. From hour 2 to hour 3 I wanted to leave but didn’t want to offend E. He, however was clearly as bored by the proceedings as I was but found it all funny and was looking for the next laugh.
I know that it’s all to do with dreams and subconscious, but in my dreams I walk at normal pace. I don’t slow down thhhhaaaaaaaaattttttt mmmmmmuuuuuccchhhhhh. If Lynch filmed action at regular speed we would have short movies but maybe short movies are not arty enough? I don’t know. I also don’t know anyone whose dreams work like his do and I haven’t got 2 years to work out theories to explain what it all means and the constant self-referencing. Maybe at the time of Twin Peaks I thought I was part of some elite who 'got it' (what exactly) but a few years on and you really don't give a shit. I only liked the wonky camera action (all filmed on handheld or some such probably AND deliberately, please don’t point that out to me)- and some of the music. Bit of Beck, you can’t go wrong. I think Laura Dern is a terrific actress and I admire the way in which she submits to all the ugliness of a Lynch movie, but having to watch her frankly v. ugly face for that long is too painful and gargoylish. Especially when she’s crying, hate the way her mouth shapes up then.
As if to counteract 2 hours of ugly Laura gazing, it was very sneaky how old Lynch dropped into the pointless, senseless non plot, a bunch of gorgeous teens in miniskirts and shorts and fake boobs, thus making everyone (well the dozen people in the cinema) wake up with a ‘hey hey’ jolt. Well I know E. and I did, especially when one said teen's hotpants were framed from below and at tantalising fur level. And of course we kept waiting for the teasing teens to re-appear. Which they did but it wasn’t enough. By this point the surrealism was just boring.
I got up to leave eventually at – 4 minutes from the end. E came out and I asked if there had been any satisfactory tieying of any of the many lose ends (you know, whatever happened to Billy, to his wife, to the Jeremy irons director bloke, to the Harry Dean Stanton assistant bloke, to all the Polish people, why were they there in the first place, etc) but he shrugged his shoulders. Now, if I a writer could be allowed to write disjointed notes as Lynch’s film is allowed to propose, boy would life be easier. One day I look forward to his toppling from whatever list of ‘greats’ some people hold him in. Which reminds me. If this had been a first or sixth movie outing with a new date and he’d expressed ‘I loved the movie’ type sentiments, then there would have been no choice but to move on. Irrespective of the size or motion of his cock. So, if I can just give advice, avoid Lynch with new friends, only the tried and trusted can shoulder the experience with you. Needless to say when I called the boy from the fresh air outside the cinema he told me I was bonkers to have gone along. Aaaahhh, I knew we were one body/one mind.

21 March - Singing & Prancing Ho's

What not to do when you’re feeling bloated and therefore ugly and therefore useless. Do not look at myspace pages of various young singers and backing vocalists and models of various calibre who all seem to be 19 or 21 on their profiles. And especially if they’re cute and black and you happen to believe some of your best male friends and associates find them irresistible. Which they are. They all seem to display that kind of attitude/clothes that if displayed by a white girl makes her a total whore, whereas because it seems to go with the hip hop culture being a hoe there is somehow not so bad. Actually it’s ok on stage, but am sure Beyonce’ doesn’t actually walk the streets of North London looking like a street cocksucker. Never mind. Just pray my utterly charming 3 goddaughters who already display vocal talent and gymnastic talent, will pose in this fashion for their publicity/work soliciting pages.

So there they are, all these young chicks, some vocal talent and a lot more booty talent to display. And tits. Hardly ever see a tit zero size in black. Thing is, back when I was 22 maybe there were those who thought ‘I’ll just use my looks and see where that gets me.’ Models have always existed and the variation on what the term covers as well. But not in such abundance or so it seems with the advent of all these ‘click and you open up more options’ websites. Back then I had the idea and so had lots of other women I went to college with, that we should have something more tangible to use than just looks. And so we held back on anything that would have not meant we were not getting it because of some intrinsic value. Sure that still left plenty of opportunity for manipulation by older and wiser males, it’s kind of hard to be ahead of them. You think grandfather who’s interviewing you is displaying some grandfatherly mannerisms, when the old perv is just perving in fact, but that’s not too dangerous, just… unnecessary.

Now I think we were just idiots. We should have done what these girls are doing dancing by the pool in their skimpiest thongs whilst the ugly bloke in the song gives it all his best macho posturing – though I usually I can’t take macho posturing from guys who I know have sat patiently for hours whilst their womenfolk have corn-rowed their hair. You know… they’re a big girl prepared to suffer for vanity.
Yep, today’s post displays some bitterness over having aged wanting to be equal when in fact being just a bit of fluff works in exactly the same way. I mean these girls will never make it to secretary of state but then neither did I or any of my Phd carrying girlfriends. And of course I can’t sing. So darn, am annoyed about that too.

20 March - Mountains & Snow

You never cease to learn....
tbc

and btw, Belle de Jour reads my blog. And thus had found out Dear John was pregnant before he made his announcement. I love this dissemination of information. Though of course as mentioned before it means you have to leave out so many juicy stories. A friend of a friend reads my blog and seems to delight in telling friend #1 about what she learns about her this way. So no more about her and her lover's butt plugs for example. Such a shame.

19 March - Of Snow & Boots

What we learnt skiing… Well, for a start that we are flexible. I knew that, but there’s a huge satisfaction in not having to do any of those pre-ski courses to get your knees to not buckle under you and to know that if you fall, you will stretch but not break. Much more useful would be to try some suffocating exercises so you know what it will feel like at 3300m or rather, up there it feels fantastic, but when you come down you're practically dead beat.

I also learnt not to be better than my man. A lesson my mother has been preaching for years,but what do you expect, I’ve ignored her. Having reached this age still w/o a longterm partner, I’ve decided to bow down to her olde worlde ways and so pretended to be less able than I actually am on the slopes, so that he wouldn’t have a bruised ego.
It worked. Apart from the time I said I’d go and fetch the camera we left with ski-lift operator and which necessitated a 'go back up and come down again' expedition. This had taken us considerable time on first descent as I waited for my man to come down what was for him a too steep piste (they lie to you in the mountains, they may be blue runs in places, but every first 400 yards is a bloody red one at high altitudes). So before I went off on my own I told him that it would take me a while to come back down and to chill. Of course I came down much faster and was considering repeating the trip up again but he’d been waiting for me at the bottom of the piste and I couldn’t just leave him. My bright green kermit jacket identified me too clearly. I did mumble something about how surprising it was to find my legs again and come down faster and he sweetly (I think) appreciated more my self imposed restraints of earlier.

The best part of skiing of course is taking the ski boots off and being welcomed by the softness of moon boots. Maybe this is an easy way to explain S&M to all those who’ve never tried it. The pain part is not so much pain, it’s anticipation of the pleasure of it ending. And like everything it gets easier so you need more extreme thrills. To give you an example, on your first day inside ski boots you feel like your feet have been crushed and mangled and you walk like a clunky robots. As of the second day you’re walking about like it’s normal and all your toes are wiggling and you could practically skip about. You still look at the snowboarders with their softer gear with some envy. They have it easy. No S&M for them, party people that they are. Dope smokers by and large. But you know that for them the pain is all in the butt. Those falls they take, are all crushing their bottom bones. Nothing specially delightful about that pain.
Anyway, it was too short. Bring on Chile in the Summer or next year's season. The landscape in the Alps is the best there is and as I worked out a while back, why go skiing in January/Feb when your breath freezes when you can be much more comfortable in March/April when it's not a tragedy to lose your hat or gloves?

14 March - Winter Togs & Global Warming

The Sunday Times article on global warming really scared me! That’s it, all these years I’ve been postponing the trip to Antarctic on account of not having the necessary 10 grand it costs or the time to go and soon it won’t be there! I knew It! Bastards, the whole world. And this unseasonal warmth is just annoying. Have just put away winter coats (well saw people in shorts on Sunday so you know, am not rushing to wear vests and sandals but the coats are over. The thing is.. one is new, my grace Kelly style camel coloured beauty and it’s seen the streets of London v. rarely (thanks in part to succumbing to the lightness of feather jackets which seem better to go to work in as easier to take off on the tropical underground and that’s not just because I’m pre-menopausal. It’s hot down there.

So yeah, the coat… will it even come out at all next winter? Will there be a winter? And all those scarves, mufflers, mini furs and hats I love? Not to mention gloves, have not worn them this winter. I need to take me to the Whistler or the Glaciers in Chile to sport some winter togs. No wonder that idiot Spice (from now on Posh is Idiot Spice in this blog) gets photographed with her tummy out whilst she pretends to snowboard, it’s hot even up there wherever she was/is/goes.

This global warming is threatening my future plans. What about the vineyard in India that I’m launching/starting in the next 3 years? That subcontinent is shown on maps as being half eroded/submerged, so clearly I need to relocate my still un-business planned wine business to Norway. But I don’t want to live in Norway! Meantime, my proposed Summer break in Stromboli is not happening as the volcano there is spewing stuff out since February and I’m not that much of a risk taker, and they won’t even drop their ridiculous prices to entice visitors to brave the danger. And you saw what happened to the folks in Montserrat ten years ago or so. The plan B holiday should take place instead in Amalfi/Ravello, but perhaps my friends have failed to read that Vesuvius is due an eruption and it’s going to be bigger than the one which destroyed Pompeii. So where to go heh? I propose Sicily before I remember there’s a volcano there too, they’re everywhere, maybe Sardinia?

In the meantime, they’re shooting artificially made snow on the pistes in the Alps so there will be silence from me for the next few days whilst I contribute to destroying the planet and have my skiing in Cortina. It’s at times like this that having chosen not to have any kids makes me feel very smug. I don’t have to leave the planet for no progeny, so bring on the tropicalization and doom. I shall wear my coats in air-conditioned malls. Until it all ends like in 'Oryx and Craske' (Margaret Attwood). Ok I do apologise to my tiny goddaughters and to my friends' kids. I'll leave them my jewellery, they can trade if for a lift to a mountain when the oceans will be rising.
But I think we should still kill Donatella Versace and her backers for the new Versace hotel in Dubai which will have an air-conditioning system cooling the sand on their section of beach ‘so you don’t burn your toes’. What’s wrong with flip flops? I hope the visitors to that hotel get zapped out of existence by either a giant fireball or a tsunami wave… they’ll be happy they didn’t burn their toes and paid extra $$$$ for the privilege.

13 March - TV watch & hardly ever

Don’t do TV in general, but sometimes you have to check it out. So I watch an episode of ‘Life on Mars’ mainly because Toph has never seen it (I caught one in the first series) and I feel he’s missing out on some good entertainment. My prediction is spot on, he likes it, though what makes him laugh the most is that John Simm chooses as a fake name for his undercover cop going to a was swapping party ‘Tony Blair’. His ‘wife’ is called ‘Cherie’ and his cop pal is ‘Gordon Brown’. My how we laugh.
Immediately after they’re showing the first episode of a new US series ‘Kidnapped’. As have ignored all the CSI’s , Greys Anatomy, Ugly Bettys and so on, again I feel we should watch this. Fortunately a handsome hunk appears from the beginning. I recognise the voice before the face. Never knew this actor’s name. We’re trying to place him. ‘Was he in 30 Something?’ says Toph. No he wasn’t I mean, he’d have had to be then the age this actor is now so clearly not. Was that 20 years ago? Or 18? Was it the same year/s as Twin Peaks? What a bonanza we had in the 80’s. How did I manage to see every single episode it seems and still go out as much as I did? Or maybe I think I saw them all but I didn’t. Like now, catching one is enough to know about a series and exchange a few words on it. Till you go on holiday in India or Brazil and realise every country has their indigenous TV stars that you’ll never know/care for and so why should we care for whoever is in the cast of ‘Lost’
I spend the time it takes to make a cup of coffee thinking about who he is (reading his name in the paper, Jeremy Sisto, does not enlighten me in the slightest’. Eventually the TV library in my head throws up the solution. He was the schizo brother in Six Feet Under, the brother to the Australian actress who was Nate’s g/friend in the show and he also tried to go out with the read-headed kiddie sister of Nate (can’t remember any other names real or characters of the cast and wasn’t that long ago but I need space in my head. Oh there’s another name, Nate is Peter Krause. There you go, am happy now. .Toph can’t quite see that this guy is that guy, but then I don’t think he was a fan. It’s a long first episode with plenty of criss crossing leads to further stories and other well known actor. That Timothy Hutton has aged badly, Linus Roache is not as fanciable as I normally find him. Toph likes it because you have to keep up with the plot. I think this is now just typical of some of these serials where you pat yourself on the back for being clever and remembering how it goes, till you give up like I did with ‘The West Wing’ –saving all of that together with the Charles Dickens to read when I’m really old. Eventually it ends. ‘I really liked that’ says the boyfriend. ‘Must have cost a heck of a lot more to film than Life on Mars’ says the accountant in moi. Clearly, I shan’t be waiting with bathed breath till next Tuesday. What’s wrong with me?

12 March - Sizes & Bigger Sizes

New woman joins us temporarily at work. So we have a Philadelphia (cheese) moment talking about her impending wedding in August. And looking at the engagement ring. Bit small and insignificant if you ask me but she says she wanted something unflashy. Oh dear, I must be up there with Puff Daddy on the subject of bling. Never mind. Only earlier another colleague asked me a propos one who was standing next to her ‘How much weight do you think D could lose?’
The look of horror on my face as having to be put on the spot like this meant she elaborates ‘D says she wants to lose 20kg, it’s too much surely, how much is that in pounds anyway?’ Whilst I register all this and think that 15kg she could easily shed from her tall frame, I say, as ever, and this is a good trick, that I prefer to talk sizes, so I say ‘Er D, what size are you? A 12? (I always make it one size smaller than they are anyway, which is also a good solution to not getting them to hate you forever). There is a brief smile and D says ‘No, a 14 creeping up to 16’.
So, kindly, as if speaking to a patient I say ‘But you were not always a 14 right, what were you last year?’ - didn’t know her then but it’s also always a good ploy. She answers she’d gone down to a 10 for her wedding last Sept. ‘There you go,’ I soothe, ‘that’s 2 sizes to go, but you could aim for one less, just set a goal of size 12, that’s not too difficult to achieve, you eat well and you exercise, so I can only assume it’s the booze? Do you drink with every meal…?
She says not much (dead giveaway that she does), but that when she does, when she’s out, she really goes for it. Yes, can vouch for that, the few times we've been out together after work. Yes, damage done, I think smugly as I definitely don’t do that and feel sick just looking at women downing pints of beer or wine. Nobody ever seems to correlate the contents to a bag of sugar. Thankfully someone else who wants something ‘now’ comes to interrupt this potentially ruinous exchange and when he’s gone, we don’t resume the conversation. Phew!
As the resident size 8 (one of 3 similarly built vs. 5 x size 14 to 16 and an 18 around me, I feel the pressure. If I had a fiver for each time someone says ‘but you’re so skinny!’ or a fiver for each time I refrain from saying ‘Yes, believe me it’s hard not to eat pains of chocolat each day, followed by a bap sandwich and crisps and cola, but you know the two are correlated to getting to your size! Oh and by the way, if you never exercise, forget it’ I’d be rich. Thing is, even the v. happy, v. sorted, v. regular shagged by boyfriend size 18, brings out her old photo from 2 years ago when she was a stone lighter and begs me to look at how she was… I mumble something about ‘You’re just not happy here, go on holiday, change job, it will all fall off you’.
I don’t know… me, something I don’t like, I try to change it. Can’t be that difficult? Or rather, I know that it is folks, but allow me to occasionally rant as it's frikkin' hard work staying PC around so many people with weight issues. And if this pisses you off, let me make it even worse by saying 'Don't go into Topshop and moan you can't find anything if you're a size 14, stick to other shops, they do exist'. I was called 'large' once in a shop in Tokyo and couldn't find a skirt that fitted in Thailand so I realise the frustration, but it's not their fault.

9 March - Slow & Slower

Can barely keep eyes open as had a 5.30 alarm call for work that yesterday started at 6.30. Don't ask or you'll be very bored by the details. Or I'll tell you anyway as is my want. But not now.

I have to use all my concentration to stay awake and look like I'm doing something at work. It requires better acting skills than that famous thespian, Liz Hurley. I promise better posts soon.

tbc

8 March - Medicals & Nichols

Colleague goes to company medical. She comes back scratching her arms, the plasters applied after the blood samples were taken are itchy. I say I don’t like them either but I disliked more the patches/electrodes that they put on your chest as you take the biking machine and puff along to test your lungs/recovery capacity etc. She says they only do that test for older people.

There you go, my weekly reminder that ‘they’ around me are 15/20 years younger.
his weren’t enough to wound my pride, there’s a picture in today’s freebie paper of an ex assistant of mine/ours who is being written about in connection with having a handbag accessory removed by security before boarding a Eurostar because the hideously expensive accessory looks like a medieval mini weapon. Aside from registering that JJ looks pretty good and is lying about her age (she couldn’t have been 16 then so she can’t be 35 now) the offending words that nearly send me to take the rest of the day off are ‘Fashion Buyer at Harvey Nichols’. Yes, they have more than one but I think she’s the main one (had run into some bio detail of hers in previous years’.

What can I say? Well done and sorry I patronised you plenty in those days. But in those days truly you were not that smart. And I knew lots more. And I thought just caring for fashion was stoooopid and you were a rich daddy's girl. AN said too last time we met for a catch up and he was the company lawyer, he should know....Age improves plenty of areas. I guess I better stop there in case I ever want to be invited to some inner sanctum super 'practically given away for free' sale at your nice shop.

6 March - Gossips & Shikari

Am not old. The morning after I moan about the high heels – had worn them to expensive dinner (my how we’ve grown up, a quick £100 dropped in an hour of catching up before a show, just two of us), forgot that after the restaurant I’d have to stand for about 2 hours all told and the last walk back to the car was v. painful, joints not blisters so just old bones really -am on the net listening to artists mentioned last night by some people I run into. A riot of fast guitars and 120,000 Myspace hits greets me on the page of someone you’ve never heard of and their debut album is not out yet. I notice their two forthcoming Hammersmith Palais gigs at the w/end are at 5pm. How sweet, so they can go back home and ready for school tomorrow. Youtube is full of cheap videos to their songs. And the surprising thing is I love this stuff. It's just great, shouty kids rock. How can I love stuff made and consumed by 15 year olds? What kind of name is Enter Shikari? Some Japanese Manga hero? I can’t tell you, I simply don’t know. My friend invites me to their show on Sunday. Then the following day says not prepared to really break the sanctuary of her Sunday evening for this kind of stuff. Am torn between wanting to see something at the beginning of the magic journey into Top 10 and also wanting a night in. We’re over 40. The night in wins. But it’s not Sunday yet so things may change.

Whilst on the net I also watch the video for the Gossips ‘Listen up’ and excitedly write to a friend (47 this year) that she’s be incensed that they took the entire backbone of the song from rhythms found in our favourite NY band’s album, The Rapture (not that they themselves didn’t crib them from a host of 80’s UK indie bands). Am sure she’ll reply just as incensed. Surely these should not be our concerns, but those of her kids for example but said kids are all in their early/mid twenties and are probably busy trying to get jobs, move on from Uni and so on, or actually, in the case of her eldest, trying to stay awake after being exploited for 12 hour days every day. Perhaps it’s fitting that it should be us concerned with utterly non world shaking events as these. We love the Rapture, we were not even the oldest ones there at Koko six months ago or so an feeling all protective that in a year they had moved from smaller halls to this large one but still not cracked the charts.

Does this happen all the time in theatre too I wonder. You go see a new play by a new playwright and come out going ‘but he copied the entire second act from Ibsen! Just threw in a bit of Marber and thought we’d not notice? And that other new guy we saw a play by last month, he’s better than this, why is no one going to see his stuff?’
What would it be like to walk into a theatre audience of 18 year olds and feel old as I do at ‘rock’ concerts? It never happens that you’re greeted by too many young faces as the theatre is expensive (allegedly, no more than Brixton academy or Wembley but there you go).
I’d be an embarrassing mother, wanting to go to all my kids’ fave gigs. Well not all, perhaps but enough.

2 March - Chekhov & Spring

How current is old Chekhov? Am sure you ask yourselves that question on a weekly basis. A lot. That’s why going to see The Seagull (and Uncle Vanya a few weeks ago) even though you read it years ago and saw the play years ago the therefore you don’t think you need to repeat the experience … is actually crucial. You just have to remind yourself that things make sense at different times in your life and what seemed irrelevant then, is now and s on. You take away from them what you need. Toph thinks the play is bleak, granted, and that Konstantin kills himself because he’s a failed writer. I think he kills himself because his mother doesn’t love him and the girl he’s fixated on doesn’t want him. But there you go. I do get the other stuff about these people being ciphers for the larger problems of Russia in those days and so on but… all of that doesn’t matter because at the end, after our furious clapping and self backslapping for bothering to get tickets, the boy says ‘You do look a bit like Kristin Scott Thomas, she’s more drawn than you but the mouth is very similar…’
I mean, a girl could fall off the balcony at such tribute. (La Scott Thomas was also terrific in the role of the vain actress mother, she totally inhabited it which I more that can be said for him from The Office) especially if she identifies with the vain in the above sentence. I was already thinking that it’s a shame it’s not cold enough to warrant me wearing gorgeous Russian style winter coats. Did I ever mention I love Anna Karenina? Didn’t think so.
If you consider that only a few days earlier leafing through supplements he’d leant over to show me the Creole looking girl in the M&S lingerie ads and said ‘She looks like you!’, it’s practically flattery heaven. Now, that one is a good 20 years younger than me, no? Kristin at least not dissimilar in age to me, bit more polished but I don’t benefit from Oscar make up on a daily basis or, come to think of it, ever. Clearly the two don’t look like each other and I don’t look like them, but these compliments are very, very welcome. Going into Spring feeling good! And it’s mutual. I’ve taken pictures of him where I’ve compared him to Clint Eastwood and Brad Pitt who clearly don’t look like each other and/or like him blah blah but isn’t that the whole premise of that movie where Jack Black falls in love with Gwynnie and doesn’t see the fat girl? The look of love indeed.

1 March - Spring & Toilet Training

I was reading someone else’s blog, as you do and yes it is a mistake not to link to any on mine, I find most of the ones I read as links from other people’s blogs, though having said that I lack the loyalty gene and I don’t go checking them again and again very often – I do a splurge printing of all I find that month or in parts of their archives, take it home, read it, make the mental notes ‘Is it better than mine, same level or worse’ and forget. I save some url’s on the computer but then again, don’t check them. I remember some names (CatinRabat for example) but not others. I guess lisataylordiary is not that memorable but haven’t come up with a better title yet. Am always astounded at the pen names kids use in their myspace pages for example. I want them all: no bra, so sick, angelfood, miss murderer, anyway, I could be there all day.

So this woman, blogger in the US, does quite well as she’s a web designer so it all looks great and she uploads daily photos which are pleasing on the eye though for some reason I don’t care about seeing other people’s flats or flowers or pets, but am hard like that. She makes money out of her blog. Love that. Soon you’ll see a paypal box on this and you can donate in multiples of 99p so I can buy music downloads that way. My new thing is trying to barter between my usual purchases and new ones. I’lll only book a riding class if 40 people who read this pay 99p each.
Anyway, she writes well and a lot about her family. She’s a recovering Mormon, v. funny, had first premarital sex at 22 but waited to taste her first cup of coffee at 23... well I think it’s funny!

So, I read a post about toilet training her 3 year old (or failing to do so for various reasons) and the post had over 250 comments. I just couldn’t believe it, so mug that I am I (no kids, no need for toilet training tips), skim read through most. Bewildered that this subject got more comments than, I don’t know, Britney shaving her head. So I don’t know, but thought I’d write about this, put toilet training as a tag and see how many women (they were 99% women) get to my blog that way. Wonder why no men commented. Either they don’t already read her blog or they don’t care about toilet training and therefore search for those words, I can't think that they may have a further kinky meaning (you’d think they do tough... the sooner kiddies get off stinking nappies the better non?) or felt they didn’t want to enter such a fraught arena and believe me, it was fraught, lots of arguing. Kids, who needs them.

27 February - Time off ... never

Early to bed. Catch up on myself. Another weekend involving too many activities. And if we start at last Thursday... went to a book reading/music night. No dancing, just a lot of straining to hear what writers were reading. Bad acoustics.
Went to a dinner with new people some of whom sometimes live and work in Angola. Failed to watch Blood Diamond first so we'd have some background on conflict diamonds but went one futher and printed off UN papers on the subject. Very dry. All say the same thing. Will I actually one day refuse a diamond on account of it being drenched in blood? Not very likely and I do believe there's conflict coffee and conflict other stuff.
Then went to the Cobden for a birthday. Young people whose fathers are famous. Nice if you can get to that position, though potentially frought with years of psychotherapy, so I shall stop being envious. B'day girl couldn't care less about our presence as by this point she was trying to hook dashing older guy. It was past midnight so not long to go. Danced for a bit. Saw dashing older guy all on his own.
Went to see a movie, The Good Shepherd, far too long and miscast. Went to see a gig at the Met Bar, arrived for the last number (bloody parking in Mayfair, what was I thinking), had the pleasure of paying a tenner for a vodka and tonic and a fiver for a beer. Stayed far too long to watch the goings ons of nobodies (there's a reason I haven't been here for years I realise) and manage to have one of those arguments in cars complete with tears. All resolved I'm glad to say or just postponed for another late night car journey.
Went to watch a BBC2 docu in the house of its director /producer. Thank god it was a fab political one that left you still wondering about what happened. Aren't these investigative things interesting? Suicides, why don't they really leave unquestionable notes so nobody has to be left in any doubt about their intentions? And whilst they're at it, can they make them less easy to suppress than a mere note (see The Good Shepherd). How about setting up a video camera, filming your goodbyes and having them broadcast before you actually top yourself so we know you really meant it that way.
Managed to turn down a great job, but hopefully passed it on to a friend. Maybe it will still be there in a year's time.
Discussed moving to a new house.
Went to some exercise class.
Read the papers.
Painted nails and toenails.
Had the benefit of lots of loverboy's attention.
Now I need to sleep.

26 February - Uggs & Mash

Poor Pammy Anderson, she hadn’t realised that Uggs are made of sheep leather/shearlings. And she’s an animal lover who campaigns against fur etc. So she says she’s going to launch her own synthetic line. First of all Pammy, your line is not needed, the high streets of the worst boroughs in London are lined with shops which sell £10 Ugg copies (they are dwindling away in the wake of fake Juicy Couture trackies thankfully) and secondly ‘No, no, no! Uggs are ugly’. Ok so she used them in the only way they should be allowed, ie when she was filming Baywatch and she had to keep warm in between takes whilst wearing only a red swimsuit (and a parka I hope) and they probably started filming at 7am to get the light, but she hasn’t filmed Baywatch for years so she should give them up. I think the only people allowed to wear them should be old folk in old folks homes. I don’t begrudge them some foot comfort and if they wore stilettos they may use them to stab their carers in rare moments of lucidity when they realise their lives are ending like so many packets of mash gathering dust in my cupboards (no idea why have bought them from time to time, am so against food out of packets it doesn’t make sense) so… er, where was I? You’d never know I manage a pretty demanding job. Not.

25 February - Storms & Vodkas

We’re going for dinner with a writer in a few days… Toph confesses he’s never read him on account of being friends with the writer’s partner and not him directly. I think it’s rude to have drinks with people who slave away to write and not having had the courtesy to skim a few of their lines. Although Toph could argue that were we friends with a rat catcher we wouldn’t ask to go spend a day watching him catch rats or indeed google stuff to find out how exactly it is that he does it. Same if we were friends with a hairdresser, we wouldn’t necessarily want to go to their establishment to have our haircuts etc.
I know, but writers, musicians, painters… it’s not a skill it’s a talent, you have to pay homage to it. So it is that I go and visit some second-hand bookshops in order to acquire said writer’s books. Surprisingly, and happily for him, he doesn’t seem to be discarded easily and I find none.
So I went on Amazon. This is simply because he writes thrillers, political and/or simply involving old fashioned murderers of women using peculiar methods of despatching them. These kind of novels are not my style; I read one a couple of years ago because I had to, something called Blood Simple, apparently a best seller, the plot based around a stag night prank gone wrong and treacherous girlfriends and treacherous but not as smart as the girlfriend, business partners. Although I couldn’t guess the outcome, neither was I very interested in finding out and it did not keep me awake at night finishing it… it took a while in fact and I happily abandoned it on a train as soon as I skipped to the last chapter. So… understandably I’m reluctant to pay top price for something I know I won’t like, willing as I am to try anything, you don’t get to this age still unsure of how you want to spend your time. The 2 novels I order on Amazon arrive. Can’t believe there are businesses out there that bother to post me a book on which their profit must be all of 90p but thank you. I start reading them in tandem to maximise this sort of waste of my time as there are some other novels by the bed and by the sofa and by the kitchen table and by the desk which are calling me with ‘You bought us and you’re too busy gallivanting around town to make time to read us. Shame on you!’
I merely discover that the latest one is an improvement on the previous one. There is a more interesting setting than the UK, there are more symbols, more metaphors and more of those ‘his blah blah was like a blah blah something else’ which doesn’t necessarily recreate any great image in your head but adds to the word count and I have 3 or 400 more pages to go. Ok, am being ungenerous here, I do know how much effort a novel involves, and the plotting has to be plotted very accurately especially if you’re talking about the fall of the Soviet Union etc etc and I do admire anyone who finishes writing a novel and getting it published. I do.
I’m 130 pages in on both and the dinner is in 8 days. I should manage. But if you haven’t got anything nice to say about something then the old adage stands ie best not to say anything. I am feeling weird getting the books out on the commute into work. I fear someone I know may see me and I won’t be able to explain why I’m skimming them. Then again I’d probably draw some appreciative glance from men, this form of literature being their territory. The writer in question won’t care about my opinion anyway as he sells them by the cartload, has had a TV drama made from an early one and is getting married in luxury in Tuscany in the Summer. Will I cause us to be dis-invited if I make the wrong comment or no comment at all? Then again we were invited without first ascertaining our thoughts on the subject of his novels. But what are we going to talk about at dinner? Or is the fact we’ve chosen a fashionable restaurant the ruse to get us distracted with a bit of star spotting? Then again I don’t know if our writer is so known that some heads will turn when he takes his seat at the table. Will I resist mentioning this not so humble blog? Will Toph find more of interest in thosse novels than I do? Can I get him away from his current fave? The Robert Fisk tome, itself a whopper, a brick, a War and Peace type tome? And did I mention some soul in the Amazon reviews said she re-read one twice and the other one three times? Why? What hidden meanings had she missed and was trying to find. Why not give some new novel a chance instead?