....Actually if it means I'm going to wake up then don't.
I am so blissfully happy right now. I am allowed to be blissfully happy right now. I am going to enjoy every single second of being blissfully happy right now. Ok, that’s the last time I’m going to write blissfully happy before I jinx it.
I am now back from my trip to Copenhagen and you may deduce from the opening to this post that I had a fantastisk time. Wonderful company, wonderful food, wonderful drink and I managed to get a wonderful job to be started as soon as I get to DK. The whole trip was like a dream that I never want to wake up from. You know when you watch a film and the plot is just incredibly ridiculous and you sit there shouting at the TV “What? Oh come ON. That would NEVER EVER happen. Urgh, God this film is stupid.”? Well that’s what my week in Copenhagen was like. It does happen sometimes. It really, honestly truly does happen. And this time it happened to me.
I had a slight blip on my last night there when I couldn’t help but think that this was all just too good to be true and so surely it couldn’t actually BE true. But a little cry (partly brought on from being utterly overwhelmed by everything and partly brought on by stupidly letting my imagination live the moments when I’m going to be saying goodbye to everyone I love here), a strong, safe, lovely hug, and some words of wisdom soon sorted me out. I will not feel guilty about good things happening to me. I am not going to ruin the good times by anticipating and worrying about the bad because that is just stupid. I am going to enjoy this and wrap myself up in every inch of it.
A lot of people don’t understand my borderline obsession with books and reading. They wrongly assume that I think of each book as a trophy to sit on my bookshelf once finished, titles and authors proudly shouting of intellectual prowess, cultural variety and literary knowledge. If anyone took a good look at my bookcase they’d quickly realise that this isn’t the case! Showing off is not why my books are important to me. Each book contributed to my opinions, to who I am and who I aspire to be. Some books made me laugh, some made me cry, some were just beautiful but they all made me feel something. Each book is a part of me, living in a part of time that’s past. So asking me to leave them behind is like asking me pack up my memoires into boxes and put them into storage to be ignored and useless. I don’t want new versions of any of them. I want my originals, with huge gaps between turned down corners from when my greed for the pages outlasted my need for sleep; with phrases underlined in indigo ink so that I can pick out anything that gave me something to chew over; with stained edges from knocking around in the bottom of my bag with makeup, food and leaking felt tips because I couldn’t leave home without it in case I get a spare 2 minutes to delve inside it.
I’m not completely romanticising my move to Denmark. I know that there will be times when I long for home, my mum, my dad, my best friends. Times when I long for the job that I know inside out, the busy tube, The Thames, my old local, the comfort of the house that I grew up in and much more. It will be these times that I look to the familiar and unlike my piano, books are things that I CAN take to comfort me when I get lonely, to cheer me up when I’m homesick and to calm me when I’m frustrated.
Some people think it’s insane to weight my moving to Denmark suitcase with books. I know it’s necessary.
I think it’s hilarious that prostitutes are offering free sex to delegates attending the COP 15 summit as a protest against Copenhagen City Hall distributing leaflets dissuading visitors using prostitutes when prostitution is a perfectly legal activity in Denmark.
How hypocritical of a country whose marketing campaign for tourism was a video of a Danish woman who had had a one night stand with a foreigner whose name she does not know, gotten pregnant, had the baby and decided that the best way to find and tell this man he had a baby was through this video.
The anti prostitution plan has backfired superbly hasn't it Copenhagen? Awareness of Copenhagen's red Light district has probably increased ten fold. Hold on, unless this was their clever little plan all along...
Why is junk email sometimes called spam? Junk, I can understand. Spam I just don’t get. What do rubbish emails have to do with a precooked meat that looks like jellied vomit in a can?
Actually come to think of it I don’t get the whole SPAM “meat” thing either.
Oh no, the word SPAM has gone over and over in my head so many times now that it seems like the most ridiculous selection of letters ever to form a word and has ceased to mean anything.
I'm now even more confused then when I started. Damn Spam.
I’m super excited today because this time next week I’ll be in Copenhagen. No, I’m not moving early, this is just a pre move visit with my 2 girlfriends, cunningly engineered to coincide with Copenhagen at its cosiest time in the hope that they will fall in love with the city like I have and then have to come and visit me lots and lots and lots.
Planning this visit has been quite hard though – how do you fit all the wonderful things Copenhagen has to offer into just 3 short days (actually 2.5 days when you take into consideration flights etc)? You can’t. So I’ve had to prioritise. So I’m planning:
Wandering through the town on Friday ending up in a cosy pub in Nyhavn for Gløgg
then having a traditional Danish dinner
then shopping on Saturday
and then a visit to my favourite place on Earth, Tivoli and then a walk in the countryside on Sunday before they fly home.
Yesterday morning was one of those mornings where your bed is the comfiest, cosiest place in the entire world; every last curve of your body is taking pleasure in relaxing against the mattress and pillows and the darkest blue 7am accompanied by the wind driven rain against your window is pushing you deeper and deeper into the warm cocoon of soft duvet you’ve created for yourself (writing this is actually making me want to relive that all over again). So, you can imagine that it was an easy decision to swap washing my hair and actually thinking about my outfit for an extra 15 minutes in bed. ERROR.
2pm that day…my colleague wanders over to my desk and I begrudgingly remove my earphones to hear what he is going to try to add to my workload (this isn’t unfair – this is the standard result of his little trips to my desk). This time though he actually brings good news - he has a spare ticket to the Where The Wild Things Are premiere in Leicester Square tonight AND after party and wants to know if I would like to go. Yes, yes I would like to go. I would like that very much indeed. However my morning duvet indulgence means that you could fry an egg with the grease from my hair (although it probably wouldn’t taste great) and my old, holey green dress, leggings and flats are far from red carpet compatible. Oh dear.
3pm that day…I’m drinking a coffee, reading Vogue and being given a massage by the chair I’m sat on whilst my hair is being manipulated by a man and his hairdryer. One of the many benefits of having a female boss is that in a crisis such as being invited to a premier but looking like crap, is that she will understand the need for you to take an hour to go and get a blow dry. The outfit will just have to do, in a “I’m so cool that I don’t need to try hard” kinda way (not sure I pulled that off but there was nothing I could do about the outfit so it was tough).
7pm…I’m super excited because I’m about to walk down the red carpet. Unfortunately, it was soaking wet from being pounded by the rain all day which had created puddles like potholes in a country lane so rather then strolling elegantly down the carpet, I had to navigate my way through the puddles by hoping from one foot to the other praying that I didn’t trip, skid or land incorrectly in rivet of rainwater. Not exactly what I had imagined. But the paparazzi were in sight now which quickly and easily distracted me. I’ve never been that close to a group (ravenous herd may be a more accurate description) of photographers before. I found it quite exhilarating to hear them all screaming at the young, beautiful and famous that sauntered down the carpet to try and manoeuvre them into position for the shot that was going to earn them their name in the credits of a magazine the next day. I think I may have angered the mob slightly as my position on the carpet whilst waiting to go into the cinema must have been slightly in there shot and they kept shouting at me to move and I was like “Where?, Where the hell do they want me to move? I physically can’t move forward and if I move backwards I’m going to be even more in their shot!” I could only assume that they wanted me to move INTO shot for them so I prepared my best pose and moved into the flashing bulbs…Just kidding. After deliberating over where the hell to move so that I wasn’t in their shot I just turned around so at least my face wasn’t in shot and thought they’d just have to be happy with that. They did stop shouting at me after that so I can only assume that it was the thought of my face in their shot that was offending them so much. Nice.
7:45pm…It dawns on me that the microphone has been set up at the front of the cinema since we sat down in a row 3 from the front (in itself odd – shouldn’t these seats be for important people?!) and yet no-one has come out to address the c list celeb dotted audience which more than likely means that the premiere has been split between 2 different cinemas in Leicester Square and I am in the one reserved for lesser folk. Not that I mind, I’m just happy to be there. It just explains a lot. Eventually though Spike Jones (the film’s director) comes out and introduces the film. I like him. He is understated and a little aloof but genuinely passionate about the book that inspired this film and the result which we are about to see.
9pm…The film was stunning. I had been wondering how they were going to manage to turn a classic picture book consisting of 60 sentences into a full feature film. Imagination. I loved it.
10pm…a few free cocktails, some perfectly catered canapés and a spot of celeb spotting (they must have merged the 2 audiences into one after show party venue as the list of celebs spanned from D to B at the party) later and I’m left thinking that this isn’t what I expected. It seemed that the people at the party didn’t really laugh, or eat or look like they were having fun at all. They just kind of stood in small groups, rolling their eyes when someone from the social circuit approached them who they clearly thought beneath them. I had a nice time, don’t get me wrong, and the room was dressed beautifully. It’s just that I think everybody acts all nonchalant at these things, afraid of making a wrong move and I think I’ve had more fun sitting in my front room with the girls. That sounds unbelievably ungrateful, doesn’t it? I’m not ungrateful, the whole evening was brilliant (and free), it’s just that your imagination can run away with you sometimes and the reality of a situation can be completely different, not bad just different.
No matter, all in all as I lay in bed yesterday night I thought back to my morning’s extra 15 mins in bed and laughed at how differently my day had panned out to what I had thought might happen. I had my hair done, went to a premiere and hung out with rock stars and supermodels drinking free cocktails – not bad at all.
Call me inhumane but I just do not go all gooey and fuzzy at cute animal pictures. Especially not dogs and cats (penguins I think are the only exception to this rule). No, I do not think that cat has a whimsical "I can communicate with you on a level that transcends species" look in his eyes - I think he's probably got gas.
So I was pretty tickled when I came across this picture. May I present my rebellion against cute, fluffy, animal pictures. I think he is officially the most ugly cat in the whole world. And I applaud that.
Im currently reading “I capture the Castle” by Dodi Smith (recommended to me by my colleague after I wouldn’t stop going on and on an on about Pride & Prejudice). I’m halfway through at the moment and have just about started to find the protagonist endearing rather than annoyingly analytical.
I read the following passage at about 3:30 am. I should probably say that rather then the book being so engrossing that I was up till the wee hours absorbing it, the book was actually keeping me entertained and distracted from the most horrible cough I have at the moment which has kept me awake for the past 3 nights in a row (yes, I think I may actually be asleep whilst typing this). By the by, my cough also happens to be causing me a huge amount of embarrassment on the tubes and trains to and from work as I go purple in the face from coughing, coughing, cough cough coughing. The silver lining here is that it means a lovely amount of space appears around me as people attempt to get as far away from me and my lurgie as possible. So, faking illness could actually be a handy tip for getting yourself some space on public transport in London. Anyway, I’ve completely gone off the point. Ok, just re-read the first sentence of this paragraph and now remember that I was supposed to be sharing with you a passage from the book I’m reading which now seems utterly inappropriate and pointless but oh well, I’ve invested the effort now so I may as well continue. So here you are:
“It suddenly seemed astonishing that people should meet especially to eat together – because food goes into the mouth and talk comes out.”
I found this quite an amusing analysis of a dinner party. The absurdity of an event being about 2 things that work in direct conflict of each other - talking and eating. Why not just meet to talk? I guess because people would get hungry. Well then why not meet after dinner? I guess because people love to show off their cooking skills (I also presume that everyone fears the effect of having a drink or 2 on an empty stomach).
In reality, I find dinner parties such a pleasure. I think this is because a) I love food b) I love people watching, even if I don’t particularly like the person c) my mum always tried to make sure that as a family we ate dinner together as often as possible. My mum likes long dinners, with lots of conversation and she is the slowest eater I’ve ever known. I guess this is the Dane in her. My dad (an Englishman) on the other hand, will sit to eat then leave the table once finished. Dinner is less of an event and more of a necessity in his eyes. I prefer it my mum’s way. I guess that’s the Dane in me.
So at 3:30 am this morning I was sat upright in bed night dreaming whilst awake of long, cosy dinners in Denmark.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Ha! I saw a blog I wrote about a few months ago (The Uniform Project) in the December edition of Vogue yesterday. Do you know what? It feels great to be one step ahead of one of the biggest fashion power houses in the world for once.Yay!
My need for somewhere to vent has finally overtaken my laziness.
I’ve been absent for a while, you haven’t missed too much though. Oh, except for the decision I have made to move to Denmark. But that’s it really. So nothing major.
How? Why? When? I think of it really simply actually. It's something I've always wanted to do, I have no responsibilities or commitments tying me down here, and I think it will be a hugely challenging experience. I can't wait to explore my Danish roots, learn the language and generally just be Danish for a while!
All I know is that every time I leave Denmark I always wish I was staying. Simples.
I’ve since been devouring every piece of information I can find online about Denmark and Copenhagen. I recently came across a great website for expats (www.expat-blog.com) through which, when I’ve gathered up enough courage, I hope to meet some people living in CPH who have been through the same experience as me.
I started off reading a lot of the blogs that people on the site have written and then suddenly decided to stop because it was scaring me (nothing like burying your head in the sand!) and so have just decided to write my own thoughts down since they are already enough to scare me!
Clearly the most sensible thing to start with is a list of everything I need to do before I leave in just 9 short weeks.
1) Hand in my notice at work L. 2) Decide what to take and what to leave 3) Put the stuff I’m not taking into storage 4) Look into costs of putting stuff into storage 5) Figure out what to do about my bank account overdraft 6) Open a bank account in DK 7) Research which is the best bank account to open 8) Find a job in DK 9) Find somewhere to live in DK
I’m bored of this list already. I’m off to learn all the words to “Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen”.
Hmmmm, after my indulgent and very naughty egg mayonnaise sandwich (I’m trying to steer clear of carbs at the moment. It’s not going well. Carbs make me feel happy.) and my delicious and angelic humus and veg, I still need something else. Something sweet. Something that will invite little mini glucose men into my body so that they may prop up my eyelids with matchsticks. It’s 4 nights in a row now I’ve had no sleep. I’ve ventured past the point of grouchy and am now a mute shadow of the lurgy, all pale and clammy with not even the energy to feast on the energy of others. I’m well and truly wilting.
Chocolate is the answer.
Chocolate is ALWAYS the answer.
I spy with my little eye…a box of my uber favourite Lindt chocolates in the Rights department. Sneak, sneak, sneak, snatch. Damn it. Only dark chocolate (yuk) and hazelnut left. Need for sugar stronger than fussiness I take out the hazelnut chocolate and saunter off to the kitchen in a nonchalant fashion, oooozing guilt and put the kettle on.
Alas, as I unwrap the chocolate I discover that no! It’s not hazelnut, its white chocolate! Joy of joys, yummy, creamy, sweet, delectable white chocolate. A sweeter taste has not passed my lips in months. I sink back, resting against the kitchen counter, savouring every last drop of pleasure and delve my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. My hand gets caught in a crinkled receipt.
Alas, as I pull out the mystery receipt I realise that to my giddy delight it is in fact two £10 notes crumpled into my back pocket. I think I may pass out from all the excitement. Has ever a more thrilling combination of events happened? Ever? To anyone? I think not.
The powers that be have clearly proclaimed this day to be the day of good things and do please dear God let it bring sleep.
My first thoughts on reading that the police are closing in on the thieves that managed to conduct the UK’s biggest ever jewel theft, scarpering with £40m worth of gems, were not thoughts on the righteous prevalence of moral justice as one may imagine. Instead I shocked myself as my initial reaction was one of disappointment followed swiftly by a will of their evasion. I want them to get away with it. After discussing this with friends, I realised that I wasn’t alone. Many of us want them to get away with it.
Perhaps in the boredom of all the economic and political doom and gloom recently society secretly admires the bottle of these guys coupled with the meticulous planning that seems to have gone into the heist (prosthetic masks, brilliant!). Whilst they were probably shitting themselves, I imagine it to be quite glamorous, very Ocean’s 11. Perhaps beneath those prosthetic masks lay the faces of Brad Pitt and Gorge Clooney. Maddox Pitt-Jolie definitely looks like he’d be comfortable driving a get away motor bike….
The insinuation that the rise in good grades is a result of labour 'dumbing down' exams is frankly insulting to those students who are currently opening their exam results nervously. I sincerely doubt any of these politicians even remember what that felt like.
Being 23 I can recall this feeling with ease. As one of the first generations to tackle the change from A levels to the AS/A2 level system I can honestly say that the jump in difficulty between GCSEs and A levels was one that even a freerunner may struggle with.
Has anyone considered that students aren't perhaps as stupid as everyone seems so quick to assume they are, and with the economy in the state it is in and unemployment on the rise students are actually trying harder to get the top grades to give them a fighting chance in the mess that is the UK at the moment?
Lets not forget that this isn't about Labour vs. The Conservatives. It is in fact about young adults who feel that their dreams and aspirations rely on what is written on those few bits of paper.
To take the success away from these students is de-motivational and unfair. Can you imagine telling your children that their good grades are not a result of hard work or determination but in fact a result of the government's game playing?
“Do something differently.” my boss said to me as we were discussing my objectives for the coming year. “I want you to think about what could be done differently and implement it. Ideas by next Friday.”
Ummm, right. Without a need for change it can be quite tricky to think of what needs to be done differently. There needs to be some catalyst, a reason, a problem to have a solution. By Wednesday I still hadn’t discovered what said catalyst/reason/problem was and had therefore thought of nothing creative and different to implement. Oh well, off to Chez Gay for dinner.
Wednesday, 9pm. My brain alive with the fizz from the champagne I had a brainwave. It was brilliant and my boss would definitely be impressed.
Thursday, 9am. My brain numb from the relentless pounding of last night’s champagne I slumped into my desk. It was gone.
Thursday, 9:30am. My brain strained from all the thinking I slowly type up my thoughts. Do something differently. Get drunk at work.
The Met office has re-forcast for a miserable summer. See previous post on the BBC's ability to use reverse psychology on mother nature. I love to say I told you so.
You may remember a while ago I posted about a whim I'd had to take up photography. Well apparently it wasn't a whim as I was still thinking about it weeks later. After some initial research I was disappointed to discover a) how expensive SLR cameras are and b) how expensive photography courses are. When I can barely afford to eat, this really isn't a valid expense so my plan to become a photographer had been put on hold.
And then out of no-where my wonderful dad has lent me his (very retro, yet very cool) SLR camera! Wow, who knew he even had one?! It's all very exciting. It has a lot of different settings that I've yet to get to grips with (the course is still not an option and anyway, practice makes perfect, no?) but the first week I had it I was snap happy. Snap snap snapping everything! So here you are, a few shots from my first ever attempt with the new old camera:
The Eden Project
The Eden Project
Tea Rooms in Padstow - these reminded me of Alice in Wonderland
As much as I hate to admit it, I had a cynical opinion about the standard of the final MJ tour. I wasn't sure how he'd be able to emulate his previous shows or how he was going to meet thousands upon thousands of people's expectations being the legend that he is. But this rehearsal footage makes me think I would have been wrong. I nearly cried watching this, consumed in the tragedy of it all.
When the mobile phone was invented it made winning the affections of a girl somewhat less daunting. No longer did men have to sit on the settee with the rest of the family for an hour or two in the evening, subtly being quizzed by protective parents (especially protective dads) only to retire home having spoken only a few words to the object of their affections (OOA) with the prospect of many a repeat performance to endure before one could hope for a sweet kiss in the doorway at the end of the evening. Actually I’m not sure they had to do this before the mobile phone was invented but they definitely had to do it before the phone was invented. Definitely.
Courting. It’s such a sweet word. It readily brings back distant but crystal clear memories of my childhood. No, not because I went courting when I was a little girl but because my childhood was filled with hours spent watching wonderful musicals with songs like “Going Courting” in them (that’s from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers in case you’re interested – it’s amazing). I remember when my parents or grandparents used to use it when they were trying to get out of me who I was seeing at various points throughout my teenage years. But being 16, this word seemed so unbelievably ancient, cobwebby and un-cool that it made me want to be sick. Now it seems so full of innocence and so nostalgic; funny how things change the older you get!
Anyway back to my point (there is one here somewhere, I promise). After the mobile phone was invented, men could just call their OOA and arrange meetings without all the hassle of pretending to (in most cases) be a gentleman and also avoid the scrutiny of protective parents. This was fine. It suited all parties involved. At the end of an encounter with a prospective OOA a guy would ask for their phone number and then take it from there.
Was this not casual and easy enough? Apparently not. Not now that Facebook has been invented. Things have become so casual now that a guy seems to think that no effort needs to be input at all and a Facebook friendship can be formed instantaneously. I’m possibly being slightly harsh as I’m sure there are men out there that enjoy the more traditional way to a girl’s heart (come on, there’s got to be at least 1 or 2?) I’ve been formulating this conclusion recently stemming from a guy I went on a date with a couple of weeks ago who at the end of our first date asked if we could be Facebook friends (I said no, he has my number, he can call me and subsequently I haven’t heard from him but that’s another story). But this hypothesis was confirmed today when a guy stopped me on the way back into my office. He stopped me with 1 statement “Good evening beautiful”.
I know, I know, this is lame and a lot of you will also note it as unoriginal but I’m kind of a traditionalist when it comes to these things in case you haven't already guessed and so this kind of thing will usually tease my curiosity and also, how rude is it if you don’t at least acknowledge it!? So I turn to smile but keep on walking. “I’ve seen you around and always wanted to tell you that I think you’re beautiful”. Is he really talking to me? I’ve been in work sat hunched over my desk, only stopping for loo breaks, for about 11 hours, I have no make-up on and am wearing a ridiculous maxi dress that trips me up every step I take. I imagine these factors actually make me look like a comatose troll with one foot. But adhering to my previous point about being rude, I at least stop now and turn around. I have never seen this guy before (so it’s kinda creepy that he says he’s seen me around). “Can I add you on Facebook” is the next instalment of his chat up line. Is he kidding? No! of course he can’t add me on Facebook! So that’s what I say. “Why not?” he asks. I don’t want to be rude and so coming up with a valid reason without being rude has sort of stumped me. “Because I don’t know you…?” comes my weak reply. “Warren, my name is Warren. Now you do.” I manage to get myself out of it with some ramblings about a name being a word and friendship is at least based on conversation which I really don’t have time for right now. Phew.
I don’t want a prospective date to be able to see everything about me, all my friends, all my drunken photos, all my stupid updates. Not before we’ve even gone on a date! Although I guess maybe they’re being quite clever in being able to veto any girls whose Facebook personalities don’t match their ideal. Hmmm, maybe men are actually on to something. No, that would be weird, I’m sure they’re just lazy.
So has dating really come to this? I hope not otherwise as well as clearing out my phone of number of guys that haven’t worked out (they barely make it passed 1 or 2 dates at the moment) I’m going to have to start de-cluttering my facebook as well.
And for your amusement, here's a few clips from Seven Brides...played to the "Going Courting" song. Yes, I've watched this well over 100 times! (Is it any wonder I'm a traditionalist?! N.B. boys, I don't reccommend the kidnapping of OOAs!
Everyone has to buy this book. Yes, even if you are a boy - buy it for your girlfriend/sister/mum or just read it and get an insight into a girl's deepest dating desires. If you're a girl, read it and revel in the shopping, boys, and disasters that become a 20 something year old who is trying to find out how the hell life and love works - something we can all relate to no doubt! It's written by my friend and colleague Lindsey who is actually moving to NY in like 2 weeks. I'll refrain from using superlatives but what a lucky lucky girl!
We went to The Diner just off Carnaby Street on Saturday morning for a NY style brunch to celebrate the book being published - Oh it was amazing. Pancakes and milkshakes and eggs Benedict. Feeding off the book, I then went for a shopping spree in Carnaby street's vintage shops and boutiques, I could have easily blown my whole month's wages. If it wasn't for that recent program on the TV about homelessness I would have happily sacrificed a month's rent for the most beautiful shoes I've ever seen.
I haven't been shopping in ages and I had forgotten the rush of adrenaline I get when I take something to the counter to pay for it. It's like being in some sort of exclusive club shopping in vintage shops. the only problem is that I think you have to get dressed up to do it, to prove you belong to this 'I can take this old ratty dress and turn it into something spectacular' club. But I love it. It's like I'm someone completely different or it unleashes a side of me that seems to rarely make an appearance recently. I love carrying on the charade as I walk away and down the bustling, sunny streets of London and imagine what my life would be like if I did have an endless supply of money to spend on clothes and shoes and accessories and life. I imagine the outfits I would put together (of course in my fantasy I'm about a stone lighter as I can afford to buy the healthiest foods and hire a personal trainer), the clubs I'd go to, the drinks I'd drink, the holidays I'd go on, the way I'd decorate my house...The dream continues right up to where I get into my house and face last night's washing up and the overflowing bin full of last night's rice concoction. Sigh. It was fun while it lasted.
This was how I was supposed to be after last night’s gig according to my friend. Post gig I was just deaf. Seriously couldn’t hear out of my left ear. Anyway the hearing is back now so not to panic.
We went to go and see The Thermals last night, an American band on their fourth album who describe themselves in a variety of genre-guiding adjectives but mainly stick to the very clear indie/alternative/post-pop-punk rock band description.
So to be honest, they’re not really my gin and tonic; I thought they sounded quite similar to a (much) louder version of New Found Glory strangely enough! The set list comprised of about 15 two minute songs that all merged into one long ear shattering cacophony of noise with not really much distinction between them. I say “much” because there were a couple of tracks that caught my interest if only for 30 seconds. Aside from the music there were however a few of things that caught my interest and entertained me: 1. The bassist’s hair is awesome. Really short and curly and the most bouncy hair I’ve ever seen and as she strummed the bass her head bobbed back and forth like a broken jack in the box and her hair bounced all over the place with a life of it’s own. 2. The crowd at the front seemed to be full of floppy haired, glasses wearing young boys who started off nodding their heads in time like they were auditioning for the role of the noddy dog in the Churchill adverts, this then progressed on to jumping up and down on the spot yet not in time with the music or each other. Eventually they found their rhythm and began jumping in unison but their arms remained glued to their sides. This looked most odd. 3. The drummer is the happiest/craziest person I’ve ever seen.
On reflection, when I logged on to their website this morning to try and find a video to post, I did quite enjoy the lyrics of the songs so perhaps it was just a shame that you couldn’t really hear the lyrics at the gig over everything else. Anyway, here’s a video of one of the songs from their new album.
I also wanted to mention the support band, Sketches, who I thought were actually better than the Thermals. Apart from the fact that I thought the lead singer was about to die at any second because he was so skinny (honestly, I thought his shin bone was going to come splintering out of his skin as he was stamping his foot on stage), I enjoyed this more. Their single is out now so here’s a link to their myspace also.
What is it that you need to make the journey in to work an enjoyable experience? Ok well, if not enjoyable then at least less fraught with obligation. Is it your favourite CD blaring from your car stereo; or a completely engrossing book to keep you company on the train? Perhaps it’s just a smile from the cute guy who gets the same bus. It most certainly is not the train announcer on the westbound platform at Victoria underground station at 8am. A pre-requisite for a train announcer’s job should be that you are not an annoying, most probably failed radio DJ who loves the sound of your own voice. Good God woman take a breath and give our poor bleeding ears a rest! On and on she drones every morning in the most ridiculous voice that sounds like she’s announcing the entrance of the Queen of England, in a never ending clash of syllables littered with what I can only imagine she thinks are “dramatic pauses”.
E.G
“Good morning ladies and gentleman (always starting nice and polite, lulling you into a false sense of security), the train shortly arriving on this westbound platform will be… (insert dramatic pause)… a district line train to Wimbledon. Please stand behind the yellow line for your own safety, please stand behind the yellow line (ok, we heard you the first time lady but thanks for your concern). That’s a district line train to Wimbledon now arriving on the platform calling at Sloane Square, South Kensington, Gloucester Road, Earl’s Court, Putney Bridge and all stations to Wimbledon (hmmm, slightly annoyiong to list EVERY station on the line but maybe helpful for those who can’t see). Please allow customers off the train before boarding and mind the gap between the train and the platform. Once again, please allow all passengers off the train before boarding…(insert dramatic pause) … and mind the gap between the train and the platform (ok, this repetition is really starting to make my head want to explode). The next train to arrive on the platform will be a circle line train in 3 minutes calling at South Kensington, Gloucester Road, High Street Kensington, Notting Hill Gate, Paddington and all stations via Baker Street (ahhhh, again with the listing of stations!). As you enter the platform please move to you left, move to you left (and ahhhh, again with the repetition!) as you enter the platform ladies and gentleman otherwise you are blocking the entrances to the platform. There is plenty of space at the end of the platform so please turn left as you enter the platform. DO NOT TURN RIGHT (don’t tell me what to do!). And please stand behind the yellow lines. THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY (for your own safety I suggest you stop talking!). The train now arriving on the platform is a circle line train…(insert dramatic pause) a circle line train. I repeat the train now arriving…”
Ok and by this point I just want to throw myself in front of the circle line train which I would know is calling at South Kensington blah blah blah even if I hadn’t just had it drilled in to my brain like an annoying little woodpecker drilling a hole in a tree trunk because I can read it on the big tube maps that are plastered everywhere. And it is relentless. I’m sure her mother must have gotten her manners lessons quite wrong and instead of instilling in her daughter the polite action “If you don’t have something nice to say then don’t say anything at all”, filled her daughter’s head with “If you don’t have something to say, say something, ANYTHING, anyway”.
I was going through some of my old writing and came across this jolly little poem that I remeber writing a few years ago whilst sat in wandsworth park in the brilliant sunshine supposedly quite happy with life.
Colour me black, not yellow, or red. Inside I'm burnt, my soul is dead. Dismiss my smile, for it's full of deciet, Rattling pathetically, my heart beats it's last beat.
I see before me in rows of hundreds, Spirits deceased, the living out-numbered.
The want of lust is a given pain, endured through a life lived in vain.
To stop wanting is torture, so i succumbed, Now bleeding and broken, my body is numbed.
Forget that laugh, it was delivered in jest, Covering the spears that penetrate my chest. Molten lava pumps from my heart
Oh, and in other news: our kettle is now fully functioning once more. Yay! Tea and coffee can now be made once again without the absolute faff of boiling water in a saucepan and then trying gingerly to pour this boiling hot water into a mug without scalding any body parts. Those of you who read The Pact of the Household Appliances post here will probably be stunned into silence knowing that the kettle broke at the beginning of April (along with the boiler and the washing machine). Um, yeah so 8 weeks later and it’s now working again. You’ll be pleased to know that the boiler and washing machine were fixed within the first week so we have been able to shower and wash our clothes, just not able to have biscuit dunking competitions. I am utterly and completely ashamed to say that it took a male friend of ours to come round and fix it. We girls had managed to come to the conclusion that it was most likely the fuse that had gone but none of us could a) really be bothered and b) weren’t entirely completely 100% sure how to fix it. So our friend came round and took the fuse out of the iron and put it in the kettle. Who irons clothes these days anyway?
To revive myself from the disappointment that I’m most probably going to miss the Lovebox Festival this year (I can still taste the salt from my tears), I headed down to Cargo on Friday night for here they had the Official Lovebox warm up (and the hundreds and thousands on the icing was that it’s a free night).
The main attraction was a band that I recently stumbled upon (literally but that’s another story) – Ou Est Le Swimming Pool who played a short but sweet set which I have to say was pretty provocative. A funky mix of poptastic lyrics and nostalgic melody’s stripped from the 80’s but brought up to speed with some wicked electro beats. Take away the sound and you would be forgiven for thinking that you’ve walked in on a group of newly pubescent lads having a laugh in their garage owing to the slightly odd, but kinda kitsch, moustaches (to be honest if I was a guy, I'd probably be impressed and actually pretty jealous of the facial hair) and the indoor sunglasses wearing on stage (see previous post on sunglasses indoors – being in a band does not excuse this). However, their track Dance the Way I Feel is absolutely brilliant in a RDMC way and the crowd seemed to agree; honestly, dancing to this track just can’t really be helped. The lyrics and the beguiling melody makes their track The Key utterly mesmerising and throughout the whole set I had a smile plastered on my face because underlying it all, Ou Est are truly uplifting.
So, I will be adding Ou Est to my playlist and hopefully hearing a lot more of them in the future.
Here’s the link to their myspace http://www.myspace.com/ouestleswimmingpool And here’s a video for you to enjoy!
Selfishness - How do you know whether it’s you or the other person?
Selfish adj Chiefly concerned with one’s own interest, advantage, etc., esp. to the exclusion of the interests of others.
When it comes to relationships, not excluding friendships, there will inevitably come an instance when one party wants something that the other party does not. If neither is willing to forfeit their own desire then are both parties being selfish? When internally, each person considers their own need to be more worthy of the other’s sacrifice does right and wrong even come in to it? Which person is being selfish?
I’m not sure what the answer is. All I know is that I think compromise is important and that for a relationship to survive each person has to be willing to sometimes sacrifice; to sometimes do something you don’t want to do and to do this because you know it means something to the other person and will make them happy.
A cheeky ‘oh go on then” or “For you, ok” or even a “fine but you owe me” will go along way and you’ll probably find that they will repay you tenfold in the future. Plus, if you love them then seeing them happy will probably fill you with happiness anyway! Win win.
Good to see that asos.com is catering for a spectrum of body shapes for this season's most dire trend...ahhhhhhhhhhhh....crop tops! And we thought we only had to worry about bikinis. Oh boy.
Option 1. For the majority. Good with a high waisted pair of skinny jeans or a high waisted skirt:
Option 2: For those who have a stomach even Halle Berry would die for:
Option 3: For no-one! Not even if you are a waif. No, no, no, no, no. It's just so wrong:
Off to the gym to do 1 million sit ups. Yeah right! I'll survive in the other key trend this summer:
I dislike: a) people who wear sunglasses on public transport b) people who wear sunglasses on public transport when it is not sunny c) people who wear sunglasses on public transport when it’s actually raining outside
You look like an idiot! Don’t do it! I am talking about someone I saw on the bus this morning. Only under 1 flimsy circumstance should this be allowed: if you have a hangover sent straight from Lucifer. I know miss floral top and sunglasses did not have a hangover and therefore cannot be excused from this idiotic behaviour. I know this because she was also carrying a home made prawn salad. In a bowl. With cling film over the top. Prawns + hangover = a no no. sunglasses + rain + public transport + bowl of prawns with cling film over the top = me thinking you're an idiot.
And I’m also slightly concerned that the glorious weather we had last week was our summer and it will now be rain until next May. I blame the BBC weather forecast.
In other more happy news, I'm going to see Mr. Hudson tonight who is officially an amazing musician. If you haven't heard his stuff yet, then the album A tale of Two Cities is fantastic and you'll probably be hearing alot more of him as he's just worked with Kanye West on the track Paranoid. I've posted one of my favourite newer tracks of his below for your listening pleasure. Enjoy!
A quote from the Guardian reporting on the election of a BNP MEP for Yorkshire and Humberside:
"Ask me, I voted for them," shouted Amber, a student running across Barnsley's precinct to give her views, but not her surname. "My mam and I both voted for them, because if you want a job here, you need to colour yourself in and have a funny name."
I'm now off to start my own party where any one involved with this ignorant mobocracy is neutered at birth. I'd feel much safer knowing that my taxes were going towards this NHS procedure rather than paying for endless amounts of children to have gastric bands fitted as a quick fix for obesity due to bad parenting.
WOW! There is no word better than 'wow' is there? If there is then please replace preceding Wow with whatever that word is. And actually not bad for £130. I wonder if I send a pair of old trousers to my Farmor whether she would be able to rustle something similar up......
And yes, I'm not delusional - I am fully aware that part of this dress' appeal is that it is draped over the body of the beautiful Daisy Lowe.
(Credits Bow-back dress (made from a pair of vintage trousers) £130, Junky Styling, 12 Dray Walk, The Old Truman Brewery, 91 Brick Lane, London E1 (020 7247 1883). Picture taken from The Guardian.co.uk)
Wow, so I haven’t written in an absolute age – I have no excuse, I’m just lazy. Best to be honest and upfront about these things I always find!
So I experienced one of the biggest disappointments of my life on Saturday night. I had a date. Not just any date but a date with one of the most interesting (if not a little crazy) people that’s ever walked God’s good Earth.
Oh yes, I had a date with Britney Spears. The 02, London, Row P seat 103.
The date has been in the diary for months. I picked my outfit weeks ago. My hair was preened, my nails were polished, my skin pampered. This was going to be one hell of a date and I wanted to look my best. Well, it is the princess of pop after all.
You know how sometimes if you’re going on a date, on your friend’s advice you think of a list of conversation topics just in case your date has the social skills of a blade of grass, you know, so that you’re prepared for any eventuality? Well I didn’t even have to do that – I know all the words to every Britney song ever released. So there were to be no awkward silences – I was sure of that.
Maybe you’re thinking that this is nothing to be proud of and perhaps this is the type of information (along with the fact that my Zac Effron postcard takes pride of place on my desk) that in it’s existence and truth lends itself to me dating the type of guys that one would need to prepare a list of conversation topics for. Well anyway, this isn’t about judging me so lets move on.
Basically what I’m trying to convey is that I am a massive closet Britney fan and had been looking forward to her comeback tour with the same excitement as David Cameron looking towards the next general election – sheer elation!
I should have known it would all end in tears. Never ever ever build something up in your head because the pressure just gets too much and it will always turn out badly. I should have learned by now that my expectations of everything – people, places, everything can never be realised by natural events and human beings, ergo, if I build something up in my head, it will always either go horribly wrong or lead to catastrophic disappointment.
I’d read the reviews, I knew full well that Britney would lip-sync most of the performance – but do you know what? I didn’t care one little bit. If I wanted to listen to Britney I’d stick the album on. I was excited to see her dance, to perform, to be passionate – to be the Britney that I wanted to be when I was 16! Instead I was stood up. She wasn’t even there. Well, technically she was physically there. But she may as well not have been for the lacklustre attempt at a show she put on.
For the record: Strutting up and down the stage in a variety of differently coloured sequined pants DOES NOT constitute as dancing.
And do you know what? Maybe Britney should have prepared some conversation topics pre-date because the only words she could muster for the entire show were “Thank you London” before she disappeared below stage.
Gutted. I left the 02 feeling absolutely gutted. A comeback? Come back in a few years when you actually give a crap about performing and haven’t just been made to do your tricks like a good little show pony so daddy can earn a few bucks.
You can almost guarantee that if the BBC says it will be raining it will in fact be glorious sunshine and vice versa. I've never known a news station to be able to use reverse psychology so effectively, and to be able to control Mother Nature, well that's something pretty special. So as the BBC has kindly reported that we will be having a hot and dry summer here in the U.K, it looks like another wet and miserable summer is on the cards. I'll get my brolly.
Boo hoo. It would be so perfect for the summer and is reminiscent of Peter Jensen's Autumn/Winter 09/10 collection (which has some amazing Scandinavian folk inspired items) so in the winter I could warm it up with some nice thick tights, some long knitwear and big boots. See I had it all planned.
Alas, it wasn't meant to be. I'm off to take my frustration out on the air in my boxing class...
My affection for Britain was given a good old boost this weekend after a wonderful couple of days in the Capital. Sunday was Flora London Marathon day and this year I had a friend running it. Last year the weather paid no tribute to those some 35,000 people participating and it rained cats and dogs. This year however, joy of joys, the sun made a guest appearance! It was GLORIOUS! The atmosphere around the course was palpable and seeing all those people achieve something you know they have been training for for months and months was actually really emotional. People came from all over the country and the supporters were brilliant (even if I do say so myself). No animosity what so ever; everyone made sure that if you had someone coming past the supporter barriers soon, you were at the front and able to shout, scream, clap, wave your banner until you were sure your runner could hear you no more. Then it was a quick dash, challenge Anneka style, to the tube and on to the next point of the race where you'd do it all over again. We were so lucky, we managed to cheer our friend at 3 different points of the race and then wait for her at the end at Buckingham Palace. And for once, I thought London actually managed to organise something really well (I still wait with baited breath to see how on Earth we manage to organise the 2012 Olympics when usually we couldn't organise a picnic for Woodpeckers in Sherwood Forest). In true British style, we then made the most of the weather and headed to the nearest beer garden. Brilliant.
However, I knew it wouldn't be long before something brought me back to reality and if the sound of the torrential rain hitting my window pane today didn't do it then by the time I'd read the news this morning I was confronted with the verisimilitude of Britain.
I'm outraged that this ad would be banned from being aired on TV. Of course the ad is shocking; it absolutely needs to be to raise awareness of the dire plight some women have lived and continue to live through every day. Abuse of any kind is completely unacceptable and if it takes a famous actress and this odious content to make people take notice then so be it. I'm not saying it should be shown on the ad break between In the Night Garden and Peppa Pig on Cbbeebies but after a watershed I don't see how Ofcom can justify the ban.
Oh and of course the British media are doing a stellar job of making sure we all know that we're going to die of Swine Flu.
I recently read this book, Wetlands ("Feuchtgebiete," in German) , which since its debut in February has sold more than a million copies, and is the biggest selling book on Amazon anywhere in the world. Clearly the novel has struck a nerve, catching a wave of popular interest in renewing the debate over women's roles and image in society.
The campaign for this book centered around the debate: Is this book art? Or is it Porn? An intriguing question if nothing else. After reading it I can say that actually I think it's neither. Not erotic enough to be porn and in my opinion lacking the pure essence of craftsmanship to be art. I'm not doubting that each word, sentence and metaphor within this text has been manifested with the intent to shock, but just because something is shocking it doesn't automatically translate to art. For instance the text of a carefully constructed RSPCA direct mail shot has more than likely been deliberated over again and again in order to ensure the maximum emotive connection is gained, but that doesn't make it art. That's just my opinion though and I really do feel that before one can judge, you do need to experience this book for yourself.
Setting the scene in a hospital room after a shaving accident Wetlands gives a detailed topography of a girl's intimate biology, bodily functions and sexual appetite. At points, the language is so vile, the metaphors so blatant and the scenes so disgusting I had to put the book down and walk away and I'm no prude! Descriptive? Most definitely. To the point where you can almost imagine yourself in the room with 18 year old Helen (the main character) which is probably why I had to stop reading sometimes! Yet, I was intrigued. Finishing the book and getting through the filth was almost a challenge that I had to complete. And once I had, I was left feeling a certain sense of achievement in both my ability to get through it and also in the author’s ability to get me through it. I also felt like I needed a bath.
I should also say that I admire the theory behind such an adventurous piece of writing – female empowerment. Good on this woman who has the guts to write such a thing and at the end of the day, why shouldn't she? If you’re easily offended, don’t read it! Otherwise, pick it up and join the debate!
Every year my birthday comes round (quel surprise!) and every year people ask me what I want and I never know! In the weeks leading up to my birthday I randomly see things that I'd like and make a mental note. Well it turns our my mental notebook has a magic eraser with a will of it's own, freely rubbing away all birthday present ideas. Not very helpful! So this year I'm prepared. I've started a blog list of birthday inspiration and I'll be adding to it up until my birthday. So here we go, lets just hope there's no such thing as a magic blog eraser!
Last night I met up with a friend who I haven't seen in 2 1/2 years. Skinny (I say that with 100% affection - she is gorgeous!) moved to Australia once we'd left school after falling in love with an Aussie on her '6 month' visit. Since then I have only seen her twice although we keep in touch via the occasional e-mail. Anyway, Skinny and I caught up over drinks before she flew back to Melbourne and it was so lovely. You know you have those friends that no matter how long it's been since you last saw them, it feels like just yesterday you were prancing around your bedroom, singing along to Mariah Carey's Heartbreaker, or sketching your Friday night outfit in the back of your science book, well Skinny is one of those friends. I absolutely loved her to death and as she left the tube home to go to Heathrow I made sure I told her that I still do love her. It almost seemed a bit too heavy as we hugged goodbye quickly on the tube but I believe that it's important to let the people that you love know that, especially when you don't know when you'll be seeing them again. It kind of overwhelmed me, and as the door alert on the tube beeped and the doors slid shut I couldn't stop the tears in my eyes brimming over as she waved goodbye on the platform.
Working in publishing I'm used to the somewhat relaxed office attitude associated with the media industry. Our building itself is light and airy, open plan, with an impressive atrium that took my breath away the first time I walked through these doors and our dress code summons an eclectic mix of shirt/tie/trouser combos (for those in more senior positions) and floaty dresses, catwalk-Esq outfits, jeans and t-shirts, vintage finds and whatever was clean this morning ensembles (for the rest of us creative types). However, last week I did feel that this 'relaxed' and 'free-thinking' approach has reached a certain peak.
There I am, sat at my desk, busy working away, and I swear I hear a muffled nosing around sound coming from my boss' office. The type of muffled nosing around sound one might associate with a fox rummaging through a bin bag in a back alley way. Now, my boss is not in the office today and sitting right outside it, I know no-one has been in there all day so I sit, slightly confused, assume I'm hearing things and then carry on working away. 2 seconds later, I hear the noise again and it's getting closer. I ignore it and think to myself I must be working too hard and promise myself a glass of wine after work (I'm great at rewarding myself for the slightest thing!).
As it is the week of the major book fairs, the office is deadly quite as most people are out trying to sell our wares and the rest of my colleagues are in meetings so there is no-one around to hear me scream when I feel something small and fury brushing up against my legs under my desk. I push my swivelly chair away from my desk, managing to catch the wheels on the various pieces of crap that surround my desk (Lego, jigsaws, cuddly toys, books, Cd's, boxes of God-knows-what), fall off my chair and land elephant like on my bottom. With my eye level now at a point that offers me full view under my desk (ah, that's where my stapler disappeared to - must apologise to the colleague I accused of stealing it) I come face to nose with a peppy little jack Russel. A dog. Hmmmmmm. A dog. In my office, under my desk. Do you know why there is a dog running wild and free through our building? Because our laid back media attitude to work means that some guy brings his dog to work every day. Ridiculous. This dog has no lead. This dog trots along after it's owner all around the building (I even saw it follow him into the toilet the other day, honestly). With no sighting of the owner I can only assume that this poor dog has finally rebelled, slipped unnoticed past her owner and decided to do some exploring. Under my desk. I am now thinking do I a) ignore the dog rummaging around under my desk? b) pick her up and try and find the owner (I get the feeling from the fact that he brings his dog into work everyday that he's just ever so slightly a little bit protective, the type who would go nuts if a stranger carried his dog around) or c) walk away to make a cup of tea and hope that by the time I get back the dog has vanished and is therefore no longer my concern? Option C. And it works. Not an animal in sight when I return (unless you count that guy who works in the post room and has the social skills of a mole who's just come up to deliver the post). I was slightly worried that I may have aided the dog in a long term vanishing act but that worry was quickly put to bed when the following day I tripped over it in the cafe. Stupid dog.
A picture I took of a tree in Tivoli, Copenhagen that reminds me of love
I was reading an article in The Guardian today about songs that remind you of your first love. It made me think of my first love, the realisation I came to that first doesn't mean last and the love that you see and feel every day.
Yesterday my friend, Bo's, boyfriend returned from his first tour of Afghan. They are now spending an idyllic few days together and after being with her through his departure, his absence and his imminent return I was caught up in the excitement and anticipation of his arrival home which inspired me to jot down what love is to me.
Love is....
Not only appreciating someone, but appreciating the person they make you
* A fry up and the paper in bed on a Sunday morning
* The open prospect of the future
* The compromise between being who you are and also fitting together
* Learning someone and delighting in discovering new things about them, no matter how small
* Being brave * Having someone who will open the door when you slam it shut * Being proud of someone else's achievements * Daring to be stupidly romantic * A risk that makes you feel safe
I am a friend, a daughter, a sister, a grand-daughter, a niece, a cousin. I am a student, a young girl and a grown woman. I am confident and scared, terrified and excited. I am loving and caring and thoughtful and hopeful. I am a mess and my room usually is too. I am broken and whole and often misunderstood. I am hard working and determined and sometimes a bit moody. I wish on stars and wells and dream endless dreams. I smile on the outside while i'm dying on the inside. I dance always..on dancefloors and in my room in my underwear. I listen to others who wont listen to me. I am everything and nothing all at once. I believe in passion, but above all i believe in love.
My mind is often full of stuff so this blog is nothing special, it has no theme and doesn't claim to be anything other than a place to deposit my thoughts.
