The Isadora Gypsy

Labels, boxes, stereotypes - not really my bag baby. I champion the individual, the unique, those judged on their own personal merits...

However. However, I did come across this rather glorious snippet from a shamelessly trendy, self-satisfied, uber-up-to-the-minute magazine supplement that did rather capture me, though I am reluctant to admit it.

The Isadora Gypsy

Named after Isadora Duncan, that crazy chick who leaped around barefoot in the dirt waving a piece of chiffon and, as a result, invented the concept of modern dance. The Isadora gypsy has a strong theatrical sense and a love of dressing up: she wears panne velvet and vintage lace, and medieval robes and turbans a la Edith Sitwell. She adores enormous rings, beading and devore. Her dream is to find a vintage Fortuny tea gown. She is more cultured, better educated and less trendy than her euroglam sister. Virginia Woolf is her favourite writer; olive green is her preferred hue.

She is prone to bouts of melancholy. She does not have the reservoirs of happy superficiality that keep the euroglam gypsy shrieking with laughter 24/7. While the euroglam is knocking back champagne at Art Basel in Miami, The Isadora is far more likely to be found contemplating the translucency of an art nouveau vase on the Portobello Road or weeping quietly in the corner of Vita Sackville-West's all-white garden in Kent.

Caution: the Isadora gypsy is accident-prone. She is quite likely to drown whilst having an Ophelia moment in a fast-running stream, or, like the original Isadora, get throttled when her scarf gets caught in the wheels of her sports car. Her death, though often unexpected, is never mundane.

Remind you of anyone? To be an Isadora would be a marvellous thing... What whimsy. What fancy. What escapism. Alas, not the reality of life. But a wondrous label to aspire to.

Now comfortably over the hurdle of a half century stint, the parents are increasingly attempting to conceal the onset of Alzheimer's, senility and general out-and-out madness that goes hand in hand with the passing of the years and the jellying of the brain. One such way is that their children (and, indeed, them themselves when addressing each other) no longer have individual names. This would be far to difficult to handle and confuses the poor dears so much that the lenses of their bifocals shatter and they end up hitting themselves frustratedly on the head with their ear trumpets.
So, when not being referred to as Annaman (snapped by J in the regional accent of the day), Narna, Lambkin (by Dad, nauseatingly), or just stared at incomprehensibly whilst the aged folk try to focus, actually see me and then remember who I am, I am stuck with a rather long winded moniker. The same moniker that the whole household has to bear. We are all known as MichaelJontyNicholasHenryWhatsitWhicheverChildI'mSpeakingToDoodah. It has a certain ring to it I think you'll agree.

With the names of five Kirk offspring to remember, I reckon the previous generation had it right. Aunt Mary knitted a fetching jumper for each, with names embroidered on the chests. What a cool clan they must have been, whilst out on their Compulsory Walks and breathing in the wholesome Cumbrian air. And how very Weasley.

We could do with such an Aunt Mary. Rather her than the terrifying fascist figure of Aunt Eleanor, a character who has loomed large in Kirk folklore and is now more myth than matter. Sounded a hoot though. And if one becomes notorious, such as she, then nobody is going to forget your name.

Urine the Right Job

Though I am possibly not the best person to judge, seeing as my CV consists of reeking of chip fat whilst slaving away re-heating moussaka for a Greek skew-eyed psycho, sitting in an overly air-conditioned office mindlessly licking stamps and surreptitiously checking Facebook, and irritating people over the phone by asking them inane questions about how many Nectar points they think the Jamie Oliver Cookbook is worth and trying to avoid being hung up on, BUT I think I may have come across the best job ever.

I was catching up with folk that I hadn't seen for quite some time, learning of recent exploits and adventures. A friend had been to Glastonbury. So far, so unremarkable. However, she didn't just attend the festival, she was working there. And her duties were to basically hang around certain allocated areas and watch out for people pissing illegally. So if they were relieving themselves somewhere other than the fragrant, luxurious, especially dug pits that constitute as latrines at British music festivals they would become the victims of a demoralising experience. Namely, being run after by my friend and her cohorts as they blew their whistles and shouted 'PISSER!' at the tops of their voices. Whilst donning bright jackets and special caps. I like to think that these garments bore the legends 'Piss Police' or 'Bladder Control'.

My friend got a free ticket, three meals a day (and apparently people were spending over £20 a day for food at Glasto), pretty decent tents, and proper toilets, all in return for legging it after a few drunken pissers which, frankly, sounds like a slightly surreal blast. She was able to see loads of bands, get drunk from noon onwards, and wallow in mud and madness along with the rest of the festival-goers. Brilliant.

And I'm sure it'll do wonders for her CV.