30 September 2009

Viney Vino

Ahh, Distant Vines... A name evocative of mellow sunsets, warming and intermingling fresh flavours, aromatic vapours, and evenings sipping from vintage tumblers on the veranda.

In reality it was dirt cheap, the colour of neon blushes and tasted of Ribena laced with meths. And classily consumed out of teeny plastic faux-wine glasses that made the drinker resemble the BFG sipping from dolls' house kitchenware.

That's what comes from shopping in a King's Cross Costcutter. Do not be tempted by the lure of the poetically labelled Distant Vines. The vines may be distant, but the vomit less so.

26 September 2009

Diary of a Gnomebody

I was delighted and charmed (a rare thing for me to be both of these things at the same time - probably due to my ineptitude at multi-tasking - so the cause of such a marvel must be truly remarkable) to discover a treat of a long-surpressed childhood memory belonging to a companion of mine. We were on t'Heath of an early evening, chatting as one does about Devon, when his eyes grew wistful and he embarked upon a lovingly rendered account of bygone days at Gnomeland, waxing lyrical about this remembered idyll.

And it is no wonder the time he spent there has stayed with him all these years, still conjuring a smile to his now ageing and jaded features. It sounds amazing. Visitors have to wear Gnome hats in order to fit in with the community, so as not to alarm them (obviously) or in any way excite their wary natures to perceived danger. They can be viewed in their natural habitat, going about their chores. All aspects of their lives are open for observation. There is even a Gnome graveyard. It is better to be educated on matters of life and, indeed, death at an early age. And how better to do this than through Gnomes? The hierarchical nature of a working, productive society is even in evidence, with the hard labour being the job of the Pixies. Pixies are represented as lower-class citizens, and are treated with suspicion by Gnomes. It is interesting to note that it is possible to purchase souvenir figurines of Pixies in the Gnomeland gift shop, but not Gnomes. My companion, who I imagine to be the spitting image of Chuckie from 'Rugrats' in his extreme youth, has such a figurine in his attic at home. There is also a wicked Troll present in Gnomeland. Apparently he is always hungry. Hmmm... Demonisation of the needy, perchance? An attack on those who look and act differently, perhaps? Gnomeland serves to be a true microcosm of the greater world methinks.

Yet it was also a fun day out for my companion. One that has gone down in the annals of time as a Thoroughly Good Holiday. Now I understand why he is so attached to his felt-tip picture of Gnome Coward - an interpretive work of art drawn by his flat mate's fair hand after hearing an account of a particularly vivid dream. It should be framed, forever a reminder of a wonderful, and educational, place.

22 September 2009

Honey, I'm Home

The observant, and impatient, readers of this pink-hued page will have doubtlessly noted the brief hiatus in blogging of late. This is due to the Beelzebubic bus journeys, bubonic blood blisters, battles with buggering blu tac, breaks for Billy Elliot, and banishment to the barren land of No Internet that is MOVING.

Highlights of the whole experience include the valiant pair of pro tem removal men being mesmerised by the image of an outsize Mad Hatter hat as it was blown down the street whilst a Chinese girl excitedly declared her love of Alice, a smelly barefooted urchin getting frostbite whilst defrosting a pea-studded freezer, a Moomin trying to hang itself from the threads of a charity shop skirt/curtain, the magical metamorphosis of a sofa turning into a packaged bed-in-bits, two technophobes coming up with a password for the new wireless broadband connection that linked with my special subject essay on sex in Austen, and the most weedy of folk generally trying to be butch as Hell's Angels as we attacked the stairs with heavy and awkward objects. Let's just say we were less than angelic, and probably deserve to go to hell for the language that was provoked during those clunky-bumpy times...

But the Heavenly Heath, Arcadian attic and Empyrean atmosphere more than make up for whatever hellish hilarity may have occurred, hysterical in all senses.

Normal service shall be resumed forthwith.

4 September 2009

I have a complete inability to have more than just the one cog grinding within my hazy head. Anybody who has witnessed me attempting verbal coherency at the same time as texting, or verbal coherency when holding the lead of a curious dog taking me for a walk, or verbal coherency at all really, knows this. Unfortunately. So, to counter this mental dyspraxia (because a day without a reference to some sort of dyspraxia is a day wasted, according to the Pichon school of thought) I regularly jot notable things down. On scraps of paper, in notebooks, typed into draft blog posts...

On opening a draft post with a swift tap of the keyboard (which, incidentally, is not half as satisfying as ripping open real post, flourishing the letter opener with violent excitement) I discovered I had written the three following things:

Chuck Bass looks like Voldemort.

Tights are NOT pants.

Penn Badgley = HOT

After a moment of mystification, I concluded that I must have been suffering from mental exhaustion, become cuckoo due to too much time spent with only my own lunacy for company, and been not a little bit drunk.

I shall explain myself. Last week I made the grave, grave mistake of getting into Gossip Girl. Yes, the American show that is taking over the world. There is no need to look at me like that, I am aware that I have reached new lows and I feel suitably dirty and ashamed. But hangovers, the big bed of G, and the new-found freedom of lazy days after a week of office slavery does things to a girl... Such as driving her to watch 10 episodes in one day. I am not proud.

I am, however, a working girl once more, so the slovenly rut has thankfully ended. Though my addiction to those irresistible Upper East-siders and their glossy, bitchy world continues. After a long week, a glass of wine (or more) and an episode (or two) is the perfect way to unwind.
And the dapper suited villain of the show Chuck Bass does look like Voldemort. The Queen Bee Blair Waldorf was most correct when she shouted at one of her fawning underlings that 'Tights are NOT pants!'. And the brilliantly named actor Penn Badgley is indeed one of the most beautiful men that ever graced this planet. So actually, I made perfect sense. Even through my overdose fug of trashy pop-culture and wine. Thank goodness I had the foresight to note these gems down... We wouldn't want any of my valuable pearls rolling away now.