My love of Narnia is no secret. In fact some might say that it borders on the obsessive... No comment.
But what's not to love? (If one ignores all the religious allegory claptrap that is.) A world of imaginative nonsense names of places and creatures, epic battles, talking animals and turkish delight. A world meticulously realised, where there are no parents, and children can magically escape to distant lands, ready for adventure.

Us Kirklings were brought up on a steady diet of Narnia, firstly with the books (falling apart paperbacks from Pa's youth), then the BBC adaptations on well-worn VHS. The Afghan coat in the dressing-up box, bought from Portobello Market in the seventies, was regularly put to use as a rather brilliant Aslan costume, turned inside-out for the purpose. Hours of fantasy fun. And let us not forget the Professor's surname. Is it coincidence that he's a Kirk also? One could say that the Chronicles are in our blood.

It was not until drunkenly re-watching the BBC version of The Silver Chair however, that I realised that one of us Kirklings actually is a Narnian character. A fellow wine-swigging Narnia enthusiast pointed it out, and I snorted in recognition of the fact that Eustace Scrubb is the spitting image of someone I know extremely well. Albeit a slightly blonder, more cuddly image, but an uncanny resemblance nonetheless. Especially in profile. How had I never clocked this before? Even the petulant, adolescent, yet ultimately kind-hearted characterisation is in place. I'm not sure if my brother actually turned into a dragon at any point however, despite sometimes breathing fire. Though I'm not ruling it out.

Anyway, the whole thing made me laugh muchly.



The only thing is, many people say I look a great deal like the sibling in question. Does this mean that I also resemble Scrubb? This male, 13 year-old child actor (if one can call dramatically pausing, opening one's mouth and eyes wide in awe and wonder, and breathily ejaculating the name '...Aslan' reverently about once every five minutes 'acting')? Oh dear. No wonder I'm so au fait with dragons.

The world is proper whirly, like

These current war-torn times we live in are absurd. I was reading an article online(http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jan/15/gaza-bombing-israel-war) that actually elicited tears. Absurd, ridiculous, preposterous, tragic, heart-wrenching and needless.
The recession, along with constant repetitions of the term 'credit crunch', do nothing to lighten the mood. Everything, in short, is madness. Nutcases are in positions of power and the world is turned on its head, topsy-turvy and skewed into a nightmarish vision.
To add insult to injury (though this is obviously incomparable to the global atrocities occurring) I have a spot the size of Eel Pie Island - an actual island in the middle of the Thames somewhere, for all you fact fans - on the side of my already overly-prominent hooter.

Whilst acknowledging that all is not sweetness and light, we must also get out kicks where we can. And not just in the lovely and unexpected, such as hearing classical music fill Euston Square tube station with both rousing and calming melodies, or baking an iced bakewell tart.* But also in the absurd. The absurd, in this case, being the laugh-out-loud, positive bonkers kind.
One must revel in these little absurdities to remind oneself that all is not gloom and doom, recession and depression, but that fizz, imagination, sherbert-fountain fun and the brilliantly barmy abound in bucket-loads too.

- Cliff Richard as Heathcliff in a musical version of Wuthering Heights. This actually exists. Alas only on VHS.

- The image of an eccentric Professor of mine riding a sit-up-and-beg bicycle to 'The Ride of the Valkyries', pipe in mouth, smoke and beard billowing in the breeze as he enters lectures. Da da da daaaa da...!

- Kate Bush's Babooshka video. Leotards. Double bass. Big Hair. Babooshka-ya-ya. Fabulous insanity.

- Speculative thinking about Monet. If he was of the technological age, his email address would no doubt be merde @hotmail.com. He would be filled with vitriol and spitting swearwords due to being subjected to mockery and infantie treatment by the National Gallery gift shop, on which he made quite an impression.

- This quote from an interview (courtesy of the Guardian once more, who should probably sponsor this blog) with a girl who describes herself as being 'cosmic Coronation Street': I was in a play called Brian And The Argonauts, the story of Jason And The Argonauts set to the music of the Beach Boys. I was an Argonaut. I sang I Get Around.
Priceless stuff. And at least she didn't do a solo drama audition piece for a national theatre company as a seven-year-old, autistic, cancerous, Jewish orphan. I mean that really would be absurd...

*When I say 'baking', I mean 'buying'. Obviously.

All But Players on Life's Vast Stage

Pater said 'Be Good' before he left.
A loaded command, if ever there was one.

And with that, via a swift half-hug, he was off. So hasty was his departure that a southerly wind rippled through his 'Just for Men' mane and whiskers.
Exeunt to discover and explore unknown lands.

Enter once more in Act II: One Week Later.

Audiences should expect a lengthy soliloquy. In iambic pentameter naturally.

I am proud to say that I have scaled new heights of insanity and plunged greater depths of Mad Hatterness than ever before. A challenge for one such as I to be sure, but by Zeus I've gone and managed it.

In the early hours of the morning, unnaturally wide awake after a mere smattering of sleep (my liver doth protest too much at the wine of russet hue, methinks), I could be discovered sprawled within the sheets of my bed listeneing to Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights' from the ballet Romeo and Juliet on my electric-pink i-pod at full blast. Complete with flamboyant arm gestures worthy of the most passionate of conductors. And enthusiastic (though, admittedly, silent) singing along to the rousing chords that herald the descent of feuding Montagues and Capulets. It is as if the fires of hell open for the length of a track, apocolypse is upon me in vast swathes of smoke and brimstone, I am Juliet ready to die for love, my heart about to burst through my chest, and... then I press stop and settle down to sweet dreams of men in tights.

By the way, silent singing along consists of very intense mouth miming, with gob wide open, and a great deal of imagination. That's for those of you who have never given silent singing to classical ballet music a go. Which everyone should. Preferably in bed. At 3am. Does wonders for the soul, believe me...

Pop Goes the Bubbly, and Pop goes Anna!

Apologies for bringing the mood down, especially at this festive time of year, but I feel for those geese destined for fancy foie gras tins in their afterlife. Aside from all that comes with being a moral vegetarian, I take particular umbrage with this form of rearing birds. I feel their pain at being stuffed and stuffed until they bloat, making their livers engorged and fatty. And all to make them ready for the 'refined' palates of the rich. The cruelty is blatant and I won't dwell on it, but will instead move on to the more jollity&mirth steeped self-inflicted gorging that is in such abundance at my favourite Christmassy time.

Though decorations are aplenty during this season, bedecking halls and whatnot, it is a shame that balloons are not traditional fare. I could well stand in for one of these hot-air filled adornments, feeling as though I may pop if a pin punctured my wee pot-belly. Though it would not be a raspberry of air that would burst out, but a spray of mincemeat, ice cream, chocolate and chestnuts in a spectacular, seasonal fountain. Pa has an oft-repeated refrain that surfaces at times of excess of food and hugs, which goes along the lines of 'Don't squeeze too hard or the green stuff will squirt out of both ends'. This could be a very real possibility this year- you are forewarned...
I am considering adding one of those squiggly Spanish symbols above at least one of the n's of my name (which this keyboard doesn't seem able to express, unfortunately, showing a shameful lack of multiculturalism) as I am currently enjoying being very like a pinata: party time, glitter, bright colours, decorations... and hit me with a big stick and I'll explode in a shower of sweets, spurting out all manner of partly-digested goodies, festooning all with a churned up festive feast!

I need to go on a whirlwind, roller-coaster sleigh ride with Santa in order to shake it all up. I need to shake, shake, shake it like the proverbial Polaroid picture in order to shift and shape. Shake it down to get a J-Lo booty. Shake it up to get Angelina Jolie lips. Or shake it all about for a good even spread like the infinitely more fabulous Jo Brand. She may be marshmallow-soft around the middle, but she's got a tongue, mind and wit as sharp as a meat cleaver. And that, after all, is what matters.

Click-click, Whooooosh!

After driving over Putney Bridge for the third time in half an hour, thoughts turned to magic powers.

We, a car-load of Kirks, were taking a tour of London. Granted, this wasn't actually what we were supposed to be doing. But it was lovely nonetheless. Following the river in search of Hackney and sweet, sweet windband music, we saw the many bridges lit up in all their glory, one after another, and sometimes four times over. And, of course, the jazzy fairground London Eye, ghostly, mist-swathed St Paul's, amber-lit Houses of Parliament and many riverside city gems besides. London plus Night multiplied by Christmas equals awe and wonder squared.

Nevertheless, there were places to be, flutes and bassoons to be listened to, and tempers and tensions to be calmed. The most common answer to the question 'What would your super power be?' is probably the power of flight. I, however, would love to be able to disapparate. This would be the perfect magic gift. Time, money, stress, and unpleasant experiences on buses and tubes would all be saved. One would only have to think of the place they want to be and - kazaaaaam! - there in a blink of an eye.

When discussing this, one little cousina of mine, at the time sporting a Christmas cracker 'tache which was a little unnerving, quoted the late, great Judy whilst clicking her heels. 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home...' She had hit upon something. This motif from the Wizard of Oz is very similar to the whole disapparation ideology. Only it is SO much better as it involves fabulous shoes. Sparkly, ruby heels that glitter and hold magic powers? Yeah, baby!

And the best bit? They wouldn't even pinch and cripple squished feet. Walking is not necessary when sporting these beauties. A couple of clicks and you're (very stylishly) away!

But if I did have a pair of these of course, I never would have discovered the delights of Putney Bridge. Three times.

A Post Named John

I have yet another reason to think Tilda Swinton one of the coolest people that currently graces this increasingly crackers planet with her presence. The current list is as follows... 1. she flaunts her striking red (i.e. the much-maligned 'ginger') locks, 2. wears some truly daring creations and pulls them off with aplomb, 3. holds film festivals in rural Scotland, at which she, as hostess, is pyjama-clad and if you bring a home-baked cake you get in free, 4. has an unapologetically unconventional domestic set-up, in that she lives with her children and their father (who remains a great companion and friend of hers, though no longer what she calls her 'sweetheart') yet also has a much younger lover who frequents her country dwelling and travels with her to foreign parts - all parties are happy with this arrangement, and a glorious one it sounds too.
Anyway, the new reason is that she refers to the father of her children, John Byrne, by his full name at all times. People do not do this often enough, and it makes situations have an air of the comical and absurd, which I love. 'Dinner is ready, John Byrne'. 'Oh drat it, John Byrne, could you please remove your wellies from right under my feet?!'. See, it totally works.

I'm actually thinking of changing my name to John. Apparently little Shiloh Pitt-Jolie (spawn of the glamorous Hollywood couple) will not answer to anything else but 'John'. This is the ultimate form of rebellion, and a big two fingers up at the sheer ridiculousness of her parents' cruelty in naming her something so 'unique' and 'original'. According to my sources (okay, I admit it, I am an avid reader of Glamour online) she has chosen John because of the character in 'Peter Pan' - the eldest, slightly geeky, Darling child who is whisked off to Neverland. Ahh, a wee bit of whimsy in amongst the usual drudge of meaningless, yet addictive, celebrity gossip. That tiny starlet will go far; I hope to the heavens she doesn't end up in rehab.

Although thought of as rather generic, especially in these bizarre times of Tallullahs, Pixies, and anything spelt as oddly as possible with accents and umlauts aplenty, the name John holds a certain solid appeal. There are too many Annas about these days I feel, and being a John would really set me apart.

And I have my pick as to who I was named after. John Keats. John F. Kennedy. Evil Prince John of Robin Hood fame. John Cleese. John Thomas (snigger, perhaps not). Maybe even Jean-Paul Sartre. The list goes on. Yes, that's decided it. I shall henceforth be known as John.

I may go as far as being Sir John... or Dame John.... or Marquis de John...

The Little'un, the Wasps, and the Wardrobe

As I have now been living in Mat Fleeting for a fair while, the weird and the wonderful no longer faze me. This could be viewed as rather sad and regrettable, in that the enchanted amazement I used to experience when encountering the bizarre has grown to become merely the mundane and everyday. But actually this is rather marvellous in itself. The surreal is now hyper-real. I am at one with madness.

When watching a programme about children's illustrated books, as one does of an evening on board the rickety raft of Old Clem, talk turned to the masterpiece that is Each Peach Pear Plum. Tom Thumb was shown to be, naturally, in the cupboard of Mother Hubbard. And he was eating jam out of a jar roughly the size of himself (incidentally, this is Old Clem's idea of heaven) with a big shovel-like spoon. I went to the fridge for mid-programme sustenance and, what do you know, there was the Little'un himself - Tommy nabbing our extensive collection of jams. The wee little chap was quite at home in the cavernous container of delights that is our fridge, smacking his lips happily and sampling the homemade raspberry conserve, a personal favourite. Of course, I didn't hesitate to offer him a slice of bread and glass of milk to accompany the jam (Old Clem was so proud of my polite hospitality; he has taught me well), then sent him on his merry little way back to the land of nursery rhymes as it was past his bedtime.

This whole episode did not surprise me one bit because we are well-used to unusual kitchen visitors. There is an odd buzzing that emanates from the freezer every so often. Without warning, a violent aural attack descends, a sinister disembodied humming. We have come to the conclusion that there must be some form of hornet's nest built amongst the peas and pizza. There is no other explanation. They can get driven into a buzzing frenzy now and then, shivering their little stripes off in the chilly depths, eager to get out and join our chit-chat over tea and crumpets in the kitchen. Interestingly, it's when the honey is being spread that the buzzing becomes particularly prominent and over-enthusiastic I have noticed. Perhaps one day we shall let them out to fly freely, but I fear they may get too excited and sting us in a flurry of disorientation as they are let loose into the warmth. Best to keep them lying dormant, next to the sausages.

Talking of cold places, my wardrobe seems to have its own micro-climate. No matter how toasty it gets in our humble abode, it remains 'Brrrrrr!'-inducingly chilly. I have to brace myself for the snatching of clothes each morning, often hastily grabbing whatever is nearest, making for some rather eclectic outfits. It does mean that it doubles up pretty well as a larder - one to rival Mother Hubbard's in fact. I like to believe that it gets so cold due to it actually being a portal to Narnia. The eternal winter that reigns in that magical land is bound to cause the entrance to be a bit nippy. Alas, there are no glamorous fur coats at the back like there were hanging in the original wardrobe, only green silk pyjamas and red Princess dresses. Nevertheless, I am honoured to have a doorway into such a supercool other world in my bedroom. I'm sure I hear Aslan growling from within sometimes (though, admittedly, this could just be C from the next room), and I expect to be visited by a talking faun bearing Turkish delight any day now. Of course in my Narnia there is DEFINITELY Christmas. What is winter without Christmas after all?

I love that this all seems perfectly natural and normal to me. The bosom of Mat Fleeting is a comforting yet extraordinary place in which to be nestled.

Are You There Rene? It's Me, Paranoid Pre-pubescent

Just in case I never get to the end (or even the beginning) of 'Troilus and Creseyde' and therefore monumentally and spectacularly fail my degree (which unfortunately seems to rely rather heavily on good old Uncle Geffrey, the prolific dullard) meaning that I would not be able to go forward with further study and become an eccentric Academic specialising in the subtle nuances of all the 800 year old's begetting like nobodies business in Genesis, I have a back-up plan. Well, actually it's a back-up back-up plan, as my first back-up career path is obviously being window dresser at Liberty. That goes without saying. However, if it turns out I get fired from that esteemed mecca of elegance and sophistication, for causing carnage amongst displays of Liberty-print luxury and shiny chandelier opulence and am driven to iridescent peacock feather frenzy, induced by a haze of splendour and sumptuousness, exploding expensively like a fountain of the best champagne, then I shall have to earn my keep by other means.

I shall write teen novels for young girls growing up, helping them come to terms with the gritty issues they will inevitably struggle with and preparing them for the harsh realities of adolescence.

They could be in diary form.

'Dear Rene,
Today was a friend oriented day. I met all the girls for a milkshake. I wore my new sparkly pumps. They gave me a blister, but I didn't care! It was worth it as they are so cool and I'm sure I got some very envious looks. They're almost the same as Cheryl's from Girls Aloud. Anyway, Stacie had big news. She went to a party at the community centre last night and actually got kissed! I am so jealous. The guy, Mikey Roberts, is nothing special, but I guess it's the luck of the draw when you're playing 'Spin the Bottle'. She said it was on the lips. I really wanted to ask more details, like if her brace got in the way at all or if she was worried about getting the wires caught or if there was much spittle, but we got too giggly.
I cannot wait until my first kiss. If only it could be with Matty B. He is so sparky and dreamy and he wears those scarves with such flair. I am sure I sensed a moment at our last meeting. Even though I had that pimple the size of Pluto on my chin, which I bet he noticed. I knew I should have resisted squeezing it. He definitely caught my eye whilst telling me to watch my grammar. He is such a perfectionist! I would give anything, anything (even my new GHD's), for him to have a game of 'Spin the Bottle' with me. I would just DIE if I got the chance to play '2 Minutes in the Closet' with him. Could you imagine? Bliss!
Had chicken and chips for tea. Stupid Danny threw a chip covered in ketchup at me and mucked up my favourite Mackays t-shirt. He is such a BOY. I hate brothers. Why can't they just be normal for once in their lives?
I've just done twenty rounds of my 'We must, we must, we must increase our bust!' exercises and cannot wait for a long sleep after reading 'Sugar' magazine. I've plaited my hair extra tightly tonight so it will be really wavy for tomorrow. I hope Matty B sees it.
I'm exhausted after laughing so much with friends, so...
Good Night Rene xxx

Top of the best seller lists around the world methinks. Universal themes of heart-ache and yearning, laughter and woe. No doubt I would have read it when young, fancy-free... and illiterate.

A Spear By Any Other Name... Would Kill As Brutally?

Everybody is acquainted with Excalibur. Everybody who is worth knowing at any rate. The sword that is inextricably fused with peril, legend, myth, grand battles, knights, chivalry, gory warfare and mystical adventure. It bears an illustrious and regal name, befitting of its status and reputation. Excalibur. Poetic, evocative, rolls off the tongue.

It may interest you to know that King Arthur also had a helmet by the name of Goswit, and a shield called Pridwen. Archaic and paganistic titles, exuding a sort of rugged magic. One can well imagine such weapons facing the likes of dragons in order to save damsels in distress.

Probably even less familiar to you will be King Arthur's spear. His spear whose name was Ron.

Yes, Ron.

'The bold Arthur took Ron in his hand, the valiant king advanced the stout shaft'

This is why I took Middle English. As if the idea of naming weaponry wasn't ridiculous and mad enough. Ron the spear. Ingenious.

But, hey, if it does does the job and is plunged into the breasts of the heathen hordes, cleaving their hearts in twain, hacking out guts and entrails, and making the battlefields run red with blood, then what the hell does it matter if it's got a less than resplendent name? It could be worse. It could be called Wayne.

Anna of the Remedial Stream

There are times when it is as if you are disembodied from yourself and you see a scene objectively, like it is being played out on a stage. Take a step back and view things as they appear to others. It is worrying. Eyes are opened.

I had such an experience the other day, in an old, beige and brown, musty seminar room. The one with the huge black and white Renaissance portrait just outside it. It was as if I was floating about the peripheries of the room, watching events unfold. I saw myself in full technicolour. Bright pink oversized jumper, knitted by my mother when she was my age, belted tightly at the waist with a man's brown woven buckle belt that belongs (well, belonged...) to my father, with the excess flappy bit held in place with an old hair bobble. Five year old, three pound floral skirt peeking from underneath knitted affair, with its burn hole in the front, scorched through by a hot rock falling from an enormous joint as it was passed across me by a stoner known as Jeff, (whose name was not Jeff) at a hippy-dippy summer garden party a few years ago. Ancient battered Converse encasing my feet, with only one Converse sign still affixed, bearing mud from the Blue Mountains of Australia, the grounds of Leeds rock festival, the fields of Brampton folk festival, and many compulsory countryside adventures besides. A second hand paperback Penguin copy of Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year in front of me, bought for a couple of quid from a northern emporium of cast-off books. The ubiquitous John Mullan loudly denouncing me as 'Anna of the remedial stream' due to having a silently altered version of the text, but dismissing his harshness with a jolly 'Oh, but she understands I mean it ironically'. And me actually loving that I'm being insulted by this cocky, arrogant, esteemed Literary Figure.

Because he writes for the Guardian.

He asked us for any instances of mistaken identities in well-known works of literature, or of lapdogs cropping up in novels as he left the room for his mid-seminar Ribena. It seemed totally off subject, but I knew what he was referring to - his weekly column in the Review section (which turns out to pay for his weekly groceries). I was cringeworthingly eager to show that I read it and that I knew what he was on about. I saw myself. I saw myself as that goddamn archetypal 'Guardian Reader'. I engaged him in chit-chat about it, half wanting to actually know the answers to the questions I asked, half wanting to just show that I read the paper to which he is associated. I was asserting this fact. Like it is how I define myself. Liberal, slightly hippy, self-indulgent 'arty' degree-taking, middle class bloody 'Guardian Reader'.

Oh the shame. But true.

Sometimes it is good, and indeed rather liberating, to unapologetically embrace stereotypes. 'My name is Anna, and I am a Guardian reader'. Don't judge me.

A Fleeting Fortnight

When not gadding about the city being either Sally Bowles or Lydia Lopokova or, in more insular, maudlin moments, the Lady of Shalott, I am getting ever closer to becoming the ultimate of my heroines. I now have my very own, rather enormous, spider that lives in my room, providing increased atmosphere for my aspirations of being Miss Havisham. It just needs to make a few cobwebs and settle itself in. Alas, I do not have a mouldy old Wedding Cake rotting in the corner, but on occasion there is the odd furred-up coffee cup, or day old mac-in-a-can lying around. Close enough. And I am without a fading lace wedding dress. A party frock from Primark will have to suffice. The bright-eyed, manic glares, passionate cries, and reputation for eccentric insanity are all present and correct though.

In other Mat Fleeting news, Salsa Queen vomited in her handbag which now hangs on the airer as a reminder of the perils of free cocktails from city boys.
We have acquired a cup in the kitchen which has something to do with not using taps when somebody is showering. It has 'shower cup' written on it in black marker. I do not understand the rules of the cup. Apparently it is an important issue. I let it wash over me, just as I let the ice cold water wash over me in the shower when somebody is doing the dishes downstairs...
Old Clem's electricity paranoia has reached new heights. He actually turned the toaster off at the mains when my toast was in it. It gave him quite a shock when the bread popped up.
A new literary genius has been discovered. On the kitchen wall there hangs a hand-written poem. Anybody who visits is asked to guess who wrote the poem. Answers have ranged from Donne, to Eliot, to Plath. It is actually much more contemporary, and makes the guessers feel like idiots. The first line contains the phrase 'depleted uranium breasts', and it was written by none other than the Pie Jesu lover of this household, henceforth known as Ave Maria, when sitting half naked in her armchair after a drunken night out. This is the most creative and intellectually rich time of day, when one should harness the musings of the soul.

Top youtube finds from the past fortnight have included an original episode of The Magic Roundabout entitled 'The Cocktail Fruit Party', the opening of a German cartoon about a little bee which is the most adorable thing despite having phallic references and a theme tune that is at times reminiscent of Tom Jones, and the part of Disney's 'Sword in the Stone' with the Marvellous Mad Madam Mim.

If the whole Miss Havisham thing doesn't work out for me, then Madam Mim is definitely next on the list of people to aspire to.

House of Mirth

Mat Fleeting House Rules

1. Always have post-it notes to hand in order to write down stupid/witty/downright hilarious things the residence say and stick them up all over the place.
2. Be either a) totally extravagant and absent-minded in leaving all switches on the whole time, or b) completely neurotic and anal in going round switching absolutely everything off constantly (even, accidentally, the freezer...)
3. Every time you go into the kitchen put the kettle on and make a cup of tea/coffee for yourself and anybody else who wants one, which is inevitably the whole household. And this does mean every single time you go into the kitchen.
4. Always delve into the well-stocked, choc-a-block goodie cupboard for something sweet to dunk into aforementioned hot beverages.
5. Say 'yer mum' in at least every other sentence, or to finish off other people's sentences.
6. Ignore the buzzer going. Unless you are Gary, who finally cracks.
7. Use beds as sofas, coffee tables, dens, rafts out at sea and cosy places for period drama love-ins.
8. Sing either 'Where is Love' from Oliver, 'They're Taking the Hobbits to Isengard', the Mushroom song or 'Pie Jesu' continuously. Or all on a loop.
9. Have ketchup with absolutely everything.
10. Refer not to individuals, but to 'Mat Fleeting' as a whole (which originates from a drunken mispronunciation of 'flat meeting' back in the day). We come as one single entity and are a team. Or, as I like to think of us, a harem.

The fundamental signs of a bad date:

Guy wearing old school shoes as 'going out' posh shoes. Bootleg-a-licious.

Guy's most predominant achievement in life being employee of the month at Matalan, with greatest aspiration being working at Waitrose. Failing that, Tesco.

Guy quoting his sci-fi/fantasy poetry. Rhyming 'the challenge is hard' with... wait for it... that's right... 'Isengard'.

Science Fiction poetry. Special.

I have fulfilled a long held ambition. I can now cross it off my list of 'Things To Do If I Was Magic And Motivated'.

I have stayed at the Weasley's Burrow from the world of Harry Potter.

It is an editorial slip that this amazing pile of bricks is situated on the outskirts of Ottery St Catchpole. It is actually in Cambridge. I have been there and seen it with my own eyes.

A kitchen crammed with crockery, cottage-shaped teapots on dusty shelves, fresh flowers, foliage and plant pots, brightly coloured paintings created by children at various stages of their artistic careers pinned up, aprons hung from hooks, mismatched chairs and cushions, and cobwebs decorating the upper displays of hoarded knick-knacks and collected obscurities. Cosy. Comfortable. Pure Weasley.

Mrs Molly Weasley was not present when I dropped by (perhaps visiting Charlie in Bulgaria at the time) but in her place was an equally maternal figure, an eccentric add-on to the cluttered kitchen. Just as much of a larger-than-life character as Molly and more than a match for her.

Patrice boils up chai tea in a saucepan on the stove. She takes her own teabags with her, even to the hairdressers, so she can have her own particular choice of brew. Herb supplement and vitamin pill jars (many assissting with symptoms of menopause) are on every surface, some holding what the label displays, some containing spices, loose tea, peppercorns or dried rosemary. She is on a crusade to get the world meditating, driving a determined one woman campaign to promote the benefits of this 'alternative' way of life. She herself meditates every morning. She swings from wishing to live in Cumbria, to Kenya, to buying a random plot of wild land and building her own environmentally friendly house. She enthuses about the Russian novelists. She says that Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness' does not show the real Conrad, 'Nostromo' being far superiour. She never eats breakfast but loves lashings of very smelly cheese. Her reaction to a huge splat of bird excrement on the front windscreen when driving was exclaiming 'Oh! Isn't that just wonderful!', in her lilting Dublin tones. When our plans changed at the last minute, with us deciding to go to the Botanical Gardens as opposed to some tearooms a fair way off along the river, she vehemently and effusively cried 'But the apples Isabel! The beautiful apples!', expecting us to go back on our decision due to the fruit they put out between the tables this time of year. She gave us a book she had just picked up from a friend which had vivid and intimate diagrams of how to have sex whilst pregnant. She calls her phone her 'friend', disregarding the fact that it is falling apart ('I just have to press the 'e' a little harder'). She makes peanut butter cookies in a flash, finding random plastic bags, whatever they may have previously held, to dispense them in so she can take the offering to whomever she may visiting. She is, in a word, a marvel. More magic than anything J.K. Rowling could come up with.

And she gets to live in the Burrow, which I have always thought to be one of the most marvellous places in existence (or imagination at any rate).

A Bout of the Pouts

Keira Knightley is one of the most despised women in the world. Mostly despised by other women, but she can inspire hatred in men too. At least two thirds of the blokes I know think she's weird looking, and she suffers countless attacks in the media from her own fair sex. Not that I am particularly sympathetic. She earns squidillions for basically dressing up, kissing dreamboats and drinking champagne at hedonistic parties. I just wanted to hammer home the point that she provokes an awful lot of scorn, before going on to relate that my mother, my own mother, thinks I have 'a look' of Knightley.

A resemblance to the pouty, open-mouthed poser who looks permanently affected due to being unable to close her bloody smackers? Thanks. I asked if I did the pouty thing, to which the reply was 'only when you're in a strop'. So most of the time then. Great. I thought that I was adopting a cutting, withering, downright soul destroying expression that would cause the root of my displeasure to shrivel and die under my glare. Nope, just look like a hated public figure.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the alleged resemblance stems from the fact that we (and yes, I am aligning myself and Knightley using a united 'we'. I will take that liberty thank you very much) have been castigated for rocking the skinny minnie look. Thin people with pursed lips look similar. Well, perhaps. I did just make that up. Sounds plausible though.

However, I wouldn't say no to the life she leads, even if I object to the physical comparisons. Playing my heroine Elizabeth Bennet. Acting alongside Jonny Depp. The lovely clothes in 'The Edge of Love'. Going out to dinners and parties every night. Being interviewed in 'The Guardian'. Being able to read literature and become characters, without having to write essays or take exams on them. And, frankly, I would kill for that green dress in 'Atonement'.

I think, alas, the similarities end with the mouth. She may have to put up with the world's women hating her skinny ass, but at least she doesn't have my nose.
Though it is heartening to read Oscar Wilde: 'The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid.' This simply must mean that I'm an intellectual.

He who dares... delivers dairy

I recently wrote of one of the most ridiculous and obscure jobs I have ever come across (the piss preventer), which I heard about from a friend when at the pub.

Well, a comparable conversation happened at this very same pub only last night. This may not be the coincidence it first seems however, as I visit this esteemed drinking hole on a very regular basis. One may even regard it as my 'local': a magical place where sleeves stick to tables, curries come on Thursdays, and pinot grigio is on tap (I kid thee not. I want a similar wine pump fitted into the new flat, with a choice of white, red and rose), slightly frothy on top and cheap as chips. It's these little touches and attention to detail that keep me coming back. In fact, I even lunched there with some temporary colleagues last week. A group of hard hitting journos and roving reporters. That's just the kind of clientele this swanky joint attracts, baby.

Anyway, I was catching up with a friend over aforementioned white wine. She was telling me of one of her older sisters and what the dickens she's been up to recently. The sister had apparently had this notion of living in Australia since she was a mere tween and a few months ago, at the grand old age of 22 and after notching up a fairly extensive travel record, she finally took the plunge and has been there ever since. She'd been mooching and settling and acclimatising to the Aussie way of life, with its OJ's, cold beers, national legend Dr Karl Kennedy etc, when she sent a text to her sister back home.
In order to finance this life, she had thrown caution to the wind, battled in the face of adversity, bitten the bullet, grabbed the bull by its horns and... become a milkman.

She went to Australia and became a milkman.

And no, it is not appropriate to say milkperson. God knows, I am all for political correctness and gender equality but, in this case, it just doesn't sound half as cool.
Apparently she's really enjoying it. She gets free milk and everything.

The (un)Realities of Climate Change

Heat has transfiguring powers and metamorphic effects. Especially on those usually ensconced in rural Northumberland, where one must huddle on the Aga to read the paper in the middle of August. Temperatures of up to 38 degrees Celsius, therefore, can bring forth a sort of madness, a hazy delirium that blurs edges and has an otherworldly quality. It was in this other world that we spent two weeks.
A fortnight of fairytale castles, princesses and knights. A land where people are fearless and unafraid of death (yet frightened of toads, especially those going by the name of Alan- perhaps because they could turn out to be princes when kissed). Everyone adopts an adventurous streak, climbing out of windows for the perfect photographic image and hurling their bodies about when very close to cliff edges. They are generally a 'bit vigilante', in keeping with the barbarous medieval atmosphere that seeps from the surroundings.
The heat distorts, and renders what would usually be considered insane when in the earthly world entirely right and proper and wholly unremarkable. Fish-shaped soap dishes are used as ashtrays. Ice cream is laced with lavender, violets and rose petals. Stalactites and stalegmites resemble cauliflowers and mushrooms, flourishing and blossoming in underground caves before our very eyes. Concerts of experimental harp pieces, complete with vocally simulated woodland noises and sounds of the sea, are played in town churches of an evening, to a meagre audience of chic white-haired ladies and violently blaspheming teenage boys. Characters 'say what they like, when they like, then they eat it', not stopping until they sleep. Others use the time of slumber to exercise their vocal chords, moaning, groaning and conversing in their dreams, oblivious to the excitement of thunderstorms that crash open doors and windows, spraying warm rain. Seth Lakeman plays on a loop, adding to the sense of inescapable insanity.
Calculating angles in such heat becomes an impossibility, yet must be attempted in order to survive. Desserts must be divided equally. Straw hats must be mathematically cocked to specific degrees to achieve that London wide-boy look. Verticle hills must be climbed by legs with metal cores and arthritic feet, with only carefully gauged angles making the experience a pain-free one.

After being so steeped in this magical land anything and everything becomes an adventure. Even going to Burger King for a feast of fries and veggie burgers at 10pm. Wonder at how something so tastless can be so delicious! Behold the transforming effects of ketchup! We cross the stormy seas to a surreal place of salt, tasty greasiness and heart attacks; a departure lounge-style service station with Star Trek toilets and blatant falsehoods emblazoned on enormous signs - '24 Hour Service'. Deserted expanses of white with multi-coloured wiggles on the ceiling do nothing to alleviate our delirium, but rather add to the dreaminess of our travels as we drive on through the night, speaking inanities mindlessly. An odd adventure granted, but an adventure nonetheless. Such is the effect of heat on unaccustomed souls.

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.