26 October 2009

Flagellatory Monks

When not drinking questionable White Russians or dreaming vivid visions of animal warfare, in which I lead parrots and foxes into battle following rallying speeches, you can hedge your bets on finding me weeping over Keats in the library.
UCL Main Library, my second home, is lacking in sentiment these days. So, caused by lack of sleep and Keats' beautiful ill face, I am bringing poetry-provoked tears into the shelved enclaves. They are needed, I feel, as the artistic and literary sensibilities are being slowly quashed by rules and regulations.
Leaflets litter the tables notifying students that they can now be fined for various offences. They (the MAN) can wrangle £20 out of you for 'misuse of library card'. Misuse? Like using it as a fork or something? And £20 for 'exiting via a Fire exit'. Seriously? They want us to burn? Admittedly this was followed by 'except when the fire alarm is activated' in parenthesis... The money, according to the Old Testament Library Commandments, all goes to the UCL Student Hardship Fund. Well, more students will be faced with poverty and hardship if they are continuously fined extortionate amounts, so this seems rather counter-productive. And, one cannot help but suspect, that this implausible fund is actually the pseudonym of the Librarians' Wine Stash. Though a wee tipple could loosen up Hot Librarian, and we could continue our existential chitchat that was started when renewing Blake...
Next to the rule about not having any food or drink in the library, someone had scribbled 'Slightly Draconian?' How very UCL. Classical references to Draco used as witty graffiti backchat. This is almost on a par with colouring bits of the word 'Book' on the various library fliers so that it reads as 'Poo'. Always raises a smile. This maturity is continued in the various scrawls on the desks. Though I did read one the other day that said 'I am honoured to get a chance to start on a clean slate'. It is unclear as to whether they were referring to the wooden desk, or their LIFE. The library, after all, is my place of choice for emotional breakdown, philosophical exploration, Eureka moments and weeping rivers of tears over Keats.
No doubt I'd get fined for dampening the paperbacks.

21 October 2009

Numerical Notion

A heartening thought for seldom-read scribblers (ahem...), philosophers down on their luck, poets in anguish and writers in woe:

Scythrop did not despair. 'Seven copies', he thought, 'have been sold. Seven is a mystical number, and the omen is good. Let me find the seven purchasers of my seven copies, and they shall be the seven golden candlesticks with which I will illuminate the world'.

The crucial thing, of course, is to reach the magical, though meagre, circulation of seven. And not to overshoot this. An eighth purchaser of any treatise or manifesto can cast the whole world into darkness and DOOM.

15 October 2009

Dylan wants his swagger back

Ah, people of London! Were you aware that ‘a new counter culture is rapidly developing’? A counter culture that have found their Messiah in the form of Kieran Leonard – ‘a poet’ as many are describing him.

He performs songs ‘focusing, dissecting and meditating on the most immediate and pressing of current issues; from the economic downturn, to media manipulation, consumerism and a loss of spirituality in modern Britain.’ The counter culture of ‘new devotees, turning up in their droves’ to hear their Voice of Reason, their beacon of hope in these dark, dark times, ‘the instigator, origin and vanguard of the movement’ are inspired by the ‘uniquely visionary songs the likes of which haven’t been seen since the days of the sixties beat and protest movement.’ With true grace and humility, ‘knowing that he speaks for so many of his “lost generation”, he delivers his lyrics with blood, grit and a wild look in his eye, comfortable in the assurance that if he is speaking it as he finds, his message is unassailable.’ Straggle-haired, heavy-booted and swathed in a Withnailesque long coat, he puts on a revolutionary show of ‘love, black dogs, visions and traditional troubadour balladry’ with the ‘swagger of an early Dylan’. In the shadowy corner beside the stage, his gimp-on-a-lead accompanies him on the harmonica, lovingly and sickeningly gazing into his master and leader’s spotlit face. Spotlit, that is, by a desk lamp placed on the floor by his spellbinding feet. When not breathing heavily into his harmonica, the gimp mouths along to the thought-provoking, cerebral lyrics of ‘Harold Pinter is Dead’, ‘Oedipus Rex’ and ‘Freudian Marksmen’.


A guy named Jerome, a drunkard channelling a distorted Vince Noir and bellowing out a ramshackle cover of ‘I Smell a Rat’, supports the great Messiah. In a bit of pre-performance banter he informs the crowd that he hasn’t slept for three days, he’s that rock’n’roll. He is later called on stage for a collaborative impromptu crucifixion of some Bob Dylan blues. I stumble out of the basement into the dazzling light. And straight into Carl Barat. He too has come to pay homage to the Messiah.

7 October 2009

Inanities

'They were returning from the large heart of Bloomsbury, where the children were frequently taken to learn deportment from the Tanagras in the British Museum. After posing meaningfully as a Corinthian, or practising sinking on a camp-stool like an Athenian, they came home, as a rule, rampageous.'

What on earth is Firbank doing describing a typical afternoon of ours in a novel written roughly eighty years ago? The man's a mystic, evidently. So nice of him to include us in his eccentric work of whimsy. He's an acquired taste, just as Distant Vines or liquorice is. The dandy does hit the nail on the head however; I am frequently rampageous. Rampageous is my middle name. 'Watch out', they say, 'Kirk's on the rampage again. Gird your loins and flee this china shop! I hear her heavy boots on the library stairs - a rampage is what she's asking for!' I am, as a rule, rampageous. And me and my Roman nose make a damned fine Athenian.

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.

30 August 2009

Contentemplating

After extensive research, much method acting, many an experience 'in the field' and the odd duvet day of hopelessness, I have discovered highlights of happiness. (Interestingly, I also equate multi-coloured highlighters with happiness. But that's another post for another day...)

So, unadulterated happiness is...

Backseat delirium travelling back from the Dordogne. Trippy chit-chat and giggles with N whilst on the long night drive. Stopping off for a midnight fast-food feast at an airport-style service station, the salt, e-numbers and post-holiday fatigue making for a happy dream of a journey.

Returning from a Christmas Oddsocks, jumping into jim-jams and settling in the playroom with brothers, a cheesy, family-saga, seasonal film and eating, eating, eating - Christmas pudding-shaped rum truffles and mince pie after mince pie after mince pie. Comfortable and cosy.

A Make Perry Merry evening in C's room. Whipping up butterscotch Angel Delight with a hand whisk and a lot of elbow grease, dunking soft cookies into bowls of pudding whilst curled up on the double bed with my mateys and watching 'A Little Princess' on DVD. Every girl (and Perry) is a princess, says Sarah Crewe. Heed her words.

Heading to Waterloo on a late summer's evening with a like-minded friend (to discover someone who is familiar with The Princess Bride is a rare thing, to find that they have also seen and love both Serenity and ALL of Firefly is positively unheard of!) in order to watch a Spanish farce of a film set in the 1940s, after sharing a bottle of full-bodied red by the prop of a white piano.

Unspoilt perfection. And things to dwell on whilst doing the dishes, paying deposits and unclogging plugholes.

28 August 2009

Queer Theory

'We've called her Stephen
So long...

That I really can't see
Why we shouldn't go on'

This sounds like a snippet of nonsense verse, or a children's nursery rhyme. It's got a nice ring to it, and could have been penned by the likes of Edward Lear. However, it actually comes from one of the 20th century's most groundbreaking, seminal, glorious novelistic explorations into the human condition: 'The Well of Loneliness' by Radclyffe Hall.

I may be gay in the sense that I'm happy and full of vim, and I may be queer in the sense that I'm just a little bit odd, but I am not homosexual. Despite my own mother, on seeing my newly cropped barnet, declares 'My, you do look rather like... well... a boy, don't you?' Thank you, Mother.

Of course I don't take any issue with homosexuality. In fact 'some of my best friends are gay...yada yada'. I'm even sleeping in the bed of one of these friends. Alas, he's not here with me... but still.

Carrying half the Homosexuality Lit Crit section of the library around Bloomsbury probably doesn't help with any suspicions, displayed with the titles evident to the world due to my bag already being crammed with the Romantics and Shakespeare. And the other day I did catch myself sitting in a coffee shop openly reading a paperback entitled 'Lesbian Feminist Fiction', the conspicuous cover in full view. This particular work was produced by the Radical Feminist and Lesbian Publishers. Which I think is fabulous!

(I also learnt from one of the short stories in this book that a woman is worth seven cups of tea. Make of this what you will.)

I may love Coco Chanel's outfit to the fancy dress ball, with its nod to cross-dressing, but that's about as far as it goes. And I'm too plain scrawny to pull off butch. And, frankly, my future husband Jeremy Northam/Greg Wise/Gael Garcia Bernal, whom I shall scandalously leave for Carlos Acosta (naturally), is the target of my Eros-arrowed affections.

22 August 2009

Anecdote

Once upon a time there was a young man who loved and lived in London. He was fond of independent cinemas, weeping men and banana milk. He had emotional relationships with buses, and eyes that were too blue for his soul. He wandered the city streets endlessly, exploring, observing, searching...

One sunny day his travels took him to Hampstead Heath. The sun's rays were bright and gently warming, though not particularly penetrating. The young man, however, felt unusually hot as he settled himself amongst the buttercups. 'It's a bit George Michael... a bit Wham', he thought to himself, absent mindedly adopting the lingo of the little rascal that often snapped at his Conversed heels. He began to worry that he was ill, perhaps suffering a mild cardiac arrest. In an attempt to cool his moistening personage he undid the top button of his chaste checked shirt. It was not just coils of manly chestnut chest hair that this exposed however. The unmistakable sight of a pyjama-top collar could also be glimpsed. He was wearing his nightclothes still.
On further investigation it transpired that he was also pyjama-bottomed, fettered in both flannel sleeping-chinos and tight denim skinnies. The young man was alarmed. It was not his body that was ailing after all, but his mind.

In a semi-conscious daze he must have skipped a morning step. He was dapper, well turned out, smart as ever - but wearing one too many layers due to delirious oversight. The young man had walked through London town oblivious to the fact that he was in his pyjamas and madness was in his soul. Now that he knew, he leapt like a live-wire, all a-flutter and embarrassed, and hopped hurriedly onto the nearest bus. He was not dying of a heart-attack, as previously feared, rather of mortification.

As evening drew on and the rascal arrived, she was regaled with this tale of an addled mind and signs of insanity. Horror still resided in the young man's eyes as he imparted the sorrowful story, yet the rascal's weary spirits were cheered. She laughed. She laughed and laughed until she cried, forever grateful to the young man who wore his pyjamas out in the world.

16 August 2009

Thrills and Chills in Printed Pages

I am one lucky lady. A lucky lady who will be sticking to her liberal principals, despite the Thatcherites luring her to their blue hue with inky temptations...
I was given an all access pass to the most amazing crampypants space in the literary world, and for this I am thankful. It is even better than the wardrobe that leads to Narnia.

It is The Book Cupboard.

Crammed to the rafters with brand spanking new, yet to be published books that I lovingly (albeit rather manically and excitedly) liberate from their Jiffy bags and heavy-duty cardboard packaging. If only you knew what these awestruck wide-eyes have seen - from the latest Margaret Atwood, to a proof copy of the new Barbara Kingsolver, to a children's anthology of Carol Ann Duffy poems, to a graphic novel of the life of Bertrand Russell, to a translation of a Japanese modern fairytale about a woman whose toe turns into a penis, that has been highly acclaimed by readers, literary critics, philosophers and academics alike, to Alan Bennett, Nick Hornby, John Banville, Joshua Ferris... I could go on. All pristine, and in varying degrees of completion. And I get my grubby mitts on all the above before the general public can even glimpse 'em.

But...

I had a Bad Book Cupboard Experience. Yes, the cupboard of my dreams (even better than Carrie's Sex and the City closet) may have turned against me.

All alone, ensconced in said cupboard and pretending to be bookseller/philosopher Audrey Hepburn in Funnyface, I was opening a new book. A thriller. I read the blurb. It was about a young boy who writes to an imprisoned murderer, asking where the body of his butchered uncle is buried. I'd just comprehended the basic plot when out falls a piece of paper from inside the book - a handwritten note in pencil that asks a murderer where a body is buried... Then another bit of paper fell out. A biro scrawl from a prison inmate, replying to the boy.

Totally freaked me out. They looked real. Genuine. Not mock-ups. Sick joke? Marketing strategy? Most likely. But chilling nonetheless.

I shall not be reading this book.

9 August 2009

A Man's Home is his Castle (Carrock)

And so the fantasies begin...

A place to escape to, loaded up with kegs of beer and a couple of ounces of weed that smells of rosemary. A group of lads hellbent on oblivion, driven into the wilds by the one who's passed his test, in an old motor that's about as battered as the guys intend to get over the weekend.

A place to recoup, after years of travelling across South America, Mexico and beyond on a moped, meeting all manner of madness. A cottage where the faux-foreigner can become immersed once more in the beautiful drizzly Cumbrian countryside after the colour, adventure and dangers of backpacking throughout the world and growing an impressive beard.

A place to live in, The Good Life meets The Edge of Love. Pottering about in wellies, floral dresses and woolen cardigans. Making soup from home-grown veg and writing novels longhand with a fountain pen and elderflower wine opening the mind to a rich vetch of inspiration.

All planned for Jockey Shields, the cottage of childhood. But need it always be associated with the past? Perhaps it could play a part in futures too...



If it were even for sale, that is. Hmmm.

31 July 2009

On this, the anniversary day of (oh, so sweet*) sixteen years of the Kirklings becoming a tripartite coterie, I have been mostly resembling Jesus of Nazareth moonlighting as a clown. A look that is perfect, I have discovered, for constructing castles from candy, wrapping records in lagoon-coloured cellophane, and celebrating adolescent dottiness.

Tomorrow I think I shall channel a slumbering Victorian maidservant given experimental license with the ragbag of a seventies art student who is nostalgic for the Summer of Love.

I find days are given more focus if one has personalities to play with and costumes to dress in.

*Sweet in the way that teenage boys use the term? As in, 'Wanna come play Fifa mindlessly for thirteen hours solid, only breaking in order to piss on the loo seat and eat a packet of Tesco Value Jaffa cakes?' 'Yeah, sweet man.'
Or, 'Dude, that is one sah-wEEEEt-ah piece o' ass, hot damn!'
It is possible that sixteen years ago the word may have connoted something infinitely more innocent and cherubic. Those days are gone.

22 July 2009

My Summer of Buzz

If ever you have an afternoon to dispense of, venture up to Parsley's study, commandeer the white leather executive chair, settle yourself amongst the random computer parts and techno memorabilia, and look endlessly through old photos on the family PC. Years and years of highs, lows, and abominable haircuts, all saved in a handful of metaphysical files.

And I have come to the conclusion that I was a Prime Bore. All pictures of me in the second stint of my adolescence are of my forehead. And a pimply forehead at that. Due to my nose being in a book, or newspaper, or instruction leaflets on 'How to be a Morose and Tedious Teenager'. Jeez, dull as dishwater. With the odd snap or scowl thrown in.

Sofas and sleeping bags are snuggly, but there comes a time when one must break out of these comfortable cocoons.

So this summer - my Summer of Buzz - I have been doing the butterfly jive.

I rave to techno Greek/Jewish folk music in tents, clad in wellies, with my mother. I wear stripy orange 'clown pants' (much to the chagrin of too cool Dopey-Doobie). I get tattoos from tea-drinking wiggas, who have posters of masturbating naked ladies on their bedroom walls. I spontaneously make banana bread pudding, with extra spice. I hoy wellington boots over my head. I sit in the rain in yellow and pink culottes, twirling a kitsch kitten umbrella. I watch Wayne Sleep overact in fishnets and leather pants at the Kit Kat Club, and fantasise about living my life as a Cabaret, old chum. I paint my nails green like Sally Bowles. I drink Amaretto Sours, made with ice crushed by frying pans. I dab glitter on my face and wear flowers in my hair.

And, as is often the case, art imitates life. To wit, this year's Mercury Music Prize nominees. A large proportion of which are girls who PERFORM. Huge, dramatic alter-egos. Glitter, glam, wings, wigs, feathers, other-worldly words, synthesised and distorted delirium. Who will win? The ONLY way to decide is a glitter face-off.




This picture illustrates my point beautifully. A solid foundation of books. (Which should be by no means disregarded.) But the paper lantern lights that adorn the heavens are just crying out to be swung from. Wild revellers and those with their heads in the clouds can drape themselves around the orbs, and flick them on and off, on and off, to create a firefly party atmosphere. A party that you have to invite yourself to. I'm jiving til the small hours this summer.

15 July 2009

I make no apologies for the morbid content of this post. I feel that the following request should be documented in print. Or at least on this frugally-read blog.

Let us not beat around the bush (and why would anyone ever beat around a bush - what does this even achieve? - so let's just not do it). Basically, I want a hologram headstone.

Not right now, obviously. That would be weird. But when I'm dead and surveying all humanity with a wry smile upon my face and a knowing glint in my vacant eye.

Being the modest girl I am, I don't require the likes of extravagant angel adornments or legions of cherubs bedecking my final resting place. A simple headstone will suffice. As long as it bears a hologram of myself. That is all I ask. A perpetually winking, grinning hologram of a youthful Anna, doing big thumbs up and pointing 'Wassup? Check me out!' hand gestures. This will cheer mourners and give an air of cheesy kitsch which, in my experience, is never inappropriate.

Hologram headstones make an appearance in the film Serenity. I won't mention who for as I wouldn't want to spoil the 'plot', but let's just say that I'm not sure I shall ever forgive that ginger-bearded genius, Joss Whedon, for killing off a certain character. (Jeez, talk about o-bitch-uary.) Anyway, the amazing hologram headstone that marks where they lie is the least that they deserve. I, like the killed-off sci-fi star, am a leaf on the wind. Watch me soar...
And watch me wink in my jazzy hologram image for all eternity.

8 July 2009

Piseog

Remember the days of peeling satsumas in the school canteen? Trying to do it in one continuous piece, usually ending up with something resembling a bright orange elephant. Two large ears and long trunk. Or, for those less innocent in nature, balls and cock (oh, how we sniggered, heady on our own ingenuity, however crude). Then throwing it over our left shoulders, filling the air with the strong citrus smell forever associated with Middle School lunches, and it would form the initial of the one destined to love you and be loved...

From satsumas to Spancels. Named after the rope with which domestic animals were hobbled, the Spancel is an old Arthurian folkloric notion. Though it is more of a piseog* than a great magic. It is a tape of human skin, cut from the silhouette of a dead man. Begun at the right shoulder, a sharp knife cuts down the outside of the right arm, round the outer edge of each finger as if along the seams of a glove, and up the inside of the arm to the arm-pit. It then continues to cut down the side of the body, down the leg and up to the crutch, and so on. It cuts until the circuit of the corpse's outline is completed. A long ribbon is thus formed. A slightly more gruesome satsuma peel, as it were.
Find the man you love. Throw the Spancel over his head whilst he sleeps, and tie it in a bow. If he wakes as you perform this act he'll be dead within the year. If, however, he sleeps throughout the whole operation then he is bound to fall in love with you. Simple as that. And they say that the course of true love never runs smooth... It runs as smoothly as a knife through dead man's flesh actually.


If you don't fancy making your own Spancel, there are apparently several in the secret coffers of the Old Ones. Though these are, of course, secret. So good luck finding them. And good luck finding the man you love too. Lets hope he's a heavy sleeper.

*the old Irish for superstition. And my new favourite word.

2 July 2009

Chocolate Smiles

I recently read a fascinating study of social philanthropy - a brilliantly observed feat of reportage of young girls growing up in the colourful, greedy, pleasure-driven western world. I recommend it to any budding student of sociology. And, indeed, to any female who experienced a British childhood in the past couple of decades. And, especially, to those who enjoy a bit of food porn. Cake porn in particular.

This 'study' is Sleepovers by Jacqueline Wilson.

Of course there are the usual 'issues' (a severely disabled older sister in this case) and the token blonde bitch, but these are by the by. The real interest lies in the descriptions of the girls' birthday parties.

They come up with their own themes - picnic party, swimming party, daisy party for Daisy etc - and, most importantly, their own fun, e-number laden party spreads. This is what any child's birthday party is all about anyway. Pool-shaped cakes with blue icing and marzipan figures, three-tiered affairs with each tier being a different flavour, white and yellow Victoria sponge, cut to look like a daisy...

This book has everything: realistically portrayed friendship troubles, girly silliness, a lovely Daddy who sorts out problems, true justice being served, the most amazing literary character ever in the cuddly Bella who is a wee bit dim, completely harmless, obsessed with chocolate and eats ALL the time, lashings of nostalgia for those halcyon party days, and cake. Lots and lots of cake.

So it came to pass that, in honour of my 21st birthday at home, I requested a Candy Castle Cake. The cake of my childhood. The King (or should that be Queen?) of cakes. The cake that my mother shall be eternally remembered for, a legacy she should be proud of. A solid sponge sandwich, coated thickly with butter-icing, topped with ice-cream cone turrets (also smothered in artery-clogging sugar paste) and studded all over with brightly coloured sweets. Chocolate MUST be included somewhere. Or everywhere. And ta da! A feast fit for a Princess. Albeit a diabetes-destined Princess...


And no, it is not an ancient-Greek phallic cake (which they DID make, back in the day) - those are turrets. Delicious TURRETS.

My party would blow all those Sleepover shindigs out the water.

Though it may have trouble competing with this...
I know of a girl soon to turn 21. She is thinking of celebrating this milestone at Ikea. A magical place of flatpack furniture, simple Swedish interior design, the mysterious and wondrous jungle of the basement, platefuls of fries, meatballs with that curious cranberry sauce and, best and most party-appealing of all, infinite lingonberry juice re-fills!
Party bags will naturally include those pencils they have dotted around everywhere that one nicks as a kid, and a Dime bar.
A wild way to mark a birthday. Not even good old Jackie could have come up with something quite so awesome.
The cake will probably be a Candy Kitchen, rather than Castle!

28 June 2009

My Life on Film


Lights... Camera... Action!
Starring Anna as damsel in dreamy joy rather than distress, plus stylised extras of various character, within a medieval castle, acting out a contemporary fairytale.
I dress up, in whimsical costume, yet am not acting.
Shot in sharp focus, high contrast, and in flattering light.
An independent, arthouse film of life in a moment, captured on celluloid, making the fluid and floaty static and the moment eternal.
We are the stars. Divas demanding to go on location to a stone storybook town with many turrets, at sunset, in south-west France. We prepare for our close-ups...

12 June 2009

Open Mic Night (or week, month, year, era, age...)

Following days of Barbican-based pen-pushing, this is the way to dream away the remaining hours...


Hours filled with fairy lit basements of Eds, and the odd Ned.
And long Harringay hills and hot-pink florists.
Twilight consumed with cherry risotto and 'getting off one's Maynards'.
An evening wiled away with a beer keg baby, chit-chat of travel, egg-shaped shakers of a blue hue and playing, ad hoc, on the omnichord.
Time taken up by Portuguese aprons that exude culinary love, poems in profile (though which is his best side, one wonders, as he searches for the light), and printed pictures of Polaroid snaps.
Moments drowned in 'oceans of gin', whisky demands and red wine spillages.
A mortifying, though liberating, lifetime of stumbles through drunken mispronunciations, of misjudged french words, before taking one's leave half-heartedly with 'half past eight a.m.' excuses.

A blurred-edge bus journey, a 29 ride, an exchange of bohemian boasting between siblings, a panic and a pudding later... Panic due to forgotten keys and visions of street-sleeping. Pudding to soothe these (thankfully) unrealised visions away. Then wide-eyed once more at 4 in the morning.

I woke up and it was hours, not dreamed, but lived later. And it is these unexpected evenings that make the days of screen-staring more of a Barbican than a Barbican't.