Ok, Question (as our American friends tend to say, causing a hush as everyone pricks up their ears in anticipation of the seriousness that will inevitably follow). Ok, Question...
Is red lipstick, especially at this time of year, a glamourous and celebratory statement of charming self expression? Or is it just a little too 'Santa baby, slip a sable under the tree... for me'?
Also, is it sophisticatedly bohemian or, frankly, a tad slovenly to leave smeared red lipstick marks on the edge of a glass, slowly hardening and staining just like the dark wine dregs?
Is it too much? Or is anything less not enough? Or is it too much in a good way?
Exquisite and flawless or garish and clown-like?
Such are the dilemmas of the season. There is a fine line between style and tack.
Anyhow, I shall take inspiration from such screen sirens as Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, flash and brash with scarlet smackers. One of Santa's reindeer is named Vixen after all.
10 December 2007
3 December 2007
And So It Begins...
Floating within a sea of seminars, lectures, pub trips, work avoidance and Sex and the City watching, it's miraculous if I know the hour, let alone day or date. So, lo and behold, on realising it was December 1st I was knocked for six.
Without the bickering and hoo-ha that accompanies every December evening, heralding the doling out of story and sweets from the lovingly created home-made Advent Calendar, I knew not how to cope with the onset of the merry month. In a civilised manner, one supposes.
Or, indeed, with the greatest concoction known to man (or, more likely than not, woman). Mulled wine is quite simply the most delicious, comforting, Christmassy thing. Ever. Even Sainsbury's own brand. And especially at a student halls party, prison cell walls bedecked with mistletoe, baubles, and splattered orange pulp from the steaming pan.
Warm, spicy, alcoholic. The Holy Grail is said to be a cup. I could understand all the fracas and tintamar surrounding this cup of contention if what it contained was the divine brew of the sweetly mulled grape.
Following this celebratory start to frolicking festivities, Christmas is coming thick and fast. A family roast dinner, complete with evergreen foliage and red berry table adornment, a bag of marrons glacees (brought back by B from Rome no less) consumed after midnight, a diary filling up with jolly occasions. And that is just the beginning. It all starts again when I hit Hexham baby.
Without the bickering and hoo-ha that accompanies every December evening, heralding the doling out of story and sweets from the lovingly created home-made Advent Calendar, I knew not how to cope with the onset of the merry month. In a civilised manner, one supposes.
Or, indeed, with the greatest concoction known to man (or, more likely than not, woman). Mulled wine is quite simply the most delicious, comforting, Christmassy thing. Ever. Even Sainsbury's own brand. And especially at a student halls party, prison cell walls bedecked with mistletoe, baubles, and splattered orange pulp from the steaming pan.
Warm, spicy, alcoholic. The Holy Grail is said to be a cup. I could understand all the fracas and tintamar surrounding this cup of contention if what it contained was the divine brew of the sweetly mulled grape.
Following this celebratory start to frolicking festivities, Christmas is coming thick and fast. A family roast dinner, complete with evergreen foliage and red berry table adornment, a bag of marrons glacees (brought back by B from Rome no less) consumed after midnight, a diary filling up with jolly occasions. And that is just the beginning. It all starts again when I hit Hexham baby.
25 November 2007
Observations from my anthropological study of Intercollegiate Halls life:-
The words Chav and Essex are considered profanities of the highest order and are used in reference to others at one's own risk.
Americans need clarifications, such as the DTR system. There is none of that very British timidity and reluctance to actually verbalise what the hell is going on. Define The Relationship is a common and useful part of their culture. E.g 'We need to do some DTR-ing'.
Sporty Irish lads can eat veritable mountains of food. It is a marvel to behold.
Philosophers are erudite, articulate, stoners, lovely and laid back, and incomprehensible. They muse on Sartre over starters, Mill over main course and Descartes over dessert.
Characters who are 'allergic to empty glasses', always have an open door and an open bottle of something, who sport berets and can recite Donne off by heart come to be known as Legends.
'Scrubs' is a unifying force.
Queueing has become a social occasion.
Lift smells are a constant source of surprise, revulsion, and mystery and can change hourly.
There is absolutely nobody from Newcastle or beyond. The sole native of Newcastle I have encountered, and indeed the only one residing in the whole of London, lives in different Halls. And he went to RGS so barely counts.
People become nocturnal beings. Body clocks change on entering the accommodation, and it is doubtful they will ever return to normal.
The words Chav and Essex are considered profanities of the highest order and are used in reference to others at one's own risk.
Americans need clarifications, such as the DTR system. There is none of that very British timidity and reluctance to actually verbalise what the hell is going on. Define The Relationship is a common and useful part of their culture. E.g 'We need to do some DTR-ing'.
Sporty Irish lads can eat veritable mountains of food. It is a marvel to behold.
Philosophers are erudite, articulate, stoners, lovely and laid back, and incomprehensible. They muse on Sartre over starters, Mill over main course and Descartes over dessert.
Characters who are 'allergic to empty glasses', always have an open door and an open bottle of something, who sport berets and can recite Donne off by heart come to be known as Legends.
'Scrubs' is a unifying force.
Queueing has become a social occasion.
Lift smells are a constant source of surprise, revulsion, and mystery and can change hourly.
There is absolutely nobody from Newcastle or beyond. The sole native of Newcastle I have encountered, and indeed the only one residing in the whole of London, lives in different Halls. And he went to RGS so barely counts.
People become nocturnal beings. Body clocks change on entering the accommodation, and it is doubtful they will ever return to normal.
17 November 2007
I Do. You Do. We All Do The Haiku.
In keeping with the spirit of Cumberland Lodge and all that happened in this glorious place of firesides and tapestries, I have decided to be more 'creative' with my 'writing' and relate the essence of the trip through the medium of Haiku.
Over strong coffee - You
Write like an American,
John Sutherland said
From black to white to
Sublime to silly - Hitchcock
Master of the flicks
Striding out in frost
Bobble-hatted, happy, high
Hopes to meet Darcy
Sinking in sofa,
Drowning in tea, reading
The Guardian - joy!
Politics aside,
There's something to be said for
Aristocracy
Over strong coffee - You
Write like an American,
John Sutherland said
From black to white to
Sublime to silly - Hitchcock
Master of the flicks
Striding out in frost
Bobble-hatted, happy, high
Hopes to meet Darcy
Sinking in sofa,
Drowning in tea, reading
The Guardian - joy!
Politics aside,
There's something to be said for
Aristocracy
8 November 2007
A burgeoning snobbery
To desecrate such sanctified and hallowed ground with the audacity and irreverence I had the misfortune to witness shocked me, shocked me to my very core.
People (and note the plural, there was not just one person but multiple people) had actually dared to bring into the holy theatrical sanctum that is Covent Garden's Royal Opera House a London Lite. The free tabloid paper thrust into faces and fists each day in the streets. The streets! I tell you. I shall do my utmost to restrain my vitriol in reference to the spelling of 'Lite', and instead direct it very much towards the blasphemy incurred upon the lustrous velvet seats and gloriously plush amphitheatre. The whole thing reeked, positively reeked, of incongruity and insult. It is akin to bringing a burning effigy, accessorised with voodoo dolls and Wicca crystals, into Sunday service, parading it round the font as the altar is set alight and all the sacrificial wine is drunk, then sticking it up the vicar's arse. Such is the sacrilege.
To actually come prepared with such a rag for the interval leaves me speechless.
I blocked my eyes to the latest about Livingstone and Kate Moss's new hairstyle and tried very hard to merely sit and soak up the atmosphere of artistic brilliance, steeped in decades of theatrical mastery, when waiting between acts. Despite being surrounded by the tempting rustling.
I twiddled my thimbs and remained resolute. I am a true follower of the faith. A born-again believer in a 'swish night out to see the Ballet, dahling!'. I will not have it besmirched by London Lite.
People (and note the plural, there was not just one person but multiple people) had actually dared to bring into the holy theatrical sanctum that is Covent Garden's Royal Opera House a London Lite. The free tabloid paper thrust into faces and fists each day in the streets. The streets! I tell you. I shall do my utmost to restrain my vitriol in reference to the spelling of 'Lite', and instead direct it very much towards the blasphemy incurred upon the lustrous velvet seats and gloriously plush amphitheatre. The whole thing reeked, positively reeked, of incongruity and insult. It is akin to bringing a burning effigy, accessorised with voodoo dolls and Wicca crystals, into Sunday service, parading it round the font as the altar is set alight and all the sacrificial wine is drunk, then sticking it up the vicar's arse. Such is the sacrilege.
To actually come prepared with such a rag for the interval leaves me speechless.
I blocked my eyes to the latest about Livingstone and Kate Moss's new hairstyle and tried very hard to merely sit and soak up the atmosphere of artistic brilliance, steeped in decades of theatrical mastery, when waiting between acts. Despite being surrounded by the tempting rustling.
I twiddled my thimbs and remained resolute. I am a true follower of the faith. A born-again believer in a 'swish night out to see the Ballet, dahling!'. I will not have it besmirched by London Lite.
4 November 2007
Excess, not XS
There is seemingly one constant in the everchanging realm of Kirkdom (otherwise known as 'my current life') and that is Excess.
Starting with the excess of wine drunk the night before the excessively long megabus trip up to The North, Excess became the name of the game that I was sportingly going to play over an extended weekend. I took a suitcase instead of a little holdall - which might be considered by some to be a little excessive - in order to bring an excess of books and, naturally, dirty washing. An excessively choclatey chocolate cake was presented on my arrival, celebrating the birthday of my excessively youthful father.
I hadn't even realised it was Autumn until venturing out of the city, but in Northumberland it is Autumn to excess. In fact it is a leaf-wading, hat and glove, Gap advert Autumn, that is how excessive the season is being. There was not, however, an excess of booze on the eve of Dad's birthday, as every last drop of many a bottle was consumed and enjoyed.
Hexham, with its excess of charity shops, geared up to Bonfire Night as I wandered through the excessively familiar streets, bumping into an excess of familiar faces. Excesses of split-ended hair fell about my person as I finally, after an excess of days, weeks, months, got my hair cut. I was excessively embarrassed by the state I had let it get into. An excessive amount of locals (and, indeed, those from further afield) swarmed through the town for the famous fireworks, which were excessively stunning and are both memory-stirring and memory-making to excess.
The excess people at Spoons had a smoke whilst waiting to get to the excessively busy bar, whilst those of us who battled our way with excessively pointy elbows got served surprisingly quickly. I became excessively overwhelmed and excited at seeing the excess of old friends and recognisable Northerners. Which lead to excessively red cheeks and excessively wide grins.
Excess is no bad thing, as the positive excess can just be scooped up and used later and sustain me for longer. And crikey, I sure feel better for, what some might say, was an excessively long lie in. I would say it was just right.
Starting with the excess of wine drunk the night before the excessively long megabus trip up to The North, Excess became the name of the game that I was sportingly going to play over an extended weekend. I took a suitcase instead of a little holdall - which might be considered by some to be a little excessive - in order to bring an excess of books and, naturally, dirty washing. An excessively choclatey chocolate cake was presented on my arrival, celebrating the birthday of my excessively youthful father.
I hadn't even realised it was Autumn until venturing out of the city, but in Northumberland it is Autumn to excess. In fact it is a leaf-wading, hat and glove, Gap advert Autumn, that is how excessive the season is being. There was not, however, an excess of booze on the eve of Dad's birthday, as every last drop of many a bottle was consumed and enjoyed.
Hexham, with its excess of charity shops, geared up to Bonfire Night as I wandered through the excessively familiar streets, bumping into an excess of familiar faces. Excesses of split-ended hair fell about my person as I finally, after an excess of days, weeks, months, got my hair cut. I was excessively embarrassed by the state I had let it get into. An excessive amount of locals (and, indeed, those from further afield) swarmed through the town for the famous fireworks, which were excessively stunning and are both memory-stirring and memory-making to excess.
The excess people at Spoons had a smoke whilst waiting to get to the excessively busy bar, whilst those of us who battled our way with excessively pointy elbows got served surprisingly quickly. I became excessively overwhelmed and excited at seeing the excess of old friends and recognisable Northerners. Which lead to excessively red cheeks and excessively wide grins.
Excess is no bad thing, as the positive excess can just be scooped up and used later and sustain me for longer. And crikey, I sure feel better for, what some might say, was an excessively long lie in. I would say it was just right.
26 October 2007
If ever I'm feeling a little glum, the best cure I find is to simply mull over that precise expression of melancholy.
Feeling a little glum
I imagine a gnome-like creature, small, round and fantastical (perhaps even Tolkeinesque), being tickled to death by little roving hands whilst it wears a resolutely grim facial contortion, before it cracks up in hysterical glee. This always causes a fleeting smile and snigger, therefore banishing the former gloom.
The glumness is solved by envisaging Glums. Glums being felt up.
Feeling a little glum
I imagine a gnome-like creature, small, round and fantastical (perhaps even Tolkeinesque), being tickled to death by little roving hands whilst it wears a resolutely grim facial contortion, before it cracks up in hysterical glee. This always causes a fleeting smile and snigger, therefore banishing the former gloom.
The glumness is solved by envisaging Glums. Glums being felt up.
20 October 2007
Thankyadada for taking us to Wagamama
Despite the excess of ambient noise, it was an excellent choice of restaurant.
Jam packed with punters and bustling with hungry hip young things, the canteen style layout is perfect for chatty social interaction. Bevies of efficient, yet mildly stressed, waiting staff sweep up and down the length of the tables, bowing to one's every need and self-indulgent gluttonous whim.
It is astonishing what powers a serving of hot, deliciously fragrant, invitingly comforting food can possess. The disgruntled twittering of malcontent that had previously filled the air quickly abated once cavernous vessels yielding fragrant fancies were placed before wide-eyed souls.
I almost drowned in a big bowl of aromatic noodle soup, laced with coconut and chilli and studded with chunks of tofu. When delving into it I may easily have been lost forever if I hadn't had my feet wrapped around the table leg and a brother on hand to fish me out.
Noodles submerged in an oily broth and chopsticks does not make for attractive eating. Spattering myself (and anything that was in a five metre radius of my gesticulating arms) in globules and flecks of yumminess, we shouted happily above the din, cheeks full and chops smeared with grease. Messy eating, especially in public, really is the best. It makes for funny and amiable babbling, yakking away nineteen to the dozen, whilst making a contented fool of oneself.
The philosophy of the place is 'Wham-bam-thank-you-mam!' Dishes come thick and fast, senses are all heightened (bright eyes, smells abounding, getting hot at the frenzy of it all), and there's only two chefs. No, three - 'I didn't see that little one there' - only a voraciously bobbing red hat visible above the counters. So much is going on, in terms of movement, sound, and taste explosions, one could almost forget that it was 'family outing' and that families are supposed to bicker and argue and not get on. This is the magic of such a place, it makes people rub along jolly well. Even people who are related. Super choice, five stars.
Just don't prod my stomach. It may burst with a satisfied pop.
Jam packed with punters and bustling with hungry hip young things, the canteen style layout is perfect for chatty social interaction. Bevies of efficient, yet mildly stressed, waiting staff sweep up and down the length of the tables, bowing to one's every need and self-indulgent gluttonous whim.
It is astonishing what powers a serving of hot, deliciously fragrant, invitingly comforting food can possess. The disgruntled twittering of malcontent that had previously filled the air quickly abated once cavernous vessels yielding fragrant fancies were placed before wide-eyed souls.
I almost drowned in a big bowl of aromatic noodle soup, laced with coconut and chilli and studded with chunks of tofu. When delving into it I may easily have been lost forever if I hadn't had my feet wrapped around the table leg and a brother on hand to fish me out.
Noodles submerged in an oily broth and chopsticks does not make for attractive eating. Spattering myself (and anything that was in a five metre radius of my gesticulating arms) in globules and flecks of yumminess, we shouted happily above the din, cheeks full and chops smeared with grease. Messy eating, especially in public, really is the best. It makes for funny and amiable babbling, yakking away nineteen to the dozen, whilst making a contented fool of oneself.
The philosophy of the place is 'Wham-bam-thank-you-mam!' Dishes come thick and fast, senses are all heightened (bright eyes, smells abounding, getting hot at the frenzy of it all), and there's only two chefs. No, three - 'I didn't see that little one there' - only a voraciously bobbing red hat visible above the counters. So much is going on, in terms of movement, sound, and taste explosions, one could almost forget that it was 'family outing' and that families are supposed to bicker and argue and not get on. This is the magic of such a place, it makes people rub along jolly well. Even people who are related. Super choice, five stars.
Just don't prod my stomach. It may burst with a satisfied pop.
7 October 2007
Horseplay for Philistines
Of course I felt awful. But Dad said it took him the best part of his life to realise that if he wasn't enjoying a book it was not actually compulsory to finish it. What is the point if you are willing the end to come with all your might and the book in question is soul destroying? It is a waste of time. You could be doing something infinitely more pleasurable and fulfilling.
I applied this same logic to a play.
It did make it worse that the first time I walked out of a performance was at the esteemed Globe theatre. BUT, I hasten to add, it was not Shakespeare, which would, of course, be sacrilege. Instead, it was some political drama (if one could call a lot of men sitting around in period clothing voting on matters of Government 'drama' as such) that documented American goings on within state arounf the time of Franklin etc. So it was to be expected really.
I love the Globe, and the whole ambience of the inspirational setting. Even the venue, with all its Shakespeare in Love connections, was not enough to redeem this play. The accents were dire, ranging from caricature hillbilly, to variations of Irish and Scottish (which at least was entertaining in its way) and there was an awful lot of thespian posturing, and placing of cast members within the audience. A frankly terrifying notion, as I was in a constant anticipatory state of dread that they would explode into action right beside me.
And so it was that I left in the interval (I would never be so rude as to leave mid-actorly gesture or speech) for the Tate Modern. Along with half the audience. Alas, poor production company. And for shame at leaving in the middle. I do harbour insecurities about not sticking it through, but really... American politics?
Incidentally, and incomprehensibly, there was a horse brought on a little while into the performance. It added absolutely nothing to, well, anything really. I suppose it was merely there to be talked about later, poor thing. 'Did you see that awful American history lesson masquerading as a production? You know, the one with the horse?'
Animal cruelty at its height- being the mascot for a truly mind-numbingly bad play.
Adds a new understanding to the phrase 'even wild horses couldn't hold me back'. This one couldn't hold me back from the exit point.
I applied this same logic to a play.
It did make it worse that the first time I walked out of a performance was at the esteemed Globe theatre. BUT, I hasten to add, it was not Shakespeare, which would, of course, be sacrilege. Instead, it was some political drama (if one could call a lot of men sitting around in period clothing voting on matters of Government 'drama' as such) that documented American goings on within state arounf the time of Franklin etc. So it was to be expected really.
I love the Globe, and the whole ambience of the inspirational setting. Even the venue, with all its Shakespeare in Love connections, was not enough to redeem this play. The accents were dire, ranging from caricature hillbilly, to variations of Irish and Scottish (which at least was entertaining in its way) and there was an awful lot of thespian posturing, and placing of cast members within the audience. A frankly terrifying notion, as I was in a constant anticipatory state of dread that they would explode into action right beside me.
And so it was that I left in the interval (I would never be so rude as to leave mid-actorly gesture or speech) for the Tate Modern. Along with half the audience. Alas, poor production company. And for shame at leaving in the middle. I do harbour insecurities about not sticking it through, but really... American politics?
Incidentally, and incomprehensibly, there was a horse brought on a little while into the performance. It added absolutely nothing to, well, anything really. I suppose it was merely there to be talked about later, poor thing. 'Did you see that awful American history lesson masquerading as a production? You know, the one with the horse?'
Animal cruelty at its height- being the mascot for a truly mind-numbingly bad play.
Adds a new understanding to the phrase 'even wild horses couldn't hold me back'. This one couldn't hold me back from the exit point.
2 October 2007
A mere whisp of the Big Smoke
'Where the devil have you been?', I hear you cry en masse. 'What the Dickens have you been getting up to?', you add as an afterthought.
Well, I'll tell you what I haven't been doing. And that is watching 'Neighbours'. Alas, my intellect has been called for elsewhere. And it certainly is necessary for all brain cells to be present in order to get off at the right bus stop, dodge raindrops effectively, and use all their strength for keeping my arm affixed to my body when lugging bloody great literary tomes around. That 'Riverside Chaucer' will be the death of me. On the plus side, I'm starting to resemble Popeye after the spinach magic. Only in one arm though.
Disregarding the loss of 'Neighbours' (I softly sob in sweet lament of this afternoon delight) I am attuning to the quirks and quaintness of our fine capital.
I shall give a taster of the observations I have made of late.
The library is organised in a nuts fashion. One could get lost in a dusty corner and never experience natural light again. Or, indeed, a common sense approach to alphebetisation.
Jeremy Bentham has his own pub. Which is marvellously cosy but a little overpriced. Now, is that the most happiness for the most people? At £5 for a large glass of wine, I think not. Though it is pleasing to see his brightly coloured features leering down at one from the pub sign.
Tutors all have their bizarre oddities. They are either named after Greek lute players, have disturbingly long fingernails for a middle aged man in corduroy, have a penchant, or even a fetish, for dashes in text, resemble Miss Cackle from 'The Worst Witch', or have fascinatingly lyrical names like Dr Ardis Butterfield.
The bus seems to be the place to be when the 'Dad gene' kicks in and I stare at people gormlessly without realising it. Totally captivating.
Large stacks of mattresses are transported from lorry to building in the middle of the street. Mattresses that I shall, in time, be laying my head on. Atleast I can see that they're doing something to my soon-to-be abode. I'll have a bed of sorts at any rate.
I actually have to read for the English course. A lot.
There are a billion other things too. But I can't recall off the top of my head. The cranial matter needs a rest. That is what 'Neighbours' is for.
Well, I'll tell you what I haven't been doing. And that is watching 'Neighbours'. Alas, my intellect has been called for elsewhere. And it certainly is necessary for all brain cells to be present in order to get off at the right bus stop, dodge raindrops effectively, and use all their strength for keeping my arm affixed to my body when lugging bloody great literary tomes around. That 'Riverside Chaucer' will be the death of me. On the plus side, I'm starting to resemble Popeye after the spinach magic. Only in one arm though.
Disregarding the loss of 'Neighbours' (I softly sob in sweet lament of this afternoon delight) I am attuning to the quirks and quaintness of our fine capital.
I shall give a taster of the observations I have made of late.
The library is organised in a nuts fashion. One could get lost in a dusty corner and never experience natural light again. Or, indeed, a common sense approach to alphebetisation.
Jeremy Bentham has his own pub. Which is marvellously cosy but a little overpriced. Now, is that the most happiness for the most people? At £5 for a large glass of wine, I think not. Though it is pleasing to see his brightly coloured features leering down at one from the pub sign.
Tutors all have their bizarre oddities. They are either named after Greek lute players, have disturbingly long fingernails for a middle aged man in corduroy, have a penchant, or even a fetish, for dashes in text, resemble Miss Cackle from 'The Worst Witch', or have fascinatingly lyrical names like Dr Ardis Butterfield.
The bus seems to be the place to be when the 'Dad gene' kicks in and I stare at people gormlessly without realising it. Totally captivating.
Large stacks of mattresses are transported from lorry to building in the middle of the street. Mattresses that I shall, in time, be laying my head on. Atleast I can see that they're doing something to my soon-to-be abode. I'll have a bed of sorts at any rate.
I actually have to read for the English course. A lot.
There are a billion other things too. But I can't recall off the top of my head. The cranial matter needs a rest. That is what 'Neighbours' is for.
27 September 2007
Spot the difference
What I have feared all along is, in actuality, true. All Kirks are the same.
Even when they pretend to be otherwise, by giving themselves a different surname in the vain attempt at escaping the curse of Kirk and evading the pitfalls that are inextricably bound to the genepool and DNA strands. It is a futile endeavor to denounce what Kirk ancestory has granted.
To be dubbed 'Hankins' fools nobody.
Nature seems to prevail over nurture if the family dynamics of the household I am currently ensconced within is anything to go by. Despite living hundreds of miles away from my own fair family unit and being brought up by different parents and in a different environment, offspring are interchangeable. No doubt a swap could occur within the brood and we would be none the wiser for at least a week. Especially if dishwasher loading and unloading is chucked into the mix. The Kirk approach seems universal. Delegation and avoidance, mostly. If only an aga were here, and I'd feel quite alarmingly at home.
And parental approach to wine drinking is comfortingly similar also.
Even when they pretend to be otherwise, by giving themselves a different surname in the vain attempt at escaping the curse of Kirk and evading the pitfalls that are inextricably bound to the genepool and DNA strands. It is a futile endeavor to denounce what Kirk ancestory has granted.
To be dubbed 'Hankins' fools nobody.
Nature seems to prevail over nurture if the family dynamics of the household I am currently ensconced within is anything to go by. Despite living hundreds of miles away from my own fair family unit and being brought up by different parents and in a different environment, offspring are interchangeable. No doubt a swap could occur within the brood and we would be none the wiser for at least a week. Especially if dishwasher loading and unloading is chucked into the mix. The Kirk approach seems universal. Delegation and avoidance, mostly. If only an aga were here, and I'd feel quite alarmingly at home.
And parental approach to wine drinking is comfortingly similar also.
19 September 2007
First impression = Worst impression?
I have been working on my introductions.
My unforced, seemingly off the cuff, decidedly unpremeditated introductions that I will undoubtedly have to repeat about a billion times on arriving at university.
So, this is what I have come up with so far...
'Enchanted. I'm Anna and I'm reading English as I am so enamoured of the romanticism of the literary scene in Bloomsbury, steeped in its creative and scholarly traditions. I just cannot wait to steep myself in it also, being that I am such an ardent admirer of all that is encompassed within this grand institution. Don't you just positively ache to immerse yourself in the culture and ambience of the whole Fresher experience? I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance.'
'Nu! Call me Country Bumpkin Kirky. I'm from Up North. That's a bit further than Harrow. Where sheep outnumber people and you have to wait a mite longer than a minute or two for a bus to anywhere. Yes, the legends are true. And no, I'm not inbred. To the pub, where mine'll be a Newcastle Brown. Cheers!'
'Umm...Err...Hello, I'm Petrified. I mean I'm Anna. As well as petrified. Nice to meet you. I'm doing English, well, will be doing English, you know, when we start doing things. Studying things, I mean. And by things I mean books. Well, in my case anyway... So...what about you?'
Though once I get the old vino rouge down my neck all will be fine. There'll be no stopping my inane and blathering chit chat. Flow of conversation may well depend on flow of alcohol.
Not that I want to give the impression I'm an alcoholic.
My unforced, seemingly off the cuff, decidedly unpremeditated introductions that I will undoubtedly have to repeat about a billion times on arriving at university.
So, this is what I have come up with so far...
'Enchanted. I'm Anna and I'm reading English as I am so enamoured of the romanticism of the literary scene in Bloomsbury, steeped in its creative and scholarly traditions. I just cannot wait to steep myself in it also, being that I am such an ardent admirer of all that is encompassed within this grand institution. Don't you just positively ache to immerse yourself in the culture and ambience of the whole Fresher experience? I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance.'
'Nu! Call me Country Bumpkin Kirky. I'm from Up North. That's a bit further than Harrow. Where sheep outnumber people and you have to wait a mite longer than a minute or two for a bus to anywhere. Yes, the legends are true. And no, I'm not inbred. To the pub, where mine'll be a Newcastle Brown. Cheers!'
'Umm...Err...Hello, I'm Petrified. I mean I'm Anna. As well as petrified. Nice to meet you. I'm doing English, well, will be doing English, you know, when we start doing things. Studying things, I mean. And by things I mean books. Well, in my case anyway... So...what about you?'
Though once I get the old vino rouge down my neck all will be fine. There'll be no stopping my inane and blathering chit chat. Flow of conversation may well depend on flow of alcohol.
Not that I want to give the impression I'm an alcoholic.
15 September 2007
The Little Things
Sometimes it gets to the point when one just wants to cry out, in the immortal words of Dr Evil, 'Throw me a frickin' bone here!'.
After being kicked one too many times when already very much down, bruised and bloodily pulpy from the blows, the little things that bring so much pleasure ordinarily take on almost mystically regenerating properties.
So when I learned that my Big Box of Books were going to arrive that day, I felt instantly brighter. There is nothing like new books. I am all for ancient, musty smelling and yellowing tomes, but there is something so beautifully clean and wholesome and uplifting about glossy, brand new, pristine books. They are nothing short of exciting.
And the fact that they would be inevitably arriving in a brown delivery box only served to add to the charm of it all- something so very 'brown paper package tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things' about the whole postal procedure.
I put off going in the shower for hours so as not to be otherwise engaged when the doorbell rang, announcing the books. I just wasn't in the frame of mind to cope with the disappointment of them being dragged away due to nobody being in. So I sacrificed my cleanliness and tolerated the smell in order to be there when the bell tolled. I was busy practicing my swanky gait when it finally did, getting used to my absurdly high new red patent leather heels around the house, but leapt three feet in the air as I heard the man arrive, leaving my shoes resolutely stationary on the ground as I did so, like in the cartoons.
He was a big, bald, beefy chap. Immediately the box was thrust into my arms, then he passed me the dinky signing contraption on top of this. Now this seemed silly. He was a strapping man of Mitchell brothers-muscle. I am a scrawny waif like creature, often mistaken for an urchin boy of distinctly Dickensian pedigree. So to have to sign this screen with that impractical little pencil/poking thing whilst lumbered with a box weighing over 5 kilos was a little bit rich. But it barely ruffled a feather, being, as I was, so excited and preoccupied with the treasure within the cardboard chest.
Wielding scissors manically, I sliced through the sellotape and beheld the innards. I beamed.
After being kicked one too many times when already very much down, bruised and bloodily pulpy from the blows, the little things that bring so much pleasure ordinarily take on almost mystically regenerating properties.
So when I learned that my Big Box of Books were going to arrive that day, I felt instantly brighter. There is nothing like new books. I am all for ancient, musty smelling and yellowing tomes, but there is something so beautifully clean and wholesome and uplifting about glossy, brand new, pristine books. They are nothing short of exciting.
And the fact that they would be inevitably arriving in a brown delivery box only served to add to the charm of it all- something so very 'brown paper package tied up with string, these are a few of my favourite things' about the whole postal procedure.
I put off going in the shower for hours so as not to be otherwise engaged when the doorbell rang, announcing the books. I just wasn't in the frame of mind to cope with the disappointment of them being dragged away due to nobody being in. So I sacrificed my cleanliness and tolerated the smell in order to be there when the bell tolled. I was busy practicing my swanky gait when it finally did, getting used to my absurdly high new red patent leather heels around the house, but leapt three feet in the air as I heard the man arrive, leaving my shoes resolutely stationary on the ground as I did so, like in the cartoons.
He was a big, bald, beefy chap. Immediately the box was thrust into my arms, then he passed me the dinky signing contraption on top of this. Now this seemed silly. He was a strapping man of Mitchell brothers-muscle. I am a scrawny waif like creature, often mistaken for an urchin boy of distinctly Dickensian pedigree. So to have to sign this screen with that impractical little pencil/poking thing whilst lumbered with a box weighing over 5 kilos was a little bit rich. But it barely ruffled a feather, being, as I was, so excited and preoccupied with the treasure within the cardboard chest.
Wielding scissors manically, I sliced through the sellotape and beheld the innards. I beamed.
10 September 2007
Technological Healing
In the current social climate we live in, shadowed and tainted by terrorism, attacks and the media stoking the fires of fear within the masses, I was not surprised to be receiving flashing boxes popping up on my laptop alerting me to the fact that there was a 'THREAT DETECTED'. Dum dum duuuuum....!
What I was surprised to see was that one of the options presented in dealing with said 'THREAT' (which was not elaborated on- it was apparently enough to know that it would be threatening) was to 'heal'. I could either 'ignore' or 'heal'. Naturally I opted for 'heal'.
And lo, a new box appeared instantaneously informing me 'the object is healed'. And there was great rejoicing in the land, and the trumpets sounded and all exulted in the power and the glory, and the laptop was praised.
So there you go, it's as easy as that. Threats can just be healed. By computers no less. Computers channelling the grace of God.
What I was surprised to see was that one of the options presented in dealing with said 'THREAT' (which was not elaborated on- it was apparently enough to know that it would be threatening) was to 'heal'. I could either 'ignore' or 'heal'. Naturally I opted for 'heal'.
And lo, a new box appeared instantaneously informing me 'the object is healed'. And there was great rejoicing in the land, and the trumpets sounded and all exulted in the power and the glory, and the laptop was praised.
So there you go, it's as easy as that. Threats can just be healed. By computers no less. Computers channelling the grace of God.
3 September 2007
Puddings of the Past: Chocolate Childhood in a Bowl
It is a true classic. Synonymous with family life and formative childhood experiences, Mum’s Chocolate Mousse is forever entwined with vivid, animated images of crowded dinner tables and smacking lips. It surpasses the Chris Garner Chocolate Traybake, and even the Slightly Sticking Yorkshire Pudding on the Kirk Family Classics scale.
Its fame is widespread, reaching as far as any extended family member or family friend has deigned to hold a celebration or gathering over the past decade or so for which we were required to bring dessert. The notoriety and infamy of such a pudding exceeds any that has come before it. It really is that good.
A firm favourite with the menfolk of the Kirk clan, who lap it up as though they have been working the Cumbrian fields since sunrise and have been hard at manual labour which coarsens the skin and puts muscles on their backs, the ritualistic trundling out of the whipped up indulgence never fails to make the revellers eyes light up. Eyes that are often bigger than their bellies. Bellies that have invariably already been stretched with fine food and good wine. The family resemblance between Dad and Uncle D is never more apparent than when presented with the fancy ‘special occasion’ glass bowl of Chocolate Mousse.
Everybody has their own tried and tested way of embarking on its lusciousness and tackling the richness that could take out a rhinoceros with one spoonful. I favour the method of using a small spoon and accompanying the bowlful with a large glass of water that is sipped between mouthfuls, and gulped in the aftermath. Dad drowns his in double cream (‘I’ll have some mousse with my cream, please’) to ‘cut’ through the rich chocolate. N eats his at a (literal) fair lick, asks for seconds - still heady from the first instalment of sugar and cocoa – then promptly keels over from overload, unrepentant in his greed. Mum savours, but consumes at a reasonable pace, smug in the fact she is established in her running program. J takes it slow and steady and, to my extreme surprise, cannot finish it. It is his all time fave after all, requested for his birthday. I’m shocked until I learn he finished off the luxury chocolate cake with butter cream and decorative chocolate shavings earlier. One chocolate hit too far. Deadly.
Thank goodness it was requested however, as it meant I could sample its magical qualities one last time before leaving home. And I had the extreme privilege of making it on this occasion. With the proper type of chocolate that is purchased especially to be used for the Chocolate Mousse no less. The type of chocolate we feared had disappeared forever but was actually bought by Nestle. We shall have to withhold political ethics in this instance, for the greater good of the perfect dessert. Even though, once having been refrigerated, a hammer and chisel is required to break into the dark, velvety yumminess that holds all the answers to childhood. Oooh, mystical... Never underestimate the powers of pudding.
Its fame is widespread, reaching as far as any extended family member or family friend has deigned to hold a celebration or gathering over the past decade or so for which we were required to bring dessert. The notoriety and infamy of such a pudding exceeds any that has come before it. It really is that good.
A firm favourite with the menfolk of the Kirk clan, who lap it up as though they have been working the Cumbrian fields since sunrise and have been hard at manual labour which coarsens the skin and puts muscles on their backs, the ritualistic trundling out of the whipped up indulgence never fails to make the revellers eyes light up. Eyes that are often bigger than their bellies. Bellies that have invariably already been stretched with fine food and good wine. The family resemblance between Dad and Uncle D is never more apparent than when presented with the fancy ‘special occasion’ glass bowl of Chocolate Mousse.
Everybody has their own tried and tested way of embarking on its lusciousness and tackling the richness that could take out a rhinoceros with one spoonful. I favour the method of using a small spoon and accompanying the bowlful with a large glass of water that is sipped between mouthfuls, and gulped in the aftermath. Dad drowns his in double cream (‘I’ll have some mousse with my cream, please’) to ‘cut’ through the rich chocolate. N eats his at a (literal) fair lick, asks for seconds - still heady from the first instalment of sugar and cocoa – then promptly keels over from overload, unrepentant in his greed. Mum savours, but consumes at a reasonable pace, smug in the fact she is established in her running program. J takes it slow and steady and, to my extreme surprise, cannot finish it. It is his all time fave after all, requested for his birthday. I’m shocked until I learn he finished off the luxury chocolate cake with butter cream and decorative chocolate shavings earlier. One chocolate hit too far. Deadly.
Thank goodness it was requested however, as it meant I could sample its magical qualities one last time before leaving home. And I had the extreme privilege of making it on this occasion. With the proper type of chocolate that is purchased especially to be used for the Chocolate Mousse no less. The type of chocolate we feared had disappeared forever but was actually bought by Nestle. We shall have to withhold political ethics in this instance, for the greater good of the perfect dessert. Even though, once having been refrigerated, a hammer and chisel is required to break into the dark, velvety yumminess that holds all the answers to childhood. Oooh, mystical... Never underestimate the powers of pudding.
29 August 2007
Avocado Skins
Living, as we do, in the wrong neck of the woods to be eligible for any kind of modern, new age technology that actually allows us to get channel five, let alone this new-fangled 'digital' tv that I have heard legend of, mere rumours whispered on the breeze as they pass through our country bumpkin dwellings, I have had to wait until now to watch the appraised 'Skins'. Our stone-age bubble around the house has dictated that we must make do with terrestrial. This is one of the many sob-story, MontyPython Yorkshiremen sketch-style tales I will pass on to the grandchildren with a wistful tear in my eye.
Anyway, now that channel four has deigned to give us lowly analogue viewers the chance to revel in the teenage exploits of the wild southern group of pill-popping, vodka-necking, gonad-groping sixth formers, I have a reference point for our own parties.
Quel difference??
They fall short in terms of sheer wildness, recklessness, and downright destruction. Bottles of wine, hippie-rollies, bowls of Tesco's Taste the Difference crisps, quilt-strewn sofas, Cyndi Lauper/Bob Dylan/Aretha Franklin on the hi-fi, raving in the kitchen, heart to hearts in the basement, cheese and crackers before bed. That kind of civilised fare. As opposed to shooting heroin, discarded syringe littering the floors, vats of spag-bol chucked around, swinging from the chandelier type activity. Don't get me wrong, when throwing a shindig it's no tea party we have in mind, and it wouldn't be an amazing stretch of the imagination to envisage the 'Skins' situation going down in here Hexham. I'm just saying that, instead of poppers, it's popped avocados that get us high.
The morning after and L looks in her bag. 'Ewww, there's avocado mush all over my stuff! You gave me one as a present last night and it's popped!'
Two more popped avocadoes were discovered during mission clear up later that day. It's a problem in these parts.
And as I always say when eating salad, that green pulp just coats everything.
Anyway, now that channel four has deigned to give us lowly analogue viewers the chance to revel in the teenage exploits of the wild southern group of pill-popping, vodka-necking, gonad-groping sixth formers, I have a reference point for our own parties.
Quel difference??
They fall short in terms of sheer wildness, recklessness, and downright destruction. Bottles of wine, hippie-rollies, bowls of Tesco's Taste the Difference crisps, quilt-strewn sofas, Cyndi Lauper/Bob Dylan/Aretha Franklin on the hi-fi, raving in the kitchen, heart to hearts in the basement, cheese and crackers before bed. That kind of civilised fare. As opposed to shooting heroin, discarded syringe littering the floors, vats of spag-bol chucked around, swinging from the chandelier type activity. Don't get me wrong, when throwing a shindig it's no tea party we have in mind, and it wouldn't be an amazing stretch of the imagination to envisage the 'Skins' situation going down in here Hexham. I'm just saying that, instead of poppers, it's popped avocados that get us high.
The morning after and L looks in her bag. 'Ewww, there's avocado mush all over my stuff! You gave me one as a present last night and it's popped!'
Two more popped avocadoes were discovered during mission clear up later that day. It's a problem in these parts.
And as I always say when eating salad, that green pulp just coats everything.
21 August 2007
Textbook Case... with doodles
A horrifying realisation has been made. It is mostly horrifying because it has taken me this long to make it. I have realised that, on paper, I am a textbook lah-di-dah little lady of what is considered to be snort-snort toffiness and goody-two-shoes privilage. Not just any two shoes either, but the shiny patent leather t-bar kind that girlies wear when going on special outings. It is that bad.
Ballet lessons from the age of four with the quintessential ballet mistress with scraped back black bun and ankle warmers. Private flute lessons, possible the most lady-like and ponciest instrument there is, so I could play refined classical pieces. In various choirs throughout the educational process. Taking part in dance and theatre productions for which my mother often made my costumes. Trips to the ballet, art galleries, operettas, music recitals. Noel Streatfield being a favourite of mine for many a year, especially 'Ballet Shoes' in which I yearned to be a character. A penchant for pretty things: hand-crafted buttons, silky ribbons, ornate perfume bottles, intricate embroidery. I have been known to be in possession of a Little House on the Prairie-style frock and a collection of Alice bands that were invariably clamped to my head. I even have a Degas poster on my wall and a box set of hardback, beautifully illustrated Lewis Carroll books on my shelf.
I bow my head (of gleaming locks, 100 brush-strokes before bed naturally) in shame.
So, of course, I am grateful for all the other things that are not 'on paper', as it were. The fact that I can recite all of 'Robin Hood: Men in Tights', 'The Princess Bride' and the majority of the Star Wars trilogy by heart. The endless Roman wall outings and visits to castles, acting out scenes roitously with plastic swords and shields. Having every single screen version (both silver and small) of Robin Hood there is, on well-worn video. Scratching, punching, biting my way through many a 'play' fight with those of the opposite gender, and often coming out triumphant. Being the sole member of my family who can watch whole episodes of Rome without flinching at, or turning away from, the blood, gore and violence. In fact, I revel in it. Being brought up watching, what I was amusingly reminded of the other day as being referred to by a two year old N as, 'Henry the Viv'; the Laurence Olivier version of Henry V. Having an 'Empire Strikes Back' poster in place next to a Van Gogh. Being known to shriek 'On guard, you varlet!' with violent frequency when wielding weapons throughout childhood.
Thank goodness for the counterbalance. One might have thought me a wussy, prim, thoroughly revolting and precocious girly-girl. I hope I have set the score right.
Ballet lessons from the age of four with the quintessential ballet mistress with scraped back black bun and ankle warmers. Private flute lessons, possible the most lady-like and ponciest instrument there is, so I could play refined classical pieces. In various choirs throughout the educational process. Taking part in dance and theatre productions for which my mother often made my costumes. Trips to the ballet, art galleries, operettas, music recitals. Noel Streatfield being a favourite of mine for many a year, especially 'Ballet Shoes' in which I yearned to be a character. A penchant for pretty things: hand-crafted buttons, silky ribbons, ornate perfume bottles, intricate embroidery. I have been known to be in possession of a Little House on the Prairie-style frock and a collection of Alice bands that were invariably clamped to my head. I even have a Degas poster on my wall and a box set of hardback, beautifully illustrated Lewis Carroll books on my shelf.
I bow my head (of gleaming locks, 100 brush-strokes before bed naturally) in shame.
So, of course, I am grateful for all the other things that are not 'on paper', as it were. The fact that I can recite all of 'Robin Hood: Men in Tights', 'The Princess Bride' and the majority of the Star Wars trilogy by heart. The endless Roman wall outings and visits to castles, acting out scenes roitously with plastic swords and shields. Having every single screen version (both silver and small) of Robin Hood there is, on well-worn video. Scratching, punching, biting my way through many a 'play' fight with those of the opposite gender, and often coming out triumphant. Being the sole member of my family who can watch whole episodes of Rome without flinching at, or turning away from, the blood, gore and violence. In fact, I revel in it. Being brought up watching, what I was amusingly reminded of the other day as being referred to by a two year old N as, 'Henry the Viv'; the Laurence Olivier version of Henry V. Having an 'Empire Strikes Back' poster in place next to a Van Gogh. Being known to shriek 'On guard, you varlet!' with violent frequency when wielding weapons throughout childhood.
Thank goodness for the counterbalance. One might have thought me a wussy, prim, thoroughly revolting and precocious girly-girl. I hope I have set the score right.
14 August 2007
Bla, bla, bla - Ignore if Bored by Waffling
It seems as though the more escapades I get up to and the more time I have, the less I blog. How odd.
So a great many things (of which you are going to have to only imagine- though some are beyond mortal comprehension it must be said) have occurred that could have filled post upon post of blogtastic entertainment. I cannot, alas, be arsed to cover these. They will not get the attention, wit and painstaking yet subtle handling they deserve if I dash off a few hasty typings.
Instead I am going to pepper this post with a smattering of observations that have been observed (which is what observations usually are. Observed I mean) of late. Nay, the very purpose of this post will be to provide a series of aforementioned observations. Lucky, lucky you.
1. Although I recognise that dogs and cats are very different things, not least anatomically, I am more concerned with the subtle differences between them. The dog we are looking after is, admittedly, very like a cat, but it has been noted that I act differently with the canine creature than its feline nemesis. By which I mean that when I am skulking around home alone I will talk amicably to the animals in a conversational manner, but to the dog in straightforward English, and the cat in French. Why? Je ne sais pas.
2. Icecream vans are creepy. When up in my room I hear the soft tinkling of a nursery rhyme tune drifting on the breeze up to my window, luring innocent children with its haunting and frankly sinister melodies. There is something of the Pied Piper in the whole business, a fairytale I always had trouble with as it made me uncomfortable. A grown man leading young bairns away with a quick blow on his whistle? Shudder. And not to mention how reminiscent the icecream vans are to that familiar figure of children's nightmares, the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. An absolutely terrifying chap, all greasy hair, wiry limbs and long, crooked nose.
It is even more disconcerting when the faint, repetitive ditties are heard as night falls.
3. Doing crosswords when one is forced to copy out the grid from the puzzle in the paper may well be fun the first time, what with the novelty of creating a slipshod forgery, but it is most definitely not when done every day. It becomes a cumbersome task. But when there have been cross words over crosswords (sorry, I couldn't resist) one must do one's duty and relent to the wishes of the disgruntled parent. Just as long as they are aware of my martyrdom.
4. I am actually incapable of receiving compliments like an ordinary human being. It all goes well at first, with me smiling graciously and thanking whoever has been lovely enough to pay me one. But then I always have to go further and be a little bit manic in my reply. For example, when complimented on my new shoes, which has happened rather a lot actually, I then go on to immediately say how they were an absolute bargain from Save the Children at only £4 yada, yada, yada. People don't want to hear that. They want the moment to swiftly move one, having done a nice thing in saying something good about another and hoping that it will be reciprocated. They don't want to hear how I am the bag lady of Hexham, scrambling about in charity shops and being tight with money. I can't help it though, it all just spills out in a rather high-pitched voice, nineteen to the dozen. I must learn to say 'Thankyou, and I simply adore your vintage lycra jumpsuit'. Easy as that.
5. Being an only child (though only for a few days, granted) may not be all it's cracked up to be. It's basically the same as having siblings but with less satisfaction from winding up, less exasperation from observing the habits of others and less entertainment from the exploits of the young. A sedate ride is not necessarily preferable to one with peaks and troughs, as the rollercoaster industry is well aware.
Over and out on the observation front. It's time for Neighbours.
So a great many things (of which you are going to have to only imagine- though some are beyond mortal comprehension it must be said) have occurred that could have filled post upon post of blogtastic entertainment. I cannot, alas, be arsed to cover these. They will not get the attention, wit and painstaking yet subtle handling they deserve if I dash off a few hasty typings.
Instead I am going to pepper this post with a smattering of observations that have been observed (which is what observations usually are. Observed I mean) of late. Nay, the very purpose of this post will be to provide a series of aforementioned observations. Lucky, lucky you.
1. Although I recognise that dogs and cats are very different things, not least anatomically, I am more concerned with the subtle differences between them. The dog we are looking after is, admittedly, very like a cat, but it has been noted that I act differently with the canine creature than its feline nemesis. By which I mean that when I am skulking around home alone I will talk amicably to the animals in a conversational manner, but to the dog in straightforward English, and the cat in French. Why? Je ne sais pas.
2. Icecream vans are creepy. When up in my room I hear the soft tinkling of a nursery rhyme tune drifting on the breeze up to my window, luring innocent children with its haunting and frankly sinister melodies. There is something of the Pied Piper in the whole business, a fairytale I always had trouble with as it made me uncomfortable. A grown man leading young bairns away with a quick blow on his whistle? Shudder. And not to mention how reminiscent the icecream vans are to that familiar figure of children's nightmares, the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. An absolutely terrifying chap, all greasy hair, wiry limbs and long, crooked nose.
It is even more disconcerting when the faint, repetitive ditties are heard as night falls.
3. Doing crosswords when one is forced to copy out the grid from the puzzle in the paper may well be fun the first time, what with the novelty of creating a slipshod forgery, but it is most definitely not when done every day. It becomes a cumbersome task. But when there have been cross words over crosswords (sorry, I couldn't resist) one must do one's duty and relent to the wishes of the disgruntled parent. Just as long as they are aware of my martyrdom.
4. I am actually incapable of receiving compliments like an ordinary human being. It all goes well at first, with me smiling graciously and thanking whoever has been lovely enough to pay me one. But then I always have to go further and be a little bit manic in my reply. For example, when complimented on my new shoes, which has happened rather a lot actually, I then go on to immediately say how they were an absolute bargain from Save the Children at only £4 yada, yada, yada. People don't want to hear that. They want the moment to swiftly move one, having done a nice thing in saying something good about another and hoping that it will be reciprocated. They don't want to hear how I am the bag lady of Hexham, scrambling about in charity shops and being tight with money. I can't help it though, it all just spills out in a rather high-pitched voice, nineteen to the dozen. I must learn to say 'Thankyou, and I simply adore your vintage lycra jumpsuit'. Easy as that.
5. Being an only child (though only for a few days, granted) may not be all it's cracked up to be. It's basically the same as having siblings but with less satisfaction from winding up, less exasperation from observing the habits of others and less entertainment from the exploits of the young. A sedate ride is not necessarily preferable to one with peaks and troughs, as the rollercoaster industry is well aware.
Over and out on the observation front. It's time for Neighbours.
6 August 2007
Oddie's Kirkwatch: Summertime
To paraphrase the sainted Gerald Durrell, whom is the apple of my father's eye, families are animals. Be it roving beasts, exotic birds or, in my case, all-out monsters, there is a certain animalistic quality at the core of every pared down, stripped bare family, feral and untamed.
Though I never got along with the overgrown boy scout tales of our familiar friend Gerald (far too wholesome and angst free for my liking- though I appreciated the naming of an elephant Rosie) I see there is some truth in his comparison. After all, is there really a vast difference between anthropology and zoology?
So, to the horseplay and monkeying around of the Ingleside livestock. A fair bit of rabid frothing is common at this time of year, what with increased exposure to the habits of other mammals in the vicinity. As well as pouncing on prey and ripping them limb from limb in a bloody frenzy. (Well a verbal frenzy of expletives at any rate).
A great deal of preening, posturing and fluffing of feathers is also noticeable, especially after the offspring dupe the elders into purchasing new clothes for them. This meticulous and extensive grooming increases just before the mating dances and strutting of stuff when going on hunts, out for the kill.
Nocturnal activity becomes the norm, with the young of the brood rarely rising before noon and staying wakeful well into the night. Though often dormant during the day, hibernation is not quite on the cards, despite supplies being horded in and around nest areas.
It is common for the youngest to have all manner of flora and fauna plucked from his wayward mane, but it is rare for these to be consumed ape-like by the one grooming.
The mother within the pride must accept that her cub is no longer of nurturing age, and after a recent birthday must fly the nest, spread his wings, leave the coop.
However, he may still need keeping an eye on as he is still inclined to try and sit on chairs that are simply not there and come crashing to the ground like a herd of elephants. Which makes the onlookers cackle like hyenas.
Though I never got along with the overgrown boy scout tales of our familiar friend Gerald (far too wholesome and angst free for my liking- though I appreciated the naming of an elephant Rosie) I see there is some truth in his comparison. After all, is there really a vast difference between anthropology and zoology?
So, to the horseplay and monkeying around of the Ingleside livestock. A fair bit of rabid frothing is common at this time of year, what with increased exposure to the habits of other mammals in the vicinity. As well as pouncing on prey and ripping them limb from limb in a bloody frenzy. (Well a verbal frenzy of expletives at any rate).
A great deal of preening, posturing and fluffing of feathers is also noticeable, especially after the offspring dupe the elders into purchasing new clothes for them. This meticulous and extensive grooming increases just before the mating dances and strutting of stuff when going on hunts, out for the kill.
Nocturnal activity becomes the norm, with the young of the brood rarely rising before noon and staying wakeful well into the night. Though often dormant during the day, hibernation is not quite on the cards, despite supplies being horded in and around nest areas.
It is common for the youngest to have all manner of flora and fauna plucked from his wayward mane, but it is rare for these to be consumed ape-like by the one grooming.
The mother within the pride must accept that her cub is no longer of nurturing age, and after a recent birthday must fly the nest, spread his wings, leave the coop.
However, he may still need keeping an eye on as he is still inclined to try and sit on chairs that are simply not there and come crashing to the ground like a herd of elephants. Which makes the onlookers cackle like hyenas.
31 July 2007
Happily Ever After
Once upon a time there was a girl who indulged in a little regression and was bestowed with a fairytale treat. All Princess attributes were accounted for in this great gift magically conjured by her Fairy Godmother: Beauty, Grace, Wisdom, Grandeur and all-out oppulence of the most decadent degree. Scrubbed and shining after immersion in rivulets of steaming water in a vast sparkling bathroom, and clothed in spanking new gown of lacy detail, she was swept into the fading evening light for a night of enchantment.
Residing in red velvet and gold embellishment, she fell in love with the Handsome Prince, as Princesses are accustomed to do. She tried hard to ignore the cut of his luxurious jacket that acted as a blatant arrow to his already prominent nether regions, as if they were not glaringly distracting enough (what with the tights and all), and was instead captivated by the solo bearing of his soul during the effortless leaps, bounds and emotive choreography of his movement. She sat, awe-struck, listening to the swelling of the orchestra and catching the flick of the conductor's wand in the corner of her rose-tinted, blurred and glazed eye, and was drawn under the Wicked Fairy's spell, destined to favour this imaginary, flawless, lavish world over the reality that must be borne outside of the Royal Opera House for all time. Once in a white overshirt that fell in soft folds about his shoulders, the Prince proceeded to charm and whoo the girl, making her yearn to be in the pink satin pointe shoes of the Spanish ballerina he twirled and kissed the hands of.
Though they bowed, gracious and autocratic, and left the stage in a haze of flowers, sequins and closing of thick velvet curtains, the dancers, fairytale characters and Prince did not cease to be. They lived on in the eulogistic gushings of the girl and her Fairy Godmother when sipping from goblets of chilled white wine, over plates of hot pasta and ornate bowls of Italian ice cream in a candlelit restaurant named 'The Ballerina'. The romance continued as the rain poured and the pair had to gracefully leap and skip back to their dwellings to avoid the cascading droplets. Swaddled in thick dressing gowns of the most luxurious fibres in the land, the girl, sleepily drunk on spectacle, excitement, Princely love, and white wine, laid her head on the pillow and slept for what felt like one hundred years. Dreams of Nureyev, Tchaikovsky, Aurora and Prince nourished her unconcious mind.
The spell has not lifted, and nor would she want it to.
Residing in red velvet and gold embellishment, she fell in love with the Handsome Prince, as Princesses are accustomed to do. She tried hard to ignore the cut of his luxurious jacket that acted as a blatant arrow to his already prominent nether regions, as if they were not glaringly distracting enough (what with the tights and all), and was instead captivated by the solo bearing of his soul during the effortless leaps, bounds and emotive choreography of his movement. She sat, awe-struck, listening to the swelling of the orchestra and catching the flick of the conductor's wand in the corner of her rose-tinted, blurred and glazed eye, and was drawn under the Wicked Fairy's spell, destined to favour this imaginary, flawless, lavish world over the reality that must be borne outside of the Royal Opera House for all time. Once in a white overshirt that fell in soft folds about his shoulders, the Prince proceeded to charm and whoo the girl, making her yearn to be in the pink satin pointe shoes of the Spanish ballerina he twirled and kissed the hands of.
Though they bowed, gracious and autocratic, and left the stage in a haze of flowers, sequins and closing of thick velvet curtains, the dancers, fairytale characters and Prince did not cease to be. They lived on in the eulogistic gushings of the girl and her Fairy Godmother when sipping from goblets of chilled white wine, over plates of hot pasta and ornate bowls of Italian ice cream in a candlelit restaurant named 'The Ballerina'. The romance continued as the rain poured and the pair had to gracefully leap and skip back to their dwellings to avoid the cascading droplets. Swaddled in thick dressing gowns of the most luxurious fibres in the land, the girl, sleepily drunk on spectacle, excitement, Princely love, and white wine, laid her head on the pillow and slept for what felt like one hundred years. Dreams of Nureyev, Tchaikovsky, Aurora and Prince nourished her unconcious mind.
The spell has not lifted, and nor would she want it to.
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