He who dares... delivers dairy

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

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

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

She went to Australia and became a milkman.

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

The (un)Realities of Climate Change

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

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

The Isadora Gypsy

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

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

The Isadora Gypsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urine the Right Job

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

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

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

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

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against people with speech impediments. I admire their courage, determination and resilience against ignorant mocking. In fact, some of my best friends suffer from such linguistic idiosyncrasies that can often be debilitating afflictions. No one can accuse me of being un-PC...

But, and let's not beat around the bush here, they can be bloody funny on occasion. When the laughing is with and not at of course, in a relaxed and comfortable environment among friends. Too much sun and a few glasses of wine are often factors. These tend to bring out the aforementioned impediment noticeably to the forefront of the scintillating, intellectual conversation that we will doubtless be engaged in.

'You know that Debbie C?'
'Debbie C?'
'Yeah, Debbie C. Well, guess what their daughter's called?'
'Who's Debbie C? I don't think I know her. Does she live near us? Is she from your estate? Was it a teen pregnancy?'
'She? What are you talking about? You haven't heard of Debbie C? Shame on you. The famous composer. You know!'
'Erm... I think you might mean Debussy. De-bu-ssy.'
'Oh. Yes. That's what I said...'
'Sorry. Just to clarify. We're not talking about 'me mate Debbie C' who got up the duff round the back of Aldi. We are in fact talking about one of the world's greatest composers and a prolific contributor to a canon of exceptional musical works?'
'Yes. Well. Anyway... His daughter was called Chu-Chu according to this book...'
Tapers off into silence. Further sips of wine. Giggles. Guffaws.

Of course, she could have been using her not-always-conventional way with vowels as an excuse for a brief moment of silliness. I doubt good ol' Debbie (as he shall thus be known) would give two hoots. Or even a half-hearted crescendo.

Corrupted

I remember it well. I felt so grown up, like I'd been initiated into a special group, the next grand stage.

On the cusp of adolescence and, being the eldest of three, having quite an elevated opinion of my maturity and a highly developed sense of how 'adult' I could come across, I had my introduction to a whole new realm of what being a grown-up could be like. I am, of course, referring to the first time I saw 'Sex and the City'.

There was something so deliciously illicit about it. For some reason I was up rather later than usual, and it was just me and Mum curled up on the sofa. Not in the play room, but in the sitting room; a place often forbidden to those of more tender years. An episode started and I asked what it was. The shock and delight did not stop at the title. It was not so much the graphic scenes that made me appreciate that I was most definitely watching a 'grown-up' show, but the way the women talked, what they were talking about and how the adults were portrayed in a wholly different way to that which I had previously experienced.

I was heady with the excitement of actually being allowed to view such a thing, and the treat continued as Mum, brilliantly, produced the ultimate cliche: chocolate and vanilla Carte D'or icecream. Inspired of her to do such a thing, as if to truly acknowledge and toast my awe-struck and imagined adult-hood. We scooped it straight out the giant tub with tea spoons whilst lounging on the sofa. I had only ever had ice cream out of a bowl, or in a cone, and never at this late hour in front of the TV. It was the image of pure femininity to me. Grown-up girliness, of which I had seen on 'Friends' and would read about in 'Bridget Jones' Diary'. Perhaps not the most feminist image, but the one I wanted emmanate the most at that time of life. I was chuffed. And a little bit honoured to have been invited into that new world. My first taste of chick-flick style solidarity.

And I haven't looked back.

Give us this day our daily... pie??

So I know a chick who has a bit of a liking for Pie Jesu. On purely aurally delighting grounds rather than anything religious or, you know, meaningful I hasten to add. No judgement, each to their own etc...
I know another chick, present at the time the first one was typing Pie Jesu into youtube (as one does. Frequently, I find), whom the phrase 'for somebody who's supposed to be bright...' was probably coined in reference to. She, needless to say, thought that the youtube search was for Jesus pie.
Now there is more sense to this than one may first assume. Although one is definitely more pastry based than the other, they are arguably just as wholesome. And Pie (pronounced pee-ay of course) is most commonly translated as 'sweet'. So it kind of fits, as long as we are thinking of dessert as opposed to the stodgy meat'n'gravy, steak'n'kidney type fare.
God used the male human form to spread the word, inhabiting the flesh, so is it really so much of a leap of conciousness to think of Jesus as a slice of pie? Catholics are always eating the body of Christ after all. Why not make it a delicious American Key Lime pie? Or a French patisserie-style latticed tarte au citron (though perhaps without the criss-cross patterning, ah-hem)? Or a good old traditional apple pie for those Old Testament fundamentalists? Satisfying both the soul and stomach.
We shall, in the end, all receive our just desserts on the day of Judgement, so why not indulge in a bit of spiritual pud in this life, eh?

I Return... Humble, with Great Zeal

Business as usual.

And an education.
After slaving away for God knows how long over Old English poems, certain phrases will be permanently branded onto my conciousness. These, naturally, have been introduced into everyday lingo. Well, the everyday lingo of a posse of geeky English bods.

For the uninitiated, here is a sample of the inspired linguistic nuggets that the ancient tongue is studded with.

Elne Micle: Now this means 'much courage', or as the legendary Marilyn with her effusive Scottish tones prefers, 'great zeal'. It pops up several times throughout one of the poems. At one point it follows on from 'humble', which frankly makes no sense. Humble and zealous at the same time? Such is the paradox of the poem, religion and all that Old English bonkersness. Also follows on from 'he might climb on me' which is blatant innuendo, despite it being the cross of Christ speaking. The phrase can be, and is, added after pretty much any verb. Works equally well in the original language and in modern English. Very versatile.

Snottor: Means a 'wise man'. Who would have thunk it? Amusement-wise it speaks for itself really.

Soaked with the passage of blood: Elevates anything to epic levels.

One a bird carried away, one a grey wolf shared in death, one a sad-faced man concealed in a cave: What, what, what? Yes, men die. Yes, it may have been more dramatic in days of old when they were all warriors and the like. But really?? A sad-faced man? What's that all about?

I was kissing and embracing my liege lord, laying on his knee my hands and my head: Asking for it. Not a jot of subtlety and a great a temptation for English students to exploit.

Collenferth: Means 'stout hearted'. Yet is pronounced Colin Firth. Brilliant. (That Colin does get around in literature, I must say).

Wacwiga: My personal favourite. It means 'weak warrior', but should be used as a term of greeting or endearment in a faux gangsta style. For example, 'Yo, yo, 'sup wacwiga mofo?'. Satisfying to say.

Of course there are many more (as we had to learn the whole bloody things by heart - a slow and tortuous process that caused 'grievous torment', and me to feel 'wounded with defilements' by 'weapons greedy for slaughter'), but these are the real gems and the ones that seem to have infused daily chit-chat most prominently.

So, there you have it. Use them in a sentence today.

I was reading an article about feminism. Now these are Good Things, both feminism and educating myself about it by reading the newspaper.
I am wholly on board with the sentiments and do not shy away from the F-word. I am not afraid of being branded with the whole dungaree/doc marten/man-hating/butch cliche as I know that feminism comes in many forms and that this stereotype is not actually the case of many forward thinking females. I've read Wollstonecraft and Woolf, revere Greer and hold any ambitious, campaigning, strong woman in the highest esteem.
I am also a very bad, bad, shallow, bad person.
There was a picture accompanying the article. It was of a woman holding up a banner in what I would guess as being the 1970's. The banner read 'Judge women as people, not as wives'. What I did not immediately think was 'I hear you sister! Solidarity! A beautiful and universal message that should be acknowledged! Right on!'. What I instead thought was 'I love that woman's headscarf! I wonder if I could arrange my hair like that. And where did she get that fabulous jacket?! Ahh, the seventies was such a cool fashion age!'.
Now this is A Bad Thing. Germaine would be ashamed of me. Must try harder to curb my instinctive habit of concentrating on the aesthetic.
'They may have struggled to get their voices heard, to be treated equally, to have freedom but, damn, they looked good whilst doing so!'. No, Anna, no.

Big Baby

Ahh, glorious Northumberland! The rolling hills! The rural wildernesses! The inevitable regression...

As I sink my feet back into the mud, I sink back into spoilt brattish child mode. I sit sullen as I watch the teenagers crash off to parties and the pub (of which I will be regaled with tales of later), which is arguably more old womanish than baby-like. However, I chuck my rattle out of the pram whenever possible to assert my juvenile deliquency.
Demanding entertainment (with me in charge of viewing options), parents pandering to my every whim (foot massages), slurping whilst eating and getting it all over my face (though this was the case for everybody, as we were eating melon, so I am just about excused), hoping that I'll sleep through the night (in the foetal position, naturally), throwing tantrums in exasperation over the behaviour of others (though often half-mockingly), using expressive noises and nonsense words in place of the articulate speech that evades my unevolved mind. All symptoms of baby behaviour.

It's a shame we no longer have that double buggy affair that we used for the boys. A seat for each bumcheek and I'd be away!

Seductive Sentence

I think this may be the most perfect sentence ever crafted:

'The chauffeur, a Russian czar of the period of Ivan the Terrible, was a self-appointed guide, and the resplendent names - Cannes, Nice, Monte Carlo - began to glow through their torpid camouflage, whispering of old kings come here to dine or die, of rajahs tossing Buddahs' eyes to English ballerinas, of Russian princes turning the weeks into Baltic twilights in the lost caviare days.'

What a shame I didn't write it.

Sometimes there is just no beating a bit of purple prose. I am green with envy over the writer's style. It makes me smile, and want to nestle further into the folds of my duvet and the folds of my imagination.

Perhaps that's why Fitzgerald's wife went mad. She was driven so far into her own head, pushed too far into her own imagination by the prose created by her husband, that she could never escape, and thus remained entrapped and caged.

If I start going bonkers, wrestle the book from my hands.

Tally Ho Chaps!

Yes, I may technically be an adult. And yes, I am a student of English literature.

Now that that is taken care of and acknowledged I can proceed to express my outrage. Check this out http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,,2266691,00.html

Incensed? Angered? Provoked? I certainly am. Especially as this piece of heinous sacrilege came to light just a few short days after I was initiated into my very own Famous Five. I was tremendously excited about our explorations, super sleuthing and discovery of smugglers. And of course, returning home in time for Auntie's famous sarnies.
I, due to my strong masculine physique and air of strapping male leadership, am of course Julian. Chloe is the home-maker and super-feminine Anne, destined for the apron and aga. Frances is the tomboy, ultra feminist, bra-burning George. Claudie is Timmy as she is a mad dog. And Gary's Dick.
A secret handshake has yet to be devised, but plans for picnics of ginger beer, potted meat, fishpaste sandwhiches and cream buns are in full sway. And we shall require some villainous thieves to stalk, as well as jumpers in various pastel shades. Jolly times will be had and lashings of good clean fun, followed by afternoon tea.

Except we shall have to try even harder to continue the hallowed traditions old Blytey endeavoured to maintain in polite society so well, now that all this preposterous 'modernisation' seems to be taking place. The sexism, misogyny, mild racism and childhood obesity through artery clogging clotted cream and sticky buns that Enid was such an afficionado of could be in danger.

She would be turning over in her grave if only it wasn't for the likes of us, fearlessly countering the beastliness of the politically correct world. Hurrah! Top hole! Super!

A Reminder of Roots

Browsing in a bookshop in a post-lunch haze of contentment is a simple pleasure but one to be treasured.
Even better when the bookshop is not your run-of-the-mill, generic Waterstones specimen that has tables of Richard and Judy recommendations and is indistinguishable from any other populist book outlet. Staffed by a Bill Bryson look-alike, light and airy, appealingly arranged and with a cafe selling hefty slabs of cake attached - perfection.

The words 'pottering' and 'mooching' were coined specifically for a bookshop experience such as this. Bumping into bookshelves and fellow browsers is commonplace when your head is buried in the first few pages of a book that caught your eye. You forget where you are, and jump when your mother comes up behind you with a query about a paperback she picked from a display. 'Is this that book we...?' But she need not finish her sentence as her daughter has the same book open in her hands, selected from the packed shelf before her, and is a number of pages in. Sometimes a moment can charm and astound. You can remove the girl from her cultural and literary mentors and influencers, but you can't remove the lasting effects.

A quick pit-stop at the comic book/graphic novel emporium and straight on to the British Library! It's a hard life.

Paying for Genetics Through the Nose

What would you get if somebody posessed the face of the Disney Sleeping Beauty's Malefacent, the body of The Princess Bride's Fezzick, the arms of Edward Scissorhands, the mind of Stephen Hawking/Jeremy Paxman and the voice of Alan Rickman? A force to be reckoned with is what. It would be so cool...

Unfortunately I only have the ordinary attributes of a rather pathetic adolescent. Except for one thing that I claim absolutely no responsibility for, something that is independant from my body as a whole and that has a mind of its own.

My nose seems to have a seperate circulatory system, going bright red in complete contrast to the rest of me, and is more akin to a tap than to anything of vaguely human origin. Not to mention its total and ill-judged departure from the general asthetic of my face as a cohesive image. 'Characterful' will not cut it.

I may be forced to cut my nose off to spite my face.

If only anatomy could flatter me. But no, it went and shat on me.

Pessimism Schmessimism

I am sure people don't actually refer to things as 'half empty'. It's more natural terminology to say something is half full surely, as the receptacle will contain at least some kind of substance and is therefore rather more filled than it is if empty. Anyway, I understand that it is a useful way to illustrate the optimist/pessimist distinction. I like to think that I can always see the upside of situations and glean at least something useful or amusing from any unpleasantness that occurs. Take the last couple of days for instance...

The bar at the Union was absolutely packed last night, with people clamouring hotly and sweatily for cheap drinks, slopping beer all over the place and continuously prodding me in the back, which drives me a little bit crrrrrazy. A girl behind me went ahead and ordered her drink before me, despite it being blatant that I had been waiting far longer. Grrr. However, the longer wait did make me notice that there was a young chap sitting right amongst the hullaballoo, pint set down on the bar, sedately and leisurely reading the Guardian obiturary pages. This unexpected image made me smile.

The final of Masterchef has aired, meaning that the series is over and I won't see Greg's bald, cheery noggin or John's jowelly chops until next year. They, and their cries of 'Cooking DOESN'T get tougher than this!' and 'It will CHANGE THEIR LIVES!', have been a pretty much constant source of amusement and chucklesome pleasure over recent weeks. Alas, no more. This does mean that those phrases may actually get out of my head now, and opens up new viewing opportunities, such as the returned 'Love Soup' with the super Tamsin Greig. Or I could do some work.

It turns out no Tattoo parlours in Soho are actually open after 8pm (who knew? Soho obviously not as wild or hardcore as it makes out to be), so it looked like our evening trip had been in vain. Yet we were enlightened as to the exterior decor of sex shops, strip clubs and lingerie boutiques. It was an education of sorts. We saw some pretty neon lights so not a wasted outing.

I sliced my finger whilst trying to prise open a tin of 19p rice pudding without the aid of a tin opener. It hurt a little and bled a lot. However, the result was worth the price of a few pennies and blood. The pudding tasted damn good.

So you see, I'm a glass half full kind of a girl. Of course it helps if the glass is half full of a semi-decent white wine. Or, indeed, completely full.

The Power of Footwear

'I don't need shoes do I? No, I just need jeans. Shoes are not necessary.'

'Mmmm... hmphlf... ynoh... mmm...'

'Okay, ready to go? Yup, I'm all ready to go.'

'Uh? Uh huh... snflph... yup huh... wha ehr...'

*Door shuts.

*30 seconds pass

*Door opens...

Head bowed, 'I felt insecure without shoes.'

A Brief Bloggy Fill-in

Okay, so I was going to launch ito a whole spiel about how if one distills the kaleidescopic sequence and progression of life into pure, isolated, concentrated images that epitomise and validate certain profound notions of positivity and ecstasy, giving meaning to existence, what would pop up in this slide show of lucid, undiluted snapshots.

Then I thought, oh bugger it. I'll just do that boring bloggy thing of compiling a list of Moments of Perfection. It is nice to muse on these things after all. Sweetness and light, sunshine and lollipops etc. So here they are, according to Anna...

Kicking heels off after a long night out dancing.

Drinking peppermint tea out of my huge, clunky Guardian mug whilst watching BBCiplayer.

Being propped up by the Aga, pretending to read and soaking in the conversations that surround.

Splodging and squelching through thick mud. In walking boots or wellies. Up North.

Watching the ballet in the Royal Opera House, blown away by orchestral music and visual oppulence.

Head hitting the pillow after the perfect amount of wine, sending me off into the perfect deep, cosy sleep.

Being swaddled on the perfectly arranged sofa in front of Sunday evening telly.

The Libertines actually being played when I am on the dancefloor.

Ditto Spice Girls.

The cat stretching its paws out and gently stroking my chin in absent minded affection.

The feeling when in the throes of an intense yet exhilerating piece of work.

Guilt free celebrity gossip page reading.

Walking through Regents Park/Bedford square/along Gower Street/through the city in general when the light is perfect and I am preferably holding a takeaway coffee.

I am pleased to admit that these are just the tip of the iceburg really. Now you can have the sick bucket. Finishing one's essay does rather give one a lust for life and appreciation for the finer things I must say.

Road Rage

Travelling by Megabus is like being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Or, indeed, between a Nietzsche reading bespectacled nerd/seasoned back packer and a softly round Indian man who eats bombay mix out of a huge bottomless packet with a spoon, shovelling in mouthful after crunchy mouthful noisily.

The volume of Nietzsche was in another language and the spoon shovelling completely bizarre.

I buried my head in The Guardian Review, transporting myself to a world of straightforward black and white, print and paper.

They were probably thinking 'Who is this scarf-draped, left-wing, pretentious child who is so irritatingly rustling and wrestling with her crumpled paper?'

Such is the way of the Megabus. Best to snore and drool one's way through the ordeal.

Yearning for my Aga: A whistful nod to the North

Wedged in after the indulgence of Christmas, all those New Year's resolutions to not indulge so much, the partying of Superbowl Sunday when everybody over indulges in drink and potato chips as a kind of rear-guard reaction to watching healthy sporty types and surviving a miserable January of failed resolutions, comes Shrove Tuesday.

A day when everything of an indulgent nature should be hoovered up before the abstemious period of Lent. Yet another opportunity to repent and redeem one's wickedly gluttonous ways. Except Valentines Day follows this supposed 'last chance' to indulge, when chocolates, champagne and fancy dinners will abound (for the few lucky ones, at any rate). So basically, there is always an excuse to celebrate, and indulgence is always justifiable.

What is not justifiable, however, is buying a big plastic tub of gloop labelled 'Pancake Mix' from the supermarket in order to create the beloved traditional rounds. Sacred Bleu, I dread to think what those lovely chaps en France would say, who use those clever, flat, batter-scraping devices with such flair and skill to create the thinnest, most delicate and delicious crepes (best eaten when wandering around a sunny square in Normandy I'll have you know). 'Zut alors!' indeed.

One can also get 'Pancake Mix: American Style'. Well, I'll be bound. Those are not pancakes as we know them. Rather skyscrapers of thick, layered carbs, dripping with syrup and, inexplicably, bacon. Pig on a pancake?? Two hands, a knife and fork, thick set jaws, resilient teeth and a constitution that is not susceptible to heart failure are all required to tackle those bad boys. And now you can produce them out of a tub apparently.

No. The way to do them is on an Aga. The only way. With everybody wanting to help and assist. With flushed cheeks and a dash of manic stress. With everybody wanting the first one. Even though the first one is inevitably always a failure. And with major experimentation going on.

Nothing beats the old classic of grated cheese (cheddar preferably) and dollops of ketchup. Squelchy and lip-smackingly disgusting. In the best possible way. This how to do Mardi Gras baby. A Frenchman did once tell me it was 'crepe', but I think our pancakes are actually pretty darn good!
(Geddit? Ahem)

I have bets on J consuming the most, though Father will no doubt give him a run for his money. Raise the ketchup bottle in acknowledgement of my absent self, chaps!