Roll up, roll up! For I shall reveal my new venture. A venture that is pure adventure. The one and only... (drum roll, please...) Kirkus' Circus!
Devised by me and my travelling band of cohorts, around a table full of condiments in a dark trendy boozer that had spoons on display, Kirkus' Circus will be my life's work and inspiration. Not to mention source of substantial income as the punters come flocking in.
I, naturally, will be Ringmaster Supremo. Red tail coat and everything. I may also make a spotlit appearance as a sad Pierrot clown, complete with floppy velvet bow tie.
Twinkletoes Taffinder will be tightrope walker, her lycra-clad willowy frame lurching precariously as she tiptoes through the sky with elegance and grace.
Madame Pichon will be lion tamer, appropriate due to her tousled lionesque mane and penchant for growling. She shall crack her whip with gusto, and no doubt be fetishised by all.
Oddie will have a grotesque ventriloquist act, with Perry as her dapper dummy, placed stiffly on her knee. Lewd and crude one liners will be spontaneously conjured with quickfire wit.
The caged freakshow will be populated by us all. Dare not put your fingers through the bars, they will be bitten clean off!
Candyfloss of every colour will be available, as well as champagne poured over pyramids of babycham glasses. Punters will guzzle as they would at the fountain of eternal youth.
The set and costumes, and general ambiance, will be based on the trippy art house Derek Jarman film version of The Tempest. Dwarves dressed as Marie Antoinette, masked mannequins, Toyah Wilcox overacting Shakespearean verse, dancing sailors, monster-men sucking from their naked and obese mothers' nipples, flashes, crashes, flickering, disappearances, appearances, magic... that kind of thing. I shall travel the world with Kirkus' Circus and my troupe of dedicated performers! We'll probably be huge in Transylvania...
And if my vocation as Ringleader of my very own circus falls through (Heaven forbid!) then I always have the career of Literary Hostess to fall back on. If Lady Ottoline Violet Anne Morrell of Bedford Square could carve such a career path, then so can I! I may have to work on a more impressive name beforehand however. And befriend the glitterati of Bloomsbury. And be embroiled in an open marriage. And become bisexual. But it shall be ever so intellectually stimulating, yah, yah!
25 March 2009
16 March 2009
Amongst all the drunks, thugs, rudeboys, smokers and potheads, along with all the screaming, wailing, shouting, crying, effing and blinding (and worse...) of the homely haven that is Somerstown, the Adorable (and yes, they do warrant a capital A) are thankfully being both cultivated and fostered.
Three beautiful black bairns, barely beyond toddlerhood, lick Mr Whippy from cones. They get the sticky gloop all round their faces, and chuckle with gleeful mirth at each other's messy mouths. Their giggles are infectious. They run and stumble round my ankles, laughing and pointing and hanging on their mother's skirts with mucky paws.
And when I take the binbag out (at arms length and double-bagged, yuk) an Afro-haired tomboy in luminous leggings is sticking her legs into the slot for cardboard.
'Are you recycling yourself?', I ask.
'Well, I'm trying to' she replies good naturedly, 'but my bum's getting stuck'.
She is joined by a chatty little blond bespectacled girl who promptly asks Perry if he's Australian. They really hit it off. She has an eyepatch. Which he admires.
There is a third member of this miniature harem who is mute. He dangles from a tree in the background. Just watching.
All three pick daffodils. Bright yellow and green. Almost as vivid as the kids themselves.
Forget Somerstown. It should be called Springstown.
Three beautiful black bairns, barely beyond toddlerhood, lick Mr Whippy from cones. They get the sticky gloop all round their faces, and chuckle with gleeful mirth at each other's messy mouths. Their giggles are infectious. They run and stumble round my ankles, laughing and pointing and hanging on their mother's skirts with mucky paws.
And when I take the binbag out (at arms length and double-bagged, yuk) an Afro-haired tomboy in luminous leggings is sticking her legs into the slot for cardboard.
'Are you recycling yourself?', I ask.
'Well, I'm trying to' she replies good naturedly, 'but my bum's getting stuck'.
She is joined by a chatty little blond bespectacled girl who promptly asks Perry if he's Australian. They really hit it off. She has an eyepatch. Which he admires.
There is a third member of this miniature harem who is mute. He dangles from a tree in the background. Just watching.
All three pick daffodils. Bright yellow and green. Almost as vivid as the kids themselves.
Forget Somerstown. It should be called Springstown.
11 March 2009
The Life and Passion of St Anna
I really do put the eek! into geek.
I've developed some unfortunate tics,
Spouting pretentious literary lyrics.
For my Romeo, alas, I'm still searching,
Due to resembling a Dickensian urchin.
Thank God we've moved on from Chaucer's time,
So enough with this ridiculous rhyme...!
Basically, I've been getting far too excited by my subject. It is not healthy.
I've been getting overly thrilled by monsters in Shakespeare, too enthusiastic about virgin martyrs having sex with Christ, well and truly fired up by the effect of Dickensian grotesques, and become positively feverish whilst contemplating rakes in Austen (not garden rakes - even I'm not that much of a geek - but the predatory dandy types).
And two members of this household (one being my good self, I'm not going to lie) made reference to the art-critic aesthete Walter Pater, the timid morality hater, in their status on Facebook.
Welcome to Nerdsville.
Never fear however. I am fighting the good fight: Low Culture vs. High Culture. As an attempt to combat this geeky takeover that seems to be occurring I have dedicatedly been swigging Lambrini like billio, committed myself to wearing charvy trakkie bottoms, and have got into the American, O.C-lite drama 90210 in a major way.
I just hope this is enough.
I've developed some unfortunate tics,
Spouting pretentious literary lyrics.
For my Romeo, alas, I'm still searching,
Due to resembling a Dickensian urchin.
Thank God we've moved on from Chaucer's time,
So enough with this ridiculous rhyme...!
Basically, I've been getting far too excited by my subject. It is not healthy.
I've been getting overly thrilled by monsters in Shakespeare, too enthusiastic about virgin martyrs having sex with Christ, well and truly fired up by the effect of Dickensian grotesques, and become positively feverish whilst contemplating rakes in Austen (not garden rakes - even I'm not that much of a geek - but the predatory dandy types).
And two members of this household (one being my good self, I'm not going to lie) made reference to the art-critic aesthete Walter Pater, the timid morality hater, in their status on Facebook.
Welcome to Nerdsville.
Never fear however. I am fighting the good fight: Low Culture vs. High Culture. As an attempt to combat this geeky takeover that seems to be occurring I have dedicatedly been swigging Lambrini like billio, committed myself to wearing charvy trakkie bottoms, and have got into the American, O.C-lite drama 90210 in a major way.
I just hope this is enough.
2 March 2009
Beware a Pitchfork up your Ass
I have mostly been very good at keeping the devilish sensation at bay. That itching, bubbling, spumescent sensation that can threaten to boil over and burst forth from my very being in the most vile and violent of ways. Yes, I have mostly been very good at not thinking about the sofa cushions.
OCD predominantly under control. Phew.
It is only late at night, in the dark land of sleepless delirium, that I may feel the urge to dash home, rearrange, plump, straighten, and generally put right the cushions of our family sitting room that are so mistreated and abused. Which is progress.
(Actually, the more I dwell on this whilst typing, right here, right now, the more I can envisage an exhausted mother/red wine soaked father/lazy ass teenage boy abusing said cusions this very second. Must swiftly move on before I suffer a relapse and implode...)
Anyway, being aware of my 'little issue' shall we say, it amused me greatly to discover The Serpent at Home. This is a text referred to in The Moonstone by a downright irritating sourpuss called Drusilla, and is treated like her Bible. It shows how the Evil One lies in wait for us in the most domestic of places. To wit: 'The chapters best adapted to female perusal are 'Satan in the Hair Brush'; 'Satan behind the Looking Glass'; 'Satan under the Tea Table'...'
OCD predominantly under control. Phew.
It is only late at night, in the dark land of sleepless delirium, that I may feel the urge to dash home, rearrange, plump, straighten, and generally put right the cushions of our family sitting room that are so mistreated and abused. Which is progress.
(Actually, the more I dwell on this whilst typing, right here, right now, the more I can envisage an exhausted mother/red wine soaked father/lazy ass teenage boy abusing said cusions this very second. Must swiftly move on before I suffer a relapse and implode...)
Anyway, being aware of my 'little issue' shall we say, it amused me greatly to discover The Serpent at Home. This is a text referred to in The Moonstone by a downright irritating sourpuss called Drusilla, and is treated like her Bible. It shows how the Evil One lies in wait for us in the most domestic of places. To wit: 'The chapters best adapted to female perusal are 'Satan in the Hair Brush'; 'Satan behind the Looking Glass'; 'Satan under the Tea Table'...'
The creme de la creme of this nonsense, however, is as follows: 'Satan among the Sofa Cushions'.
I love it. A woman after my own heart.
Well they do say the devil (or, in this case, Satan) is in the detail, and I am a perfectionist after all.
25 February 2009
Wombledon
I feel shortchanged. I went all the way to Wimbledon and not a Womble to be seen. Why else would one venture to zone 3 if not lured by the possibility of sighting Wombles wombling free?
What I did see however was:
Actual streets - proper roads with terraced houses and everything.
A perfectly pruned, chocolate-box pretty tree, bearing tiny white flowers, overhanging a little wooden gate leading to one of the terraced houses that is no doubt home to a young family of 2.4 children who call their parents Mummy and Daddy and are already grade 8 standard in both piano and violin.
A great deal of pancake batter*. Not necessarily all in the frying pan.
Perry experiencing a sugar high. Chocolate flowed liberally through his pancakes, chocolate flows liberally through the man's veins.
A living room. Lounge. Sitting room. Whatever you want to call it. The fact is, the flat actually had one. Aah, sofas...
An Oxford educated Classicist attempting to rap about the Emperor Augustus. Braap!
Too many re-fills of red wine.
But no Wombles. Or, indeed, yummy mummies. More disappointed about the Wombles.
*Incidentally, I don't think I will be giving up anything for Lent. I'm not one to emulate Christ. I mean, look what happened to him... I'll take the pancakes though.
Oh dear, the devil and I would have probably ended up being BFFs in that desert.
What I did see however was:
Actual streets - proper roads with terraced houses and everything.
A perfectly pruned, chocolate-box pretty tree, bearing tiny white flowers, overhanging a little wooden gate leading to one of the terraced houses that is no doubt home to a young family of 2.4 children who call their parents Mummy and Daddy and are already grade 8 standard in both piano and violin.
A great deal of pancake batter*. Not necessarily all in the frying pan.
Perry experiencing a sugar high. Chocolate flowed liberally through his pancakes, chocolate flows liberally through the man's veins.
A living room. Lounge. Sitting room. Whatever you want to call it. The fact is, the flat actually had one. Aah, sofas...
An Oxford educated Classicist attempting to rap about the Emperor Augustus. Braap!
Too many re-fills of red wine.
But no Wombles. Or, indeed, yummy mummies. More disappointed about the Wombles.
*Incidentally, I don't think I will be giving up anything for Lent. I'm not one to emulate Christ. I mean, look what happened to him... I'll take the pancakes though.
Oh dear, the devil and I would have probably ended up being BFFs in that desert.
13 February 2009
Best-seller
I think the title of my auto-biography (naturally written on my deathbed at the grand old age of 99, my feeble arthritic fingers tapping away at a typewriter even when in the throes of dying delirium. And, yes, I will be using a typewriter despite all the whizzy new-age technology that will no doubt have been invented by 2087. It must be a typewriter for documentation of a literary life) will be 'Anna Kirk: From the Sublime to the Ridiculous'. Catchy, no?
It rather sums me up. Especially after the week I have just endured, enjoyed and, pretty much, survived.
Behold, dear reader...
Living with hippy Americans for a weekend.
Travels by megabus, tube, bus, tram and, the transportation system that started it all, my own two legs. Snow, smog and slime all traversed.
Fruit punch (two thirds vodka, one third peach schnapps, plus an orange segment and a twist of lime-rind), party rings, cheesy puffs and cheesy muzak steeped in nostalgia.
Cocktail bar complete with battered leather sofa and talk of naked skiing, religious persuasions, the institution of marriage, boiled eggs in shot glasses, and everything in between.
Raving to drum'n'bass until 3am, punctured by the dramatic muddying of a birthday girl's legs, restraining and comforting a beloved wronged woman, and chucking 99p earrings into grassy unknowns.
Eating Hedgehog chocolate cake at 5am, scooping spikes (thick icing studded with chocolate fingers and flakes) by the fingerful, and going on an early morning sugar trip to buzzy heights.
Settling like a slug in a sleeping bag on less than half a sofa, shared with a long-haired stoner, curled in foetal position and breathing in second-hand dope fumes from 6am until the moment I really needed to Brush. My. Teeth.
Academically analysing French medieval animals: foxes that have sex with chickens, Winnie-the-Pooh-like japes that include liberal use of the word 'whore', cats that claw off a priest's testicles, snails leading processions of a Parliamentary menagerie. Oh, the French, those jokers...
Being one of three hardcore groupies that dedicatedly follow a flame-haired 80's revivalist (through the wind-tunnels of Euston and snow and everything), positioned at the front of a grungy dancefloor, twirling in spinny, sequinned skirts, stripy socks, stick-on stars, and pink heels.
Chatting with Mullan about vaginal douches, Narnia, marveling at one's own cleverness, menstruation, the implausibility of a porn shop street, and whores with hearts. All a morning's work.
Visiting a publishing 'office' (penthouse apartment more like): all wooden floors and windows that stretch to the ceiling, letting the sun stream through. Balcony, view of St Paul's across the river, Penguin Classics mugs filled with milky tea, literary chit-chat, hungover smoking of rollies (them, not me), stroking of beautiful, recently-printed and personal books, free edition of perfectly produced quarterly - my kind of work place. Hard slog? Hard graft? Who cares!
After such a sublime and ridiculous week one must ask 'What the devil is next?'.
Well. Celebrating Valentines night with a bottle of Lambrini, something involving chocolate, soppy film and snuggling in bed with my man. My man,Wilkie Collins. Alas, he is more between the pages than between the sheets.
And I doubt all this would even fill a page of a chapter in the auto-biography. I'd better get out there pronto and acquire more best-selling material.
It rather sums me up. Especially after the week I have just endured, enjoyed and, pretty much, survived.
Behold, dear reader...
Living with hippy Americans for a weekend.
Travels by megabus, tube, bus, tram and, the transportation system that started it all, my own two legs. Snow, smog and slime all traversed.
Fruit punch (two thirds vodka, one third peach schnapps, plus an orange segment and a twist of lime-rind), party rings, cheesy puffs and cheesy muzak steeped in nostalgia.
Cocktail bar complete with battered leather sofa and talk of naked skiing, religious persuasions, the institution of marriage, boiled eggs in shot glasses, and everything in between.
Raving to drum'n'bass until 3am, punctured by the dramatic muddying of a birthday girl's legs, restraining and comforting a beloved wronged woman, and chucking 99p earrings into grassy unknowns.
Eating Hedgehog chocolate cake at 5am, scooping spikes (thick icing studded with chocolate fingers and flakes) by the fingerful, and going on an early morning sugar trip to buzzy heights.
Settling like a slug in a sleeping bag on less than half a sofa, shared with a long-haired stoner, curled in foetal position and breathing in second-hand dope fumes from 6am until the moment I really needed to Brush. My. Teeth.
Academically analysing French medieval animals: foxes that have sex with chickens, Winnie-the-Pooh-like japes that include liberal use of the word 'whore', cats that claw off a priest's testicles, snails leading processions of a Parliamentary menagerie. Oh, the French, those jokers...
Being one of three hardcore groupies that dedicatedly follow a flame-haired 80's revivalist (through the wind-tunnels of Euston and snow and everything), positioned at the front of a grungy dancefloor, twirling in spinny, sequinned skirts, stripy socks, stick-on stars, and pink heels.
Chatting with Mullan about vaginal douches, Narnia, marveling at one's own cleverness, menstruation, the implausibility of a porn shop street, and whores with hearts. All a morning's work.
Visiting a publishing 'office' (penthouse apartment more like): all wooden floors and windows that stretch to the ceiling, letting the sun stream through. Balcony, view of St Paul's across the river, Penguin Classics mugs filled with milky tea, literary chit-chat, hungover smoking of rollies (them, not me), stroking of beautiful, recently-printed and personal books, free edition of perfectly produced quarterly - my kind of work place. Hard slog? Hard graft? Who cares!
After such a sublime and ridiculous week one must ask 'What the devil is next?'.
Well. Celebrating Valentines night with a bottle of Lambrini, something involving chocolate, soppy film and snuggling in bed with my man. My man,Wilkie Collins. Alas, he is more between the pages than between the sheets.
And I doubt all this would even fill a page of a chapter in the auto-biography. I'd better get out there pronto and acquire more best-selling material.
6 February 2009
Anna is blogging
When you start thinking of your life in the form of a series of Facebook status updates, it may be time to admit that you have a problem. And it encourages people to talk about themselves in the third person. Which is unforgivable.
Alas, I have hit this rock bottom. I find my brain, at certain moments of profound introspection, wandering off into the realms of cyberspace as it muses 'Anna is...'
Anna is... wide awake at 5.30am a-frickin'-gain!
Anna is... in need of caffeine on a drip.
Anna is... busting some moves to Mamma Mia/Josie and the Pussycats/Kate Bush, and may even be jumping on her bed in glee.
Anna is... cursing, swearing, blaspheming and raging at her keys for the billionth time today.
Anna is... tracking the effects of the recession through the fluctuating prices of Lambrini and tins of basics rice pudding, each shifting a matter of pence week to week.
Anna is... perpetually, eternally, continuously crossing Euston Road.
Anna is... determined to not say 'Standard' at all today, or at least not more than five times.
Anna is... crashing, banging, causing a cacophony when rooting round in the goodie cupboard, a little worse for wear, several times in the middle of the night.
Anna is... slowly cooking in the cosy library, baking like a literary loaf.
Anna is... once again flashing her pyjamas to the meanies in the corner shop whilst on a wine mish, wooly-hatted and ugg-booted. Standard.
Anna is... proper aggro on the streets of London.
Anna is... daydreaming about being a blue-wigged, Afro-Caribbean, uber-cool DJ in Notting Hill and re-thinking her life plan.
Anna is... going to prod Gary.
Anna is... never, ever going finish the novel she is reading. The novel that has no end.
Anna is... procrastinating. By going on Facebook. And thinking of status updates.
Anna is... going to get a life. Instead of living it through status updates, as if she is somebody else, an observed character. Therefore...
I am stopping this lunacy right now.
Alas, I have hit this rock bottom. I find my brain, at certain moments of profound introspection, wandering off into the realms of cyberspace as it muses 'Anna is...'
Anna is... wide awake at 5.30am a-frickin'-gain!
Anna is... in need of caffeine on a drip.
Anna is... busting some moves to Mamma Mia/Josie and the Pussycats/Kate Bush, and may even be jumping on her bed in glee.
Anna is... cursing, swearing, blaspheming and raging at her keys for the billionth time today.
Anna is... tracking the effects of the recession through the fluctuating prices of Lambrini and tins of basics rice pudding, each shifting a matter of pence week to week.
Anna is... perpetually, eternally, continuously crossing Euston Road.
Anna is... determined to not say 'Standard' at all today, or at least not more than five times.
Anna is... crashing, banging, causing a cacophony when rooting round in the goodie cupboard, a little worse for wear, several times in the middle of the night.
Anna is... slowly cooking in the cosy library, baking like a literary loaf.
Anna is... once again flashing her pyjamas to the meanies in the corner shop whilst on a wine mish, wooly-hatted and ugg-booted. Standard.
Anna is... proper aggro on the streets of London.
Anna is... daydreaming about being a blue-wigged, Afro-Caribbean, uber-cool DJ in Notting Hill and re-thinking her life plan.
Anna is... going to prod Gary.
Anna is... never, ever going finish the novel she is reading. The novel that has no end.
Anna is... procrastinating. By going on Facebook. And thinking of status updates.
Anna is... going to get a life. Instead of living it through status updates, as if she is somebody else, an observed character. Therefore...
I am stopping this lunacy right now.
29 January 2009
Superstar
What lights up my life? Why, shooting stars of course!
Of the bright and sparkly variety, purchased from Paperchase, in sticker form.
All colours of the rainbow, a constellation to go with every outfit, giving a twinkle to a glitter eye-lined eye when stuck in the shadow of blue lashes.
Adding bling to Orion's Belt, twinkle to Taurus, brilliance to Betelgeuse, style to Sagittarius, glamour to the Great Bear.
Laze in the rays from my blazing star-gaze, astronomy can tell me your fate...
And thus I am stellified. Anna in the sky with diamonds.
(Unless I knock the damn things off when drunk at the pub)
Of the bright and sparkly variety, purchased from Paperchase, in sticker form.
All colours of the rainbow, a constellation to go with every outfit, giving a twinkle to a glitter eye-lined eye when stuck in the shadow of blue lashes.
Adding bling to Orion's Belt, twinkle to Taurus, brilliance to Betelgeuse, style to Sagittarius, glamour to the Great Bear.
Laze in the rays from my blazing star-gaze, astronomy can tell me your fate...
And thus I am stellified. Anna in the sky with diamonds.
(Unless I knock the damn things off when drunk at the pub)
23 January 2009
My love of Narnia is no secret. In fact some might say that it borders on the obsessive... No comment.
But what's not to love? (If one ignores all the religious allegory claptrap that is.) A world of imaginative nonsense names of places and creatures, epic battles, talking animals and turkish delight. A world meticulously realised, where there are no parents, and children can magically escape to distant lands, ready for adventure.
Us Kirklings were brought up on a steady diet of Narnia, firstly with the books (falling apart paperbacks from Pa's youth), then the BBC adaptations on well-worn VHS. The Afghan coat in the dressing-up box, bought from Portobello Market in the seventies, was regularly put to use as a rather brilliant Aslan costume, turned inside-out for the purpose. Hours of fantasy fun. And let us not forget the Professor's surname. Is it coincidence that he's a Kirk also? One could say that the Chronicles are in our blood.
It was not until drunkenly re-watching the BBC version of The Silver Chair however, that I realised that one of us Kirklings actually is a Narnian character. A fellow wine-swigging Narnia enthusiast pointed it out, and I snorted in recognition of the fact that Eustace Scrubb is the spitting image of someone I know extremely well. Albeit a slightly blonder, more cuddly image, but an uncanny resemblance nonetheless. Especially in profile. How had I never clocked this before? Even the petulant, adolescent, yet ultimately kind-hearted characterisation is in place. I'm not sure if my brother actually turned into a dragon at any point however, despite sometimes breathing fire. Though I'm not ruling it out.
Anyway, the whole thing made me laugh muchly.
The only thing is, many people say I look a great deal like the sibling in question. Does this mean that I also resemble Scrubb? This male, 13 year-old child actor (if one can call dramatically pausing, opening one's mouth and eyes wide in awe and wonder, and breathily ejaculating the name '...Aslan' reverently about once every five minutes 'acting')? Oh dear. No wonder I'm so au fait with dragons.
But what's not to love? (If one ignores all the religious allegory claptrap that is.) A world of imaginative nonsense names of places and creatures, epic battles, talking animals and turkish delight. A world meticulously realised, where there are no parents, and children can magically escape to distant lands, ready for adventure.
Us Kirklings were brought up on a steady diet of Narnia, firstly with the books (falling apart paperbacks from Pa's youth), then the BBC adaptations on well-worn VHS. The Afghan coat in the dressing-up box, bought from Portobello Market in the seventies, was regularly put to use as a rather brilliant Aslan costume, turned inside-out for the purpose. Hours of fantasy fun. And let us not forget the Professor's surname. Is it coincidence that he's a Kirk also? One could say that the Chronicles are in our blood.
It was not until drunkenly re-watching the BBC version of The Silver Chair however, that I realised that one of us Kirklings actually is a Narnian character. A fellow wine-swigging Narnia enthusiast pointed it out, and I snorted in recognition of the fact that Eustace Scrubb is the spitting image of someone I know extremely well. Albeit a slightly blonder, more cuddly image, but an uncanny resemblance nonetheless. Especially in profile. How had I never clocked this before? Even the petulant, adolescent, yet ultimately kind-hearted characterisation is in place. I'm not sure if my brother actually turned into a dragon at any point however, despite sometimes breathing fire. Though I'm not ruling it out.
Anyway, the whole thing made me laugh muchly.
The only thing is, many people say I look a great deal like the sibling in question. Does this mean that I also resemble Scrubb? This male, 13 year-old child actor (if one can call dramatically pausing, opening one's mouth and eyes wide in awe and wonder, and breathily ejaculating the name '...Aslan' reverently about once every five minutes 'acting')? Oh dear. No wonder I'm so au fait with dragons.
16 January 2009
The world is proper whirly, like
These current war-torn times we live in are absurd. I was reading an article online(http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jan/15/gaza-bombing-israel-war) that actually elicited tears. Absurd, ridiculous, preposterous, tragic, heart-wrenching and needless.
The recession, along with constant repetitions of the term 'credit crunch', do nothing to lighten the mood. Everything, in short, is madness. Nutcases are in positions of power and the world is turned on its head, topsy-turvy and skewed into a nightmarish vision.
To add insult to injury (though this is obviously incomparable to the global atrocities occurring) I have a spot the size of Eel Pie Island - an actual island in the middle of the Thames somewhere, for all you fact fans - on the side of my already overly-prominent hooter.
Whilst acknowledging that all is not sweetness and light, we must also get out kicks where we can. And not just in the lovely and unexpected, such as hearing classical music fill Euston Square tube station with both rousing and calming melodies, or baking an iced bakewell tart.* But also in the absurd. The absurd, in this case, being the laugh-out-loud, positive bonkers kind.
One must revel in these little absurdities to remind oneself that all is not gloom and doom, recession and depression, but that fizz, imagination, sherbert-fountain fun and the brilliantly barmy abound in bucket-loads too.
- Cliff Richard as Heathcliff in a musical version of Wuthering Heights. This actually exists. Alas only on VHS.
- The image of an eccentric Professor of mine riding a sit-up-and-beg bicycle to 'The Ride of the Valkyries', pipe in mouth, smoke and beard billowing in the breeze as he enters lectures. Da da da daaaa da...!
- Kate Bush's Babooshka video. Leotards. Double bass. Big Hair. Babooshka-ya-ya. Fabulous insanity.
- Speculative thinking about Monet. If he was of the technological age, his email address would no doubt be merde @hotmail.com. He would be filled with vitriol and spitting swearwords due to being subjected to mockery and infantie treatment by the National Gallery gift shop, on which he made quite an impression.
- This quote from an interview (courtesy of the Guardian once more, who should probably sponsor this blog) with a girl who describes herself as being 'cosmic Coronation Street': I was in a play called Brian And The Argonauts, the story of Jason And The Argonauts set to the music of the Beach Boys. I was an Argonaut. I sang I Get Around.
Priceless stuff. And at least she didn't do a solo drama audition piece for a national theatre company as a seven-year-old, autistic, cancerous, Jewish orphan. I mean that really would be absurd...
*When I say 'baking', I mean 'buying'. Obviously.
5 January 2009
All But Players on Life's Vast Stage
Pater said 'Be Good' before he left.
A loaded command, if ever there was one.
And with that, via a swift half-hug, he was off. So hasty was his departure that a southerly wind rippled through his 'Just for Men' mane and whiskers.
Exeunt to discover and explore unknown lands.
Enter once more in Act II: One Week Later.
Audiences should expect a lengthy soliloquy. In iambic pentameter naturally.
A loaded command, if ever there was one.
And with that, via a swift half-hug, he was off. So hasty was his departure that a southerly wind rippled through his 'Just for Men' mane and whiskers.
Exeunt to discover and explore unknown lands.
Enter once more in Act II: One Week Later.
Audiences should expect a lengthy soliloquy. In iambic pentameter naturally.
30 December 2008
I am proud to say that I have scaled new heights of insanity and plunged greater depths of Mad Hatterness than ever before. A challenge for one such as I to be sure, but by Zeus I've gone and managed it.
In the early hours of the morning, unnaturally wide awake after a mere smattering of sleep (my liver doth protest too much at the wine of russet hue, methinks), I could be discovered sprawled within the sheets of my bed listeneing to Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights' from the ballet Romeo and Juliet on my electric-pink i-pod at full blast. Complete with flamboyant arm gestures worthy of the most passionate of conductors. And enthusiastic (though, admittedly, silent) singing along to the rousing chords that herald the descent of feuding Montagues and Capulets. It is as if the fires of hell open for the length of a track, apocolypse is upon me in vast swathes of smoke and brimstone, I am Juliet ready to die for love, my heart about to burst through my chest, and... then I press stop and settle down to sweet dreams of men in tights.
By the way, silent singing along consists of very intense mouth miming, with gob wide open, and a great deal of imagination. That's for those of you who have never given silent singing to classical ballet music a go. Which everyone should. Preferably in bed. At 3am. Does wonders for the soul, believe me...
In the early hours of the morning, unnaturally wide awake after a mere smattering of sleep (my liver doth protest too much at the wine of russet hue, methinks), I could be discovered sprawled within the sheets of my bed listeneing to Prokofiev's 'Dance of the Knights' from the ballet Romeo and Juliet on my electric-pink i-pod at full blast. Complete with flamboyant arm gestures worthy of the most passionate of conductors. And enthusiastic (though, admittedly, silent) singing along to the rousing chords that herald the descent of feuding Montagues and Capulets. It is as if the fires of hell open for the length of a track, apocolypse is upon me in vast swathes of smoke and brimstone, I am Juliet ready to die for love, my heart about to burst through my chest, and... then I press stop and settle down to sweet dreams of men in tights.
By the way, silent singing along consists of very intense mouth miming, with gob wide open, and a great deal of imagination. That's for those of you who have never given silent singing to classical ballet music a go. Which everyone should. Preferably in bed. At 3am. Does wonders for the soul, believe me...
24 December 2008
Pop Goes the Bubbly, and Pop goes Anna!
Apologies for bringing the mood down, especially at this festive time of year, but I feel for those geese destined for fancy foie gras tins in their afterlife. Aside from all that comes with being a moral vegetarian, I take particular umbrage with this form of rearing birds. I feel their pain at being stuffed and stuffed until they bloat, making their livers engorged and fatty. And all to make them ready for the 'refined' palates of the rich. The cruelty is blatant and I won't dwell on it, but will instead move on to the more jollity&mirth steeped self-inflicted gorging that is in such abundance at my favourite Christmassy time.
Though decorations are aplenty during this season, bedecking halls and whatnot, it is a shame that balloons are not traditional fare. I could well stand in for one of these hot-air filled adornments, feeling as though I may pop if a pin punctured my wee pot-belly. Though it would not be a raspberry of air that would burst out, but a spray of mincemeat, ice cream, chocolate and chestnuts in a spectacular, seasonal fountain. Pa has an oft-repeated refrain that surfaces at times of excess of food and hugs, which goes along the lines of 'Don't squeeze too hard or the green stuff will squirt out of both ends'. This could be a very real possibility this year- you are forewarned...
I am considering adding one of those squiggly Spanish symbols above at least one of the n's of my name (which this keyboard doesn't seem able to express, unfortunately, showing a shameful lack of multiculturalism) as I am currently enjoying being very like a pinata: party time, glitter, bright colours, decorations... and hit me with a big stick and I'll explode in a shower of sweets, spurting out all manner of partly-digested goodies, festooning all with a churned up festive feast!
I need to go on a whirlwind, roller-coaster sleigh ride with Santa in order to shake it all up. I need to shake, shake, shake it like the proverbial Polaroid picture in order to shift and shape. Shake it down to get a J-Lo booty. Shake it up to get Angelina Jolie lips. Or shake it all about for a good even spread like the infinitely more fabulous Jo Brand. She may be marshmallow-soft around the middle, but she's got a tongue, mind and wit as sharp as a meat cleaver. And that, after all, is what matters.
Though decorations are aplenty during this season, bedecking halls and whatnot, it is a shame that balloons are not traditional fare. I could well stand in for one of these hot-air filled adornments, feeling as though I may pop if a pin punctured my wee pot-belly. Though it would not be a raspberry of air that would burst out, but a spray of mincemeat, ice cream, chocolate and chestnuts in a spectacular, seasonal fountain. Pa has an oft-repeated refrain that surfaces at times of excess of food and hugs, which goes along the lines of 'Don't squeeze too hard or the green stuff will squirt out of both ends'. This could be a very real possibility this year- you are forewarned...
I am considering adding one of those squiggly Spanish symbols above at least one of the n's of my name (which this keyboard doesn't seem able to express, unfortunately, showing a shameful lack of multiculturalism) as I am currently enjoying being very like a pinata: party time, glitter, bright colours, decorations... and hit me with a big stick and I'll explode in a shower of sweets, spurting out all manner of partly-digested goodies, festooning all with a churned up festive feast!
I need to go on a whirlwind, roller-coaster sleigh ride with Santa in order to shake it all up. I need to shake, shake, shake it like the proverbial Polaroid picture in order to shift and shape. Shake it down to get a J-Lo booty. Shake it up to get Angelina Jolie lips. Or shake it all about for a good even spread like the infinitely more fabulous Jo Brand. She may be marshmallow-soft around the middle, but she's got a tongue, mind and wit as sharp as a meat cleaver. And that, after all, is what matters.
10 December 2008
Click-click, Whooooosh!
After driving over Putney Bridge for the third time in half an hour, thoughts turned to magic powers.
We, a car-load of Kirks, were taking a tour of London. Granted, this wasn't actually what we were supposed to be doing. But it was lovely nonetheless. Following the river in search of Hackney and sweet, sweet windband music, we saw the many bridges lit up in all their glory, one after another, and sometimes four times over. And, of course, the jazzy fairground London Eye, ghostly, mist-swathed St Paul's, amber-lit Houses of Parliament and many riverside city gems besides. London plus Night multiplied by Christmas equals awe and wonder squared.
Nevertheless, there were places to be, flutes and bassoons to be listened to, and tempers and tensions to be calmed. The most common answer to the question 'What would your super power be?' is probably the power of flight. I, however, would love to be able to disapparate. This would be the perfect magic gift. Time, money, stress, and unpleasant experiences on buses and tubes would all be saved. One would only have to think of the place they want to be and - kazaaaaam! - there in a blink of an eye.
When discussing this, one little cousina of mine, at the time sporting a Christmas cracker 'tache which was a little unnerving, quoted the late, great Judy whilst clicking her heels. 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home...' She had hit upon something. This motif from the Wizard of Oz is very similar to the whole disapparation ideology. Only it is SO much better as it involves fabulous shoes. Sparkly, ruby heels that glitter and hold magic powers? Yeah, baby!
And the best bit? They wouldn't even pinch and cripple squished feet. Walking is not necessary when sporting these beauties. A couple of clicks and you're (very stylishly) away!
But if I did have a pair of these of course, I never would have discovered the delights of Putney Bridge. Three times.
We, a car-load of Kirks, were taking a tour of London. Granted, this wasn't actually what we were supposed to be doing. But it was lovely nonetheless. Following the river in search of Hackney and sweet, sweet windband music, we saw the many bridges lit up in all their glory, one after another, and sometimes four times over. And, of course, the jazzy fairground London Eye, ghostly, mist-swathed St Paul's, amber-lit Houses of Parliament and many riverside city gems besides. London plus Night multiplied by Christmas equals awe and wonder squared.
Nevertheless, there were places to be, flutes and bassoons to be listened to, and tempers and tensions to be calmed. The most common answer to the question 'What would your super power be?' is probably the power of flight. I, however, would love to be able to disapparate. This would be the perfect magic gift. Time, money, stress, and unpleasant experiences on buses and tubes would all be saved. One would only have to think of the place they want to be and - kazaaaaam! - there in a blink of an eye.
When discussing this, one little cousina of mine, at the time sporting a Christmas cracker 'tache which was a little unnerving, quoted the late, great Judy whilst clicking her heels. 'There's no place like home, there's no place like home...' She had hit upon something. This motif from the Wizard of Oz is very similar to the whole disapparation ideology. Only it is SO much better as it involves fabulous shoes. Sparkly, ruby heels that glitter and hold magic powers? Yeah, baby!
And the best bit? They wouldn't even pinch and cripple squished feet. Walking is not necessary when sporting these beauties. A couple of clicks and you're (very stylishly) away!
But if I did have a pair of these of course, I never would have discovered the delights of Putney Bridge. Three times.
28 November 2008
A Post Named John
I have yet another reason to think Tilda Swinton one of the coolest people that currently graces this increasingly crackers planet with her presence. The current list is as follows... 1. she flaunts her striking red (i.e. the much-maligned 'ginger') locks, 2. wears some truly daring creations and pulls them off with aplomb, 3. holds film festivals in rural Scotland, at which she, as hostess, is pyjama-clad and if you bring a home-baked cake you get in free, 4. has an unapologetically unconventional domestic set-up, in that she lives with her children and their father (who remains a great companion and friend of hers, though no longer what she calls her 'sweetheart') yet also has a much younger lover who frequents her country dwelling and travels with her to foreign parts - all parties are happy with this arrangement, and a glorious one it sounds too.
Anyway, the new reason is that she refers to the father of her children, John Byrne, by his full name at all times. People do not do this often enough, and it makes situations have an air of the comical and absurd, which I love. 'Dinner is ready, John Byrne'. 'Oh drat it, John Byrne, could you please remove your wellies from right under my feet?!'. See, it totally works.
I'm actually thinking of changing my name to John. Apparently little Shiloh Pitt-Jolie (spawn of the glamorous Hollywood couple) will not answer to anything else but 'John'. This is the ultimate form of rebellion, and a big two fingers up at the sheer ridiculousness of her parents' cruelty in naming her something so 'unique' and 'original'. According to my sources (okay, I admit it, I am an avid reader of Glamour online) she has chosen John because of the character in 'Peter Pan' - the eldest, slightly geeky, Darling child who is whisked off to Neverland. Ahh, a wee bit of whimsy in amongst the usual drudge of meaningless, yet addictive, celebrity gossip. That tiny starlet will go far; I hope to the heavens she doesn't end up in rehab.
Although thought of as rather generic, especially in these bizarre times of Tallullahs, Pixies, and anything spelt as oddly as possible with accents and umlauts aplenty, the name John holds a certain solid appeal. There are too many Annas about these days I feel, and being a John would really set me apart.
And I have my pick as to who I was named after. John Keats. John F. Kennedy. Evil Prince John of Robin Hood fame. John Cleese. John Thomas (snigger, perhaps not). Maybe even Jean-Paul Sartre. The list goes on. Yes, that's decided it. I shall henceforth be known as John.
I may go as far as being Sir John... or Dame John.... or Marquis de John...
Anyway, the new reason is that she refers to the father of her children, John Byrne, by his full name at all times. People do not do this often enough, and it makes situations have an air of the comical and absurd, which I love. 'Dinner is ready, John Byrne'. 'Oh drat it, John Byrne, could you please remove your wellies from right under my feet?!'. See, it totally works.
I'm actually thinking of changing my name to John. Apparently little Shiloh Pitt-Jolie (spawn of the glamorous Hollywood couple) will not answer to anything else but 'John'. This is the ultimate form of rebellion, and a big two fingers up at the sheer ridiculousness of her parents' cruelty in naming her something so 'unique' and 'original'. According to my sources (okay, I admit it, I am an avid reader of Glamour online) she has chosen John because of the character in 'Peter Pan' - the eldest, slightly geeky, Darling child who is whisked off to Neverland. Ahh, a wee bit of whimsy in amongst the usual drudge of meaningless, yet addictive, celebrity gossip. That tiny starlet will go far; I hope to the heavens she doesn't end up in rehab.
Although thought of as rather generic, especially in these bizarre times of Tallullahs, Pixies, and anything spelt as oddly as possible with accents and umlauts aplenty, the name John holds a certain solid appeal. There are too many Annas about these days I feel, and being a John would really set me apart.
And I have my pick as to who I was named after. John Keats. John F. Kennedy. Evil Prince John of Robin Hood fame. John Cleese. John Thomas (snigger, perhaps not). Maybe even Jean-Paul Sartre. The list goes on. Yes, that's decided it. I shall henceforth be known as John.
I may go as far as being Sir John... or Dame John.... or Marquis de John...
17 November 2008
The Little'un, the Wasps, and the Wardrobe
As I have now been living in Mat Fleeting for a fair while, the weird and the wonderful no longer faze me. This could be viewed as rather sad and regrettable, in that the enchanted amazement I used to experience when encountering the bizarre has grown to become merely the mundane and everyday. But actually this is rather marvellous in itself. The surreal is now hyper-real. I am at one with madness.
When watching a programme about children's illustrated books, as one does of an evening on board the rickety raft of Old Clem, talk turned to the masterpiece that is Each Peach Pear Plum. Tom Thumb was shown to be, naturally, in the cupboard of Mother Hubbard. And he was eating jam out of a jar roughly the size of himself (incidentally, this is Old Clem's idea of heaven) with a big shovel-like spoon. I went to the fridge for mid-programme sustenance and, what do you know, there was the Little'un himself - Tommy nabbing our extensive collection of jams. The wee little chap was quite at home in the cavernous container of delights that is our fridge, smacking his lips happily and sampling the homemade raspberry conserve, a personal favourite. Of course, I didn't hesitate to offer him a slice of bread and glass of milk to accompany the jam (Old Clem was so proud of my polite hospitality; he has taught me well), then sent him on his merry little way back to the land of nursery rhymes as it was past his bedtime.
This whole episode did not surprise me one bit because we are well-used to unusual kitchen visitors. There is an odd buzzing that emanates from the freezer every so often. Without warning, a violent aural attack descends, a sinister disembodied humming. We have come to the conclusion that there must be some form of hornet's nest built amongst the peas and pizza. There is no other explanation. They can get driven into a buzzing frenzy now and then, shivering their little stripes off in the chilly depths, eager to get out and join our chit-chat over tea and crumpets in the kitchen. Interestingly, it's when the honey is being spread that the buzzing becomes particularly prominent and over-enthusiastic I have noticed. Perhaps one day we shall let them out to fly freely, but I fear they may get too excited and sting us in a flurry of disorientation as they are let loose into the warmth. Best to keep them lying dormant, next to the sausages.
Talking of cold places, my wardrobe seems to have its own micro-climate. No matter how toasty it gets in our humble abode, it remains 'Brrrrrr!'-inducingly chilly. I have to brace myself for the snatching of clothes each morning, often hastily grabbing whatever is nearest, making for some rather eclectic outfits. It does mean that it doubles up pretty well as a larder - one to rival Mother Hubbard's in fact. I like to believe that it gets so cold due to it actually being a portal to Narnia. The eternal winter that reigns in that magical land is bound to cause the entrance to be a bit nippy. Alas, there are no glamorous fur coats at the back like there were hanging in the original wardrobe, only green silk pyjamas and red Princess dresses. Nevertheless, I am honoured to have a doorway into such a supercool other world in my bedroom. I'm sure I hear Aslan growling from within sometimes (though, admittedly, this could just be C from the next room), and I expect to be visited by a talking faun bearing Turkish delight any day now. Of course in my Narnia there is DEFINITELY Christmas. What is winter without Christmas after all?
I love that this all seems perfectly natural and normal to me. The bosom of Mat Fleeting is a comforting yet extraordinary place in which to be nestled.
When watching a programme about children's illustrated books, as one does of an evening on board the rickety raft of Old Clem, talk turned to the masterpiece that is Each Peach Pear Plum. Tom Thumb was shown to be, naturally, in the cupboard of Mother Hubbard. And he was eating jam out of a jar roughly the size of himself (incidentally, this is Old Clem's idea of heaven) with a big shovel-like spoon. I went to the fridge for mid-programme sustenance and, what do you know, there was the Little'un himself - Tommy nabbing our extensive collection of jams. The wee little chap was quite at home in the cavernous container of delights that is our fridge, smacking his lips happily and sampling the homemade raspberry conserve, a personal favourite. Of course, I didn't hesitate to offer him a slice of bread and glass of milk to accompany the jam (Old Clem was so proud of my polite hospitality; he has taught me well), then sent him on his merry little way back to the land of nursery rhymes as it was past his bedtime.
This whole episode did not surprise me one bit because we are well-used to unusual kitchen visitors. There is an odd buzzing that emanates from the freezer every so often. Without warning, a violent aural attack descends, a sinister disembodied humming. We have come to the conclusion that there must be some form of hornet's nest built amongst the peas and pizza. There is no other explanation. They can get driven into a buzzing frenzy now and then, shivering their little stripes off in the chilly depths, eager to get out and join our chit-chat over tea and crumpets in the kitchen. Interestingly, it's when the honey is being spread that the buzzing becomes particularly prominent and over-enthusiastic I have noticed. Perhaps one day we shall let them out to fly freely, but I fear they may get too excited and sting us in a flurry of disorientation as they are let loose into the warmth. Best to keep them lying dormant, next to the sausages.
Talking of cold places, my wardrobe seems to have its own micro-climate. No matter how toasty it gets in our humble abode, it remains 'Brrrrrr!'-inducingly chilly. I have to brace myself for the snatching of clothes each morning, often hastily grabbing whatever is nearest, making for some rather eclectic outfits. It does mean that it doubles up pretty well as a larder - one to rival Mother Hubbard's in fact. I like to believe that it gets so cold due to it actually being a portal to Narnia. The eternal winter that reigns in that magical land is bound to cause the entrance to be a bit nippy. Alas, there are no glamorous fur coats at the back like there were hanging in the original wardrobe, only green silk pyjamas and red Princess dresses. Nevertheless, I am honoured to have a doorway into such a supercool other world in my bedroom. I'm sure I hear Aslan growling from within sometimes (though, admittedly, this could just be C from the next room), and I expect to be visited by a talking faun bearing Turkish delight any day now. Of course in my Narnia there is DEFINITELY Christmas. What is winter without Christmas after all?
I love that this all seems perfectly natural and normal to me. The bosom of Mat Fleeting is a comforting yet extraordinary place in which to be nestled.
11 November 2008
Are You There Rene? It's Me, Paranoid Pre-pubescent
Just in case I never get to the end (or even the beginning) of 'Troilus and Creseyde' and therefore monumentally and spectacularly fail my degree (which unfortunately seems to rely rather heavily on good old Uncle Geffrey, the prolific dullard) meaning that I would not be able to go forward with further study and become an eccentric Academic specialising in the subtle nuances of all the 800 year old's begetting like nobodies business in Genesis, I have a back-up plan. Well, actually it's a back-up back-up plan, as my first back-up career path is obviously being window dresser at Liberty. That goes without saying. However, if it turns out I get fired from that esteemed mecca of elegance and sophistication, for causing carnage amongst displays of Liberty-print luxury and shiny chandelier opulence and am driven to iridescent peacock feather frenzy, induced by a haze of splendour and sumptuousness, exploding expensively like a fountain of the best champagne, then I shall have to earn my keep by other means.
I shall write teen novels for young girls growing up, helping them come to terms with the gritty issues they will inevitably struggle with and preparing them for the harsh realities of adolescence.
They could be in diary form.
'Dear Rene,
Today was a friend oriented day. I met all the girls for a milkshake. I wore my new sparkly pumps. They gave me a blister, but I didn't care! It was worth it as they are so cool and I'm sure I got some very envious looks. They're almost the same as Cheryl's from Girls Aloud. Anyway, Stacie had big news. She went to a party at the community centre last night and actually got kissed! I am so jealous. The guy, Mikey Roberts, is nothing special, but I guess it's the luck of the draw when you're playing 'Spin the Bottle'. She said it was on the lips. I really wanted to ask more details, like if her brace got in the way at all or if she was worried about getting the wires caught or if there was much spittle, but we got too giggly.
I cannot wait until my first kiss. If only it could be with Matty B. He is so sparky and dreamy and he wears those scarves with such flair. I am sure I sensed a moment at our last meeting. Even though I had that pimple the size of Pluto on my chin, which I bet he noticed. I knew I should have resisted squeezing it. He definitely caught my eye whilst telling me to watch my grammar. He is such a perfectionist! I would give anything, anything (even my new GHD's), for him to have a game of 'Spin the Bottle' with me. I would just DIE if I got the chance to play '2 Minutes in the Closet' with him. Could you imagine? Bliss!
Had chicken and chips for tea. Stupid Danny threw a chip covered in ketchup at me and mucked up my favourite Mackays t-shirt. He is such a BOY. I hate brothers. Why can't they just be normal for once in their lives?
I've just done twenty rounds of my 'We must, we must, we must increase our bust!' exercises and cannot wait for a long sleep after reading 'Sugar' magazine. I've plaited my hair extra tightly tonight so it will be really wavy for tomorrow. I hope Matty B sees it.
I'm exhausted after laughing so much with friends, so...
Good Night Rene xxx
Top of the best seller lists around the world methinks. Universal themes of heart-ache and yearning, laughter and woe. No doubt I would have read it when young, fancy-free... and illiterate.
I shall write teen novels for young girls growing up, helping them come to terms with the gritty issues they will inevitably struggle with and preparing them for the harsh realities of adolescence.
They could be in diary form.
'Dear Rene,
Today was a friend oriented day. I met all the girls for a milkshake. I wore my new sparkly pumps. They gave me a blister, but I didn't care! It was worth it as they are so cool and I'm sure I got some very envious looks. They're almost the same as Cheryl's from Girls Aloud. Anyway, Stacie had big news. She went to a party at the community centre last night and actually got kissed! I am so jealous. The guy, Mikey Roberts, is nothing special, but I guess it's the luck of the draw when you're playing 'Spin the Bottle'. She said it was on the lips. I really wanted to ask more details, like if her brace got in the way at all or if she was worried about getting the wires caught or if there was much spittle, but we got too giggly.
I cannot wait until my first kiss. If only it could be with Matty B. He is so sparky and dreamy and he wears those scarves with such flair. I am sure I sensed a moment at our last meeting. Even though I had that pimple the size of Pluto on my chin, which I bet he noticed. I knew I should have resisted squeezing it. He definitely caught my eye whilst telling me to watch my grammar. He is such a perfectionist! I would give anything, anything (even my new GHD's), for him to have a game of 'Spin the Bottle' with me. I would just DIE if I got the chance to play '2 Minutes in the Closet' with him. Could you imagine? Bliss!
Had chicken and chips for tea. Stupid Danny threw a chip covered in ketchup at me and mucked up my favourite Mackays t-shirt. He is such a BOY. I hate brothers. Why can't they just be normal for once in their lives?
I've just done twenty rounds of my 'We must, we must, we must increase our bust!' exercises and cannot wait for a long sleep after reading 'Sugar' magazine. I've plaited my hair extra tightly tonight so it will be really wavy for tomorrow. I hope Matty B sees it.
I'm exhausted after laughing so much with friends, so...
Good Night Rene xxx
Top of the best seller lists around the world methinks. Universal themes of heart-ache and yearning, laughter and woe. No doubt I would have read it when young, fancy-free... and illiterate.
3 November 2008
A Spear By Any Other Name... Would Kill As Brutally?
Everybody is acquainted with Excalibur. Everybody who is worth knowing at any rate. The sword that is inextricably fused with peril, legend, myth, grand battles, knights, chivalry, gory warfare and mystical adventure. It bears an illustrious and regal name, befitting of its status and reputation. Excalibur. Poetic, evocative, rolls off the tongue.
It may interest you to know that King Arthur also had a helmet by the name of Goswit, and a shield called Pridwen. Archaic and paganistic titles, exuding a sort of rugged magic. One can well imagine such weapons facing the likes of dragons in order to save damsels in distress.
Probably even less familiar to you will be King Arthur's spear. His spear whose name was Ron.
Yes, Ron.
'The bold Arthur took Ron in his hand, the valiant king advanced the stout shaft'
This is why I took Middle English. As if the idea of naming weaponry wasn't ridiculous and mad enough. Ron the spear. Ingenious.
But, hey, if it does does the job and is plunged into the breasts of the heathen hordes, cleaving their hearts in twain, hacking out guts and entrails, and making the battlefields run red with blood, then what the hell does it matter if it's got a less than resplendent name? It could be worse. It could be called Wayne.
It may interest you to know that King Arthur also had a helmet by the name of Goswit, and a shield called Pridwen. Archaic and paganistic titles, exuding a sort of rugged magic. One can well imagine such weapons facing the likes of dragons in order to save damsels in distress.
Probably even less familiar to you will be King Arthur's spear. His spear whose name was Ron.
Yes, Ron.
'The bold Arthur took Ron in his hand, the valiant king advanced the stout shaft'
This is why I took Middle English. As if the idea of naming weaponry wasn't ridiculous and mad enough. Ron the spear. Ingenious.
But, hey, if it does does the job and is plunged into the breasts of the heathen hordes, cleaving their hearts in twain, hacking out guts and entrails, and making the battlefields run red with blood, then what the hell does it matter if it's got a less than resplendent name? It could be worse. It could be called Wayne.
27 October 2008
Anna of the Remedial Stream
There are times when it is as if you are disembodied from yourself and you see a scene objectively, like it is being played out on a stage. Take a step back and view things as they appear to others. It is worrying. Eyes are opened.
I had such an experience the other day, in an old, beige and brown, musty seminar room. The one with the huge black and white Renaissance portrait just outside it. It was as if I was floating about the peripheries of the room, watching events unfold. I saw myself in full technicolour. Bright pink oversized jumper, knitted by my mother when she was my age, belted tightly at the waist with a man's brown woven buckle belt that belongs (well, belonged...) to my father, with the excess flappy bit held in place with an old hair bobble. Five year old, three pound floral skirt peeking from underneath knitted affair, with its burn hole in the front, scorched through by a hot rock falling from an enormous joint as it was passed across me by a stoner known as Jeff, (whose name was not Jeff) at a hippy-dippy summer garden party a few years ago. Ancient battered Converse encasing my feet, with only one Converse sign still affixed, bearing mud from the Blue Mountains of Australia, the grounds of Leeds rock festival, the fields of Brampton folk festival, and many compulsory countryside adventures besides. A second hand paperback Penguin copy of Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year in front of me, bought for a couple of quid from a northern emporium of cast-off books. The ubiquitous John Mullan loudly denouncing me as 'Anna of the remedial stream' due to having a silently altered version of the text, but dismissing his harshness with a jolly 'Oh, but she understands I mean it ironically'. And me actually loving that I'm being insulted by this cocky, arrogant, esteemed Literary Figure.
Because he writes for the Guardian.
He asked us for any instances of mistaken identities in well-known works of literature, or of lapdogs cropping up in novels as he left the room for his mid-seminar Ribena. It seemed totally off subject, but I knew what he was referring to - his weekly column in the Review section (which turns out to pay for his weekly groceries). I was cringeworthingly eager to show that I read it and that I knew what he was on about. I saw myself. I saw myself as that goddamn archetypal 'Guardian Reader'. I engaged him in chit-chat about it, half wanting to actually know the answers to the questions I asked, half wanting to just show that I read the paper to which he is associated. I was asserting this fact. Like it is how I define myself. Liberal, slightly hippy, self-indulgent 'arty' degree-taking, middle class bloody 'Guardian Reader'.
Oh the shame. But true.
Sometimes it is good, and indeed rather liberating, to unapologetically embrace stereotypes. 'My name is Anna, and I am a Guardian reader'. Don't judge me.
I had such an experience the other day, in an old, beige and brown, musty seminar room. The one with the huge black and white Renaissance portrait just outside it. It was as if I was floating about the peripheries of the room, watching events unfold. I saw myself in full technicolour. Bright pink oversized jumper, knitted by my mother when she was my age, belted tightly at the waist with a man's brown woven buckle belt that belongs (well, belonged...) to my father, with the excess flappy bit held in place with an old hair bobble. Five year old, three pound floral skirt peeking from underneath knitted affair, with its burn hole in the front, scorched through by a hot rock falling from an enormous joint as it was passed across me by a stoner known as Jeff, (whose name was not Jeff) at a hippy-dippy summer garden party a few years ago. Ancient battered Converse encasing my feet, with only one Converse sign still affixed, bearing mud from the Blue Mountains of Australia, the grounds of Leeds rock festival, the fields of Brampton folk festival, and many compulsory countryside adventures besides. A second hand paperback Penguin copy of Defoe's A Journal of the Plague Year in front of me, bought for a couple of quid from a northern emporium of cast-off books. The ubiquitous John Mullan loudly denouncing me as 'Anna of the remedial stream' due to having a silently altered version of the text, but dismissing his harshness with a jolly 'Oh, but she understands I mean it ironically'. And me actually loving that I'm being insulted by this cocky, arrogant, esteemed Literary Figure.
Because he writes for the Guardian.
He asked us for any instances of mistaken identities in well-known works of literature, or of lapdogs cropping up in novels as he left the room for his mid-seminar Ribena. It seemed totally off subject, but I knew what he was referring to - his weekly column in the Review section (which turns out to pay for his weekly groceries). I was cringeworthingly eager to show that I read it and that I knew what he was on about. I saw myself. I saw myself as that goddamn archetypal 'Guardian Reader'. I engaged him in chit-chat about it, half wanting to actually know the answers to the questions I asked, half wanting to just show that I read the paper to which he is associated. I was asserting this fact. Like it is how I define myself. Liberal, slightly hippy, self-indulgent 'arty' degree-taking, middle class bloody 'Guardian Reader'.
Oh the shame. But true.
Sometimes it is good, and indeed rather liberating, to unapologetically embrace stereotypes. 'My name is Anna, and I am a Guardian reader'. Don't judge me.
15 October 2008
A Fleeting Fortnight
When not gadding about the city being either Sally Bowles or Lydia Lopokova or, in more insular, maudlin moments, the Lady of Shalott, I am getting ever closer to becoming the ultimate of my heroines. I now have my very own, rather enormous, spider that lives in my room, providing increased atmosphere for my aspirations of being Miss Havisham. It just needs to make a few cobwebs and settle itself in. Alas, I do not have a mouldy old Wedding Cake rotting in the corner, but on occasion there is the odd furred-up coffee cup, or day old mac-in-a-can lying around. Close enough. And I am without a fading lace wedding dress. A party frock from Primark will have to suffice. The bright-eyed, manic glares, passionate cries, and reputation for eccentric insanity are all present and correct though.
In other Mat Fleeting news, Salsa Queen vomited in her handbag which now hangs on the airer as a reminder of the perils of free cocktails from city boys.
We have acquired a cup in the kitchen which has something to do with not using taps when somebody is showering. It has 'shower cup' written on it in black marker. I do not understand the rules of the cup. Apparently it is an important issue. I let it wash over me, just as I let the ice cold water wash over me in the shower when somebody is doing the dishes downstairs...
Old Clem's electricity paranoia has reached new heights. He actually turned the toaster off at the mains when my toast was in it. It gave him quite a shock when the bread popped up.
A new literary genius has been discovered. On the kitchen wall there hangs a hand-written poem. Anybody who visits is asked to guess who wrote the poem. Answers have ranged from Donne, to Eliot, to Plath. It is actually much more contemporary, and makes the guessers feel like idiots. The first line contains the phrase 'depleted uranium breasts', and it was written by none other than the Pie Jesu lover of this household, henceforth known as Ave Maria, when sitting half naked in her armchair after a drunken night out. This is the most creative and intellectually rich time of day, when one should harness the musings of the soul.
Top youtube finds from the past fortnight have included an original episode of The Magic Roundabout entitled 'The Cocktail Fruit Party', the opening of a German cartoon about a little bee which is the most adorable thing despite having phallic references and a theme tune that is at times reminiscent of Tom Jones, and the part of Disney's 'Sword in the Stone' with the Marvellous Mad Madam Mim.
If the whole Miss Havisham thing doesn't work out for me, then Madam Mim is definitely next on the list of people to aspire to.
In other Mat Fleeting news, Salsa Queen vomited in her handbag which now hangs on the airer as a reminder of the perils of free cocktails from city boys.
We have acquired a cup in the kitchen which has something to do with not using taps when somebody is showering. It has 'shower cup' written on it in black marker. I do not understand the rules of the cup. Apparently it is an important issue. I let it wash over me, just as I let the ice cold water wash over me in the shower when somebody is doing the dishes downstairs...
Old Clem's electricity paranoia has reached new heights. He actually turned the toaster off at the mains when my toast was in it. It gave him quite a shock when the bread popped up.
A new literary genius has been discovered. On the kitchen wall there hangs a hand-written poem. Anybody who visits is asked to guess who wrote the poem. Answers have ranged from Donne, to Eliot, to Plath. It is actually much more contemporary, and makes the guessers feel like idiots. The first line contains the phrase 'depleted uranium breasts', and it was written by none other than the Pie Jesu lover of this household, henceforth known as Ave Maria, when sitting half naked in her armchair after a drunken night out. This is the most creative and intellectually rich time of day, when one should harness the musings of the soul.
Top youtube finds from the past fortnight have included an original episode of The Magic Roundabout entitled 'The Cocktail Fruit Party', the opening of a German cartoon about a little bee which is the most adorable thing despite having phallic references and a theme tune that is at times reminiscent of Tom Jones, and the part of Disney's 'Sword in the Stone' with the Marvellous Mad Madam Mim.
If the whole Miss Havisham thing doesn't work out for me, then Madam Mim is definitely next on the list of people to aspire to.
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