On this, the anniversary day of (oh, so sweet*) sixteen years of the Kirklings becoming a tripartite coterie, I have been mostly resembling Jesus of Nazareth moonlighting as a clown. A look that is perfect, I have discovered, for constructing castles from candy, wrapping records in lagoon-coloured cellophane, and celebrating adolescent dottiness.
Tomorrow I think I shall channel a slumbering Victorian maidservant given experimental license with the ragbag of a seventies art student who is nostalgic for the Summer of Love.
I find days are given more focus if one has personalities to play with and costumes to dress in.
*Sweet in the way that teenage boys use the term? As in, 'Wanna come play Fifa mindlessly for thirteen hours solid, only breaking in order to piss on the loo seat and eat a packet of Tesco Value Jaffa cakes?' 'Yeah, sweet man.'
Or, 'Dude, that is one sah-wEEEEt-ah piece o' ass, hot damn!'
It is possible that sixteen years ago the word may have connoted something infinitely more innocent and cherubic. Those days are gone.
31 July 2009
22 July 2009
My Summer of Buzz
If ever you have an afternoon to dispense of, venture up to Parsley's study, commandeer the white leather executive chair, settle yourself amongst the random computer parts and techno memorabilia, and look endlessly through old photos on the family PC. Years and years of highs, lows, and abominable haircuts, all saved in a handful of metaphysical files.
And I have come to the conclusion that I was a Prime Bore. All pictures of me in the second stint of my adolescence are of my forehead. And a pimply forehead at that. Due to my nose being in a book, or newspaper, or instruction leaflets on 'How to be a Morose and Tedious Teenager'. Jeez, dull as dishwater. With the odd snap or scowl thrown in.
Sofas and sleeping bags are snuggly, but there comes a time when one must break out of these comfortable cocoons.
So this summer - my Summer of Buzz - I have been doing the butterfly jive.
I rave to techno Greek/Jewish folk music in tents, clad in wellies, with my mother. I wear stripy orange 'clown pants' (much to the chagrin of too cool Dopey-Doobie). I get tattoos from tea-drinking wiggas, who have posters of masturbating naked ladies on their bedroom walls. I spontaneously make banana bread pudding, with extra spice. I hoy wellington boots over my head. I sit in the rain in yellow and pink culottes, twirling a kitsch kitten umbrella. I watch Wayne Sleep overact in fishnets and leather pants at the Kit Kat Club, and fantasise about living my life as a Cabaret, old chum. I paint my nails green like Sally Bowles. I drink Amaretto Sours, made with ice crushed by frying pans. I dab glitter on my face and wear flowers in my hair.
And, as is often the case, art imitates life. To wit, this year's Mercury Music Prize nominees. A large proportion of which are girls who PERFORM. Huge, dramatic alter-egos. Glitter, glam, wings, wigs, feathers, other-worldly words, synthesised and distorted delirium. Who will win? The ONLY way to decide is a glitter face-off.
This picture illustrates my point beautifully. A solid foundation of books. (Which should be by no means disregarded.) But the paper lantern lights that adorn the heavens are just crying out to be swung from. Wild revellers and those with their heads in the clouds can drape themselves around the orbs, and flick them on and off, on and off, to create a firefly party atmosphere. A party that you have to invite yourself to. I'm jiving til the small hours this summer.
And I have come to the conclusion that I was a Prime Bore. All pictures of me in the second stint of my adolescence are of my forehead. And a pimply forehead at that. Due to my nose being in a book, or newspaper, or instruction leaflets on 'How to be a Morose and Tedious Teenager'. Jeez, dull as dishwater. With the odd snap or scowl thrown in.
Sofas and sleeping bags are snuggly, but there comes a time when one must break out of these comfortable cocoons.
So this summer - my Summer of Buzz - I have been doing the butterfly jive.
I rave to techno Greek/Jewish folk music in tents, clad in wellies, with my mother. I wear stripy orange 'clown pants' (much to the chagrin of too cool Dopey-Doobie). I get tattoos from tea-drinking wiggas, who have posters of masturbating naked ladies on their bedroom walls. I spontaneously make banana bread pudding, with extra spice. I hoy wellington boots over my head. I sit in the rain in yellow and pink culottes, twirling a kitsch kitten umbrella. I watch Wayne Sleep overact in fishnets and leather pants at the Kit Kat Club, and fantasise about living my life as a Cabaret, old chum. I paint my nails green like Sally Bowles. I drink Amaretto Sours, made with ice crushed by frying pans. I dab glitter on my face and wear flowers in my hair.
And, as is often the case, art imitates life. To wit, this year's Mercury Music Prize nominees. A large proportion of which are girls who PERFORM. Huge, dramatic alter-egos. Glitter, glam, wings, wigs, feathers, other-worldly words, synthesised and distorted delirium. Who will win? The ONLY way to decide is a glitter face-off.
This picture illustrates my point beautifully. A solid foundation of books. (Which should be by no means disregarded.) But the paper lantern lights that adorn the heavens are just crying out to be swung from. Wild revellers and those with their heads in the clouds can drape themselves around the orbs, and flick them on and off, on and off, to create a firefly party atmosphere. A party that you have to invite yourself to. I'm jiving til the small hours this summer.
15 July 2009
I make no apologies for the morbid content of this post. I feel that the following request should be documented in print. Or at least on this frugally-read blog.
Let us not beat around the bush (and why would anyone ever beat around a bush - what does this even achieve? - so let's just not do it). Basically, I want a hologram headstone.
Not right now, obviously. That would be weird. But when I'm dead and surveying all humanity with a wry smile upon my face and a knowing glint in my vacant eye.
Being the modest girl I am, I don't require the likes of extravagant angel adornments or legions of cherubs bedecking my final resting place. A simple headstone will suffice. As long as it bears a hologram of myself. That is all I ask. A perpetually winking, grinning hologram of a youthful Anna, doing big thumbs up and pointing 'Wassup? Check me out!' hand gestures. This will cheer mourners and give an air of cheesy kitsch which, in my experience, is never inappropriate.
Hologram headstones make an appearance in the film Serenity. I won't mention who for as I wouldn't want to spoil the 'plot', but let's just say that I'm not sure I shall ever forgive that ginger-bearded genius, Joss Whedon, for killing off a certain character. (Jeez, talk about o-bitch-uary.) Anyway, the amazing hologram headstone that marks where they lie is the least that they deserve. I, like the killed-off sci-fi star, am a leaf on the wind. Watch me soar...
And watch me wink in my jazzy hologram image for all eternity.
Let us not beat around the bush (and why would anyone ever beat around a bush - what does this even achieve? - so let's just not do it). Basically, I want a hologram headstone.
Not right now, obviously. That would be weird. But when I'm dead and surveying all humanity with a wry smile upon my face and a knowing glint in my vacant eye.
Being the modest girl I am, I don't require the likes of extravagant angel adornments or legions of cherubs bedecking my final resting place. A simple headstone will suffice. As long as it bears a hologram of myself. That is all I ask. A perpetually winking, grinning hologram of a youthful Anna, doing big thumbs up and pointing 'Wassup? Check me out!' hand gestures. This will cheer mourners and give an air of cheesy kitsch which, in my experience, is never inappropriate.
Hologram headstones make an appearance in the film Serenity. I won't mention who for as I wouldn't want to spoil the 'plot', but let's just say that I'm not sure I shall ever forgive that ginger-bearded genius, Joss Whedon, for killing off a certain character. (Jeez, talk about o-bitch-uary.) Anyway, the amazing hologram headstone that marks where they lie is the least that they deserve. I, like the killed-off sci-fi star, am a leaf on the wind. Watch me soar...
And watch me wink in my jazzy hologram image for all eternity.
8 July 2009
Piseog
Remember the days of peeling satsumas in the school canteen? Trying to do it in one continuous piece, usually ending up with something resembling a bright orange elephant. Two large ears and long trunk. Or, for those less innocent in nature, balls and cock (oh, how we sniggered, heady on our own ingenuity, however crude). Then throwing it over our left shoulders, filling the air with the strong citrus smell forever associated with Middle School lunches, and it would form the initial of the one destined to love you and be loved...
From satsumas to Spancels. Named after the rope with which domestic animals were hobbled, the Spancel is an old Arthurian folkloric notion. Though it is more of a piseog* than a great magic. It is a tape of human skin, cut from the silhouette of a dead man. Begun at the right shoulder, a sharp knife cuts down the outside of the right arm, round the outer edge of each finger as if along the seams of a glove, and up the inside of the arm to the arm-pit. It then continues to cut down the side of the body, down the leg and up to the crutch, and so on. It cuts until the circuit of the corpse's outline is completed. A long ribbon is thus formed. A slightly more gruesome satsuma peel, as it were.
Find the man you love. Throw the Spancel over his head whilst he sleeps, and tie it in a bow. If he wakes as you perform this act he'll be dead within the year. If, however, he sleeps throughout the whole operation then he is bound to fall in love with you. Simple as that. And they say that the course of true love never runs smooth... It runs as smoothly as a knife through dead man's flesh actually.
From satsumas to Spancels. Named after the rope with which domestic animals were hobbled, the Spancel is an old Arthurian folkloric notion. Though it is more of a piseog* than a great magic. It is a tape of human skin, cut from the silhouette of a dead man. Begun at the right shoulder, a sharp knife cuts down the outside of the right arm, round the outer edge of each finger as if along the seams of a glove, and up the inside of the arm to the arm-pit. It then continues to cut down the side of the body, down the leg and up to the crutch, and so on. It cuts until the circuit of the corpse's outline is completed. A long ribbon is thus formed. A slightly more gruesome satsuma peel, as it were.
Find the man you love. Throw the Spancel over his head whilst he sleeps, and tie it in a bow. If he wakes as you perform this act he'll be dead within the year. If, however, he sleeps throughout the whole operation then he is bound to fall in love with you. Simple as that. And they say that the course of true love never runs smooth... It runs as smoothly as a knife through dead man's flesh actually.
If you don't fancy making your own Spancel, there are apparently several in the secret coffers of the Old Ones. Though these are, of course, secret. So good luck finding them. And good luck finding the man you love too. Lets hope he's a heavy sleeper.
*the old Irish for superstition. And my new favourite word.
2 July 2009
Chocolate Smiles
I recently read a fascinating study of social philanthropy - a brilliantly observed feat of reportage of young girls growing up in the colourful, greedy, pleasure-driven western world. I recommend it to any budding student of sociology. And, indeed, to any female who experienced a British childhood in the past couple of decades. And, especially, to those who enjoy a bit of food porn. Cake porn in particular.
This 'study' is Sleepovers by Jacqueline Wilson.
Of course there are the usual 'issues' (a severely disabled older sister in this case) and the token blonde bitch, but these are by the by. The real interest lies in the descriptions of the girls' birthday parties.
They come up with their own themes - picnic party, swimming party, daisy party for Daisy etc - and, most importantly, their own fun, e-number laden party spreads. This is what any child's birthday party is all about anyway. Pool-shaped cakes with blue icing and marzipan figures, three-tiered affairs with each tier being a different flavour, white and yellow Victoria sponge, cut to look like a daisy...
This book has everything: realistically portrayed friendship troubles, girly silliness, a lovely Daddy who sorts out problems, true justice being served, the most amazing literary character ever in the cuddly Bella who is a wee bit dim, completely harmless, obsessed with chocolate and eats ALL the time, lashings of nostalgia for those halcyon party days, and cake. Lots and lots of cake.
So it came to pass that, in honour of my 21st birthday at home, I requested a Candy Castle Cake. The cake of my childhood. The King (or should that be Queen?) of cakes. The cake that my mother shall be eternally remembered for, a legacy she should be proud of. A solid sponge sandwich, coated thickly with butter-icing, topped with ice-cream cone turrets (also smothered in artery-clogging sugar paste) and studded all over with brightly coloured sweets. Chocolate MUST be included somewhere. Or everywhere. And ta da! A feast fit for a Princess. Albeit a diabetes-destined Princess...
And no, it is not an ancient-Greek phallic cake (which they DID make, back in the day) - those are turrets. Delicious TURRETS.
My party would blow all those Sleepover shindigs out the water.
Though it may have trouble competing with this...
I know of a girl soon to turn 21. She is thinking of celebrating this milestone at Ikea. A magical place of flatpack furniture, simple Swedish interior design, the mysterious and wondrous jungle of the basement, platefuls of fries, meatballs with that curious cranberry sauce and, best and most party-appealing of all, infinite lingonberry juice re-fills!
Party bags will naturally include those pencils they have dotted around everywhere that one nicks as a kid, and a Dime bar.
A wild way to mark a birthday. Not even good old Jackie could have come up with something quite so awesome.
The cake will probably be a Candy Kitchen, rather than Castle!
This 'study' is Sleepovers by Jacqueline Wilson.
Of course there are the usual 'issues' (a severely disabled older sister in this case) and the token blonde bitch, but these are by the by. The real interest lies in the descriptions of the girls' birthday parties.
They come up with their own themes - picnic party, swimming party, daisy party for Daisy etc - and, most importantly, their own fun, e-number laden party spreads. This is what any child's birthday party is all about anyway. Pool-shaped cakes with blue icing and marzipan figures, three-tiered affairs with each tier being a different flavour, white and yellow Victoria sponge, cut to look like a daisy...
This book has everything: realistically portrayed friendship troubles, girly silliness, a lovely Daddy who sorts out problems, true justice being served, the most amazing literary character ever in the cuddly Bella who is a wee bit dim, completely harmless, obsessed with chocolate and eats ALL the time, lashings of nostalgia for those halcyon party days, and cake. Lots and lots of cake.
So it came to pass that, in honour of my 21st birthday at home, I requested a Candy Castle Cake. The cake of my childhood. The King (or should that be Queen?) of cakes. The cake that my mother shall be eternally remembered for, a legacy she should be proud of. A solid sponge sandwich, coated thickly with butter-icing, topped with ice-cream cone turrets (also smothered in artery-clogging sugar paste) and studded all over with brightly coloured sweets. Chocolate MUST be included somewhere. Or everywhere. And ta da! A feast fit for a Princess. Albeit a diabetes-destined Princess...
And no, it is not an ancient-Greek phallic cake (which they DID make, back in the day) - those are turrets. Delicious TURRETS.
My party would blow all those Sleepover shindigs out the water.
Though it may have trouble competing with this...
I know of a girl soon to turn 21. She is thinking of celebrating this milestone at Ikea. A magical place of flatpack furniture, simple Swedish interior design, the mysterious and wondrous jungle of the basement, platefuls of fries, meatballs with that curious cranberry sauce and, best and most party-appealing of all, infinite lingonberry juice re-fills!
Party bags will naturally include those pencils they have dotted around everywhere that one nicks as a kid, and a Dime bar.
A wild way to mark a birthday. Not even good old Jackie could have come up with something quite so awesome.
The cake will probably be a Candy Kitchen, rather than Castle!
28 June 2009
My Life on Film
Lights... Camera... Action!
Starring Anna as damsel in dreamy joy rather than distress, plus stylised extras of various character, within a medieval castle, acting out a contemporary fairytale.
I dress up, in whimsical costume, yet am not acting.
Shot in sharp focus, high contrast, and in flattering light.
An independent, arthouse film of life in a moment, captured on celluloid, making the fluid and floaty static and the moment eternal.
We are the stars. Divas demanding to go on location to a stone storybook town with many turrets, at sunset, in south-west France. We prepare for our close-ups...
12 June 2009
Open Mic Night (or week, month, year, era, age...)
Following days of Barbican-based pen-pushing, this is the way to dream away the remaining hours...
Hours filled with fairy lit basements of Eds, and the odd Ned.
And long Harringay hills and hot-pink florists.
Twilight consumed with cherry risotto and 'getting off one's Maynards'.
An evening wiled away with a beer keg baby, chit-chat of travel, egg-shaped shakers of a blue hue and playing, ad hoc, on the omnichord.
Time taken up by Portuguese aprons that exude culinary love, poems in profile (though which is his best side, one wonders, as he searches for the light), and printed pictures of Polaroid snaps.
Moments drowned in 'oceans of gin', whisky demands and red wine spillages.
A mortifying, though liberating, lifetime of stumbles through drunken mispronunciations, of misjudged french words, before taking one's leave half-heartedly with 'half past eight a.m.' excuses.
A blurred-edge bus journey, a 29 ride, an exchange of bohemian boasting between siblings, a panic and a pudding later... Panic due to forgotten keys and visions of street-sleeping. Pudding to soothe these (thankfully) unrealised visions away. Then wide-eyed once more at 4 in the morning.
I woke up and it was hours, not dreamed, but lived later. And it is these unexpected evenings that make the days of screen-staring more of a Barbican than a Barbican't.
Hours filled with fairy lit basements of Eds, and the odd Ned.
And long Harringay hills and hot-pink florists.
Twilight consumed with cherry risotto and 'getting off one's Maynards'.
An evening wiled away with a beer keg baby, chit-chat of travel, egg-shaped shakers of a blue hue and playing, ad hoc, on the omnichord.
Time taken up by Portuguese aprons that exude culinary love, poems in profile (though which is his best side, one wonders, as he searches for the light), and printed pictures of Polaroid snaps.
Moments drowned in 'oceans of gin', whisky demands and red wine spillages.
A mortifying, though liberating, lifetime of stumbles through drunken mispronunciations, of misjudged french words, before taking one's leave half-heartedly with 'half past eight a.m.' excuses.
A blurred-edge bus journey, a 29 ride, an exchange of bohemian boasting between siblings, a panic and a pudding later... Panic due to forgotten keys and visions of street-sleeping. Pudding to soothe these (thankfully) unrealised visions away. Then wide-eyed once more at 4 in the morning.
I woke up and it was hours, not dreamed, but lived later. And it is these unexpected evenings that make the days of screen-staring more of a Barbican than a Barbican't.
10 June 2009
4 June 2009
'The Comedy of Life'
It is a truth universally acknowledged that shit happens...
Posters fall down, and people get 'leg hernias' on their birthdays.
Chocolate brownie cake gets smeared on carpets, and violet creams get devoured after cider with almost disastrous consequences.
Doors to poetry bars are locked, and light bulbs nearly get sat on.
The BNP, Ukip and Christian Party are all front runners in local elections, and keys fail to cooperate.
And that is barely the tip of the iceberg.
HOWEVER, tips of icebergs can also be cherries on the top. Can they not? Work with me on this one...
As a very wise amour of mine repeatedly (and ever so smugly) whispers through an amused half-smile, 'It is all part of the Comedy of Life'.
Pink party frocks can be enjoyed, and bedrooms can be the glamorous make-up boudoirs of backstage theatres.
A casual Carlos Acosta can be spotted in the street, and free blow-up inflatables can cushion numb bums in twilit Trafalgar Square.
Jokes can be made publicly about the medium of dance, and purple glitter curtains can bedeck bars booked for private soirees.
Undone bow ties can grace slender necks, and lace can be layered to form a special, special garment.
Hampstead Heath can be buttercup brightness, or wine-drenched sunset. Rugs and mugs can always be conjured, and friends will always be friends...
And, if in doubt, at an all time low, or disillusioned with the world of dancecrobatics, one can always cut to an 80's dance montage... Fact.
Posters fall down, and people get 'leg hernias' on their birthdays.
Chocolate brownie cake gets smeared on carpets, and violet creams get devoured after cider with almost disastrous consequences.
Doors to poetry bars are locked, and light bulbs nearly get sat on.
The BNP, Ukip and Christian Party are all front runners in local elections, and keys fail to cooperate.
And that is barely the tip of the iceberg.
HOWEVER, tips of icebergs can also be cherries on the top. Can they not? Work with me on this one...
As a very wise amour of mine repeatedly (and ever so smugly) whispers through an amused half-smile, 'It is all part of the Comedy of Life'.
Pink party frocks can be enjoyed, and bedrooms can be the glamorous make-up boudoirs of backstage theatres.
A casual Carlos Acosta can be spotted in the street, and free blow-up inflatables can cushion numb bums in twilit Trafalgar Square.
Jokes can be made publicly about the medium of dance, and purple glitter curtains can bedeck bars booked for private soirees.
Undone bow ties can grace slender necks, and lace can be layered to form a special, special garment.
Hampstead Heath can be buttercup brightness, or wine-drenched sunset. Rugs and mugs can always be conjured, and friends will always be friends...
And, if in doubt, at an all time low, or disillusioned with the world of dancecrobatics, one can always cut to an 80's dance montage... Fact.
29 May 2009
Bank Holiday
Ahh, the wondrous images conjured by South Wimbledon Tube Station... So evocative of a bygone era. Very 1940's. War glamour - red lipstick, silk stockings, the clatter of heels, curled and coiffed hair, the promise of a soldier in uniform offering a light for a long, ever-so-white cigarette. The setting for many a period film, for many a fantasy.
Then I rock up with two cohorts. Carrying various items of crockery.
A prettily dressed leggy lady, lumbered with a huge hiking backpack strapped to her intrepid explorer frame. A smart-shirted young man in desperate need of a toothbrush, and armed with a ladle (brilliant defence against tube muggers - bop, bop, bop on the head).
And I. In my pyjamas. Tucked sexily into socks. Socks which don't even belong to me. Sporting yesterday's make up, a floral scarf at my throat, and all topped off with a slightly sickly smile at the situation.
The large chap across from us - eyes closed, huge shiny purple origami bird in his hat, with a rune-decorated staff with a crystal attached to the top in one hand, two silver balls which he fondled contentedly in the other - no doubt thought we could easily be recruited into his cult, being, as we were, tube-travellers of a certain ilk. An ilk of eccentricity.
Thankfully we escaped his clutches, clattering crockery as we minded the gap. Then home for a shower, teeth clean and a change into silk stockings and fresh coat of lipstick, ready to await a 1940's war hero.
Then I rock up with two cohorts. Carrying various items of crockery.
A prettily dressed leggy lady, lumbered with a huge hiking backpack strapped to her intrepid explorer frame. A smart-shirted young man in desperate need of a toothbrush, and armed with a ladle (brilliant defence against tube muggers - bop, bop, bop on the head).
And I. In my pyjamas. Tucked sexily into socks. Socks which don't even belong to me. Sporting yesterday's make up, a floral scarf at my throat, and all topped off with a slightly sickly smile at the situation.
The large chap across from us - eyes closed, huge shiny purple origami bird in his hat, with a rune-decorated staff with a crystal attached to the top in one hand, two silver balls which he fondled contentedly in the other - no doubt thought we could easily be recruited into his cult, being, as we were, tube-travellers of a certain ilk. An ilk of eccentricity.
Thankfully we escaped his clutches, clattering crockery as we minded the gap. Then home for a shower, teeth clean and a change into silk stockings and fresh coat of lipstick, ready to await a 1940's war hero.
23 May 2009
Anorak Afficianado
A good spy never gets caught.
Yet I will be forever caught up in Harriet the Spy. And unashamedly so. She well and truly captured my imagination and entrapped my fancy with her net of alluring espionage.
She is my ultimate heroine (and I realise this seems to change on an almost daily basis, but Harriet has remained a stalwart in the enduring coolness department - she also has nostalgia on her side) and I want to be her.
She is, first and foremost, a spy. And a writer, an observer, a wit, a freethinker. But, and this is the crucial point, she is a child. The best aspect of all.
I love, love, love the Harriet the Spy film. I love the amazing garden Golly takes Harriet, Sport and Janey to, with its junk sculptures and clouds of soapy bubbles. I love the umbrellas that Harriet and Golly are holding when sitting out in the rain just before Golly's tearjerking departure - large and red for Golly, small and flowery for Harriet. I love the boy with the purple socks. I love the dancing vegetables in the winter pageant (Harriet is an onion), complete with the silver centrepiece of a solo gravy boat ballet. I love Harriet's fashion - her iconic yellow anorak, all the block primary colours she wears, the stripes of her t-shirts and the bright red of her trousers, that her denim warrents the epithet 'funky', and how she is an inspiration for Tomboy Chic - I want access to her wardrobe. I love how Harriet, Sport and Janey roll around like maniacs on the steps outside their school, laughing and shrieking like hyenas with unrestrained mirth. I love how Harriet has a tomato (to-may-toe) sandwich every single day, squelching the tomato and mayonnaise between white bread each morning (to the extent that I went through a phase of doing the exact same thing back in the day - slurpy and delicious!).
I love how childhood is presented. I love that they are real children: curious, creative, confused, cruel and capable of friendship beyond any adult comprehension.
I love that the three friends draw felt-tip tattoos on the bottom of their bare feet and print them on each other's soles. I love this so much that I am getting a tattoo on my foot to mark my 21st birthday - still a child at heart! A child like Harriet.
17 May 2009
9 May 2009
Dream a little dream of me...
Twas the night before Chaucer, when all through the flat, inner psyches were stirring. And weird ones at that...
Dreams are a funny old business. Ominous, foreseeing, inward eyes of DESTINY.
Or just the crazed ravings of over-active imaginations and the result of too much cheese/sugar/weetos before bed.
C had dreamed that if F wrote about a particular tale in the exam (one which muses on dreams in fact - oh, the bitter irony!) then she would fail. Along with all of us. Basically, it would be a code red situation if F mentioned proud cocks, the wily fox, or any priests associated with nuns. C decided to withhold this dream from F until after the exam. Thankfully F did not wax lyrical about the tale of doom, so are skins were saved!
All the more disturbing, however, was G's dream. We, according to the cogs concealed within his fine cranium of concern, were all in the exam hall, about to get down to business, when a sniper entered and started shooting everyone. Dramatic. I, alas, was first to go, having been used as a human shield by C. (A very foolish choice of human shield I must say, not being the most substantial of students. The long frame of F would have proved a much better method of defence. Not because she's broad or anything...) Anyway, G survived. He would, it being his dream and all.
So bloodshed, carnage and, ultimately, death were foretold. No wonder G looked a bit peaky first thing.
What grieved me the most, however, was the fact that G only attended F's funeral in the dream. We know where his true loyalties lie... He said it wasn't up to much though. Mine would have been an absolute p-a-r-t-a-y, so his loss.
And anyway, this comes from the chap who once had an almost sex dream with Charlotte Bronte. She was about to take off her dress but G was like, 'No. Charlotte. Don't.'
Dreams are a funny old business. Ominous, foreseeing, inward eyes of DESTINY.
Or just the crazed ravings of over-active imaginations and the result of too much cheese/sugar/weetos before bed.
C had dreamed that if F wrote about a particular tale in the exam (one which muses on dreams in fact - oh, the bitter irony!) then she would fail. Along with all of us. Basically, it would be a code red situation if F mentioned proud cocks, the wily fox, or any priests associated with nuns. C decided to withhold this dream from F until after the exam. Thankfully F did not wax lyrical about the tale of doom, so are skins were saved!
All the more disturbing, however, was G's dream. We, according to the cogs concealed within his fine cranium of concern, were all in the exam hall, about to get down to business, when a sniper entered and started shooting everyone. Dramatic. I, alas, was first to go, having been used as a human shield by C. (A very foolish choice of human shield I must say, not being the most substantial of students. The long frame of F would have proved a much better method of defence. Not because she's broad or anything...) Anyway, G survived. He would, it being his dream and all.
So bloodshed, carnage and, ultimately, death were foretold. No wonder G looked a bit peaky first thing.
What grieved me the most, however, was the fact that G only attended F's funeral in the dream. We know where his true loyalties lie... He said it wasn't up to much though. Mine would have been an absolute p-a-r-t-a-y, so his loss.
And anyway, this comes from the chap who once had an almost sex dream with Charlotte Bronte. She was about to take off her dress but G was like, 'No. Charlotte. Don't.'
28 April 2009
Postcard
Dear Blog,
Have gone to Planet Chaucer. Ascended through the atmosphere by way of Eagle Airways, and staying at House of Fame Hotel. Run by this dodgy bloke who goes by the name of Geoff. Think he's ripping me off to be honest. An empassioned couple, Troilus and Creseyde, have the Honeymoon Suite - though not sure how long this honeymoon period will last... Met a few drinking buddies down the local tavern. Some right characters - the Wife of Bath and Pardoner drank me under the table! Don't think all this ale agrees with me as having some very vivid dreams. One might even call them 'visions', and they are always in verse...
Weather currently stormy, but am hoping that the clouds will clear, the mist will rise, and that I shall soon see the light.
Maybe I should have just gone on a road trip to Canterbury instead...
Hopefully be back soon,
Anna
P.s. Cancel the papers for the forseeable future (and the future is always forseeable on Planet Chaucer - according to the sponsors, Boethius and Fortune, at any rate) as unfortunately I cannot read them whilst on this holiday from hell.
Have gone to Planet Chaucer. Ascended through the atmosphere by way of Eagle Airways, and staying at House of Fame Hotel. Run by this dodgy bloke who goes by the name of Geoff. Think he's ripping me off to be honest. An empassioned couple, Troilus and Creseyde, have the Honeymoon Suite - though not sure how long this honeymoon period will last... Met a few drinking buddies down the local tavern. Some right characters - the Wife of Bath and Pardoner drank me under the table! Don't think all this ale agrees with me as having some very vivid dreams. One might even call them 'visions', and they are always in verse...
Weather currently stormy, but am hoping that the clouds will clear, the mist will rise, and that I shall soon see the light.
Maybe I should have just gone on a road trip to Canterbury instead...
Hopefully be back soon,
Anna
P.s. Cancel the papers for the forseeable future (and the future is always forseeable on Planet Chaucer - according to the sponsors, Boethius and Fortune, at any rate) as unfortunately I cannot read them whilst on this holiday from hell.
15 April 2009
Mangle
Brother the Younger and I are going into business together. We are going to set up The Great Mangle Tour of Britain.
Mangle enthusiasts (and who doesn't love a mangle?) can travel the country, mangle to mangle. Simple as that. Why hadn't we thought of it before? How has it not been done before?
Coach trips will run throughout the tourist season, taking in Beamish, Kirkhaarle (where there is a beautiful specimen within a cosy cafe), Robert Burns' House (which has the added charm of chattering old ladies, eager to inform), and the piece de resistance of Arran Heritage Museum.
I would be most grateful for suggestions of any other mangle-centred locations, especially in the south, as this is a decidedly northern-based venture at present.
As a sideline to this business, I am going to produce souvenirs. Based on mangles. Obviously. Tea towels, fridge magnets and mugs will bear such legends as 'You can wring my bedsheets anytime' and 'Can you handle my mangle?'. These will be targeted towards those mangle-loving dirty weekenders, of which, I am reliably informed, there is a rather large market.
I may also manufacture some mini working models of mangles. Pocket-sized so that you are never caught short without a mangle. They will come in multiple colours, and will surely appeal to the young manglophile, those still new to the growing national obsession and who will be receptive to the dinky dynamism of these nifty collectables.
Me and Brother the Younger will split the profit 70/30.
Is it just me or is the word mangle beginning to lose all sense and meaning...?
Mangle enthusiasts (and who doesn't love a mangle?) can travel the country, mangle to mangle. Simple as that. Why hadn't we thought of it before? How has it not been done before?
Coach trips will run throughout the tourist season, taking in Beamish, Kirkhaarle (where there is a beautiful specimen within a cosy cafe), Robert Burns' House (which has the added charm of chattering old ladies, eager to inform), and the piece de resistance of Arran Heritage Museum.
I would be most grateful for suggestions of any other mangle-centred locations, especially in the south, as this is a decidedly northern-based venture at present.
As a sideline to this business, I am going to produce souvenirs. Based on mangles. Obviously. Tea towels, fridge magnets and mugs will bear such legends as 'You can wring my bedsheets anytime' and 'Can you handle my mangle?'. These will be targeted towards those mangle-loving dirty weekenders, of which, I am reliably informed, there is a rather large market.
I may also manufacture some mini working models of mangles. Pocket-sized so that you are never caught short without a mangle. They will come in multiple colours, and will surely appeal to the young manglophile, those still new to the growing national obsession and who will be receptive to the dinky dynamism of these nifty collectables.
Me and Brother the Younger will split the profit 70/30.
Is it just me or is the word mangle beginning to lose all sense and meaning...?
4 April 2009
Though the East End (or Hexham Massive, East Side, as I like to think of it, with gangsta hand gestures and rapper gesticulations) is not quite a suburbia of Desperate Housewives proportions, it isn't far off. No white picket fence borders our abode - we only do twee ironically, and would definitely not be able to cope with the upkeep of such a wholesome garden accessory - yet a dark, secretive past lingers around these parts just as it does on Wisteria Lane. Apparently.
Back in the day (and I am not sure as to the exact date of this legendary 'day') the residence of Woodside Villas were known, rather wittily, as the Woodside Villains. Which adds adventure and theatricality to our somewhat reserved street.
The divulger of this information (written in blood on thick parchment by way of a scratchy quill, folded and sealed with ruby red molten wax, and arrived through my window attached to the leg of a carrier pigeon) did not care to elaborate as to how we were villainous however.
I like to think it was due to the nightly raucus flapper parties, wild drunken orgies, the rampant espionage, blackmail, and cloak and dagger goings on, and the enthusiastic twirling of our dark moustaches.
Of course, it could be nothing to do with the rather disastrous shindig of five years ago, when rivers of vomit ran in our drives, paint splattered the walls and carpets like the aftermath of a gory murder scene, windows were smashed, and high heel shoes spiked through table tops. Heaven forbid.
Alas, I feel the heyday of the notorious Woodside Villains, when they reigned supreme over these dark and shadowy parts, may be over. Though the banter over constructing the herb patch can border on villainous when the heat of the sun burns through the gathering clouds. Boos and hisses follow Ma and Pa as they swish their dark velvet cloaks, and scheme over fennel seeds.
I hope the villain is merely lurking, hatching evil and dastardly plans, and plotting an epic return to these mean streets in the near future. The Villas were meant for Villains!
Back in the day (and I am not sure as to the exact date of this legendary 'day') the residence of Woodside Villas were known, rather wittily, as the Woodside Villains. Which adds adventure and theatricality to our somewhat reserved street.
The divulger of this information (written in blood on thick parchment by way of a scratchy quill, folded and sealed with ruby red molten wax, and arrived through my window attached to the leg of a carrier pigeon) did not care to elaborate as to how we were villainous however.
I like to think it was due to the nightly raucus flapper parties, wild drunken orgies, the rampant espionage, blackmail, and cloak and dagger goings on, and the enthusiastic twirling of our dark moustaches.
Of course, it could be nothing to do with the rather disastrous shindig of five years ago, when rivers of vomit ran in our drives, paint splattered the walls and carpets like the aftermath of a gory murder scene, windows were smashed, and high heel shoes spiked through table tops. Heaven forbid.
Alas, I feel the heyday of the notorious Woodside Villains, when they reigned supreme over these dark and shadowy parts, may be over. Though the banter over constructing the herb patch can border on villainous when the heat of the sun burns through the gathering clouds. Boos and hisses follow Ma and Pa as they swish their dark velvet cloaks, and scheme over fennel seeds.
I hope the villain is merely lurking, hatching evil and dastardly plans, and plotting an epic return to these mean streets in the near future. The Villas were meant for Villains!
25 March 2009
Spectacular Spectacular!
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!
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!
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)