..... I went to the vintage market at Spitalfields today. What is it with vintage? I've been to many stores branded as such and all I've ever discovered is old tat. Is my old tat now on trend? The only person I've ever seen who looks good in vintage is a colleague at work, but you could give her a bin liner and she'd turn it into something stylish. Not everyone is like her, though. Mostly, when I see people wearing a shapeless, heavily patterned, polyester dress, all they're telling me is that they've stolen my elderly aunt's wardrobe and I should call the police.
And what is it with old costume jewellery? The market was full of it. Old brooches that were so heavy, you'd be carrying twice your own body weight if you managed to pin them on your lapel. And old handbags that must once have been stuffed full of dirty linen hankies, half-eaten foxes glacier mints and a china tea cup taken on journeys to the seaside so you could have tea in a proper cup. And old hats that had been surgically removed with a chisel from hair permed and sprayed so tightly, it was virtually transmuted to rock. And scarves; the place was full of bins of old scarves. The remnants, no doubt, of a retired magician who donated his supply of scarves to the old scarves home after they'd made their last appearance from up his sleeve. Or scarves that had spent their lives keeping out the chill from the necks of church-going ladies at Sunday morning service, the knot tightening every time they made moon eyes at the 'lovely' vicar. And fur coats - loads of them - hanging on rails looking forlorn; everybody a little awkward about overtly admiring them for fear of having a tin of Dulux One Coat Satin tipped over their head.
You may be thinking I'm displaying overly negative views on 'vintage'. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, if I hadn't slipped away from the vintage to look in 'Jigsaw'. The moment I stepped through the doorway, I was told it was a very exciting time in there because the new collection was in. At first I thought she meant they were collecting for a new lifeboat, but then I realised she meant the clothes. The shop assistant approached me twice to say that other sizes were available. I admit I like a dessert, but, reading between the lines of her barely disguised assumption that there wouldn't be anything in my size on display, I deduced it was because my size would take up too much room in the store. I wanted to tell her that I had bought a course of Power Plates classes, I planned to attend those pilates classes I'd avoided, I was a new recruit to Zumba and was trying hard to give up my morning cheese bagel. I wanted to assure her that there was hope for me. I wanted to say that I'd seen collections come and go and to ask her if a group of children in India were busy sewing something in my size from disused parachutes. But, I didn't. Why do we let these assistants judge us so openly? I went back outside to the vintage market and decided to go and have a full English Breakfast. For Lunch. Let 'em think what they want. For me a full English Breakfast is truly and satisfyingly vintage.
Monday 29 August 2011
Sunday 21 August 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
..... while enduring a throat infection instead of a holiday, I was pretty much housebound. And what do you do when you're housebound and surrounded by books that you've already read? You watch TV. Daytime TV. My remote reached channels it had never reached before. I lost count of the number of homes on sale in the country; heirlooms sold at auction for less than the bus fare to get there; makeovers of women who stretched the boundaries of photoshop to it's very limit; confessions of men and women who slept with their in-laws (why do they always have spots?). I clung on through all this until it was time for 'Eggheads' on BBC2. I absorbed the general knowledge of this joyous programme until I felt I knew the answer to everything. In fact, if I'd been able to shout through the laryngitis, I'd have exclaimed "stop Eggheads, we have all the information we can cope with".
But, there was one other thing that got me through this period of ill health. And that was my search for sightings of Pitbull, the rapper. No music channel escaped my attention. If he was on, I was watching. Such an intriguing individual. Never alone, always stuck like glue to a buxom woman and examining her charms with the eyes of one who knows that he's got the sharp suit, the money and the rap to make her skip school for the afternoon. And his voice, what a sound. Like a human bassoon. An orchestra would be proud to find him in their woodwind section. And his lyrics. So full of meaning: "I was playing with her, she was playing with me, next thing you know we were playing with three". Surely this is a message to teenagers urging them to use contraception to avoid unwanted pregnancies?
And from his collaboration with Ne-Yo: "Excuse me, but I might drink a little more than I should tonight". Surely this is a warning to teenagers to go easy on the alcopops or to at least have the manners to apologise first for throwing up over the homeless person sheltering in the HSBC doorway. Here, I think we have a rapper with a social conscience. Yes, his videos might be full of ladies who forgot to get dressed before the cameras rolled. Yes, he may or may not have been involved with drugs. Yes, he speaks out of only one corner of his mouth, but just imagine what the rest of his mouth must be doing. Yes, he might clog up your BT Friends and Family allowance with Ricky Martin, Shakira and Gloria Estefan. Yes, he might be embarrassing to hang out with at a bus-stop gyrating with the twirlies (before 9.30am). Yes, he's named himself after a dog (he could so easily be called chihuahua). But, he's been awarded the keys to the city of Miami. And that's one big set of keys! And who doesn't enjoy latino rythmns? Certainly, slumped on the sofa, pumped full of strepsils and just enough energy to press the remote, Pitbull spoke to me and it was better than any lozenge.
But, there was one other thing that got me through this period of ill health. And that was my search for sightings of Pitbull, the rapper. No music channel escaped my attention. If he was on, I was watching. Such an intriguing individual. Never alone, always stuck like glue to a buxom woman and examining her charms with the eyes of one who knows that he's got the sharp suit, the money and the rap to make her skip school for the afternoon. And his voice, what a sound. Like a human bassoon. An orchestra would be proud to find him in their woodwind section. And his lyrics. So full of meaning: "I was playing with her, she was playing with me, next thing you know we were playing with three". Surely this is a message to teenagers urging them to use contraception to avoid unwanted pregnancies?
And from his collaboration with Ne-Yo: "Excuse me, but I might drink a little more than I should tonight". Surely this is a warning to teenagers to go easy on the alcopops or to at least have the manners to apologise first for throwing up over the homeless person sheltering in the HSBC doorway. Here, I think we have a rapper with a social conscience. Yes, his videos might be full of ladies who forgot to get dressed before the cameras rolled. Yes, he may or may not have been involved with drugs. Yes, he speaks out of only one corner of his mouth, but just imagine what the rest of his mouth must be doing. Yes, he might clog up your BT Friends and Family allowance with Ricky Martin, Shakira and Gloria Estefan. Yes, he might be embarrassing to hang out with at a bus-stop gyrating with the twirlies (before 9.30am). Yes, he's named himself after a dog (he could so easily be called chihuahua). But, he's been awarded the keys to the city of Miami. And that's one big set of keys! And who doesn't enjoy latino rythmns? Certainly, slumped on the sofa, pumped full of strepsils and just enough energy to press the remote, Pitbull spoke to me and it was better than any lozenge.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... why is virtually every music video I watch (purely for cultural balance to my penchant for Monarch of the Glen) full of gyrating women pushing boob tape adhesive to it's limit? Why do these 3-minute movies constantly depict life as hot and steamy? The Victoria Line is hot and steamy, but no-one is gyrating in their underwear all 'crazy in love' or 'doin it like a dude'. If they were, I wouldn't begrudge my annual Oyster Card.
If we all enjoy watching these videos, why isn't it mirrored in daily life? Granted, any British city centre on a Saturday is populated by people turned away from an overbooked Easyjet flight to Ibiza. But, during the day it's all a bit more sedate. Apart from spitting and dropping sweet wrappers on the floor, it's all fairly tame. How much more interesting would a visit to Sainsbury's be if at the self-checkout the announcement 'unidentified item in the bagging area' greeted a scantily-clad customer singing "Stop talking, stop talking, I don't want to scan anymore, I've left my butter and my peas on the shop floor"? How much more motivating would a day in the office be if we presented our photocopying dressed in a rubber cat suit flagged on either side by a bevvy of hip wiggling dancers fanning us with foolscap ring-binders?
My shock peaked this evening when I turned over from ITV to one of the music channels. Having foregone the chance to hear about the individual who had decided to live in sheds at the bottom of his garden, I fell upon "I like the way that you talk dirty, don't wash your mouth out I like it dirty. You like to please yeah I like that yeah yeah yeah yeah me like it, I like the way that you keep me coming. That yeah you so good you had me running. Me like the way that he goin' down down down down down".
At first I thought it was an advert for Listerine mouthwash (they've missed a trick there). But it was, in fact, Nicole Scherzinger's new single 'Right There'. The video reminded me of a gyrating snake trying trying to wriggle through the eye of a needle without the aid of Vaseline. What would the great Alan Titchmarsh say? His experiment in metaphors resulted in "he became more entangled in the lissom limbs of this human boa constrictor". I think that won an award of some sort.
Anyway, we have the Oxford English Dictionary at our disposal, so surely we can come up with something better than 'Yeah'? We have cities full of clothes shop, so surely we can find something that fits us. Someone invented underwear, so let's leave the adhesive on the wallpaper where it belongs. Give our boobs a rest! Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.
If we all enjoy watching these videos, why isn't it mirrored in daily life? Granted, any British city centre on a Saturday is populated by people turned away from an overbooked Easyjet flight to Ibiza. But, during the day it's all a bit more sedate. Apart from spitting and dropping sweet wrappers on the floor, it's all fairly tame. How much more interesting would a visit to Sainsbury's be if at the self-checkout the announcement 'unidentified item in the bagging area' greeted a scantily-clad customer singing "Stop talking, stop talking, I don't want to scan anymore, I've left my butter and my peas on the shop floor"? How much more motivating would a day in the office be if we presented our photocopying dressed in a rubber cat suit flagged on either side by a bevvy of hip wiggling dancers fanning us with foolscap ring-binders?
My shock peaked this evening when I turned over from ITV to one of the music channels. Having foregone the chance to hear about the individual who had decided to live in sheds at the bottom of his garden, I fell upon "I like the way that you talk dirty, don't wash your mouth out I like it dirty. You like to please yeah I like that yeah yeah yeah yeah me like it, I like the way that you keep me coming. That yeah you so good you had me running. Me like the way that he goin' down down down down down".
At first I thought it was an advert for Listerine mouthwash (they've missed a trick there). But it was, in fact, Nicole Scherzinger's new single 'Right There'. The video reminded me of a gyrating snake trying trying to wriggle through the eye of a needle without the aid of Vaseline. What would the great Alan Titchmarsh say? His experiment in metaphors resulted in "he became more entangled in the lissom limbs of this human boa constrictor". I think that won an award of some sort.
Anyway, we have the Oxford English Dictionary at our disposal, so surely we can come up with something better than 'Yeah'? We have cities full of clothes shop, so surely we can find something that fits us. Someone invented underwear, so let's leave the adhesive on the wallpaper where it belongs. Give our boobs a rest! Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.
Sunday 3 July 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... whenever someone says to me that 'so and so' celebrity is gorgeous and I google their image to basque in their handsomeness, I'm always disappointed. Most recent cases are Michael Fassbender (actor) and Feliciano Lopez (tennis player). To counter this, I urge you all to google Yotam Ottolenghi (chef). He's awesomly attractive and his cook books are lip-lickingly enticing.
I often walk along Upper Street in Islington and look across the road to the Ottolenghi restaurant, adorned with queues of attractive Islingtonians (there are no ugly people in that part of London, unless the 73 bus breaks down en route from Finsbury Park). As I gaze across, I wish I could overcome my lethargy for queueing or my past-its-sell-by date looks (all downhill after my first birthday) and infiltrate the North London glitterati as it gorges on its Caramelised Endive with Serrano Ham or Camargue Red Quinoa with Orange and Pistachios, all rounded off with a Brioche Galette (sounds so much nicer than 'flan').
No-one entering or exiting is overweight, dressed in BHS, wearing Clarks shoes or dangling an ASDA carrier bag. This is somewhere I would have to change my entire lifestyle in order to breath in its world of dried limes, mograbiah (big couscous) and abundance of fresh herbs. Every time I open my store cupboard and see the chaotic arrangement of Scwartz herb jars - many fatally past their best before dates - I know that to the great Yotam I would be a Jif lemon to his unwaxed, fresh, juicy lemon begging to be squeezed from the wicker basket display in Waitrose. He also has a degree in Philosophy. Imagine the luscious conversations we could have on the merits of introducing quinoa to the masses and whether they will subsequently rise up and demand more rocket and horseradish sauce to dip their chips in.
Today, I'm cooking a recipe from his first book - marinated rack of lamb with coriander and honey. I had to make the marinade last night and let the lamb soak in all the yumminess overnight. Chillies, ginger, garlic, coriander, mint, honey, soy sauce and more - it's got it all. And if that's not enough, the cookbook is littered with pictures of the great man himself. Awesome.
This is also one of those situations where I wish I was a man. He's gay.
I often walk along Upper Street in Islington and look across the road to the Ottolenghi restaurant, adorned with queues of attractive Islingtonians (there are no ugly people in that part of London, unless the 73 bus breaks down en route from Finsbury Park). As I gaze across, I wish I could overcome my lethargy for queueing or my past-its-sell-by date looks (all downhill after my first birthday) and infiltrate the North London glitterati as it gorges on its Caramelised Endive with Serrano Ham or Camargue Red Quinoa with Orange and Pistachios, all rounded off with a Brioche Galette (sounds so much nicer than 'flan').
No-one entering or exiting is overweight, dressed in BHS, wearing Clarks shoes or dangling an ASDA carrier bag. This is somewhere I would have to change my entire lifestyle in order to breath in its world of dried limes, mograbiah (big couscous) and abundance of fresh herbs. Every time I open my store cupboard and see the chaotic arrangement of Scwartz herb jars - many fatally past their best before dates - I know that to the great Yotam I would be a Jif lemon to his unwaxed, fresh, juicy lemon begging to be squeezed from the wicker basket display in Waitrose. He also has a degree in Philosophy. Imagine the luscious conversations we could have on the merits of introducing quinoa to the masses and whether they will subsequently rise up and demand more rocket and horseradish sauce to dip their chips in.
Today, I'm cooking a recipe from his first book - marinated rack of lamb with coriander and honey. I had to make the marinade last night and let the lamb soak in all the yumminess overnight. Chillies, ginger, garlic, coriander, mint, honey, soy sauce and more - it's got it all. And if that's not enough, the cookbook is littered with pictures of the great man himself. Awesome.
This is also one of those situations where I wish I was a man. He's gay.
Tuesday 21 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I'm acutely aware that I have a habit of repeating myself. In fact, I sometimes triple myself. But just as a leopard never changes its spots, Junebug is unlikely to tell a story only once. Coming to this realisation, I pondered my portfolio of stories that I tell again and again, many of which I manage to work into a conversation in the first 30 minutes of meeting a new, unsuspecting individual. I doubt I'm the only one for whom this rings true. I've been on the receiving end of many a tale that I've heard before, but my strict upbringing forbids me from saying, "whatever" and showing them the hand. Instead I listen avidly as the repetitive raconteur uses me for therapy, instead of tucking into a family size packet of kettle crisps.
To rid myself of this habit, I set about identifying my top three staple stories - my own version of Shakespeare's complete works, you might say.
They begin with the time I was made to stand in the dustbin during my first chemistry lesson on the assumption that I was rubbish. Heaven knows if Einstein ever spent 45 mins in a classroom dustbin, but for me it didn't light the bunsen burner within. At least in those days the incident wasn't complicated further by recycling. If it was, I might still be there deciding which bin I belonged in.
My second staple story harks back to a job many years ago when my boss phoned me at work to say he/she was on their way into the office and could I please carry out my bodily functions before they arrived. Needless to say, I made sure I was in the loo when they got to work. No one dictates my restroom schedule. In that job, my tights were also a barometer for the emotions of said boss and colleagues would enquire after the condition of my nylons each morning before he/she arrived. If they were laddered, even our restroom schedule would pale into insignificance to the administrative thunderstorm that ensued from refilling the stapler.
My third story is the time I told someone that Birds Eye Walls was an archaeological site along Hadrian's Wall, when in fact it referred to an ice cream incident. I fear this exposed my lack of archaeological knowledge and curtailed my career in the conservation world. I suspect if Hadrian's Wall sheltered a Roman version of the dustbin, I would again have been confined to that artefact.
Anyway, these meagre stories are now consigned to history themselves and I will attempt originality in new encounters from hereon in. I anticipate a very quiet Junebug from now on.
To rid myself of this habit, I set about identifying my top three staple stories - my own version of Shakespeare's complete works, you might say.
They begin with the time I was made to stand in the dustbin during my first chemistry lesson on the assumption that I was rubbish. Heaven knows if Einstein ever spent 45 mins in a classroom dustbin, but for me it didn't light the bunsen burner within. At least in those days the incident wasn't complicated further by recycling. If it was, I might still be there deciding which bin I belonged in.
My second staple story harks back to a job many years ago when my boss phoned me at work to say he/she was on their way into the office and could I please carry out my bodily functions before they arrived. Needless to say, I made sure I was in the loo when they got to work. No one dictates my restroom schedule. In that job, my tights were also a barometer for the emotions of said boss and colleagues would enquire after the condition of my nylons each morning before he/she arrived. If they were laddered, even our restroom schedule would pale into insignificance to the administrative thunderstorm that ensued from refilling the stapler.
My third story is the time I told someone that Birds Eye Walls was an archaeological site along Hadrian's Wall, when in fact it referred to an ice cream incident. I fear this exposed my lack of archaeological knowledge and curtailed my career in the conservation world. I suspect if Hadrian's Wall sheltered a Roman version of the dustbin, I would again have been confined to that artefact.
Anyway, these meagre stories are now consigned to history themselves and I will attempt originality in new encounters from hereon in. I anticipate a very quiet Junebug from now on.
Saturday 11 June 2011
I wouldn't mind but ....
.... I've seen the future of advertising. I was on my way to Pret-a-Manger to get my lunch when a light bulb flashed metaphorically in front of me. Holding my nerve, I pressed on to secure my soup and lemon cheesecake, before returning to my Eureka moment (minus the bath).
Let me explain. Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones. Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work.
For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to. As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone: "Buy milk". Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash? Had I stumbled on a scoop. I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door. He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way. I'd been duped.
But had I? What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages. Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements? I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other? But, if you think again, why is that such a problem? Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours.
And there you have it. It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.
Let me explain. Pedestrians everywhere are walking along staring down at their mobile phones. Whilst I'm scanning for hazards, every other lunchtime worker is transfixed by Facebook updates. What message could be so fascinating that you neglect oncoming obstacles? What text makes you reckless in the face of lampposts, stationary tourist groups looking for Liesesster Square, queues at cashpoints (queue alongside the bank not across the middle of the pavement, you morons!), alfresco dining outside cafes (it's England, it rains, get over it and get inside) and the gentleman with his ferret on a lead that I have often had the pleasure to tip hats to en route to work.
For research purposes I encroached the shoulder of a chap in Pret-a-Manger who was trying to decide which of the 100 counter staff at the five tills all shouting 'Can I help you?' he should submit his crayfish and rocket to. As he finally leant over the Lovebars and said 'yes, I would like a bag', I seized my opportunity and glanced down at the message on his phone: "Buy milk". Was he a stockbroker and was Milk about to crash? Had I stumbled on a scoop. I followed him out of the shop and into the newsagents next door. He grabbed a pint of semi-skimmed milk and went on his way. I'd been duped.
But had I? What if advertisers used the pavement space to advertise? If everyone's looking towards the ground, that's where we need to place those important messages. Pavements sponsored by Cadbury's - chocolate pavements? I realise there's a major flaw in this proposal i.e. how do we stop bumping into each other? But, if you think again, why is that such a problem? Everyone enjoys the Dodgems, so why not ditch the car and get physical? 'Guess who I bumped into today' could keep the conversation going for hours.
And there you have it. It's an idea that any contestant on 'The Apprentice' would give their right arm for and all it took was a close encounter over the lovebars at Pret-a-Manger.
Monday 6 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I think I saw the beginning of the end in Marks & Spencer today. There I was in their Paddington station branch gathering my pomegranate seeds and blueberries, when I happened upon the decline of civilisation. I was stopped in my tracks, my wire basket buckled and my pomegranate juiced. There, on the top shelf, were glasses of wine (red and white). Plastic glasses of wine with a pull-off lid. At first I thought they were jellies, but I shook one and it moved. Is this the new lunchtime must-have? If so, I'm destined for a life of billy-no-mates at lunchtime as I sit in the corner with my cup of builders' tea, while all the cool workers are peeling back their lids and knocking back the lambrusco.
Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind. En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'. And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can. A sandwich in a can! They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'. At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking. If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches. I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning. If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino). Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy. So back off, the Candwiches are mine!
Still in shock, I headed for home to mind-map my strategy to save mankind. En route, I opened my copy of 'The Times'. And there, in print, was news of the Candwich - a sandwich in a can. A sandwich in a can! They have a shelf-life of 12 months and come in flavours such as 'pepperoni pizza'. At first I thought the end was here sooner than I expected, but then I got to thinking. If the wine-in-a-glass takes off, then I can hide in Epping Forest with a supply of Candwiches. I won't need any electricity and I can resurface smelling of pepperoni pizza when nearly everyone's died of alcoholic poisoning. If anyone's still alive, I could be the new Eve (or call me Domino). Granted, I'm a bit on the old side, but if the survivors are drunk, they won't notice. Everyone's happy. So back off, the Candwiches are mine!
Wednesday 1 June 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I've been struggling with my weight recently (roughly the past 30 years). I once tried hypnotherapy to stop myself eating crisps. This involved paying a hefty sum of money to lie down for one hour with my eyes closed, while a lady with an irritating voice took me 'mentally' into a forest collecting stones wrapped in crisps. When I reached the end of the forest I was urged to drop these stones into a well to rid myself of cheese & onion forever. In reality, it was one of the longest hours of my life and, while in the imaginary forest, I spotted an imaginary tray of Krispy Creme doughnuts and the rest is history (or visible on my hips).
I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone. In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been thinking. If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too? I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons. My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud. I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.
Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake. It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can. It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless. And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.
I've also deployed the technique of tapping points whenever I see a tube of Pringles - a signal to my brain warning it of approaching danger and urging me to retreat to a 'pop and go' exclusion zone. In reality, though, the tapping points just reminds me of the time a Krispy Creme doughnut with chocolate icing and custard filling got harpooned on my finger. You get the general drift, I'm sure.
Anyway, I've been thinking. If offensive language and behaviour are a crime, why shouldn't offensive eating be too? I find it very offensive when someone with a fast metabolism is enjoying the delights of an all-day fried breakfast while I'm sitting nearby eating a caesar salad minus dressing and croutons. My metabolism is so slow, I'm still digesting last week's Sunday lunch when I'm tucking into this Sunday's roasted parsnips. In fact, I'm packing a tail back of parsnips that would do any motorway hold-up proud. I'm the M1 of vegetable accompaniments.
Imagine being convicted of eating too many portions of cheesecake. It would surely save the NHS a fortune as people avoided sugary, fatty foods and stampeded the supermarket for that weird spray oil in the yellow can. It would sound the death knoll for the ubiquitous kebab and spits would finally turn empty in the shop windows of Walthamstow and farther afield. Think of all the NHS beds vacated by the newly health-conscious population and the refuge they could provide for the homeless. And there you have it, I'm channelling the spirit of the Big Society and we owe it all to doughnuts.
Sunday 22 May 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... why is it only performers who receive applause? Last night I saw 'Total Football' at the Barbican and loved it. But at the end when everyone was clapping and the actors bowing, it dawned on me how much more motivating it would be for the general workforce if we all received a round of applause at the end of our shifts. I realise this additional burden on our hands could have health and safety implications and there may be some increased cost for the employer in terms of hand cream, but I think the benefits outweigh the deficits. How exhilarating would it be for the shop assistant who had spent all day standing in the luggage section of a department store if, on clocking off, his colleagues praised his enthusiasm for a five-piece Carlton luggage set by noisily pressing hand to hand? Or, perhaps the middle manager in an office supply firm, who is lauded at clocking off time for his attention to detail with that day's staple order. You may snigger, but don't imagine that the world of office supply is without that frisson that has us all reaching for the air conditioning controls to cool down. I, myself, am currently enthused by the search for a slimline pedestal, both lockable and sleek. The Rolls Royce of storage; its mere picture in the catalogue causing me to rev up the cool air dial on the atmospheric control panel.
Thinking through the logistics of my plan, there is a danger that it may delay the workforce leaving the building after their shift, if we all have to wait in line for our accolade. So, how about an automated round of applause that we activate ourselves on leaving? Or an automated message of some sort? Automated announcements litter our lives daily and are virtually part of the family. For many of us, they fill the major part of our conversational day. Who, after their shift, wouldn't want to shut down their PC, grab their coat and head for the tour to be greeted by the trusty announcement "unexpected item in bagging area"? I know I would. Perhaps we could have a series of options on the control panel. After a good day, we could select "Notes are dispensed below the counter" to give us a little encouragement. If the employee is a little overweight, they could leave to the sound of "Your mailbox is over its limit". Subliminal messages for a healthier workforce. The applications are endless. Thank you for reading this blog. Applause please!
Thinking through the logistics of my plan, there is a danger that it may delay the workforce leaving the building after their shift, if we all have to wait in line for our accolade. So, how about an automated round of applause that we activate ourselves on leaving? Or an automated message of some sort? Automated announcements litter our lives daily and are virtually part of the family. For many of us, they fill the major part of our conversational day. Who, after their shift, wouldn't want to shut down their PC, grab their coat and head for the tour to be greeted by the trusty announcement "unexpected item in bagging area"? I know I would. Perhaps we could have a series of options on the control panel. After a good day, we could select "Notes are dispensed below the counter" to give us a little encouragement. If the employee is a little overweight, they could leave to the sound of "Your mailbox is over its limit". Subliminal messages for a healthier workforce. The applications are endless. Thank you for reading this blog. Applause please!
Sunday 15 May 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I left the cinema today after watching the film 'Jig' with a realisation that I had let down the Irish nation. This documentary about the Irish dancing world took me right back to the one and only lesson I myself had attended. I was 10 years old and I guess my Irish parents decided it was time. Off we went to the local church hall and opened the door on a moment that many years later would torture me whenever Riverdance was on TV.
I suspect my mum had high hopes of polishing trophies and bulk buying sequins, while I clippety clopped round the world bringing back the brass. I stood in one corner of the long rectangular church hall, conscious of a nation's expectations bearing down on me as I was instructed to 'GO'. This was my cue to 'Irish dance' diagonally across the length of the room. Irish mothers looked on, clutching their little Siobhans, Marys and Eileens as they watched this little Junebug cross the room like a pony thumbing a lift to the slaughterhouse. St Patrick was surely turning in his grave, but we couldn't hear him over the cries of 'Bejesus' echoing round the hall. I was never going to bring Michael Flatley home for tea. He and I would never cross ankles together. My dancing career died that night.
We never spoke of the class again and the following week, mum took me to the local Brownies instead. We went from a world of green to a world of brown. I won't go into details, but I only every attended one Brownie class. And there you have it, a pattern emerged that continued into adult life. I started many an endeavour, but never ventured beyond one attempt.
I've decided to lay the Irish dancing ghost to rest and redeem myself in the eyes of the Irish nation. I'm currently googling the words to 'Danny Boy', ordering a six-pack of Guinness and checking out recipes for potatoes. Bejesus!
I suspect my mum had high hopes of polishing trophies and bulk buying sequins, while I clippety clopped round the world bringing back the brass. I stood in one corner of the long rectangular church hall, conscious of a nation's expectations bearing down on me as I was instructed to 'GO'. This was my cue to 'Irish dance' diagonally across the length of the room. Irish mothers looked on, clutching their little Siobhans, Marys and Eileens as they watched this little Junebug cross the room like a pony thumbing a lift to the slaughterhouse. St Patrick was surely turning in his grave, but we couldn't hear him over the cries of 'Bejesus' echoing round the hall. I was never going to bring Michael Flatley home for tea. He and I would never cross ankles together. My dancing career died that night.
We never spoke of the class again and the following week, mum took me to the local Brownies instead. We went from a world of green to a world of brown. I won't go into details, but I only every attended one Brownie class. And there you have it, a pattern emerged that continued into adult life. I started many an endeavour, but never ventured beyond one attempt.
I've decided to lay the Irish dancing ghost to rest and redeem myself in the eyes of the Irish nation. I'm currently googling the words to 'Danny Boy', ordering a six-pack of Guinness and checking out recipes for potatoes. Bejesus!
Sunday 8 May 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... for many months now I've found exiting a tube station almost akin to battle. I've personally never been in battle, but I have watched 'Predator' more than once (willingly) and I think there were enough tips in that to get me from Walthamstow to Warren Street without being killed by an alien. However, the escalator is something else altogether. I don't mind entering the tube station, travelling on the train, getting off the train, but when it comes to heading for the escalator, then my commando training (a la Arnold Schwarzenegger) just isn't enough. It never used to be like this, but in recent years a new breed of commuter has evolved. A commuter who sees the escalator and whose brain says 'me want escalator, me want escalator NOW'.
I disembark every weekday at Warren Street. I sit myself in the carriage that stops directly at the 'Way Out' sign. Doors open and I head straight for the right-hand side of the escalator to signify I'm relaxed and happy to let the moving stairway do the job it was built for. But, to the 'me want escalator now' brigade, this renders me invisible. As I go to step on to the escalator, the mob bear down on me and their leader walks right across me without a single acknowledgement that I'm there. In these moments, all life beyond Warren Street ceases to exist for me and I become Arnold. Sadly, the Arnold from Kindergarten Cop, which is why I reach the top of the escalator feeling inadequate, unloved and very very dissed. Inside I'm channelling Kindergarten Cop with Terminator and getting Nanny McPhee, and this manifests itself in a couple of 'tuts' - a coward's cry of disapproval. What would Arnold do in these circumstances? He'd travel back in time and make that mother****** regret the morning they ever disembarked at Warren Street. Sadly, until there's a breakthrough in science, all that's left to me is the hope that their oyster card stalls at the ticket barrier. When this does, I tut, the commuters behind me tut; a symphony of tuts in fact. Music to my ears.
In the winter, I use my long umbrella as a weapon to bar the mob and only an Olympic hurdler would be able to get in front of me (note to self: revise this strategy during London 2012). But in summer, what am I to do to defend myself? What can I carry with me that is normal for summer and could do the job just as well? Perhaps a garden hoe, but I don't want people to think I'm off to the allotment and ask me for some rhubarb. Or for anyone to say 'have you seen Junebug and her hoe?'. This isn't the image I want to cultivate. I think the only thing available to me is to wear a sign around my neck that says: "Beware, mother******, this commuter is channelling the Terminator". I'm packing my dark shades, my leather gloves (don't have a jacket) and losing the ability to enunciate ready for tomorrow's battle.
I disembark every weekday at Warren Street. I sit myself in the carriage that stops directly at the 'Way Out' sign. Doors open and I head straight for the right-hand side of the escalator to signify I'm relaxed and happy to let the moving stairway do the job it was built for. But, to the 'me want escalator now' brigade, this renders me invisible. As I go to step on to the escalator, the mob bear down on me and their leader walks right across me without a single acknowledgement that I'm there. In these moments, all life beyond Warren Street ceases to exist for me and I become Arnold. Sadly, the Arnold from Kindergarten Cop, which is why I reach the top of the escalator feeling inadequate, unloved and very very dissed. Inside I'm channelling Kindergarten Cop with Terminator and getting Nanny McPhee, and this manifests itself in a couple of 'tuts' - a coward's cry of disapproval. What would Arnold do in these circumstances? He'd travel back in time and make that mother****** regret the morning they ever disembarked at Warren Street. Sadly, until there's a breakthrough in science, all that's left to me is the hope that their oyster card stalls at the ticket barrier. When this does, I tut, the commuters behind me tut; a symphony of tuts in fact. Music to my ears.
In the winter, I use my long umbrella as a weapon to bar the mob and only an Olympic hurdler would be able to get in front of me (note to self: revise this strategy during London 2012). But in summer, what am I to do to defend myself? What can I carry with me that is normal for summer and could do the job just as well? Perhaps a garden hoe, but I don't want people to think I'm off to the allotment and ask me for some rhubarb. Or for anyone to say 'have you seen Junebug and her hoe?'. This isn't the image I want to cultivate. I think the only thing available to me is to wear a sign around my neck that says: "Beware, mother******, this commuter is channelling the Terminator". I'm packing my dark shades, my leather gloves (don't have a jacket) and losing the ability to enunciate ready for tomorrow's battle.
Tuesday 26 April 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I'd almost given up hope of catching another episode of 'Jean-Claude Van Damme: Behind Closed Doors'. Imagine my joy when flicking through the TV channels this evening I happened upon it. There it was on ITV4+1. Who even knew there was such a thing? I've immediately put it on my remote control favourites. Sadly, I missed the first 30 minutes, but I joined as JC's wife, Gladys, was restoring his hair with the Belgian equivalent of Grecian 2000, which I think is chocolate. Now 70% cocoa, JC flew off to Bangkok to look at rushes of his latest film. Three years in the making and featuring, I think, an Eagle in the leading role. Apparently he funded the film himself, which I suspect is why birds were employed instead of actors as they don't have bank accounts, preferring peanuts. I can see the sense in this, as if you take advantage of 3 for 2 offers on nuts at Aldi (there must be one in Belgium) then you're in profit before you even reach the checkout. And if you add in the school vouchers, you can fund a pencil for a child at school in the UK. Another shocking revelation about the film was the fact that it had no script. This left me speechless, just like the film.
JC's next stop was Hong Kong - a place close to his heart. I was worried for him at the airport in case there was an allowance on how much chocolate you could bring into the country, as he may have been forced to leave his hair at Customs. Luckily, there was no such problem and we were subsequently treated to a tour of his flat in Hong Kong, including 'the room where I do my poops'. Who doesn't enjoy a snoop in someone else's loo? I know I do.
I was a little disappointed by the end,though, as I had been on the edge of my seat for further news of JC's plans to bring about world peace. He'd been reduced to tears in an earlier episode, telling us his greatest wish was to foster world peace. Sadly, wars have been allowed to flourish pending his further attention.
And before I go, I must just tell you that the chihuahua is safe and fully recovered from it's stint in last week's episode exposed to JC's underpants.
JC's next stop was Hong Kong - a place close to his heart. I was worried for him at the airport in case there was an allowance on how much chocolate you could bring into the country, as he may have been forced to leave his hair at Customs. Luckily, there was no such problem and we were subsequently treated to a tour of his flat in Hong Kong, including 'the room where I do my poops'. Who doesn't enjoy a snoop in someone else's loo? I know I do.
I was a little disappointed by the end,though, as I had been on the edge of my seat for further news of JC's plans to bring about world peace. He'd been reduced to tears in an earlier episode, telling us his greatest wish was to foster world peace. Sadly, wars have been allowed to flourish pending his further attention.
And before I go, I must just tell you that the chihuahua is safe and fully recovered from it's stint in last week's episode exposed to JC's underpants.
Friday 22 April 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I suppose if someone asks you what you bought with your gift vouchers and you say, "a webcam and some underwear," there is the potential to misunderstand. For the record, my purchases also included a lumie body clock. And, just to clarify, not so I could wake up in time for a webcam session with a bar full of tourists in Thailand.
Anyway, the experience led me to recall some of those moments in my life where I've spoken before giving sufficient thought to what I have to say. This inevitably results in a feeling in my stomach which can best be likened to eating a delicious meal only to be told afterwards that the bowl on the floor by the catflap was, in fact, meant for Tiddles.
Today I went to the theatre and was seated behind a man with terrible dandruff. The kind that wouldn't look out of place on the skip slopes of Switzerland. I whispered to the lady next to me "look at that terrible dandruff", only to discover that my whisper resembled a banshee screaming that the poteen had gone. Everyone heard me, except it seemed the gentleman in question. Or did he? During the performance, we were required to stand up if we were "someone that people didn't really know". Four people got to their feet, the ski slopes of Switzerland was one of them. Was he telling me something?
Afterwards, I pondered the things people have said to me which, for their sheer inappropriateness, deserve a second airing. "You used to have a very fat face" ('I cannily increased the size of my body to make my face look smaller); "I'm very uncomfortable in your presence" (probably because we're stuck in a wardrobe); "you've got two weeks to get out" (I spend my holidays locked in a suitcase), "you've got very hairy arms" (I haven't by the way - I believe it was a lighting problem).
In a shameless attempt to bring this blog full circle, I wonder if you can get dandruff on very hairy arms? There must be some scientific research on this topic underway somewhere, probably by natural healing students as a part-time, organic sub-module sponsored by Veet at an 'international college' with a head office over a temp agency in Oxford Street. I may be just what they need to complete their diploma.
Anyway, the experience led me to recall some of those moments in my life where I've spoken before giving sufficient thought to what I have to say. This inevitably results in a feeling in my stomach which can best be likened to eating a delicious meal only to be told afterwards that the bowl on the floor by the catflap was, in fact, meant for Tiddles.
Today I went to the theatre and was seated behind a man with terrible dandruff. The kind that wouldn't look out of place on the skip slopes of Switzerland. I whispered to the lady next to me "look at that terrible dandruff", only to discover that my whisper resembled a banshee screaming that the poteen had gone. Everyone heard me, except it seemed the gentleman in question. Or did he? During the performance, we were required to stand up if we were "someone that people didn't really know". Four people got to their feet, the ski slopes of Switzerland was one of them. Was he telling me something?
Afterwards, I pondered the things people have said to me which, for their sheer inappropriateness, deserve a second airing. "You used to have a very fat face" ('I cannily increased the size of my body to make my face look smaller); "I'm very uncomfortable in your presence" (probably because we're stuck in a wardrobe); "you've got two weeks to get out" (I spend my holidays locked in a suitcase), "you've got very hairy arms" (I haven't by the way - I believe it was a lighting problem).
In a shameless attempt to bring this blog full circle, I wonder if you can get dandruff on very hairy arms? There must be some scientific research on this topic underway somewhere, probably by natural healing students as a part-time, organic sub-module sponsored by Veet at an 'international college' with a head office over a temp agency in Oxford Street. I may be just what they need to complete their diploma.
Saturday 16 April 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... this evening the man behind the counter at the local tube station kiosk reached out emotionally to me across the sea of confectionery that lay between us and said "glad I'm not the only one working Saturdays". A simple phrase you might think, but I'd just returned from indulging myself in a £50 lunch, a lengthy analysis of the lipstick counter in John Lewis and a vanilla slice for the journey home. I most definitely hadn't been to work. Considering that all he'd ever said to me on previous visits was "79 pence please", I felt I couldn't throw it back in his face by telling him I hadn't been to work. That led me to wonder what it was about me that might indicate I had been working all day and was gagging for some Snack-a-Jacks.
Did my legs appear tired after pedalling an unlicensed rickshaw through Covent Garden? Did I look directioned-out after standing on the corner of Regent Street and Conduit Street wearing a fluorescent suit saying Hair Removal this way? Did I smell of polished leather after extolling the virtues of shoe cleaner to customers in Clarks who 'have a lot of that at home already, thank you'? Did I look windswept after seven hours on the dual carriageway with a bucket load of cast-off daffodils from a Tesco service station? Did I look disillusioned from the reckless refusals by customers at Comet to buy extended insurance for their electric toothbrushes?
I feared being a huge disappointment to this man who spent his days keeping the peace between the Haribos and the Cadburys and channelling his OCD into stacking Rollos. He'd reached beyond "79 pence" to speak to me as a kindred spirit. Had he been monitoring my consumption of salty snacks to discover that I had transformed into a human condiment?
I came to the conclusion that things were best left unexplained between us. It was for the best. We shared a moment of savoury snacks, "Brief Encounter" style. And, as in the film, I left without looking back.
Did my legs appear tired after pedalling an unlicensed rickshaw through Covent Garden? Did I look directioned-out after standing on the corner of Regent Street and Conduit Street wearing a fluorescent suit saying Hair Removal this way? Did I smell of polished leather after extolling the virtues of shoe cleaner to customers in Clarks who 'have a lot of that at home already, thank you'? Did I look windswept after seven hours on the dual carriageway with a bucket load of cast-off daffodils from a Tesco service station? Did I look disillusioned from the reckless refusals by customers at Comet to buy extended insurance for their electric toothbrushes?
I feared being a huge disappointment to this man who spent his days keeping the peace between the Haribos and the Cadburys and channelling his OCD into stacking Rollos. He'd reached beyond "79 pence" to speak to me as a kindred spirit. Had he been monitoring my consumption of salty snacks to discover that I had transformed into a human condiment?
I came to the conclusion that things were best left unexplained between us. It was for the best. We shared a moment of savoury snacks, "Brief Encounter" style. And, as in the film, I left without looking back.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
..... I was deeply moved this evening by "Jean Claude-Van Dame: Behind Closed Doors". Not sure what TV channel it was on, but should be the programme of choice for any man approaching 50. Jean Claude wasn't to be found wearing cardigans, filling out his subscription to Readers' Digest, fondling bulbs at the local garden centre, or stocking up on Werther's Originals. No, Jean Claude had booked himself a fight against an Olympic Gold medallist in Boxing. That's how they described the guy, but when we caught a glimpse of him, he looked very much like the bus driver on the 123 from Wood Green to Ilford.
Anyway, JC (that's what his family call him) was obviously in peak condition and I'm sure the MRI scan he had after agonising hip pain was nothing to worry about. Bizarrely, he must have been attended by a hairdresser rather than a nurse, as when he emerged from the scanner, his thin light brown hair had grown dark and lush. Let's hope this crossover of occupations doesn't result in someone at the hairdressers being treated to an enema. Note to self: get hair cut before I visit Belgium.
The next stage of JC's intensive training programme involved him visiting Ukraine Fashion Week. An essential stop for anyone due to fight an Olympic Boxer/Bus Driver in two weeks' time. Kiev welcomed him like a long lost son and he explained he was there to enjoy the clothes. Ironic as he was in his underpants for much of the programme. He was so keen, he made his way directly to the models' dressing room to see the clothes before the naked girls had even put them on.
And, should there be any chance of the viewer nodding off, then every five minutes we were treated to a shot of a tanned JC in his underpants, cuddling a chihuahua to his left breast and punching the camera with his right fist. I recognised the chihuahua. It's now dyed pink and living with Paris Hilton.
Over excited by the clothes and throwing caution to the wind, JC invited all the Press from the fashion show to his 50th birthday party later that night. I presume he didn't think they'd turn up (although it's Kiev, right?), because when they did he begged them to leave him alone. Inside he sought anonymity by sitting directly in front of a female singer dressed in a net curtain body stocking singing Happy Birthday. Think Eurovision Song Contest, the Ukraine and Martin McCutcheon's 'This is My Moment' and you could be there with him.
After returning to Brussels, it was time for reflection. His son, Christian, summed it up. "I'm glad I'm here for him and hmmmmmm, he's here for me." I was there for both of them. Having seem JC in his underpants at last 20 times during the past hour and a full frontal of his chihuahua, I was family.
Anyway, JC (that's what his family call him) was obviously in peak condition and I'm sure the MRI scan he had after agonising hip pain was nothing to worry about. Bizarrely, he must have been attended by a hairdresser rather than a nurse, as when he emerged from the scanner, his thin light brown hair had grown dark and lush. Let's hope this crossover of occupations doesn't result in someone at the hairdressers being treated to an enema. Note to self: get hair cut before I visit Belgium.
The next stage of JC's intensive training programme involved him visiting Ukraine Fashion Week. An essential stop for anyone due to fight an Olympic Boxer/Bus Driver in two weeks' time. Kiev welcomed him like a long lost son and he explained he was there to enjoy the clothes. Ironic as he was in his underpants for much of the programme. He was so keen, he made his way directly to the models' dressing room to see the clothes before the naked girls had even put them on.
And, should there be any chance of the viewer nodding off, then every five minutes we were treated to a shot of a tanned JC in his underpants, cuddling a chihuahua to his left breast and punching the camera with his right fist. I recognised the chihuahua. It's now dyed pink and living with Paris Hilton.
Over excited by the clothes and throwing caution to the wind, JC invited all the Press from the fashion show to his 50th birthday party later that night. I presume he didn't think they'd turn up (although it's Kiev, right?), because when they did he begged them to leave him alone. Inside he sought anonymity by sitting directly in front of a female singer dressed in a net curtain body stocking singing Happy Birthday. Think Eurovision Song Contest, the Ukraine and Martin McCutcheon's 'This is My Moment' and you could be there with him.
After returning to Brussels, it was time for reflection. His son, Christian, summed it up. "I'm glad I'm here for him and hmmmmmm, he's here for me." I was there for both of them. Having seem JC in his underpants at last 20 times during the past hour and a full frontal of his chihuahua, I was family.
Sunday 10 April 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
..... I don't want to be the only person in the country to have completed and returned their census form. Admittedly, I started it on the assumption that it was The Times cryptic crossword and spent several hours trying to solve the anagram 'What religion are you?' Clearly a hazard of completing the crossword by torchlight under the bedclothes. On a previous attempt, I woke up in the morning to discover the supposed anagram was, in fact, a reminder from Specsavers for my eye test.
What worries me the most is that the government might only have my census form on which to plan future services for the country. In 20 years' time we could therefore be living in a country where the national religion is 'Gok Wan'; the average level of educational achievement is successfully completing a tube journey despite engineering works, reduced escalator service, decomissioned trains, and abundant passenger alarms; and the average householders's job is captaining the USS Enterprise. In addition, historians will be intrigued to discover that on the night of the census I was joined by an Eskimo on a mini-break from Greenland and Father Ted (on a night off from being a fictional character and being dead).
But never mind the future, what did I do yesterday, I hear you ask? Well, I went to the theatre. This involved, in no particular order, being blindfolded, getting into a makeshift car with a projection of a Spanish-speaking clown, led through dark corridors by invisible strangers and climbing under a bed to join a woman dressed as a squirrel. Which leads me to the conclusion that the present is bizarre enough, so why worry about the future.
What worries me the most is that the government might only have my census form on which to plan future services for the country. In 20 years' time we could therefore be living in a country where the national religion is 'Gok Wan'; the average level of educational achievement is successfully completing a tube journey despite engineering works, reduced escalator service, decomissioned trains, and abundant passenger alarms; and the average householders's job is captaining the USS Enterprise. In addition, historians will be intrigued to discover that on the night of the census I was joined by an Eskimo on a mini-break from Greenland and Father Ted (on a night off from being a fictional character and being dead).
But never mind the future, what did I do yesterday, I hear you ask? Well, I went to the theatre. This involved, in no particular order, being blindfolded, getting into a makeshift car with a projection of a Spanish-speaking clown, led through dark corridors by invisible strangers and climbing under a bed to join a woman dressed as a squirrel. Which leads me to the conclusion that the present is bizarre enough, so why worry about the future.
Saturday 2 April 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
.... I spent a lot of time today appearing inadvertently as background in tourists' photos and it gave me the idea of becoming the most photographed woman in the world. I don't mean in the 'look at me, I'm gorgeous' type of photoshoot (although I'm assuming there must be someone out there with poor eyesight and a love of low lighting for whom I could be that elusive beauty). No, I'm thinking more of the enigmatic stranger in the background. The potential is limitless. London is abuzz with tourists throughout the year. Where do most of them hang out? Zones 1-3, of course, and I'm packing an oyster card.
Imagine, for example, a German tourist (Boris) who returns home to Munich and invites his best friend (Claus) round for another evening of beer, cold meats and holiday snaps. Browsing through the photo album, Claus exclaims, "Boris, that frauline is in my photo of Carnaby Street too". Boris calls his cousin, Helga, and she comes round with photos from her London city break. And there I am again. A pearly queen hybrid of the travelling gnome and 'Where's Wally'. Before you can say "these snaps are inappropriate for people under the age of 18", I've got a record deal and am topping the German charts. It doesn't have to be Germany, it could be anywhere. I'm not Eurovision, I'm universalvision. Granted, I'll need to put some extra money on my oyster card, but I think it'll be worth it.
Of course, I'll also have to adopt some typical London poses for authenticity. I've already got some in mind, depending on the location:
1. Saturday night in Leicester Square, I'll be kebabbed up.
2. Thursday late night shopping in Oxford Street - in the gutter under Primark bags.
3. At the British Museum, I'll be looking as bored as a centipede at the chiropodist.
4. In Trafalgar Square, I'll be climbing the lions and putting my k******s on their head.
5. On the london Eye, I'll be shouting "There's me 'ouse, just over there".
My campaign begins.
Imagine, for example, a German tourist (Boris) who returns home to Munich and invites his best friend (Claus) round for another evening of beer, cold meats and holiday snaps. Browsing through the photo album, Claus exclaims, "Boris, that frauline is in my photo of Carnaby Street too". Boris calls his cousin, Helga, and she comes round with photos from her London city break. And there I am again. A pearly queen hybrid of the travelling gnome and 'Where's Wally'. Before you can say "these snaps are inappropriate for people under the age of 18", I've got a record deal and am topping the German charts. It doesn't have to be Germany, it could be anywhere. I'm not Eurovision, I'm universalvision. Granted, I'll need to put some extra money on my oyster card, but I think it'll be worth it.
Of course, I'll also have to adopt some typical London poses for authenticity. I've already got some in mind, depending on the location:
1. Saturday night in Leicester Square, I'll be kebabbed up.
2. Thursday late night shopping in Oxford Street - in the gutter under Primark bags.
3. At the British Museum, I'll be looking as bored as a centipede at the chiropodist.
4. In Trafalgar Square, I'll be climbing the lions and putting my k******s on their head.
5. On the london Eye, I'll be shouting "There's me 'ouse, just over there".
My campaign begins.
Wednesday 30 March 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
..... I've stopped going to the gym. Now there's a sentence I've used in my life more than 'pass me a doughnut' - and believe me, that's on the tip of my tongue most days. Three things helped me reach my decision.
1. As I kitted and booted ready for each class, I found there was no escape from the instructor 'Mr Dull'. A man whose head was rendered miniature by his overly muscular arms and legs. A man who, even if there were only two people in the class, still donned headset and microphone for the primary school mantra 1, 2 3, 3, 2, 1. All played out against a background of hardcore hip hop music, under-appreciated by the over-45s busy upgrading their BUPA memberships to cover them for certain death. A man who turned out to be the manager of the gym. And there you have it. This omnipresent 13-stone walking muscle was in charge!
2. The other deterrent was the undersized towel handed to members each time they arrived. I enjoy access to a large bath towel at home and it gives me great enjoyment to be properly covered. Alas, such pleasure was not available to me at the gym as I struggled to protect my modesty with a piece of cloth the size of a standard post-it note. In fact, I felt it necessary to avoid any stationary poses in the changing room in case someone wrote a message on me - probably "remember to lose weight".
3. On one occasion in the small swimming pool, which found me enjoying exclusive use of the facility, I was joined by a young gentleman carrying a toothbrush. He proceded to enter the pool and start brushing the uppermost tiles as if they were teeth. I asked him if he wanted me to get out of the pool, to which he replied 'no'. I continued swimming for a while, but the noise of the toothbrush and the abundance of water, led me to imagine I was immersed in mouthwash. I made a hasty retreat, suitably bacteria-free.
So, yet again, the gym is not for me. But I've recently seen an advertisement for the jumpsnap rope - a skipping rope without any rope. Could we be just one star jump away from the perfect gym without any exercise?
1. As I kitted and booted ready for each class, I found there was no escape from the instructor 'Mr Dull'. A man whose head was rendered miniature by his overly muscular arms and legs. A man who, even if there were only two people in the class, still donned headset and microphone for the primary school mantra 1, 2 3, 3, 2, 1. All played out against a background of hardcore hip hop music, under-appreciated by the over-45s busy upgrading their BUPA memberships to cover them for certain death. A man who turned out to be the manager of the gym. And there you have it. This omnipresent 13-stone walking muscle was in charge!
2. The other deterrent was the undersized towel handed to members each time they arrived. I enjoy access to a large bath towel at home and it gives me great enjoyment to be properly covered. Alas, such pleasure was not available to me at the gym as I struggled to protect my modesty with a piece of cloth the size of a standard post-it note. In fact, I felt it necessary to avoid any stationary poses in the changing room in case someone wrote a message on me - probably "remember to lose weight".
3. On one occasion in the small swimming pool, which found me enjoying exclusive use of the facility, I was joined by a young gentleman carrying a toothbrush. He proceded to enter the pool and start brushing the uppermost tiles as if they were teeth. I asked him if he wanted me to get out of the pool, to which he replied 'no'. I continued swimming for a while, but the noise of the toothbrush and the abundance of water, led me to imagine I was immersed in mouthwash. I made a hasty retreat, suitably bacteria-free.
So, yet again, the gym is not for me. But I've recently seen an advertisement for the jumpsnap rope - a skipping rope without any rope. Could we be just one star jump away from the perfect gym without any exercise?
Saturday 26 March 2011
I wouldn't mind, but ....
I wouldn't mind, but ..... when Northerners are on the London tube why do they always want a conversation? There was one next to me today. Chirpy as the magpie that poops on my windowsill every morning. I swear that bird is the reincarnation of Le Petomane, the French Flatulist.
Anyway, back to Chirpy. Sat there, legs astride, as if to say, "I've paid for my ticket and I'm gonna own this carriage" and wearing diamond-encrusted jeans (he was over 40 and the rocks weren't real). Opposite him was his son - I know this because in the 20 minutes it took to get from Oxford Circus to Walthamstow Central, I became familiar with his family lineage back to William the Conquerer. The son was 14 and holding a long, thin case, which held securely a snooker cue. This was an instrument of great excitement to the child. Clearly a tourist from Sheffield as I think they all carry one now, having become the home of televised snooker.
Anyway, I took all this in during the five seconds I had my eyes open, assessed boredom on the horizon, and hastily closed them. I feigned a couple of yawns as well, just to emphasise that I was a typical Londoner and well versed in the unfriendly, stoic ways of tube travel. Undeterred, the child kept asking if anyone would adopt him. It became evident very soon that my total withdrawal from any interest in adopting him, made me the very person he wanted to be adopted by. My eyes remained closed. But, in the same way we try to ignore a fly fizzing round the living room, I eventually had to give in and swatted him with an abrupt opening of the eyes and a look so condescending, a more socially, city-centric youth would have immediately withdrawn into the hip hop on his ipod. Alas, not Chirpy or Snooker Boy. The latter asked me directly if I'd like to adopt him. "No", was my answer. "Why Not?" I resisted the urge to say "because I couldn't afford the mushy peas", and instead said "Because I think you'd get on my nerves". While he was digesting this rejection, I added: "But maybe in a couple of years we could have an affair". Chirpy worried that this might be child abuse, but I reassured him that Snooker Boy would probably be considered a late starter where I came from. Sadly, Walthamstow Central arrived and I didn't get Snooker Boy's address, so I currently have an affair scheduled for 2013 somewhere in Sheffield.
Anyway, back to Chirpy. Sat there, legs astride, as if to say, "I've paid for my ticket and I'm gonna own this carriage" and wearing diamond-encrusted jeans (he was over 40 and the rocks weren't real). Opposite him was his son - I know this because in the 20 minutes it took to get from Oxford Circus to Walthamstow Central, I became familiar with his family lineage back to William the Conquerer. The son was 14 and holding a long, thin case, which held securely a snooker cue. This was an instrument of great excitement to the child. Clearly a tourist from Sheffield as I think they all carry one now, having become the home of televised snooker.
Anyway, I took all this in during the five seconds I had my eyes open, assessed boredom on the horizon, and hastily closed them. I feigned a couple of yawns as well, just to emphasise that I was a typical Londoner and well versed in the unfriendly, stoic ways of tube travel. Undeterred, the child kept asking if anyone would adopt him. It became evident very soon that my total withdrawal from any interest in adopting him, made me the very person he wanted to be adopted by. My eyes remained closed. But, in the same way we try to ignore a fly fizzing round the living room, I eventually had to give in and swatted him with an abrupt opening of the eyes and a look so condescending, a more socially, city-centric youth would have immediately withdrawn into the hip hop on his ipod. Alas, not Chirpy or Snooker Boy. The latter asked me directly if I'd like to adopt him. "No", was my answer. "Why Not?" I resisted the urge to say "because I couldn't afford the mushy peas", and instead said "Because I think you'd get on my nerves". While he was digesting this rejection, I added: "But maybe in a couple of years we could have an affair". Chirpy worried that this might be child abuse, but I reassured him that Snooker Boy would probably be considered a late starter where I came from. Sadly, Walthamstow Central arrived and I didn't get Snooker Boy's address, so I currently have an affair scheduled for 2013 somewhere in Sheffield.
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