pardon?

Getting older. It hurts to know the accumulated wisdom of the last 50 years means virtually nothing. I am not done with being young yet, how did this happen? The mental signs are bearable, really; slight aphasia, lack of concentration, chaotic thoughts. No change there. But physically? Like some dumb canute I try to hold back the rapid tide of age. Every day a new pain or a new manifestation of my descent into a useless bag of flesh, a new sign of decrepitude. At least my eyesight is so crap I can't even see some of these things until it's too late. Nature's cruel trick, to make us feel confident and happy in our own skins, shortly before making them resemble the last apple in the fruit bowl. Those crepey sagging eyelids can't flutter sparse lashes to get favours, those creased and dry lips can't blow kisses at strangers on trains, that dry bush of hair no longer to be tossed coquettishly at men in uniform. I am becoming invisible, slowly but surely. Like a fool holding the rope of a Hot Air Balloon, when do I let go and fall gracelessly to my fate? That velour tracksuit beckons seductively from the rails of High Street emporiums, telling me to let it go; stop holding the belly in, stop wearing mascara, stop caring. I am not ready for that, and I won't go gently. So expect the hair to get more scarlet, even if the hemlines and heels creep lower rather than higher, and the necklines vice versa. I will just stop looking in mirrors.

different

I am doing something different; blogging about my new hobby. Or rather, the resurrection of an old hobby. I used to have an aquarium. It was in use for a year or more, but when we moved out of UK 6 years ago, it went into storage; last week I finally stopped talking about it and dug it out. After cleaning it and checking all the bits were there, I realized it had a nasty crack in the base, so that was the end of that. Until a wonderful friend donated a 60L tank to me, and lots of advice to get me started. So, this is my learning curve so far. 1) Keep a towel handy. 2) fish less cycling. 3) use a raw prawn. 5) be patient.
I started by removing the old filter housing (courtesy of Mr.J and a guitar string), and ordering a new pump/filter online. I bought 4 plants, and set them up with some new gravel, an old piece of wood (from the deceased tank) and some leftovers from the two tanks (shells, coloured stones). I intend to get a bubbling Buddha head I have seen on eBay, so the tank vaguely resembles a tropical beach of ruins. Not just a ruined beach. I rinsed off all the new gravel in the bath, and began to put gravel and water into the tank. That's a lot of water, 60 litres. It weighs more than me.  Hope the cupboard is stable.
I belatedly see that next to the bed, while handy for the bathroom etc, is not handy for me when it comes to coffee, overnight water necessities, glasses and telephone resting place. hm. As long as I don't drink the fish.
Last thing at night, I added the heater/thermometer. Might need to move that around as I can't read the temperature. Apparently I need to 'whack it up' and encourage the bacteria/ammonia growth. This will be moved along rapidly when I add a dead shrimp/prawn. Not a cooked one as I stupidly thought today when I was shopping. It's Sunday, not many shops are open here. I must be patient... this is extremely hard for me, and therefore a very good lesson. I need to swot up as if I had an exam coming up, because it's very important I don't kill anything. I am not going to put in some expendable cheap fish either, as some people advise; imagine how painful it is for them to be in a hostile environment that stings eyes and skin? I am really trying to do it all 'properly' and not just because I want it to look all pretty. It has to function as a little world.
I am excited about this, so I won't apologize; everyone else in my family is good at something or has a talent, so maybe I can really succeed at this. (and be passionate about doing it right). I will try not to judge the grumpy woman in the local fishy emporium as she clumsily chucks a hapless little critter into a bag for a customer; maybe she is fed up with newbies? I will try not to fall haplessly in love with every finny thing, or imagine they need rescuing (when in truth, they may be worse off with ignorant me), I will try to go to as many shops/shows as I can and soak up knowledge on the way. Mostly I will try to learn. 

snuff

ok, getting this off my chest. I will NOT be commemorating 9/11. I will not be watching any films or documentaries, or interviews or reconstructions. I won't read a book about it, or a newspaper piece. I refuse to listen to or read any phone messages recorded at that time. I absolutely will not have anything to do with any of it. It's NOT entertainment, it's ghoulish and voyeuristic snuff. Why in (insert deity of choice) name would anyone find this enjoyable? Watching people die horribly, and not being able to help, or stop it happening, or change anything? If I had lost anyone on that day, would I really want to watch up close and personal accounts of it? If I had been there witnessing it, would I want to live through it again and again? It was bad enough 'live' at the time, but what is this cult of emotional incontinence doing to us? A world wide sob fest of inane drivel, and a thousand conspiracy theories, a hundred post mortems on what went wrong, and how can we stop it ever happening again.... what 'good' will any of it do? Boost sales of tissues? drive someone vulnerable to murder/assassination/suicide? Is grief not allowed to be private and dignified any more? Is this era of 'LIVE!' horror and inhumane atrocity beamed into your living room as it happens making us all into Disaster Tourists? Too many questions, I know, sorry. It's just driving me a little bit nuts, and I know sooner or later I am going to have to vent.. so please, don't ask me what I will be doing, or what I will be watching on that day. I will be attempting to live a quiet life, and if I should choose to pause in my daily routine and think of all those lives so pointlessly lost, let me do it in my own private way. 

mental

crash and burn

so I have just been told I am suffering from Burn Out. I googled Burn Out and had 133,000,000 hits... I guess it must be real then? Do you know what the (Professional) advice was? Do whatever I want to do, whenever I want to do it. But, I stammered in my faulty dutch... isn't that half the problem? I don't want to do anything. I really have no interest or fun in anything. Then do nothing, came the prompt reply. Further questioning, half piss taking from myself, resulted in the suggestion that I get drunk and flirt. Really??? I was told in no uncertain terms, my responsibility was only to myself and my own happiness and satisfaction. Whatever the consequences, I queried? Apparently. Well, no wonder the world is in such a poo state then? If the answer to feeling a bit down is to unleash an avalanche of self indulgent and selfish pleasure seeking behaviour, won't that...er, result in yet more misery? Or is it a ploy? Make you really go off the rails on a voyage of hedonistic self discovery and therefore realise by default that actually, your own civilized living is infinitely better than say, navel gazing in a 3rd world hovel halfway up a mountain whilst off your head on local substances? Or that a hot 'n sleazy affair with some 'young, dumb and full of come' bar tender will cause a domino effect on the happiness of your immediate family? mmm, let me think... 
So, a mission. In search of real tangible happiness increasers. Well, I know music is one, and laughter, and food, and little kittehs; so I should ideally shut myself in a room full of kittehs, chocolate and a massive home entertainment system? But.. that is already my daily life! Then there is no hope for me. 

What happened to 'Keep Calm and Carry On' or 'this too will pass'?

BFF

When we were young, we made friends based on our tastes in sweets, games and TV programmes If you didn't like Swap Shop and Spangles, or ponies and klackers? bye bye.. In our teens, it was more likely to be clothes, music and fashion - until Punk became more rigid in it's rules than what we invented it for in the first place.. In our twenties and thirties? films, food, wine and comedy, holiday destinations, interior design and childrens names; ie Taste, or our personal narrow definition of it. Now life is shorter and more precious I have become stricter and more fussy. From now on, all my friendships and ties will be based on whether I want you on my team in a Zombie Apocalypse.
I won't lie, some of the people I currently associate with will be useful purely as bait, cannon fodder and ballast. But I am nothing if not fiercely loyal, so though my choices may appear random they matter to me. 
I may not agree with your curious affection for a particular type of music, I will let you off if you are a dab hand at carpentry. If someone is a smoker or a pot head, but can knock up a skillful catapult out of knicker elastic and wooden spoons, they can stay. If you are honest and good and true, and do not care whether my roots have been touched up in months; if you cannot tell whether I have vacuumed my house or not, because you came to see US and not inspect my dusty nooks; if you are yourself and let me be myself? it's a win/win situation. I've got your back, and will happily blow away your zombies too.
hm, now I had better make sure I am the friend people want on their team too. It's only fair.

alone

how hard is it to really be 'alone'? We think we crave it, but when we get it we fill it, with noise and motion and meaningless activities. How hard can it be to just sit in silence? How long can you last, just sitting still and listening? I like my own company, really I do; so why do I find it so hard to do NOTHING? Guilt? of course, a major drawback to the old slacking process. Insidious guilt, eating up our freedom. ADD? partly, a twitch that is hard to control at the best of times, impossible when I am supposed to be quiet. Like Tourettes of the body and brain, the minute I have one bit under control, another leaks out. There go my legs, then my hands... I want to yell STOPPIT and just be able to lay, limp and yet somehow glamorously across the patio furniture. Instead of leaping up every five minutes to do something stupidly useless and futile. When we were kids, didn't we used to able to lie for hours in long grass, just watching the ants? Or stand motionless up to our knees in a clay bedded spring, watching sticklebacks and leaves swirl around in the sluggish current? If I lay on the ground now, talking to the cats or the baby coots, someone will assume I have had some sort of attack, and try to resuscitate me. Wait, that last boat had two quite attractive young Police men in it.. maybe - oh who am I kidding. They will throw cold canal water on me and make me wear a hat in the heat. Perhaps I had better develop a taste for gardening, or some other displacement activity?

beach eating

We haven't been eating out much in the last 6 months, so we decided we had earned a nice dinner on the beach, and earlier this week I had been to a new bar right on the sea front, called Bries. I had a cup of tea, my guest had a hot chocolate. She said it was instant powdered, and I know the 'whipped cream' on top came straight from an aerosol, but somehow the location made up for it. The website said it was 'award winning' and the photos showed the rich and famous of the area enjoying themselves. So it was with joy in my heart that we set off to visit this evening; rain could not dampen my enthusiasm, nor could a longer than remembered trudge up the beach in deep sand. Even though the other places we passed were quiet and deserted, Bries was full; luckily for us they did have a table for 3 available, even if it was not the best located table in the room. It was right next to the kitchen area, and I lost count of how many times my chair was barged into without even an acknowledgement. The chairs were high and rather rickety, wobbling things; even when hubby and I swapped places no one commented on it, and as he has mobility issues it was quite important that he could at least sit safely and comfortably. We were giggling at this stage, so it wasn't a huge deal, merely annoying. Bear in mind this is a 'destination' bar/cafe, in a resort full of Porsches and Bentleys, a resort where the National Football team train, and where the Michelin starred Huis ter Duin is situated. Our 'waiter' was a cartoon character, he thought he was the most gorgeous thing in the place, and we were mere witnesses to his greatness. I have no idea what was going through his mind other than the sea breeze, but he obviously dismissed us as irrelevant from the start. Too old? Too poor, too English? No idea. His every statement/response was mechanical and rushed, parroted and meaningless. Maybe he would prefer to be 'discvered' or even become a rich womans boy toy.
Unbelievably the beer choice was Heineken, or Wieckse witte as a reluctant alternative. Not one other choice? Really? I went for a glass of house Rose, a very nice one but rather skimped on contents. Even the most rough and ready bar has a better choice than that, very disappointing. The service was laughable, really. Only our waiter though, I think; other people seemed to have better service. The menu was a triumph of style over substance as too many things are lately, overpriced and lacking in subtle details; no mention of side dishes that accompanied mains, or even if there was a choice. When asked about catch of the day, the waiter seemed ignorant to the point of obtuseness about how it was cooked and what was in it, no attempt to engage at all. He bought us a plank of wood with dishes containing butter, olive oil and balsamic vinegar, what I guess was a sort of mayonnaise (tarragon?) and a little round brown seeded loaf. This had a knife sticking out of it as though someone had stabbed it out of revenge or warning. He chucked it onto the table with no explanation or foreplay at all, and also no questions about did we need anything, like water. Now I will take a lot of carelessness if the food is good, and the food was not bad  as such... just inconsistent. Our friend had the beef tataki starter, which was rare beef in a soya and sesame dressing with seaweed and spring onion garnish. Rather on the sweet side, and the beef could have been served at room temperature instead of chilled, but other than those minor quibbles it was tender and enjoayable. A's starter of scampis in a chilli sauce was large, and he said fresh rather than frozen prawns. The sauce was creamy and a little bit unsubtle for the prawns, but he did eat it all. I was Mrs Awkward and asked if I could have the goat cheese starter as a main, becuase I knew I would not eat it all if I had 2 courses. I did not ask for it to be sized up as a main course, and I was not asked if I wanted it supersized, but I think they had somehow, because it was vast. I could not finish it all, which is not necessarily a good thing. Mainly because the waiter took my plate away whilst I was still chewing! Unbelievable, and rude. I could not speak with my mouth full, but because everyone else had finished he assumed I had too. He asked us without waiting for a response if we had enjoyed the meal, but did not ask if we needed anything else. One waitress asked if we wanted more fries because she saw I was still eating, but as said fries were frozen chips no better than Hendo, we said no thanks. Why skimp on fries? The catch of the day as eaten by A and E was fresh Red Snapper, but once again the waiter was clueless as to how it was cooked; luckily they said it was pretty good, on a bed of broccoli and green beans, with a beurre blanc sauce. One dish of frozen fries between them, and a small bowl of generic mayo. Why (again) skimp on things like fries when the prices are so expensive for the mains? Details are important, and make such a difference as to whether we return or not, but one reason for repeat business is, a waiter or manager who really cares about customers, not one who hangs on the back of my chair without introducing himself and asks completely insincere questions. And waiters; ask customers if they enjoyed a meal and listen to them! It's not hard. Engage with us, don't insult our intelligence.If you ask us whether we want dessert in a voice designed to discourage us from asking, don't be surprised when we tip you with a handful of coppers instead of our customary habit of 10 to 12%
I know, it's abit 'old', complaining about service, here, but even with some of our experiences over the years this one really makes me laugh manically. It's not rocket science, is it?
We had a fun night, really; just not entirely sure we are that bothered about going back.

today

today had an unexpected bonus re the weather; it started so grey and cold, but by the time I staggered home (running late as ever) I was regretting the extra layer between my coat and my cardi. Shame I then had barely five minutes to stuff some grapes and strawberries down my neck before heading next door for an English lesson. In reality this was 1.5 hours of gossip, and 35 minutes of actual lesson. So no sitting in the sunshine for me, as I then had to stuff over 100 folders into over 100 newspapers for spawn to deliver, followed by throwing a bolognese sauce together from scratch. At 5.20pm I have just sat down for the first time today, but I wanted to mull over something that happened. Outside the supermarket was a man, walking in the cycle lane. Young, pretty obviously down and out, and missing a leg. I know he was deliberately walking in the cycle lane, because  a cycling Politie man asked him to walk on the pavement as it was safer. His false leg was a roughly hewn stump of plank, not attached to his leg, but he had two lengths of cloth holding it on, which he had in his hand like a sling. It looked like the most painful and awkward method he could have come up with, so my interest was piqued. Why go to such lengths to make a point? As anyone will tell you, normally any beggar or 'character' makes a beeline for me, so I waited to see if he would, because for once I actually wanted to hear his tale; plus I thought I would offer him a fresh pear, just purchased. But he didn't stay on course, he had spotted the guys in fluoro jackets who are doing community service, and went for them instead. He had a piece of paper in his hand, so maybe he was looking for a hostel. So I am going to keep an eye out for him; which reminds me I haven't seen my 'regular' guy in a while. He must have once been pretty smart and cool, lived in Stockholm for 9 years and is fluent in Swedish, not ugly by any means. But lately more and more damaged looking and sounding, slipping through the cracks. I can kid myself I help when I give him money 'for the night shelter' or even when I buy him a hot drink and snack, and talk for ten minutes; but it's not really making a difference is it? Hastening his end if anything.
I can't help but think how easy it is to slip slide away.

holy crap

first the dealer over the road flings his door open and inflicts his (lack of) musical taste on the whole street, then next door decided to hold a balcony party complete with screams and talking over each other (OK that was not too annoying) and finally - it's dirty beer day. The concept of popping into the local on your way home from work in your dirty clothes. With karaoke knobs on. And dullards smoking under the windows of our house due to the anti smoking laws. I really don't mind hearing people enjoy themselves, but it's 5 to midnight and the house is actually vibrating from the bass frequency. We had a nice note through the door earlier, saying that there would be a party in the bar on Saturday, with live music until 1am; no mention was made of people howling throuhg the PA like wounded wolves on a friday? The bar is 2 doors away.
In all fairness, there has been no Police presence this evening, nor ambulances required; no screaming domestics, no vomiting (yet). I did make the neighbours who live above Mr Dealer laugh, by standing at the window childishly flicking the Vs at him and his dopey friends, then miming loading a large shotgun and firing it at them all.. I am going to research how to get people like that to move away. It was a lovely bakery, but two months after we moved in it closed down, and last year the shop was converted into two studio apartments; I think the other one is occupied by someone on witness protection as he is invisible, even when Fat Boy Slim was stuffing his ex girlfriend into the boot of a taxi he didn't show his face.
So, in a nutshell; I don't mind people enjoying themselves or having a drunken evening. I do object to having someone else's musical taste shoved down my lug holes at all hours. I might go to the bar tomorrow night, and tell the drunken flodders that Fat Boy Slim the dealer just called them all horrible names and offered to twat them all, then go and tell him the racist lot in the bar called him a big foreign pansy, then retire to my upstairs window to watch the carnage. I am just a big softy really.
And it isn't even summer yet.

liz

I had forgotten just how utterly stunning Liz Taylor was. Without airbrushing or much more than Hollywood make up/lighting. She was so young when she started her career, it makes you wonder how gracefully the Mileys and Olsens will age.
Is beauty like that as much curse as blessing? (obviously I will never know haha) but imagine the pressure? Nowadays it's de rigeur for 'stars' (talentless wannabees caught up in the media machinery like so many moths trying to be butterflies) to be snapped looking drunk, or having an 'off' day. 'Accidental' sex videos, convictions for drugs or stealing; even, God Forbid! Cellulite!!! When Elizabeth Taylor was first working for the big studios, you did not let your public image slip for one second or you were out. Think back to the days of McCarthyism and the Teamsters, there was an invisible power then that is lost now. Probably a good thing, though I dare say it has been replaced by something darker. Lost the point there, sorry ;)
What I want to say is, how heartbreaking is it, to look back at yourself as the most beautiful woman on Earth? Can you take comfort from the iconic shots, or will you mourn what once was? Is it somehow worse for those near immortals than for us ordinary Joes? To be reminded constantly that your rivals are coming up fast behind you, that your appeal is waning, that you cannot let your hips spread comfortably into a Muu Muu and go shopping at WalMart?

oops run out of time, typical me, anyway, in short... who is there left? No one can match up to these screen legends. It isn't about acting skills either. Apologies for losing the thread and time...

now

It seems we have saturation coverage and unprecedented media access to disasters nowadays; we can watch in realtime as these unimaginable horrors suddenly become not only imaginable but in your front room, on your pc and even your mobile phone. Scenes previously watched from the sofa or cinema seat with popcorn, made in a studio for millions of dollars, now actually happening to real people in real places. Are we right to do this? 'Right' or 'wrong' are subjective; if it was me being washed away, or watching my every possession being destroyed, would I want to turn on those mute, dumb cameras and scream at them to fuck off and leave me alone? Are we becoming disaster tourists, or worse, will we gradually get compassion fatigue? From an overdose of pain, fear and sympathy? Of course we should have access to facts, and knowledge of news, but at what cost? There is no privacy, no dignity; no hiding place from the all encroaching eye of the media machine; itself a sort of tsunami of information which we have to filter. Are we psychologically strong enough to watch this snuff movie unfolding? What boundaries can we draw and redraw over how much we do/give/switch off? Do we do everything humanly possible because next time it might be 'us' who need help? or do we turn the channel to a nice harmless sitcom and try to forget the anguish and horror that we can't possibly do anything about? I don't just mean the earthquakes, the floods, the extreme weather, the Earth shaking us off like fleas. I mean the famines, the wars, the atrocities men do in the name of religion. All of this and more, brought to you by News channels the world over, with no PG certificate. I loathe the way the Press will gloss over 10,000 missing persons, and follow it with a huge chapter on 2 missing people from OUR country. There is no sliding scale of human worth, surely? I don't know enough, but I know too much. Are we really all nothing more than road side gawpers at a house fire or road accident? Is it inherent in Human Nature to have this fascination with Death and Disaster, to reassure ourselves we are still alive? Are we drawn by our own mortality, or a curiousity beyond the morbid? Watching the footage over again, hoping this time you will see someone escape, hoping you will somehow comprehend the true scale of things. I lose sight of the question; is it 'right' to watch all these things? Does anyone gain from it?

too tired to blog

prejudice. It's brewing up in my mind, but right now I am covering for a sick colleague for the next 3 days or so...

today

Today someone in the shop thought a colleague was my son... the colleague is twenty something. It is a rude awakening for me, that even though logically I am old enough to be the mother of a 30 year old, I really do not like to be reminded of that fact. The fact that I look old enough to have grandchildren too; let us (meaning me) not forget the customer who thought a friend and her baby were my daughter and grandson. (Or all the customers who think I am married to the owner and ALL the colleagues are our children. And that I live right there in the shop and am online all the time so I can see them making their email order while they are making it - but that is by the by).
So... what is bothering me most? It is the inescapable fact that I am getting older, of course. Is there an invisible line we cross? that we wake up one day unable to dance; that suddenly we will morph, much like a werewolf? Getting hairier and twisted over into a hunched up snarling beast?  Or will I one day look in the mirror and see the truth? That I am that grey middle aged badger shaped thing who has stolen the clothes of a younger, fitter woman? Will I be Atomic Mutton, or am I already? The dreaded '16/61' woman; 16 from behind, 61 from the front. I want to wear tartan bondage trousers when I feel like it, and Pink/leopard skin brothel creepers. I don't want this jowly turkey neck, these crepey hands and lined decolletage. Tired eyes that don't recover, skin that doesn't bounce back; no wonder famous beautiful Hollywood people go nuts and become addicted to 'procedures', they see everything magnified many times over up there on that screen, not to mention evidence of their ageing process documented in every film and magazine article. I read this week that in LA women are even shaving their faces, because the advent of HD TV has meant every impurity or facial hair showing up in minute detail, clogged with make up and concealer. Hm, perhaps I am getting off lightly then, I never got the hang of make up. In a roundabout, muddled way, I am trying to ask when do we retire our 'look'? Why should we have to? If I was Vivienne Westwood it wouldn't matter, but if I am a poor nobody, I am a figure of ridicule? Ha, that is very English; rich and eccentric, or poor and mad. I want to Get Old Disgracefully, because I am not done being young yet.

people

I conlude I don't like people. Not anywhere in or near my space lately, anyway. I can't see through them at gigs (yes, wingnut snogging your bird in front of me half the gig, get a room) they smell and are noisy. Unpredictable too. They act as if I am invisible, maybe I should have mentioned that I am liable to fall over and vomit without notice as I am poorly? I am unscared by the massive bikers, unphased by the hairy outlaw types stomping around dragging their knuckles. I am an invisible middle aged woman, what can they do to me? I like to stare at the fashion victims, the people who do not own either a mirror or any self conscious genes, the clothes that time (or a laundry) forgot. I snigger up my sleeve at the greying pony tails and mullets sliding off the back of shiny heads. I am judgemental, bitchy and scathing, lack tolerance and patience, and most of all I am fed up of you talking all the way through a gig. I know I have said it before, but once more with feeling; If you want to talk, go home and put a cd on. Feck the hell out of my listening space when I have paid to see/hear a band not your moronic drivel. Or I swear one day I will just flip. I will grab the nearest heineken (ubiquitous) and tip it over your festering scabrous heads, and then ram your sweaty overpriced tour T shirt into your gaping maws.
(Except you, small contingent of guys with a brave little confederate flag with BLS - Iran on it in marker pen. You may do as you like. Rest assured, Zakk had no clue what it may have cost you to get there last night, as long as you might spend 60euro on a hooded sweatshirt or 25 on a beanie. Made of  acrylic.)

I want to believe there is a perfect country somewhere. Or even a perfectly good one. With efficient services and great customer support. With environmentally sound systems in place for rubbish and recycling, for the milieu and industries. With public transport that functions well enough for the money, and roads that aren't constantly clogged and falling apart or being fixed. Where crime is rare and local governments really care about people, and the Police are not corrupt.Where Health Services run effectively and safely without fear of worse illnesses when you pass through them. Where children can walk around safely without being picked on or mugged, and thieves are not free to suck you dry and walk away, while banks do nothing. But I bite my lips and say 'we can vote, we can walk around 'free' and speak our minds, we can come and go as we like'; because when I see what the alternative is I realize we have to accept compromises. No matter how crap daily life can be, we do have a choice.
(Or we could move to Belgium?)

and

another thing; don't get me started on 'I whip My Hair'

Pop will eat itself

Just watched Katie Price/Jordan doing 'I want to break free' - dressed as Freddie Mercury in the original. A woman who makes a living out of her car crash life and surgically enhanced body, role playing a gay man who pretended to be straight for most of his life, dressed as a woman in a sly nudge nudge wink wink message to the world... I think it is the best and most intelligent thing she has ever done. How much more Post Modern can anyone get? I loathe everything about her and her lifestyle choices, because let's face it, she chose every bit of it. She manipulates and controls, makes money by exploiting those who exploit her, she is a sad potty mouthed, trashy role model for millions of girls (of all ages, right up to the sad, divorced and disenfranchised bitter mid life crises sufferers) and yet somehow she brazenly walks through it all unscathed. Is she oblivious? Is she ignorant? Actually, I really don't care. She is as plastic as the Barbie dolls she resembles, as empty headed as a shop window mannequin (I imagine). But, in a way that possibly she doesn't even 'get' herself, she has transcended all taste and irony with this masterpiece. I may be totally wrong, and have misunderstood it all.. but just for a minute there I lost myself...

ps

I cannot escape the fact. I will have a birthday this year. It will be a 'significant' one. But please, let me approach it in my own time. Stop asking me what am I doing to mark it. It crept up on me, unasked. Let me mull it over and digest it for at least ten more years, please?

wheeee

back on the bike today; first time in nearly 3 weeks. Always a bit trepidatious at first, but soon get the feeling back. Exhilaration, acceleration, celebration. I set the gears to 3 (it's the only 3 I have) so I can have maximum pressure exerted. I can really pretend to be working it then. Not bitterly cold, but still enough to make a few tears trickle down; not as bad as the heart of winter when you seem to arrive at every journey end with a stalactite of frozen snot and tears adhering to your lower face. Of course, you don't know that, as your face is so numb you can't even smile. Or if you set off smiling, the rictus grin is now firmly frozen into place. I nearly hit a pigeon, but it was so fat I think my wheel would have buckled anyway. Goose did not chase me anyway. Not being able to hear traffic did freak me out, but I just tried to keep alert and watch out for idiots. I was even brave enough to overtake - yay me! I have missed it.

snot

I hate people who gob in the street, Hawk, Flob, Expectorate, Spit. By any name it is foul. But you know what is just as bad and seems to be getting more common (common as in frequent, it is already common as in muck)? That thing where people hold a nostril closed and clear the entire contents of their skulls by blowing out of the free nostril. On the pavement, walking, or cycling past. Or just standing on a bridge. I HATE YOU ALL. Just stop. I don't know how to make them stop. Hepatitis doesn't stop people spitting, nor does TB. Can I fire ball bearings at them?  Can I take a photo or video and post it on youtube? Name and shame? It's not like dog poo, you might defend it; but I still manage to step in it and it makes me gag as much a shite...STOP doing it. It's gross and unacceptable on any level. Worst offenders? those hippy dippy dready tie dyed dogs on a string glasto circa 82 casualties; 'well the natives do it yaaa, so it must be ok, yaaaa?' 'if it's good enough for the indigenous tribes, mmmkay?'
Footballers do it too, on TV, every weekend and match night. Therefore kids and impressionable pop stars copy it and it becomes endemic. If there were to be a campaign against it, these are the role models we need to get on board. Please, someone do it. I am sick (heaving) of a world full of snot and grolllies...

while I am on the subject

Just read those lyrics. Hoping that Do it Like a Dude meant somehow break the glass ceiling in big business and put to good use generations of emancipation and hard earned rights. That the song will somehow empower a new generation of girls (ggrrrls) to reach out and grab the future. No. It just means drink until you lose control of your faculties, have sex standing up and then pass out. I quote 'Grab my crotch, wear my hat low' and 'drink beer' ... in what way is this aspirational??? Or am I "annoying finger curl either side of quote" - 'missing the point'?

and as for the Vaccines - Don't get me started

do it like a dude

If by that you mean 'rap' without talent, then yes, Jessie J; indubitably. I now can go into grumpy old tart mode quite justifiably, having forced myself to watch this travesty of music. Must we fling this pop filth at our kids, indeed. There is not one shred of songwriting involved here, or did I miss something? No musical ability necessary, no years of paying dues playing toilets and clubs. Just slap on some slap, swear and make choking noises whilst attempting to rhyme in a manic faux mockney estuary chav lite screech. Judder your pelvis in the way an epileptic nymphomaniac from planet MTV would if tasered by a sex dwarf with Parkinsons and Tourettes (apologies to anyone actually with Tourettes, even though it seems to have become the most 'cool' affliction of nos jours). It (Pop) has become such an extreme parody that it disappeared up it's own fundament; I see no difference between this inane din and the piss take songs in 'Get Him To the Greek'. You could not make it up - wait. They DID. Has the talent pool shrunk so much, and the attention span become so nanosecond short, that this digital autotuned pile of steaming ordure now passes for astonishing talent? That the dumbed down drivel they dribble is acceptable as Wildean wit when audible? Lady Gaga the Post apocalyptic poetess of preciousness? I would say pretentious, but it isn't even that elevated. Is that the appeal? The harsh urban pretence? So that everyone can feel a bit gangsta, innit? Pop a cap in yo mamas ass when she ax yo to do yo homework? even though you live in Bath... Maybe I just 'don't get it' in the way I used to think older people didn't get Punk; but Punk did at least spawn some discernible talents and influences? All I see this genre doing is revolving (devolving?) in ever decreasing circles; even dub step is old hat now. For one fleeting moment I did hope it might be the music of the future, the way forward... but no. False alarm. There is no future, as we used to say...

really?

was looking up tips on waking up refreshed, and came across this
17. Be grateful for not dying
The Buddha said that every time you go to bed you should consider that you won’t wake up. That way, when you wake up you will be especially grateful for the day you have ahead of you. Instead of seeing the day as a burden that you have to “get through” you will see it as an opportunity to do something meaningful and beneficial.
Why? Because you could die tonight.
When applied correctly this realization will bring you tremendous energy.

um. NO. If I went to bed thinking I might die in my sleep, would I get a wink? Not bloody likely. Though I do like the get out clause 'When applied correctly...'

still deaf

I demand to have some energy. 

Was reading some comments under a you tube video of  the cyclone in Australia. I would cut and paste some of them here but
a) there are too many
b) they are mental

How do these kind of people function in their daily lives? Are they only spewing out hatred online in a bizarre alter ego? During the day are they mild mannered civil servants or fast food servers? That lady who served you at the bank, maybe she goes home and logs on as a rabid anti Christian, or anti Muslim, or anti anyone who lives in Cairns who isn't an Aboriginal?  Does the smiley postman transform in a postbox, donning a black mask and swearing allegiance to Trolling In the Name of Hatred? Hiding behind a PC and an anonymous user name. Or even more sinister, 13 year old boys who think it's funny and 'cool'?
Why do I care....
(I was intrigued a bit, by the shifting polar magnetic force conspiracy brigade, who quote the existence of a new horoscope sign as evidence that the world will end)

ear saga part 2

Did the whole nose spray thing (yes, in my nose), carried on with ear drops, even the magic Japanese ichor as supplied by wonderful Sweded bird... no change. Pathetically stood in front of Other Receptionist and said in my best taal please miss, I did everything theother lady told me to, she said I couldn't have an appointment so what else can I do to help? She looked a bit miffed, but I felt it was not aimed at me; she told me to come back at 2.30 so she could have a look inside. She looked, asked me if I had had a cold, looked again, then looked in the right ear. Hm, it was not what she expected.. so now I am waiting for a telephone call to see - gasp! An Actual Doctor!
Problem is, now, should I feel worried that it isn't a simple case of blocked ear? Or prepare myself for a Dyson hoover moment if they have to extract any foreign body - please don't let it be an earwig... that would be too horrible. Why can't bodies be more like cars?

of course

So I finally gave in to pressure and called to get an appointment at the Doctors. My ear has been blocked and deaf since wednesday morning, and it's a bit painful too. Now I shall guess that this is the same the world over; The Guardian of The Doctor AKA The Receptionist. Interrogation as follows
me - can I make an appointment please?
her - what is the problem?
me- my ear is painful and blocked up, I am deaf on the left side.
her - how long has it been like it?
me - since wednesday morning (it's now friday)
her - what have you done so far?
me - ear drops and warmth
her - have you used nose spray? You can buy it at the chemist
me - yes I have some
her - well, use it.
me - um, ok?
her - it goes in your nose, not your ear
me - (WTF?) um yes...
me - so I can't have an appointment?
her - no, it's not necessary. long silence.

I make 'have a nice day' sound a tiny bit like 'FFF you' and hang up. My dutch is not up to a long discourse on condescending, patronising banter. So. I absolutely resepct that she is more qualified than me to judge whether or not I need to be seen. I respect that she is trying to save her employer time and unnecessary appointments; I really do get that. What I just don't 'get' is why these sort of people manage to get precisely the job which lets them get power crazed and infuriatingly, pedantically, patronising. They could end up anywhere, but no, invariably, they end up here. This is a worldwide phenomenon. I know that.

just

just for one minute I was a 'Daily Mail' person. I read about the excuse for human who threw a kitten off a tower block, and actually did think 'Die and rot in hell you scum bitch' and mean it with every fibre of my soul. Then I realised, she is in Hell already.

no insight

no insight whatsoever, just curious as to whether the obsession with holidays post xmas/New Year started by itself or has been instigated by us over the years. It just seems to occur naturally; perhaps after long grey months of cold and rain it is human nature to begin dreaming of sunshine and fun? Are we programmed into it by insidious media coverage? Holidays are not fun, really. It's time to drop the pretence, cancel the conspiracy and come clean; holidays are nothing but trouble. Stress, misery and pressure. Traveling used to be glamorous, didn't it? Now it is boredom and terror combined, herded like sheep from terminal to desk and through toxic xray machines. Insulted and manhandled, exposed to recycled farty air in tiny flying buses, identikit airports flourishing worldwide like fungus. No sense of crossing real 'borders' or joining another culture, just a series of shopping malls with oversized public transport facilities. And yet, somehow, we are seduced into dreaming of a smiling family strapped securely into a flying palace, arriving refreshed and well fed at a tropical, exotic yet amenable location staffed with people falling over to do our every bidding; we will lie in the sun like pampered seals, poring over worthy prize winning novels, and occasionally foray into a clean town with cheap delicious food on every corner. We will sleep like dogs, play like cats and eat like royalty, then return; refreshed, looking ten years younger and ten pounds lighter, ready to plunge back into work/routine
HA
We know in reality, we will arrive at the airport already exhausted, dishevelled and inappropriately dressed, snarling at each other. The staff will be bored, condescending and uncaring, processing us like burgers. Queues will be long and slow, the one you nearly chose will always move faster. Children will be wailing, yelling and swearing, or hyperactive and c... you know what? I can't even think about it so I am not going to write it. Let me hang onto my illusions.

ouch

day 2.5 of one blocked deaf ear. The whole left side of my face is shorted out and consists only of stabbing pain and white noise. I wonder what would happen if I stay like it forever; how long would it take to get used to? Very disconcerting that people can be right next to me and I am unaware of them; also I can't hear my voice so I am scared to speak dutch today.
On the plus side, noise pollution from traffic and mopeds is significantly muffled.
Angry incomprehension is about ageing (again); ok, it's better than the alternative, but why is the degeneration so fast? Domino effect? Why can't it be like a game of Age Bingo; crossing them off gradually? (Gradually should also mean gracefully).. I honestly don't believe gyms or diets make a toss of difference, BTW.
I would like to hope mental attitude does, but I shan't take it for granted. Just a touchy subject lately, I am sure it will pass.

if

if seagulls had proverbs, they might be along the lines of 'He who starts a fight with a full beak, ends it with an empty stomach'

sad

I was chatting to a young shop assistant last week, young enough to be my daughter. We were discussing being alone at work, whether it was safe or not, and she mentioned a young guy had been hanging around a while, so she asked him if he wanted anything. He apparently blushed and mumbled something about just looking at her because she was so nice looking, and maybe mumble mumble flowers, mumble dinner? And she told him off, gave him some sort of rude dismissal, and called him a loser (to his face? not sure, but to me she definitely said 'what a loser' and totally slated him) I was, frankly, shocked and saddened. How much effort does it take for a shy guy to pluck up courage to approach the object of his dreams? To be so rebuffed must be quite devastating; is it any wonder guys feel they can't win? Apparently they are supposed to romance women, but NOT? What are the chances that guys who get knocked back like that develop into serial killers or rapists? OK I am being extreme, I realise that, but what happened to manners, or graciousness? Just accepting a compliment where given and saying 'thank you but I am not available', or maybe even 'you are kind but I can't fraternize with customers, thank you'.
Why did this affect me?

imagine

my worst fear - getting pregnant accidentally. At my age. I would have to auction the baby off, and start a bidding war between Madonna and BrAngelina. Would either of them want the offspring of a myopic ADD sufferer and a balding yet talented guitarist stroke data warehouser? I certainly couldn't manage all these stairs with a sprog. At my age.

20/20

picked up my new glasses yesterday; after 2 years of juggling 3 pairs (4 if you count prescription sunglasses) I now have one pair for all occasions. Feels incredibly strange, and now I can see how old I actually look. hm. No wonder they say 'rose tinted spectacles'.
So, when I was choosing a pair, I jokingly turned to t'husband and asked him if they made me look 10 years younger? Quick as a flash, the salesman quipped 'fifteen'. I tittered dutifully, but my eyes lasered him 'don't push it, lul' Unless those specs can gently botox my entire face and coat it in a dewy non creasing foundation, they do not in any way make me look younger. Maybe less squinty, at a pinch?

witches

why is it, certain women go on and on about Menopause? Have I got it inscribed on my forehead that I am imminently about to lose my last apparent shred of feminity? Do I really need to hear the gruesome ins and outs of what to expect? In a word; NO. When I pass through this private and personal experience is my business. If you think I am willing to discuss vaginal dryness and bodily emanations, YOU COULD NOT BE MORE WRONG. I do not want to rate various potions, or trial herbal tablets. I don't wish to broadcast the state of my libido to all and sundry.  I want to hang onto the illusions that I am still womanly and young enough to care about being interesting and/or attractive. I don't routinely discuss periods other than the odd admittance to cramps, so why the hell would I want to openly talk about the horrors of encroaching middle age? I don't care what Hell you, or an anonymous friend went through; just like when I was pregnant I did not want to hear horror stories of birth. I knew how shit that would be, thanks. Keep your body away from mine, keep your advice to yourself and let me get on with decrepitating on my own terms? Sisterhood? bollocks.
(ps, this is not directed at any close personal friends, just so you know)

tree of pose

Jonathan Safran Foer - Tree of Codes... so if I buy one of his books and chop it up, is it Art? Art of the Humument did it first a long time ago, so a) it isn't new, and b) it's CRAP.... take a book and cut bits out of it to make another story? Hey, why not buy a Dictionary and make lots of stories? Deconstruction, very Post Modern and tongue in cheek.... or just having a laugh all the way to the bank? Something about it just sticks in my craw, sorry; like getting paid to make fun of literature. I want to believe in it as a subversion of traditional literature, really I do; but I can't. William Burroughs did it once or twice, and it did shake things up back in the day; I think I need to find out why this is provoking such a strong knee jerk reaction in me. Am I jealous? Yes, but then if I had done it NO ONE would give a feck. Because he is like, I don't know, the Damien Hirst of PoMo literature, people 'get it'?? Is it that is seems sacriligeous to destroy a perfectly good book? Maybe a smidge of that also, and how annoying is it to read? MAYBE I am just too old and cynical.

Hm, a new thought. Maybe take a classic Led Zep LP and just y'know; cut bits out of it and rearrange bits... oh wait. It's been done. So scratching and remixing moves onto books? I could write a computer programme to do that for me with music and books, you say? Bring it on...

gone

so yesterday went by in a blur of bus, train, haircut; train, bus, housework; bus, train, social thingy; train, bus home, cook, clean, entertain. Loved it. Apart from the bit right at the beginning where I put my sacro iliac out.
Pineapple Thief on the iPod as the sun came up was pure magic though. Yes, I remembered it for once.

 Sometimes this country resembles a gigantic building site. Actually, it's not sometimes, it's all the time. And with this rain it makes you feel like we are piling buildings up higher and higher to no effect. Cycling, for all that I pretend it's like a free dermabrasion facial... no. It's more like a slap in the face; I quite enjoy it most days as I know I am alive, but somehow a prolonged wet period shuts the world down. Horizons are lowered, the sky seems closer too. A swollen bruise glowering over us, like mental blinkers disabling our facility to see beyond the next puddle. People frown and mutter, siege mentality takes over; I even hear myself repeatedly saying 'never mind, it's a good day to stay in with a cheesy film or a crap book and stuff your face with comfort food'.. Like I would ever do that myself. Oh I am tempted, don't misunderstand; but somehow the opportunity never quite arrives. If my back is not better tomorrow, maybe I should try it for once.

My angry incomprehension today is focussed on the Melkweg who are having a Punk Festival called Rebellion... with the UK Subs and Cockney Rejects among others... when I have stopped laughing I will write something.

funny

Cycling at 5pm on a wet January evening is nothing like cycling at 5pm on a wet December evening.
Apropos of yesterday ; Richard Burton said once,

"All great art comes from people who are either ugly or have a terrible inferiority complex. I know no one who is beautiful and produces art. "

I was thinking, the wannabe drug dealer over the road really should steal a less conspicuous bike. He has one with a child seat on the back; as if anyone would want to breed with him.

Today I was forced to listen to The Corrs - Live dvd at 'work'... please, I will do anything you ask, please NEVER make me go through that again. I loathe these cod Gaelic falsetto puppets with their twee faux french and little tittering asides. In fact, I feel like sneaking in when the place is closed, and hiding (or throwing into the canal) every awful cd in there. Bye Abba in concert, seeya Dire Straits, feckoff forever Kylie Live.. I can live with aural wallpaper a la Jack Johnson or even KT whatserface; anything that can be put on repeat and soothingly meld seamlessly into the air. I sneakily put on a self made Radiohead compilation, or Turin Brakes, or even NIN if I think I will get away with it, when no one else is around; but the minute anyone else comes in it goes horribly wrong and I want to run away screaming. Of course I appreciate it is a matter of taste; but which is worse? Bad taste, or no taste?

monday musing

A stress free train trip, but a punch up on the tram. Saw Jesus in a dress; it must have been him as he had bare legs and feet and it was very cold today. He had beautiful lustrous hair, but I was on another tram and he was walking. I bought a lorry load of fruit and vegetables to dislocate my shoulders with (pulling the Trolley Of Rock). The sun shone ALL day, a blue and gold day. Out in the farmy fieldy bits, there are still stretches of frozen dykes with snow on, so white stripes. Shame I forgot my iPod yet again, I could have synced the tunes with the monotonously attractive scenery. Trains are great for musing, somehow the movement is inspiring. Todays musings revolved around 'can comedians be sex symbols?' I scribbled so much I didn't even notice the conductor asking for my ticket, but I am pretty sure he had no idea who Sid James was, or whether there is a sort of Venn diagram where he meets James Bond. My synapses were firing, but not in a coherent way, so I will come back to this. So far all I have established is that great comedians need to be unattractive to succeed.
Still working on which country is best to live in; sod all these 'lifestyle' questionnaires that say Scandinavian countries win hands down, I want to know who has the silliest laws. Or if we are better off all chipping in for either an island to share, or a remote abandoned village to turn into a sort of independent Utopian state? Self sufficient, of course...


 

p.s.

p.s. What kind of random question is this????

What was the stage name of your favorite actress before she was born?  this is what this website just asked me

obvious

I am not one of those 'state the bleeding obvious' people. Yes, it's cold and very dark - its farking winter. What do you expect? Bouquets of orchids springing forth (my mistype there -spronging - is a much better word) while lyre birds weave nests from your navel lint? We live in the Northern hemisphere. Oh, wait. I just did exactly that.

Anyway. My new part time occupation is promoting my husbands' band; this means lots of post office trips and emailing, schmoozing and, well, promoting. Thanks to a fantastic social circle this is not a chore. Thanks to living in an unpredictable land, it is. More on that land later, right now I am busy eating slightly singed porridge out of a small saucepan, while hungry cats circle me.

So, question of the day is; Is there a perfect country to live in? I will be researching this question all week, and giving some thoughts and observations throughout.

How did I get here?

So I sit, clueless, about to attempt to 'blog'. A word that sounds as appetizing as snot or clog. As in -ged up. It reminds me of blocked up school toilets.
Angry incomprehension, a recurring theme lately.
Sunday evening; a palpitation tinged pause at the top of the ski slope, wondering if everything is done up tightly for the launch into the week.