I wish they would stop changing Blogger. It only creates confusion and misery.

My life as a telemarketeer has come to an end, so far. Thankfully. I have now returned to life as an unemployed sofa-wrestler, which is actually not bad at all.

The Story of the Novel dedicated pretty much an entire episode to James Joyce, of which I was grateful, and they even managed to do him justice. Of course, they seemed to forget that Joyce did not actually invent the stream of consciousness technique, but I guess that's a common mistake to make.
Jeanette Winterson remarked that: 'Modernism is a poet's movement' and refers to the importance of the exactness of word, of which I hadn't thought before, but which makes completely sense.
Other than that; Woolf, Lawrence, Orwell and Faulkner, among others, but the main man was truly Joyce. And he was, wasn't he?!

He foresaw his pale body reclined in [the bath] at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the linp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.

Saw Secretary last night which I loved. So there's a bit that's a bit crap; the almost-wedding and the sit-athon in the office, but it was visually wonderful and Maggie Gyllenhaal is brilliant, she managed to make her Lee adorable and endearing in her shy awkwardness. The chemistry between the two leads was good - their love-story is appealing and attractive.

Monday night my boyfriend's band was playing at Cargo - it's such a cool venue and it went really well, so if you should ever stumble across Poisonflow (name debatable, I know), you should check them out.


Things I Don't Know, 5:
If it was David on the Jubilee Line last week around 6 p.m., getting on at Swiss Cottage and alighting at Green Park.
posted by charlotte at 15:45 - comment

The thing is that I'm not really meant for telemarketing. I don't mind ringing people and I don't mind asking people questions, but I don't like having to try to sell them some kind of stupid product of which I know nothing anyway.

Danish people are generally very sweet, though. As long as you are cheery and brief, then they are friendly. The best thing I know is when I ring someone, present myself and the company I allegedly work for, and then they greet me with: 'HI!' That's nice. That means that they don't hate me.

Some people don't mind talking and are genuinely interested in my product and throw all sorts of obscure industry-speak at me, and I try to pretend that I know what they're talking about and feel guilty because I don't. Some people are apprehensive but open to suggestions and make the experience pleasant, even though they are not interested in what I offer. I like those guys. Some people just don't want to talk and are annoyed that I ring but are too polite to tell me to fuck off. I must admit to throwing someone a bone today, and telling him that I have to ring him, but if he tells me straight away that he's not interested, I'll go away without further questioning. It was wrong of me, I know. But I think he was happy. And I think it saved me from quite a bit of verbal abuse too.
And then there's the people who make a big deal out of telling me that they have thrown our advertising directly in the bin, that they hate the company and that we are scum. I don't understand why they bother. A polite 'no' suffices.

Sometimes people sound so nice, like a dad or something, that I can't help liking them immediately. Like the guy from my home town who, after having talked to me for a few minutes, said, in that funny dialect of ours, which only sounds endearing in old men, if I could email him? 'Cause he was actually in the canteen, cooking lunch.
Sometimes people's voices are really attractive. Smoother than the operator, friendlier than Friends, cheekier than the Cheeky Girls. I just want to keep talking to these people, them being a safe haven from all the weirdoes and the boredom of the questionnaire.

Things I Don't Know, 4:

How to drive a car.
posted by charlotte at 18:29 - comment

I'm feeling quite squished and tired. I'm not meant for this work-thing. I'm supposed to linger languidly on a terrace somewhere, drinking champagne in the shadow of a coconut-tree, with occasional trips to an assortment of shops.
*Stares*

Metro has an article about flash mobbing:

One minute, a handful of shoppers was looking at Italian leather uppers.
The next, hundreds of people were swarming in the door. Five minutes later, they were gone.
The mystery crowd was the work of a mischievous underground movement called the Mob Project.
(...)
The premise is to create an inexplicable mob, somewhere in New York, for ten minutes or less.

Yes, it's pointless, but it's also kind of fun and seems like a very friendly act of...mobbing.


Things I Don't Know, nummer tre:

The actual function of pi.
posted by charlotte at 19:02 - comment

Someone wrote me to ask me how I feel about a job in the "pubic sector".
I find that quite appaling. Perhaps they should offer me the job as a proof-reader instead?

This blog mentions these Customized Classics, an idea which I find hilarious. "Mr. Sleepingsheep & Charlotte" (instead of Romeo & Juliet) - with the alternative happy ending! (I am obviously not in favour of altering classics - but still...)


Things I Don't Know, part deux:

Why a call-centre would have dress-down Friday. Or why call-centre staff wouldn't dress down at all. Why do these poor creatures need to wear a shirt and a bloody tie every day, when all they do is call up other people who can't see them. It's not as if they leave their crummy little office spaces, like, ever.
posted by charlotte at 19:31 - comment

The Story of the Novel moves hurriedly along. Ivanhoe - a brief mention. Quickly through Dickins, Gaskell, Bronte, Thackerey, Eliot, James, Gissing and finishing for the time being with Hardy. I am mostly unfamiliar with the Victorian writers, I find them so overly proper and yet so hypocritical that they become uninspiring. My loss, I guess. I did read Ivanhoe when I was a child and got upset that he (the twat) chose whatshername...Rowena over the much nicer Rebecca. But of course Rowena was blond. However, I am quite interested in Great Expectations - I saw the crap version with Gwyneth Paltrow (whom I find boring and appaling, although she has regained some street-cred by hanging out with Chris Martin - strangely, since he is kind of boring too), that didn't do much for me, but I could imagine reading it would be a different and dark experience. Jane Eyre I must read, if nothing else because I'm dying to read Wide Sargasso Sea - Jean Rhys is so to be recommended! Vanity Fair...well, one should really, yes? Middlemarch has been greatly recommended to me and Portrait of a Lady is, well, Henry James, whom I quite like - I have however read Jude the Obscure which I liked loads because of the style of writing, but it depressed me so much that I flung the book into the bookshelf in disgust and have not touched it since. The pace of the program was almost too fast, but it still managed to give a good overview over the greater visibility of women in the 19th century. Looking forward to next week and perhaps a bit of Joyce?


Things I Don't Know, numero uno:

How cricket works.
posted by charlotte at 13:24 - comment

I'm working. Ish. I've gotten a job to accommodate my need for money.

*Sigh*

Today was my first day in the world of tele-marketing. No, it's not fun. It's sucks. I'm informing the good people of Denmark of a certain memory-chip, too important to overlook, too cheap to ignore. I am furthermore temping, which means that nobody tells me anything about anything.
My commute is about one and a half hours each way, which sucks even more. I haven't commuted for the last, say, 5 years, and it's a killer. The good thing about catching the tube at 7 in the morning is that there are a) plenty of spare Metro-papers, b) no queue at the ticket-window, c) actual fresh air outside and d) people are too sleepy to talk.
On the way back today I was in for a shock when I entered the Jubilee Line at Finchley Road: it smelled clean. This has never happened before and I got slightly worried about some sort of chemical weapon? - But by the time we reached Baker Street everything was back to normal; the smell of pits and feet.
Being read in my carriage: Evening Standard, Harry Potter, The Alchemist, ES Magazine, Stephen King, Mills and Boon, The Guardian, Harry Potter (again) and a picture book about horses. Quite indicative of the British state of mind at the moment, I think.
posted by charlotte at 19:27 - comment

I was watching the film High Art, which was very good, albeit a bit 'loose' around the edges. It stars Ally Sheedy as a Corinne Day-type photographer, whose happiness is wrecked by her relationships and her own drug addiction. Sheedy is surely a commanding presence, and very good in this film, but I can't help finding it a bit disturbing, seeing her doing drugs and having sex onscreen. It's kind of like watching Fred Savage in The Rules of Attraction inject heroin into his toes and scream: 'I can feel my dick!' It's wrong. People whom I idolised as a teenager, when they were teens too (or at least portraying teens, in Sheedy's case) should preferably stay in a state of arrested development, forever pondering their first kiss, their loss of virginity and the unfairness of parents. To me, there is an innocence connected with Ally Sheedy that means that she can very well be an outsider and a bit of a school-rebel, but I also wish for the reassurance that she is going to be all right. I guess I just have to get over it.
posted by charlotte at 17:12 - comment

Oooh, she's up early!

Well, it has come to my attention that Matt Goss of Bros-fame, is soon to be releasing a new album. Yep, an album. With songs. Apparently the slightly-chubbier-without-being-fat-Goss has been dabbling in song-writing in L.A. ever since the collapse of his band and now, not only is he getting married to Daisy Fuentes, he is also gigging. Not giggling, gigging. Once upon a time, for a split-second, I was a Bros-fan - it wasn't love but more a case of acute infatuation: it lasted for about 7 days, after which I completely lost interest. The reason for this brief trip down memory lane is the release of the aforementioned album. I wish Mr Goss all the best and future fame and fortune, but I can't help feeling that I have a Spinal Tap -moment, when I hear the title of the album: Face the Wind. Not only that, but the web-site continually asks the same unappealing question: 'Are you ready to face the wind'?!


posted by charlotte at 09:30 - comment

BBC is doing this thing at the moment where they're showing Hitchcock-films every afternoon, and I've gotten completely caught up in watching these. They are so good! Even the not-so-good ones are highly entertaining. So in spite of heat wave and plenty of spare time, I'm mainly in the flat, bored with 'enjoying the sunshine'. I am furthermore DIY-ing to my heart's content, although radiator-painting is almost too tiresome a task. Am supposed to read all the books I haven't had time to read during the year, but so far I only read newspapers and magazines. Not much brain-activity in these quarters. Maybe one day mental brilliance will return, but until then:

...
posted by charlotte at 15:25 - comment

Channel 4 has lauched its Story of the Novel series and started predictably with Daniel Defoe. All the usual suspects had been rounded up; John Mullan, John Richetti, David Lodge and A. S. Byatt, to discuss aforementioned Defoe, Richardson, Fielding and Austen. Not many surprises, but a well-crafted program - I just wish that their statements were less definitive: Robinson Crusoe was not only based on the adventures of Alexander Selkirk. I don't like Robinson Crusoe much, by the way, I find the man himself to be appaling and the chapter heading 'I am seldom idle' annoys me every time I think of the text. What's wrong with being idle, exactly??? At least once in a while?! I also wish that Channel 4 would think creatively and get rid of the actor/actress who reads from any given text and speaks to the camera in character. Enough of that now!
posted by charlotte at 17:23 - comment

When feeling sluggish, there's no better place to be. On returning to the city from the mountains, we check in at a "riad" in the medina, a traditional family house that has been turned into a guest house. It's a wonderful place. The tiny streets in the medina twist and turn, the walls are high and the children whisper and giggle as you struggle through the maze, but inside the riad there are no sounds. In the middle is a courtyard full of trees and flowers, and a small water basin strewn with heads of red roses. Three rooms surround the yard - they are fairly plain yet gorgeous, with ensuite bathrooms in typical Moroccan style and cool, clean stone floors. Upstairs are sofas and cushions for relaxation, and on the roof is chairs and tables under a baldachin. The temperature in the entire house is relievingly low and pleasant. Lying naked in crisp, white sheets is a blessing.

Fatima, who cooks and cleans, moves quietly around on rubber soles, baking bread, squeezing oranges, watering the plants.

The souks are interesting and difficult. There are endless yells to be heard and cups of tea to be drunk. After a while one gets used to it and a good time to go is during siesta, just after noon, when the sales men themselves are tired and hot and lazy. After a while it gets easier to find ones way around as well, which also saves a lot of hassle. It is full of colours and shapes. The wool dyers hang the wool to dry and it's beautiful, clear blue, red and yellow. In the metal souk there is continual hammering going on - two boys smile greatly and cock their heads: "photo?" - and strech out their hands for money. The leather souk invites with slippers and sandals and belts and a wonderful smell.

Ever day I wore some sort of sleevy top - t-shirt or tunic - but the last day I ran out and decided to wear straps. 'Cause everyone else did anyway. And it was the last day, so even though they hated me, who would care? But it seems that Moroccans' respect depend on how much clothes you wear. The less clothes the less respect. Or perhaps it's just a case of the less clothes the more you look like a tourist and tourists cannot demand any respect whatsoever in a town that depends on tips and alms.
In the souks a little boy's hand on my shoulder. "Bonjour madame", he says and runs off. "Don't you think he was just pushing you to get past," boyfriend says. But it wasn't a push, it was a touch - not unpleasant, just curious and tender.

In the evening a fabulous restaurant with a view of the heaving square Jemaa el Fna, which has snake charmers and henna painters and juice-sellers. The snakes look more dead than alive, but who knows if they'll suddenly revive and I resist temptation to both see and touch. The restaurant is decorated traditionally Moroccan, with rose petals strewn on the table cloths and all over the toilets. Lanterns light up the room and at a certain point musicians enter the room, playing traditional music, while singing and dancing. Three people at the table next to ours motion to the dancing, singing man to come to their table and when he does they tip him generously. We want to tip them too because they are very good, but feel uncomfortable waving him over with a note, like he's a dog. He dances a few feet away from us, but clearly for us and clearly for a tip, but I refuse to sit around fat and satisfied, luring him over with the promise of money, whilst he dances for me like a monkey. We tip on departure.

In the taxi, on the way to the airport, we get hustled for the last time. "It's going to be 80 dirham", the taxi-driver says, "and then, because it's your last day and you've had a nice holiday, it'll be another 20, and so 100 dirhams." -"100?!" boyfriend says. "80 and then because it's so hot and the airport is far away, 100." By then we don't care anymore and pay him his 100 dirhams; a royal sum, especially considered that the airport is inly 5-10 minutes from the city centre.
posted by charlotte at 10:17 - comment

If you want a mule to keep walking, you must say "error". If you want the mule to stop, you say "schhhh".

On our first full day in the mountains, we decide to walk a couple of hours further up. There are no roads, only paths, some invisible to a city-dweller's eye. The paths mainly consist of rocks and rubble, which makes them difficult to walk on and hard on the knees and ankles. While we are resting in the shadow of a tree, a man and a mule cross the path. "Hey", our guide says, "do you want a mule? You can ride the mule if you want." So up on the animal I crawl and we plus mule-driver are joined by another party consisting of man, woman and mule, and an old man whose business is unknown to us, but he seems friendly. "Do I look scared?" I ask on the mule. Boyfriend laughs and takes yet another photo of Charlotte scaredy-cat, desperately clinging onto the Berber saddle which is not really a saddle, but three thick blankets on top of each other, with pockets for the feet and, well, nothing for the hands.
After about an hour's bumping up and down we reach the mysterious white rock, by which a sort of temple has been build. Legend has it that any man who spends a night sleeping next to the rock will have no sorrows left come morning. There is no entrance for non-muslims, but we catch a glimpse of the women who are in charge of the animal sacrifices. And so is religion and superstition intertwined.

I walk back down again, but am feeling kinda sick so the next day I rent yet another mule, to take me where we are going that day. This mule is not nearly as nice as the one the day before: this mule just wants to eat grass and sniff poo. Riding a mule is quite convenient in the mountains and a helluvalotof fun when you get used to it, but it is not the least bit comfortable. My bum is sore and my thighs are stiff and I've got bruises on my knees from trying to stay in the seat.
We are going to see a waterfall, off the beaten track. It is lovely and fresh and we lie around on big rocks, boyfriend building a dam, me sleeping.

When we get back I fall asleep and when I wake I feel really, really ill. Diarrhoea is one thing but I feel like passing out and subsequently stay in bed until we leave the mountain and live off only coca cola and water. And cherries, hand picked in the gardens below the village. Come morning I am so ready to leave, not just the mountains, but the entire fucking Morocco, so sick am I of being ill in a place that doesn't have toilets, only holes in the ground and therefore an over-production and over-emergence of flies. We walk down the mountain to be picked up in Imlil and driven to our next destination, me high on Imodium and travel sickness prevention pills.

Now I think of the mountains fondly - the people were incredibly kind and generous and the nature's beauty and simplicity was breath-taking - especially at dusk, on the roof of a house, in the quiet end of a day.
posted by charlotte at 11:13 - comment

"Oh", he said, "and we've got electricity. We've had that for about two years now."
I'm Imodium'ed up to my eyeballs and I'm climbing a mountain.

We left Marrakech in the morning and by the time we reach the village of Imlil, it's almost noon and fairly hot. A mule is send ahead with our backpacks, while we have a break and a coke and a smile. Our guide Brahim disappears and returns with a tooth-less and moustached guide cum goat-herd, who is waving money around. "Do you know these?" he asks. They are Scottish pound notes. "Do you think...maybe..." says Brahim. We exchange glances because we don't have much cash as it is, but succumb to our hearts' goodness and exchange the pounds for dirhams. The guide cum goat-herd leaves but quickly returns with a pretty silver bracelet. "Thank you", he says, "for the lady." We thank him profusely and he smiles and says: "Maybe later, you come to look in my shop."

The air in the mountains is fresh and the temperature much cooler than the frying hell-hole that is Marrakech. We are staying in the village of Arumdt, in a guesthouse run by Brahim's brother, situated in Brahim's brother's forecourt. We are the only visitors, which is a bit weird - it's very quiet. The only sounds are from the five daily prayer-calls, the cows and the kids.
The garden is full of herbs and vegetables - aubergines and corn and tomatoes - and every morning and every evening the cook picks leaves for tea directly from the garden; mint and camomile. The kids are a bit shy but polite and funny - especially the little one who loves the radio - he literally carries a big old battered ghetto-blaster in his arms all the time. Whenever we walk past the children in the village, they greet us with a "bonjour, monsieur" - maybe they don't know they exact meaning of "monsieur" or perhaps it is the trousers and the hat - the fact that I am actually "mademoiselle" does not seem to affect them at all.

In the day-time the women collect grass for winter-insulation, or wash clothes at the stream at the foot of the village. The men work as guides or hang out around the house, shooting the breeze with their (male) friends and family. The children imitate this division of life; the girls help their mothers, while the boys swim or sit around in groups mirroring their fathers.

The evenings are spend on the roof: this is quite common it seems, for people to meet up and hang out on top of their houses, whilst enjoying the incredibly beautiful sunset. Our host and a friend come to the roof to pray, discreetly and calmly, mumbling prayers facing Mecca, with the wind in their backs and their hats in their hands, framed by the orange colours of the setting sun.

posted by charlotte at 10:12 - comment

peterwrites - ehm, well - writes about the film Bl,.m which is a screen version of Ulysses. Somehow this worries me; Ulysses is not meant to be seen on the screen but in the head. It will be very difficult to do this text justice in any way shape or form. Attempts have been made but all have so far failed miserably, except perhaps David Suchet's portrayal of Bloom, which was really quite attractive. I see that Stephen Rea gives it a go this time, which is good - he is a great actor - but also a bit tiresome since Rea always - always - gets dragged out when someone needs an arty and Irish actor.

Oh, and I'm back from my holiday. But I'm completely knackered and there's Spellbound on TV in a minute, so I'll be back later.
posted by charlotte at 13:12 - comment