Wednesday, June 30, 2004
You know, when someone fancies you and you know it but you don't speak about it (and you don't fancy them back), it makes you feel all weird inside. You try to act normal - pretend that you don't know, that it doesn't matter and that you can take it as you imagine an adult would.
That's the feeling I've got at the moment, albeit not with a potential lover, but with a colleague. Who is really, really looking forward to working with me. Like really, really.
I want him to leave me alone. I want him to lower his expectations and be realistic about my workload and my competencies.
On a different level, this is all good, as there's more money in it. And it is "good for my CV". I just wish I wouldn't be doted upon - if I wanted a puppy I would get one. Of the canine kind.
That's the feeling I've got at the moment, albeit not with a potential lover, but with a colleague. Who is really, really looking forward to working with me. Like really, really.
I want him to leave me alone. I want him to lower his expectations and be realistic about my workload and my competencies.
On a different level, this is all good, as there's more money in it. And it is "good for my CV". I just wish I wouldn't be doted upon - if I wanted a puppy I would get one. Of the canine kind.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Once upon a time I had dinner in Jesus College, Oxford, under the painting of Lawrence of Arabia. Even though the students were dressed in a contemporary fashion, the oak-pannelled room told tales of academic greatness and quiet bookishness. I have no recollection of the food, or the conversation, but I still remember the sense of feeling very small and completely in awe.
Call it snobbism, if you will.
Many years ago I went to see Eton college. It was around the time of Dead Poets' Society and the chapel only lacked choral song and Robert Sean Leonard for me to want to jump up my desk and recite Whitman.
Got the same feeling in Cambridge the other day. So it's full of tourists wandering aimlessly around, but sneak a peek into the college courtyards and it's all quiet and beautiful.
Of course the spotty kids are all wearing oversize Korn t-shirts and baggy jeans, but consider this: one of them may become the Prime Minister one day.
Scary thought, innit?
Do I wish that my college had had the same atmosphere? Yes and no. Unfortunately I believe that an atmosphere like this can be retained thorugh a perpetual retainment of tradition and habit only and this I do not believe to be entirely good. My college was very liberated, quite arty and open, always, to new influences. And at the end of the day, this is what I would always chose, even over oak-pannelled rooms, the gorgeous pronunciation of Magdalen and world domination.
Call it snobbism, if you will.
Many years ago I went to see Eton college. It was around the time of Dead Poets' Society and the chapel only lacked choral song and Robert Sean Leonard for me to want to jump up my desk and recite Whitman.
Got the same feeling in Cambridge the other day. So it's full of tourists wandering aimlessly around, but sneak a peek into the college courtyards and it's all quiet and beautiful.
Of course the spotty kids are all wearing oversize Korn t-shirts and baggy jeans, but consider this: one of them may become the Prime Minister one day.
Scary thought, innit?
Do I wish that my college had had the same atmosphere? Yes and no. Unfortunately I believe that an atmosphere like this can be retained thorugh a perpetual retainment of tradition and habit only and this I do not believe to be entirely good. My college was very liberated, quite arty and open, always, to new influences. And at the end of the day, this is what I would always chose, even over oak-pannelled rooms, the gorgeous pronunciation of Magdalen and world domination.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Next stop Cambridge.
I am going to my first wedding which, considering that I am an otherwise experience thirty-something, is quite surprising (that it's my first, I mean).
Have booked myself into a hotel, with spa, and shall therefore pamper myself into oblivion.
Have been breaking in silver t-bar sandals for a couple of days now.
I am going to my first wedding which, considering that I am an otherwise experience thirty-something, is quite surprising (that it's my first, I mean).
Have booked myself into a hotel, with spa, and shall therefore pamper myself into oblivion.
Have been breaking in silver t-bar sandals for a couple of days now.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Post-Sheffield:
City of full monties, industrial industry, congestion, one-way streets, rain, helpless cab-drivers and friendly people.
Cute boys will inevitably be from London.
Natives speak very fast.
Local TV is boring.
I am a room service whore.
Glad to be back.
City of full monties, industrial industry, congestion, one-way streets, rain, helpless cab-drivers and friendly people.
Cute boys will inevitably be from London.
Natives speak very fast.
Local TV is boring.
I am a room service whore.
Glad to be back.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Off to Sheffield tomorrow - city of full monties and industrial, er, industry.
The joy.
Am also feeling decidedly under the weather.
Starting to suspect a conspiracy.
The joy.
Am also feeling decidedly under the weather.
Starting to suspect a conspiracy.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Cooking as art?
Being pelted with coriander leaves whilst enjoying jazz music is not the worst thing that could happen. Patatboem is an event that presents cooking as easy and fun, different kinds of music (otherwise perhaps considered an aquired taste) as accessible and turns mundane kitchen sounds into fulfilled and fulfilling musical rhythms.
At the beginning of the show drinks are served (knowledgeable people claimed this to be green tea with mint and coriander seeds - I have no idea, but it was nice and very green) - towards the end of the show food is served, including a divine pudding of cucumber, avocado, lemon and 'something else'.
During there is a woman singing into a celeriac and a man playing a cucmber and it is fun and decidedly different to watching a surly Gordon Ramsay swear and make everything look difficult and thereby putting people off venturing into the kitchen ever.
Belgians do rule.
(Speaking of Belgians, I have been invited to celebrate Flemish Day at the National Gallery, something with drinks and ambassadors and lounge suits...will it be all Brussel sprouts and Hoegarden or will there also be Ann Demeulemeester and dEUS?)
Being pelted with coriander leaves whilst enjoying jazz music is not the worst thing that could happen. Patatboem is an event that presents cooking as easy and fun, different kinds of music (otherwise perhaps considered an aquired taste) as accessible and turns mundane kitchen sounds into fulfilled and fulfilling musical rhythms.
At the beginning of the show drinks are served (knowledgeable people claimed this to be green tea with mint and coriander seeds - I have no idea, but it was nice and very green) - towards the end of the show food is served, including a divine pudding of cucumber, avocado, lemon and 'something else'.
During there is a woman singing into a celeriac and a man playing a cucmber and it is fun and decidedly different to watching a surly Gordon Ramsay swear and make everything look difficult and thereby putting people off venturing into the kitchen ever.
Belgians do rule.
(Speaking of Belgians, I have been invited to celebrate Flemish Day at the National Gallery, something with drinks and ambassadors and lounge suits...will it be all Brussel sprouts and Hoegarden or will there also be Ann Demeulemeester and dEUS?)
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Happy Bloomsday!
If I were in Dublin I would...
Attend the 19th International James Joyce Symposium (and definitely the Paddy Dignam Wake)
Go to the Dublin Writers Museum
Revisit the most gorgeous building in the world; the Trinity College Library (and marvel over the Book of Kells - again)
Trawl up and down Temple Bar
Hang out on St. Stephen's Green
Go to Dun Laoghaire and visit Martello Tower and get my feet wet in the bay
Get tickets for the Abbey, no matter what is playing
Have breakfast with Dubliners - I might even be able to drown a bit of Guinness with the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
However, I won't be in Dublin; I'm stuck in the hell-hole that is soaring hot London, imploding with exhaustion of hayfever and work. Pity me.
But I'm glad to see that also Google has embraced Bloomsday!
If I were in Dublin I would...
Attend the 19th International James Joyce Symposium (and definitely the Paddy Dignam Wake)
Go to the Dublin Writers Museum
Revisit the most gorgeous building in the world; the Trinity College Library (and marvel over the Book of Kells - again)
Trawl up and down Temple Bar
Hang out on St. Stephen's Green
Go to Dun Laoghaire and visit Martello Tower and get my feet wet in the bay
Get tickets for the Abbey, no matter what is playing
Have breakfast with Dubliners - I might even be able to drown a bit of Guinness with the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
However, I won't be in Dublin; I'm stuck in the hell-hole that is soaring hot London, imploding with exhaustion of hayfever and work. Pity me.
But I'm glad to see that also Google has embraced Bloomsday!
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
I was never that keen on Nick Broomfield. His quest to find conspiracies and evil takes him on a trip around Americas underbelly - poor man's Oliver Stone, one might add. Sometimes looking for subject where there aren't any, often making the oeuvre seemed forced, he is difficult to take seriously. In Biggie & Tupac, for example, the film-maker is clearly terrified of a massive, imprisoned Suge Knight, which is quite amusing, but not particularly useful. The entire film actually reminded me of the Louis Theroux Weird Weekend episode Gangsta Rap, only the latter did it for laughs (I hope!).
However, watching Aileen - Life & Death of a Serial Killer, what really did it for me was the line: 'At nine she was exchanging blow-jobs for cigarettes.' Banal into the extreme, I still got completely drawn into this story and the sympathetic treatment; not questioning if she did it or not (she did), but questioning whether or not she should die (she shouldn't), if, at the end, she was mad (she was) and which kind of society allows a girl to grow up the way she did (not questions answered). Broomfield is completely engaged with his subject, in an honest way, and I think this is why this film works much better than others.
Go find out about Aileen - it is a sorry story, but a fascinating one - and hope that it doesn't repeat itself (but I'm sure it does).
However, watching Aileen - Life & Death of a Serial Killer, what really did it for me was the line: 'At nine she was exchanging blow-jobs for cigarettes.' Banal into the extreme, I still got completely drawn into this story and the sympathetic treatment; not questioning if she did it or not (she did), but questioning whether or not she should die (she shouldn't), if, at the end, she was mad (she was) and which kind of society allows a girl to grow up the way she did (not questions answered). Broomfield is completely engaged with his subject, in an honest way, and I think this is why this film works much better than others.
Go find out about Aileen - it is a sorry story, but a fascinating one - and hope that it doesn't repeat itself (but I'm sure it does).
Sunday, June 13, 2004
I won't be wearing a veil.
Nor will I be wearing a huge meringue-like dress in 'silk-duchesse' (I have no idea what duchesse is), with boned corsage, puffy sleeves a la Krystel Carrington, generously strewn with rhinestones/pearls/beads/whatever.
I won't write my own promises to my future husband.
Nor will I promise whatever it is I promise in from of God and Mankind -only Mankind.
I won't be releasing 5 white doves to the sky at the end of the ceremony (one for each year we've known each other).
I won't have photos of me and my groom and a pond in the countryside (swan optional).
I won't have a photo of me, cheekily revealing a blue garter to my betrothed, promising kinky things to come.
I won't have a blue garter.
I will, however, and kind of am already, get excited about getting married.
Nor will I be wearing a huge meringue-like dress in 'silk-duchesse' (I have no idea what duchesse is), with boned corsage, puffy sleeves a la Krystel Carrington, generously strewn with rhinestones/pearls/beads/whatever.
I won't write my own promises to my future husband.
Nor will I promise whatever it is I promise in from of God and Mankind -only Mankind.
I won't be releasing 5 white doves to the sky at the end of the ceremony (one for each year we've known each other).
I won't have photos of me and my groom and a pond in the countryside (swan optional).
I won't have a photo of me, cheekily revealing a blue garter to my betrothed, promising kinky things to come.
I won't have a blue garter.
I will, however, and kind of am already, get excited about getting married.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Have you all been a-voting?
Well done.
All this wedding venue seaching with added hayfever attacks have left me a) in despair b) a well moody cow c) a bit whiney and d) knackered.
Updating will commence when a) we've found a venue b) I've reached a zen-like state of mind c)there is no more grass in the, like, world or d) when I've had time to sleep properly.
Well done.
All this wedding venue seaching with added hayfever attacks have left me a) in despair b) a well moody cow c) a bit whiney and d) knackered.
Updating will commence when a) we've found a venue b) I've reached a zen-like state of mind c)there is no more grass in the, like, world or d) when I've had time to sleep properly.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Hello? Hello? I'm sorry? What's that? Hello? I can't really hear...?
Death to the Pixies.
Indeed.
(As I'm getting slightly on, agewise, and because of a freak amateur gig incident in New Cross, my hearing is not what it used to be. So my sensible other half brought me ear-plugs for last night's gig. However, going to a concert with a fat, bald man who screams as if his life depends on it, wearing earplugs, somehow defies the entire notion of The Pixies. So out they went and in came the sound and it was gorgeous. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And if you can catch them, wherever you are in the world they are playing, you must do so.)
Death to the Pixies.
Indeed.
(As I'm getting slightly on, agewise, and because of a freak amateur gig incident in New Cross, my hearing is not what it used to be. So my sensible other half brought me ear-plugs for last night's gig. However, going to a concert with a fat, bald man who screams as if his life depends on it, wearing earplugs, somehow defies the entire notion of The Pixies. So out they went and in came the sound and it was gorgeous. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And if you can catch them, wherever you are in the world they are playing, you must do so.)
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