Irate 67
HS and I went for a late lunch in Cafe 67. We popped in later than the usual lunch rush hoping that it would be quiet with plenty of room.
HS had so wanted one of their egg mayonaise sandwiches (this is a strange food love of hers) I think she could eat egg mayo every day for a year and not be bored - much like her rocket fixation (as in I'll have extra rocket on my pizza, pasta, salad - she's also trying to grow it in her window boxes). But anyway I digress.
So it was packed (always happens when you go with a plan). We sat at the empty table in the middle of the cafe surrounded by a plethera of Finsbury Park people.
Two raggamuffin style boys were ordering cake at the counter. Then a table of police officers - one had a beige mac (a la Columbo), one had a pencil mustache (always a suspect style - I mean its very anal to shave just the top half of your lip every morning just so you have that sort of black outline thing going on) and one must have been ginger in his youth and was dying his hair to resemble that colour (and boy can dyed hair look weird). A couple of straggly haired school teachers in flared skirts and cardigans (then again they could've been librarians, although there isn't a library in the vacinity). A random hippy, wearing a straw hat with a long rainbow effect ribbon tied round it - he was sitting with some women who were rather non-descript next to him. Then the Greek Soprano businessmen (see previous post for description) who were having a total strop at the cafe owner, I've been here over half an hour and all I've got it this lousy glass of water (glass slammed on the table, half the water slops out - all you've got now is half a lousy glass of water).
And the waitress was wearing a tee-shirt with a slogan that said: I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I was interested - I'm not.
The cafe owner turned 40 the day before and probably was hung over, being abused by the Greek Sopranos, trying to placate them by providing cigars. Two lovers came in shortly after we did and sat at a table directly in my line of vision - they couldn't keep their hands off each other and ended up sitting arms interlocked, she kept running a loving hand down his sideburn with their noses not further than 7cms apart (not that this is a bad thing - I just sometimes feel there is a time and place for everything and while ordinarily I would say restuarants are usually not too bad a place for this type of behaviour, lunchtime is definitely not the time).
So, unusually it was a great relief to retreat to the peace and tranquility of the office.
Thursday, 9 October 2003
How to Cope With a Cold
Don't do any of the following (they will make you feel worse): go to meetings where you have to do the majority of the talking, do activities that require you to stand around outside a lot, visit smoky pubs after work for a quick drink, drink two leathal cocktails (very pissed and coldy), suck over the recommended dosage of throat lozenges (dizzy, sick and coldy).
- Wake up slowly in the morning, making sure you give yourself plenty of time to raise your head from the pillow (any sudden action will result in you feeling suddenly and violently dizzy or sick.
- Take a cold and flu remedy of some sort, or paracetemol. Drink hot lemon and honey. Take echanacea and vitamin C. You will feel totally drugged up in various ways (natural and chemical).
- If, like me, you loath to take time off work for a cold (I once went over my allocated sick days in a rolling year and was threatened with occupational health visit - which I decided meant that I would never be able to take a day sick for a cold again otherwise what kind of wasted visit was that - hour trip into Harley Street, sit talking to the doctor, do you like your work, are you motivated, are you fit for work? and then sent back with a letter proclaiming your fitness) you must struggle in but make sure you load yourself with tissues, rememdies and cough sweets (I like cherry soothers best until the sharp shell starts cutting my tongue - hate the taste of blood with cough sweet).
- Make sure the person who gave it to you is fully aware of what they have done to you (at this time of year, seeing as how we spend so much time with them, it invariably is a colleague who has bestowed their germs on you - tell them this fact).
- Eat a cooked lunch if possible. Drink hot chocolate with it. Or peppermint tea. Or more lemon and honey.
- Wear a scarf if you are cold. Try not to be cold.
- Wash up only your own cup - don't transfer the germs onto other people's crockery.
- Go home early and wrap up in the duvet watching TV (this is about the only time when I can stand to watch it for hours and hours on end).
Don't do any of the following (they will make you feel worse): go to meetings where you have to do the majority of the talking, do activities that require you to stand around outside a lot, visit smoky pubs after work for a quick drink, drink two leathal cocktails (very pissed and coldy), suck over the recommended dosage of throat lozenges (dizzy, sick and coldy).
National Poetry Day
196.
We're in love
So much
That we hold hands over the gear shift
While talking excitedly
And gaze intently into each other's eyes
When the traffic stops
I glance into a passing car
A woman is holding a man's hand
In her lap, his hand cupped in both of hers
As they drive along.
He is laughing, twinkling at her
I remember this feeling
And it makes me smile
Ahh love.
196.
We're in love
So much
That we hold hands over the gear shift
While talking excitedly
And gaze intently into each other's eyes
When the traffic stops
I glance into a passing car
A woman is holding a man's hand
In her lap, his hand cupped in both of hers
As they drive along.
He is laughing, twinkling at her
I remember this feeling
And it makes me smile
Ahh love.
Tuesday, 7 October 2003
Blane Box Watch
So its a conspiricy. I know this becuase when HS and I were in S&M in Islington Green (nee Alfredo's) a family group - mum & dad and blond daughter and her boyfriend/husband (twitchy bloke, found it hard to sit still and kept looking around the cafe, smoking, talking loudly at great speed, fetching his own dinner off the counter, sending it back cos it wasn't warm enough, etc etc) were talking about it. Her ol' dad said that he's not really in there. His theory is that there is a body double who does half the time - so blane and this body double share the stints of lying in the box. He didn't go into much detail as to how and when they switched over but its a reasonable conspiracy theory. Better than those ones that involve mirrors and trapdoors (or maybe thats how he gets in and out).
So its a conspiricy. I know this becuase when HS and I were in S&M in Islington Green (nee Alfredo's) a family group - mum & dad and blond daughter and her boyfriend/husband (twitchy bloke, found it hard to sit still and kept looking around the cafe, smoking, talking loudly at great speed, fetching his own dinner off the counter, sending it back cos it wasn't warm enough, etc etc) were talking about it. Her ol' dad said that he's not really in there. His theory is that there is a body double who does half the time - so blane and this body double share the stints of lying in the box. He didn't go into much detail as to how and when they switched over but its a reasonable conspiracy theory. Better than those ones that involve mirrors and trapdoors (or maybe thats how he gets in and out).
Time for Change
Having spent a day with my oldest friend (best friend from school - long history, lots to talk about since we rarely see each other) - I went into Liberties and blew near on £80 on perfume (what was I doing!?!?!). I've been quite, no, very traumatised because the Body Shop has stopped making the perfume oil that I have worn solidly since I was 17 (thats 16 whole years - nearly half my life) - tea rose oil.
They did this to me once before when they stopped making the colours of eye shadow that I had worn for 5 years - and when I wailingly told the shop girl this fact she said, "well its time for a change then isn't it?" at which I could have swished my tail at her and cut her feet off but instead I went out on a mission to replace it with something better so I never had to darken their makeup counter again (and I have to say I succeeded very nicely).
But the perfume was different. This scent has become synonymous with me. It is what I smell of. People in the street comment on it. Even when they don't know that it is actually my perfume ("can you smell roses?"). Added to this is the fact that I didn't actually like many blended perfumes - the tea rose oil was very pure, one scent, defined.
So began the hunt for something to replace my fragrance. I searched on the internet and found a scent called Tea Rose. I thought about buying from the net but what if I didn't like it? I found a Rose Neroli at L'Occitane - nice scent. It was growing on me. It passed just about.
So after spending the day with my oldest friend I had some time to spare between that and meeting the evening crowd. I was wandering aimlessly really, in and out of shops, looking at scarves in Liberties (good time of year for a new scarf) and then found myself in their perfumery. They had the scent called Tea Rose - but it was sharp, I can't stand perfumes that drive up your nostrils and stab the back of your nose.
And this is how I discovered Rose of Mai and Vivienne Westwood's Boudoir. Much humming and haaa-ing, help from the matron of perfumery and her young male assistant (and what about this madam, or this...). So I came away with them, and a sample of Stella McCartney's new perfume. And felt like I'd had a good day of shopping. Trying to forget the implication that from now on it will cost me money to smell nice.
Having spent a day with my oldest friend (best friend from school - long history, lots to talk about since we rarely see each other) - I went into Liberties and blew near on £80 on perfume (what was I doing!?!?!). I've been quite, no, very traumatised because the Body Shop has stopped making the perfume oil that I have worn solidly since I was 17 (thats 16 whole years - nearly half my life) - tea rose oil.
They did this to me once before when they stopped making the colours of eye shadow that I had worn for 5 years - and when I wailingly told the shop girl this fact she said, "well its time for a change then isn't it?" at which I could have swished my tail at her and cut her feet off but instead I went out on a mission to replace it with something better so I never had to darken their makeup counter again (and I have to say I succeeded very nicely).
But the perfume was different. This scent has become synonymous with me. It is what I smell of. People in the street comment on it. Even when they don't know that it is actually my perfume ("can you smell roses?"). Added to this is the fact that I didn't actually like many blended perfumes - the tea rose oil was very pure, one scent, defined.
So began the hunt for something to replace my fragrance. I searched on the internet and found a scent called Tea Rose. I thought about buying from the net but what if I didn't like it? I found a Rose Neroli at L'Occitane - nice scent. It was growing on me. It passed just about.
So after spending the day with my oldest friend I had some time to spare between that and meeting the evening crowd. I was wandering aimlessly really, in and out of shops, looking at scarves in Liberties (good time of year for a new scarf) and then found myself in their perfumery. They had the scent called Tea Rose - but it was sharp, I can't stand perfumes that drive up your nostrils and stab the back of your nose.
And this is how I discovered Rose of Mai and Vivienne Westwood's Boudoir. Much humming and haaa-ing, help from the matron of perfumery and her young male assistant (and what about this madam, or this...). So I came away with them, and a sample of Stella McCartney's new perfume. And felt like I'd had a good day of shopping. Trying to forget the implication that from now on it will cost me money to smell nice.
Monday, 6 October 2003
Blogger's Block
Didn't feel much like blogging this weekend. Not for any particular reason apart from the fact that I had this falling out with Bails that has overshadowed my thinking and that I am concerned that its falling short of my original intentions. In the beginning, when you are not sure of the audience, it feels like you are blogging for yourself and people who you know that may be reading - so you spin a funny tale because that's the way I am (confused grammar I know). And then you discover that the people that you know aren't reading and I've got to a sort of stalemate. I'm kind of proud of what I've done and hope I've entertained people but feel perhaps that life has become less interesting. Or perhaps thats just recently.
I've never had a friend get so mad with me that they turn off the phone and not turn it back on for two days. It wasn't even a roudy row with massive differnces in opinion or anything. It was a lot of fuss about nothing, really. God I hate phonewars (is this a second drawback of mobiles - after level of voice when speaking on them). Sigh.
Didn't feel much like blogging this weekend. Not for any particular reason apart from the fact that I had this falling out with Bails that has overshadowed my thinking and that I am concerned that its falling short of my original intentions. In the beginning, when you are not sure of the audience, it feels like you are blogging for yourself and people who you know that may be reading - so you spin a funny tale because that's the way I am (confused grammar I know). And then you discover that the people that you know aren't reading and I've got to a sort of stalemate. I'm kind of proud of what I've done and hope I've entertained people but feel perhaps that life has become less interesting. Or perhaps thats just recently.
I've never had a friend get so mad with me that they turn off the phone and not turn it back on for two days. It wasn't even a roudy row with massive differnces in opinion or anything. It was a lot of fuss about nothing, really. God I hate phonewars (is this a second drawback of mobiles - after level of voice when speaking on them). Sigh.
Friday, 3 October 2003
Mr Bean Goes to an Interview
We interviewed a candidate today who was a cross between Mr Bean and David Attenborough (easy on the Attenborough - heavy on the Bean).
He arrived from the test (this was testing their ability to extract data from a number of sources - one woman sat the test and then ran from the building before the interview) with his flip chart presentation and talked though what he had done as if it was an actual presentation to the board (this is what our contract says, this is what we will have to do). He was wearing a brown suit that could have belonged to his dad - right fabric, right style, wide brown necktie. He professed to having never left a job before - always the company has either gone bust or his contract has finished and so wasn't sure of the protocol in telling the boss whether you are going to an interview beforehand or not. He had the temperament of a 15 year old techie who has spent rather too much time with Lara Croft and his programming pals. His answers to questions were like long shaggy dog stories where he would go off on a tangent of interest and totally off the point.
He had obviously spent too much time in male dominated environments where women were only ever secretaries. He kept talking about his boss (as in: I would expect to be told off by my boss if I did...). He had done some work with the production line to produce an efficiency calculating programme (for fun as an additional task) which involved him working with their manager who although wasn't on the production line himself was always covered in grease.
He twitched. In both eyes - probably nerves.
I think he made those kinds of jokes that techies do where they are deadpan but you end up laughing with them (and then realise that perhaps you are laughing at them by accident).
So in the end when asking questions to the panel and having clarified the nature of the job he started to realise that my boss would be his boss (a young blond woman, who happened that day to be wearing a just over the knee high skirt) - You're the boss? You'd be my boss (eyes light up), my current boss is 59 and a bit y'know humph. Where are you from? (she's got a Scottish accent) Where's that East or West coast? I think it dawned on him then that perhaps he shouldn't have assumed that the only bloke on the panel was the boss.
Me thinks he hasn't been for many interviews. My advice would be, when in an interview try not to leer at any of the panel members who may be your possbile future line manager.
And in a very unprofessional few moments after the interview the interviewing panel creased into uncontrollable hysterics.
We interviewed a candidate today who was a cross between Mr Bean and David Attenborough (easy on the Attenborough - heavy on the Bean).
He arrived from the test (this was testing their ability to extract data from a number of sources - one woman sat the test and then ran from the building before the interview) with his flip chart presentation and talked though what he had done as if it was an actual presentation to the board (this is what our contract says, this is what we will have to do). He was wearing a brown suit that could have belonged to his dad - right fabric, right style, wide brown necktie. He professed to having never left a job before - always the company has either gone bust or his contract has finished and so wasn't sure of the protocol in telling the boss whether you are going to an interview beforehand or not. He had the temperament of a 15 year old techie who has spent rather too much time with Lara Croft and his programming pals. His answers to questions were like long shaggy dog stories where he would go off on a tangent of interest and totally off the point.
He had obviously spent too much time in male dominated environments where women were only ever secretaries. He kept talking about his boss (as in: I would expect to be told off by my boss if I did...). He had done some work with the production line to produce an efficiency calculating programme (for fun as an additional task) which involved him working with their manager who although wasn't on the production line himself was always covered in grease.
He twitched. In both eyes - probably nerves.
I think he made those kinds of jokes that techies do where they are deadpan but you end up laughing with them (and then realise that perhaps you are laughing at them by accident).
So in the end when asking questions to the panel and having clarified the nature of the job he started to realise that my boss would be his boss (a young blond woman, who happened that day to be wearing a just over the knee high skirt) - You're the boss? You'd be my boss (eyes light up), my current boss is 59 and a bit y'know humph. Where are you from? (she's got a Scottish accent) Where's that East or West coast? I think it dawned on him then that perhaps he shouldn't have assumed that the only bloke on the panel was the boss.
Me thinks he hasn't been for many interviews. My advice would be, when in an interview try not to leer at any of the panel members who may be your possbile future line manager.
And in a very unprofessional few moments after the interview the interviewing panel creased into uncontrollable hysterics.
Thursday, 2 October 2003
On a Clear Day You can See Forever
From my office window I can see some squirrels that live in the attic of a house - they are playing and skipping across the tiles. I keep wondering if the people who live there are constantly irritated by scratching on the roof. I can also see Ally Pally now that the rain has cleared. And in the far distance on the horizon I think its Highgate.
Its been a bad week. And a particularly bad day. I have these balls and I'm getting fantastically good at juggling and keeping them all in the air at the same time. One of them is an additional 0.6 job with its own little balls around it. Some of the balls are only kept in the air by dependence on others (partners, other individuals, other agencies etc). The funder caused me to drop several balls this week (balls that I've been juggling successfully since April the product of which should be coming to fruition during the coming term). And then one of the partners today dropped a anvil on my toe and I just chucked all the remaining balls down so I could hop around holding my toe. The sad thing is that when a ball hits the ground it stops being a juggling ball and turns into a ball and chain. So I look around at my tasks. And I don't want to pick any of them up cos they are so damn heavy.
Outside the sun is going down and is causing the hazy sky to turn pink starting at the horizon (over by Highgate) and working its way gradually upwards. I love the light at dusk. I love working on the third floor so I can see over the rooftops.
My favourite London rooftops are on the train journey from Waterloo East to London Bridge - all those ones through Borough - very ye olde London, tight knots of streets and balconies high up and ramshackle arrangement of old buildings. Old signalman shacks on the railway. The railway is over street rather than low down and sometimes you get those old trains with the doors that you open by putting the window down and leaning out - which all adds to the ye olde ambiance.
From my office window I can see some squirrels that live in the attic of a house - they are playing and skipping across the tiles. I keep wondering if the people who live there are constantly irritated by scratching on the roof. I can also see Ally Pally now that the rain has cleared. And in the far distance on the horizon I think its Highgate.
Its been a bad week. And a particularly bad day. I have these balls and I'm getting fantastically good at juggling and keeping them all in the air at the same time. One of them is an additional 0.6 job with its own little balls around it. Some of the balls are only kept in the air by dependence on others (partners, other individuals, other agencies etc). The funder caused me to drop several balls this week (balls that I've been juggling successfully since April the product of which should be coming to fruition during the coming term). And then one of the partners today dropped a anvil on my toe and I just chucked all the remaining balls down so I could hop around holding my toe. The sad thing is that when a ball hits the ground it stops being a juggling ball and turns into a ball and chain. So I look around at my tasks. And I don't want to pick any of them up cos they are so damn heavy.
Outside the sun is going down and is causing the hazy sky to turn pink starting at the horizon (over by Highgate) and working its way gradually upwards. I love the light at dusk. I love working on the third floor so I can see over the rooftops.
My favourite London rooftops are on the train journey from Waterloo East to London Bridge - all those ones through Borough - very ye olde London, tight knots of streets and balconies high up and ramshackle arrangement of old buildings. Old signalman shacks on the railway. The railway is over street rather than low down and sometimes you get those old trains with the doors that you open by putting the window down and leaning out - which all adds to the ye olde ambiance.
Wednesday, 1 October 2003
On Parking
So he was driving around looking for a free car parking space. Luckily he found one (not as close as he would have liked but he was early so could afford the time to walk from there to work), parked (carefully - new car newly passed his test). Threw his rucksack on his back and hiked over to the school. So it was a busy day, session was full of kids, everyone was pulling him this way and that, do this, do that (or perhaps he was very unobservant) whatever, when he came out of school he walked off to get the car, and go home. But although he knew which street he parked in he couldn't remember where it was. He so couldn't remember where it was he rang his boss to help him find it, "I'v lost me motor". This is why the boyfiend was late to meet me - he had to help MEE find his car.
I'm making no judgement...well maybe just a little one - he's a freak! It wasn't like it was in a massive carpark with coded zones or anything, it wasn't a multistory where every level looks identical and you'd think you were in a looped piece of video (enter the lift come out, enter again come out) and it was actually the same floor every time. It wasn't like he hasn't worked in the area for ooo must be 4 years now. Fantastic!
So he was driving around looking for a free car parking space. Luckily he found one (not as close as he would have liked but he was early so could afford the time to walk from there to work), parked (carefully - new car newly passed his test). Threw his rucksack on his back and hiked over to the school. So it was a busy day, session was full of kids, everyone was pulling him this way and that, do this, do that (or perhaps he was very unobservant) whatever, when he came out of school he walked off to get the car, and go home. But although he knew which street he parked in he couldn't remember where it was. He so couldn't remember where it was he rang his boss to help him find it, "I'v lost me motor". This is why the boyfiend was late to meet me - he had to help MEE find his car.
I'm making no judgement...well maybe just a little one - he's a freak! It wasn't like it was in a massive carpark with coded zones or anything, it wasn't a multistory where every level looks identical and you'd think you were in a looped piece of video (enter the lift come out, enter again come out) and it was actually the same floor every time. It wasn't like he hasn't worked in the area for ooo must be 4 years now. Fantastic!
Tuesday, 30 September 2003
In the Belief that when you are Inside you are Hidden from View
I was sitting on the bus on the way back to the office after being at the British Library Conference Centre all day, looking out at the traffic crawling along past St Pancras and Kings Cross - held up in dusty queues all along the Euston Road because of the channel tunnel link roadworks. We passed a maroon black cab (you know what I mean) and inside was a businessman, sitting with his beige leather briefcase on his knees, picking his nose and eating it. Why do we forget that just because we are inside our cars we can't be seen? Or is it just that when we are in them we get into a comfort zone and forget we are actually still publicly visible?
Bogies have been a bit of a theme the last couple of days - Bails and I were having a discussion about them because I had seen a man in a pub have a good root around and then roll it up in a ball and flick it off his finger (vom..) and GS had a boyfriend once who had a collection of them on the window sill - he would stand and pick them looking out of the window and kept them in a line in a place no one would have thought to look for them. Loverly (sorry, bit of a gross out today).
I was sitting on the bus on the way back to the office after being at the British Library Conference Centre all day, looking out at the traffic crawling along past St Pancras and Kings Cross - held up in dusty queues all along the Euston Road because of the channel tunnel link roadworks. We passed a maroon black cab (you know what I mean) and inside was a businessman, sitting with his beige leather briefcase on his knees, picking his nose and eating it. Why do we forget that just because we are inside our cars we can't be seen? Or is it just that when we are in them we get into a comfort zone and forget we are actually still publicly visible?
Bogies have been a bit of a theme the last couple of days - Bails and I were having a discussion about them because I had seen a man in a pub have a good root around and then roll it up in a ball and flick it off his finger (vom..) and GS had a boyfriend once who had a collection of them on the window sill - he would stand and pick them looking out of the window and kept them in a line in a place no one would have thought to look for them. Loverly (sorry, bit of a gross out today).
Monday's Life Class
So we had a ninja life model today - he could hold a pose with outstretched arms for 15 minutes (and this is truely something to behold). We had a debate about which martial art he studied (and he really looked like he studied something - in the serious sense of the expression). He was slim, musculed and got ready for a pose as if he was preparing for a fight. He was like a bronze statue - skin that had patina. I half expected him to run off the wall and walk on the ceiling (a la crouching tiger, hidden dragon).
Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.
So we had a ninja life model today - he could hold a pose with outstretched arms for 15 minutes (and this is truely something to behold). We had a debate about which martial art he studied (and he really looked like he studied something - in the serious sense of the expression). He was slim, musculed and got ready for a pose as if he was preparing for a fight. He was like a bronze statue - skin that had patina. I half expected him to run off the wall and walk on the ceiling (a la crouching tiger, hidden dragon).
Candid Arts Trust: open access sessions and more formal taught courses in both life drawing and painting. Behind Angel tube, Islington - first left down City Road. Contact: The Candid Arts Trust, 3 Torrens Street, London EC1V 1NQ, Tel: 020 7837 4237.
Sunday, 28 September 2003
Txting
I have stolen the fastest txt messenger of North London award away from M. He had been awarded it by his friends. When we started txting he was very impressed by the speed of my replies (this fills me with a sense of pride - I like to be good at things). I owe it largely to my two-thumbed technique (it has been attracting some attention from the art class cohort recently). Most other txters I have now asked are one-thumbers. I think I use two thumbs because I am a touch typist and the habit sticks with you.
Anyway I have been taught how to master the predictive-text thing by bails recently (never could be bothered to get to grips with it before - preferring to resort to home made and recognised shortenings, shortcuts and code - but she was scoffing at me the other day triple clicking through the letters to txt a message to M, so I let her show me how it works). I'm still not particularly enamored with it but did have a great half hour while I taught it how to swear and then slung insults at bails with the new vocabulary - it comes with a limited knowledge and you have to spell out anything it doesn't know which is then saved in its memory for next time. So all those useful things like damn, shit, piss, muthafucker, ho, cunt are now at my beck and call if I should wish to use them. I have been practicing with it and I don't actually find it quicker because although you only have to click the letter once there are, of course, numerous other words that can be made from the same clicks (I find this quite fascinating - could I use this other word that it has suggested in my sentence or would it be totally out of context?) and this slows me down.
So I have been compiling a list of words that I typed and all the alternatives that go with them:
copy / cosy
least / leapt
of / me
cakes / baker / bales
able / cake / bald / calf / bake / bale / cale
well / yell
note / move / mote
room / soon
dont / foot / font
autumn / button
sun / run / sum / rum / pun
took / tool
plan / slam
plant / slant
rain / pain
take / tale / vale
sale / pale / sake / rake
neck / meal
real / peak / seal / peck / reck / peal
doll / folk
she / rid / pie / rif
I think it could be a new way of encoding secrets or a really hard Countdown game. But in the meantime it is losing me my north london title.
I have stolen the fastest txt messenger of North London award away from M. He had been awarded it by his friends. When we started txting he was very impressed by the speed of my replies (this fills me with a sense of pride - I like to be good at things). I owe it largely to my two-thumbed technique (it has been attracting some attention from the art class cohort recently). Most other txters I have now asked are one-thumbers. I think I use two thumbs because I am a touch typist and the habit sticks with you.
Anyway I have been taught how to master the predictive-text thing by bails recently (never could be bothered to get to grips with it before - preferring to resort to home made and recognised shortenings, shortcuts and code - but she was scoffing at me the other day triple clicking through the letters to txt a message to M, so I let her show me how it works). I'm still not particularly enamored with it but did have a great half hour while I taught it how to swear and then slung insults at bails with the new vocabulary - it comes with a limited knowledge and you have to spell out anything it doesn't know which is then saved in its memory for next time. So all those useful things like damn, shit, piss, muthafucker, ho, cunt are now at my beck and call if I should wish to use them. I have been practicing with it and I don't actually find it quicker because although you only have to click the letter once there are, of course, numerous other words that can be made from the same clicks (I find this quite fascinating - could I use this other word that it has suggested in my sentence or would it be totally out of context?) and this slows me down.
So I have been compiling a list of words that I typed and all the alternatives that go with them:
copy / cosy
least / leapt
of / me
cakes / baker / bales
able / cake / bald / calf / bake / bale / cale
well / yell
note / move / mote
room / soon
dont / foot / font
autumn / button
sun / run / sum / rum / pun
took / tool
plan / slam
plant / slant
rain / pain
take / tale / vale
sale / pale / sake / rake
neck / meal
real / peak / seal / peck / reck / peal
doll / folk
she / rid / pie / rif
I think it could be a new way of encoding secrets or a really hard Countdown game. But in the meantime it is losing me my north london title.
Blane Box Watch
So the dullest spectacle in London continues. Policing is gonna cost him an arm and a leg and sadly they keep cleaning the box. There were some youf with eggs standing around on the hump outside the cordoned area, one of whom managed to get some albumen on a kid's tracksuit leg at which his dad had a fit (you get that off his leg NOW or I'll knock your block off type rage). Security came over to quiet it all down when the womenfolk couldn't manage it (reckon they were fairly used to it - they seemed to know the right tactics but there were too many witnesses for those things to actually work I expect).
I'm not even sure that the crowds below would notice if he magicked himself outta there and never came back.
So the dullest spectacle in London continues. Policing is gonna cost him an arm and a leg and sadly they keep cleaning the box. There were some youf with eggs standing around on the hump outside the cordoned area, one of whom managed to get some albumen on a kid's tracksuit leg at which his dad had a fit (you get that off his leg NOW or I'll knock your block off type rage). Security came over to quiet it all down when the womenfolk couldn't manage it (reckon they were fairly used to it - they seemed to know the right tactics but there were too many witnesses for those things to actually work I expect).
I'm not even sure that the crowds below would notice if he magicked himself outta there and never came back.
Juicy Fruits
(aside: remember them?) This is what I love about London - these things happen for no apparent reason and people barely notice, as if it isn't even out of the ordinary.
Fairtrade Fruits were out for a stroll on Tottenham Court Road (presumably after having been a part of a demo of some sort - bails thought they were fair trade cos of something she saw earlier).
(aside: remember them?) This is what I love about London - these things happen for no apparent reason and people barely notice, as if it isn't even out of the ordinary.
Fairtrade Fruits were out for a stroll on Tottenham Court Road (presumably after having been a part of a demo of some sort - bails thought they were fair trade cos of something she saw earlier).
Kids Games Seen Around Town Today
- The common, let me ring the bell game (very annoying to the bus driver but the great fun of button pressing satisfied).
- Sitting on the front of the top deck of a bus rubbing helium balloons on hair to see how high it will stand without the aid of gel.
- Running in and out of the water jets by the London Assembly Building - these fountains start very low and the jets rise up and down to various levels. They have a random setting making it impossible to tell how high its gonna go. The game was the same as that played at the seaside (will the wave get you) - will the water jet get you. Lots of very wet screaming kids having a blast.
- How many kids can you get in , alternating with how fast can it go - in the revolving door of Pizza Express opposite Jubilee Gardens.
Saturday, 27 September 2003
Public Transport Etiquette
Rule 4: When speaking make sure your voice is at its lowest possible level
There are two main groups that this rule applies to. Firstly, are school children, particularly teenage girls. Having been trapped inside all day, being artificially suppressed and made to be quiet in the classroom there is an explosion of excitability on being released. This largely manifests itself in much shouting, raucaus laughter, singing, bullying, slagging each other off. Unpleasant as this may be on the street its impact is magnified tenfold when taken into the confines of a bus. It is not big and is not clever - actually you get shown up for what you are (and this is in direct opposition to what you hope to be perceived as).
The other group that this applies to are the mobile phone users. I would never want to bring in such draconian measures as they have on some trains with a banning of use of mobiles in certain parts of the bus or at certain times, however, I have never understood why so many people seem to have to raise the level of their voice while speaking on a mobile so that everyone on their deck can hear every word. The rest of the world neither cares what you have to say nor wants to listen to half a conversation you are having. Give us a break and speak quietly.
Rule 4: When speaking make sure your voice is at its lowest possible level
There are two main groups that this rule applies to. Firstly, are school children, particularly teenage girls. Having been trapped inside all day, being artificially suppressed and made to be quiet in the classroom there is an explosion of excitability on being released. This largely manifests itself in much shouting, raucaus laughter, singing, bullying, slagging each other off. Unpleasant as this may be on the street its impact is magnified tenfold when taken into the confines of a bus. It is not big and is not clever - actually you get shown up for what you are (and this is in direct opposition to what you hope to be perceived as).
The other group that this applies to are the mobile phone users. I would never want to bring in such draconian measures as they have on some trains with a banning of use of mobiles in certain parts of the bus or at certain times, however, I have never understood why so many people seem to have to raise the level of their voice while speaking on a mobile so that everyone on their deck can hear every word. The rest of the world neither cares what you have to say nor wants to listen to half a conversation you are having. Give us a break and speak quietly.
Some Things Never Change
There was a time when I practically lived in the Kings Head in Upper Street (before other bars started opening late when your only choices after 11.00 were the back room here or the old dive Murray's). Much life was played out here. But time passed by and for various reasons it seemed to lose its appeal as more exciting prospects emerged. For a long while it was a no-go zone and only recently have I ventured forth through their sandblasted doors.
So much has changed in my life while so much has stayed the same here - same green paint work, Terry still works behind the bar, End of Culture still plays a friday night and After Noah on saturdays. Its been 10 years since I drank in there steadily but I recognised several people proping up the bar in much the same way as they were all those seasons ago. What has caused them to stand so still? And for the rest of the clientele it seems to have been taken over by the twittish middle class who all want to be actors. So we have a swift drink and thank fuck that we grew out of it.
There was a time when I practically lived in the Kings Head in Upper Street (before other bars started opening late when your only choices after 11.00 were the back room here or the old dive Murray's). Much life was played out here. But time passed by and for various reasons it seemed to lose its appeal as more exciting prospects emerged. For a long while it was a no-go zone and only recently have I ventured forth through their sandblasted doors.
So much has changed in my life while so much has stayed the same here - same green paint work, Terry still works behind the bar, End of Culture still plays a friday night and After Noah on saturdays. Its been 10 years since I drank in there steadily but I recognised several people proping up the bar in much the same way as they were all those seasons ago. What has caused them to stand so still? And for the rest of the clientele it seems to have been taken over by the twittish middle class who all want to be actors. So we have a swift drink and thank fuck that we grew out of it.
Thursday, 25 September 2003
Public Transport Etiquette
Rule 3: Public Transport as Powder Room
Women should attempt to maintain their mystique. This is not possible when you make your toilet on the bus or tube. Not only will you never be able to do a good job (nothing like a jerky bus for an uneven lip line or an accident with the eyeliner) but you won't be able to wash your hands after applying foundation and you will have to spit into your mascara (ugh). And everyone will see you. We do not need to see that you don't know that you should put eye shadow on before the mascara, that you use curling tongs on your eyelashes even though it looks like an middle aged torture, or that you check your teeth for lipstick stains. Get up earlier and do it at home.
I once worked with a librarian at Lewisham College who I was certain did her make-up on the tube on the way to work (a more terrible application of lipstick has never been seen). She was a fright show - lovely powder blue eyeshadow and orangey red wonky lips. I had worked with her for months before I discovered that she actually did her make up in the staff toilet after she got to work (couldn't believe it).
Rule 3: Public Transport as Powder Room
Women should attempt to maintain their mystique. This is not possible when you make your toilet on the bus or tube. Not only will you never be able to do a good job (nothing like a jerky bus for an uneven lip line or an accident with the eyeliner) but you won't be able to wash your hands after applying foundation and you will have to spit into your mascara (ugh). And everyone will see you. We do not need to see that you don't know that you should put eye shadow on before the mascara, that you use curling tongs on your eyelashes even though it looks like an middle aged torture, or that you check your teeth for lipstick stains. Get up earlier and do it at home.
I once worked with a librarian at Lewisham College who I was certain did her make-up on the tube on the way to work (a more terrible application of lipstick has never been seen). She was a fright show - lovely powder blue eyeshadow and orangey red wonky lips. I had worked with her for months before I discovered that she actually did her make up in the staff toilet after she got to work (couldn't believe it).
3.30 Laycock Street
Theres a park with man-made hillocks outside the office headquarters. School was chucking out and although the park was empty three strangers had chosen to sit together on one hillock, divided by as much space as can be mustered from one hump and facing three different directions.
An ordinary looking woman undeterminably middle age wearing a beige padded jacket sitting on the grass reading the paper - could have been waiting for her kid to come out of school.
Old woman sitting on the highest point, died black big bouffanty hair that made her facial features disappear, patent leather high heels, sitting with heels digging into the ground knees bent up in such a manner that you could see she was wearing pop socks and showing far too much underthigh (bet you could've seen her knickers if you looked hard enough).
A man, not too far from street living in a zip-up 70s jacket lying up against the rise in the ground.
How had they come to rest here together? Why had they chosen to sit together in an empty park?
Theres a park with man-made hillocks outside the office headquarters. School was chucking out and although the park was empty three strangers had chosen to sit together on one hillock, divided by as much space as can be mustered from one hump and facing three different directions.
An ordinary looking woman undeterminably middle age wearing a beige padded jacket sitting on the grass reading the paper - could have been waiting for her kid to come out of school.
Old woman sitting on the highest point, died black big bouffanty hair that made her facial features disappear, patent leather high heels, sitting with heels digging into the ground knees bent up in such a manner that you could see she was wearing pop socks and showing far too much underthigh (bet you could've seen her knickers if you looked hard enough).
A man, not too far from street living in a zip-up 70s jacket lying up against the rise in the ground.
How had they come to rest here together? Why had they chosen to sit together in an empty park?
Public Transport Etiquette
Rule 2: Bodily Contact When Sitting Side by Side
When sitting next to someone ensure that the least possible amount of body contact is made. Upper hip is just about acceptable. Whole length of thigh starts to feel a little familiar. More than 3 points touching (for example, upper arm, hip and thigh) is distinctly uncomfortable. Try not to trap your neighbour's leg skin as you sit down - if you sit on someone you are too close.
Likewise with standing - don't rest your book, bag, newspaper or arm on the head, neck or shoulder of the person sitting below you. Don't knock them with your rucksack as you turn around. Don't let your body hang into their personal space.
Rule 2: Bodily Contact When Sitting Side by Side
When sitting next to someone ensure that the least possible amount of body contact is made. Upper hip is just about acceptable. Whole length of thigh starts to feel a little familiar. More than 3 points touching (for example, upper arm, hip and thigh) is distinctly uncomfortable. Try not to trap your neighbour's leg skin as you sit down - if you sit on someone you are too close.
Likewise with standing - don't rest your book, bag, newspaper or arm on the head, neck or shoulder of the person sitting below you. Don't knock them with your rucksack as you turn around. Don't let your body hang into their personal space.
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