Honky Tonk Woman

A happy post! The sun is shining! I’m at work…BUT, it is Friday, and then it’s Bank Holiday weekend! And even though the odds are against it, what with me being in London, the weather forecast is good for the whole weekend. It’s all good.

The real reason I am so thrilled though, is that I discovered this morning (after I had managed to claw my way out of the duvet – a daily battle of epic proportions due to the fact that my bed is only at its most supreme level of comfort from 6.30am onwards), that both my housemates will be away…ALL weekend. I can barely express the joy I felt on gleaning this information. When I casually asked one of them this morning about their plans, it was all I could do to keep the feverish sense of excitement out of my voice. I managed a neutral-sounding ‘Have a lovely time, then. What time exactly will you be leaving?’

Oh, just imagine. The bliss of having the place all to myself for three days and nights. I won’t have to listen to anyone extolling the virtues of the Weight Watchers’ points system EVERY time I go to the kitchen (for the last time, bread is not evil, stop the madness); nor will I have to listen to the other one pontificating on her most favourite and sacred of subjects, her almighty self.

I know exactly how I’ll be taking advantage of this short burst of freedom. There’ll be a little Rolling Stones, a lot of wandering around naked, prossibly a little naked dancing. Don’t worry – I have net curtains.

Just clumsy

Oh my god, can I not get through a single day without injuring myself in some shape or form?

This weekend alone, I trapped my hand in a door, so painfully I actually started to hyperventilate, then because I am right-handed, instinctively put that same hand out to break my fall when I somehow managed to trip up some stairs that very evening. Aaaarghhh. Some women like to carry a small compact and some lipstick in their bag, in addition, I like to carry a family-sized tube of arnica and a bumper pack of Solpadine Max strength.

What’s wrong with me? Why must I insist on walking into door frames? Do I not see them? Is female spatial awareness really that bad, or is it just me? My own theory is that my mind must be on more important things at the times of these incidents, in the style of a bumbling professor if you will, too busy considering the meaning of the universe to notice the proximity of a table corner to my thigh, for example.

My brother, on the other hand, who was recently witness to me walking straight into a chest-level bollard (how did I miss it?), so hard I winded myself, and also to an incident where I cracked my knee against a steel door in a café (my question here though is this: why a steel door?), has another theory: He just thinks I am ‘a right dozy cow’.

Hmm. I like my theory better, but the evidence supporting his is unquestionably stronger. You'll have to excuse me now, I'm off to invest in some knee pads.

I'll see you and I'll raise you

Went to a poker night on Weds. I had never played poker before, and although I didn't assume I'd pick it up as quickly as I'd got the hang of, say, Go Fish, I didn't think it would be that hard. Afterall, whenever you see people playing on TV, or in a Bond movie, they don't seem to be putting in much of an effort, and they're usually drinking beer, or cocktails (shaken, not stirred).

Fortunately for me, it was a 'how to' kind of an evening, with no real money involved, and friendly croupiers who let us play several practice hands first, after which there was a mini-tournament, with an ipod up for grabs. I'm not saying I fancied my chances from a skills point of view, but I was hopeful that maybe blind luck might bag me a seat on the winners' table.

This was not to be the case. Poker is hard! I don't know how anybody manages to drink and play at the same time. There is so much to remember - I can handle the fact that an Ace is higher than a King, blah-di-blah, but it's all the Three-of-a-Kind this, Straight-Flush that, etc, that I just could not get my head round. And, apparently, shaking your head when you look at your cards, unless you are pulling a rather elaborate bluff, is a big no-no. I had a better poker face towards the end of the evening, when I was concentrating so hard that I just looked permanently serious.

I did win a couple of hands, ahem, but only when we were on the losers' table later on. Then I lost all my chips, and then, in a very Bond stylee, a guy to my left gave me 500 chips, because I had lost to him, and so I must be a 'lucky lady' to play against. Twisted logic, I think you'll agree - do you reckon he was flirtin? A nice gesture, despite the fact that the chips were worthless...It was a very fun evening, and I am definitely going again (no, I don't have an addictive personality, honest).

Ah, the big smoke - check it out! How come I always take a better picture when I am not trying? When I took this I was just trying to use up an old film. But it is fitting that my first successfully downloaded picture should be of the place where this blog is set (still just getting the hand of this techno malarkey). On a sunny day, London is quite pretty, as you can see.

Correction:

S would like me to make it clear she just likes some musicals, ok? Not all musicals.

Just to be clear.

But even liking some is just wrong, isn't it?

Mondays...

They're quite crap really, aren't they? It's Monday, it's raining, it's not even 3.30pm, there've already been two mind-numbing meetings about nothing in particular, and the rest of the day stretches interminably ahead.

I just went out to the shop to mix things up a bit, and bought one of those Ritter Sport chocolate thingies. I've eaten nearly all of it now, and as a boredom alleviating device, I would say it has failed parlously. There's nothing else for it, I will have to get up again, and this time, make a cup of tea.

...that only killed 3.5mins, but at least I've made a good cuppa. On this point, I think it is worth mentioning that I am astounded, on a daily basis, by how badly some people make tea. I make great tea - I'm not boasting here, just stating a plain fact; ask anyone who knows me, they wouldn't dispute it.

What astounds me about this, is that I wonder how hard can it be to get it so wrong? All you have to do is add the hot water to the tea bag, bash it about for a bit with the teaspoon, add milk, sweeten if necessary, stir away and bob is most certainly your uncle. It's a mystery to me, but when it's bad, it is just undrinkable - tastes watery, weird, ungodly, causes facial grimacing, etc. And I have no idea where these people are going wrong. It's always such a crying shame of a waste of a tea bag.

I suppose some people just underestimate the importance of tea. And, consequently, aren't quite as fussy as me about it...

The Flicks 1

Went to see Melinda and Melinda last night – the new Woody Allen film. It was interesting, and quite entertaining, but I can’t say I was completely satisfied. The fact that two filmic stories run concurrently and interrupt each other is clever, but ultimately annoying for the viewer, as you naturally prefer one of the stories over the other. The ‘tragedy’ side of the story was better acted, and more intriguing than the ‘comedy’ side, which just seemed silly and contrived. However, S, who saw it with me, found both sides of the story equally appealing, and really enjoyed the whole thing. It was good, and very engaging due to the nature of the breaks to the narrative and the emphasis, by use of the characters discussing the various merits of comedy versus tragedy in the (oddly sepia-toned) New York café, on the whole thing as artifice. It was very self-conscious, and littered with fairy-tale and mythic references, as well as contemporary cultural references, and the knowing use of these techniques made it seem intentionally and none too subtly post-modern.

The script, apart from the hectoring conversations between the two ‘writers’ in the café, was excellent, and crackled along, especially in the comedy version, such as the following exchange between husband and wife:

Hobie: You feel like we don't communicate anymore?
Susan: Of course we communicate. Now can we not talk about it anymore?

It did feel rather disjointed, though that was possibly intentional, but it was also a little over-long too. I always feel a bit patronised when a film hammers it’s point down your throat – in this case, the fact that comedy and tragedy are interchangeable; that elements of the tragic are comic and vice versa – okay, okay, I can hear you Allen. Overall, it was a very entertaining and though-provoking film; I would just have preferred a lighter directorial touch, though maybe that’s something of an oxymoron in the same sentence as ‘Woody Allen’. S is a big fan of his movies and she really liked it, so if you are a devotee, there’s lots to like in Melinda and Melinda (It is worth noting, though, that S also likes musicals, so I don’t know how much faith you’d want to put in her opinion). Really, the whole thing was so self-reflexive and so obviously post-modern that it is bound to end up being discussed on University courses for years to come.

Hill walking

Ah, the joys of the bank holiday weekend. Kicked it all off on Friday eve, when I met my oldest friend for drinks and a meal. This could have been something of a challenge as said friend has recently adopted a vigorously healthy lifestyle, with what I can only describe as religious zeal. No alcohol, no caffeine, no white rice/bread etc, no bread at all in fact and so on. Quite frankly, I would lose the will to live were our situations reversed, but she looks well off it, all vital and glowing with health, as she sipped a camomile tea whilst I nursed a (double) brandy (it had been a long day, ok?). So that was nice, and then indulged my hobbies on Saturday morning, chiefly sleeping and eating toast in bed. Perhaps spurred on by my encounter with the Supremely Healthy One, I forced myself to go swimming. I very much enjoyed this, apart from being accosted on my way to the pool by a mad old man. There must be something about me that suggests I have a sympathetic temperament, or something, as I have a higher ratio than anyone else I know for being stopped by nutters/clipboard brigaders/foreign tourists/etc. This guy was clearly bent on trying to make my day that little more surreal as he lunged towards me, asking if I had the correct time. Polite as ever, I replied no, I was not wearing a watch (having removed all jewellery in preparation for the swim). Then things got weird as he then produced a watch of his own…
Crazy Old Guy: Heh, heh, I have watch for you, young lady [steps closer into my personal space than most of my close personal friends would, lifts decidedly grimy- looking sleeve to reveal grimy-looking watch]
Me: [taking a step back] Oh-kay then.
Crazy Old Guy: [attempting to close the space between us yet again] It is Saddam Hussein watch, for you, lady
Me: [Thinking ‘what the fuck?’] I’m going away now [briskly turning away and stepping up the pace to march away at speed]
Crazy Old guy: [Incomprehensible gibberish]
Why me? And what was all that about? Anyhoo, I made it to the pool without further incident.

So, I felt all smug, as I always do after I exercise, and the got ready for evening out. Also a good night, though with decidedly more alcohol and less talk about nutrition. Rather too much alcohol, as it turned out, as somewhere at the back of my mind, I had filed away the knowledge that I had to get up early on Sunday morning to go meet my Dad, whose plane was arriving at the ungodly time of 5.30am…I know I wasn’t thinking about it when I got talked in to [read: suggested] doing tequila slammers, that’s for sure. However, considering all the factors here, it was quite superhuman of me to get out of bed at all on Sunday morning, and the fact that I was 2 hours late is neither here nor there.

But the title of this post is Hill walking, and that is because, if you have a hangover, and must walk from say Liverpool St Station to Columbia Road Flower Market, on the promise of a full English, only to find that the person taking you there has forgotten the exact location of the café, to then have to turn back and walk all the way back to Laapool St, then that is what it feels like you are doing. Hill walking, in the wrong shoes, on an empty stomach with no water. Just when I thought I would die, a trusty Ponti’s swung into view, and I wasted no time ordering and devouring eggs, bacon, double toast, the full mashings. Amazing the restorative effect this can have on a person. I did feel better, but not prepared for the marathon of walking the rest of the day entailed. Through sheer force of will, I managed to steer us to several cafes along the way, but the pace was relentless.

Walking turned out to be a feature of the weekend, as we come to the Monday itself. Most of the day was spent at leisure, the most energetic thing I did all day was to paint my toenails whilst sat in the garden. Then I was invited to go for an Indian in Brick Lane, which was great, but yet again, wearing the wrong (though distinctly glamorous) shoes, I had to walk all the way from Whitechapel and all the way up Brick Lane – I was naturally a bit thirsty when I finally met my friends. Another great night followed, and I seemed to forget about the getting up early the following morning thing again. I did force myself into the office, only to find that the effect of the elongated weekend seems to have had an effect on my brain. I feel as though I have been away for three weeks, rather than three days, and am suffering from a rather specific form of amnesia. I can’t remember anything about what I am supposed to be working on. But at least I made it in, and I look busy…