This morning I thought "I should really find something of local interest to write about, because there are only so many posts that refer to Billie Piper's eyebrows I can compose without completely alienating everyone." Alienating! Billie Piper! Geddit? No? I don't blame you. It was very poor.
Anyway, with that premise in mind I did a quick search in Google in an attempt to find some inspiration, and found this, which, if you're interested, is followed by this. This is a hotel that never looked salubrious, but these photographs chronicling its decay into ideal horror film location are fascinating. And a little scary, because it's not very far away, and I can't get the theme from Psycho out of my head now.
I wandered around the Urban Assault site viewing photographs of various derelict buildings filled with a mixture of wanting to look over my shoulder the whole time, feeling like a child who has disobeyed a clear parental "Don't go into the woods!" order, because it's clearly illegal for people to be doing that, not to mention dangerous in a "might get killed by falling masonry or shot by someone out of Pulp Fiction" way, and being completely fascinated by the evocative strength of some of the images and the fabulous photography. I found High Royds Hospital (originally West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum when it was opened in 1888, according to the poster) particularly spine chilling; looking at those photographs gave me an uncomfortable feeling similar to that evoked by visiting Alcatraz. (Yes, really. I went somewhere interesting once). Lo and behold, the tiniest bit more research reveals that High Royds has indeed been the location for a creepy film. At least it sounds pretty creepy - I haven't seen it. And since I'm still trying to exorcise Norman Bates from my head as a result of looking at a few completely Psycho-unrelated photographs, I don't think I'll be popping to Blockbuster for it any time soon.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Saturday, 30 August 2008
Wittering
So here I am again, determined to breathe new life into my blog, and to not become distracted by such trivial details as not being able to think of anything remotely interesting or engaging to write about.
I'd love to say that my difficulty in thinking of something worthwhile to write about was writer's block or some other temptingly named paralysis in which artistic personages temporarily find themselves gripped whilst they agonise over the creative process, but the truth is that I'm just rather dull.
I read a post by Wife in the North yesterday - an old post, as I started reading her blog from the beginning - that resonated perfectly with me. How glamorous other people are! How on earth do they find time to write blogs? Perhaps when you have a thousand glamorous things to write about it's easy to knock out a blog post because you're bursting with interesting things to tell people. But then I suppose the trade off must be that it must take up precious time in your hectic schedule of glamour to decide which of the day's glamorous events to write about. I'm so non-glamorous that I don't even have any similes for glamorous, hence the wretched overuse of the word 'glamorous' in this paragraph.
If Petite Anglaise and Belle de Jour are the filmstars of blogging (and by the way, there's the Billie Piper connection again - only this time I shouldn't imagine anyone was looking at her eyebrows) then I am more like the Coronation Street equivalent. And I don't mean stylish Maria or sassy Carla Connor. Oh no. I don't mean that one who was in that made-up band thing. I don't even mean Deirdre or Janice Battersby. No, in the blogging glamour stakes, I am the equivalent of Blanche.
I'd love to say that my difficulty in thinking of something worthwhile to write about was writer's block or some other temptingly named paralysis in which artistic personages temporarily find themselves gripped whilst they agonise over the creative process, but the truth is that I'm just rather dull.
I read a post by Wife in the North yesterday - an old post, as I started reading her blog from the beginning - that resonated perfectly with me. How glamorous other people are! How on earth do they find time to write blogs? Perhaps when you have a thousand glamorous things to write about it's easy to knock out a blog post because you're bursting with interesting things to tell people. But then I suppose the trade off must be that it must take up precious time in your hectic schedule of glamour to decide which of the day's glamorous events to write about. I'm so non-glamorous that I don't even have any similes for glamorous, hence the wretched overuse of the word 'glamorous' in this paragraph.
If Petite Anglaise and Belle de Jour are the filmstars of blogging (and by the way, there's the Billie Piper connection again - only this time I shouldn't imagine anyone was looking at her eyebrows) then I am more like the Coronation Street equivalent. And I don't mean stylish Maria or sassy Carla Connor. Oh no. I don't mean that one who was in that made-up band thing. I don't even mean Deirdre or Janice Battersby. No, in the blogging glamour stakes, I am the equivalent of Blanche.
Friday, 29 August 2008
Return
Today I realised how much I have neglected this poor blog. It has been left tied to a lamp post, forlorn and forgotten, in the manner of one of those sweet-faced, slightly scruffy dogs shown on Blue Cross adverts who have been carelessly and cruelly abandoned by their evil owners. Those are naturally the kind of dogs who have never chewed the sofa, never savagely bitten the postman's index finger off, and who most definitely have never placed their furry behinds on a bus seat thereby offending people who write to the local paper. This blog is not guilty of any of those crimes either, and deserves a more careful owner than the one who had to ask her friends if they remembered the web address for it because she decided she wanted to write something this evening. And then had to Google it because those friends, who are the only people who ever read this blog at the best of times, couldn't remember either owing to the lack of activity here for all these months.
It was Wife In The North who inspired me to blog again. Well actually, it was my friend Claire, who read Wife In The North's book. Anyway, it made me think "I haven't written my blog for a while" and then I looked (after googling) and realised I haven't written since May. Shame on me.
There has been a problem.
When I first started this blog, I was very enthusiastic. I was hugely excited by the linking of a TV blog from The Guardian to mine; they linked to my post about the performances of Billie Piper and her eyebrows in Mansfield Park. Shortly afterwards, I was again hugely excited by one of my blog posts being picked to appear in Shaggy Blog Stories. Then, between the printing of Shaggy Blog Stories and its arrival through the letter box - a matter of days - my father died. He didn't see my contribution to the book. I didn't even get chance to tell him about it. I lost my enthusiasm for blogging. It had lost its lustre.
The thing is, I know that my Dad would be upset to think that I'd stopped doing something I enjoyed doing because of him. I'm just not sure I can separate the link between my enjoyment of writing this blog and his loss in my mind. But I owe it to him to at least try.
By the way, my post about Billie was less than complimentary but in general I like her very much despite her non-Austenesque eyebrows. So I feel slightly guilty that it has been people googling her (and her facial hair) that has brought the greatest number of hits to this blog. In fact, if you Google "Billie Piper eyebrows" then this site is first on the list. There's a fascinating factoid for you! In an interesting contrast, people searching for articles about Heather Mills have been entirely absent.
So. By way of a brief update on us, we still live here by the canalside but my toddler cannot be described as a toddler any longer. He is a 3 year old little boy with many, many opinions and much to say for himself. People are still charmed by him on the whole. The dentist's receptionist certainly was the other day as he told her all about the way he looks after his teeth - and how Mummy doesn't, and therefore needs one of hers removed. She did become slightly less enamoured with him, however, when he suddenly reached out and pressed a random button on the calculator on which she was almost finished calculating the day's takings and lost all her figures. Being a dental professional probably came in handy at that moment, when she managed to keep the sparking smile on her face like the professional she is, and grit her teeth simultaneously.
It was Wife In The North who inspired me to blog again. Well actually, it was my friend Claire, who read Wife In The North's book. Anyway, it made me think "I haven't written my blog for a while" and then I looked (after googling) and realised I haven't written since May. Shame on me.
There has been a problem.
When I first started this blog, I was very enthusiastic. I was hugely excited by the linking of a TV blog from The Guardian to mine; they linked to my post about the performances of Billie Piper and her eyebrows in Mansfield Park. Shortly afterwards, I was again hugely excited by one of my blog posts being picked to appear in Shaggy Blog Stories. Then, between the printing of Shaggy Blog Stories and its arrival through the letter box - a matter of days - my father died. He didn't see my contribution to the book. I didn't even get chance to tell him about it. I lost my enthusiasm for blogging. It had lost its lustre.
The thing is, I know that my Dad would be upset to think that I'd stopped doing something I enjoyed doing because of him. I'm just not sure I can separate the link between my enjoyment of writing this blog and his loss in my mind. But I owe it to him to at least try.
By the way, my post about Billie was less than complimentary but in general I like her very much despite her non-Austenesque eyebrows. So I feel slightly guilty that it has been people googling her (and her facial hair) that has brought the greatest number of hits to this blog. In fact, if you Google "Billie Piper eyebrows" then this site is first on the list. There's a fascinating factoid for you! In an interesting contrast, people searching for articles about Heather Mills have been entirely absent.
So. By way of a brief update on us, we still live here by the canalside but my toddler cannot be described as a toddler any longer. He is a 3 year old little boy with many, many opinions and much to say for himself. People are still charmed by him on the whole. The dentist's receptionist certainly was the other day as he told her all about the way he looks after his teeth - and how Mummy doesn't, and therefore needs one of hers removed. She did become slightly less enamoured with him, however, when he suddenly reached out and pressed a random button on the calculator on which she was almost finished calculating the day's takings and lost all her figures. Being a dental professional probably came in handy at that moment, when she managed to keep the sparking smile on her face like the professional she is, and grit her teeth simultaneously.
Friday, 9 May 2008
A Dog's Bottom Should Not Be On a Bus Seat
The title of this post is my favourite line in this week's edition of my local paper. To be accurate, it's not actually my local paper, but the local paper of the next town; we get a different edition here. To most people reading this, that's neither here nor there. But locals here often have a very strict idea of 'local' and I wouldn't want to offend, so the clarification was necessary.
The statement that forms the title for this post is the last line of a letter from a reader, responding to an article published last week about a woman who was asked to pay 50p in order for her dog to travel with her on the bus. The bus company in question is Best Bus, which personally I think is an inspired name. It effortlessly tops whatever any of their competitors can throw at them. 'Quite Good Bus?' 'Largely Reasonable Bus'? 'Not Bad Bus Let Down By The Two Year Old Chewing Gum Under The Seats Bus?' None of them can hold a candle to it. Whatever you call your bus company around here, whatever clever name you dream up, it's trumped by Best Bus. Because how can you get better than best? You can't. Unless, of course, you don't charge 50p for dogs, in which case you would be better than Best Bus, at least in the opinion of some residents, such as the lady featured in the original article last week. Sadly for Best Bus, the writer whose words I've borrowed for my post title has a bone to pick with them about a dog's bottom.
The writer of the letter is primarily concerned about the Health and Safety aspect of allowing dogs to travel on buses, and specifically, as you may by now have guessed, about the issue of dogs' bottoms on bus seats. The writer worries that if a child travelled on the bus and sat on a seat previously containing a dog's bottom, there is a possibility that the child could touch the seat and then put his fingers in his mouth. The writer does not elaborate on the resulting perils of such an action, but the inference is that she feels that someone would suffer. Whether that is the dog or the child, she does not say.
The writer feels that since these days there is a lot of publicity about dog owners being fined for failing to clean up dog mess, the notion of a dog's bottom on a bus seat is surely a Health and Safety issue. Unless the implication is that the dog owners may fail to clean up dog mess that is actually deposited on the bus seat by the dog's bottom during the journey, I'm not quite clear about the connection between people getting fined for randomly leaving dog poo festering and the dog's bottom (minus mess) on the bus seat. If I'm missing the obvious link, do let me know.
The thing I'm concerned about, is that this cuts both ways, frankly. What if a seat previously occupied by a child's bottom was then licked by a dog? Dogs are people too, let's not forget. You could be forgiven for not realising that. I won't be judgemental, because I didn't realise myself until I found out that they are required to pay 50p to travel on the bus. And really, it would seem rather unfair to take that dog's hard-earned 50p and then forbid him to place his bottom on the seat. Possibly, the dog would be entitled to sue the bus company for failing to provide the service he'd paid for.
Not all residents agree with the writer of the first letter, about the inherent incompatibility of dogs' bottoms and bus seats. A second letter published in this week's issue is penned by a writer who, if he or she had a dog, would be happy to pay 50p in order for that dog to travel by Best Bus, particularly since Best Buses are so clean (notwithstanding the dogs' bottoms of course) and have such polite, smart drivers (an issue about which dogs are known to care deeply). Regrettably, the writer of this second letter inadvertently (I presume) rather undid his or her great praise of Best Buses by finishing his or her letter with "Sadly, my dog died last year. So keep up the good work Best Bus."
Anyone who has owned a pet will understand the great sense of loss at the end of the pet's life, and I have no wish to demean that sadness. And I'm sure Best Bus were in no way responsible for the death of the writer's dog. Still, I can't help but hope that the ill-fated canine hadn't been licking a Best Bus seat immediately after the school drop off.
The statement that forms the title for this post is the last line of a letter from a reader, responding to an article published last week about a woman who was asked to pay 50p in order for her dog to travel with her on the bus. The bus company in question is Best Bus, which personally I think is an inspired name. It effortlessly tops whatever any of their competitors can throw at them. 'Quite Good Bus?' 'Largely Reasonable Bus'? 'Not Bad Bus Let Down By The Two Year Old Chewing Gum Under The Seats Bus?' None of them can hold a candle to it. Whatever you call your bus company around here, whatever clever name you dream up, it's trumped by Best Bus. Because how can you get better than best? You can't. Unless, of course, you don't charge 50p for dogs, in which case you would be better than Best Bus, at least in the opinion of some residents, such as the lady featured in the original article last week. Sadly for Best Bus, the writer whose words I've borrowed for my post title has a bone to pick with them about a dog's bottom.
The writer of the letter is primarily concerned about the Health and Safety aspect of allowing dogs to travel on buses, and specifically, as you may by now have guessed, about the issue of dogs' bottoms on bus seats. The writer worries that if a child travelled on the bus and sat on a seat previously containing a dog's bottom, there is a possibility that the child could touch the seat and then put his fingers in his mouth. The writer does not elaborate on the resulting perils of such an action, but the inference is that she feels that someone would suffer. Whether that is the dog or the child, she does not say.
The writer feels that since these days there is a lot of publicity about dog owners being fined for failing to clean up dog mess, the notion of a dog's bottom on a bus seat is surely a Health and Safety issue. Unless the implication is that the dog owners may fail to clean up dog mess that is actually deposited on the bus seat by the dog's bottom during the journey, I'm not quite clear about the connection between people getting fined for randomly leaving dog poo festering and the dog's bottom (minus mess) on the bus seat. If I'm missing the obvious link, do let me know.
The thing I'm concerned about, is that this cuts both ways, frankly. What if a seat previously occupied by a child's bottom was then licked by a dog? Dogs are people too, let's not forget. You could be forgiven for not realising that. I won't be judgemental, because I didn't realise myself until I found out that they are required to pay 50p to travel on the bus. And really, it would seem rather unfair to take that dog's hard-earned 50p and then forbid him to place his bottom on the seat. Possibly, the dog would be entitled to sue the bus company for failing to provide the service he'd paid for.
Not all residents agree with the writer of the first letter, about the inherent incompatibility of dogs' bottoms and bus seats. A second letter published in this week's issue is penned by a writer who, if he or she had a dog, would be happy to pay 50p in order for that dog to travel by Best Bus, particularly since Best Buses are so clean (notwithstanding the dogs' bottoms of course) and have such polite, smart drivers (an issue about which dogs are known to care deeply). Regrettably, the writer of this second letter inadvertently (I presume) rather undid his or her great praise of Best Buses by finishing his or her letter with "Sadly, my dog died last year. So keep up the good work Best Bus."
Anyone who has owned a pet will understand the great sense of loss at the end of the pet's life, and I have no wish to demean that sadness. And I'm sure Best Bus were in no way responsible for the death of the writer's dog. Still, I can't help but hope that the ill-fated canine hadn't been licking a Best Bus seat immediately after the school drop off.
Friday, 21 March 2008
Spring Clean
Spring is officially here. You can tell from the way the daffodils are bobbing wildly in the unforgiving gale-force winds and battering rain. I think we'll perhaps have this year's Easter Egg hunt indoors, to prevent the eggs, or indeed the toddler, from ending up on a yellow brick road somewhere over the rainbow, desperately wondering if they're in Cheshire any more. Not that I'd encourage my toddler or anyone else to eat eggs that are capable of wondering anything, to be fair.
Spring is, dreadful weather aside, a time for new starts, so I think it's time to dust off the cobwebs from this blog, and start writing it again.
A nice new look to set the tone, brighter and more spring-like, is in order I think.
Spring is, dreadful weather aside, a time for new starts, so I think it's time to dust off the cobwebs from this blog, and start writing it again.
A nice new look to set the tone, brighter and more spring-like, is in order I think.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
She's got a ticket to ride...the gravy train
If a personification of the notion of being one's own worst enemy exists, it must surely take the form of Heather Mills.
She's £25 million richer after yesterday's High Court ruling on her divorce from Sir Paul McCartney, but apparently she still hasn't grasped the concept of less being more when it comes to hysterical outbursts and relentless self-promotion. Can't buy me class, as her soon to be former husband may well have sung in his heyday. Her 11-minute rant outside the High Court yesterday made for the kind of car crash television you feel compelled to watch despite the teeth-clenching embarrassment it evokes, on a par with her disastrous GMTV interview last autumn. Her recently revamped website boasts video clips of "Heather's friends" Richard Branson and Hillary Clinton talking about how utterly lovely and wonderful she is in the most effusive terms. Maybe it's a peculiarly British trait, but (to this Brit, anyway) there is a feeling of acute distaste on viewing these clips at such shameless self-promotion.
Heather Mills seems to have a relationship with the truth that is matched in distance only by her detachment from reality. Mr Justice Bennett, the judge in the McCartney divorce, referred to her evidence as "inconsistent, inaccurate" and "less than candid" in the High Court ruling that Ms Mills sought to keep private. "Less than candid"? Almost sounds like a rather polite way of saying "she lied", doesn't it?
The full ruling makes hilarious reading. Ms Mills' greed is pretty astonishing, and the sums she claimed she 'needed' from the divorce settlement are mind-boggling to the ordinary person. Almost half a million pounds a year for holidays, for example. Half a million pounds?! To be fair though, that sum does include the essentials such as private and helicopter flights of £185,000. Evidently Ms Mills' concern for all things charitable doesn't extend to environmental causes and worrying about her carbon footprint.
Unsurprisingly, the judge found her demands excessive and awarded her much less than the 125 million pounds she was seeking. However, she still leaves the marriage, which lasted just under 4 years, with just under £25 million.
Can that amount be fair, considering that McCartney's wealth was almost all amassed far before the unfortunate day he met his second wife? As Heather Mills said herself outside court, "everyone knows he was worth £800 [million] 15 years ago". Rather an own goal, one would think, since that statement clearly rules out any contribution to that wealth on her part. Sadly, the main casualty of this ruling must surely be the institute of marriage itself; it is hardly a recommendation for men (or women) of any wealth to enter into marriage, knowing that after such a short time their spouse, now estranged, may walk away with millions. Sir Paul can afford it, certainly. But is that the point?
She's £25 million richer after yesterday's High Court ruling on her divorce from Sir Paul McCartney, but apparently she still hasn't grasped the concept of less being more when it comes to hysterical outbursts and relentless self-promotion. Can't buy me class, as her soon to be former husband may well have sung in his heyday. Her 11-minute rant outside the High Court yesterday made for the kind of car crash television you feel compelled to watch despite the teeth-clenching embarrassment it evokes, on a par with her disastrous GMTV interview last autumn. Her recently revamped website boasts video clips of "Heather's friends" Richard Branson and Hillary Clinton talking about how utterly lovely and wonderful she is in the most effusive terms. Maybe it's a peculiarly British trait, but (to this Brit, anyway) there is a feeling of acute distaste on viewing these clips at such shameless self-promotion.
Heather Mills seems to have a relationship with the truth that is matched in distance only by her detachment from reality. Mr Justice Bennett, the judge in the McCartney divorce, referred to her evidence as "inconsistent, inaccurate" and "less than candid" in the High Court ruling that Ms Mills sought to keep private. "Less than candid"? Almost sounds like a rather polite way of saying "she lied", doesn't it?
The full ruling makes hilarious reading. Ms Mills' greed is pretty astonishing, and the sums she claimed she 'needed' from the divorce settlement are mind-boggling to the ordinary person. Almost half a million pounds a year for holidays, for example. Half a million pounds?! To be fair though, that sum does include the essentials such as private and helicopter flights of £185,000. Evidently Ms Mills' concern for all things charitable doesn't extend to environmental causes and worrying about her carbon footprint.
Unsurprisingly, the judge found her demands excessive and awarded her much less than the 125 million pounds she was seeking. However, she still leaves the marriage, which lasted just under 4 years, with just under £25 million.
Can that amount be fair, considering that McCartney's wealth was almost all amassed far before the unfortunate day he met his second wife? As Heather Mills said herself outside court, "everyone knows he was worth £800 [million] 15 years ago". Rather an own goal, one would think, since that statement clearly rules out any contribution to that wealth on her part. Sadly, the main casualty of this ruling must surely be the institute of marriage itself; it is hardly a recommendation for men (or women) of any wealth to enter into marriage, knowing that after such a short time their spouse, now estranged, may walk away with millions. Sir Paul can afford it, certainly. But is that the point?
Friday, 9 November 2007
Middle Aged Moan
Why are so many people who work in shops so rude? Why? Why is that?
Have they always been so rude? Or have all the rude retail staff in the UK recently come to work in my local shops?
Today, I was in a shop to buy some milk. When I entered the shop, the woman behind the counter was on her mobile, to someone who may or may not have been on the council, to complain about a youth shelter that may or may not be being built. I know this because that was the conversation she was having right in front of me while I stood there at the counter glaring at her, and waiting for the privilege of paying her for my milk.
Eventually, after quite sustained glaring on my part, she said "Excuse me" and then apologised - to the person on the phone - and served me. That consisted of her saying "£1.30" (or whatever it was) and holding her hand out, whilst with the other hand she picked up her mobile again and resumed her conversation.
Sorry, what part of "I'm not doing you a favour by patronising your establishment, I am actually one of a special group of personages known as 'customers', who pay your wages and without whom you'd be out of business" do shop staff in my locality not understand?
I play a game now, each time I go to the supermarket. It's called "Guess how long it takes the check-out operator to speak to me?" (I'm working on a snappier title). Occasionally, the person behind the uniform will speak before he or she starts swiping my shopping through the scanner, at least to greet the customer before asking me for money. More usually though lately, I have found that I am completely ignored until the time comes to demand currency in exchange for the goods. And I say 'demand' rather than 'request' because the omission of any polite 'please' makes it so. In fact, next time perhaps I will extend the game and only answer actual questions or requests put to me. The words "nineteen fifty-four" don't actually constitute a request for me to pay that amount, they merely describe the total of my purchases. Or at least, I assume they do. For all I know, those words could be informing me of the check-out operator's year of birth. Or a guess at mine. Those figures could be the latest rugby score, or the the ages of the check-out operator's previous boyfriends (well, you never know with people, do you?) Next time, perhaps I shall say "What about it?" in am equally sullen manner to the person serving me, and then stand there and ignore them for 10 minutes and see how they like it. I would go and shop somewhere else, if somewhere else around here employed any cheerier, better mannered staff.
Perhaps I should apply for a job myself. Then I too could spend all day taking pointless phone calls and and getting paid for being rude to people. From the job description, it must be very similar to being Chris Moyles.
Have they always been so rude? Or have all the rude retail staff in the UK recently come to work in my local shops?
Today, I was in a shop to buy some milk. When I entered the shop, the woman behind the counter was on her mobile, to someone who may or may not have been on the council, to complain about a youth shelter that may or may not be being built. I know this because that was the conversation she was having right in front of me while I stood there at the counter glaring at her, and waiting for the privilege of paying her for my milk.
Eventually, after quite sustained glaring on my part, she said "Excuse me" and then apologised - to the person on the phone - and served me. That consisted of her saying "£1.30" (or whatever it was) and holding her hand out, whilst with the other hand she picked up her mobile again and resumed her conversation.
Sorry, what part of "I'm not doing you a favour by patronising your establishment, I am actually one of a special group of personages known as 'customers', who pay your wages and without whom you'd be out of business" do shop staff in my locality not understand?
I play a game now, each time I go to the supermarket. It's called "Guess how long it takes the check-out operator to speak to me?" (I'm working on a snappier title). Occasionally, the person behind the uniform will speak before he or she starts swiping my shopping through the scanner, at least to greet the customer before asking me for money. More usually though lately, I have found that I am completely ignored until the time comes to demand currency in exchange for the goods. And I say 'demand' rather than 'request' because the omission of any polite 'please' makes it so. In fact, next time perhaps I will extend the game and only answer actual questions or requests put to me. The words "nineteen fifty-four" don't actually constitute a request for me to pay that amount, they merely describe the total of my purchases. Or at least, I assume they do. For all I know, those words could be informing me of the check-out operator's year of birth. Or a guess at mine. Those figures could be the latest rugby score, or the the ages of the check-out operator's previous boyfriends (well, you never know with people, do you?) Next time, perhaps I shall say "What about it?" in am equally sullen manner to the person serving me, and then stand there and ignore them for 10 minutes and see how they like it. I would go and shop somewhere else, if somewhere else around here employed any cheerier, better mannered staff.
Perhaps I should apply for a job myself. Then I too could spend all day taking pointless phone calls and and getting paid for being rude to people. From the job description, it must be very similar to being Chris Moyles.
Thursday, 26 July 2007
Superheroes In Cognito
I must apologise for my infrequent updating of this blog. Things have been odd since March. I cannot explain why, but I hope I will be forgiven by my small, but faithful, readership.
My toddler is developing at a frighteningly rapid rate. To my delight, his imagination has begun to involve both of us in enchanting, and sometimes bizarre, conversations lately. A couple of days ago, we went to a local shop for some milk. I know most of the staff, but there was a new girl behind the counter, smiling personably, and out to impress with her customer service skills.
"Aw!" she exclaimed as she served us, gazing at my toddler, who was clutching his chocolate buttons as if his life depended on the closeness of their proximity. "Aren't you lovely? And what is your name?" she asked him.
"Sarah," he replied, with an earnest expression on his face and without a hint of mischief.
Before I could speak, the girl replied "Oh, that's my name too! How lovely, we've got the same name!"
"Yes, " replied my son, and added "Sarah," again, for the purposes of confirmation.
"Do you know," The girl addressed me now. "I thought she was a boy! I'm ever so sorry."
"Don't be. He is."
She looked bemused.
"His name isn't Sarah," I added quickly, before she mistook me for an overzealous Johnny Cash fan. "Tell the lady your name," I commanded my offspring.
He deliberated. His chocolate buttons were already paid for.
"No."
I apologised to the friendly girl, and muttered something about it just being one of those days, and began to hustle my son towards the door. As we got there, he turned and looked back to the counter.
"Lady?" he called, as I began to open the door.
"Yes?" She answered him in anticipation.
He gave her a firm look, and as he stepped underneath my outstretched arm and through the open door, he declared, "My name is Spiderman."
My toddler is developing at a frighteningly rapid rate. To my delight, his imagination has begun to involve both of us in enchanting, and sometimes bizarre, conversations lately. A couple of days ago, we went to a local shop for some milk. I know most of the staff, but there was a new girl behind the counter, smiling personably, and out to impress with her customer service skills.
"Aw!" she exclaimed as she served us, gazing at my toddler, who was clutching his chocolate buttons as if his life depended on the closeness of their proximity. "Aren't you lovely? And what is your name?" she asked him.
"Sarah," he replied, with an earnest expression on his face and without a hint of mischief.
Before I could speak, the girl replied "Oh, that's my name too! How lovely, we've got the same name!"
"Yes, " replied my son, and added "Sarah," again, for the purposes of confirmation.
"Do you know," The girl addressed me now. "I thought she was a boy! I'm ever so sorry."
"Don't be. He is."
She looked bemused.
"His name isn't Sarah," I added quickly, before she mistook me for an overzealous Johnny Cash fan. "Tell the lady your name," I commanded my offspring.
He deliberated. His chocolate buttons were already paid for.
"No."
I apologised to the friendly girl, and muttered something about it just being one of those days, and began to hustle my son towards the door. As we got there, he turned and looked back to the counter.
"Lady?" he called, as I began to open the door.
"Yes?" She answered him in anticipation.
He gave her a firm look, and as he stepped underneath my outstretched arm and through the open door, he declared, "My name is Spiderman."
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Arrested Development
There are few things in life more delightful than observing the progress of your young child's development as he grows from a baby to a toddler, and becomes a little personality in his own right who can communicate his feelings and thoughts.
The development of speech and language is particularly enchanting. There is enormous pleasure in watching your child delight himself with his shrewd observations of everyday life around him, and in listening to a small child's untainted and uninhibited take on the world.
Such beautiful moments of parenthood were illustrated to me today by a trip to the local supermarket.
As we wandered up and down the aisles, my toddler proudly sat in his little trolley seat and pointed out items he recognised, and helped me place them (albeit rather roughly) into the trolley when we came across something we needed.
Then we meandered into the clothing section and chose a new sun-hat for him, and I had a quick look at the ladies' lingerie section.
My clever little boy was quick to demonstrate that I had inadvertently failed to remember the golden supermarket rule; the trolley distance from merchandise/arm's reach ratio must to taken into consideration at all times. I realised I had been remiss in this department when my toddler energetically waved several pairs of ladies' undergarments around his head and shouted, at the top of his shrill little voice, with the pride of someone who has a new word to add to their burgeoning vocabulary, "PANTS!!! PANTS!!! MUMMY!! PANTS!"
Naturally, everyone within hearing distance - so most people in the store - turned to observe and admire this wondrous feat of early development, and were most interested in the implication that these size extra extra large enormous cotton pants were in some way connected to me. As I am not a pushy parent, I attempted to quieten the excited rendition of "THESE pants, Mummy? Mummy pants?" and return the articles to their hangers. It's amazing how strong a grip a toddler can have when he's holding something he doesn't want to surrender. And apparently Tesco have a method of putting women's knickers on hangers that is the equivalent of a Masonic handshake. Not just anyone can do it.
So if anyone reading this has the job of keeping underwear shelves tidy in a supermarket in Cheshire, I apologise for the several pairs of very big cotton pants strewn along the shelves in a haphazard fashion today.
They were the unfortunate casualties of an exquisite parenting moment.
And whatever my son said, they weren't my size.
The development of speech and language is particularly enchanting. There is enormous pleasure in watching your child delight himself with his shrewd observations of everyday life around him, and in listening to a small child's untainted and uninhibited take on the world.
Such beautiful moments of parenthood were illustrated to me today by a trip to the local supermarket.
As we wandered up and down the aisles, my toddler proudly sat in his little trolley seat and pointed out items he recognised, and helped me place them (albeit rather roughly) into the trolley when we came across something we needed.
Then we meandered into the clothing section and chose a new sun-hat for him, and I had a quick look at the ladies' lingerie section.
My clever little boy was quick to demonstrate that I had inadvertently failed to remember the golden supermarket rule; the trolley distance from merchandise/arm's reach ratio must to taken into consideration at all times. I realised I had been remiss in this department when my toddler energetically waved several pairs of ladies' undergarments around his head and shouted, at the top of his shrill little voice, with the pride of someone who has a new word to add to their burgeoning vocabulary, "PANTS!!! PANTS!!! MUMMY!! PANTS!"
Naturally, everyone within hearing distance - so most people in the store - turned to observe and admire this wondrous feat of early development, and were most interested in the implication that these size extra extra large enormous cotton pants were in some way connected to me. As I am not a pushy parent, I attempted to quieten the excited rendition of "THESE pants, Mummy? Mummy pants?" and return the articles to their hangers. It's amazing how strong a grip a toddler can have when he's holding something he doesn't want to surrender. And apparently Tesco have a method of putting women's knickers on hangers that is the equivalent of a Masonic handshake. Not just anyone can do it.
So if anyone reading this has the job of keeping underwear shelves tidy in a supermarket in Cheshire, I apologise for the several pairs of very big cotton pants strewn along the shelves in a haphazard fashion today.
They were the unfortunate casualties of an exquisite parenting moment.
And whatever my son said, they weren't my size.
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
Nuts in May
It's a beautiful day for dancing around the Maypole and celebrating Beltane, if that is the sort of thing you are wont to do.
The sun is bright, the trees are green, and it's unseasonably warm at the moment.
Which is why this morning, as my toddler and I passed complete strangers on our stroll, I felt the desire to explain to them that he chose the woolly hat he was wearing, not me.
The sun is bright, the trees are green, and it's unseasonably warm at the moment.
Which is why this morning, as my toddler and I passed complete strangers on our stroll, I felt the desire to explain to them that he chose the woolly hat he was wearing, not me.
Monday, 30 April 2007
Don't Call Us....
I would like to take the opportunity to pause for a suitable length of time to thank Cheshire Police for all their help when I needed their assistance a couple of days ago. Has a nanosecond passed by yet? Excellent; that is plenty long enough.
I don't wish to make light of the vast stupidity and incompetence on my own part in causing the situation I found myself in - it was a situation entirely of my own making. But my uselessness was matched very well by that of the police. So at least I'm not the only pointless person in the world - but then no-one pays me from public money to be pointless, so I have less of an obligation to be Of Some Use.
I managed, the other morning, to lock the following items in my car on a supermarket car park:
My handbag (containing keys, phone, phone numbers, money)
The car keys
My child.
The initial panic at the moment I realised what I'd done was really not very nice at all. After calling my sister from Customer Services and asking her to go to my mother's house to fetch the spare keys, I went back to the car and tried to persuade my toddler (using every method of bribery I could think of) to pull up the lock button on the nearest door, to no avail.
My sister and mother arrived, with a key - but not THE key. By this time I was starting to worry. My toddler had been in the car for quite some time and was getting distressed that I wouldn't get into the car with him. It was a warm day, and the car was getting hot. We thought about my mother staying with my car while my sister took me to get the key (as I knew what it looked like and my sister hadn't) but we were several miles from my mother's house and the traffic through town was busy - my toddler needed to be out of the car more quickly than that.
I have breakdown cover. But I couldn't remember who with. This is further evidence of uselessness on my part, obviously, but in my defence the cover came with the car under the Warranty so I didn't choose the provider myself, and the details were on hand in case of a break down; they were neatly tucked into the pocket of the passenger door.
So, we decided to call the local police station, hoping (not entirely unreasonably, I thought) that a police officer would be able to come out and open the car door.
After taking many, many details from me about myself and my car, the lady who had answered the call said they would come out as soon as they could, but that all they could do would be to smash a window.
I wasn't hugely impressed with that, since I could smash my own window, although I was of the opinion that I would prefer not to owing to the close proximity of the small child, and 'as soon as they could' sounded slightly vague. I tried to impress upon her that the car was hot and my toddler was distressed, and then we waited.
After ten minutes, my sister had a brainwave. The garage where I bought the car was only about a mile away; perhaps someone there would be able to open the car.
The police rang back. They had discovered that they didn't have a patrol car in the area, and didn't know how long it would be before they could attend.
My sister rang the garage, and the man who answered assured her he'd be here in five minutes - and he was. He and his colleague had opened the car within several minutes (WITHOUT smashing a window, I might add) and I was able to sweep my very hot and really rather cross toddler out of his car seat and into a relieved hug. Like Supermarket Superheroes, the men would accept no payment for their rescue effort, and jumped swiftly back into their car to return to work before I'd even had a proper chance to thank them.
Just before the moment that the garage men managed to open the door, my sister, my mother and I watched with incredulity as a marked police car drew up outside the supermarket, and in a leisurely fashion a policeman got out and wandered off into the store. Of course, it would be pure speculation on my part to suggest that the purpose of his visit was to perhaps procure some lunch.
And really, he should be congratulated. It is no mean feat to visit a place whilst being simultaneously nowhere near it.
I don't wish to make light of the vast stupidity and incompetence on my own part in causing the situation I found myself in - it was a situation entirely of my own making. But my uselessness was matched very well by that of the police. So at least I'm not the only pointless person in the world - but then no-one pays me from public money to be pointless, so I have less of an obligation to be Of Some Use.
I managed, the other morning, to lock the following items in my car on a supermarket car park:
My handbag (containing keys, phone, phone numbers, money)
The car keys
My child.
The initial panic at the moment I realised what I'd done was really not very nice at all. After calling my sister from Customer Services and asking her to go to my mother's house to fetch the spare keys, I went back to the car and tried to persuade my toddler (using every method of bribery I could think of) to pull up the lock button on the nearest door, to no avail.
My sister and mother arrived, with a key - but not THE key. By this time I was starting to worry. My toddler had been in the car for quite some time and was getting distressed that I wouldn't get into the car with him. It was a warm day, and the car was getting hot. We thought about my mother staying with my car while my sister took me to get the key (as I knew what it looked like and my sister hadn't) but we were several miles from my mother's house and the traffic through town was busy - my toddler needed to be out of the car more quickly than that.
I have breakdown cover. But I couldn't remember who with. This is further evidence of uselessness on my part, obviously, but in my defence the cover came with the car under the Warranty so I didn't choose the provider myself, and the details were on hand in case of a break down; they were neatly tucked into the pocket of the passenger door.
So, we decided to call the local police station, hoping (not entirely unreasonably, I thought) that a police officer would be able to come out and open the car door.
After taking many, many details from me about myself and my car, the lady who had answered the call said they would come out as soon as they could, but that all they could do would be to smash a window.
I wasn't hugely impressed with that, since I could smash my own window, although I was of the opinion that I would prefer not to owing to the close proximity of the small child, and 'as soon as they could' sounded slightly vague. I tried to impress upon her that the car was hot and my toddler was distressed, and then we waited.
After ten minutes, my sister had a brainwave. The garage where I bought the car was only about a mile away; perhaps someone there would be able to open the car.
The police rang back. They had discovered that they didn't have a patrol car in the area, and didn't know how long it would be before they could attend.
My sister rang the garage, and the man who answered assured her he'd be here in five minutes - and he was. He and his colleague had opened the car within several minutes (WITHOUT smashing a window, I might add) and I was able to sweep my very hot and really rather cross toddler out of his car seat and into a relieved hug. Like Supermarket Superheroes, the men would accept no payment for their rescue effort, and jumped swiftly back into their car to return to work before I'd even had a proper chance to thank them.
Just before the moment that the garage men managed to open the door, my sister, my mother and I watched with incredulity as a marked police car drew up outside the supermarket, and in a leisurely fashion a policeman got out and wandered off into the store. Of course, it would be pure speculation on my part to suggest that the purpose of his visit was to perhaps procure some lunch.
And really, he should be congratulated. It is no mean feat to visit a place whilst being simultaneously nowhere near it.
Monday, 23 April 2007
Look At Me
A few days ago, it was reported that Macmillan Children's Books had signed one Geri Halliwell for a six book deal.
Ms Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice and then "the one who left and released that bloody awful single and stopped eating", has a website about her forthcoming fiction debut, to render us all breathless with excitement at the prospect of the release of the Ugenia Lavender series and, if that were not enough for our delectation, a song to accompany the series.
On this website, there is an extract from Ugenia Lavender to whet our appetites.
Or, I fear, not.
I would dearly love to be able to say that the publisher has chosen this work because of its crackling writing and unparallelled quality and that the fact that it is written by a celebrity is irrelevant. Unhappily, being of an honest nature, I cannot.
This extract is the most appalling example of utterly dreadful writing I have had the misfortune to stumble across since I once accidentally read half a page of Heat magazine. The heroine's name puts one in mind of an unfortunate bladder infection, and the general standard of the prose is mind-bogglingly poor.
It is a travesty that Macmillan have published this, and all because it is accompanied by the name of a celebrity. At least, one can only presume that to be the reason, because according to the extract on the Ugenia Lavender website there are no other redeeming features to recommend it.
Is Geri really so self-delusional that, like the contestants of the X Factor who shriek like a thousand cats on fire and still expect to be the next...well, Geri Halliwell, she believes that she has a talent for writing fiction that will be enthuse the nation's children to become prolific readers? It is more likely they will decide never to pick up a book again on the basis of it; and who could blame them? Are Macmillan out of their minds? Or do they also prefer the name tag of a celebrity in favour of quality when they choose which books to publish? Can we assume that as Macmillan have chosen to publish this substandard work, they don't believe that children deserve or need reading material of quality and originality? How very insulting to the young.
The UK become so obsessed with the mindless celebrity culture that an Emperor's New Clothes phenomenon has been created. One can only hope that as these books are written for children that those children will, with the unpretentious and unbiased honesty of youth, point and laugh at these books and declare them to be naked of talent and merit.
Ms Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice and then "the one who left and released that bloody awful single and stopped eating", has a website about her forthcoming fiction debut, to render us all breathless with excitement at the prospect of the release of the Ugenia Lavender series and, if that were not enough for our delectation, a song to accompany the series.
On this website, there is an extract from Ugenia Lavender to whet our appetites.
Or, I fear, not.
I would dearly love to be able to say that the publisher has chosen this work because of its crackling writing and unparallelled quality and that the fact that it is written by a celebrity is irrelevant. Unhappily, being of an honest nature, I cannot.
This extract is the most appalling example of utterly dreadful writing I have had the misfortune to stumble across since I once accidentally read half a page of Heat magazine. The heroine's name puts one in mind of an unfortunate bladder infection, and the general standard of the prose is mind-bogglingly poor.
It is a travesty that Macmillan have published this, and all because it is accompanied by the name of a celebrity. At least, one can only presume that to be the reason, because according to the extract on the Ugenia Lavender website there are no other redeeming features to recommend it.
Is Geri really so self-delusional that, like the contestants of the X Factor who shriek like a thousand cats on fire and still expect to be the next...well, Geri Halliwell, she believes that she has a talent for writing fiction that will be enthuse the nation's children to become prolific readers? It is more likely they will decide never to pick up a book again on the basis of it; and who could blame them? Are Macmillan out of their minds? Or do they also prefer the name tag of a celebrity in favour of quality when they choose which books to publish? Can we assume that as Macmillan have chosen to publish this substandard work, they don't believe that children deserve or need reading material of quality and originality? How very insulting to the young.
The UK become so obsessed with the mindless celebrity culture that an Emperor's New Clothes phenomenon has been created. One can only hope that as these books are written for children that those children will, with the unpretentious and unbiased honesty of youth, point and laugh at these books and declare them to be naked of talent and merit.
Thursday, 19 April 2007
A Moral Foundation
Today, I bought some make-up.
I did not realise before I entered the shop how difficult the process would be, else I might never have taken the first steps on the long and arduous road to purchase some new foundation. I may well have considered that remaining flawed and blotchy forever would be an easier course of action than the one I was about to take. And believe me, I AM flawed and blotchy. Don't be fooled into thinking that would be a sight that would not scare small children and give old ladies fainting fits. It would. But perhaps I would not have cared about the pain of others, had I known that which I would have to endure myself.
I knew what I wanted, but they didn't sell it. They sold something really quite like it though - almost exactly the same, in fact - from a different manufacturer but 'they make ours anyway, so there's no difference'.
Only when I had naively sat in a chair at the make-up counter did the sales assistant add "Of course, our products are completely different to one you already have". I tried to move, but the bright light shining in my eyes prevented me from doing so, and I swear that invisible stealth-belts had silently and swiftly pinned me to the chair.
"Our products are more natural. Because we are more...fragrance-free and 'clinical'", the assistant assured me. "You know what I mean", she said, as a statement rather than a question.
I didn't know what she meant in the slightest but before I could inform her of this fact and ask her to clarify it in a way that made actual sense, she had loomed over me and scrubbed my cheek with a damp ball of cotton wool.
Instinctively I jerked my head away from her. "What are you doing?" I hissed, crossly.
"Oh, is it cold? Sorry." She smiled a slightly frightening smile. The fear I felt may have come from the fact that now she was standing at an angle which meant I was looking up at her, I could see the line on her jaw where her bare skin and her made-up skin joined.
"No, I mean what are you..."
"Just keep still for me there, that's it" she commanded, her hands steadying my head and preventing me from speaking, while she proceeded to slop foundation in a completely incongruous shade on to my newly cleansed face.
"I don't think that one..." I started, but trailed off as she quickly and thickly applied a stripe of a different colour below it, and a third below that.
"Right, I'll just serve this lady while you just sit there for a moment so we can see if your skin likes them" she breezed. "Don't worry, you won't look like a Red Indian for long!"
So I sat in a shop, the spotlight upon me, wondering whether there could be a more politically-incorrect remark for her to make, and sheepishly realised that I was trapped. Even without the invisible stealth-belts, I could hardly walk out of the shop and through the town with three big stripes across one side of my face. I mean, I like Adam Ant as much as the next person, but I have no desire to actually be mistaken for him.
Eventually, she returned. I had to admit, begrudgingly, that one of the stripes, when applied at a lesser ratio of half-pot of foundation : 2 square inches of skin actually looked quite good.
She scrubbed the rest off and applied the one I liked again on the whole of my cheek. I ripped through the stealth-belts and demanded that I take the mirror to the doorway to inspect the results in natural light, since she clearly hadn't performed that vital step herself. Perhaps she had done it purposely, as a warning to her customers. But I doubt it.
It looked fine.
I had a slight dilemma now. Buy this product from this scary lady who uses racist terminology and assaults women by cotton wool without prior consent.
Or face the prospect of having to do this again.
"How much is it?" I asked.
It was a few pounds less than the product I had originally intended to buy.
"I'll take it", I told her, as I shamefully sold my principles for the royal sum of £4.00.
To all persons native to America, I apologise. But in my defence, it really does look nice.
I did not realise before I entered the shop how difficult the process would be, else I might never have taken the first steps on the long and arduous road to purchase some new foundation. I may well have considered that remaining flawed and blotchy forever would be an easier course of action than the one I was about to take. And believe me, I AM flawed and blotchy. Don't be fooled into thinking that would be a sight that would not scare small children and give old ladies fainting fits. It would. But perhaps I would not have cared about the pain of others, had I known that which I would have to endure myself.
I knew what I wanted, but they didn't sell it. They sold something really quite like it though - almost exactly the same, in fact - from a different manufacturer but 'they make ours anyway, so there's no difference'.
Only when I had naively sat in a chair at the make-up counter did the sales assistant add "Of course, our products are completely different to one you already have". I tried to move, but the bright light shining in my eyes prevented me from doing so, and I swear that invisible stealth-belts had silently and swiftly pinned me to the chair.
"Our products are more natural. Because we are more...fragrance-free and 'clinical'", the assistant assured me. "You know what I mean", she said, as a statement rather than a question.
I didn't know what she meant in the slightest but before I could inform her of this fact and ask her to clarify it in a way that made actual sense, she had loomed over me and scrubbed my cheek with a damp ball of cotton wool.
Instinctively I jerked my head away from her. "What are you doing?" I hissed, crossly.
"Oh, is it cold? Sorry." She smiled a slightly frightening smile. The fear I felt may have come from the fact that now she was standing at an angle which meant I was looking up at her, I could see the line on her jaw where her bare skin and her made-up skin joined.
"No, I mean what are you..."
"Just keep still for me there, that's it" she commanded, her hands steadying my head and preventing me from speaking, while she proceeded to slop foundation in a completely incongruous shade on to my newly cleansed face.
"I don't think that one..." I started, but trailed off as she quickly and thickly applied a stripe of a different colour below it, and a third below that.
"Right, I'll just serve this lady while you just sit there for a moment so we can see if your skin likes them" she breezed. "Don't worry, you won't look like a Red Indian for long!"
So I sat in a shop, the spotlight upon me, wondering whether there could be a more politically-incorrect remark for her to make, and sheepishly realised that I was trapped. Even without the invisible stealth-belts, I could hardly walk out of the shop and through the town with three big stripes across one side of my face. I mean, I like Adam Ant as much as the next person, but I have no desire to actually be mistaken for him.
Eventually, she returned. I had to admit, begrudgingly, that one of the stripes, when applied at a lesser ratio of half-pot of foundation : 2 square inches of skin actually looked quite good.
She scrubbed the rest off and applied the one I liked again on the whole of my cheek. I ripped through the stealth-belts and demanded that I take the mirror to the doorway to inspect the results in natural light, since she clearly hadn't performed that vital step herself. Perhaps she had done it purposely, as a warning to her customers. But I doubt it.
It looked fine.
I had a slight dilemma now. Buy this product from this scary lady who uses racist terminology and assaults women by cotton wool without prior consent.
Or face the prospect of having to do this again.
"How much is it?" I asked.
It was a few pounds less than the product I had originally intended to buy.
"I'll take it", I told her, as I shamefully sold my principles for the royal sum of £4.00.
To all persons native to America, I apologise. But in my defence, it really does look nice.
Sunday, 1 April 2007
Pause
Shortly after the last time I posted here, we had a family bereavement.
I will be back to continue blogging when I feel able.
(Whether that is a good thing or not is purely a matter of opinion).
I will be back to continue blogging when I feel able.
(Whether that is a good thing or not is purely a matter of opinion).
Monday, 19 March 2007
The Eyebrows Have It
Last night, I was looking forward to the start of ITV's Jane Austen season.
Just before 9pm, I settled down in front of the television with a cup of tea and some chocolate and after hearing that the current series of the abominable 'Wild At Heart' had just finished, I was feeling extremely pleased.
I like a good period drama, and generally find myself able to watch them without the irritation some people feel at minor plot changes and exclusions, on the basis that they are adaptations of the books they represent, reworked for a different medium.
Small details don't affect my enjoyment. I am able to override my usually pedantic nature and just enjoy. Or so I thought, until the first time Billie Piper appeared on screen in Mansfield Park last night.
Immediately, she jarred my eye. She looked all wrong. She looked too present day. I sat pondering for a minute or two as to why that was; she was of course in full costume along with everyone else, so why did she look so out of place? I quickly realised I was entirely distracted from the storyline, and indeed the entire programme, by her appearance.
It took me some moments to realise that it was her eyebrows that were causing my dismay; they were as incongruous as two monstrous futuristic cyber-caterpillars in the early 19th century setting. They were a completely different colour to her hair. That, of course, was because her hair was very obviously bleached, in a very 21st century manner. This train of thought then prodded me to notice that she actually had dark roots creeping ominously through.
From then on, I just could not watch this programme and enjoy it. Every time she appeared, it irritated me to the point of desperately wanting Edmund to lock in her an attic and pretend she didn't exist, and then marry Miss Crawford instead. Yes, I know I'm confusing the plot with that of Jayne Eyre, but I just think it would have helped to borrow from it in this case. I would have been equally happy if the Tardis had appeared and David Tennent had whisked her off to annoy some Daleks, as long as he had taken the eyebrows as well. Actually, the fact that she looked as if she had one foot in the past and the other in the future actually made me expect this to turn out to be a surprise episode of Doctor Who. If it had been a BBC production, I think I would have been disappointed when he failed to appear.
I cannot comment as to how good or poor this was as an adaptation of Jane Austen's novel; I cannot even discuss properly what it was like as a piece in its own right, because I was so utterly absorbed in my pedantic objection of poor Billie's unfortunate hair and eyebrow anomaly that I eventually had to turn off the TV and do something less annoying instead.
All I had for consolation was the knowledge that next Sunday I can leave the television on after Coronation Street without being subjected to the rollercoster of emotion caused by Amanda Holden saying "Oh no, it's all gone wrong! We'll have to go back to England!" and raising my hopes, only to dash them to pieces again when they decide to stay in Africa for yet another tedious episode after all. Still, at least Jamie Theakston's not in it. You have to count your blessings.
Just before 9pm, I settled down in front of the television with a cup of tea and some chocolate and after hearing that the current series of the abominable 'Wild At Heart' had just finished, I was feeling extremely pleased.
I like a good period drama, and generally find myself able to watch them without the irritation some people feel at minor plot changes and exclusions, on the basis that they are adaptations of the books they represent, reworked for a different medium.
Small details don't affect my enjoyment. I am able to override my usually pedantic nature and just enjoy. Or so I thought, until the first time Billie Piper appeared on screen in Mansfield Park last night.
Immediately, she jarred my eye. She looked all wrong. She looked too present day. I sat pondering for a minute or two as to why that was; she was of course in full costume along with everyone else, so why did she look so out of place? I quickly realised I was entirely distracted from the storyline, and indeed the entire programme, by her appearance.
It took me some moments to realise that it was her eyebrows that were causing my dismay; they were as incongruous as two monstrous futuristic cyber-caterpillars in the early 19th century setting. They were a completely different colour to her hair. That, of course, was because her hair was very obviously bleached, in a very 21st century manner. This train of thought then prodded me to notice that she actually had dark roots creeping ominously through.
From then on, I just could not watch this programme and enjoy it. Every time she appeared, it irritated me to the point of desperately wanting Edmund to lock in her an attic and pretend she didn't exist, and then marry Miss Crawford instead. Yes, I know I'm confusing the plot with that of Jayne Eyre, but I just think it would have helped to borrow from it in this case. I would have been equally happy if the Tardis had appeared and David Tennent had whisked her off to annoy some Daleks, as long as he had taken the eyebrows as well. Actually, the fact that she looked as if she had one foot in the past and the other in the future actually made me expect this to turn out to be a surprise episode of Doctor Who. If it had been a BBC production, I think I would have been disappointed when he failed to appear.
I cannot comment as to how good or poor this was as an adaptation of Jane Austen's novel; I cannot even discuss properly what it was like as a piece in its own right, because I was so utterly absorbed in my pedantic objection of poor Billie's unfortunate hair and eyebrow anomaly that I eventually had to turn off the TV and do something less annoying instead.
All I had for consolation was the knowledge that next Sunday I can leave the television on after Coronation Street without being subjected to the rollercoster of emotion caused by Amanda Holden saying "Oh no, it's all gone wrong! We'll have to go back to England!" and raising my hopes, only to dash them to pieces again when they decide to stay in Africa for yet another tedious episode after all. Still, at least Jamie Theakston's not in it. You have to count your blessings.
Saturday, 17 March 2007
I've Forgotten My Lines
I think I have stage fright.
Since the list of contributors to Shaggy Blog Stories was announced yesterday, the number of people who have looked at this blog has risen considerably. Almost as many people looked yesterday than have looked in total since I started. It's very exciting, and a nice little boost for my ego, but I think I have a case of Rabbit In The Headlights syndrome.
I haven't been able to think of a single interesting thing to write since I realised people may actually be reading. You could say that I wasn't interesting in the first place, or point out that just because people are clicking on to this page it doesn't mean they're reading past the first paragraph, which made them yawn.
Feel free to say that. It is what I am saying to myself, to make myself feel less nervous.
It's quite ridiculous really; I write this blog in the public domain, and obviously I was aware of that when I started. I wanted people to read it, or I wouldn't have started. I'm not a complete mentalist, after all. Now there may be people doing just that, it's occurred to me that anything I have written is open to criticism. But that's ok. All I have to do is never say anything controversial again.
And Girls Aloud obviously haven't read it. Or if they have, they don't know it's me, because no-one has assaulted me in a pub toilet. I guess they're busy picking out their next victim for their hideous cover version crime spree. They've already destroyed poor Steven Tyler. Which poor, unsuspecting musician will they move on to next?
Using the term 'musician' loosely, wouldn't it just be beautiful poetic justice if they did a Ronan Keating cover?
Tracy Chapman, The Goo Goo Dolls and Shane McGowan would probably be eternally grateful for the opportunity to listen to such an act of revenge.
Sadly, there is one flaw in this plan; I'm not sure which of Ronan's offerings they could actually make any worse.
Since the list of contributors to Shaggy Blog Stories was announced yesterday, the number of people who have looked at this blog has risen considerably. Almost as many people looked yesterday than have looked in total since I started. It's very exciting, and a nice little boost for my ego, but I think I have a case of Rabbit In The Headlights syndrome.
I haven't been able to think of a single interesting thing to write since I realised people may actually be reading. You could say that I wasn't interesting in the first place, or point out that just because people are clicking on to this page it doesn't mean they're reading past the first paragraph, which made them yawn.
Feel free to say that. It is what I am saying to myself, to make myself feel less nervous.
It's quite ridiculous really; I write this blog in the public domain, and obviously I was aware of that when I started. I wanted people to read it, or I wouldn't have started. I'm not a complete mentalist, after all. Now there may be people doing just that, it's occurred to me that anything I have written is open to criticism. But that's ok. All I have to do is never say anything controversial again.
And Girls Aloud obviously haven't read it. Or if they have, they don't know it's me, because no-one has assaulted me in a pub toilet. I guess they're busy picking out their next victim for their hideous cover version crime spree. They've already destroyed poor Steven Tyler. Which poor, unsuspecting musician will they move on to next?
Using the term 'musician' loosely, wouldn't it just be beautiful poetic justice if they did a Ronan Keating cover?
Tracy Chapman, The Goo Goo Dolls and Shane McGowan would probably be eternally grateful for the opportunity to listen to such an act of revenge.
Sadly, there is one flaw in this plan; I'm not sure which of Ronan's offerings they could actually make any worse.
Friday, 16 March 2007
Shaggy Blog Stories
Buy this book.
I am in it.
So are 99 other lovely people.
You can buy it here:
www.shaggyblogstories.co.uk
All profits will go to Comic Relief. The kind publishers have even donated their profit share.
We are Steven Tyler. Non-purchasers are Girls Aloud.
You know what you must do.
Wednesday, 14 March 2007
It's a Sign
"Nose Piercing While You Wait" and "Horse Carrots for Sale".
These are signs I saw today.
I used to have my nose pierced when I was younger. Luckily, I had it done by someone who did it while I waited, thus preventing the necessity of detaching my nose from the rest of my face and having to make an inconvenient return trip to collect it after I'd finished shopping.
Having said that, I suppose my nose not being part of my face at the time it was pierced would have meant that my eyes would have watered a whole lot less at the moment of hole punching. So that sign doesn't convey only advantages.
As for Horse Carrots...what are they then?
Carrots in the shape of horses?
Carrots made from horses?
Carrots for horses, specifically? In what way would they actually be different from ordinary carrots?
Answers on a postcard, please. I am intrigued.
These are signs I saw today.
I used to have my nose pierced when I was younger. Luckily, I had it done by someone who did it while I waited, thus preventing the necessity of detaching my nose from the rest of my face and having to make an inconvenient return trip to collect it after I'd finished shopping.
Having said that, I suppose my nose not being part of my face at the time it was pierced would have meant that my eyes would have watered a whole lot less at the moment of hole punching. So that sign doesn't convey only advantages.
As for Horse Carrots...what are they then?
Carrots in the shape of horses?
Carrots made from horses?
Carrots for horses, specifically? In what way would they actually be different from ordinary carrots?
Answers on a postcard, please. I am intrigued.
Monday, 12 March 2007
An Antidote to Girls-Who-Shouldn't-Be-Allowed
Comic Relief used to be a thing of lighthearted entertainment. Lenny Henry wearing a red nose. French and Saunders collaborating with Bananarama. The time our headmaster was shamed and compared with Ebenezer Scrooge on the front of the Daily Mirror for not allowing red noses in school. (That was a particular highlight for me, being about 13 at the time and having a slightly nasty nature and contempt for authority).
This year, there is a Thing which I can hardly bear to think about, let alone talk about. And especially not listen to. Ever. It is a Thing of such Evil that one would be forgiven for wondering if one had been temporarily transported into the inner circles of Hell when one is subjected to the torturous power of it draining all the happiness in the world away.
It is the cover of 'Walk This Way' by Girls Aloud 'vs' The Sugababes.
I have, to misquote John Cleese, listened to it once but I think I got away with it. I have, as far as I can tell, made a complete recovery without any lasting ill-effects. Well, except for the nightmares and the urge to track down Steven Tyler and travel to wherever he is in the world at this moment, just to pat him on the head and say "Never mind. You could never have predicted the terrible effects your invention could wreak on the world if it fell into the wrong hands". Poor bloke. How devastating must it be to have been responsible for both the joy of the Run DMC version and the sorrow of this one. A Tale of Two Versions; it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Still, despite the horror of both the continued third world poverty and this year's Comic Relief song (I'm not crass enough to make a direct comparison of those two, by the way; it's obvious that the Girls Aloud Thing is much worse), there is a Good Thing this year too.
A wonderfully ambitious and exciting Big Idea by Mike at Troubled Diva, to produce a compilation of funny posts from British bloggers and publish it, with all proceeds to Comic Relief. The emphasis is on funny, as it's Comic Relief; (not Colonic Relief as you might think from the Evil Thing) and all British and ex-pat bloggers are invited to send Mike a submission. The deadline for submissions is 6pm on Tuesday 13 March 2007 and the resulting book will be available from Friday.
Mike explains it more fully, and just better, with this post.
Don't listen to the song, ever, if you can help it. Not even out of morbid curiosity. You'll regret it; take it from someone who has been there and recovered, with the help of many hours of (Aerosmith) therapy.
Contribute to the book, and buy the book, and help keep Comic Relief funny.
This year, there is a Thing which I can hardly bear to think about, let alone talk about. And especially not listen to. Ever. It is a Thing of such Evil that one would be forgiven for wondering if one had been temporarily transported into the inner circles of Hell when one is subjected to the torturous power of it draining all the happiness in the world away.
It is the cover of 'Walk This Way' by Girls Aloud 'vs' The Sugababes.
I have, to misquote John Cleese, listened to it once but I think I got away with it. I have, as far as I can tell, made a complete recovery without any lasting ill-effects. Well, except for the nightmares and the urge to track down Steven Tyler and travel to wherever he is in the world at this moment, just to pat him on the head and say "Never mind. You could never have predicted the terrible effects your invention could wreak on the world if it fell into the wrong hands". Poor bloke. How devastating must it be to have been responsible for both the joy of the Run DMC version and the sorrow of this one. A Tale of Two Versions; it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Still, despite the horror of both the continued third world poverty and this year's Comic Relief song (I'm not crass enough to make a direct comparison of those two, by the way; it's obvious that the Girls Aloud Thing is much worse), there is a Good Thing this year too.
A wonderfully ambitious and exciting Big Idea by Mike at Troubled Diva, to produce a compilation of funny posts from British bloggers and publish it, with all proceeds to Comic Relief. The emphasis is on funny, as it's Comic Relief; (not Colonic Relief as you might think from the Evil Thing) and all British and ex-pat bloggers are invited to send Mike a submission. The deadline for submissions is 6pm on Tuesday 13 March 2007 and the resulting book will be available from Friday.
Mike explains it more fully, and just better, with this post.
Don't listen to the song, ever, if you can help it. Not even out of morbid curiosity. You'll regret it; take it from someone who has been there and recovered, with the help of many hours of (Aerosmith) therapy.
Contribute to the book, and buy the book, and help keep Comic Relief funny.
Thursday, 8 March 2007
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