While I don't believe a person can be too-Jewish, especially not in this modern age, it's possible that I speak a slightly different language from some people.
So I just had a hysterical phone conversation with a blog-friend (not Jewish), who pointed out that there's been an increase in words he doesn't understand, recently, but he does enjoy working out what they may mean. And I tell him that I think some of my yiddishisms are relatively obscure, and probably a lot of Jewish people don't get them, either. And also, since I stopped italicising Yiddish/Hebrew words, as I'm no longer prepared to other my heritage, it's probably a lot harder to tell what's Yiddish and what's a typo.
I imagine.
"So," he says to me, "you're getting more frum. I've been wondering what that means, from the context."
"Go on," I encourage him.
"Well, I've decided that it means traditionally devout. It's a great word. Kinda sounds like prim."
And, while frum is often translated as observant, or relgious, I think traditionally devout is better. Although it goes without saying that I feel neither traditional or devout. I mean, I know people so much more traditionally devout that me, that comparatively, me with my post-denominational flexible approach, I can hardly call myself frum.
Which just goes to show maybe outsiders-looking-in have a better idea about what things mean than people on the inside.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Every so often, people ask me if I'm moving house because about two years ago I thought I would sell my flat privately and sent email to everyone I know. Then I changed my mind. These things can happen.
I've been oscilating between the Kilburn/Finchley triangle (wherever that is) for a few years. I like urban. I like graffiti. I like community (which I can get in both, to varying degrees).
Anyway, here's one house I won't be buying: 44 Grove End Road, St Johns Wood. A bargain at only £17m.
I've been oscilating between the Kilburn/Finchley triangle (wherever that is) for a few years. I like urban. I like graffiti. I like community (which I can get in both, to varying degrees).
Anyway, here's one house I won't be buying: 44 Grove End Road, St Johns Wood. A bargain at only £17m.
Car insurance costs set to rise - another good reason to give up your car. Apart from the planet, that is. And the maintenance. And the hassle.
For the last month, I have been planning my car travel more carefully, and keeping a detailed spreadsheet of journeys to see how much I genuinely use it. And it's 50/50 on cost as to whether it would be cheaper to join a car club. Although it would definitely be better. Although slightly more inconvenient. I think what'll swing it is if I can get into cycling for local journeys.
For the last month, I have been planning my car travel more carefully, and keeping a detailed spreadsheet of journeys to see how much I genuinely use it. And it's 50/50 on cost as to whether it would be cheaper to join a car club. Although it would definitely be better. Although slightly more inconvenient. I think what'll swing it is if I can get into cycling for local journeys.
Today's word: wikiality. The power of collective thought, or something.
Having said that, when I lived in Singapore, the rabbi there had sort of convinced the community that there was no halachic (Jewish law) requirement for kosher cheese. Cheese is not such a big thing in Asia, but even so. I sort of was with him, and sort of felt like someone has to uphold the rules. And he said you could go in a rickshaw to shul because of the 95% humidity. Me, I'm flexible. I'm not convinced halacha should be.
Having said that, when I lived in Singapore, the rabbi there had sort of convinced the community that there was no halachic (Jewish law) requirement for kosher cheese. Cheese is not such a big thing in Asia, but even so. I sort of was with him, and sort of felt like someone has to uphold the rules. And he said you could go in a rickshaw to shul because of the 95% humidity. Me, I'm flexible. I'm not convinced halacha should be.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I have a very old friend A, who is a doctor. And, were I to run an analysis of my address book, quite a few of my friends are doctors. But then, I am Jewish. And middle class.
A and I ocassionally chat during the day - he is pretty senior, hence has his own phone - and I'm always left with the feeling that he's doing something important in the world, saving lives. Once we spent New Year's eve together, and he had to go out and find a patient at like 11.30 for a life saving operation. I often think about that. I'm just... researching how people can move money around, get bigger bonuses, develop new technology, talk. Not that these things are intrinsically bad. Just... less important.
You like to feel that in some way, you make your mark on the world. I used to, but I think I do it less. Well, apart from writing, which leaves a mark of sort. Imprint, more like. Reflection. I used to be a volunteer telephone counsellor, and that was good. If not requiring of me to talk in that "I'm wondering how you're feeling about starting a conversation around the issue of..." kinda way. Which mightily pissed me off. And made my co-volunteers wonder what it was like on Planet Commercial And Straight Talking. But the intrinsic work was good, rewarding. I think I may go back.
A and I ocassionally chat during the day - he is pretty senior, hence has his own phone - and I'm always left with the feeling that he's doing something important in the world, saving lives. Once we spent New Year's eve together, and he had to go out and find a patient at like 11.30 for a life saving operation. I often think about that. I'm just... researching how people can move money around, get bigger bonuses, develop new technology, talk. Not that these things are intrinsically bad. Just... less important.
You like to feel that in some way, you make your mark on the world. I used to, but I think I do it less. Well, apart from writing, which leaves a mark of sort. Imprint, more like. Reflection. I used to be a volunteer telephone counsellor, and that was good. If not requiring of me to talk in that "I'm wondering how you're feeling about starting a conversation around the issue of..." kinda way. Which mightily pissed me off. And made my co-volunteers wonder what it was like on Planet Commercial And Straight Talking. But the intrinsic work was good, rewarding. I think I may go back.
So Neil Boorman of Bonfire Of The Brands is going to burn all his branded goods some time next week.
Reminds me a little bit of Michael Landy's 2001 piece, Breakdown. Remember that? It was when C&A closed on Oxford Street, and he took over the building and had loads of people cataloguing all his stuff before he got rid of it.
In other, quasi-relevant googling: Low Budget Life is a kinda anti-consumerism site.
I aspire to a low-budget life. But also, I like nice things. How does one balance things out? I buy way less than I used to, partly because I bought so much before I don't really need anything. But then sometimes, I really want things. But then I realise that more things just don't make you happy. In fact, more things give you maintenance contracts and dry cleaning bills and having to worry about your things.
Reminds me a little bit of Michael Landy's 2001 piece, Breakdown. Remember that? It was when C&A closed on Oxford Street, and he took over the building and had loads of people cataloguing all his stuff before he got rid of it.
In other, quasi-relevant googling: Low Budget Life is a kinda anti-consumerism site.
I aspire to a low-budget life. But also, I like nice things. How does one balance things out? I buy way less than I used to, partly because I bought so much before I don't really need anything. But then sometimes, I really want things. But then I realise that more things just don't make you happy. In fact, more things give you maintenance contracts and dry cleaning bills and having to worry about your things.
I had to go to a funeral yesterday (this is the fourth funeral, sadly, I have been to in as many months).
I know, when I say this to non-Jewish friends, they are often very sympathetic. And of course, going to a funeral is never fun. But when you're involved in a community, you go to a lot of funerals.
When I had a job-job, I did go to a funeral every so often; extended family, almost-aunts/uncles, people I'd grown up with. The way I grew up is, if you're close enough to be invited to someone's simcha (party/wedding/barmitzvah etc), then you're close enough for the "bad stuff." My boss was always, "yeah, right, of course, another funeral" and I think they were very convinced I was job hunting. Which I wasn't. But if you live in a community, where people are different ages, you know more people at different life stages than you, and that's how it goes. And I'd never lie about a job interview: I'd either make it at 7am, or take half a day's holiday.
Of course now my boss (me) is a little more laissez-faire. And also, I don't have to look for a job anymore. Unless my boss has plans for me that I don't know about. This split personality thing is really getting to me.
So a friend, sadly, lost his mum after a long illness. And I think it's truly part of living in a community that the people you see week-in, week-out, even if it's only in shul for five minutes (or in our case, on IM, as we are a little more virtual, although I do go to shul as well), they're the people who should be there when big lifecycle things happen.
When there's a shiva, you take food. It's about supporting people in tough times. And also, as we all know, food is love. When I was a teenager, some people from Cheadle, very sadly and tragically, lost their son in a car accident, he was a couple of years older than me. I remember that his mum said that her best friend wrote her a letter saying "I'm sure you'll want to be alone at this difficult time." But because she lived in Cheadle, lots of Jewish people she kinda-knew (school, rotas, etc) came round, visited, brought food.
And years later, she said to my mum "if someone dies now, I go round, and I know exactly what to do. I say to them, this is what Jewish people do, they take round a salmon."
As an almost-vegetarian, I have made chilli. A dressed salmon (cucumber slices for scales) is not quite my style. Also, I haven't had fish for a while, now.
I know, when I say this to non-Jewish friends, they are often very sympathetic. And of course, going to a funeral is never fun. But when you're involved in a community, you go to a lot of funerals.
When I had a job-job, I did go to a funeral every so often; extended family, almost-aunts/uncles, people I'd grown up with. The way I grew up is, if you're close enough to be invited to someone's simcha (party/wedding/barmitzvah etc), then you're close enough for the "bad stuff." My boss was always, "yeah, right, of course, another funeral" and I think they were very convinced I was job hunting. Which I wasn't. But if you live in a community, where people are different ages, you know more people at different life stages than you, and that's how it goes. And I'd never lie about a job interview: I'd either make it at 7am, or take half a day's holiday.
Of course now my boss (me) is a little more laissez-faire. And also, I don't have to look for a job anymore. Unless my boss has plans for me that I don't know about. This split personality thing is really getting to me.
So a friend, sadly, lost his mum after a long illness. And I think it's truly part of living in a community that the people you see week-in, week-out, even if it's only in shul for five minutes (or in our case, on IM, as we are a little more virtual, although I do go to shul as well), they're the people who should be there when big lifecycle things happen.
When there's a shiva, you take food. It's about supporting people in tough times. And also, as we all know, food is love. When I was a teenager, some people from Cheadle, very sadly and tragically, lost their son in a car accident, he was a couple of years older than me. I remember that his mum said that her best friend wrote her a letter saying "I'm sure you'll want to be alone at this difficult time." But because she lived in Cheadle, lots of Jewish people she kinda-knew (school, rotas, etc) came round, visited, brought food.
And years later, she said to my mum "if someone dies now, I go round, and I know exactly what to do. I say to them, this is what Jewish people do, they take round a salmon."
As an almost-vegetarian, I have made chilli. A dressed salmon (cucumber slices for scales) is not quite my style. Also, I haven't had fish for a while, now.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
For those who are interested in these things, I should tell you that I think my mojito appears to have returned, and I'm taking it to netball in a minute. It could be the lovely weekend, or the restorative cups of tea, or the lunar phase. Or anything, frankly (although I can guess, but I'm not saying, here.)
Thank you to everyone who left comments and mailed me, and I'm sorry if I didn't get to get back to each of you individually. But it was really nice. Mrs Havelock in junior school said only Enid Blyton used the word nice, but for this ocassion, it's spot on. There are lots of lovely people out there in the world, and quite a few of them seem to read my blog.
Readers, I thank you.
Thank you to everyone who left comments and mailed me, and I'm sorry if I didn't get to get back to each of you individually. But it was really nice. Mrs Havelock in junior school said only Enid Blyton used the word nice, but for this ocassion, it's spot on. There are lots of lovely people out there in the world, and quite a few of them seem to read my blog.
Readers, I thank you.
Meet the bloggers on Radio 4.
leaves (two)
Another of my weekend photos. Just be thankful I don't print them all out on glossy paper and invite you round to my house for coffee and to look at my holiday snaps. I mean.
Years ago, some friends got married and went travelling through India for six weeks on their honeymoon and took like twenty-eight rolls of film. I went round for the evening, and they got out the first folder and showed me the first photo and said "this guy, we met on the plane, his family... "
I knew it was going to be a long night.
Years ago, some friends got married and went travelling through India for six weeks on their honeymoon and took like twenty-eight rolls of film. I went round for the evening, and they got out the first folder and showed me the first photo and said "this guy, we met on the plane, his family... "
I knew it was going to be a long night.
leaves (one)
Singing in the rain. Our walk yesterday morning (early, you can tell from the light).
Every so often I take a photo that I really like.
Every so often I take a photo that I really like.
Through the rectangular window
Memento of my weekend... people in Suffolk don't have net curtains, even if they live on the main drag. Not that I believe in net curtains, of course.
I have a problem.
Sometimes, these things are embarassing. You know, hard to talk about.
Maybe I could get into a twelve step programme.
It is - kinda - an addiction. But then, everything seems to be an addiction, nowadays.
It's this: I like to accessorise. In itself, not so bad, but I think I like to over-accessorise. A friend came round recently and we were doing that girly thing of going through your buddy's wardrobe, and she pointed out to me that I have a lot of outfits.
And I do. I grew up on outfits. Making an outfit out of something was a highly prized skill. Knowing what to put with that.
But that matching thing, it's kinda a little passe. And like, for my house I definitely don't do matching. I pride myself on my boho-chic junk-shop look, and it feels... relaxing. Not too overdone.
But somehow, for clothes, I still have a little bit of that... that thing that makes women in the David Lloyd gym have a pink top that matches the stripe in the side of their trousers. The stripe that is continued in the jacket. C'mon, you've seen them. They have manicures.
And even though I hate that look and would really never do it, I understand it. I understand wanting it all to match and be perfect. To feel done.
But done is not very now.
I had coffee with B last night, and we were talking about what to wear to J's party next weekend. And she pointed out that, really, most people wear jeans. Maybe with a dressy top, or some cleavage (pronounced clu-varrrge, obviously), or even both. The days of having a dress, or an outfit, they're kinda gone. We are the permanently informal society. It's just like, if they're Diesel jeans you know someone dressed up.
Of course, for J's party there may be people from both sides of the fashion sense/fence. I don't know which side I'm on.
But I do have a lot of outfits.
Even if, I don't really wear them. But I think I might.
You can take the girl out of Cheadle, but you can't take Cheadle out of the girl. Or something.
Sometimes, these things are embarassing. You know, hard to talk about.
Maybe I could get into a twelve step programme.
It is - kinda - an addiction. But then, everything seems to be an addiction, nowadays.
It's this: I like to accessorise. In itself, not so bad, but I think I like to over-accessorise. A friend came round recently and we were doing that girly thing of going through your buddy's wardrobe, and she pointed out to me that I have a lot of outfits.
And I do. I grew up on outfits. Making an outfit out of something was a highly prized skill. Knowing what to put with that.
But that matching thing, it's kinda a little passe. And like, for my house I definitely don't do matching. I pride myself on my boho-chic junk-shop look, and it feels... relaxing. Not too overdone.
But somehow, for clothes, I still have a little bit of that... that thing that makes women in the David Lloyd gym have a pink top that matches the stripe in the side of their trousers. The stripe that is continued in the jacket. C'mon, you've seen them. They have manicures.
And even though I hate that look and would really never do it, I understand it. I understand wanting it all to match and be perfect. To feel done.
But done is not very now.
I had coffee with B last night, and we were talking about what to wear to J's party next weekend. And she pointed out that, really, most people wear jeans. Maybe with a dressy top, or some cleavage (pronounced clu-varrrge, obviously), or even both. The days of having a dress, or an outfit, they're kinda gone. We are the permanently informal society. It's just like, if they're Diesel jeans you know someone dressed up.
Of course, for J's party there may be people from both sides of the fashion sense/fence. I don't know which side I'm on.
But I do have a lot of outfits.
Even if, I don't really wear them. But I think I might.
You can take the girl out of Cheadle, but you can't take Cheadle out of the girl. Or something.
I forgot to say, last night,that I'm back.
I have returned from Suffolk, and Limmudfest - camping for Jews, broadly, but lots of other fun things too.
Highlights - The Sway Machinery, Ghettoplotz, Leon Morris on biblical interpretations of the broken tablets, Leah Thorn's moving new work. Making new connections, renewing old ones. Discovering a talented writer in my writing workshop. Being in the country, although, I have to say that on the drive back into London I felt strangely at home once we started seeing graffiti in Gants Hill. Oh, and while I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, I had a lot of fun in my own Jewish Hair Workshop (I realise that jewishhair.com is empty, but something cool will happen to it someday soon, as soon as I've got my other projects out of the way. Promise).
I didn't think about the internet once, all weekend. And I kinda didn't bother with my mobile phone. I just hung out and walked, and went to the beach, and talked. There's a lot to be said for holidays.
I have returned from Suffolk, and Limmudfest - camping for Jews, broadly, but lots of other fun things too.
Highlights - The Sway Machinery, Ghettoplotz, Leon Morris on biblical interpretations of the broken tablets, Leah Thorn's moving new work. Making new connections, renewing old ones. Discovering a talented writer in my writing workshop. Being in the country, although, I have to say that on the drive back into London I felt strangely at home once we started seeing graffiti in Gants Hill. Oh, and while I shouldn't blow my own trumpet, I had a lot of fun in my own Jewish Hair Workshop (I realise that jewishhair.com is empty, but something cool will happen to it someday soon, as soon as I've got my other projects out of the way. Promise).
I didn't think about the internet once, all weekend. And I kinda didn't bother with my mobile phone. I just hung out and walked, and went to the beach, and talked. There's a lot to be said for holidays.
I have just discovered the Phobia List.
Do you know anything about bioavailability? My first port of call? Wikipedia.
I am very unhappy that The Times website have started broadcasting news from the home page. It's just very annoying. If I wanted sound files, I'd ask for them. Also, they have very Playschool link music.
Years ago, I used to work with this guy, Jonny B (no, not that JonnyB).
We were a small team, about ten or so of us, and our minhag, like lots of offices, was a whipround for birthdays, and then someone in the team would go out and get a gift. This was better than the previous scenario, where everyone put £20 in the birthday fund, and you were effectively buying your own birthday present. Although, less hassle. And now, I think I probably would find it a big hassle to be constantly organising people's birthdays, but then I thought it was fun.
Anyway, it was this woman Jane's birthday, and JB sat next to her. They were the marketing department. As I said, we were a small team. So it fell to Jonny to get her gift, and he was young and inexperienced in the ways of gift buying as well as the special secrets of womanhood. He dragged me down to La Senza on Oxford Street. I felt slightly... dirty, going to a woman's lingerie shop with a guy fresh out of college. He took his job seriously, and actually had quite good taste, and picked out an unsleazy bra-and-knickers set. I estimated Jane's bra size (accurately, as it turned out) and he grabbed a pair of size large knickers.
"Now, Jonny... " I began.
"But she's got a huge bum," he replied.
Now, Jane was not so slim, but not so fat either. But she probably did wear size large knickers.
"The thing is, Jonny, we need to buy her size medium knickers and let her come back on her own, and change them, if she needs to."
"But that's stupid." Which it was.
"Look Jonny. You just can't buy a woman size large knickers. Believe me."
He was a lad. I tried, through a subtle combination of body language, eyebrow-inference and well-chosen words to explain everything about how women feel about their bodies while standing on one leg.
So we bought the gift, and she was happy, and a few years later we all moved on to different jobs.
Coincidentally, and synchonously, about two years ago, I was walking down Oxford Street, past La Senza, and JonnyB appeared in my path.
"Hey Sasha, how are you? Do you work round here?"
He'd come a long way - to another agency round the corner. He lived in Finchley.
We chatted a bit, and then he said to me, "that advice you gave me? About the knickers? I'm married now."
We were a small team, about ten or so of us, and our minhag, like lots of offices, was a whipround for birthdays, and then someone in the team would go out and get a gift. This was better than the previous scenario, where everyone put £20 in the birthday fund, and you were effectively buying your own birthday present. Although, less hassle. And now, I think I probably would find it a big hassle to be constantly organising people's birthdays, but then I thought it was fun.
Anyway, it was this woman Jane's birthday, and JB sat next to her. They were the marketing department. As I said, we were a small team. So it fell to Jonny to get her gift, and he was young and inexperienced in the ways of gift buying as well as the special secrets of womanhood. He dragged me down to La Senza on Oxford Street. I felt slightly... dirty, going to a woman's lingerie shop with a guy fresh out of college. He took his job seriously, and actually had quite good taste, and picked out an unsleazy bra-and-knickers set. I estimated Jane's bra size (accurately, as it turned out) and he grabbed a pair of size large knickers.
"Now, Jonny... " I began.
"But she's got a huge bum," he replied.
Now, Jane was not so slim, but not so fat either. But she probably did wear size large knickers.
"The thing is, Jonny, we need to buy her size medium knickers and let her come back on her own, and change them, if she needs to."
"But that's stupid." Which it was.
"Look Jonny. You just can't buy a woman size large knickers. Believe me."
He was a lad. I tried, through a subtle combination of body language, eyebrow-inference and well-chosen words to explain everything about how women feel about their bodies while standing on one leg.
So we bought the gift, and she was happy, and a few years later we all moved on to different jobs.
Coincidentally, and synchonously, about two years ago, I was walking down Oxford Street, past La Senza, and JonnyB appeared in my path.
"Hey Sasha, how are you? Do you work round here?"
He'd come a long way - to another agency round the corner. He lived in Finchley.
We chatted a bit, and then he said to me, "that advice you gave me? About the knickers? I'm married now."
Thursday, August 24, 2006
One London
Outside the M&S outside Edgware Road Tube. I'm not entirely sure if it's "Londoners, we are one," or "we are one, Londoners," or, my first reading, "we are one London". Anyway, if only it were true.
Lost: Mojito (refrain)
Exactly four years and one month ago I had this exact thought.
Maybe what goes around comes around. I mean, a lot's happened in my life in those intervening forty-nine months. A lot. Believe me. 49 sounds quite... omeric, doesn't it? (I should say that omeric is not really a word, as far as I know. Well, I just googled, and it turns out it's an abbreviation, but it's not a word in the sense of related-to-the-Jewish-tradition-of-counting-the-omer. At least, it wasn't until now).
But now, events are conspiring against me, it feels like. I try and live a drama-free life, I think it's good for your skin, but sometimes things catch up with you.
I feel delicate, sensitive, over-worked and have forgotten to collect my dry-cleaning for six continuous days. I need to buy wellies before I go to a festival at the weekend but I'm too busy. I have to pack and work out what to wear (not in that order). I have to write my column. I have to do a lot of work. I have to wear a suit for a meeting tomorrow, and that's not my minhag. I have to get up very early. I have to finish my book. I have to wash my hair. This has turned into a list, by mistake. I already have a list. I'm worried it might rain at the weekend. I'm worried, I should tell you, about a lot of things. I worry; it's my heritage.
There's a lot I want to say. I realise I might be talking crap here. And I've just realised, here probably isn't the place to write this stuff.
Maybe I should start a diary. You know. Paper. With a padlock on it. Retro, eh?
I think I what I need is - and obviously, you don't always get what you need, I'm just saying - is for people to say hello. And, preferably, something nice. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
Exactly four years and one month ago I had this exact thought.
Maybe what goes around comes around. I mean, a lot's happened in my life in those intervening forty-nine months. A lot. Believe me. 49 sounds quite... omeric, doesn't it? (I should say that omeric is not really a word, as far as I know. Well, I just googled, and it turns out it's an abbreviation, but it's not a word in the sense of related-to-the-Jewish-tradition-of-counting-the-omer. At least, it wasn't until now).
But now, events are conspiring against me, it feels like. I try and live a drama-free life, I think it's good for your skin, but sometimes things catch up with you.
I feel delicate, sensitive, over-worked and have forgotten to collect my dry-cleaning for six continuous days. I need to buy wellies before I go to a festival at the weekend but I'm too busy. I have to pack and work out what to wear (not in that order). I have to write my column. I have to do a lot of work. I have to wear a suit for a meeting tomorrow, and that's not my minhag. I have to get up very early. I have to finish my book. I have to wash my hair. This has turned into a list, by mistake. I already have a list. I'm worried it might rain at the weekend. I'm worried, I should tell you, about a lot of things. I worry; it's my heritage.
There's a lot I want to say. I realise I might be talking crap here. And I've just realised, here probably isn't the place to write this stuff.
Maybe I should start a diary. You know. Paper. With a padlock on it. Retro, eh?
I think I what I need is - and obviously, you don't always get what you need, I'm just saying - is for people to say hello. And, preferably, something nice. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Never mind...
So, I've walked past this advert about four times in the last week.
And I don't get it.
Does it mean that Ribena is not that discerning, as a brand, and 98% of all blackcurrants are accepted into their crush-me-for-a-drink programme?
Or does it mean that we should feel sad for this blackcurrant that got squashed?
Or is it designed to make us associated prickly hedgehogs with a luminous sugar-laden (I'm guessing, not read label) drink?
Or maybe it means only 5% of blackcurrants get squashed, and we shouldn't worry, because we're worried about blackcurrants?
I don't know. But I do imagine that it won't do that well on brand recall tests, but it'll do excellently on the well known hedgehog recall tests.
On the other hand, it could be really obvious, and it could just be me.
And I don't get it.
Does it mean that Ribena is not that discerning, as a brand, and 98% of all blackcurrants are accepted into their crush-me-for-a-drink programme?
Or does it mean that we should feel sad for this blackcurrant that got squashed?
Or is it designed to make us associated prickly hedgehogs with a luminous sugar-laden (I'm guessing, not read label) drink?
Or maybe it means only 5% of blackcurrants get squashed, and we shouldn't worry, because we're worried about blackcurrants?
I don't know. But I do imagine that it won't do that well on brand recall tests, but it'll do excellently on the well known hedgehog recall tests.
On the other hand, it could be really obvious, and it could just be me.
Remember this story, back in May? The guy went for a job interview and ended up being interviewed on a BBC news channel.
I've had a couple of conversations this week about the nature of celebrity culture, and everyone wanting their fifteen minutes of fame (or to be famous to fifteen people), so I guess this is part of it. Someone's thinking of making a "wrong guy" movie about it. I don't totally get what the story would be about, but hey.
Also, Mr Goma (38) is obviously getting into the media world. Perhaps moving across from IT to media. Because look what he says: "if they want to do a movie, I don't mind talking with them." With them? Talking with people is very media. I'm pretty sure Mr Goma (38) will transition (note ridiculous verbitude) from IT pdq. I am totally jargon-enabled.
I've had a couple of conversations this week about the nature of celebrity culture, and everyone wanting their fifteen minutes of fame (or to be famous to fifteen people), so I guess this is part of it. Someone's thinking of making a "wrong guy" movie about it. I don't totally get what the story would be about, but hey.
Also, Mr Goma (38) is obviously getting into the media world. Perhaps moving across from IT to media. Because look what he says: "if they want to do a movie, I don't mind talking with them." With them? Talking with people is very media. I'm pretty sure Mr Goma (38) will transition (note ridiculous verbitude) from IT pdq. I am totally jargon-enabled.
I just love Overheard in New York:
Cop, arresting a man: I understand that, but you know it's not really about being a good guy or being a bad guy. It's about you taking that nice woman's wallet.
--Rockefeller Center
For some reason, that just tickled me. I have laughed out loud for at least three minutes.
Cop, arresting a man: I understand that, but you know it's not really about being a good guy or being a bad guy. It's about you taking that nice woman's wallet.
--Rockefeller Center
For some reason, that just tickled me. I have laughed out loud for at least three minutes.
Sadly, I'm not going to be in New York for the oyhoo festival (September 10 - 17), even though I would especially like to be at the John Zorn opening gig.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I appear to be the number one google search for breakfast and millet and lime, although I don't know why, as frankly, it sounds rather revolting.
This doesn't happen very often - if at all - people have been murdered in Cheadle.
Did you know?
May contain nuts
In Hampstead yesterday, I saw a new "shop".
I use the phrase shop in the loosest possible terms. This... place, is a nut emporium. I didn't make a note of the name, but it's probably called the The Nut House or something.
Only in the chi-chi suburbs do such things happen. Stores that only do one thing. Like, I think I might open a Rocket Emporium.
Having said that, there's a travel agent on East End Road in East Finchley called "Barbados Only Barbados" which does seem kind of limiting. "Hello, I'd like to go to Mauritius on holiday." "Sorry, we only go to Barbados." One can't help thinking that they may be a front for something else.
Next door to Barbados Only Barbados there's a shop called Printer Cartridge World, or such like. You guessed it. You can't buy printers, or paper, or other peripherals. Just cartridges.
We live in a specialised world.
Appparently.
What's weird about the nut place is that I've been having a conversation for a little while with a friend about how it's quite hard for vegetarians to get selenium. And then, I walk in, and they're hard-selling brazil nuts. Because they are good for the Brain. I am so allergic to when people put random capital letters in sentences. There is no need for this. Although, there is a lot of synchronicity in my life: about three times a week something pops up that I was just talking/thinking about five minutes ago/yesterday. Perhaps I am a chaos magician. Or perhaps I just have good vibes.
Anyway, my scientific advisor tells me it's three brazil nuts, not one.
All the nuts are delicately wrapped and be-ribboned as if they are the crown jewels and you have purchased a top-of-the-line experience. Because, after all, we live in the experience economy.
The bloke working there was a bit put out that I toook a picture (although I did ask) and didn't buy any nuts.
But I already have brazil nuts that I bought on my last Tesco millet run. Although my eco-rebbe tells me Waitrose are much nicer to their business partners and growers and I may have to change my allegience. But when I went into Waitrose at Finchley Road last night, on the way out, there were queues and queues of well dressed investment bankers with one basket of expensive meals-for-one and I would have to wait for ages. High quality and immediacy don't always go hand in hand.
I know, I'm probably talking crap. I ought to get out more. I've gone a bit stir crazy what with having a cold, having a lot of work to do, having my head filled with leveraged finance, digital marketing and a looming print deadline.
Although, I have been going out. Rather internationally. Sunday night, I saw C just in from Madrid. Last night, J&A in from Israel and tomorrow, M in from Paris. Interestingly, J highly recommended a book called May Contain Nuts, which is not about the nut industry, but is about modernity.
You can't say I don't know a lot of people who are going on planes quite a lot. I mean, you could, but it wouldn't be true.
In Hampstead yesterday, I saw a new "shop".
I use the phrase shop in the loosest possible terms. This... place, is a nut emporium. I didn't make a note of the name, but it's probably called the The Nut House or something.
Only in the chi-chi suburbs do such things happen. Stores that only do one thing. Like, I think I might open a Rocket Emporium.
Having said that, there's a travel agent on East End Road in East Finchley called "Barbados Only Barbados" which does seem kind of limiting. "Hello, I'd like to go to Mauritius on holiday." "Sorry, we only go to Barbados." One can't help thinking that they may be a front for something else.
Next door to Barbados Only Barbados there's a shop called Printer Cartridge World, or such like. You guessed it. You can't buy printers, or paper, or other peripherals. Just cartridges.
We live in a specialised world.
Appparently.
What's weird about the nut place is that I've been having a conversation for a little while with a friend about how it's quite hard for vegetarians to get selenium. And then, I walk in, and they're hard-selling brazil nuts. Because they are good for the Brain. I am so allergic to when people put random capital letters in sentences. There is no need for this. Although, there is a lot of synchronicity in my life: about three times a week something pops up that I was just talking/thinking about five minutes ago/yesterday. Perhaps I am a chaos magician. Or perhaps I just have good vibes.
Anyway, my scientific advisor tells me it's three brazil nuts, not one.
All the nuts are delicately wrapped and be-ribboned as if they are the crown jewels and you have purchased a top-of-the-line experience. Because, after all, we live in the experience economy.
The bloke working there was a bit put out that I toook a picture (although I did ask) and didn't buy any nuts.
But I already have brazil nuts that I bought on my last Tesco millet run. Although my eco-rebbe tells me Waitrose are much nicer to their business partners and growers and I may have to change my allegience. But when I went into Waitrose at Finchley Road last night, on the way out, there were queues and queues of well dressed investment bankers with one basket of expensive meals-for-one and I would have to wait for ages. High quality and immediacy don't always go hand in hand.
I know, I'm probably talking crap. I ought to get out more. I've gone a bit stir crazy what with having a cold, having a lot of work to do, having my head filled with leveraged finance, digital marketing and a looming print deadline.
Although, I have been going out. Rather internationally. Sunday night, I saw C just in from Madrid. Last night, J&A in from Israel and tomorrow, M in from Paris. Interestingly, J highly recommended a book called May Contain Nuts, which is not about the nut industry, but is about modernity.
You can't say I don't know a lot of people who are going on planes quite a lot. I mean, you could, but it wouldn't be true.
Milton Keynes is the first city in the UK to get wimax. Although, I don't know how much it'll cost or whether people will have the kit to connect to it.
Other phrases
I have a friend who lived in Brighton (Hove, actually) and his entire family used to use the phrase "to cash and carry" like it was a verb. As in, "I'm going to cash and carry, do you want to come?"
And I had a boyfriend who used to use to the phrase "wash his teeth", which I guess is more accurate, but sounds... odd, no?
I have a friend who lived in Brighton (Hove, actually) and his entire family used to use the phrase "to cash and carry" like it was a verb. As in, "I'm going to cash and carry, do you want to come?"
And I had a boyfriend who used to use to the phrase "wash his teeth", which I guess is more accurate, but sounds... odd, no?
I don't entirely know why this came into my head, just now.
I'm about twelve, and my best friend from school comes to stay, and for some reason she's looking in our bathroom cabinet and sees expectorant. She goes home and tells her mother that my mother is expecting.
I'm about twelve, and my best friend from school comes to stay, and for some reason she's looking in our bathroom cabinet and sees expectorant. She goes home and tells her mother that my mother is expecting.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Self-respect, Selfridges style...
Not entirely sure this is true. But then, it might be. Does "fitting into that dress" actually have any moral value? I suspect not. But I think I might still think it does.
Manchesterism wins over Mancunian-ism by 561 to 556. I don't know whether those five hits are statistically valid. And, without the hyphen, Mancunianism doesn't cut much mustard at all.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Uri, my dear son - the hesped (eulogy) that Israeli writer David Grossman read at his son's funeral.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
You should get rid.
For some reason, this just popped into my (overactive) brain. Last night, went for a walk/supper with an old Cheadle/Gatley friend, and we talked about special Manchesterisms, one of which is the phrase "get rid."
Like this, "he's a waste of space, she should get rid."
Once, I shared a train journey back from Manchester with an old family friend who was dating a terribly unsuitable man (who she later married and then divorced, and has now remarried a different (better, apparently) man). I listened to her lengthy tale of woe, which I won't go into details about - mostly because I can't remember it - and then she asked me what I should do.
It was only because she asked, honestly.
"You should get rid." I did say it ironically. Did she take my advice?
For some reason, this just popped into my (overactive) brain. Last night, went for a walk/supper with an old Cheadle/Gatley friend, and we talked about special Manchesterisms, one of which is the phrase "get rid."
Like this, "he's a waste of space, she should get rid."
Once, I shared a train journey back from Manchester with an old family friend who was dating a terribly unsuitable man (who she later married and then divorced, and has now remarried a different (better, apparently) man). I listened to her lengthy tale of woe, which I won't go into details about - mostly because I can't remember it - and then she asked me what I should do.
It was only because she asked, honestly.
"You should get rid." I did say it ironically. Did she take my advice?
Just now, my doorbell rang, so I went downstairs, and a thirty-ish couple were standing there.
He smiled. In an unerving way.
"We're just talking to some of your neighbours, sharing some passages from the bible."
Terrible opening gambit. I couldn't help myself; I just laughed. And he smiled back, like, "I know I have to do this, sorry," and I said "no thank you" and shut the door.
But, terrible sales technique, don't you think? I mean, it's just not compelling. What's in it for me? I'm not entirely sure what's in it for him, either. I mean, I don't think they earn commission. I think the kiruv (sharing the good news/bringing people back) is a reward in itself. So, perhaps, it doesn't matter if he doesn't engage me.
Bloke needs training. Foot in the door, he certainly didn't get.
He smiled. In an unerving way.
"We're just talking to some of your neighbours, sharing some passages from the bible."
Terrible opening gambit. I couldn't help myself; I just laughed. And he smiled back, like, "I know I have to do this, sorry," and I said "no thank you" and shut the door.
But, terrible sales technique, don't you think? I mean, it's just not compelling. What's in it for me? I'm not entirely sure what's in it for him, either. I mean, I don't think they earn commission. I think the kiruv (sharing the good news/bringing people back) is a reward in itself. So, perhaps, it doesn't matter if he doesn't engage me.
Bloke needs training. Foot in the door, he certainly didn't get.
It is a well known fact that, just as when you cut open a tree to count its rings to determine its age, if you cut me open, you will determine that I am 73% humous.
Some time ago, B tried to persuade me that if you eat a lot of humous, you really ought to soak the beans and cook them yourself. They taste different, apparently. I won't say that my humous is famed throughout the land, but I do ocassionally get special requests (pot luck suppers etc), so I felt I didn't need to improve. And also, I have a disease - immediacy - which means I just can't say that in 12 hours time I would like to cook some beans for two hours. Also, it's bad for the planet, to cook things for that long, regularly.
But then I had an epiphany on the East End Road about three weeks ago; it really does taste different. Also, tinned beans sit around for... a year? More, maybe? In salty water, waiting for you to increase your sodium intake. Ocassional is fine, but the volume of chick peas I get through, I must be having a lot of extra salt.
So, I'm all kitted out now. I have a pressure cooker (B did the research, which is great, because sometimes I get research-inertia, and then just can't buy something. Like, I've been meaning to buy a PVR and a flat screen TV for six months, but every time I get close to making a decision, more data appears, and then the choice intertia sets in).
But now, I have perfected my recipe, and I have made two batches of the most orgasmic humous. Well, to me, anyway. The point about making your own is that you can fine-tune it to your own personal desires.
So I have revised my views. Better ingredients really taste better. And slow food is a lot better than fast food.
Some time ago, B tried to persuade me that if you eat a lot of humous, you really ought to soak the beans and cook them yourself. They taste different, apparently. I won't say that my humous is famed throughout the land, but I do ocassionally get special requests (pot luck suppers etc), so I felt I didn't need to improve. And also, I have a disease - immediacy - which means I just can't say that in 12 hours time I would like to cook some beans for two hours. Also, it's bad for the planet, to cook things for that long, regularly.
But then I had an epiphany on the East End Road about three weeks ago; it really does taste different. Also, tinned beans sit around for... a year? More, maybe? In salty water, waiting for you to increase your sodium intake. Ocassional is fine, but the volume of chick peas I get through, I must be having a lot of extra salt.
So, I'm all kitted out now. I have a pressure cooker (B did the research, which is great, because sometimes I get research-inertia, and then just can't buy something. Like, I've been meaning to buy a PVR and a flat screen TV for six months, but every time I get close to making a decision, more data appears, and then the choice intertia sets in).
But now, I have perfected my recipe, and I have made two batches of the most orgasmic humous. Well, to me, anyway. The point about making your own is that you can fine-tune it to your own personal desires.
So I have revised my views. Better ingredients really taste better. And slow food is a lot better than fast food.
At a loose end this Saturday night? Looks like the Yid Kandy thing is on hold, but Jewdas are hostingShul's out for summer on Brighton Beach.
Today is A-level results day. I really want to email my cousin and see how she did, but I think these things are delicate.
When I was at university, me and a whole crowd of buddies got a summer job at the JMB - Joint Matriculation Board - which was based on the Manchester university campus.
Now, of course, like everything else, the JMB has been reformed/relaunched/rebranded (part of AQA, which sounds like a digital ad agency), and perhaps it doesn't exist in its past form. Which is good. It was like working down the pit. You had to clock in, with a time card, and if you were one minute late, the time turned red and they docked your pay on a per-minute basis.
There was a weekly welcome shpeil from Mr Molyneux, an older man with a terrible adenoids problem. He did the same shtick every week, and even now, years later, I can remember what he said. A friend of mine, Jonny, did the most fanatastic take-off. "You've got one pencil, don't lose it. If someone nicks your pencil, nick someone elses."
And every day at 5pm, he'd walk into this hall of hundreds of students, adding up and checking examiners marks on papers, and intone "it's five o'clock, you can go now," and everyone would leave. One time, at about 4.10, Jonny said in Mr Molyneux's inimatable voice, "it's five o'clock, you can go now." and five hundred students got up and left, and he got his pay docked.
Oddly, in the years we were doing those jobs, there were not the media stories about how badly the exams were marked.
Although, because it was marked on a curve (which I think it still is), the difference between a B and D at A level was something like one and a half percent.
When I was at university, me and a whole crowd of buddies got a summer job at the JMB - Joint Matriculation Board - which was based on the Manchester university campus.
Now, of course, like everything else, the JMB has been reformed/relaunched/rebranded (part of AQA, which sounds like a digital ad agency), and perhaps it doesn't exist in its past form. Which is good. It was like working down the pit. You had to clock in, with a time card, and if you were one minute late, the time turned red and they docked your pay on a per-minute basis.
There was a weekly welcome shpeil from Mr Molyneux, an older man with a terrible adenoids problem. He did the same shtick every week, and even now, years later, I can remember what he said. A friend of mine, Jonny, did the most fanatastic take-off. "You've got one pencil, don't lose it. If someone nicks your pencil, nick someone elses."
And every day at 5pm, he'd walk into this hall of hundreds of students, adding up and checking examiners marks on papers, and intone "it's five o'clock, you can go now," and everyone would leave. One time, at about 4.10, Jonny said in Mr Molyneux's inimatable voice, "it's five o'clock, you can go now." and five hundred students got up and left, and he got his pay docked.
Oddly, in the years we were doing those jobs, there were not the media stories about how badly the exams were marked.
Although, because it was marked on a curve (which I think it still is), the difference between a B and D at A level was something like one and a half percent.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
As I mentioned, I'm currently on something of a wholefood kick. I am largely eating healthy, non-package food. Long may it last.
Last week, a friend came round for lunch, and I was very happy to share my salad, nuts, seeds, cheese etc. After a little while, she said to me "do you have any bread?" I Confessed that I did not. "Crackers?" No, also. I'm not exactly low-carb, but I eat a lot less bread than I used to.
"Any carbs at all?" She asked.
"I could, er, make you some millet?" I offered. But millet and quinoa and all those things: they take time to cook. Convenience food, they're not.
Last week, a friend came round for lunch, and I was very happy to share my salad, nuts, seeds, cheese etc. After a little while, she said to me "do you have any bread?" I Confessed that I did not. "Crackers?" No, also. I'm not exactly low-carb, but I eat a lot less bread than I used to.
"Any carbs at all?" She asked.
"I could, er, make you some millet?" I offered. But millet and quinoa and all those things: they take time to cook. Convenience food, they're not.
Good Seed, Bad Seed
So, I'm a sucker for marketing, and I already use the Good Oil (hemp based) which is lovely on salad (in moderation. I mean, everything in moderation, right?) This, combined with my current wholefood/healthy eating kick, has taught me a lesson.
So yesterday, in Sainsbury's, I spied Good Seed. Sounds good. Hemp seeds. Nutritious. Tastes delicious, it says here...
I shell out my £2.99 or whatever, and then, when I get home, I think I'll try them, and I read the back of the packet, and they are 41.42% carbohydrates, of which 41% is sugar.
Now, I know this is a lot of sugar, because the Which Food Shopper's Guide tells me anything with more than 10% sugar is a lot. (And you should read what they have to say about breakfast cereal). But even if I didn't know that, jam is like 60% sugar.
40% sugar is a lot. So, hemp seeds good, but "unrefined raw cane sugar" (only other ingredient), not good. Sure, I could have read the label, but I fell for the marketing. I nearly bought some other hemp seeds that were not so funkily packaged. My mistake.
So really, they are Bad Seeds. Though, not in a Nick Cave way.
They do, however, taste fabulous. In an addictive, slightly compelling way. Like chocolate.
I will have to give them to someone. I can't really eat something that's 40% sugar. Unless I'm the honey monster.
So yesterday, in Sainsbury's, I spied Good Seed. Sounds good. Hemp seeds. Nutritious. Tastes delicious, it says here...
I shell out my £2.99 or whatever, and then, when I get home, I think I'll try them, and I read the back of the packet, and they are 41.42% carbohydrates, of which 41% is sugar.
Now, I know this is a lot of sugar, because the Which Food Shopper's Guide tells me anything with more than 10% sugar is a lot. (And you should read what they have to say about breakfast cereal). But even if I didn't know that, jam is like 60% sugar.
40% sugar is a lot. So, hemp seeds good, but "unrefined raw cane sugar" (only other ingredient), not good. Sure, I could have read the label, but I fell for the marketing. I nearly bought some other hemp seeds that were not so funkily packaged. My mistake.
So really, they are Bad Seeds. Though, not in a Nick Cave way.
They do, however, taste fabulous. In an addictive, slightly compelling way. Like chocolate.
I will have to give them to someone. I can't really eat something that's 40% sugar. Unless I'm the honey monster.
I appear to be one of four people ever on the internet who have used the phrase "ashkenazi diet". I am surprised. We all know this means dairy- and fat-rich, heavy on the carbs, and probably leads to late onset diabetes.
I am surprised more people don't appear to know this.
I am surprised more people don't appear to know this.
On Washing
Here's a thing I've noticed. When I go round to my regular/good friends' houses, they often have washing drying on an airer-type thing. So do I - mostly in my spare room, ocassionally in the living room, if I've been trying (in vain) to dry my clothes in the zone-two smog outside.
My parents, and their friends, and my friends' parents, never have their drying hanging over the radiators, or airers strewn about the house.
I have a whole bunch of friends who live in substantial houses in Hampstead or Putney or Wimbledon, or somewhere charming, and they don't either. Although, it's possible that they have a whole room dedicated to clothes washage (lavage).
So they're cancelled out, people with special washing rooms. But other people?
I think there's a few explanations.
One is, my parents, and most of their friends, use the drier a lot more. So things probably don't need drying, because they've sapped the planet's energy. Although their house is tidy.
Another option is, maybe they just do drying in "office hours", not when people visit. Possible.
Another possibility is that they just do less washing. So when I'm there, it's not a day when there's been washing recently. Lots of my friends have children, which create more washing, hence volume of drying hanging around.
Most of my friends are pale-green or green-ish, or just feel guilty if darker green friends come round with raised eyebrows about their washing practice. I try not to be judgemental.
Personally, it only dawned on me a few years ago how bad the drying cycle is, how much energy it wastes. So I just hang things out to dry, now.
I don't know why this came into my head. It's strange, in there, sometimes.
Here's a thing I've noticed. When I go round to my regular/good friends' houses, they often have washing drying on an airer-type thing. So do I - mostly in my spare room, ocassionally in the living room, if I've been trying (in vain) to dry my clothes in the zone-two smog outside.
My parents, and their friends, and my friends' parents, never have their drying hanging over the radiators, or airers strewn about the house.
I have a whole bunch of friends who live in substantial houses in Hampstead or Putney or Wimbledon, or somewhere charming, and they don't either. Although, it's possible that they have a whole room dedicated to clothes washage (lavage).
So they're cancelled out, people with special washing rooms. But other people?
I think there's a few explanations.
One is, my parents, and most of their friends, use the drier a lot more. So things probably don't need drying, because they've sapped the planet's energy. Although their house is tidy.
Another option is, maybe they just do drying in "office hours", not when people visit. Possible.
Another possibility is that they just do less washing. So when I'm there, it's not a day when there's been washing recently. Lots of my friends have children, which create more washing, hence volume of drying hanging around.
Most of my friends are pale-green or green-ish, or just feel guilty if darker green friends come round with raised eyebrows about their washing practice. I try not to be judgemental.
Personally, it only dawned on me a few years ago how bad the drying cycle is, how much energy it wastes. So I just hang things out to dry, now.
I don't know why this came into my head. It's strange, in there, sometimes.
Can you believe there's been a 9% increase in year on year bread sales?
I read it in the Guardian , so it must be true.
But I think we all eat quite a lot of bread as it is. I mean, many people have sandwiches for lunch most days, as well as a toast-based breakfast.
And also, in this article, even though we eat more fruit and vegetables, apparently we "reward" ourselves with crappy/processed style food. Wonder if we'll ever learn?
I read it in the Guardian , so it must be true.
But I think we all eat quite a lot of bread as it is. I mean, many people have sandwiches for lunch most days, as well as a toast-based breakfast.
And also, in this article, even though we eat more fruit and vegetables, apparently we "reward" ourselves with crappy/processed style food. Wonder if we'll ever learn?
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
I have just heard Dave Gorman say "world wide web" and not ironically, in the blogging discussion on Richard and Judy. It's Emily Bell from the Guardian, Dave Gorman (my proto hero) and Petite Anglaise. I only caught the tail end (a little birdie told me) so I can't really comment. Joys of homeworking.
Apparently, Judy tells us, blogs really started with 9/11. Lucky I tuned in, eh?
Apparently, Judy tells us, blogs really started with 9/11. Lucky I tuned in, eh?
The new and improved Blogger is in beta. And it has categories (labels, they call them). Which is so great. Whether I am going to go back and categorise five years (over four thousand) posts, is another matter. But, y'know, just knowing I could.
While I'm pretty sure netball is not a metaphor for life, I appear to be better at attacking than defending.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Are you going to the Secret Garden Party this weekend?
So, like me, you've probably been seeking a decent cinema listing since the demise of the Scoot.co.uk service. And then, last night, I found easyCinema.com from those folks who brought you Easy...everything. I guess it's marketing for their DVDrental service, but it's great.
Great piece in Saturday's Guardian about the Isokon Building in Lawn Road:
Do the residents feel humbled, living in a masterpiece to Modernism? "You can't treat your home like a museum," says Atkins. "But I do tell people who visit that my sink has the same listed status as Stonehenge. How great is that?"
Do the residents feel humbled, living in a masterpiece to Modernism? "You can't treat your home like a museum," says Atkins. "But I do tell people who visit that my sink has the same listed status as Stonehenge. How great is that?"
Saturday, August 12, 2006
sarah lightman
Coupla little interludes yesterday - did the Radio 5 blogging slot at 11.30, and then in conversation with Sarah Lightman - here's one of my favourites of her work - about personal stories and creative work, permanence, pencil, truth. Great day.
This piece is called It's OK... (2006).
You can see the rest of the Artist's Fortnight at the Ben Uri till August 22nd. Sunday afternoon, Naomi Alderman's in coversation with artist Oreet Ashery. I think it's about 5.30 or 6pm.
This piece is called It's OK... (2006).
You can see the rest of the Artist's Fortnight at the Ben Uri till August 22nd. Sunday afternoon, Naomi Alderman's in coversation with artist Oreet Ashery. I think it's about 5.30 or 6pm.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Girlwithaonetrackmind has an interview in this morning's Guardian, where she gets to put her side of the story to Zoe Williams (no less). I know, tangentially, how silly this 15-seconds of celebrity obsession is: when I "revealed" last year that Pete Doherty used to work for me, my phone didn't stop ringing with red-top hacks trying to "buy" my story. Except I didn't have one. Guy used to deliver sandwiches for me, now he's an allegedly drug-addled/not drug addled angst-ridden musician. Story over.
There's a lot of blogs-to-books out there, and not all of them translate. The episodic nature of reading online is very different from the flow of a book. Like, sometimes, people say to me, "oh, I must sit down and read your whole blog," and I say, thats the worst thing you can do. Blogs are for dipping in and out of. Like, you just have one After Eight, not eat the whole box at one sitting. And blogging doesn't necessarily make a novelist: not every can do narrative, story structure, characterisation, decent dialogue. It's just a bit different doing a brain dump or a rant. It seems to me. But I'm pretty confident GWAOTM's book will do it all (I await my copy winging its way to me on Amazon's special offer 5 day delivery package), and I hope that at least the silly pulicity will sell her a lot of books.
There's a lot of blogs-to-books out there, and not all of them translate. The episodic nature of reading online is very different from the flow of a book. Like, sometimes, people say to me, "oh, I must sit down and read your whole blog," and I say, thats the worst thing you can do. Blogs are for dipping in and out of. Like, you just have one After Eight, not eat the whole box at one sitting. And blogging doesn't necessarily make a novelist: not every can do narrative, story structure, characterisation, decent dialogue. It's just a bit different doing a brain dump or a rant. It seems to me. But I'm pretty confident GWAOTM's book will do it all (I await my copy winging its way to me on Amazon's special offer 5 day delivery package), and I hope that at least the silly pulicity will sell her a lot of books.
what's for breakfast
Saw this on my morning constitutional.
I don't know how to unpack it. I mean, does it mean that they used to have lasagne, chips and salad for breakfast, but now they have something else? Or does it mean that that's for lunch/dinner, but come in and see what we've got for breakfast? Or does it mean some local chalk-vandal just went past and had a go (it's a slightly different colour chalk) Or does it mean they're just revising the menu, based on local organic produce?
And yes, it's the same on both sides.
I don't know how to unpack it. I mean, does it mean that they used to have lasagne, chips and salad for breakfast, but now they have something else? Or does it mean that that's for lunch/dinner, but come in and see what we've got for breakfast? Or does it mean some local chalk-vandal just went past and had a go (it's a slightly different colour chalk) Or does it mean they're just revising the menu, based on local organic produce?
And yes, it's the same on both sides.
clean wall graffitti
Deepest Kilburn, someone went to the effort of painting over their graffiti-strewn wall. Less than a week later: the temptation is too much. And, it's not even good .
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Well, it's been a weird old day. Sitting here in my soho (small office-home office), talking on the phone, doing stuff online, getting my Radio 5 slot cancelled for the security alert. Thanking the abishter that I'm not going into town today. I mean, I went into town for meetings yesterday, and there was a gas leak at Baker Street, and the whole of the west end kinda ground to a standstill.
So I was happy to be home today. I stopped consuming news for a few hours this morning, because I needed to be able to work.
But now, I might even be a little scared. So the plot to blow up ten aircraft was thwarted. Great. But you feel - I imagine everyone feels - vulnerable. Notwithstanding the fact that I'm so green now I'm not sure I can do air travel (although I still want to get my haircut in New York and maybe be in Israel again soon - oh, the eco-angst), I could. I, and you, and any random person we know or don't know could easily be sitting in an airport, having checked in their mobile phone in their hand luggage, sitting, waiting, steaming, worrying. With their wallet in a see-through plastic carrier bag. It kinda sounds a bit like the British Library.
I know we live in a different world than the one I grew up. It's just that sometimes, it's scary.
And then, I think. So I could get run over crossing the road. Or be attacked by some random knife-weilding nutter when I go to buy petrol (which, obviously, I hardly need to do, nowadays). You don't know what's going to happen, and you can't really expend that much energy worrying about it. I enjoy pretty much everything about my life now, in the present, at this exact moment. I have a lovely family and wonderful friends, great neighbours (apart from the DJ), warm community, a degree of personal style, the ability to communicate, and quite a lot of Crown Ducal dripware. If - and obviously one should never tempt fate, pu-pu-pu, umbeshrine, shlog kaporras - but if something happened to me tomorrow, I don't think I'd have any regrets. Except, maybe, that I haven't quite finished my novel, but then it's on a friend's PC (never understimate the need for offsite backups), and it could be published posthumously (although fragmentarily), possibly to great acclaim. Although, obviously, I wouldn't know.
So I was happy to be home today. I stopped consuming news for a few hours this morning, because I needed to be able to work.
But now, I might even be a little scared. So the plot to blow up ten aircraft was thwarted. Great. But you feel - I imagine everyone feels - vulnerable. Notwithstanding the fact that I'm so green now I'm not sure I can do air travel (although I still want to get my haircut in New York and maybe be in Israel again soon - oh, the eco-angst), I could. I, and you, and any random person we know or don't know could easily be sitting in an airport, having checked in their mobile phone in their hand luggage, sitting, waiting, steaming, worrying. With their wallet in a see-through plastic carrier bag. It kinda sounds a bit like the British Library.
I know we live in a different world than the one I grew up. It's just that sometimes, it's scary.
And then, I think. So I could get run over crossing the road. Or be attacked by some random knife-weilding nutter when I go to buy petrol (which, obviously, I hardly need to do, nowadays). You don't know what's going to happen, and you can't really expend that much energy worrying about it. I enjoy pretty much everything about my life now, in the present, at this exact moment. I have a lovely family and wonderful friends, great neighbours (apart from the DJ), warm community, a degree of personal style, the ability to communicate, and quite a lot of Crown Ducal dripware. If - and obviously one should never tempt fate, pu-pu-pu, umbeshrine, shlog kaporras - but if something happened to me tomorrow, I don't think I'd have any regrets. Except, maybe, that I haven't quite finished my novel, but then it's on a friend's PC (never understimate the need for offsite backups), and it could be published posthumously (although fragmentarily), possibly to great acclaim. Although, obviously, I wouldn't know.
madina
Also, I don't know how to play Madinah Salat Fun Game, which is a fun way to learn about the five daily prayers. I don't entirely know how different it is from Jewish prayers three times a day (for which women have not temporal obligation), although I ought to know, because I've got a degree in Comparative Religion, although I got very into Malcolm X and less into sharia etc. Basically, I'm contemporary.
the great mosque game
Spied in a shop a few doors down from the church - I'm not entirely sure how one plays the Great Mosque Game, but I'd have a go.
church in wyndham place
Walking through the back of Marylebone last night - the church in Wyndham Place.
Vivien Goldman at Joseph's Bookstore (last night)
by guest blogger, Zavitty.
You had to be there.
Joseph's Bookstore in Temple Fortunes is heaving. Quite a few of the people there are middle-aged and elderly Jewish ladies. Earlier today when I drove past I noticed a sign outside saying "Vivian Goldman Tonight. Sold Out." It's the middle of August and I wonder who in NW London has flocked to see a Professor of Reggae and Punk at NYU launch her book about Bob Marley's Exodus. Turns our her entire mishpocha. We sit next to a woman who says she's a cousin and that Viv was always quite unusual as a child. She points out mothers and aunts, as a be-sheiteled woman squeezes to her seat and the a hairy Jewish twenty-something bloke offers us rum and coke. (Later he's back with Kosher wine on another tray.)
Viv looks fab. She's dressed for a Bar Mitzvah. Strappy gold sandals, and a big gold feathery necklace, a 1970's-bathroom minty-green chiffon two-piece (the blouse is slightly too tight), big auburn hair cut into a thick face-framing fringe with a scruffy beehive effect going on from the crown of her head. Huge tortoiseshell glasses. She's a little nervous - she should have smoked a joint beforehand.
Once the shuffling ends Michael Joseph introduces her. He says that all 75 people crowded into the small bookshop seem to be related to Viv, and the his own family relationship with hers goes back a long way. He remembers their parents sitting near to one another at shul but doesn't quite recall whether they attended Bob Marley concerts together. There's a handsome Rasta sitting alongside the mike, he's drumming. As Viv takes the mike she looks at him, and does that thing classical musicians do to their accompanists that involves a nod and an exaggerated intake of breath. He's obviously a crucial part of the gig and drums throughout her reading.
She starts to read and an elderly Jewish woman in the front row instantly falls asleep. She's sat next to someone my Grandma used to play cards with - for money - coppers and 5p pieces. Viv talks about the origins of Rastafarianism in the Old Testament. She compares dreads to payes, the ganja chalice (her word, not mine) to a chassidic farbrengen, ital to kashrut. She's very happy, exhibiting unself-conscious joy at times. She describes the politicking surrounding the Smile Jamaica concerts.
In the second part of her reading she vividly recreates the night Yardies tried to kill Bob, leading to his exile to London, and subsequent writing of his landmark album, Exodus - the subject of her book. When she cites Bob or a Wailer or some other inner-circle Rasta she adopts a drawly, low Jamaican patois and nods sagely.We're there when Bob's Jewish lawyer Diane Jobson arrives at the compound bearing a grapefruit and a big bag of weed. We're there with Bob's legendary producer darting around at the mixing desk like lightening in his vest and shorts. We're there with a beautiful girl sitting sharing the shelter of Bob's single bed (she sings the line - great voice, apparently she did actually release some punk records herself). We're there when a bullet skims past Rita's head, when the would-be assassins storm into the narrow galley kitchen and Bob's manager throws him to the floor so the bullet intended for his heart enters his arm. It's gripping.
There are just two questions. Someone asks about how the album relates to some kabbalistic concept (he spotted it flicking through the book) and she starts to talk about male and female principles and Bob's dominating and compliant sides. It's a bit confused. I wonder if she's flapping because although she's a grown up and a Professor of Reggae and Punk at NYU she's still really scared that if she says anything about sex a Jewish women with done hair and smart jewellery will tell her to stop it now like they used to when she was little. Someone else asks why reggae became rubbish after Bob died and they both agree that crack might be part of the reason. Then this questioner wants to hold forth incoherently and insistintly - even though he's not obviously Jewish - so she calls an end to the evening and wishes everyone "One Love" and a peace hand-gesture.
Everyone mills around like at a Bar Mitzvah. We get a book signed but not until after we've sort-of been gazumped by better queuers than us. David asks her to sign it "from the Reggae Professor" and she does, in a big scrawly hand. In the restaurant adjoining the bookshop, Jewish boys introduce their girlfriends to their grandmas in very loud voices and we eat humous and warm pitta with those fantastic fat chips and giggle. An intellectual young Ghanaian (he spoke during the reading) eats dinner alone.
Exodus is playing in the bookshop now, but they're still playing Sinatra in the restaurant. Outside, there are a couple of Jamaican men and a teenage Jewish boy on a bike, chatting on the pavement. Viv's working the tables. She looks slightly flappy and harassed but really happy.
by guest blogger, Zavitty.
You had to be there.
Joseph's Bookstore in Temple Fortunes is heaving. Quite a few of the people there are middle-aged and elderly Jewish ladies. Earlier today when I drove past I noticed a sign outside saying "Vivian Goldman Tonight. Sold Out." It's the middle of August and I wonder who in NW London has flocked to see a Professor of Reggae and Punk at NYU launch her book about Bob Marley's Exodus. Turns our her entire mishpocha. We sit next to a woman who says she's a cousin and that Viv was always quite unusual as a child. She points out mothers and aunts, as a be-sheiteled woman squeezes to her seat and the a hairy Jewish twenty-something bloke offers us rum and coke. (Later he's back with Kosher wine on another tray.)
Viv looks fab. She's dressed for a Bar Mitzvah. Strappy gold sandals, and a big gold feathery necklace, a 1970's-bathroom minty-green chiffon two-piece (the blouse is slightly too tight), big auburn hair cut into a thick face-framing fringe with a scruffy beehive effect going on from the crown of her head. Huge tortoiseshell glasses. She's a little nervous - she should have smoked a joint beforehand.
Once the shuffling ends Michael Joseph introduces her. He says that all 75 people crowded into the small bookshop seem to be related to Viv, and the his own family relationship with hers goes back a long way. He remembers their parents sitting near to one another at shul but doesn't quite recall whether they attended Bob Marley concerts together. There's a handsome Rasta sitting alongside the mike, he's drumming. As Viv takes the mike she looks at him, and does that thing classical musicians do to their accompanists that involves a nod and an exaggerated intake of breath. He's obviously a crucial part of the gig and drums throughout her reading.
She starts to read and an elderly Jewish woman in the front row instantly falls asleep. She's sat next to someone my Grandma used to play cards with - for money - coppers and 5p pieces. Viv talks about the origins of Rastafarianism in the Old Testament. She compares dreads to payes, the ganja chalice (her word, not mine) to a chassidic farbrengen, ital to kashrut. She's very happy, exhibiting unself-conscious joy at times. She describes the politicking surrounding the Smile Jamaica concerts.
In the second part of her reading she vividly recreates the night Yardies tried to kill Bob, leading to his exile to London, and subsequent writing of his landmark album, Exodus - the subject of her book. When she cites Bob or a Wailer or some other inner-circle Rasta she adopts a drawly, low Jamaican patois and nods sagely.We're there when Bob's Jewish lawyer Diane Jobson arrives at the compound bearing a grapefruit and a big bag of weed. We're there with Bob's legendary producer darting around at the mixing desk like lightening in his vest and shorts. We're there with a beautiful girl sitting sharing the shelter of Bob's single bed (she sings the line - great voice, apparently she did actually release some punk records herself). We're there when a bullet skims past Rita's head, when the would-be assassins storm into the narrow galley kitchen and Bob's manager throws him to the floor so the bullet intended for his heart enters his arm. It's gripping.
There are just two questions. Someone asks about how the album relates to some kabbalistic concept (he spotted it flicking through the book) and she starts to talk about male and female principles and Bob's dominating and compliant sides. It's a bit confused. I wonder if she's flapping because although she's a grown up and a Professor of Reggae and Punk at NYU she's still really scared that if she says anything about sex a Jewish women with done hair and smart jewellery will tell her to stop it now like they used to when she was little. Someone else asks why reggae became rubbish after Bob died and they both agree that crack might be part of the reason. Then this questioner wants to hold forth incoherently and insistintly - even though he's not obviously Jewish - so she calls an end to the evening and wishes everyone "One Love" and a peace hand-gesture.
Everyone mills around like at a Bar Mitzvah. We get a book signed but not until after we've sort-of been gazumped by better queuers than us. David asks her to sign it "from the Reggae Professor" and she does, in a big scrawly hand. In the restaurant adjoining the bookshop, Jewish boys introduce their girlfriends to their grandmas in very loud voices and we eat humous and warm pitta with those fantastic fat chips and giggle. An intellectual young Ghanaian (he spoke during the reading) eats dinner alone.
Exodus is playing in the bookshop now, but they're still playing Sinatra in the restaurant. Outside, there are a couple of Jamaican men and a teenage Jewish boy on a bike, chatting on the pavement. Viv's working the tables. She looks slightly flappy and harassed but really happy.
Phrase of the day - in car telematics.
On being a woman
This happens to me every time. Every month.
It goes something like this. I'm fine, I'm happy, life is OK, and then suddenly I get this low-level anxiety, read non-existent slights into friends' behaviour. Become slightly paranoid. I mean, really only very slightly, but I'm not usually, so it's annoying. I feel ever-so-slightly on the verge of tears.
Like, yesterday, I was in town. Crossing a busy street, some I'm-in-a-hurry man was tapping his feet on the pavement, as if his investment portfolio would drop two points for every wasted second, waiting for the lights to change. As they did, he barged past me, muttering "can't you move" as if I had in someway been unreasonable. And I felt terrible, like I'd done something wrong, got a telling off. I even felt as if, possibly, I might cry.
Sometimes, men don't even know what it's like.
Of course I didn't cry, just went on to my appointment.
The news made me almost-cry. The tube made me almost-cry. I felt delicate and sensitive. I called my brother and told him. He was understanding.
And then today, I get out my... spreadsheet. Oh, this is tricky. I so don't want to be the number one google search for menstrual cycle, but needs must. And I look at my charts and contemporaneous notes spanning ten years.
And guess what? I mean, I knew this, and I didn't know this. I'm due on in a week, and every month I feel like this. It's the third-week three-bar blues. Only pale blue, but, like, after all this time, I should recognise it, right?
It's the same every month. It's like I have to relearn my body every month. Must. Make. Mental. Note.
This happens to me every time. Every month.
It goes something like this. I'm fine, I'm happy, life is OK, and then suddenly I get this low-level anxiety, read non-existent slights into friends' behaviour. Become slightly paranoid. I mean, really only very slightly, but I'm not usually, so it's annoying. I feel ever-so-slightly on the verge of tears.
Like, yesterday, I was in town. Crossing a busy street, some I'm-in-a-hurry man was tapping his feet on the pavement, as if his investment portfolio would drop two points for every wasted second, waiting for the lights to change. As they did, he barged past me, muttering "can't you move" as if I had in someway been unreasonable. And I felt terrible, like I'd done something wrong, got a telling off. I even felt as if, possibly, I might cry.
Sometimes, men don't even know what it's like.
Of course I didn't cry, just went on to my appointment.
The news made me almost-cry. The tube made me almost-cry. I felt delicate and sensitive. I called my brother and told him. He was understanding.
And then today, I get out my... spreadsheet. Oh, this is tricky. I so don't want to be the number one google search for menstrual cycle, but needs must. And I look at my charts and contemporaneous notes spanning ten years.
And guess what? I mean, I knew this, and I didn't know this. I'm due on in a week, and every month I feel like this. It's the third-week three-bar blues. Only pale blue, but, like, after all this time, I should recognise it, right?
It's the same every month. It's like I have to relearn my body every month. Must. Make. Mental. Note.
Telecoms modernity update
Well, seems like your Telecoms Rebbe spoke too soon.
I'd ordered the phone online from Carphone Warehouse, got it shipped to my friend's parents' in Edgware, we were all good to go.
Then, yesterday Dawn from the Carphone warehouse calls me.
"Due to postal fraud in the HA8 postcode, we can't deliver your item to the delivery address, it has to be the billing address."
What if I lived there, I asked?
"Oh, then we'd deliver it."
So can't you?
"No. postal fraud."
Sounds worse than the two usual-suspect excuses (dataprotection and healthandsafety).
Well, where can you deliver it?
"Your address. Billing address."
But my friend doesn't live here. It's a gift (I decide not to explain the international online bartering nature of our arrangement. It probably invalidates the order).
"Tough." Or words to that effect - would you like to cancel the order.
So, after a lot of negotiation, we agreed that it will be delivered to their Edgware shop. But then she said it would be for my attention, and I'd have to take my ID to Edgware to get it.
That's stupid, I say, you might as well deliver it to me, which doesn't work.
Eventually, we agree that it can be delivered for my friend's attention at the store. Except, then my friend has to go get it in person, and she's in Israel. Hence problem. Sheesh. So we agree anyone with her family name, and ID. And then, we have to agree a password for collection. Because, there's loads of people in Edgware trying to collect a thrity quid PAYG mobile phone.
And then, they send me email confirmation, and they have spelled my friend's family name wrong.
Who said modernity was seamlessly intergrated/easy. Never disallow for human error.
Well, seems like your Telecoms Rebbe spoke too soon.
I'd ordered the phone online from Carphone Warehouse, got it shipped to my friend's parents' in Edgware, we were all good to go.
Then, yesterday Dawn from the Carphone warehouse calls me.
"Due to postal fraud in the HA8 postcode, we can't deliver your item to the delivery address, it has to be the billing address."
What if I lived there, I asked?
"Oh, then we'd deliver it."
So can't you?
"No. postal fraud."
Sounds worse than the two usual-suspect excuses (dataprotection and healthandsafety).
Well, where can you deliver it?
"Your address. Billing address."
But my friend doesn't live here. It's a gift (I decide not to explain the international online bartering nature of our arrangement. It probably invalidates the order).
"Tough." Or words to that effect - would you like to cancel the order.
So, after a lot of negotiation, we agreed that it will be delivered to their Edgware shop. But then she said it would be for my attention, and I'd have to take my ID to Edgware to get it.
That's stupid, I say, you might as well deliver it to me, which doesn't work.
Eventually, we agree that it can be delivered for my friend's attention at the store. Except, then my friend has to go get it in person, and she's in Israel. Hence problem. Sheesh. So we agree anyone with her family name, and ID. And then, we have to agree a password for collection. Because, there's loads of people in Edgware trying to collect a thrity quid PAYG mobile phone.
And then, they send me email confirmation, and they have spelled my friend's family name wrong.
Who said modernity was seamlessly intergrated/easy. Never disallow for human error.
I don't know whether it's good or not good, but my current carbon-footprint obsession means I'm unlikely to be goingto an airport for... oh, at least a month.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Tomorrow morning at 10.30 you can hear me on the Victoria Derbyshire show on Radio 5. Discussing... blogging, of course.
How would I describe my blog? I was asked. I always get stumped with that one. "Sasha's take on the world" sounds just a little too self-aggrandising. "Commentary on current affairs" doesn't quite get the personal nature.
Oh well. Suggestions welcome.
How would I describe my blog? I was asked. I always get stumped with that one. "Sasha's take on the world" sounds just a little too self-aggrandising. "Commentary on current affairs" doesn't quite get the personal nature.
Oh well. Suggestions welcome.
From Thursday, you can see a fascinating Artists' Fortnight of Solo Shows at the Ben Uri art gallery in St John's Wood. And, Friday afternoon, you can see me in conversation with artist Sarah Lightman. I don't know for sure, but I imagine we'll be discussing the nature of creating work from "real life", the similarities between blogging and "diary drawing" (for want of a better word). Check it out.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
(Telecoms) Modernity and How to Handle It
Three years ago, I tried to buy a US cellphone for a New York visit, and I couldn't use my credit card, and in the end, I couldn't even use a friend's credit card, because they needed to verify me, and then I had to go to a store when I got there. Not good.
Last year, I bought one with my Paypal account, and my friends charged it for me before I arrived.
Now, a friend is coming from Israel for a few weeks, and needs a PAYG mobile. But her international credit card didn't work. So I bought it for her, had it shipped to her parents' address, and she sent me Amazon vouchers.
World's a village.
I love modernity. I love gaming the system, too.
Three years ago, I tried to buy a US cellphone for a New York visit, and I couldn't use my credit card, and in the end, I couldn't even use a friend's credit card, because they needed to verify me, and then I had to go to a store when I got there. Not good.
Last year, I bought one with my Paypal account, and my friends charged it for me before I arrived.
Now, a friend is coming from Israel for a few weeks, and needs a PAYG mobile. But her international credit card didn't work. So I bought it for her, had it shipped to her parents' address, and she sent me Amazon vouchers.
World's a village.
I love modernity. I love gaming the system, too.
Last night, I was playing netball, and as we were about to start a centre (new game) the referree's mobile phone rang, and she answered it and said "I can't talk for long," and stood by the side of the court, chatting.
The game waited. Truth is, she couldn't talk at all.
A friend who sits in the Employment Tribunal as a judge told me that a barrister actually answered their mobile in court and said "can't chat too long" and proceeded to chew the fat with her buddy.
It's a very, very strange world.
The game waited. Truth is, she couldn't talk at all.
A friend who sits in the Employment Tribunal as a judge told me that a barrister actually answered their mobile in court and said "can't chat too long" and proceeded to chew the fat with her buddy.
It's a very, very strange world.
Monday, August 07, 2006
night lights
Late last night in Hampstead.
Boy do I love my new camera. Sadly, my wireless card on my Vaio is still totally buggered, but Adam's email doesn't work, so I can't tell him.
Boy do I love my new camera. Sadly, my wireless card on my Vaio is still totally buggered, but Adam's email doesn't work, so I can't tell him.
There is no-one in the world I'm less likely to take happiness advice from than Noel Edmonds, the latest faded celebrity to get on the happiness-waggon. And he's gone a little too Doris Stokes, for my liking; he's all cosmos and connecting with the universe. Sheesh.
multi-coloured
Really like the colours on this. This, I wouldn't mind having outside my house, rather than the entry-level scrawl that I currently have. Must phone the removing-graffiti-people at Camden (not for this one, though, this is art). They never answer the phone.
ghostbusters
This kinda reminds me of Ghostbuster (the movie) and now I realise that I will have that song in my head like all day. But that's better than having Bucks Fizz' Making Your MInd Up in your head for about a week... someone planted it there two weekends ago, and it just wouldn't go away.
This graffiti is in Kilburn Grange Park.
This graffiti is in Kilburn Grange Park.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Had lunch today with my Eco-Rebbe who described himself as an eco frummer. We discussed carbon-neutralising flights, farmed fish, how the people of Tuvalu (who gave the world the .tv domain) will be the first to sink in rising oceans, apparently, and why there's not a lot of point in worrying about anything non-environmental, because our grandchildren will all be under water and have to grow gills.
I realised that I am a telecoms-Rebbe. This week I have advised two friends on telecoms contracts/mobile phones/negotiation (and that's a slow week). This is generally a lot less useful for the universe. Having said that, I also gave (when requested) gentle financial advice. But on balance, I probably received a lot more. Perhaps I should do a (net give/receive) rating, each week?
I realised that I am a telecoms-Rebbe. This week I have advised two friends on telecoms contracts/mobile phones/negotiation (and that's a slow week). This is generally a lot less useful for the universe. Having said that, I also gave (when requested) gentle financial advice. But on balance, I probably received a lot more. Perhaps I should do a (net give/receive) rating, each week?
Friday, August 04, 2006
It's really very hot in New York. But look, corporations have taken sensible precautionary action. Maybe we can do the same.
I don't really have anything to say, except it's 2am-ish and I have done a lot of work today. I'm sort of buzzing - intellectually - but tired. Like I can discuss emerging capital markets and current trends in leveraged finance (it's all about cash buyers, apparently, viz Xstrata deal), but only in a slurred, tired way.
Check out this on the DOPA thing in the US - chatrooms may be banned in US schools to combat sexual predators. I tell any of my friends with kids that they should keep their computer like on the kitchen table. The last thing you want is their own PC in their room.
Check out this on the DOPA thing in the US - chatrooms may be banned in US schools to combat sexual predators. I tell any of my friends with kids that they should keep their computer like on the kitchen table. The last thing you want is their own PC in their room.
I haven't checked out Overheard in New York for a while, but I love it. And they own overheardinlondon.com, but it just redirects, so expect it this side of the pond sometime. Soon?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Probably everyone else in the world knows this, but if you go to the lastminute.com website, top right hand corner, there's a link that says "the boss is watching - look busy" and it takes you to a crazy spreadsheet full of the most wonderful jargon, including "innovate mission critical paradigms", "aggregate ubiquitous applications" and "target leading-edge web readiness"
Love it.
The last one reminds me of when I was a (tech) headhunter, and every single meeting, lunch, brainstorming we went to (and bear in mind this was 1999/2000) could be summarised as the following person specification: "webiness and globality."
Love it.
The last one reminds me of when I was a (tech) headhunter, and every single meeting, lunch, brainstorming we went to (and bear in mind this was 1999/2000) could be summarised as the following person specification: "webiness and globality."
Perhaps not the day to mention this, but I am one of only 12 google searches for "chopped fried fish". Methinks this phrase is peculiarly Manchester-style - other people say chopped and fried - not least because JA Hyman (Titanic) is the local deli.
What did we do, before the internet?
What did we do, before the internet?
aircon 1
Sunday, walking to a friend's place in Gloucester Road, I spied this totally outrageous thing, which is about six aircon units hanging out of a block of flats (this image is just the second half ,they didn't all fit in one photo). The heat coming off them, even on a hottish day, was quite something.
Frankly, I think there should be a fine for this sort of behaviour. Or enforced common sense - I just read that in New York, where the heat is getting silly, the mayor has decreed how much electricity and for how long one should keep one's aircon on for. All sounds eminently sensible to me. When it's gone, it's gone.
Frankly, I think there should be a fine for this sort of behaviour. Or enforced common sense - I just read that in New York, where the heat is getting silly, the mayor has decreed how much electricity and for how long one should keep one's aircon on for. All sounds eminently sensible to me. When it's gone, it's gone.
I think meshing (merging people's family names on marriage) sounds like a thoroughly ridiculous idea. Although I do admit there's a problem, not least a database problem of how to record all your friends' varying versions of their names. But I like all the references to other lingustic things.
Having just read a long piece on the BBC site about how interest rates are extremey likely to stay the same today, the Bank of England has just raised interest rates to 4.75%.
So, if you were just about to refix your mortgage, go and do it like now.
So, if you were just about to refix your mortgage, go and do it like now.
I have just discovered Adam Teva V'din, the Israel Union for Environmental Defense.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Tisha b'Av starts tonight, 9.35. It feel, somehow, more pressing, this year, what with the news.
Today, I couldn't find my kinot (prayerbook for Tisha b'Av). Possibly, it's in storage. Possibly, my house is untidy.
Anyway, it's a one-time gig, really, so I went to Golders Green this afternoon. Jerusalem the Golden was closed, and the Menorah Book Centre was fresh out of Kinot.
He was a nice guy, though. They're always a little surprised, I think, that I go in there looking... well, not frum. Possibly, to them, even not Jewish. And then I ask for something frum. So he gave me the number of another book store, and I called them, but they'd sold out. Short season, clearly. So then he gave me the number of some guy who has a bookstore in his front room. He had one left, he put it aside for me. I write down his address, say I'll be there in five minutes.
"It's just round the corner?" I say to the guy in Menorah.
"Well, it's miles away," he responds, the weight of five thousand years of Jewish history weighing heavy on his heart.
"Well, don't worry, I've got a map."
"A map you don't need. It's complicated. You have a car? Which way are you facing?"
"I can face any way. Which way is it?"
Then he tells me long, circutous route. I thank him.
"You should take the phone number. In case."
I show him my mobile and tell him I have it.
"In your phone? Is that a special phone?"
So we get into a whole conversation where I explain about number dialled history, and he writes it down, with the model of my phone and Nokia. He thinks this is a great new discovery.
"From Nokia, you should take commission," he tells me.
I look at the map in my car and it's two streets away. I'm there in 30 seconds. When I'd stepped out 30 minutes earlier I wasn't planning on entering the shtetl, so I was in a tight t-shirt, jeans, sandals. Boys with payot (sidecurls) averted their eyes when I entered.
The guy behind the counter looks at me, gets out the kinnot. "This what you want?"
I look at it, and it's nusach sefard (spanish and portugese rather than eastern european tradition) - it says this in small hebrew letters on the spine.
"Do you have nusach ashkenaz?"
He looks at me like I don't compute. I can read Hebrew. I know from nusach.
"Last one." So I buy it, and leave, and think, it can't be that different.
So.
I've wrangled with a client today - my income briefly went exponentially up and then down again - and I've eaten a hardboiled egg (Tisha b'Av custom, as it's a mourning custom) and I'm off to shul in a little while.
I briefly have to consider if I can go to shul in trousers, because I think I'm going to walk there. But I think I can't. It's frum there. And I think, sometimes you have to speak people's language, even if it's not your language, entirely.
The motif, kinda, of Tisha b'Av is tears. Other festivals have cake and candles and palm leaves, but this is... intense. And it seems, somehow, this year, that the tears might not be so far away.
Hippy, I know. But I'd like some peace and tranquility in the universe.
Today, I couldn't find my kinot (prayerbook for Tisha b'Av). Possibly, it's in storage. Possibly, my house is untidy.
Anyway, it's a one-time gig, really, so I went to Golders Green this afternoon. Jerusalem the Golden was closed, and the Menorah Book Centre was fresh out of Kinot.
He was a nice guy, though. They're always a little surprised, I think, that I go in there looking... well, not frum. Possibly, to them, even not Jewish. And then I ask for something frum. So he gave me the number of another book store, and I called them, but they'd sold out. Short season, clearly. So then he gave me the number of some guy who has a bookstore in his front room. He had one left, he put it aside for me. I write down his address, say I'll be there in five minutes.
"It's just round the corner?" I say to the guy in Menorah.
"Well, it's miles away," he responds, the weight of five thousand years of Jewish history weighing heavy on his heart.
"Well, don't worry, I've got a map."
"A map you don't need. It's complicated. You have a car? Which way are you facing?"
"I can face any way. Which way is it?"
Then he tells me long, circutous route. I thank him.
"You should take the phone number. In case."
I show him my mobile and tell him I have it.
"In your phone? Is that a special phone?"
So we get into a whole conversation where I explain about number dialled history, and he writes it down, with the model of my phone and Nokia. He thinks this is a great new discovery.
"From Nokia, you should take commission," he tells me.
I look at the map in my car and it's two streets away. I'm there in 30 seconds. When I'd stepped out 30 minutes earlier I wasn't planning on entering the shtetl, so I was in a tight t-shirt, jeans, sandals. Boys with payot (sidecurls) averted their eyes when I entered.
The guy behind the counter looks at me, gets out the kinnot. "This what you want?"
I look at it, and it's nusach sefard (spanish and portugese rather than eastern european tradition) - it says this in small hebrew letters on the spine.
"Do you have nusach ashkenaz?"
He looks at me like I don't compute. I can read Hebrew. I know from nusach.
"Last one." So I buy it, and leave, and think, it can't be that different.
So.
I've wrangled with a client today - my income briefly went exponentially up and then down again - and I've eaten a hardboiled egg (Tisha b'Av custom, as it's a mourning custom) and I'm off to shul in a little while.
I briefly have to consider if I can go to shul in trousers, because I think I'm going to walk there. But I think I can't. It's frum there. And I think, sometimes you have to speak people's language, even if it's not your language, entirely.
The motif, kinda, of Tisha b'Av is tears. Other festivals have cake and candles and palm leaves, but this is... intense. And it seems, somehow, this year, that the tears might not be so far away.
Hippy, I know. But I'd like some peace and tranquility in the universe.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
This is probably not a good thing, but I am number two on google for that well-know phrase carbon footpring. I do correct typos... just off to fix it.
So, after the image posting frenzy this morning, I'd actually resolved not to blog, for a while. There's a lot going on, and I don't have that much space left in my head. Of course, I always say that my blog is water-cooler conversation. I don't, like, prepare it, it just falls straight from my head to the keyboard and it's there.
But still.
Anyway, all that's irrelevant, because I had the maddest conversation in Waitrose, which I just had to blog.
I'm usually a Tesco girly (longstanding family minhag, like toothpaste brand allegience), but I don't really like to drive there. Seems... wasteful. So often, I walk down to Kilburn and buy stuff in local shops, which is better.
But at lunchtime, I was coming back from the City, and decided to get off at Finchley Road and go to Waitrose. Stocked up on raspberries, was seeking millet.
- where will I find millet? (I ask a Waitrose employee)
- Millet? Ees yoghurt drink?
- No, it's a grain.
- Wait, I is asking someone
(new person)
- Millet ees cereal? (pointing to Ricicles and other sugar/salt laden pointless things)
- well, technically, but it's a grain.
- I weel ask someone else
- but you're the third person I've asked
But she got on the phone, and she said into the receiver "millet, millet" and then all the Waitrose people around her started saying "millet millet" and for a moment I thought they would all burst into song, like some kind of multiple-food-retailer musical.
She shook her head.
- No millet.
I'd figured. But hey, Waitrose is supposed to be for the chattering, slow-release-grain-eating classes. I mean, it is full of charmingly dressed women saying things like "now, Tarquin, you know that blueberries are a superfood, put the mars bar down."
Anyway, I will be back to Tescos to stock up on millet. But only when I'm making the journey anyway.
But still.
Anyway, all that's irrelevant, because I had the maddest conversation in Waitrose, which I just had to blog.
I'm usually a Tesco girly (longstanding family minhag, like toothpaste brand allegience), but I don't really like to drive there. Seems... wasteful. So often, I walk down to Kilburn and buy stuff in local shops, which is better.
But at lunchtime, I was coming back from the City, and decided to get off at Finchley Road and go to Waitrose. Stocked up on raspberries, was seeking millet.
- where will I find millet? (I ask a Waitrose employee)
- Millet? Ees yoghurt drink?
- No, it's a grain.
- Wait, I is asking someone
(new person)
- Millet ees cereal? (pointing to Ricicles and other sugar/salt laden pointless things)
- well, technically, but it's a grain.
- I weel ask someone else
- but you're the third person I've asked
But she got on the phone, and she said into the receiver "millet, millet" and then all the Waitrose people around her started saying "millet millet" and for a moment I thought they would all burst into song, like some kind of multiple-food-retailer musical.
She shook her head.
- No millet.
I'd figured. But hey, Waitrose is supposed to be for the chattering, slow-release-grain-eating classes. I mean, it is full of charmingly dressed women saying things like "now, Tarquin, you know that blueberries are a superfood, put the mars bar down."
Anyway, I will be back to Tescos to stock up on millet. But only when I'm making the journey anyway.
Oxford Circus, Sunday
Here's something you don't see very often on a Sunday afternoon in town. At least, I don't.
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