Too Sick To Blog
Things have been kinda quiet the last few days, I know. I've got a cold: it's not life-threatening - if I had a job, I'd go into work and whinge, rather than stay home, but I feel crappy and bunged up and have a desperate urge for Heinz tomato soup (in terms of comfort food).

So I have done stuff - The Price, at The Tricycle, I saw Monday with my cousin, and it's fantastic. It's a great script (Arthur Miller, all his usual themes; brothers, families, the depression), and Warren Mitchell as Solomon is mind-blowingly funny. The audience was, in my humble estimation, 73% Jewish, and because of the free seating setup of the Tricycle theatre space, this caused a few little ruckuses. Ruckii? So everyone's "saving a seat" for their friend, much like they put towels on the best sunbed in the morning in Marbella, so you can't really sit anywhere. And then the people who didn't have the foresight to bagsy a place, arrive late and insist in guilt-stricken tones than everyone must move up and be squashed for them. Little them. Of course, they are not so little, because they've been eating Ashkenazi diary-laden, carb-loaded food their whole lives. I refused to play - there was genuinely no room - and the woman sitting next to me spent the whole performance sending guilt-rays in my direction, as her friend had to sit behind her and she wanted me to feel bad. I suspect she didn't enjoy the play.

And I went for a job interview where they said I was great, better than the internal candidate, but that's their policy. Yeah, that's fair.

So I'm going to finish my copy, put my washing on, make comfort food, watch a video, snuggle up in bed.

Oh, also, I wrote a short story. I'd be interested in feedback - particularly from people I don't know - providing you have a real (ie, not a hotmail-stylee) address; so mail me. I reserve the right to refuse, but it's unlikely.

And I'll post more when I feel more energetic, I promise.

Words And Phrases I Hate:
Hearts and minds, generally pronounced heartsunminds, and prefaced by the verb "winning". Just shouldn't be allowed - hearts and minds are not siamese twins, you can win one and not the other. And what do you do when you've won them, anyway?

Another one: memorialize. What's wrong with remember? Why do words need to be americanized? Don't play with the language, I say. Well, not too much.

Had a great evening last night with my cousin, who said she'd misread the poster for Rabbit-Proof Fence, and read it as RABBI Proof Fence. In light of the Jewish community's current obsession with all things leadership/rabinnical, it's apt.

Talk about partying like it's 1999: I'm apparently in a 1983 frame of mind. This Hazell Dean (er, who?) song has been in my head for like two weeks.

Saturday night, went to E's hen night, which was like, moderately frum/kosher, but an Ann Summers party, nonetheless. Quote: "you can never have too many shoes or vibrators." And that's not me saying that. I think you can have too many shoes. Although my friends do call me Imelda.

Today, got my legs waxed (and the beautician commended me on my eyebrows, which I'd done myself), did a forty minute run in the gym, at 150 again - also ran into J, who was being "reprogrammed" as he delighted in telling me. I wonder what it'll do to him: sounds rather 1984.

Saw a late afternoon movie - Rabbit Proof Fence - with S at the Tricycle: deeply thought provoking, although I then found this whole counter-claim type thing, and know I don't know what I think.

Now I'm just surfing the net doing high-speed research for a meeting tomorrow.

This is, sadly, not very exciting. Sorry. But then life is not always very exciting. Although, my personal trainer's daughter is in the band for Popstars the Rivals, so I'm one step away from someone who's one step away from fifteen minutes of fame.

Advice
Did an aerobics class this morning, which took my heart rate to a consistent 150 over an hour. God, I'm getting boring, sorry. Then, in a fit of pique/healthiness, decided I would try back on the old no wheat/dairy thing. Why? Because I felt enourmously healthy when I was doing it. So I went to Tesco, to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, and happened upon some rice bread which is wheat-, dairy-, yeast- and oil-free. Doesn't leave much, does it?

Anyway, I'm at the checkout, and looking down the line of checkout workers, realise that at that moment every single one of them is an Asian woman in her forties or fifties. Mine looks askance at my rice bread. "What's this?" she asks with a sneer. It's rice bread, I tell her. "Expensive, no? £2.29." Which, of course it true.

"Is just rice flour," she continues. "Big bag, 99p, many loaves. You know how to make bread?"

I'm kinda thinking that I've come to do some convenience shopping, and what she's suggesting is just, well, inconvenient. But I say yes, I do know how to make bread. But the truth is, I don't make regular bread, why should I make rice bread?

"Easy," she says, "same recipe, just use rice flour. Much cheaper."

I wonder if she's on some kind of un-commission?

Saw Harry Potter And The Chamber of Secrets last night. Camden, Odeon Town again. I won't do a whole review thing, because they're all over the shop, so why read mine? Let's just say it's a fun movie; very slightly too long for my liking, and rather twee in plot terms. Any fabulously imagined thing that gets introduced-with-benefits (a phoenix can cure things with its tears, and travel really fast... I think that was it), all the benefits get used at the end. So you kinda know what's going to happen. But great cameos from Kenneth Branagh as Gilderoy Lockhart, Miriam Margolyes as Professor Sprout, and John Cleese as the ghost Nearly Headless Nick.

I haven't read the books, but you can't help feeling that Ron is going to eventually get it together with Hermione (whose hair, I'm sure, is curlier in this second movie), and Harry'll end up with Ron's sister. But hey, what do I know?

Local Eccentrics: no 316 in a series
So I'm talking to Jonny Seitler (name finally in print), who lives about two streets away from me, and he's telling me that he's trained "his kid" - or as he says it, "ma kid" - not to use the K word. That's K for Kilburn. Why? It's two horrible, violet words stuck together - KILL and BURN. But we live in a horrible, violent world, I say to him. And it's in zone two. What can you expect? Anyway, he's "trained" his daughter to say Honeysuckle, on the basis of it being two nice, cuddly words randomly stuck together.

I'm sure Kilburn must be named after some local historical fact. I know that Cheadle, the place of my birth, is named after St Chad, a little known ninth century northern saint, apparently. Chad's Hill. Cheadle. Geddit?

So, from now on: honeysuckle, folks. Do you ever find it's everyone else marching out of step?

Local Colour
Just phoned nespresso to order my brother-in-law's birthday gift, and when I started spelling my street name, the woman said, "oh, I know round there, I went to look at a flat in Kingscroft Road last night". We had a long chat about local eateries, transport, the merits of the Jubilee line, and I recommended all my favourite local hangouts. We talked about the rent (£100 a week, for a flatshare, no shared room); Amanda really wanted a shared space, but I said it's not that uncommon for the living room to be turned into a bedroom, as it makes someone, somewhere some money. She said I'd done a very good local marketing job, and she'd email me if she moved in.

Six Minutes And Counting
The firefighters' strike starts in six minutes. Check your smoke alarm. And - as if anyone ate this kind of food anymore - don't leave your chip-pans unattended. That's the advice from the police. Great.

For Art's Sake
A friend wanted to go and see Art with the League of Gentlemen. I said I'd already seen it about five years ago, although I would think about seeing it again. Who was in it? They asked? Oh, I said, actors. Remember, before celebrities/hollywood stars featured in plays, and you went to see it for the play, not the people? Not least because nearly every play I've seen with someone "famous" in it, hasn't been half as good as they are on screen. Because on screen, if you make a mistake, they just film it again. I imagine.

Moleskin is/are my favourite notebook/s.

Shamelessly link-pimped off LMG, but Monday's Guardian had a bunch of mobile phone pieces. Specifically, overhead conversations and a thoughtful piece on the impact of mobiles (I hate the phrase "moby") on our lives.

Personally, I'm one of those people who - however hard she tries - is often late. At least with mobile-to-mobile communication, I can call and say I'm running late. I may be a bad timekeeper, but I'm well brought up. As long as the other person has a mobile. I have a "friend" who doesn't: when I'm late, I feel much worse.

I know what I'm missing: lack of focus. I could pretend that I'm eclectic or renaissance-stylee, but in truth, I'm unboxable.

Which is mostly fine, but sometimes not. So when I register for weblog portals and the like, and you have to say what "kind" of weblog you are; I don't know. I'm just me. If I had to say in one sentence what it is I write here - apart from it being the stuff in my head - I don't think I could.

Then a friend suggested I use my flat for filming/photographic work, which seemed like a good idea. So I took a bunch of photos, put them online, and registered with a few location agencies. They all want to put you in a box: contemporary/minimalist. I'm a maximalist, really. In the end I settled on "...this eclectically decorated, architect designed flat has furnishings ranging from art deco through to ethnic and contemporary". Which means no-one will be abe to categorise me to enter me in a database, and hence I won't have film crews trooping through my house. Which, obviously, could be a good thing.

You know those days when you wake up and you think, I'm funny, I should write a sitcom? Then this is for you.

Last Night A DJ Stole My....
OK, not exactly a DJ. Went to Cambirdge with Jaq - the band's "artist in residence" or what you will, to see the Alabama 3. I've never had the experience of arriving at a venue and saying "we're with the band"; I had all that teenage-groupie feeling. The venue, The Junction, was plastered with signs saying "if you are in distress or require help please ask to speak to the duty manager." I was thinking of asking him to help me balance my cheque book.

The guys are real showmen: there are some musicians you see live and you think, "well, that's just like the album", but this is a totally different experience. Dry ice, lasers, full funky dress-up (although they think that the whole trilby/dark suit combo is slightly reminiscent of a mafia look, whereas I can't help feeling they look like very ordthodox Jews who daven at North Hendon Hadass), and fabulous between-numbers banter (D. Wayne on Northern Ireland: Orangemen are not the only fruit). It's an incredibly powerful experience, especially if you stand by a ten foot amplifier - the music goes right through you.

For the hardcore fans among you, this is how I remember the playlist: lord have mercy; too sick; heaven; power in the blood; ain't going to goa; bulletproof; reachin; wokeup; two heads; 2129; yellow rose; flag; don't dans 2 tekno; year zero; rehab; hypo full of love. And two encores I forgot, sorry.

The Alabama 3 (and no, they're not from Alabama, and there's like eight of them) are not exactly a boy band. They're really not pretty - Orlando, the keyboard player, looks like he needs to eat fresh fruit and vegetables for a year, and the rest all have a fairly lived-in look. That's Brixton for you, I guess. And their audience was a bizarre mixture of black-clad rocker types, really quite old people, and a lot of guys who had, like, their own dance. Most of the audience had evidently been listening to the band in the privacy of their own bedroom, and it showed in their moves. Big time. There's some dancing you only do in front of the mirror, and there's some you don't take out of your house. They couldn't tell.

After the gig, Jaq needed a bit of R&R after a couple of hours of non-stop drawing, and we were invited backstage to, er, hangout with the guys. I can't really do her sketches justice in words, here, so I won't try.

I could write so much about the after-gig, but I have to do some work in a minute. Backstage is really seedy. Seggs, one of the band members is very seriously into juicing - which, given their lifestyle makes a lot of sense - and they'd obviously asked for fresh vegetables to juice. And there they were, along with the beers and vodkas and junk food. Though I suspect that really good juicing does not require Tesco Value carrots. There were groupies - skinny, pissed girls saying "I am lovely, aren't I?", and hardcore fans - "I jush wanna shake your hand, Larry", and a lot of wired people talking a lot of crap. "There are rumours we're going to a bar, Zen?" "We'll find it, Cambridge is small". But in an interesting way.

There was one guy, Dan, who was dressed in the full Alabama 3 regalia - trilby, dark suit, pale-and-interesting look. He stood at the front the whole time doing his own special dance which required you to be double-jointed. Backstage, he wanted Larry to sign his Sopranos picture book, which he did - all the band are incredibly friendly to everyone, even the nutters - though I kinda imagine the world will get destroyed by nuclear war before his Larry-signed book finds its way onto the Antiques Roadshow.

Watch this space - coming soon; short story about an acid-house-country-rock-hip-hop-techno band, a serious groupie and his search for: whatever it is he's searching for.

Lest We Forget
Sometimes, the overwhelming desire to buy in bulk, shop wholesale, or to purchase fashion items that co-ordinate in a very serious way, remind me that I'm Jewish.

Yay. I'm going to see the Alabama 3 in Cambridge tonight with J - known to everyone at my party as The Alabama Three Girl. We have sought out vegetarian restaurants in Cambridge. We are ready.

I really want to see What The Night Is For at the Comedy Theatre. Which apparently asks the question "is the person you are with the right one? Or are they still out there, living another life?"

Donnie Darko
Apparently this movie has cult classic stamped all over it, and I couldn't agree more.

Met P in the Camden, Odeon Town (as I like to call it). I got there a few minutes late, and as he knows I'm often late, he'd gone to wander round. So I'm looking around expectantly, and there's a guy there, obviously going on a blind date, who looks at me expectantly. Is it me? I look at him as if to say "no, Cilla hasn't sent me." He looks like he feels very foolish when P turns up two minutes later. We went and got Thai food at Galangal on Parkway, although I'm not sure their Thai green curry is as good as mine.

Donnie Darko is for every kid who's ever thought they were an outsider. It's a teen movie, in the good ol' John Hughes tradition, and it's a horror-style movie. It's about time travel. It's cool. Although, what I always liked about teen-movies, is that they're kind of an adult free zone, which this film isn't, really. It's a film that makes you think and I haven't yet decided what it really means, so I'll get back to you on that.

IMDB ephemera: Patrick Swayze (yep, he of Dirty Dancing fame) plays Jim Cunningham, the ironic-cult leader. No dancing required.

Personal thoughts: See this movie, now. And then, again. Noah Wyle (ER fame) is the professor, so that's a good enough reason for any - woman - to see this movie. Although the eighties-ness was not as good as I would ideally have liked. And the sister, Elizabeth, is a bit of a cardboard character. And slinkies, in the eighties, were chrome, not plastic. I was there.