Post haste, date o' clock

In exactly an hour and a half I will be leaving this joint to go and eat cheese.  And I will eat cheese to my little hearts content. It is both my favourite thing in the entire world and also my arch nemesis. For today friends I am giving the finger to my healthy eating and gym bunniness. Tomorrow morning however, at approximately 8am, I will let the gorgeous gym instructress have her way with me and get my ever expanding arse into gear.

Enough about cheese, time for the wonderful world of dating. Sometimes singledom gets you down, so you grab the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns, and say ‘hey ho, throw me on that bandwagon’ and here is what happened. It was a sad, sad day when my housemate dragged me speed dating and being weakened by single status I woefully agreed. Off we trod to trendy Shoreditch for an evening of table football, 3 minute conversations, strangers, even stranger hosts and possibly a cocktail or 4. Sceptical was not the word. Cynical was. However my thoughts of trendy sorts in ankle-swinging trousers and 40s war time comb-overs were laid to rest. I met a grand total of 19 men, 16 of which I didn’t hate and 6 of which I thought held potential and I gave the tick of approval. I left feeling strangely positive about the weird old world of dating, little did I know the anxiety and embarrassment that would haunt me in the days to come.

Not 24 hours later and there sat I, at work, in a casual meeting in the downstairs lobby, of what I think would be fair to call, our extensive offices. Who should walk past? None other than Thor.  Not the Thunder God, but someone who had the night before masqueraded under this very pseudonym at speed dating. Oh the shame, admitting to colleagues that the reason you are now chuckling strangely and near silently to yourself is that Thor has just entered the building…

A few nights later housemate and I sat with our laptops, well, in our laps (obviously). I watched as not one, but two, TWO, emails arrived in his inbox, ‘congratulations you have a match!’ the emails proclaimed. I then watched in agonised silence as the event organiser went offline. I sat and stared for a few moments longer at my empty inbox, remembering the immortal words of Peter Kay: “You have no messages. Not even from your mum.” Days passed with only one further email from those bastards, inviting me to sign up for a televised dating show. Inviting me to endure this humiliation in a more public, but I expect, somewhat less speedy domain. No fucking thank you.

 I have since tried real dating. Without speed. Simple, boy meets girl kind of stuff. Well French boy meets girl. Let’s just say it’s a minefield. It’s a brutal and dangerous, anxiety filled minefield, and it’s a long story, which I will tell you another day. I will say this though – cheese will never let you down. Never.

 

 

Rock n’ roll Birkenstocks

This weekend I mosied on home for my dad’s big day and all the proverbial knot tying a girl could hope for. Little did I know it would be a ‘jam’ packed musical mystery tour of the south east as well a much deserved opportunity to see the older members of my family strut their stuff on the dance floor.

I’ve been to a few gigs this year, through no fault of my own. I love a good gig, and a good pre-gig curry, as my boss pointed out, but given that you need to buy tickets years in advance I tend to rely on the organisational skills of my friends. Still, I digress. Why have I called you here today? Well, for the musical mystery tour of course. On Friday night we ended up in a venue I have not set foot in for the best part of 8 years, The Forum, in Tunbridge Wells. Formerly some kind of Victorian public restroom and now the preserve of death metal enthusiasts of Kent. I was there because my brother’s friends had made it to the final of a local battle of the bands. I was assured that we would miss the metal portion of the evening and that the band would be worth seeing. You know what? He wasn’t wrong.

Ladies and gents, girls and boys, teens and toddlers, I give you Clockworks. Lead singer Josh looked a little skeletal in comparison to the ball of death and sweat that rolled off stage before him, but didn’t seem too bothered by it all. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a front man with such genuine swagger and natural stage presence. His voice slightly reminiscent of Brian Molko, of Placebo fame, is unaffected and sincere. In fact unaffected and sincere may be exactly what they’re going for… when was the last time you saw a bassist on stage in white sport socks? The songs were catchy without being annoying or tedious, on further listening the lyrics are (in my mostly humble opinion) pretty damn brilliant and the band appear to be enjoying themselves. Slightly novel, given that one of the rock last gigs I went to, I wished the lead singer would just help himself to a handful prozac.

Maybe I’m just high on the joy of seeing originality and talent untouched by executives, hairdressers and personal trainers. Maybe it’s the achingly high notes on now favourite track ‘Always’. Maybe it’s the infectious joy of the groupies apparent. Three gorgeous 20-something Abercrombie boys that stalk the band from gig to gig, know all the words and make drummer Simon’s attempted seriousness impossible as he beams from behind his high hat. I joined the groupie boys (really friends of the band) and spent Sunday in the grounds of Arundel castle as Clockworks filled a last minute spot at the Arundel festival. Bassist Luke is still in his socks, Josh is sporting Birkenstocks and Simon is fighting a whole new battle with a snare drum and despite the less competitive atmosphere (and shock heatwave), they’re still outstanding.

I don’t want to say it...but I’m going to…god it’s too cheesy, but its true. They may have lost the battle, but the war is theirs. Theirs I tell you! They’re just a kilt and pot of blue facepaint away from going straight to the top.

Oh and for a bit more Clockworks magic and musical mayhem, check out http://www.myspace.com/clockworksonline

cold as gasoline

I don’t drink Guinness. It’s a meal in a pint glass. I. do not. drink. Guinness. Although 2 bottles of red wine can make a pint of Guinness seem rather appealing. So why not, I’ll have a pint of Guinness. Thanks.

Moving to London is a disaster, it really is. My brain is a manipulative little bastard. Last night I had planned one of my favourite anally retentive activities. Clean sheets night. You see, it’s not just clean sheets. It’s clean, crisp, ironed sheets. It’s machine washed, fabric softened pillow-cases and duvet covers. Once those are neatly on the bed, it’s time for clean Danni, fresh from her bubble bath and in her clean pyjamas. All day I dreamt about this. Thoughts of sliding under cool sheets, sinking into pillows and a still dreamless sleep. But, oh no, this is not what happened, not at all.

One farewell drink for a colleague turned into a lot of farewell drinks for my common sense. Like teenagers with a wad of fake IDs we cleaned out the booze isle of the supermarket and bid goodbye to our lovely colleague the only way we knew how. Getting drunk on the patch of grass they dare to call a park outside work. One drink, that’s what I’d told the brain, then it started to reason with me, in the process erasing the thought of clean sheet night, and my then unmade bed…

Wine wine wine and Guinness later, I navigated the mammoth four stop tube journey home. Memory returning slowly, biting me sharply on the ass, the unmade bed dawned on me. Clean sheet night was ruined and so was I. I made the bed, I made it, after I made toast, with mustard and ham and shortly before not taking off my makeup.  So much for my anally retentive order of events. No sliding into anything, no neat and tidiness, no bubble bath, just a harsh beam of light breaking through the blinds at 6am demanding a handful of nurofen and a cold shower. Goodbye lovely colleague, we will miss you. 

nutter.

It’s a simple fact of life that some of us have a weirdo homing device. What this essentially means is that people, like myself, who are in fact perfectly normal, are carriers of a mutant ‘weirdo gene’. Like the call of a wild pheasant, it sends out a signal to the more barmy members of the human race and says “talk to me”. It overrides your screaming internal monologue and says, “Yes, I, Danielle, am happy and willing to give you a spare second of my time and am, much to my own annoyance, so polite that I wont run away screaming”. 

In an office of hmm, lets see, nearly 30 people, why is it that a slightly odd man, roaming the corridors of our sizeable building, found me? More to the point, who let him in? He then tried to recruit ten minutes of my time to test out a new digital reading invention, which no doubt has robbed him of thousands of daylight hours, his bank balance and a sense of humour. He hovered around my desk, talking painfully slowly in a way that suggested I might not understand the higher level he normally communicates at. In the politest way I knew how, I managed not to be welcomed onto Starship Enterprise and suggested that my colleagues were more than likely too busy to participate.

Did they thank me? Did they sigh with relief, run over and throw their arms round me out of gratitude? No, of course not. Mutiny broke out in the school yard and the bullying began.

“Oooh, Danni, is that your new boooyfriend?”

It should be noted that I am fairly accustomed to this behaviour. Indeed, it is not the first time I have been a victim of their mockery, for they too know about my mutant gene. The previous story goes a little like this:

Colleague: “Danni, a really rather attractive man came to see you while you were away, about the office move”

Danni: “Really?”

Colleague: “Yes, he’s coming back later, he looks a bit like Jesus. In a good way.”

Well the Jesus part was true. Since the move took some time to coordinate, Jesus was to pop into our office from time to time and as such he became my boyfriend. Not really! pfft! Don’t get carried away. They called him my boyfriend.

I threaten them with mock emails to HR, swear that I will never unlock my alcohol cupboard (yes, we have one), but none of it matters. I am the youngest, doomed to be mocked!

Listed

What is it with making lists lately? I’m unstoppable! To do lists, what-I’ve left-at-home-prior-to-my-move lists, whats-missing-in-my-new-room list and most importantly the top 5 list.

Let’s start with the news. After one Bruce Spingsteen massacre too many, I decided it was time for me to leave my dad and his guitar collection behind and become a fully-fledged grown up person. As it happened an old friend from university had a spare room in his flat, and voila, he is now my prodigal roommate and I, a prodigal Londoner.

All’s well in the new abode, my evenings suddenly stretch before me with possibly, well, with viewing possibilities. The television is my new best friend. Last night with the prodigal roommate out of the house I indulged in some light hearted documentary fun. I started with BBC 3s “Baby Beauty Queens”, which predictably looked at pushy parentals and teeny tiny pageant princesses. Actually, that’s a bit of a generalisation, one of the mothers wasn’t pushy at all. Her economic situation provided a stark and bleak contrast to the thousands of pounds the other mothers were forking out on miniature Marc Jacobs.  One of the other mothers proudly announced that by age 7 her little darling had already had plastic surgery. Huh? Then we are dragged kicking and screaming into a beauty parlor where one little girl is spray tanned from top to toe! God it was compelling, I even cried, which in my book is the mark of a good program.

Then, I was only minutes into a Sheryl Crow documentary on the biography channel, when the roommate returned. Apparently, embarrassment should have ensued. What's wrong with a Sheryl Crow documentary? Said I. Nothing. Said he. In a way that suggested I had not only lost the moral fibre of my being, but should have the remote control surgically removed from my hand. Nevertheless, it was very informative. Although I suddenly feel that the Friends character I am now mostly likely to be, is Ross.

I was about to be done with this story, when I remembered what else happened on roommies return. We made a list. Yes, the top 5 list. The top 5 people in this world that regardless of the status of your relationship at that specific point in time, if you meet them, all previous agreements are null and void.  It was terrific, and the most taxing activity my brain has had to do all week. They’re now complete and up on the fridge, although we have agreed, you may update them from time to time, but are still only allowed a grand total of five. Oh and I bet you want to know who made the cut:

My list: Javier Bardem, Billy Crudup (in Almost Famous), Dan Carter (of New Zealand Rugby fame), Ryan Gosling and John Cusack (in High Fidelity, nah, in everything actually)

Roomie’s list: Kaley Cuoco, Kate Beckinsale, Elisha Cuthbert, Louise Redknap (of football WAG fame) and..hmm, I’ll have to look on the fridge when I get home, can’t quite recall numero 5!

The big three oh!

So the best friend and I got talking, as we do. In a moment of conversationary lapse, we decided to make a list of things we need to do before hitting the big three oh! As the list started to take a shaky shape, I questioned the ‘bigger’ things on her list, and as she rightly pointed out, she still has 7 years. Wow, said I, that is quite a lot of time. She then also rightly pointed out that I only have 5 years left. FIVE. No, not seven, five. That’s not long, and I can assure you, there is lots to be achieved.

Like what? Well we didn’t get much further than me screeching “FIVE” at her, with my knuckles turning white,  car swerving violently around a bend in the placid English countryside. So here’s where I get to thinking, if I make a list, it had better be achievable, however it can’t be too achievable, otherwise the overriding naffness will inevitably mean I don’t do it.

Regardless, here goes something. Here is the magical list, what does this woman want?

A vintage car for one thing. I have always wanted  a gas guzzling, red car like the one at the top of this post.(I would also like to solve my technical retardation that prevents me from posting the picture here and not at the top of the post!!) Although in the event that I could afford such a lovely vintage set of wheels I will gladly have it in any colour, except orange. It does nothing for my complexion.

It would also be nice to learn French. Why French? I year you yelp. Because because because, it eludes me still. Spanish seems almost (if not entirely) within my grasp, but oh! French! No matter how I try, those garlic infused chaps across the channel can make neither head nor tail of me trying to order so much as a cup of coffee.

Then the other thing is I want to live and work in New York for at least a year. Now this little plan is thwarted by everything, unstable job markets, the acquisition of a work visa (I’m sure this is not as difficult in actuality as it is in my head) and my complete inability to save anything, least of all money. Hmm, perhaps someone with lots of money could sponsor my existence.

I guess then, I would also like, before my thirtieth birthday to meet someone with lots of money to sponsor my existence. 

If possible, I would like to make a start on my novel. Now this makes it sound like there is actually a concrete idea for this novel. But, ho! There is not. Nope, I just want to write something of significance…not asking to be Shakespeare or Wordsworth or Otis Redding.

Number 4, Film Director – except German or Silent.

Wait, that’s not me…

 

sunshine bitch

They’ve been hibernating all winter, I know it, because I can tell you, I’ve not seen them until now. Not to talk about the weather, but it’s a fairly pivotal part of this bitter anecdote. Safe to say, summer has arrived, actually, in England it never arrives, it stops over. I digress. This week summer has stopped over and in London it has tempted out a different breed of female. I suspect that somewhere on the outskirts of the city there is to be found a hibernation camp, kitted out with spray tanning , hair salons and celery. Preparing hordes of  women, who never set foot on the street in winter for their grand debut.

They’re thin. Not just skinny types, but these perfectly slim mythical beasts who haunt my nightmares. I am by no means gargantuan, but this heat has made any form of public transport near deathly, the head and humidity swarming around you, while you resent the fact that other people on the underground need to breathe. Then Little Miss Immaculate hops on, all Carrie Bradshaw breezy in heeled shoes that your mother would have warned you, ‘could take someone’s eye out!’ She has clothes to die for, flitty summer dresses dance around her and you could be forgiven for thinking she has a personal assistant following her with an air conditioner. You of course are simply sporting the short-sleeved versions of your almost entirely black (heat attracting) work wardrobe, oh and a pair flip-flops.  

On a positive note, the lovely weather inevitably finds me and my entourage (of 1) in the beer gardens of our tiny town. These, unlike London attract an entirely different calibre of lady beast, with hair pulled tightly back for a face-lift effect and more than just a pair of legs on display. They don’t make an altogether pleasant change from the flawless exhibitions of the city, but at least I don’t feel like the one of the lesser cuts of creation.

Perhaps it’s time to reintroduce my stomach to the age old art of starvation and the masterful ways of the sit up? My legs could probably use a stretch, but they argue vehemently that they’re by far thinner than the rest of me and would like very much to be left alone. I’ve just read the small print, it turns out bitterness and cynicism were a package deal that came without a money back guarantee. The only way to suppress them is with a nice large glass of cabernet. Well if I must. 

you know something's wrong when...

…you’re singing ‘Poker Face’ by that personality free zone Lady Gaga and its whirring round and round in your head and your wrists are still pleasantly in tact. Make it stop!

Other things that need to stop:

Eating. I’ve done it again, I mean it was a simple introduction “arse meet wagon” and the arse/wagon relationship continued (not without its problems) for around 3 weeks. Three happily shed kilograms later, the marginally smaller arse fell, well and truly off the wagon. It fell merrily into a few bottles of red wine, somewhere near a crate of cheese, poached eggs atop garlic grilled asparagus, lasagne, more cheese, espresso and inevitably and quite rightly so, more red wine.  Today it stumbled toward an apple crumble, so cinnamony, buttery, toasty warm and inviting, that it took one look at my guilt ridden brain and told it to fuck off.

I must get out of the food industry, or my pleas to the heavens for skinnydom come, will be drowned out and suffocated by butter icing. I’ll turn tragically into someone who can’t quite manage to get the cake mix to the oven and inhales it before it so much as graces a cake tin. I have some willpower left, I think, but it probably need a serious calorie-free boost.

Last night my dad was on phone call duty. June is birthday month. Aunts, cousins, cousins-in-law, friends, foes, they were all there on the list. I’m in the kitchen (preparing the lasagne, obviously) and I can hear him nattering. It makes a pleasant change from his attachment to that guitar. I’m picking up on some regularities of each conversation. Most prominently ‘no, I wish I could marry her off, but she’s still here’. He’s joking, which is fine, what’s not fine, is that they’re asking.  They  are the South Africans, the prodigal tribal elders, whose own daughters, all by my ripe old age of 24 (I kid yee not) have been married off. The husbands have handed over herds of cows and goats and the daughters are now the mothers and wives of Africa. I’m glad there is an ocean and 12 hour flight between us. I’ve learnt many a lesson from my previous attachments (boyfriends if you must) and that is, I could most certainly not see myself married to any of them now. No offence lads, but you understand.

So now I face some interesting dilemmas. I mull over the possibility of an attachee, I mull over who the current options are (shudder) and think about what small amount of my time I could possibly devote to them, without, like my African counterparts, becoming their live-in carer. What brings these dilemmas to the forefront you may ask? Surely there are other things higher on the agenda? Why yes friend, there are, but you see, a friend of mine recently joined an online dating site and given that my dear mother once asked me ‘have you thought about online dating?” it meant that I definitely had to think about internet dating. Fortunately for me, said friend has sacrificed herself as the guinea pig, so we’ll just see how she gets on, wont we?

electric adventure

Perhaps all books should be confined to shelves. Left unread. I could reach up to that dusty top shelf and wrench down my common sense. It is clearly not the wisest idea to start reading “A Year in Provence” shortly after returning from that very region. Sitting at my desk, the London summer in full grey swing, life could not be further removed from the lazy days we spent crawling around the Provencal countryside from one vineyard to the next.  Four days in southern France were enough to tip me over the edge and have made the previously bearable London lifestyle seem utterly life threatening. I could use an anti-depressant today.

Provence is like no part of France I’ve ever been to. That is for the very reasonable reason that I’ve only ever visited the country to go skiing or gallivanting in Paris.  Today I’m rolling the names of Provencal areas and towns round my mouth like round, shiny sweets, savouring them, even the mispronounced sounds I make. Lubéron, Ventoux, Orange, Avignon, Vaucluse…I’m daydreaming about Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, the river bursting through the town centre, the antique shops brimful of rusted bar stools, wooden chests, anything you could dream up to furnish your imaginary country home.

The landscape for the most part rolls along and undulates deceptively gently. The hills are striped with rows of vines, cherry trees and lavender.

On one of our outings, we rented electric bicycles at wine co-operative Cave Terraventoux. Unlike the permanent residents of this region, pioneers of the Tour de France, our little collective of Brits have no predisposition to a cycling gene. Our genetic makeup however does allow for excess in its best forms.  With minimal effort on our part the bicycles took us through vineyards, the sun burning through the breeze and turning forearms a beautiful shade of lobster.  We stopped for a lunch of what I can only call cold omelette, but hasten to add was delicious and cured meat of various descriptions, and of course glasses of rosé and red Cote du Rhone. Our winter skin becoming more pink by the second. 

I think I better stop daydreaming and pack a suitcase. Afterall I was not built for full-time employment. 

Webbing and curfews and rain

Although they didn’t open with it, their set ironically included the track ‘Good Time’ in which the pineapple haired Adam sings “I just wanna have a good time, just like everybody else”. I hate to tell you Adam, but this was my overwhelming thought at a gig, that I suspect might have just been a bit of a trip for you.

Last year I booked tickets to see the Counting Crows at Wembley, tickets booked in July for a gig in December. Already this is some unprecedented forward planning on my behalf. The gig was then postponed to May this year, which, my friends, is 2 months short of a year and 5 radishes short of a spring salad. Nevertheless, excitement builds unbound and May eventually swings its grey head around the door. Wembley Arena (not stadium) is pretty packed with fans and their unsuspecting friends along for what their expectant little faces anticipate to be a night of musical joyousness. How wrong you are!

The first and last time I saw Adam Duritz and his musical entourage was in 2004, and they were fucking splendid. As much as I love and revel in new music, I very much resented the fact that they opened their Wembley set with two very obscure, manic depressive ballads. Now, Adam, I am not asking you to bust out Mr Jones for the millionth time in your merry dreadlocked life, but please, give me something I can work with. A little later we managed to get a slight groove going, and a few cheers emerged barely drowned by a half hearted applause, as we dreamt of Michaelango and took a quick trip to Miami. Not a minute too soon and they were ferried offstage for the obligatory, ‘applause till your hands are raw and maybe we’ll give you an encore’ session, at which point we made a run for the door.

The train journey was a little more interesting, a few hardcore disappointed fans harping on about the good old days and sell by dates. An interesting crowd of lads and their loony friend drew some curious looks, after the loony chap decided that his t-shirt which was originally inside out, was better inside-off. He then proceeded to show his belly to the world, or at least to those of us on the Jubilee line heading slowly south from Wembley. It was a merry old journey, and almost the most fun we’d had all night. However that would be doing a disservice to the electric shoe polisher we found in the Indian Restaurant before the gig. In fact it would do a disservice to the whole experience at the Indian restaurant which was nothing short of confusing and awkward hilarity. 

right said small town

After immersing myself in the second successive Gilmorefest, I’m beginning to believe that if you watch something enough, you’ll probably grow tired of it.  You must be thinking - what on god’s green earth is Gilmorefest? Well for the fortunate few who are pondering, you’ve probably avoided the television phenomena known as ‘The Gilmore Girls’. I’m not even sure it has a ‘the’ in the title, but my brain hurts and I’m not googling it.  Despite being firmly in the ‘hate it’ camp for years, I grew soft in my old age and started to value the charm, the formulaic speedy diatribes, the pain, the heartache, their joy, their sorrow. It’s just that two weekends of none stop Gilmore later, I feel drained and exhausted. You’re worried? So am I!

We did however tear ourselves away from the TV long enough to throw on a pair of heels, a slightly mental floral skirt (I speak for myself here) and stalk up the hill (all of ten paces) to the pub. A few appletini’s and 3 bottles of rosé later we were singing into pool cues, throwing pounds at the juke box and picking out some dancefloor classics.

Newcomers to our town will be forgiven for thinking that The White Hart is not really your average dancing establishment. Maybe you’d think that a quiet drink and a bit of Bruce on the jukebox would suffice, but that’s an entirely different night all together. On those nights I’ll battle your ‘Streets of Philadelphia’ with an upper cut of Celine Dion. This particular Saturday night however was reserved for dancing. What with the one and only night club in our town charging a whopping £8 (eight English pounds!) for entry and overpriced alcopops, we know how and where to make our own fun. So do Right Said Fred. We strutted our stuff to Beyonce and some upbeat Celine, but as soon as “I’m too sexy” slowly crept through the stereo pipes, my dancing buddy was throwing shapes and jackets in ways I’d never seen shapes and jackets thrown. I was close to tears and bent double in hysterics. The owner of the pub, decided that it was too good to be missed, and within minutes her husband was part of the audience. We thank our lucky stars on occasion that she has a sense of humour.

With exhaustion setting in and the end of the work day (yes! I’m at work) slowly approaching I bid you farewell. Please exercise caution and moderation where television is concerned.  

ticketed

Well that certainly is an interesting way to eat an apple. I can tell you, that while you are munching away in that most peculiar of fashions, I am sitting here, opposite you on the train, thanking god for my iPod, headphones, volume control and Stevie Wonder, all individually. Perhaps you are just biting off pieces of the the apple in a hapless attempt at politeness? Yet it looks like you could inhale the entire apple in one mouthful, so why not give me something worth looking at? Go on, I dare you.

Evidently I’m in a joyous mood when I’m commuting home. I guess I just wasn’t cut out for the hazards of British public transport.

Other items of great joy; I feel like the right honourable Bridget Jones, quizzed by the elders of her tribe “why are their so many single women in their 30s?” Hold on! Yes, I know, I’m not yet 30, but I am well and truly single.  It has dawned on me, and those around me that for some time now, there has been no sign of a significant other. One elder took it upon herself to advise me that “it really is about time you found yourself a nice young man”. Which of course is splendid advice, but it needs further instruction. Perhaps you could elude to where I might start looking, or tell me where those with personality defects and bad shoes aren’t hanging out?

Another moment of pure genius: yesterday I paid for a week’s worth of parking at the train station, today I forgot to  put the ticket in the window. So now I’m sat at work wallowing in my idiocy. I will no doubt have the joyous task of writing to the council and asking them in the sweetest ink on paper tone of voice to revoke the fine, because, and I’ll apologise profusely for this, I am a little brain dead. 

cardboard cutout

Our house is made of cardboard. Either that or the bricks have holes in, which allow sound to travel magically through it. This was all well and good when my dad possessed only a starter-kit for the amateur guitarist. Alas he has now in all his elderly wisdom upgraded to the obesity amp. The thing is enormous, and the Fender sign and long line of little dials appear to mock me with their shiny new-ness. Bastards. I guess I’ll spend this weekend at Homebase getting the necessaries for sound proofing my room.

I’m escaping the house a lot lately. Finding my own place is proving tricky, so running away is my temporary solution. Requirements for said place of own, are basically that it needs to be a bargain, but preferably the kitchen should not be in the bedroom. This, it seems, is a pretty big ask in the city of London. Bah.

Escapes include Paris last weekend and up up and away to the north of England this weekend. Paris was of course entirely fabulous, a bit of a university reunion, our trio harking right back to the dynamics of old. Prancing about the city is always fun, I really love it there, it has a glamour about it, that we went to many lengths to ruin. My travelling companion and I astonished the French with our eating and drinking capabilities. The novelty of French cheese and wine could not possibly have worn thin in 3 days, so much so that we single-handedly stunk out public transport from Paris back to London, bags bursting with the stuff.

Anyway, after New York and now Paris I’ve become obsessive about moving abroad. I keep being tempted to move to Paris, with friends holed up in the city already. Then again, I don’t speak French, at least not in a way that is comprehensible to people living in France, minor problem! The plan is to get my rear end out of Britain by 2012, that way missing the joys of London public transport during the olympics and giving me some kind of goal. Both very, very good things.

all star banker

'Workers in the city are being advised to dress down and postpone non-essential meetings amid fears that they will be forced to run the gauntlet of protesters'

The above is an extract from an email sent to employees of a London bank last week, prior to the G20 summit and organised protests taking place from today. Do not yee worry, I'm not here to discuss politics, lets leave that for another day. 

I'm privy to the above because a banking friend happened to forward the message, I didn't think twice about the email. My place of work is on the outskirts of nowhere in West London, and we tend dress down. However, at approximately 7:42 this chilly spring morning, I was reminded of the aforementioned warning. Commuters know well the routine of the journey they make, and are used to seeing many of the same faces day in and day out and more to the point, many of the same suits. Imagine my amusement when a few of the faces turned up, with their suits nowhere to be seen. 

One of my favourite suits, because he bears a resemblance to a certain sex and the city character, looked like he had fallen straight out of bed into Topman, where he was swiftly spat back out onto Platform 1. He stood there, lit from above by a stretch of sunlight, looking down at his mobile phone. The effect was quite endearing really. The sunlight obviously didn't make looking at the phone easy, but made it look like it was the first time he had encountered this particular piece of technology. Either that or he had abandoned his blackberry for the day, and the retro Nokia was part of the 'I'm normal like you' disguise? The rest of the outfit consisted of casual corduroys and some fresh-from-the-box converse all stars. 

I'm also curious about this 'gauntlet' they'll be running. If you've ever been down to London's financial abyss, you'll know there is little there, apart from some quite nice architecture, some rather big banks and I think The Independent newspaper office is knocking about too. Personally I think it's a lot of hype about a lot of nothing, other than the gauntlet it will be interesting to see how the G20 miraculously solve all our current crises with their overpriced discussions. I'm inclined to think that the protests and summit are unlikely to achieve anything. A number of 'stop the war' protests are taking place, while at the same time troops being removed from Iraq - a marginally futile exercise. I don't need to ask what the real cost of the summit is, I expect an intern at one of the nationals is furiously doing sums on my behalf.

After all I didn't see Obama or Sarkozy in their all stars this morning. 

the good ship spotify

It's a voyage of discovery. Today's voyage started at Deep Purple, did a pit stop at Peter Gabriel and finished somewhere near Fats Domino. If I'm correct in my estimations the journey is probably going a little backwards. The problem with this sort of travel is that it is really quite unpredictable, you never know who will crop up along with way and who they might introduce you to. Of course, all this not knowing is rather hazardous, it insisted that I discover the wonders of Melody Gardot. She wasn't a discovery I particularly wanted to make, although she reminded me in her own sugar sweet bluesy way, that it is probably okay to outgrow your music collection. 

I'm sure you'll know exactly how I'm undertaking this bizarre trip. On the good ship Spotify of course! An invention that in the music world received so much hype I was certain it wouldn't deliver. But by bollocks! does it deliver. Right now it's delivering unadulterated David Bowie, and I'm face to face with the man who sold the world. Cue raucous applause! I'll never ever get to grips with the fact that for at least a few months of its existence I lived without this incredible feat of human invention. Supplying me with an endless archive of music that were never within my reaches or budget or living years for that matter. 

Never again will I be tortured thinking that just maybe, I was born in the wrong decade. A decade where the elders of the tribe constantly remind you that 'they just don't make them like they used to'. The green button glows it's little hello from the dock on my mac drawing the mouse ever nearer. Seconds later I'm flicking through Bonnie Raitt's back catalogue, a whole world of Bonnie Raitt at my fingertips, I'm still not sure its a good thing. The recommendations bar at the top right informs me I might also like to try Darden Smith on for size...why not, he looks about my size. 

All this music, and the only price I'm paying is having to listen to random advertisements every 3 or so songs. Self control is not even an option, every time a name pops into the void that exists where the mathematical part of my brain used to be, I'll search and fill the empty space with Joe Bonamassa or Amadou&Mariam or a John Mayer album that I never quite got round to buying. Then I'll flick on back a few years to Led Zeppelin and Miles Davis. I've had to start keeping a pen and paper next to my laptop, to scribble down names of artists who keep presenting themselves to my brain. My ears can't listen fast enough, perhaps Spotify will force them to evolve multiple listening cavities of some sort? I can only live in hope. 

Apparently 10,000 songs are uploaded onto Spotify every day. Self control has been totally abandoned and I am rejoicing in the fact that most of my friends are otherwise occupied on a Saturday night. I don't resent paying for music, in fact I love shopping for new music. It is just made virtually impossible in today's download culture to walk into a music store and listen to anything that takes your fancy. Having to read about new and obscure artists that iTunes and amazon only give me split second recordings of, doesn't allow for intelligent decision making. This is evidently one of the thousands upon millions of reasons why those lovely people somewhere in the Swedish hills came up with Spotify. 

Further reason to block out the aforementioned droning paternal guitar sound of my previous entry.

Who needs a drink?

surround sound scales

Merry Christmas. This year your dad's fiancé has given him guitar lessons. It seems on the surface, an innocent and benevolent gesture. It is not. 

Here's what we know about your dad. For years now he has been playing the guitar, singing along in the shrill poorly timed tones of a pre-pubescent chipmunk. His guitar skills and salary have never quite been in sync. In fact it would be safe to assume, that as the one got better, the other has taken a mind boggling nose dive. Four guitars and one too many versions of 'Summer of '69' later, you're a few radishes short of losing your mind. 

To make matters far, faaaar worse, he is in possession of an amplifier. So despite having said goodnight, and being behind the once safe enclosure, that is your bedroom door,  you can still hear the not so distant, not so bluesey version of Eric Clapton's Layla. Clapton himself is no doubt having a sleepless night at the very thought of the massacre. Layla stripped of all her blues, her off-beat, decidedly on, her swaggering confidence destroyed by a teenager sipping white lightning in a cold park.

Three lessons, with a floppy haired son-of-a-gun surely not more than 3 weeks your senior, and you're longing for the days when the rumbling downstairs was unrecognisable. Your every waking hour is interrupted by scales and screeching and wailing that no new-born baby has ever been able to match. If he confined himself to one room of the house, you could cope. You could watch Friends on surround sound, so that Ross burning his fingers on the fajitas, sounded like it was actually in your kitchen. That would be very well and good, if your dad hadn't decided to entertain both you and Ross in the living room. 

You didn't think the fiancé was evil, I bet you do now.