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.