The Daily

Why Portsmouth libraries are amazing and why Portsmouth News should leave them alone

2011-03-08T21:57:00.003Z

Today's Portsmouth News chooses as its front page story to report the horror of thousands of missing library books, valued at £231,000 and £40,000 in outstanding fines.

I cannot believe the News headlined with this story AND ran an Editor's Leader on it.

I have many reasons for this, some of them political, some of them personal - the latter mostly due to the passionate belief I have that all journalists should share a common and individual sense of responsibility for their writing.

Or, to put it more simply, I disagree with this story for two main reasons - one, it's wrong, factually; and two, it's bad journalism.

Let me explain.

If you live in Portsmouth, I'm really interested to know if this is the main issue for you today, and whether, in the current climate of international civil unrest, political division nationally and a public sector under threat, you think this represents you, as a reader and citizen.

I’m more interested in the closure of Sure Start centres that had over 100 mums and their children protesting over the water from us in Gosport today, but you have to wade through another 3 pages to get to that.

Or perhaps something on International Women’s Day? It’s the 100^th anniversary - that doesn’t get a mention at all.

Even if you accept that this subject warrants this level of importance - which I don't - the sloppy reporting alone makes me ashamed to call myself a journalist.

Here’s why.

In his editorial for the day, the editor refers to making children pay their library fines - though they're not liable for any fines on books.

How do I know?

I’m glad you asked. Well, as a journalist, it’s my job to find stuff out. In this case it was quite easy as Portsmouth Library Service publishes their fines and overdue items policy online.

The News also didn't seem so worried about fines when they published an upbeat report about abolishing them in 2009.

Interesting that they're so passionate about it now.

But the real Journalism 101 Rookie Error of All Time in this story is something that is actually missing from it. One key piece of information that has a profound impact on what these figures actually mean.

Namely, what period of time does this piece refer to? Are these the overdue books and fines from the past year? The past five years? Since the library service began?

That's quite important, and I wonder why it wasn't included.

Maybe because this isn’t reporting as I understand and adore it, but cheap sensationalism, designed to cause a stir.

And maybe if you’re all hot and bothered about this story, you won’t stop to wonder why The News doesn’t devote the same attention and page space to real issues. Why it doesn't give the same level of coverage to the potential impact the recent budget cuts will have on your life, or the growing number of people prepared to resist them.

Maybe you'll feel so angry at the library service you won't object when more library staff lose their jobs and the service you get from your library starts to suffer. Maybe you'll be so angry you'll blame the libraries themselves for that, instead of the budget cuts.

You know what I would have done with that same information on missing library stock?

I’d have written a discussion piece about why people don’t return their library books.

I’d have written about how George Washington – yes, the first US president – forgot to return a library book and his overdue fees came to over $300,000 until a replacement copy was bought, over two hundred years after his death.

I’d have pointed out that if it happens to the President, surely it could happen to anyone.

I’d highlight that exactly the same problem is faced by library services up and down the country, which also report thousands of books missing from their collections, and thousands due in overdue fines.

I’d have encouraged readers to think about it for themselves.

Maybe I'd have closed with a light-hearted piece that encouraged people to return their books as a matter of civic duty, even if they sneak them in under the cover of darkness like ninjas. I’d have mentioned all the ways libraries try to get people to do exactly that (return their books, I mean, not the ninja thing), from amnesties on fines, to having fines reduced if you can give the most interesting reason for not returning your book.

Instead the News throws the book at our library service.

They report the story as though our libraries are doing something wrong. The Tory Cllr, Alastair Thompson, goes so far as to say that the missing books prove that “the council is not running the library service well.”

Well then, neither is the British Library. They can’t find 9,000 of their books at all.

But, to be honest, it doesn’t matter what you think about people who don’t return their library books, what the library should do with those people. It doesn’t even matter whether or how much you think bad borrowers should pay for their sins.

What really matters is that for thousands of people in this city, the News is regarded as a source of, well, news. The information printed there is seen as objective and impartial, the basis on which people will form opinions about local services.

When a newspaper does that job badly – and the News have, I believe, in this case, barely done what I understand to be their job at all – they fail in their responsibility to their readers.

And as a journalist, as a citizen, and as a lifelong library user – and yes, a late returner and payer of many fines - that’s something I take very seriously indeed.

Male domestic violence and video games

2010-09-06T20:12:00.006+01:00

There's a new article about male domestic violence from me over at the WVON site, of which I am a very proud co-editor. It's already spawned a lively debate over at my Facebook page, so I'd love to hear your comments, either here or in the WVON comments box.

In other news, are there any other non-gamers (as in XBox 360, and that cube thing, whatever) out there who whilst feeling no desire to game themselves are addicted to watching others do it? I bought my brother, an avid player and advocate of gaming, Dante's Inferno for the Xbox 360, and not only is it amazing and hugely entertaining to watch, but it's also inspired me to finally get around to reading the whole thing - who said gaming was about dumbing down?

Update: MIA's Born Free - It's always the gingers.

2010-04-26T22:13:00.002+01:00

In an interesting development to yesterday's story on MIA - Born Free (well, less of a story, more of a cathartic sharing, to be honest), the wonder of tweetyness has just informed me that the MIA Born Free video has been banned by YouTube.

Imagine! All the stuff that gets on YouTube, and they ban this?

"But Sarah, why?" I hear at least a million readers scream from the ether (sure, you don't comment, but we all know you're there...).

Well, head over to her website and find out for yourself.

It's always the gingers. Always.

Born Free - M.I.A.

2010-04-25T22:18:00.001+01:00

Because sometimes you've got to go a little bit crazy just to stay sane.

IttyBiz - the business of business

2010-04-12T19:10:00.003+01:00

Enough of the monkey business. Bring on the penguins. No, there's no link to the rest of the post. None at all.
(Image: courtesy of Kysoh's Tux Droid and Gnu)

Anyone who runs their own business single-handed, but particularly those of us who work alone and from home, know just how isolating the business of business can be.

Sure, there are many perks. As a freelance writer and researcher, my work allows me to work from more or less anywhere and provides me with the perfect excuse to be one of Portsmouth's least known (yet paradoxically best-loved) coffee shop connoisseurs. Working my own hours and setting my own agenda are two more of the highs in the freelancing high life, but it's not all fresh lattes and satisfyingly tappy keyboards.

The downside includes being responsible for admin, marketing, and accounting - areas that cause me to become as sleepy as I do when listening to David Cameron's vomit-inducing sweet nothings as he whores out his party in the hope of becoming Britain's Next Prime Minister.

It's no surprise that I often need some help.

Today, on the suggestion of Mark McGuinness over at the online creative kickass heaven that is Lateral Action, I finished my latest dirty dozen posts over at Women's Views On News and toddled over to IttyBiz. The brainchild and potty-mouthed home of small business guru Naomi Dunford, IttyBiz is the entrepreneur's guide to everything you ever needed to know about money management, marketing, making the most of social media and lots of other business-oriented matters beginning with 'M'.

Naomi's style is uniquely approachable. But best of all for a navytown gal like me, it's also peppered with profanity, somehow managing to combine excellent advice with pithy, witty irreverence. The first post I read was titled 'Money! Or what kind of moron pees on their own boot?'

I was sold. And now I belong to Naomi Dunford. How about you?

Running with the acoustic wolf

2010-04-06T20:42:00.000+01:00

We like Wolf Gang. Don't we (wolf) gang?

How I became a Feminist - and what about you?

2010-04-01T19:24:00.006+01:00

Alright, so it's been a while. I could apologise but we both know it would be hollow and insincere.

For those of you who are particularly missing me (you know who you are, I don't answer your emails and there are restraining orders in place), you can catch me musing and ranting in equal measure on all things feminist and women's rights at the amazing and truly inspiring Women's Views on News, of which I am a proud co-editor. Failing that, you can find me similarly ranting on Twitter or on Facebook. I'll be back here whenever I get the chance, but the pub comes first and we all know it.

Today, I was tasked with writing a biography for my page on Women's Views on News, which was a very surreal experience. This, combined with a great day at the launch of UK Feminista last Saturday has led me to recall how I got involved with the feminist movement in the first place.

As I just noted in my biography - it should be autobiography, really, shouldn't it? - I became a feminist aged 12 years, when I learnt all about the history of the suffragettes at school. Up until then, history as I knew it was all about what men had done in the world, and learning about the Pankhursts, the Cat and Mouse Act, WSPU and Emily Wilding Davison changed my perception of women forever.

It also led me (via the library) straight into the feminist movement of the late eighties. I'm not sure at the time I understood much of it, but I did understand that this was a time and a place where women met as equals and expressed their hopes, their anger and their passion. Being 13 and pumped full of hormones, I was all over that like an attack of acne.

Within weeks, my ragged copy of Spare Rib was accompanying me to school every day and proving an odd contrast to my friends' copies of Mizz and Just Seventeen. I would read bits of 'The Female Eunuch' to my family over the dinner table leading to unlikely conversations (Dad: "Yes, Sarah, I know I'm an incomplete female. Now finish your tea...") and campaigned loudly and vehemently for women's rights. I've never looked back.

Well, until my mid-twenties, when I entered the world of working for a living and my dreams of becoming the next Sylvia Pankhurst faded into the background. Working for Women's Views on News over the last few months has re-kindled my interest and refocused my awareness on the state of international women's (lack of) rights today and I'm very grateful to the wonderful, inspiring founder of WVON, Alison Clarke for getting me involved. If you're a professional or an aspiring writer, head over to the WVON site and volunteer your skills, we're always looking for new contributors and editors.

Because of WVON, I was also lucky enough to attend the launch of new feminist activist organisation UK Feminista last Saturday, which brought me into contact with about 150 young women (and some men) who are working hard to change women's worlds for the better. It was a fantastic day and I look forward to seeing great stuff from all involved with UK Feminista over the coming months.

It's great to be back in the world of feminism, both for the consciousness-raising side and the political activism. Since I was involved the first time, I've discovered Buddhism, which is leading me to some interesting places in dealing with the sometimes overwhelming rage that is part and parcel of finding out how badly treated women still are, all over the world.

In some ways life was easier in the years when I wasn't involved in feminism, but ignorance is certainly no bliss. I've never found a way to get around the constant nagging sense that our culture is threatening to overwhelm my very sanity. Feminism and feminists are a sure fire way to restore my sanity by verifying that 'it's not just me, then', as well as rediscovering that sense of purpose, direction and meaning in life. Just the small things, eh.

But what I'm really working up to here is one central question for you, dear Reader: how did you become a feminist?

And for those of you wavering in uncertainty on the sidelines: what keeps you from describing yourself as a feminist and what do you think it would take for you to want to?

Answers please - it's what the comments box was invented for.

Music Monday

2009-11-09T21:26:00.002Z

My cat, Puffin. Yes, you saw him at the weekend, looking all wistful about happiness and ting, but this is him rocking out on Music Monday.

Did I run out of time and inspiration on the picture front today, or am I always going to feature themed pictures of my cat? You decide. A big and well-deserved slap for the first Sid James wannabe who makes a joke about my pussy.

Thanks for all the Tweets about the last post (trumpets not included) to the brethren on Twitter - much obliged and thanks for the kudos.

And while we're on the subject and I'm thoroughly inspired by all things Cheep and Twittersome, Mondays are now officially Music Mondays here at The Daily. Well, I say that, this Monday is. You know how the moods take me.

And speaking of Twitter, one of my current clients (for jokes about being a hooker, see threat to Sid James wannabes, above) wants to kill me every time I mention it. It seems to have this effect on some people. This means I have to go to our early Wednesday morning meeting armed and dangerous, which means I'm going to have completely rethink my outfit. Anyhoo....

Back to the music.

Seeing as the world definitely does not need just another music blog (and if it does, it wouldn't be written by me - Doris Day and Dolly Parton need no introduction, in my opinion), I'm just going to give you the heads up on three great music sites/tools. These seem designed for people like me who love new music, but wouldn't know where to find it even if they took up permanent residence between the covers of the NME.

These sites are also the reason why you no longer find me in the kitchen at parties. I'm now firmly ensconced between the pot plant and the vomiting stranger no one remembers inviting.

Hype Machine - I thought EVERYONE but me had heard of Hype when I found it, until I started mentioning it to people I know, and they hadn't. It takes the best songs that the best music bloggers are raving over or to and puts them all in one place, with some handy little features that allow you to share the musical magic on a truly global scale. It's interactive from many social networking angles and will have new music coming out of every single one of your many orifices. You can quote me on that. Why do I get the feeling I might regret saying that......?

Track in the Box - this is the latest offering from those ALWAYS cool (no matter what they might say) people over at The Greenhouse Group in their continuing mission to make new music grow. It delivers a brand new track into your inbox every single day - hence the title. How we love the tin and doing exactly what it says on it. I have liked every track so far, which is either proof of my growing coolness or a terrible indictment of their musical preferences. I think the former, but why not try it for a week and make up your own mind. Bet you a slap with a haddock you won't unsubscribe.

The Music File - I found these guys entirely by accident through Twitter, bless its chirruping little wordcount and this site has it all. Song of the Day. Downloads. Mixes for the Moment. And Radio - what more could you possibly want? Ok, ok, from music I mean. Visit, follow them on Twitter, hell, you can stalk them if you like, but go there. No. Don't stalk them really. They might never forgive me and I'm trying to impress them.

Oh, and have I mentioned Twitter yet? Because you should really join. Otherwise, by about 11am on Wednesday morning I'll be sporting a black eye for nothing.

Reasons to be happy....1,2,3. Er, and 4.

2009-11-07T12:54:00.009Z

Cat's are the all -time, rock-out experts at knowing how to Just Be.

Photo courtesy of James Cartwright over at our very fave Southsea Salon, The Peace Cafe

This post is for Paris, who - after last night's Caravan Gallery launch of their unflinchingly fantastic Is Britain Great 2 (I was still waxing lyrical about the first one) bemoaned the loss of The Daily AND complained I never write about him, so here I am, killing two birds with one stone.

[For info: if I was really to kill two birds with one stone, I'd go for Celine Dion, one hell of a knock-out, skull bounce ricochet, and then Jordan.]

Paris was right - it has been ages since I was here and excuses I have none. I've been devoting my attention to getting back into the swing of working for a living again following several months travelling in South East Asia (see Que Sera Sarah).

This has taken more of my time and energy than I had expected because the '9 to silly o'clock' of freelancing is much harder than I remember. This is, in part, because a lot has changed for me since I went/while I was there and in part because as a result of those changes, I'm gradually reassessing what I want from what I what I do. In fact, I'm trying to make what I do the same as what I want, and what I want the same as what makes me happy.

Still with me? Good, because happiness is a lot harder than I thought.

You see, it's easy to be happy when you're travelling (notwithstanding plane delays, incomprehensible systems of public transport and compulsory testing for swine flu). Travelling life is as The Parker once said, a medley of extemporanea. Rise in the morning, go and see new, beautiful, awe-inspiring things, eat great food, meet people and sleep with the peacefulness of the truly enlightened (Repeat for duration of trip). For three months, my daily life was intense and at the extremes, running from terror to euphoria with the speed of an Olympian athlete and I have never been so consistently happy in my life.

And from consistent happiness came an amazing sense of freedom. Not just freedom of movement in the travelling sense, but freedom to be myself - after all, who cares about making a fool of yourself, making mistakes or making a mess when you're on the other side of the world?

For one thing, you're really unlikely to see most of these people again, so you can wear the egg on your face like L'oreal. But for another, the investment I had made in the whole trip - not just financially, but professionally, in the risk of losing my clients while I was gone, and personally, in the potential for failure - made it imperative that I not miss opportunities to DO everything, SEE everything, BE THERE for every moment.

So suffice to say, I learnt a lot. And, while travelling, (this one's for you, Paris) I couldn't help but wonder why I couldn't be this person - this fearless, confident, outrageously happy, creative and peaceful-even-in-sadness, stress or terror-Me - back home.

And although I loved travelling, gradually the desire to test the theory, and the growing belief that I could BE this ME at home, was what brought me home.

So here I am, living the dream with a set of simpler rules for life:

Be here now,

Be Me,

Love

Be Loved.

If it ain't one of these Big 4, I'm not doing it.

It's not always easy and it's not always fun.

Very often it brings me face to face with the self-constraining habits that have led to so much unhappiness in the past, namely: living in the future or the past, pretending to be someone else, hating myself and judging - or worse, blaming - others, and not allowing others close to me).

But it is rewarding, it is flying by the seat of my lacy pants, and it is working.

I'm going out more, meeting new people. I'm spending more time with the people I love. I achieve more. And FINALLY I'm working on a novel, with the help of those amazing folks over at NaNoWriMo.

Because being responsible for your own happiness is the key to success, even when you fail. And asking that first question, What makes me happy? is the best starting point I've found yet.

But you can't do it alone. I haven't.

As well as friends and family, there are people living their dreams right now, all over the world. They'll tell you it's not easy, either, but if asked the question - Is it worth it? - all would give you a resounding Yes, if not a resounding, Well, Duh. Obviously.

If you need some inspiration, I'd recommend a trip to Cambodia, but if that's out of the question, try some WorldwideWonderWeb inspiration instead:

Gretchen Rubin's Happiness Project is not only inspiring, but a vital source of practical tips and hints for all things Pursuit of Happiness.

The freshly discovered Ally Jade's 52 week project tells its own amazing story about the role of creativity in helping us to Just Be Ourselves.

Some of my current fave great indie mags and fresh new entrepreneurs show us the value of pursuing - at all costs, with great patience and endless dedication - That Big Idea. Check out: Noir et Blanc, Yeah, and Knock Back.

If your big idea needs some practical assistance, subscribe to Lateral Action for a weekly dose of kick-up-the-arse inspiration that never fails to inspire - both practically and creatively.....

....and don't forget to check out founder Mark McGuiness' site, the beautifully named, Wishful Thinking while you're at it. ESPECIALLY if 'finding the time' is one of your number one excuses for putting off the things that make you happy, or could. His free (yes, my brethren, I said FREE) e-book Time Management for Creative People will change your life, if you let it.

But if you like your inspiration a bit sharper around the edges, you have to, Have To, HAVE TO find any excuse to lose some unregrettable hours in the Gaping Void of Hugh MacLeod - where healthy, honest to Betsy, hard truths come in cubes.

I'll let you know how my own yellow brick road to happiness - both personal and professional - goes. And in the meantime, why not let me know what makes you happy, and what your rules for happiness might be?

You never know where it might lead. Or maybe you do...

Heard over and overheard

2009-09-16T16:23:00.005+01:00

Ridiculous lyrics in the Top 40 - Heard over and over this week (I listen to the radio when I work)

Lady Gaga - Love Game

Let'shave some fun, this beat is sick.

I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.

Shakira - She Wolf

Special mention to Shakira for getting the word 'lycanthropy' into a song.

I'm starting to feel just a little abused like a coffee machine in the office.

This almost, but not quite, tops the lyrics of her first hit: Whenever, Wherever -

Lucky that my breasts are small and humble,

So you don't confuse them with mountains.

Sugababes - Hey Sexy

I hate this song. Not because it's worse than usual dribble the Sugababes have degenerated into lately, but because there's just no excuse for badly constructed English. It sets a bad example to our youth.

When I'm drivin' in my car

Or I'm standing at the bar

It's no matter where I are

They say, 'Hey Sexy.'

It hurts.

Conversational snippets overheard, not necessarily recently.

Two women talking while bored man looks on:

Woman: We thought my son was gay for a long time, you know. He's only really had two girlfriends.

Man: And one of those was a man.

Howard: Friends are like gifts, with baggage.

A couple:

She: Does anything bother you about our relationship?

He: (Long pause) The only thing that really bothers me is the towels.

She: (Bemused silence)

He: That you just fold them up and leave them when they're obviously damp or wet. I mean, they won't dry that way. They just smell of mould. There's no logic in it. It just doesn't make any sense. Don't you think about it? When you do that? When you leave them out and they're damp?

She: No. I don't think about the towels at all.

The table behind mine in a cafe:

Man: You can't be adventurous and have a threshold!

Que Sera Sarah

2009-05-15T12:32:00.001+01:00

Quit hanging out here! I've left! This place is so retro!

Come find me on my travels instead on my new blog, Que Sera Sarah:

http://kserasarah.blogspot.com/

See you there.........x

You say goodbye and I say hello

2009-05-12T21:45:00.002+01:00

Crikey, it's been a while, hasn't it? I can only assure you that things have been very busy here in sunny Sarsea, and that I have been frantically planning the experience of a lifetime (or the first of many such experiences) - my travels to South East Asia for three months - Huzzah!!

Of course, the downside to my trip is that my blog here will stop for a while (plus ca change, I hear you cry!). But never fear my ardent little readers - and my ardent big ones. No, that sounds wrong - I am starting a special NEW blog, just for my travels. Don't say I never do anything for you.

I'm still working on the template for the new blog. Well, I say template, but I mean name. All my other names came really easy, but if you have any ideas, let me know. I would say don't take the piss, but I know my readers well enough to know that's a complete waste of time.......

Peace out, ma bloggers.

an army of me

2009-04-01T13:27:00.004+01:00

I am in the process of losing weight. It's official.

It started with a conversation about self-esteem with a friend of mine, the wonderful Steve Hender, who is also one of the best motivational coaches I know. Ok, to be fair, he's one of the only motivational coaches I know, but I am minded that this does not detract from his inspirationability. Yes, I just made that up.

Steve himself lost about 5 stone over a period of some months (I'm a little sketchy on detail), and hanging out with him has led me to completely rethink my self-perceptions and capabilities - which has proved to be a good thing, both personally and professionally over the last few months. As a result, at our last meeting we got talking about losing weight.

"I'm struggling with the mirror thing," I told him as we sipped coffee - Steve's personal obsession after real ale - in my favourite writing haunt, the Greenhouse Kitchen.

"Hmmmm," he murmured, "Interesting."

He sent me an appraising look.

'The Mirror Thing' is an exercise in self-esteem where, every day, you have to stand in front of your mirror - completely naked - look at your body, and say, "Not bad." And you have to mean it. I've been doing the Mirror Thing every day since February and I really struggle to mean that Not Bad. Most often it comes out in an icy tone that positively drips sarcasm onto my bedroom carpet (where it sizzles nastily through my medium shag-pile - it's melted a small hole through to the floorboards).

I explain this to Steve.

"Why can't you mean it?" He asks.

"I don't know......" My eyes slide towards the window as my voice trails off into middle earth.

"But if you did know," he insists, "Why would it be?"

I laugh. I love it when he says this.

"I guess I've been wanting to lose some weight for ages, so every time I look in the mirror, I remember that I want to lose weight and I guess I feel dissatisfied."

(As I write this, a man walks past the Greenhouse Kitchen window in a tan suit and hat and brown and white spatz - he looks like Bugsy Malone with glasses. No word of a lie.)

"You've been wanting to lose weight for ages?" He repeats.

"Yes."

"So why don't you?" he asks.

I stare at him for a moment, "Erm......"

I start to smile.

"So, you want to?" Steve prompts.

"Yes!" I decide, feeling lighter already.

I haven't weighed myself since I was in my teens and I'm now 32 years old. Scales have not been my friend. But, following a prompt from Steve, the following Saturday, I set my internal GPS on a route to Knight and Lee and buy my first ever set of scales.

The following day I have a long bath in preparation for my first big weigh-in. As I step, shivering onto the scales (with cold, not anticipation - the Loft has no central heating) I'm nervous.

The silver dial sparkles as it informs me that I weigh 12 stone. According to the BMI charts on my kitchen noticeboard, this means I'm officially a porker (that's science speak, you might have to look it up).

So, here it is. The plan. Steve has reliably informed me that goals have to be SMART (I'm not going to jargonise you to death here, if you haven't heard of it look it up - or accept my word that it means you have to set very clear targets for yourself to maximise your chances of succeeding).

By 30th April, I want to weigh 10st 7lbs. There, I've said it. It's out there. It counts.

I want to lose a stone and a half, following which I will set another target, based on how well I did at achieving this one. I started to watch what I was eating following my first weigh-in, which was on the 15th March and am currently weighing in at 11st 7lbs.

My next step is serious exercise. It would be handy if I was dating as I always tend to exercise then, but as that kind of ride is out of the question, I'm looking for a cheap, second-hand bike. It's got be cheap because I'm still saving for Malaysia. First stop Freecycling - ptp.

So, wish me luck. Watch this space. Hopefully over the next few weeks, I'll be occupying less of it.

The hours are stretching like the sheets on the bed

2009-03-30T00:06:00.002+01:00

William Blake, The Ancient of Days. 'Nuff said.

"We'll hunt for a third tiger now, but like the others this one too will be a form of what I dream, a structure of words, and not the flesh and bone tiger that beyond all myths paces the earth. I know these things quite well, yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me in this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest, and I go on pursuing through the hours another tiger, the beast not found in verse." J.L. Borges, The Other Tiger, 1960.

There's something about this quote that captures my late night, wistful-at-the-edges state of mind.

I've taken Jimmy B's advice - just another on the list of things to thank him for, including for the oh-so-welcomed comments here - and invested in a bottle of Bells whisky (the sassenach takes note of her recent spelling lessons). If you've never dabbled in this sip of scottish heaven, do it now. It's the late night writer's best friend for a reason and my early hours cigarettes have been waiting on a glass of Bell's as company, I realise, since I first took nicotine to my lungs.

While on the subject of Jimmy - I've recommended him before and I'll do it again. Follow the link on the right and you'll understand why. His recent posts on his wife and father showcase perfectly what the blogosphere is for. Keep up the good work Jimmy. I'm sorry I don't have the chance to comment in your pages more often, but I continue to lurk silently in the shadows of your site, and besides, you have more than enough company on your comments page. In fact, if I wasn't so sweetly inebriated, I'd probably be jealous.

Now, back to my personal quest for the perfect punchbag, and I'm not talking about my ex's.

How far have you been?

2009-03-25T20:49:00.003Z

I have an article to write and a press release.

There's an email from my best friend in my inbox from over a week ago that I haven't even read yet, let alone answered.

I have a stack of work a mile high and about fifty books to read.

I am fighting a war of attrition with my housework.

I need to book a flight and sort out jabs, passports and who knows what else for a trip to Malaysia.

Yet I'm still writing my blog instead of dealing with my commitments.

A voice in my head says, "What are you doing, Dave?"

Building on an ever outwardly spiralling cycle of avoidance, I spend most of the evening at the cinema with my friend Stephen. We go to see The Watchmen.

I enjoy it immensely, apart from an absurd 15 minutes when it seems as though the Director popped out for a few cigarettes and left the janitor in charge to co-ordinate the most terrible sex scene I've ever seen in my life. In the main though, it's visually intriguing, compelling entertainment, with some great characters - albeit they were probably even greater in the graphic novel.

Equally, if not more enjoyable than the film is the brief dissection of it afterwards with Steve, who read the graphic novel as it came out in the mid-80's when he was 15.

"I remember being sat in the playground next to my friend, who was really into science, and asking him, 'Is it really possible to exist in more than one body at once?'"

He laughs.

"It was the perfect age to read them."

As we walk through Gunwharf to the taxi rank, I interrupt him as I stare at the scantily clad females walking past in various states of undress and several different neon colours.

"Is there an eighties re-union happening here, or is this really how people are dressing now?" I ask.

"This is really how they are dressing now," Steve replies, barely glancing at the jailbait striding past us clutching faux confidence, and if it's survived this far, the last moments of their virginity.

"Shit." I answer, "I feel like I just arrived from Mars."

By the time I reach home, I feel a sinking sense that the world has gone to hell in the proverbial basket of hand. We're all doooooooooooomed. I cheer myself vaguely by reminding myself it was ever thus.

My life has too much in it and I am still locked into the habit of accepting more. Along with Ben & Jerry's, it's one of my hardest habits to break. Well, that and a habit of falling for the wrong guy. Or maybe the right guy in the wrong universe (if you're a believer in the parallels alongside us, that is).

The problem is that so much of the work I'm offered is just so damn interesting. The other problem is that it that I'm rarely getting paid for the interesting stuff. Fortunately there's a way through this, to achieve, as the great Sally Jones always advises to make this chaos work for me.

Of course, the main issue is that in order to achieve that I'm going to have to, yep, you've guessed it. Do more work.

This is Sarah, reporting from the world at large, signing out to commit herself to her ever-expanding workload. It may be a late one. I need that whisky now.

walk me through this one, don't leave me alone

2009-03-19T10:26:00.004Z

I have a friend who when asked about her religious beliefs always answers with a rueful smile, "The Lord and I have not been on speaking terms for quite some time, and I do not expect that to change anytime soon."

When I broke up with a long ago ex partner - after finding he had been cheating on me for weeks - it felt as though my heart had been ripped out through my mouth by a long-nailed demon with severe DT's. I remember sitting in a confused and weeping heap on the kitchen floor of my old haunt, The Heights, and trying to find someone, something at which to aim my impotent pain and fury.

I blamed the ex: but he had acted in a completely predictable manner, doing to me what I knew he had done to so many other women before me. I understood why he behaved as he did and whilst I am not sure that to understand is to forgive, to understand certainly makes it harder to bloody judge.

I blamed myself: but I had made a series of choices in good - if foolishly placed - faith, leading with my heart and not my head. It had been very beautiful with him in moments, and the price of intense beauty? Intense pain.

So I turned to the Universe, to God It/Her/Him-self, and I blamed It/Her/Him: but it's hard to maintain a sense of great vengeance and furious anger with a concept you don't believe in. Or a lasting conversation. Try imagining a pink elephant in a bowler hat (yes the bowler is vital to this exercise) sat in the corner and ask it/her/him for counsel and advice - then follow the advice the elephant gives you - and you'll see what I mean.

Gradually, and with many more heartbreaks, large and small, in between, I have come to believe that the point of pain and anger is to experience it, to sit with the emotions and try to do no harm while under their spell, but ultimately to use these feelings to understand better both myself and those around me.

I haven't felt much in the way of heartbreak for a while; I'm still avoiding that line of questioning, and of fire. Yet, the splashbacks that spray so broadly when the shit hits the fan in the lives of those I love finds its way to me anyway, and late last night, it did exactly that - when a friend told me some bad news concerning her family.

This morning, I find myself angry again, shaking my metaphorical fists at the metaphorical heavens and finding not even metaphorical relief for my curses. I may have put barriers around my own heart that no man will penetrate for some time, but my heart holds an open door if pain enters the lives of those I love. And I find myself back at that point of trying to understand why these things happen, and what I am meant to do with this helplessness when they happen.

My NLP trainer - latest t-shirt will read 'Steve Hender Accentuated My Positive' - has lent me a truck load of material that talks about dealing with anger, disappointment and pain. Jack Canfield says that underneath any feeling of anger is fear and that in order to deal with the anger, you have to work through your emotions and find the fear.

So what's the fear beneath my anger?

Maybe my fear is that if the world is this randomly cruel sometimes, then we are never safe; everything we treasure - the very things that we believe define us - can be stripped from us at any time, can leave us shivering and alone in a new reality that we had never dreamed could exist in our deepest nightmares. And all we have as human beings to arm us against that fear is the love we feel in any given moment, the bonds that lie between our fragile hearts, and the responsibility to cherish those bonds, right now, where and when it matters, because right now is all there is. And everything else is just an illusion, fools' gold.

And whilst the poet in me catches a glimpse of the glory of this human existence, this very human condition - our only meaning found in our transience, our appreciation of joy only truly understood against the experience of sorrow, and the inherent loss within love that makes our greatest gift at once our greatest sacrifice - the human in me struggles at these moments when the plans of a God I do not believe in (but talk about a lot, nonetheless) become personal, when its/her/his fingers move the lives of those I love as if they were mere pawns on a board.

I know the Buddhists would say that attachment is 90% of the cause of suffering. One of the reasons I find it hard to be a good Buddhist is that I believe attachment is also 90% of the cause of true joy. The aspiration for me has always been not to reduce my attachment to the world, to people, to beauty or to love, but to increase it, equally, so that I might feel the same compassion and care towards anyone I meet as I do toward those I have come to love.

Today, I witness my own pain (I miss you, Kate, I miss you) at the suffering of just a small number of people I care about and I wonder how anyone's heart could stretch to love the whole world that way, and how anyone's mind could carry the weight of living with the sort of sorrow we experience when someone we love is hurt, multiplied by, well, just about everyone.

I'm nowhere near that kind of nirvana yet. I'll spend the day working myself into a frenzy to avoid my feelings and I don't doubt I'll spend tonight in a wine-induced coma to do the same. I've got a long way to go on my Buddhist journey.

And the good Lord and I? Well, we've never so much as occupied the same room. I doubt we'll start speaking now.

2009-03-09T23:53:00.000Z

You look like a photograph of yourself taken from far far away

2009-03-07T10:23:00.002Z

Check out the attitude of Micheal Phelan here

First things first, as Steve Covey recommends. You have got to, got to, GOT TO and did I mention, you've got to - check out the interpipe phenomenon that is Jimmy Bastard. Seriously. Click on the link of the brooding rugged guy in my Followers list.

Hard men are good to find and good friends are indispensable. Last night G allowed me to howl like a rabid wolf in his room (oo-er) for ten minutes, while he giggled at me from the other side of the room, shouting occasional encouragement, such as 'Yeah! Get it out of your system!!'

Then he introduced me to this, allowing us to set aside my pseudo sorrows for the rest of night and laugh ourselves silly on Damson Gin while speculating on the who's and how's that we would sing Lily Allen's latest to. Hope you enjoy it as much as we did, but I doubt it.

if they were me and I was you

2009-03-04T23:24:00.003Z

I had a ridiculous amount of fun tonight with the fizzlingly ( I know, I made it up, I'm particularly proud of it), talking interpersonal behaviour, best friends and the joys and perils of love and fake breasts.

I love that our conversations are wide-ranging and eclectic, moving easily and effortlessly from questions of practical philosophy to frivolous gossip and girlish speculation. One of my favourite conversations concerned one of the obscenely good looking young barmen at the Slug and Lettuce, toward whom I traditionally begin the evening with polite respect and end with somewhat salivating flirtation:

The young man in question was collecting glasses at an adjacent table towards the end of the night as I turned and glanced toward him, then double-took.

I turned swiftly to Sally with what, in hindsight, I hope was a hushed whisper.

"Would you look at his arse? How can it be so simultaneously plump and yet tight?"

Sally rolled her eyes, grinning, and checked him out. She frowned as she stared.

"Yes," she answered thoughtfully, "I see what you mean. It's lovely."

We gazed in the same direction for a moment in silence.

"I think he's on the other bus," she declared, with a soft smile to me.

"Hmmmm," I replied, not shifting my stare.

A minute or so passed in silence before I met Sally's eyes again and asked with intensity, "Do you think that means he would mind if I asked to touch his bum?"

Sally nodded, thinking it through.

"No," she answered finally, "Definitely not. I mean, it's a compliment, isn't it?"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ONE,
THE ONLY,
THE TRULY GORGEOUS,
XXX SALLY JONES XXX

Back in the days when I made my home in the marrow of your bones

2009-03-01T01:13:00.002Z

I found this picture by Naomi Skarsinski and urge you to spend some time with her work, at once...

I've had a beautiful friendship couple of days, the sweet touch of serendipity into my life. I spent the evening in the Kings Tavern last night, after bumping into Southsea's own charismatic Lothario, DC, whilst I was smoking in the street reading Barack Obama's 'The Audacity of Hope'. He was with his friend J and they invited me to the pub. I invited Lynda and James and James invited Vinnie. We just happened to bump into Gareth, then Steve and then a handful of other people in the pub. We smoked in the garden while I drank a little too much wine and talked a little too much politics, walked home with Lynda and fell onto the couch and into unconsciousness.

Lynda stayed at mine and we went for a long breakfast, the morning papers, some more politics and some serious munchies. We took a long walk along the seafront and had a gently flowing, rambling conversation about life, the Universe and everything (including a bit more politics). It turns out Paul was right, and the greatest of these is love.

I dropped Lynda off at the Peace Cafe, bumped into the infinitely knowledgable, almost qualifies as cheating if you have him on your team in a pub quiz, Steve Hyde, and left Lynda to book herself a slot with the sparklingly magical Pixie herself, Sue George (book your slot at the cafe on 9283 0544 for her next appearance in March), had a quick chat with her gorgeous starman of a husband, Dixie, and headed off to the office for a few hours work.

I spent the evening eating pizza with Pixie and Dixie and giggling in delight with the beautiful GJ, who's on a flying stop over from Spain. All in all, priceless. I sigh contentedly and leave you with this.

I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you

2009-02-21T21:14:00.004Z

I love this picture, check out Pucky Learns to Fly on Flickr

Had a couple of glasses of whiskey last night, after a few glasses of wine and ended up staying up til the early hours with my friend, talking about life, love and our fragile, thirsty hearts. It's been ages since I stayed up til 4am or later. I'm blaming the whiskey, but I liked it. I've decided that tomorrow I'm going to buy myself a bottle. Of course, I know nothing of whiskey, so know nothing of which breed to buy. I wonder if I can persuade Waitrose to do me a series of tasters.

In my afternoon of recovery, I managed to watch most of series 2 of The West Wing. Is it me, or is Sam unbearably cute and does every girl like me (make of that idea what you will) want to grow up to be CJ Craig?

In other news, my cat has a personality disorder, which makes us the most officially suited couple of cats in Southsea.

Start Wearing Purple

2009-02-14T11:12:00.002Z

Image by Djuna Barnes, make sure you check out her art and poetry here

After the excitement of a friend's birthday last night and a three way textathon that went well into the early hours of this morning (the crucial word for avoiding misunderstanding in that sentence is textathon), I was somewhat relieved when, at 10.30 this morning my 11 o'clock apppointment was postponed til midday. Particularly as I had not long been awake.

To celebrate my surprise hour of free time, I head to the Greenhouse Kitchen, my new local haunt. I love this place. It's a good size, the upstairs is always flooded with light (and in the mornings often completely abandoned, but for me) and the food and staff are fab. In addition, for a girl who has just discovered that her portfolio career is based on a mobile office (I love the novelty of unfamiliar jargon), there is a free wifi connection that the owners are happy for you to use for hours on end, providing you allow them to refresh your coffee every so often. Bliss.

On arrival today, I pass the time of day with the co-owner, before heading upstairs.

"There's one table left up there," he says, smiling," Have you heard of the Red Hats?"

I stare at him, polite smile on my face, assuming I've misheard.

"Sorry? The what-hats?"

"The Red Hats?" I shake my head. "They're through the back," he grins, "Sneak through and have a look!"

So I do.

In the back room, approximately 20 women of middle age or more are sat in a circle, talking and laughing at full volume. The energy in the room immediately makes me smile. I have a theory that a group of women (do women have a collective noun? Do men?! Should we invent them if not, or even so?) who are well and positively bonded can achieve just about anything due to this magical energy they exude. Just a theory, but the Red Hats have this energy in full amounts.

And have I mentioned that they are wearing purple dresses or trouser suits, and all of them are crowned with a different flamboyant red hat? I kid you not.

A quick Google search reveals that the Red Hat Society was started in 1998 in the USA and was partly inspired by the poem by Jenny Joseph, '"When I am Old." The members are women aged over 50 who regularly meet for tea and frivolity, and wear, you've guessed it, purple outfits with red hats. I find myself urging the years to pass so that I can join them. In fact, I catch myself imagining a Junior Red Hats Society for younger women who also want to defy society's expectations in the interests of having fun. Women are great.

When I take my seat, they are trying to work our who in the group has paid their subscriptions twice. Everyone is cooing loudly with their neighbours or across the table. Purses are being checked and amounts being calculated.

"Ooooh! It's me!" Comes a voice, from a lady looking bashful. A loud hoot of collective joy ensues. It turns out the woman who has overpaid is the treasurer.

"Well, it's lucky we found out," says another, "She needs the money now she's retired!"

Another wave of laughter sweeps the room. I cannot help but start giggling myself, attracting a couple of winks and smiles.

Needless to say, I'm so taken with them, I don't get around to reading my paper.

The coldest story ever told

2009-02-11T16:07:00.002Z

Well, apart from the story of my bedroom, obviously, and you can read that as you will...

It has been almost a week, how can this be. Worse still, I'm officially 'working' right now so can't spend any time here anyway, but thought it was particularly important to share what I consider to be the best casual use of a cartoon cigarette in a music video - To Date. You might think there's a lack of competition in this category (and the NME awards certainly did this year when I suggested it to them, along with my other suggested categories, Best Use of a Padded Bra by a Pre-Adolescent Popster in 2008 (Eoghan Quigg) and Best Smouldering Eyes on a Male Vocalist Ever (Caleb Followill)).

Anyhoo. Enjoy. Watch out for the smoke, dog.

Heartless - Kanye West

If you don't watch it you'll miss the dancing Garfield

2009-02-05T22:30:00.004Z

I took this on my phone yesterday morning, walking back from an 8.30AM!!! interview at Gunwharf.
The world felt, looked and smelled (no, not smelled, in this part of the city it smells like a brothel's laundry) like an inspiring, welcoming and beautiful place and I wanted to catch it on my phone.

Alright Anonymous, you smart arse bugger - who are you? The intrigue is killing me! Alternatively, it could be like a magic trick and finding out will ruin the art, in which case, stay in the shadows my friend.... I was delighted with your happy facts about Stranger in A Stranger Land, and yes, I was referring to the novel, of which yesterday's illustration was used for the cover in days of yore. I would also have been impressed with anyone pointing out that James Warhola is Andy Warhol's nephew.......

What with the snow and all it's been a funny old week. By tomorrow night I'll have done four interviews and written five articles in the space of three days, which is a record, even for me. But I have met some ace people, each with their own way of inspiring, and each with their own particular passion. I'd love to tell you more but obviously, you'll have to wait for the magazine to come out and read all about it yourself.

It suddenly occurred to me last night that I've got my first paid gig as a proper feature writer and I haven't even celebrated yet! So, I've decided to save it until they're published and then have a little party at mine to celebrate. And you're all invited. Terms and conditions apply*

*If you don't know where I live or where to find me at 3pm on a Wednesday, you can't come. You've got until publication date to find out one or the other.......

I get all stupid and happy

2009-02-02T23:08:00.003Z

Stranger in a Strange Land - James Warhola
(big points to anyone who can give me some trivia on this one...)

The snow comes silently in the early hours and I, entranced, sit up until 3am just watching it fall. I open the windows to the flesh-ripping chill just to catch a snowflake on my tongue.

Today as I walk to lunch at Churchill's, I remember the last time I was writing here about snow in Toronto over a year ago. So much has changed in my life since the last time I felt the slip of snowdust on my cheek.

I don't know if the change is good or bad, but know that it is, all the same. Life apparently does not need my perceptions of it to be its true bad self (literally? or street? Maybe a bit from a, a bit from b). Which turns out to be just as well, seeing as my perceptions change all the time, seeing the same streets, faces and days here as sometimes liberating in moments of new found or rediscovered beauty, sometimes choking me in a stranglehold of over-familiarity, depending on my mood, the sunshine, the number of cups of coffee I have drunk.

I notice these shifts in my perceptions of the same things more and more. But their transience does not make me trust my feelings less, or give them fewer moments of my consideration to try to learn what they may mean, what they try to tell me when they come back, again and again.

Instead, I try to appreciate my feelings as I do the snow, revelling in the entirety, the novelty, the sheer discomfort of its beauty, knowing that as sure as the sun will return, every last trace will soon be gone.

To give my gun away when it's loaded

2009-01-29T22:35:00.002Z

I notice the details of life at the moment. The hesitant yet ever present capacity for happiness in the corner of my eyes. The unspoken potential of the conversations not yet spoken. The light of each day drifts ever, softly, slowly longer and I silently celebrate the returning of the sun as it stirs my heart awake again.

I feel better.

Now how the hell are you?

Do not mess with Mr In-Between

2009-01-24T21:10:00.002Z

"Will you miss me?" she asked, gambling the question like a bad lawyer.

He paused for a moment but did not look up.

"Maybe."

Can you guess what it is yet?

2009-01-17T11:17:00.002Z

Once a day Pauline would open the cupboard and she would reach for the gonads of Jesus, said Harry Potter. He flew on his broomstick up to the crotch of Antioch where the pubic lice of Satan were waiting to take him to the French Riviera and teach him to paint. His idealistic mind opened up a whole new dimension. It was intriguing to see Madonna's nappy, filled to the brim with steaming shit, on the washing line of Gloria Hunniford.

Well, blow me, said Gloria, when she saw the pants there, This would never have happened if the car hadn't rolled helplessly from the cliff into the foam below the surface of Mars, which is actually made from the sperm of Satan. This turned out to be good news for God, as she had completely forgotten where she had hidden this, and had been worried for the last few thousand millennia that Satan would find a way to reproduce.

However, little did she know that the duvet was made from clouds and the pillows from faery dust. It truly had to be the best night's sleep ever, only disrupted by the sudden attack of a swarm of burning y-fronts. Don't worry, said Harry Potter, suddenly reappearing, It's a magical infestation of Fire Pants, and he whipped out his wand.

A Heather and Sarah Original Story. Not to be reproduced without permission of the authors.

Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine

2009-01-13T22:06:00.001Z

Voir sur ton chemin

2009-01-07T18:54:00.003Z

Nathaniel: You were brave to face him.

David: Not really. There was a guard.

Nathaniel: Doesn’t matter. I’m proud of you.

David: I thought it would set me free but it didn’t change anything except now I know he really is insane.

Nathaniel: You’re missing the point.

David: There is no point. That’s the point. Isn’t it.

Nathaniel: Don’t give me this phony existentialist bullshit. I expect better from you. The point is right in front of your face.

David: Well, I’m sorry but I don’t see it.

Nathaniel: You’re not even grateful, are you?

David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?

Nathaniel: You hang onto your pain like it means something, like it’s worth something. Well, let me tell you, it’s not worth shit. Let it go. Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.

David: Well what am I supposed to do?

Nathaniel: What do you think? You can do anything you lucky bastard, you’re alive! What’s a little pain compared to that?

David: It can’t be so simple.

Nathaniel: But what if it is?

Excerpt from Six Feet Under, Season 4, 'Untitled.'

lost kitten

2008-12-13T18:53:00.002Z

Tonight's artwork Sepia: Stars from kitten chan at
deviantart.com, as if you didn't already know I was a fan.

lost kitten

The lampshade gives with elephant eye an empty stare

The delete key finds purpose

I meet my destiny in each tired second

Now. Now. Now.

A scrap of fur with whiskers and paws

become a home for my caged affection

A solace or substitute for safety

taking tiny breaths and steps around my home

And where am I now

why am I waiting for you

when I don’t know who you are

This is how lost I have become

preferring purring fur to faces

Or perhaps just finding my feet again

far from the familiar

In some sense, I say,

(though in the excitement no one understands)

we are all just that

and hoping

Animals Strike Curious Poses

2008-12-06T09:42:00.003Z

Another fantastic image from my cyber friend over at Black and White - I have followed his blog for the last couple of years and it only becomes more beautiful there.

My skin is moisturised. The sun is shining and the sky is blue. Beyond my window a tiny bird is singing to my bird feeder as a prelude to stealing its peanuts. Ida Maria sings to me from a freshly borrowed library cd (what an amazing service the library is - you should use it more). The Loft is tidy for the first time in a month or so and fresh laundry dries in front of my seventies gas fire. This looks like a picture of domestic bliss, at last.

Kate's blog is back online - yay! Check it out and send her healing vibes as she recovers from New Monia in New Zealand (see what I did there - does the fun of The Daily never stop??). And while you're strutting so confidently around the blogosphere, stop off at Psyconym's blog, too - her signature image at the top of the screen is just amazing, and her posts make me feel like I'm living inside a Daniel Clowes graphic novel. Actually, I kind of fancy me and Psyconym as alternative Enid and Rebecca's - bugsy the cat mask.

Despite the many joys in the world, I am antsy. Still too busy thinking of what I desire to notice what I have. It's such a cliche to miss the obvious, and a capital error, as our Sherlock would say. I'm back at the Doyle collection today after spending the morning there yesterday with the new records project manager, Michael. I spent an hour researching an obscure skotographer called Madge Donohoe.

But what is a skotographer, Sarah, I hear the gentle readers cry (I keep typing it as scatographer, which I'm too afraid to look up in the dictionary, quite frankly).

Well, a skotographer is someone who takes pictures without the use of a camera or light, in Madge's case by pressing packages of photographic plates to her head. This is how I currently spend my spare time, analysing the pictures of spiritualist photographers, and I wonder my dreams are so haunting?!

Following my adventures with Madge, I spent a couple of hours cataloguing pictures of a medium called Kathleen Goligher, who was famous for producing ectoplasm, but trust me, you don't need me to get into that with you.

I find me impossible right now. Try as I might to outrun me, I'm always here waiting when I get home at night. Damn my persistence.

I'm flirting with Ida Maria. Her record label describes her as a cross between Amy Winehouse and The Strokes, which seems too frightening for words.

Or blow me a kiss, and that's lucky too

2008-12-04T17:48:00.004Z

I can't get enough of the work of artist Silverlimit, on deviantart.com. Check out his gallery here

The moon is a slice of cheese as white as love outside my window, against a sky as dark as a broken promise. Above the rooftops opposite the Loft is a single yellow star snuffed out in moments by the fingers of clouds, only to reappear a moment later, as hope does just at the moment you begin to feel the darkness will never break again.

My face hovers in the glass, lit by my laptop and appearing as a ghost. This is how I feel today, as if I am hardly here at all. I am verified in the reflections I catch in other people's eyes.

Eeyore days and long, sleepless nights are punctuated for me by the sound of my neighbour's all night bass line, which roars into the night as she sleeps peacefully through it. I am sleeping in the living room again. The bedroom is so cold that being in it at night makes me feel like a Charles Dicken's pauper, or a Clarendon Road Irregular separated from her merry gang.

I am sleeping badly: fitful, packed with anxious dreams and memories that run over my heart when I wake as nails on a blackboard. During the day I have endless energy but only for work. I temp, and write, and organise and write. I write for clients, for the blog, for others and, for the first time since I was a child, I write easily and fluently for myself. My diary knows me again and my notebook is crammed with outlines for stories waiting to be written. Who knows, maybe I'll even finish something......

I have not been so conscious of solitude since my childhood, a time when I wore myself like protection - unlike now, as I wear myself like a hand-me-down. I would love to feel as I did then again, complete, self-enclosed, whole. It's just a matter of practice, though, to return to that sense of myself I think, learning to hear then to trust my own voice. Practice, mixed with belief and perhaps a sprinkle of magic, faith, or whatever we're calling it nowadays. And I'm getting lots of that. Like Garbo: more often than not, I want to be alone, though it never sounds as good when I say it.

The moments I like myself best though, are, as ever, in the company of others - one among many reasons why I will always make a lousy hermit. These moments are unpredictable, unplanned, they take me by surprise: discussing with Lynda (the beauty of whom I cannot begin to describe here, and which shines so much brighter because she has no idea it's there - oops, she does now!) the impact of watching Duckula as a child on her decision to become a vegetarian in later life, or gossiping with the Chief, or guessing cryptic clues with my friend Steve as though I'm some kind of crossword autist (I sometimes arrive at the right answer, but don't know how I got there).

I spend this time alone to learn myself again, but it will always be others who teach me to love what I find. Tonight's music comes fromTerra Naomi. Like House, I never get enough of Vicodin. The song, obviously.

I still miss you Kate x

And I Must Admit That I Was A Bit Scared

2008-12-01T00:36:00.003Z

Name the opening titles this is from, you crazy buzz monkeys, I double triple dare you....

I just heard from Kit Kat half way around the world and it was just about the most wonderful thing imaginable, even more so than being David Tennant's towel after his morning shower.

I always ponder in myself why it is that I never see the full-entire (which is like the Mull of Kintyre except different in every conceivable way) beauty of a thing until it is no longer with me. Things are usually no longer with me because I either have taken the thing apart and can't put it back together again or life - often with my help - has decided that, as with Kate, I am just not to have access to her for a while.

I miss her every day, but I have to hear her voice to remember with joy and pain all tied together ('laughter through tears - my favourite emotion' - life size lollipop of David Tennant to the person who can name the film that line is from. No, not really. As if I'm going to give away my lifesize lollipop of David Tennant) just how much I miss her.

Kate is recovering from being poorly, which is rubbish after travelling halfway round the world, or at least I thought so at first, but having spoken to her I think where lovelier to spend some recovery time than on the beach in New Zealand?

I've recently found Newton Faulkner and become a huge fan of his beautiful voice and quirky, irreverent, beautifully touching lyrics, so today has a little somt'n-somt'n of our Newton covering Kate Nash.

And he's ginger. Properly.

In other news, I had one too many Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters with James last night, though the evidence of my own eyes tells me he came out of it far worse than I did, although to balance the equation, he can programme a computo at 3am utterly besozzled out of his mind, so I guess we're even. Not that it's a competition. But if it was, I'd probably still win.

Love, love is a verb, love is a doing word

2008-11-13T14:30:00.003Z

Matthew Eastmond's wonderful 'Commuter Ignores Lovable Bear', which is too perfect for words for today's post. I would love to think that we are all sometimes that lovable bear. You must - and this is not a request - take time immediately (even if the dinner will burn) to look at Matthew Eastmond's website, and at his online art exhibitions. Even better, buy something from him at once.

On the train home from London. No one speaks to anyone. People are even fearful of making eye contact. I challenge this by exuberantly greeting those on the morning or evening train who choose to take the seat next to me. Generally, they look afraid, then pointedly retreat behind books, Blackberries (I don't even know what a Blackberry is, but the chicks dig it...), Metro's or mobile phones. The exception to this rule - which I have noted consistently over the past two weeks I've been travelling to and from London - is Anthony, my seat companion yesterday from Waterloo all the way to Portsmouth and Southsea. It is ironic that on the one journey where tiredness had discouraged me from venturing beyond my usual smiling 'Is this seat taken?', it is Anthony who strikes up conversation with me.

"You read very quickly," he comments after half an hour in which I have been immersed in Rabih Alameddine's book, Koolaids - which I heartily recommend, and which has a great opening paragraph:

Death comes in many shapes and sizes, but it always comes. No one escapes the little tag on the big toe.

"You have nearly finished that book in half an hour!" he continues.

I beam at him, nearly sliding from my seat in surprise, and delighted that someone else has broken my observation of non-communicative travel. For the rest of the journey, Anthony and I chat about the benefits and disadvantages of speed-reading (he reads slowly and retains the details of every book he has ever read; I read very fast and cannot remember many details within the same week, though I can always tell you if I have enjoyed a book or not and rarely forget one entirely), and our respective jobs (he is an internal auditor in Gosport and very interested that I make my living writing).

It is a pleasure to listen to him talk; he has the delicious accent of Africa I have not heard since my days with the African Women's Choir (anyone who mentions my appearance on the Big Screen of the Guildhall Square will be struck off my Christmas card list for now and all time).

As the train pulls into Portsmouth and Southsea station, we exchange warm goodbyes. I wonder why these encounters are the exception rather than the rule?

Over the last few weeks, I have made a determined effort to speak to my fellow travellers during my train journeys, with varying results. Some people welcome contact with such warmth it borders on gratitude, as if they had been longing for someone to speak, whilst others respond with a hostility that may denote a fear of my self-evident insanity at speaking to them at all.

I don't mind too much how people react; the exercise is as much for my benefit as theirs. On Radio 4's Thought for the Day yesterday morning (Radio 4 is one of my closest and best informed friends) Giles Fraser said:

The more you give away, the more you have; the more your focus in life is outside of yourself, the more you will flourish.

In a world where our similarities by far outweigh our differences (should you doubt this, try comparing humans with frogs for a contrast), and in which many of us increasingly feel isolated and alone (Ah, how I miss you Kate!!!), the temptation to 'protect' ourselves by turning our focus ever inward (or, as the great philosophers John, Paul, George and Ringo once said - it's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder), I'm all for bridging the gaps between each other, even at the risk of being considered crazy (what's new, I hear you cry, gentle reader).

I've been running around always looking down

2008-11-11T14:18:00.003Z

I'm taking a leaf out of The Youngest Indie's blog (see what I did there?) for a while and using song lyrics as my blog titles. If you have time, check out The Youngest Indie, one of my favourite blogs in the 'osphere, and featuring some mighty fine images, as always.

I'm delighted to find in my image search for today's post, a comic strip called 'Angry Sarah' that captures it all perfectly, by the outrageously talented Luke Pickett - clearly a genius. Turns out Angry Sarah is a recurring character of his, and I love the by-line 'An Angry Sarah Adventure' which just about sums up my life to date.

I spent yesterday in London, up at 6am and back at 9pm. My days in London are weird. The city used to terrify me but I must confess it grows on me more and more. The things I hate about it are also the things I love: the cool anonymity, no one having any interest in you or yours and the way that I never, ever really know what's going to be around the next corner. I'm also becoming increasingly accustomed to sleeping on the train. Snoring amongst strangers should be an exercise for self-confidence.

I had a great opportunity to practice patience on the way back when sharing a carriage with a group of middle class teenagers. Say what you like about young people (no, really, do - I'm no longer in that category and genuinely don't care) but the irritating type are the middle class ones, for me. All sound and banality, signifying nothing, today's uniformed emos will be the 2.4 suburbanites of tomorrow.

There were several moments when I wanted them dead, several where I just wanted them maimed and several where I just wanted to grab and shake each one of them in turn whilst screaming:

"I don't care how posh and fucking privileged you are, or how fucking hilarious your repetitious ego wank fest seems to you right now - I need you to SHUT THE FUCK UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!"

Although it took a lot of work, I decided against this in the end: partly because it's against my personal code of ethics and I know that such moments really are an opportunity to practice patience, and partly because after my last commuter trip, the judge said that another offence would result in a prison sentence (I know, call that justice? It was a public service and I only did what the other commuters did not have the nerve to do)....

So, yes, I've got a few issues right now. Missing Kit Kat is making me short tempered and intolerant. Yes, even more so than usual. Someone 'accidently' called me a narcissist earlier today and I actually found myself considering throwing him through the window of his shop. Seriously.

I think I should have some kind of public health warning - Danger, this girl has recently lost her best friend to Antipodean Travel. Do not approach her. Do not upset her. And for the love of God, don't provoke her temper.

In other news, The Magic Pixie and I were recently discussing the need for us to have t-shirts reading 'What would Kate do?' to get us through the next 12 months. Turns out, someone got there ahead of us. Truly, Kate is a human miracle.......As the Pixie says, Everyone should have one.

Until next time.......Stay patient.

It's been a long, long time but I want you to know

2008-11-09T11:41:00.005Z

Farewell for a year to the Kit Kat!

Well. It has been a while, hasn't it? It seems longer than just February since I wrote, but perhaps that's because so much has happened since.

My best friend Kit Kat has just left our fair climes to travel for a year. We set up a blog for her before she left so that she could keep in touch with everyone. You can find it here:

Home Thoughts from A Broad

Seeing Kate's blog made me think that I miss my own a little. This year has seen a huge amount of change for me - just when I was thinking that nothing could beat the wild changes of last year. But last year's winds of change were gentler, born of sunshine and novelty. This year's changes seem slower, cooler, like the onset of winter in all its inevitable, indifferent beauty.

So here I am, back in the land of the blogger once more.

It split my heart a little to see a couple of posts back in February that mentioned James and I moving in together. Alas, as life would have it, this was not a state that lasted long. We have since both moved on to pastures new: he that way, and I this. As the lady Alanis once said, 'Life has a funny way.'

Indeed it does. Bloody hilarious.

I've got that sinking Sunday feeling: cleaning the flat, catching up on work-related reading, typing invoices and listening to the Kings of Leon's new album (you can always rely on the Followills to keep you holding on).

I'm needing the sound of Use Somebody each day since I bought it. I've no doubt this will change as I have a tendency to fall in love with each one of their album tracks in turn, until I'm wearing the whole album under my skin like a singing insulation against the cold. Check out our boys on C4:

Portsmouth

2008-02-10T12:06:00.000Z

He says a sky of blue and a landscape of green
balances the human mind.

But back in the real world of desks and offices,
computer screens and colleagues,
the lack of balance makes the world spin
at an angle that feels somewhat less than jaunty.

Back amongst the jokes and jaunts
and jollity of weddings to come,
the overheard conversations,
the petty frustrations,
the bureaucratic defenses,
the world is closing, folding in and over.

Behind my desk, I am subsumed
beneath a sea of paper, a tide of tasks,
the endless duty England has come
to expect of every man, woman and child.

This city, these walls; the space, the place
in which my shape took form.

I am tied to your horizon with a concrete heart.

'Only in silent shadows and dreams...'

2008-02-05T23:11:00.000Z

Thank God for the St Bernard, I may never have made it otherwise.

While I've been recovering and waiting for the frostbite to heal, I've been hanging out on Encarta. I love it. It's a highly convenient way to deposit useless facts into my memory banks and waste even more time in procrastination than an average session on Facebook.

Tonight I only went on it to look up Wallace Stevens. I've been reading a poem of his called Sunday Morning. It reminds me of feminism in a strange way, the female voice. Read it and you might see what I mean. Here's a bit of it.

Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.

Does that remind you of Virginia Woolf or Sylvia Plath, even a little? More in meaning than in style. Then again, it could just be me.

I'm wildly hormonal today, it makes me jump erratically from subject to subject. Though I'm sure no one's noticed.

I've moved in with my partner.

This is exciting, dangerous stuff, like bungee jumping without the rope and only an outrageous amount of faith to bounce you back. Living with James makes me notice the nuances of my own insanity. I'm fascinated with the world as James sees it, yet sometimes catching a glimpse of how I appear through his eyes (as I see him seeing me, if you follow my skewed vision) is terrifying. It makes me want to shepherd him to safety and the arms of someone more normal. Well partly. I know such women exist, I just don't want to give him over to any of them. Is that wildly selfish?

But back to Encarta.

Did you know that the term Big Bang was originally coined by Fred Hoyle, who used it as a term of derision for a theory that wasn't even his and that he didn't actually even believe in himself? He actually had a rival theory of his own. But the name he gave to his rival's idea became the name that actually stuck. That must have been annoying.

Moreover, did you know that 'hind' is actually another name for a female deer? Admittedly, it probably wouldn't have been as catchy in the Sound of Music, and wouldn't have worked as a musical mnemonic, but it might have been more interesting.

I got all of this from looking up Wallace Stevens. Well, technically from the journey the poem Sunday Morning took me on (I told you that you should read it).

And did you know that Jove, as in 'By Jove!' was another name for the god Jupiter?

See. A little poetry is good for your general knowledge.

Sarah's feeling for snow

2007-12-16T19:04:00.001Z

There's a snow storm in Toronto.

Life in Canadia is exciting this way.

Everything is covered in snow, as you might expect, but I have never seen snow like this in my life. The snow rises and rises, making deceptive surfaces that wait for people to fall into them, mistaking air and water for something more solid. I trace the strata as it climbs, watch the wind lift the whiteness, and deposit it in deep drifts against windows, against doors.

The snow falls in circles, sweeping arcs of pure, white silence, drifting to the ground and making the world a cleaner, brighter, muted place. It sweeps from the rooftops in tiny grains, like sand, like dust.

I've had dreams like this.

Just staring at the snow from the safety of the house - no one dares venture beyond the front door for long, we can't tell where the stairs to the street are anymore and if you guess wrong and fall into a drift, you won't be found for days - leaves me dazed, dreaming and disoriented.

A small amount of people are still driving, but very, very slowly. From the balcony of Howard's room, I just saw a landrover towing three sleds covered in children slowly along the backstreets, the children screaming with joy. I wanted to be among them and maybe twenty years younger than I am.

Eskimo impersonators, wrapped in clothes so thick they waddle, not walk, take manual snow ploughs to their drives in a futile fight against the drifts.

The snow separates me from home, from the familiar. It reels my mind into a more intuitive frame, a different way of seeing, where my interior senses become more important than my physical senses - sight, smell, touch, taste, hearing. Instead I feel more. Thoughts - usually built of words - become emotions that swirl, like the clouds of snow beyond the window, around my heart.

Snow comes in such silence, strips the modern world of its supremacy over us; the snow takes me further away. Nothing about this landscape is familiar.

Snow, by Louis MacNeice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink rose against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes --
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands--
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

Cold in Canadia

2007-12-15T14:41:00.000Z

Picture above is courtesy of Brian Swetek over at Time to Talk.org. You'll have to Google it because I'm on a Mac and nothing is the same anymore.

So, I've arrived in Mississauga, popular suburb of Canadia and official home of the strip mall. My friend Simon, who is also here calls them strip malls. I'm not even sure what a strip mall is, but I like the sound of it.

I am travelling with my friend Kate, who stepped in to accompany me at the last minute due to my incredible fear of flying. It wasn't too bad on the first flight. I clutched my little Buddha in my hand and thought of hugs and kisses. I tell myself in these moments that everyone gets as nervous at flying as I do, but I know this isn't actually true. You can tell by the look on people's faces. Some people are just chilling out, reading, doing sudoku - I'm quietly confident that these people are not fixing their gaze and silently screaming, 'We're going too fast, we're going too fast, nothing on earth should be going this fast, my ears are exploding, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" Or maybe they're just convering it well.

Kate said that I seem to deal with the fear pretty well, and this was probably the calmest I've ever been on a flight, but even so, my most comfort comes from just acclimatizing myself to the fact that I'm about to fall out of the sky/crash into another plane/pass out during a spin-dizzy descent following a bird hitting the pilot's windscreen, which doesn't seem to me the most positive way of dealing with fear. Stil, as Miss Sally says, you gotta make it work for you.

It is damn cold in Canadia. Minus 20. There's snow and everything. On the night we flew in, Howard, Simon, Kate and I end up in a restaurant, Moxie's, drinking pinot griogio and laughing a lot before heading back to the house in Mississauga, where we had a snowball at about one in the morning. We're already friends with the neighbours, as you can imagine.

My friend Glenn tried to convince on the night before we left that temperatures this low would freeze our eyeballs. I laughed this one clean off the football pitch of ideas.

"Do you not think we would hear a bit more about that if it were true, Glenn?" I ask, "Do you not think they'd put something in the tourist guides - 'Please bring goggles on your trip if you are travelling to Toronto in winter, as your eyeballs may freeze in their sockets, causing you considerable pain, certain inconvenience and permanent blindness.'"

"It's true," he insists, displaying that incredible Capricorn trait of ignoring you and contradicting you all at the same time.

"Google it," I command. I no longer believe anything that google can't generate at least fifty thousand hits for.

He draws a blank and is kind enough to mumble something about it being a mistake. Glenn is rarely wrong and I know this hurts him. As one of his closest friends, that's all I need and I kindly let it go.

It is bloody cold here though, and I had forgotten that Canadia, like the USA has not learnt yet to put a door on cubicles in public toilets that actually fills the gap made for it. I wrote about this on the Stateside blog last year, but had forgotten. Why leave an inch wide gap around the toilet door? No one outside wants to see me urinating (I'm assuming, and fervently hoping) and I don't want to watch people queuing while I urinate. It's too unEnglish for words. Except these ones, obviously.

My friend Rodders just chastised me on facebook for leaving without saying goodbye, and I need to apologise to more than just her for this, I have abandoned almost everyone without a goodbye as it was all so last minute. I'm only here for a week, so fear ye not, England. We fly back on Thursday night and arrive on Friday, so I will return in time for a cool Yule.

I know it's sappish, but I don't care. I miss you all, of course I do, but I miss James a lot. I've told him this already via email, but I can't tell him too many times or he'll I think I'm overly emotional crazy (I'm certain he hasn't really noticed this aspect fo my personality yet, so don't mention it if you see him, pretend like I'm secure and well-adjusted and for God's sake don't mention the therapy years). He's travelled loads and for long periods of time and he says he never misses anyone. So if you see him, make out like I'm totally stiff-upper lipping it. He doesn't read the blog, so it can just be our little secret......

My weirdness is more benign

2007-12-10T21:23:00.000Z

Stephen, one of our favourite Peace Cafe Irregulars comes in with some copies of New Scientist, which causes my inner geek to dance the Happy Geek.

"Usual?" I ask him, feeling a little like Carla from Cheers.

He nods and takes a seat. I join him and we sit companionably at the table.

"Who's been in today?" he asks.

I name one our regulars.

"He was in most of the day, sat in the back on his laptop." This is not literally true.

"He was so quiet out back, I kept forgetting he was there."

"Was he watching the golf?" Stephen asks.

"Golf?"

"Yeah, he likes to watch the golf on his laptop. That's usually what he's doing."

"Ohhhhh," I exhale, with new understanding, "I always assumed he was looking at porn!"

Stephen laughs. He has a genuine, loud laugh that always makes me feel about three times funnier than I actually am.

"You thought he was sat in the back, watching porn, and you thought this was ok?" he giggles at me, "He could be sat out there wanking, and that's ok?"

I protest.

"I never said he was wanking! Nor did I imply it was ok to sit in the back and look at porn. But working here is not like working in the libraries, where you had to keep a really close eye on what people were doing."

"I've heard bad things about libraries," he agrees.

"You would not believe it," I confirm, "It is my strongly held belief that there are people who only get their rocks off by wanking in public libraries."

The woman at the table behind us, sat scribbling in a notebook (by which I mean she was sat on a chair, not in a notebook), starts to giggle uncontrollably. In hindsight, I'm hoping she wasn't writing a review, because I don't think James will congratulate me for that one.

"There must be a name for that," I muse, "For people who get off on wanking in the library."

I Google search 'person who wanks in libraries' while we continue talking.

I don't find a specific term for this particular preference, but I do find a website with a discussion forum on wanking. Brilliant. Someone has posted a satire on an article on the health benefits of walking, but have undertaken the detailed and hilarious task (for which I have immense admiration) of replacing the word 'walk' with 'wank'. Priceless. This contains such precious gems as:

Regular wanking, like all ‘aerobic’ exercise, can have a dramatic effect on cardiorespiratory fitness or ‘aerobic power’. Regular exercise carried out three times a week for 30 minutes or more at the right intensity will result in increases of aerobic power (Davison & Grant 1993)

The intensity of wanking for fitness benefits varies according to the age and fitness of the individual, but generally, ‘brisk is best’.

A simple way to work out how briskly you should wank is to aim to wank “fast without overexertion”. You should just about be able to hold a conversation while you are wanking - the ‘talk test’.

I show it to Stephen, who tires of it after a few sentences.

"It's kind of based on just one joke, isn't it?" he points out.

I am still laughing at it. "I know! Brilliant!"

Incidentally, if you do an image search for 'person who wanks in libraries' (I can only assure you that I did it by accident while about to search for an image of a library), one of the results is a picture of Arnold Schwarzeneger.

In other news, I have a blog question:

Would you go out with someone who slept in a coffin?

Feline Sexual Predators in the Expensive Sector

2007-12-08T12:47:00.000Z

'Eyes without a Face' by glitterdarkstar, from deviantart

It's Saturday, I'm in a bit of a funk, worried about a friend in another country. It sucks to be so far away from someone you love sometimes, and I'm not good at feeling helpless and impotent. Although, maybe there are people out there that are good at it. Are there?

I go to the Chief's to take him out for coffee. He's still cleaning the detritus left over from the office party the night before. I could say something here about him still being in stripy pyjamas as he cleans, but that would be a breach of privacy. Not that he'd know about it. The Chief isn't reading the Daily anymore. He says that I betrayed my readership by disappearing from the face of the planet and abandoning them to virtual silence.

While the Chief cleans, I wander upstairs to find Harry, who can always be found under the bed. Harry is the Chief's cat. Actually, I'm not sure Harry can acccurately be described as anyone's cat (cats don't really belong to anyone but themselves, do they?). True to form, he is lying under the bed looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

"Harry! Come on then! Come on then!" I call, not like an invitation to a fight, but like an invitation to come out and allow me to harass him for a while. He concurs.

Harry is a strange feline, the Chief calls him a non-cat. His affection comes in stages. First he drools on you a lot. He's a natural born dribbler. Usually, I give up at this stage, for obvious reasons. I like cats, but rarely enjoy taking a dip in their saliva.

Today, though, I am feeling distant and unsure. I'm happy for Harry's company. I lie down on James' bed and Harry jumps up to join me (don't tell James, he doesn't let Harry on the bed). I stare balefully through the window (which is also a jar) at a windy, raining, very English autumn day. Harry drools happily all over my sleeve as I stroke him. We stay like this for awhile.

I am thinking about my distant friend. I am thinking about how helpless I feel, and even though I know worrying solves nothing, I have never discovered the ability to switch off the part of my mind that, when something bad happens to someone I live, worries and worries and worries about them. I wish he was here, and then I could take over and busy around until everything was ok again. It occurs to me that maybe worrying is more about me than it is about my friend.

Then Harry bites my arm.

"Ow!!! Harry!" I squeal, in an entirely girlish manner that makes me feel more than a little ashamed as the sound emerges from my mouth.

It's not that he bit me hard or anything, but Harry has very sharp teeth and even a light bite is enough to get you to notice. Then I saw something else. Harry had stopped drooling. Which is how I discovered stage 2 of affection from Harry. Biting.

Harry bit my arms, my head (which left a lot of saliva in my hair - not cool) and even my leg. I announced a very firm 'No!' however, when he moved towards my chest, though. No frickin' way, dog. Or cat.

At this stage, I got a little nervous about Harry's biting fetish, and, feeling cat saliva trickling over my scalp, I got up to try to sort out my hair. Harry sat on the bed as I stood up and turned my back to him. I was fussing with my hair, when suddenly I felt a pair of teeth sink firmly into my right buttock. The girlish squeal long-gone, I emitted an actual yelp of genuine surprise, followed by a round of loud laughter.

"Harry, you actually just bit my butt, dude!" I squawked at him, and I could have sworn that cat was laughing.

The Chief appeared in the doorway.

"Who have you been talking to?" he asked quizzically glancing around the room.

"Harry." I tell him, as if it were obvious. He was the only other, er, cat there.

The Chief glanced at Harry then at me.

"Shall we go?" was all he said.

An evening at Kyo's

2007-12-07T01:02:00.000Z

I'm in a fudge at the end of today and curled up on my couch listening to sombre sounds on my stereo when James calls.

"I want to cheer you up," he tells me, "Meet me at Kyo's, we're all going to play you songs until you're happy again.

I go to Kyo's. Obviously.

Dr Dan and Kyo play guitars, Dr Dan sings and James plays the didgeridoo (I know, there is no way to announce this without comedy, but more of this later).

Dr Dan has a beautiful voice and the three instruments work beautifully together. It reminds me of being 19 and hanging out with Glenn and Howard while they played guitars and sang. I miss that.

Kyo suddenly burps, and laughs with a half-shamed, half-amused face.

I burst out laughing at his expression.

"Sorry!" he giggles, "There's a frog in the village!"

James starts singing arbitrarily down his didgeridoo. There is actually no way to stop this sentence being funny. Actually, there is no way to stop any sentence with the word didgeridoo in it being funny. Except possibly that one.

My brother once slept with this girl (and I mean that literally - once, not slept) who, after the passion was spent, as t'were, got out of bed and announced to him, "Let me show you something."

Cool, my brother thought.

Then she got out a didgeridoo and started playing it. Straight after sex. Imagine.

When my brother told me this story, the day after, I laughed so hard I actually bruised my own ribs. He's going to be tickled when he finds out I posted this story on the internet. Siblings, huh?

"We're didgeridooing in Dan's face!" announces James as I write. Dan is on the phone to his girlfriend and the boys are distracting their conversation mercilessly.

"Write that in your diary!" he continues.

Stranger than Fiction

2007-12-05T21:36:00.000Z

Sometimes I feel like I attract strange happenings.

Surely not, I hear you cry. Sarah, you are just too well adjusted.

I know, but nonetheless....

Last week, in the toilet at The Ministry, by the sinks, was a wrinkled old carrier bag bearing a label that said:

Lady's bra -- found in corridor.

This raised a lot of questions for me. Firstly the qualification of 'lady's' in the first place - as opposed to a man's bra? But then my neurons really started to fire backwards. What do they mean? Found in corridor? How would a lady's bra (I can't help it, I will now forever refer to bras as 'lady's bras' as though there were another kind. I may even correct strangers if they say bra without it) get in the corridor? How would you lose that?

Now, it was after hours, and on my way to the lady's (toilet, not bra), I climbed the echoey (is that a word? It is now - taking my own advice to invent words at whim) stairwell and I thought I heard the gentle moans of sexual activity somewhere above. But I assumed I was imagining it.

But maybe that was where the bra came from. Maybe, it was whipped off during a passionate act of illicit congress, it fell down the centre of the stairwell, where it lodged on someone's bag. As a mail trolley went past, perhaps it snagged on the bra, still attached to the bag, and carried it away into the corridor, where as the lift doors opened, it fell to the ground and lay abandoned until a kindly civil servant carried it to the ladies, and deposited it in an old bag, for modesty's sake, in case the owner claimed it.

Maybe.

I told James and Kit Kat about this last week, along with accompanying hypothesis about how it was found. They stared at me doubtfully.

"Hey, I've got an idea!" James suddenly announced, "You should take in a bra next Wednesday, and every Wednesday after that. It would drive people crazy and start all sorts of rumours...."

"Yeah!" I enthused, embracing the weirdness with little resistance, "I could go to charity shops and buy loads of bras of different colours and sizes - it would be like the phantom over the shoulder boulder holder deserter!"

There was a long silence. I never know when to quit.

Well, I didn't get the chance to perpetuate the jug juggler oddness around the Ministry, because today, someone else beat me to it.

Exactly a week later. Same toilet. Same time of day. This time, in the cubicle, unsheathed by a carrier bag, old or otherwise, was a big old pair of black pants.

Pants. Actual pants. Someone's pants. I did not dare to check if they had been worn. Dear reader, I did not want to know nearly enough to even attempt it.

So, did someone else have the same idea? To bring in underwear every Wednesday? Dump your drawers Wednesdays? Unpeel your underwear day? What is happening to my life?

I know truth is stranger than fiction, but I swear to God, I am not making this shit up. My life is beginning to feel like the Truman Show. Is this a test?

Ask a silly question, get an obvious answer

2007-12-04T13:43:00.000Z

I’m giving up drinking. At least until Christmas. I’ve decided. Last week I had a conversation with James in the Peace Café about alcohol. I’d just stumbled in from the Slug and Lettuce a bottle of champagne worse for wear and I settled a little too comfortably on the couch.

“Are you drunk?” asked James. I suspect this question was a mere formality given that I smelt like an advert for Moet and Chandon.

“A little,” I admitted, “Shon and I thought we would go for cocktails and then digressed.”

I’m not sure that my answer was as coherent as this, but this is definitely what it sounded like in my head.

There was a pause. James smiled at me and absently stroked my hair. I think he was really thinking about whether denying the fish their food for a few days, as he has read somewhere recently, will really make them breed. In case I’ve never mentioned it, he’s obsessed with the fish in the Café having babies. If I could arrange it for his Christmas present, I would, but I’m not sure, other than appealing to the pixies, that I have any way of doing this.

We settled into a comfortable silence, James contemplating the fish, and me contemplating the gentle rotation of the room.

This was when I made a mistake.

I used to read a lot of legal beagle detective fiction, John Grisham and the like, and I distinctly remember one basic rule of thumb for cross-examining your own client:

Never ask a question you do not already know the answer to.

Over the years, I have learnt to apply a similar rule to relationships:

Never ask a question you do not already know the answer to, unless you are:
a) absolutely sure that you really want to know the answer
b) as sure as you can be that you can handle the answer

This rule has kept me out of so many stupid and unnecessary relationship situations and conversations that, being exceptionally curious and talkative, I used to get myself into all the time. Questions like, Do you fancy that girl over there? Do you really like me in this dress? And How many people have you actually slept with? Questions that could so easily end in an argument. This rule has also made me realise that there are a lot of things I actually don’t need to know.

So, I’m on the couch, a little tipsy, James is stroking my hair and I let one of these questions fall casually out of my mouth as if the previously discussed rule of ignorance had never been invented.

“Do you think I drink too much?”

What a nugget. Because you know what’s coming, whether you know James and his instinctive imperative for honesty or not and whether you know anything about my alcoholism, I mean, occasional tippling.

“Yes,” he said with his usual unassuming sincerity. He thought for a moment. “You always have wine in. You drink most evenings. And you do drink quite a lot.”

This is why you never ask these sorts of questions. Because although James had not said anything I disagreed with (mostly because it was true), and although I had actually asked the question to begin with, I now felt irrationally angry with him for saying it.

Which is why I regressed to a surly teen.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllright!” I squeaked, sitting upwards and sending the hand that had previously been stroking my hair flying, “There’s no need to be so mean!”

He smiled, far more calmly than I could appreciate at that moment, “But you asked me.”

I regressed even further.

“Well so what if I did. Have you looked at the amount you drink lately?”

I always know when I’m losing an argument. Attack may be a good form of defence, but in my experience, being right is usually the best one. If I’m having to attack someone else in order to avoid answering something, it’s usually because I can’t.

“Yes,” James answered, with infuriating honesty, “I have. I do drink too much.”

And with that he left me shaping words soundlessly on the couch as he went to serve a customer.
So, I’m giving up drinking. Until Christmas, when circumstance will dictate that I’ll have to join in. But I think it could be good to round the total of ‘things I gave up in 2007’ to three: I’ve done meat, I’ve done caffeine, and now I’m, going to beat the demon booze.

Write to me while I’m suffering the dt’s, would you?

You took the straw out of my woo woo

2007-12-02T18:34:00.000Z

I've been spending time in the Slug and Lettuce in Palmerston Road lately, mostly with the gorgeous Shon and her handsome offspring. It's a friendly, laid back venue and they do some great cocktails. Shon bought us a Lush champagne cocktail on Friday and we liked it so much we followed it with a whole bottle of champagne. It's cheaper on Friday's.

James and I met our friend, The Actor, in there for a quick drink today. It was one of those social gatherings where you end up seeing friends of friends, which I like. Our friend, officially the most homophobic gay man I know, met a young couple there I hadn't met before. James and the boyfriend happily discussed Buddhism while the Actor and I gossiped relentlessly about whether another mutual acquaintance is gay and just hasn't realised it yet, or whether he's just got a touch of the Llewelyn-Bowens.

Star Wars Episode 1 is on tv. This makes me happy on a rainy sunday.

I have a secret fascination with yoda. If you're a boy, then this question will probabaly seem downright bizarre, but did you know that no one actually knows what Yoda is? His origins have never been confirmed - how strange is that? As a writer, this is a brilliant back story for a character to have. In the sort of fiction I write, it's often useful for readers not to know where a character is from or even anything about them, but actually having a character that no one knows what they are? Now that's bloody clever, that is.

In fact, if you ask Google what Yoda is, you get some great results, including a theory that Yoda is Amish (I always assumed he was a Buddhist), the fact that his face was based on Albert Einstein's, and that someone has written a book linking Buddhism itself with Star Wars, called The Dharma of Star Wars. And some people think he was a vegetarian.

But despite the wide variety of Yoda-related joy on the WonderWeb, it's hard to beat this - Yoda being Gangsta:

Destroying the PPC?

2007-11-30T13:38:00.000Z

Glenn has decided he wants to dispose of the Phantom Pornographer's Collection (the PPC) in a ritual fashion, taking all the magazines somewhere and dumping them. Kate and I thought about burning them, but I'm not sure where you might be legally allowed to do that. It might all go horribly wrong in that way that burning paper has, where it ends up floating random scraps all over the place. I'm not sure it would be ethical to send scorched images of breasts into the ether, in a witchy sense, that is.

As ever, suggestions are always welcomed here.

Today, I'm feeling rather uninspired. At first I thought it was something to do with the weather. You know, grey clouds, grey skies, misty rain. It can make for a pretty depressing environment, and sometimes this is not conducive to creativity or even a positive state of mind. But then, this morning, I wander into the greyness and discover that I actually quite like it. I like the desolate emptiness of the trees against the severe sky, I like the abandonment in the stab of cold wind, I like the aimless misting stream of drizzle as it drifts across the empty street. My favourite time for this weather is at dusk, when the sun starts to go down. A strange light comes over the street and the trees seem to shine darkly on either side of the road, as the streetlights come on one by one.

So it's not the weather. Who knows. My mother did tell me there would be days like these.

I cheer myself up by catching up on some blogs I haven't had the chance to visit in a while. One of my first stops is Freakonomics, where I find a funny little short on the history of abs. Well worth a watch, I'd post it here if I could find a way to embed the bloody thing. Check out the link. Funnily enough, it didn't go down so well amongst some of the commentors. I think it's a boy thing. Would they have complained if it was about tits? I thought the tongue-in-cheek feel of the film was kind of meant to inspire thoughts of gender, myself, but maybe that's just me.

Is there any such thing as feminist economics? I'd like to think there must be. Feminist theory gets everywhere, like spilt water.

Getting to Know You

2007-11-29T00:35:00.000Z

You know, it's funny what you change your mind about. For instance, I always swore I would never post one of those lame email circular 'Getting to know you' posts. And yet......

Today my friend, the rather delightful Richard, sent me one of the very same, and given the lateness of the hour, I can't help but think to share.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
Not that I know of. I'd like to think it's after Sarah Bernhardt. I too am often referred to as 'The divine Sarah', although mostly only by me.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Monday night, like a small badger who had just lost their chocolate buttons.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Very much, especially in fountain pen. And in purple ink. On cream coloured paper. I have a secret stationery fetish.

4. FAVOURITE LUNCH MEAT?
I'm a vegetarian. It used to be tuna. Does that count as meat? It has a face.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No, I have parents and an older brother. It can be similar.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Unlikely, I'd probably find myself too self-obsessed. Although actually, if I was me being friends with me, this might make me like me more. We'd both be obsessed with me, which would mean I would get to talk about myself twice as much as I normally do. So, I've changed my mind, the answer's yes. I'd love me. I'd want to be with me all the time.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
What a ridiculous suggestion.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS
Yes. They don't take them out any more. You have to do it yourself by tying string round them, tying the string to a door and then slamming the door. No, hold on, that's teeth.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
It would depend what was chasing me.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE CEREAL?
Muesli. Preferably swiss. I bought this cheap stuff recently that had cinnamon. It was vile. I felt betrayed by my local supermarket and have written a very stiff letter of complaint to the manager. On cardboard.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?

Never. Or when I put them on. This is mostly because almost none of my shoes have laces. I never learnt to tie bows.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Stronger than your average bear, yes.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ICE CREAM?
I prefer sorbet, which is strange because it always makes me look like I'm sucking a lemon. If it's lemon sorbet, this is actually kind of true, but you know what I mean.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Their expression. It's important to notice this. It can provide an early indicator as to whether someone is about to attack you. Whether they're carrying an assault rifle is also a vital clue.

15. RED OR PINK?
red or pink what? Some things should be pink. If they're red, it could mean they're bleeding.

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVOURITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
My inability to answer questions succinctly, choosing instead to ramble vaguely about the point, rarely and sometimes never actually arriving at what I meant to say when I was first asked the question, and often totally forgetting what it was in the first place.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
My other personality.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?
No, I wrote it. I already know what it says.

19. WHAT COLOUR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
A really bright pink, but still on the right side of fluorescent, and black boots. That's not all I'm wearing, obviously. I'm at my day job right now.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?

Shortbread.

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

The sound of typing.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON WHAT COLOUR WOULD YOU BE?
Purple , same as Richard, but I would add that I would be blunted and broken, with half my paper ripped off.

23. FAVOURITE SMELLS?

My boyfriend's neck.

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
My mum.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
More than I could describe in words. Though I would have a go if he needed a reference or anything.

26. FAVOURITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
As if.

27. HAIR COLOUR?
A photographer once told me it was titian (LIU,D), but I was called ginger throughout my childhood. Most people say that I'm not ginger anymore, which would have pleased me back then but annoys me now. I usually refer to it as the colour of dirty dishwater.

28. EYE COLOUR?
Blue.

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?

I have a phobia of anything going into my eyes, so no. I do have glasses, but I always forget them, which means I spend a lot of time squinting at people in the street or across a room. This often makes them think I have a personality disorder way before the experience of talking to me confirms their suspicion.

30. FAVOURITE FOOD?
Mexican. Anything Mexican. Not people, though. That's actually illegal in most, if not all countries now. If I'm allowed to wear a sombrero whilst eating Mexican food, then happiness is mine.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?

Scary movies with happy endings.

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Hot Fuzz. Awesome. Yarp.

33. WHAT COLOUR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Red jumper.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?

Summer . Unless it's for the Olympics, because I like the ski jumping. Especially when they fall down.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
Being kissed while being hugged.

36. FAVOURITE DESSERT?
Chocolate things. But not cheesecake. Cheesecake and chocolate should never be combined. It actually contravenes an ancient byelaw

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Me.

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND
You.

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?

Jim Butcher's latest Harry Dresden novel. Ah-sum.
41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?
Don't watch TV. Well, sometimes Question Time or CSI Miami because the ginger guy is so intensely bad it makes me laugh.

42. FAVOURITE SOUND?
Running water. Preferably rivers or the sea, more than say, a urinal.

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Beatles, because all you need is love and I have no sympathy for the Devil. I do have a secret fascination with Lucifer, but don't tell anyone.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
Canada

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Answering questionnaires. Oh, and the ability to read minds. I cannot believe you would actually do that to an animal, dude. Seek help.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Here. Portsmouth, I mean, not at my desk.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
Everyone's.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock Holmes

2007-11-27T18:36:00.000Z

The entire lyrics to the Charlie Brown and Snoopy show are now posted on yesterday's post, thanks to the Anonymous. We cannot get enough feedback. Obviously, I now also cannot get enough of singing the Charlie Brown theme tune, but that's a whole other post.

I spent much of this morning, in my incarnation as a Policy Assistant with the Ministry of Cultural Services (recently renamed, do keep up), with the Arthur Conan Doyle Collection, Lancelyn Green Bequest. You can get an insight into this amazing collection, which has truly staggering potential for the development of the city (not least in terms of tourism, but also academic reputation and kudos with the huge international community of Sherlockians), at the City Museum's award-winning exhibition, A Study in Sherlock (do you see what they did there? No? Well, you'd probably have to be a bit of a Sherlockian to truly get that pun). I'd recommend a visit - I've been twice and will doubtless take visitors to it again.

I was visiting only the Archives strand of this important bequest, which is being co-ordinated by the city's fantastic archive staff and a band (unspeckled) of outstanding volunteers, of which I one day hope to be one. The Archives service are dealing with the records of the Collection, inlcuding letters, paper based memorabilia and countless photographs. The complexity of the work being undertaken is astounding, and there is so much work involved for the volunteers and project staff. I was lucky enough to meet two of the volunteers this morning, one who was working on the digitalization of the project and one who was removing duplicates from the photograph collection prior to them being digitized.

What struck me most about my visit (I was preparing an article for Culture Brief, our internal newsletter) was not just the amount of work needed to prepare a collection for public access like the Arthur Conan Doyle Collection, Lancelyn Green Bequest, but the breadth of skills required. The photographs alone cover such an extensive range of subjects and themes, for example.

Currently, the collection's preparation is split across libraries, who are dealing with books, museums who are dealing with the 3d items and the records service, who are dealing with the archives element of the collection.

If you can't get to the Portsmouth City Museum immediately, you can find out more about the collection at its dedicated website, here. Subscribe to the email newsletter online at the Collection's website for news.

In other news, my mojo has returned. I had been fearing for much of last week that a huge aspect of my personality, namely the fun part, had disappeared with the removal of caffeine from my daily diet. However, today, I felt much more like myself, and even found time to irritate the Chief, amuse Miss Sally and distract my other colleagues from their valuable work.

Everyone in the office is understandably relieved by the return of my eight personality - one of approximately thirty competing personalities, the Chief believes.

Eeyore days

2007-11-26T13:19:00.000Z

I love you, Anonymous. I'm going to call you Kenike from now on. I'm pretty sure that that's not how you spell Kenike, but let's not split hairs.

It's more an Eeyore kind of day, but I can't stop thinking about Charlie Brown.

This is not insurmountable, and in some ways, it's better that I'm working in the Peace Cafe (Castle Road, Southsea, for all your internet, buddhist, coffee and herbal tea needs), even though I would rather be snuggled up under a blanket in my new round wicker chair. The wicker chair in my bedroom is my new favourite place to be. Since I got that chair, I rarely want to be anywhere else. Sometimes, when company arrive, I resent their presence because secretly I want to be back in my chair.

Does this make me a hermit? Does this make me old? Does this mean I was a cat in my past life? I'm definitely a bitch in this one, in Vedic astrological terms only, of course.

Cafe customers come in fits and starts.

I am grateful this morning for one of my best friends, Heather, and for one of the PC Irregulars, Stephen. They talk Charlie Brown and Healys with me for an hour, while Scottish John sits in the back room, occasionally giggling. at our conversations.

"Did Charlie Brown ever get to kiss the little red haired girl?" I ask Heather.

She Googles it.

"Yes, in an episode called 'It's Your First Kiss, Charlie Brown, in 1977," she replies, with authority.

"Was Linus the one who played the piano?" I ask.

"No, he had a comfort blanket," comments Stephen, over his open Guardian, "He wouldn't have been able to play the piano and carry the blanket."

He takes a sip of his peppermint tea.

"I know he had a blanket, but I thought maybe he put it down to play, like maybe that was the only time he didn't need it. You know, like that brain surgeon with Tourettes."

Stephen chokes on his peppermint tea and from the back room comes the sound of John, gently laughing.

"You're very inquisitive today, Sarah," John observes.

"You say inquisitive where others say annoying," I answer glumly.

"Endearing," he rebukes.

"It was Schroeder on the piano," says Heather and points to a Google image of him.

"I liked him. Not as much as Charlie Brown, but a close second," I tell everyone.

"Did you want to be the little red haired girl?" asks Stephen.

"No," says Heather, with her back to him, "I'm a brunette."

"Er, I was asking Sarah," he points out.

"That would make more sense," she answers, "Sarah's actually got red hair."

Stephen looks at me.

"Yes," I say sadly, "I always wanted to be the little red haired girl."

The PP Strikes Back?

2007-11-25T17:36:00.000Z

Things are becoming more surreal at the Loft.

Last night I convinced myself that my neighbour, the Finnish blonde, was dead. When I came back to the house in the early evening I noticed that her doors were wide open. Although this isn't unusual (it must be very safe in Finland), they hadn't changed position from the time I went out earlier in the day.

This worried me, and I vaguely peered through the gloom into her flat. It was very dark and I am slightly ashamed to say that I lost my nerve. I scuttled up to my flat for inspiration.

Fortunately, my friend, the Gentle Giant, Glenn, arrived a short time later and after consuming a couple of stiff gins, I suggested that we venture down there to check out the scene. We stumbled down the stairs nervously. Just as we approached her door, however, the sound of the television blared out and all was well.

I think I had let my imagination get carried away with itself a little. This wasn't helped by the fact that I've heard a couple of gruesome stories of the dead neighbour type recently and my subconscious was probably being influenced by them. The most recent of these stories included the detail that dead people smell like a butcher's shop after a while, and I was convinced in my earlier investigations of the hallway that I could smell fresh meat. Possibly I've been a vegetarian for too long and I'm starting to have bloodlust hallucinations. I'll talk to my shrink. Again.

Weirder than this interior and rather odd dead neighbour paranoia, however, was when I showed Glenn the PP's jazz mag hideout, only to discover that Mayfair has been joined by a copy of Rustler. Does pornography have a tendency to breed pornography, although it may interesting to discuss, I mean this as a literal rather than a philosophical question.

More than this however, we noticed four carrier bags stuffed with what Glenn described as "vintage porn" - that's FOUR carrier bags, dear reader, and I use the term 'stuffed' entirely correctly, although 'crammed' would also suffice. I let Glenn investigate, as he appeared to possess a more discerning eye on the material than I, and he wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans after with a dubious and slightly nervous look.

"Oh God," he said faintly, "It's probably used."

Glenn thinks this one would even have Sherlock himself stumped. Judging by the amount of dirt mags down there, and the fact that Holmes never seemed to get any action after Irene Adler, I'm inclined to agree it would certainly keep the great detective busy for a good few hours.

Any ideas?

The Bonus Ball Post

2007-11-24T19:29:00.000Z

You lucky people, today you get two posts for the price of one. I've had this song for quite a while, by Fionn Regan, Be Good or Be Gone, but today I saw the video for the first time and had to post it for y'all.

Enjoy.

Phantom Pornographers Come In the Night

2007-11-24T16:55:00.000Z

I woke up this morning knowing that I should have been somewhere else. It was actually a very similar state of mind to the one in which I went to bed, minus the wine-heavy induced fug. Is fug even a word? Well, if not, it probably should be.

Fug: noun, a cloudy, dispossessed state of mind.

There. It is now.

Everyone should invent at least one word every year. It should be mandatory. They should sneak it into their everyday use and familiarise other people with its meaning until it's been accepted by their entire social circle and has become a familiar reference. Then let the word spread outward to friends of friends until it has infected an entire town, a region, a country. Before you know it the dictionary would be populated with these words, and believe me, this would be no bad thing.

If you're in any doubt about this viewpoint, check out this TedTalk.

Unless you're as lexicographically fascinated as I am, you may not last the whole thing, but try. It's worth it and Erin McKean is one of the most engaging speakers I've heard for a while. And she has great glasses.

So, the phantom pornographer, you're doubtless wondering. Where's the link? Well, I'm glad you asked.

When I left the house this morning, the front door was ajar (How can the door be a jar? I hear you cry. Stop being so silly). This is not too worrying as we have an interior front door that was closed and locked. But more mysterious than this was the fact that in the space between the two doors, our utility cupboard had been opened. I wasn’t worried about this either, I had a nose around in there when I moved in and apart from spiders and a lot of dust, it was entirely empty.

Now to open the cupboard really does require intent, it’s not just a handle, you have to turn these catches and then the door just comes off in your hand really. The door, when I found it this morning, had been taken off and left next to the front door.

Odd, I thought.

When I went to put the cupboard door back on, I saw something on the top shelf (this would turn out to be quite ironic). I put the door down again and turned back. On the shelf was a copy of Mayfair, a well-known (or so I’m told) porn mag.

Really odd, I thought.

So, any theories gladly welcomed. Why would someone pry open the front door of the house and leave a copy of Mayfair in an empty cupboard? If they wanted us to try it out, why wouldn’t they just post it through the door with a note saying ‘Saw this and thought of you?’

Do you think we are becoming the assignation point for a group of rebellious, porn obsessed teens? Answers in the comments box to the usual.

Of Internet, Information and Dissent

2007-11-23T10:18:00.001Z

I love this picture. I found it on Facebook this morning on a feminist group there. Facebook is a strange phenomenon. It's put me back in touch with a lot of people I didn't expect to hear from again, and it's put me in contact with a lot of people I probably wouldn't have got to know without it. This morning, for instance, someone contacted me about a piece of research I conducted for a children's play advocacy organization, PLAYLINK, which was published in September. They need help with their dissertation and found me on Facebook.

But I understand there are also some dangers. My friend Charlie, one of the Peace Cafe Irregulars, posted a short film on the perils of information gathering on Facebook on my Funwall. You can check it out on my profile page or at Youtube, here.

There are other perils to being on Facebook, too. For instance, a few people were sending me strange posts about being a pervert and mentioning obscenity (they were mentioning it, I mean, not me, although I do, from time to time) -I mean, stranger than the messages on this topic that I normally get. It wasn't until I logged onto my own profile page that I realised my friend Kerry had posted a picture of a man with an unusually well developed, er, gland. Now for that, you really will have to check out my profile page.

I wrote about Facebook here a while ago, about a conversation my friend Shelley and I had about Facebook etiquette. I like Facebook, it has to be said, it's just another way of chilling out for me, and a great example of the interactivity of Web 2.0 technologies. Facebook exists for people to interact, and according to the film Charlie sent me, to gather a hell of a lot of information about its users while they do so.

But this is not news. Information gathering is a topic in its own right, and it happens way more than most of us want to think about. I remember Naomi Klein touching on the subject in her fantastic book, No Logo, which, if you haven't already, you should read, by the way.

And talking of Naomi Klein, I wandered over to her website and found a great short film on her latest book, The Shock Doctrine.

Watch this. Check out Naomi's website for yourself, and for God's sake, people, read her books. Like the film says, Information is Shock Resistance. Arm yourself.

While James Plays Piano

2007-11-22T22:07:00.000Z

If you had a duck, as a pet, what would you call it?

No, it's important. I really need to know. I'm building a theory that you can tell a lot about a person by their answer to this one basic question.

After dinner, I ask James this significant question. He thinks about it for a moment.

"Alf." He answers.

"Alf?" I splutter, surprised.

"You're thinking like a brown mallard, right?"

"Er, yes," I state, after a blinking pause.

"Yeah. Alf."

We are both silent for a moment. I can actually see Alf. He wanders into the room. I watch him waddle his way over to stand behind James. He lifts his wing and starts to preen the feathers underneath. James is staring at me, and I jerk myself back to reality. Alf disappears in a puff of feathers.

"Not Alfie?"

James wrinkles his nose in revulsion.

"No. Of course not." This is final.

"I would call him Alfie," I confide quietly, "When you weren't around."

I demonstrate, "Alfie! Alfie!"

James looks at me with vague disapproval.

"Although if it was brown, it would be a female," he says.

"A female called Alf?" My certainty is shaken. The Alf I saw just now was definitely male.

"No. That wouldn't work. Maybe Georgetta?" He frowns. "No, the other ducks will take the piss."

My friend Howard has a theory that you can tell a lot about a person from their answer to this fundamental question:

What's your favourite monkey?

I'm inclined to agree with him on this. Mine's an orangutan, although technically this is an ape.

My fake personality

2007-11-21T17:10:00.000Z

Today's quiz - name this TV show. Now name the two main characters. Now sing the theme tune. OK, stop, you really shouldn't sing in public.

Thanks to my little advice pixie who recommended smearing myself in ice cream to deal with the withdrawal from caffeine (that was what you said, right? Or this could be embarassing AND it would explain why the office went so ominously quiet at break time) - I think I know who you are. Not because you have a distinctive style of writing or anything too Clarice Starling of me, but because the rest of my readers gave up on me ages ago when The Daily became the Periodically. Bring me the smoothie maker at your convenience. You know I don't mean that, take it out of the toilet right now.

So, I was writing about hormones a couple of days ago and the advice from Dr It Could Be Worse recommending I knock out caffeine. Well, I’ve now done almost two weeks caffeine free, and guess what? That magical time of the month has come spinning around once more. More information than you really need? Like I care.

So the question on everyone’s lips – not least my boyfriend’s – is has the CFP (Caffeine Free Policy) worked?

Well, I was moody as a big old sinful bag of sin yesterday, but not hysterical moody, just sulky teenager moody really. And today, I’ve felt a little, well, irrational, but nothing like I would normally be expecting. So, I’m feeling hopeful.

It will be great if the absence of caffeine genuinely abates the mood swings, cramps and huge emotional chaos of my once a month blues. In addition, my productivity at work is maintaining an unusually high standard, much to The Chief's joy.

However, I miss the larking about that accompanied my crazy mood swings. You know, the desire to jump around and sing, and the need to climb under my desk and surprise people by suddenly grabbing their ankles as they walk by, whilst barking like a terrier (me, not them – people don’t often walk past my desk barking like terriers, that’s obviously my job).

And so do my colleagues. Admittedly it took them some time, in which they too have probably enjoyed higher than average productivity without me blasting out the theme to the A-Team, or inventing jingles for each team (Events, for instance, fits distinctly well to the theme tune for the Flumps – remember them? They were fab). But over the past few days most of the women in my office have expressed concern over my sudden ‘quietness’ – many of them have asked if I’m ill, and I’ve had to admit that I’m actually suffering from the ill-intended effects of health, for once.

I have a dilemma. I feel like a manic depressive who’s been prescribed mood balancers and found that they preferred the swings of mania – except in reverse. I’ve taken a drug away from myself, not placed myself on one. I’m not sure I like this new me. Without the caffeine, is this the real me?

If so, I’m not sure I like her. I think she’s boring and balanced and banal. She’s everything about b’s that I don’t like. But if I go back to caffeine, I’ll know it’s a fake personality – I can’t believe it’s come to this. Coffee was the basis of everything I like about myself.

So what would you do? Do you think it’ll get easier?

Violet's uncertainty principle

2007-11-20T06:37:00.000Z

Check out more Lemony Snicket.com treats

I was in the Slug and Lettuce in Palmerston Road last Friday, with my soul sister and her new baby. He's beautiful. So is she, so I was in good spirits before I got there. But until I sat down and we started to talk, I didn't realise how much I had missed her, how well we know each other, how easy it is to talk to her and how much love flows between us while drunken students and middle class wine drinkers weave their way between table and bar.

It's a strange kind of pub, the S&L. It has a kind of London feel to it, but it's in the heart of Southsea. For some reason all the students in there were male, they were all wearing chinos and an assortment of 'hilarious' hats and I suspect that more than an average proportion of them were named Roger and excelled at Rugby. I do not have a reversed class prejudice, honest. I just often find myself resenting posh people, and I could stop that anytime I wanted. I've given up caffeine for forking out loud, now anything is possible. I'm psyching myself up for the London Marathon next.

Shon and I are very similar in lots of ways and our life experiences have some mirrored moments in them that has created an easy, shared understanding of the world and each other. This is rare. You may know Shonagh in fact, as she is now a national award winner, who recently scooped a Public Servant of the Year award at the recent Times Awards. She is also the most amazing, intuitive, generous and kind friend I am ever likely to know. She defines loyalty.

At her side was Shonagh's beautiful son, who looks more like her every time I see him. I've never been one for babies, even when my friends create them, but Shonagh's son is the exception that proves the rule. I don't think I'm that good with Hamish, but Shon reassured me that he was utterly attuned to my energy and she was certain he liked me. As if on cue, he rewarded me with a huge grin, which made my heart melt.

"You'll have a baby," Shonagh grinned, "I've always known it."

This has become a frequent topic of conversation between us since Hamish was born. At first, Shonagh issued a command that I should have a child, so that we could hang out together and our babies could be friends. The long silence that followed this suggestion was one only a best friend could ignore. At points, she can be quite Mrs Doyle of Father Ted fame about it: you will have a baby. You will, you will, you will, you will, you WILL. This is despite the fact that I've stated plainly that I would not have children since I was about 14. Again, only your best friend can state your mind, dreams and destiny more plainly than you can.

"You've always known it," I repeat, looking at her doubtfully. Repetition is often the best course of action when Shonagh is determined. She cannot be argued with. She's like a member of the Borg: resistance is futile. Thank god she hasn't got a penis, or she'd probably have been shagging me on the pub table - "You DO want to get pregnant!!"

"Ever since you used to say that if you ever had to name a girl, you'd call her Violet, because it's only a consonant away from violent and you thought it was only fair to give people warning."

I laughed, delighted that she remembers one of my favourite lines from my 'conversations to make people leave you alone when they start hassling you about not wanting kids.'

"But you will have a child, Sare," Shon's sincere expression stopped my heart across the table, "It will be a girl and she'll have red hair and you'll be brilliant."

I smile at Shon. Inside, this conversation is starting an emotional and psychological earthquake that I push to the back of my mind until I have time to feel the tremble. What is my aversion to having kids anyway? Is it linked to the Chief's assertion that my desire not to get married is a way of shirking adult responsibility? Am I a Petra Pan cliche who's afraid of growing up and falling into the trappings of middle class family life (yeah, maybe because seriously, just writing those words makes me reach for the razors)? Is this a failing?

Frankly, that's a whole other show.

In other news, thanks to the Merry Swankster for this post of Bats for Lashes' What's a Girl To Do - I love this video more than I love whiskers on kittens. Not that I have a particular dislike for whiskers anywhere else. Well, maybe......ok, there's no need for me to really get into this, is there.

The Decaff is coming

2007-11-19T11:17:00.001Z

I'm moody. This is a statement of being, not a description of my current state of mind. My moods are influenced by many things, but when I go to see my doctor about the rather more extreme mood swings that occur during my menstrual cycle, the consultation surprises me.

"How long do the mood swings last?" he asks, after I pre-empt his suggestion that I go on the pill with a firm negative.

"I don't feel like myself for about three days. Sometimes it's like thinking through fog, and my emotional state becomes all-powerful, it can be hard to maintain a firm sense of rationality," I answer, thinking that by 'firm' I mean 'any'.

He looks at me like a plumber might look at a challenging job, drawing in a long, whistling breath.

"The thing is," he says, "PMT is incredibly difficult to treat. Almost impossible really."

Great, I think, nodding politely but trying to convey anticipation of something more useful to follow this helpful observation.

"The first thing I need to tell you is that it could be worse. I see women who lose two weeks a month to PMT."

He gives me a long look and I wonder if this is the end of the consultation.

This is a model of medicine that is new to me. The 'It could be worse' diagnosis. As he stares at me meaningfully, my mind wanders. I imagine stumbling into A&E with my foot hanging off.

"It could be worse. It could be the whole leg, you see. That's much worse. In fact, someone came in this morning with a gunshot wound to the head. He died. Your injury is nowhere near as bad as that."

I snap back to the moment. My doctor is still staring at me.

"Right," I manage. Am I supposed to leave now with this slice of sagacity under my belt? I imagine comforting those worst affected by my moods with the 'It could be worse' diagnosis: my partner, my boss, my friends. I smile.

The doctor sighs, as if guessing correctly that this is not quite enough.

"Do you drink a lot of caffeine?" he asks, finally.

I'm surprised by the question, and images of the dozens of cups of coffee, tea and green tea that I drink in an average day fly through my mind.

"Er, quite a lot, yes," I admit, not meeting his eye. Doctors bring out the innate sense of shame in me.

"Right, well try removing that from your diet."

I splutter the word, "Completely?" in the same tone I would use for the question, Are you high on crack right now?

"Yes. Completely. You'd be surprised how much it affects your moods."

I stare at the carpet, slowly taking in the full horror of his advice. On an average day there is more coffee in my veins than blood.

"Right," I murmur, glumly. There are stains on the carpet at my feet. I shuffle my shoe backwards and wonder what they are.

"Drink grapefruit juice when you have cramps and take these tablets if it's particularly painful. Come back and see me if giving up caffeine doesn't seem to have any effect. Oh, and don't drink alcohol during your period."

He hands me a prescription as I stare at him with violence in my eyes.

So, I'm drinking decaff coffee. This pains me. My friend Kyo called me a fake when I brought a cup to the table. James and I have taken to calling my decaff coffee 'pointless coffee,' which just about sums up how I feel about it. I'm also drinking decaff tea and the green tea has been eradicated from my diet completely.

The effects, or rather the lack of the effect of caffeine was notieable to me almost immediately, especially at work. My swings of mood are legendary at the Ministry, with sudden bursts of energy leading me to sing, to laugh maniacally at random thoughts and it's been known for me to occasionally impersonate larger marsupials around my colleagues' desks.

Without my caffeine highs, I work steadily and fairly quietly. My productivity has increased but my happiness is somewhat dented. I feel as though I've lost a section of my personality.

Thank God he didn't mention anything about giving up the crystal meth.

Virtually Friends

2007-10-13T16:43:00.000+01:00

Virtual Friends
Image courtesy of Second Life/BBC

I'm almost embarrassed to write about Facebook, but I made a vow to myself a while ago not to condemn my own life-experience in this neurotic and self-defeating way, so here I am. Writing about Facebook in a consciously non-shameful way.

I was talked into Facebook, which I had heard about many times and whole-heartedly rejected being a part of - on the grounds that it sounded to me like self-indulgent wank - by my friend Ben, the actor. Actually, I wasn't so much talked into it as much as he just signed me up without my consent (giving me the most singularly obscene password that I have ever had to type into a machine on an almost daily basis and which, oddly, I am now loathe to change because it also links into a story about the night Ben and I met, which [is it grammatically improper to use 'which' twice in one sentence?] I am most definitely not going to tell here, or indeed anywhere it could be reproduced and attributed to me).

At first, I didn't understand what all the Facebook fuss was about. It all looked innocuous enough.

Then I started to get friends. Friends that threw sheep at me. Friends that poked me - and the childish novelty of that never wears off. In fact, as my friend Shelley and I were discussing the other day in the pub, Facebook really capitalises on childish novelty. When was the last time, as an adult, you flicked a bogey at someone? Or left a drawing of a big fat cock on one of their possessions? I'm hoping you're thinking it was at school or college, but my point kind of remains valid even if it wasn't.

Shelley had some interesting thoughts on the protocol and etiquette of Facebook bogey flicking and the like.

"What do you think of this?" she asked over her pint, "This girl, who I hardly actually know in the real world - I mean, like, we've spoken to each other in the pub twice or something - added me to her Facebook the other day."

"That doesn't sound so bad," I say, "Quite a few people I don't really know have added me. I don't mind. When I'm sat in the flat on my own sometimes looking at my Facebook, it makes me feel more popular that those people talk to me."

She looks at me for a moment without speaking and then smiles gently.

"That wasn't the end of my story, but, er, nice."

"Oh. Ok," I answer, "I was just kidding about the popularity thing."

"Uh-huh. Anyway, this girl adds me as a friend, which is cool, but then, after a couple of days, she flicks a bogey at me." Shelley pauses and looks at me.

"Oh," I answer, drawing out the syllable in a strangely satisfying way, "That's a bit familiar."

"Exactly," she answers, satisfied, "Way too familiar. I mean, you should know someone for much longer before you flick bogies at them. There should be some kind of relationship there. Past shared experiences that bring you closer as people, you know?"

The weird thing is, I actually do know what she means, and I'm in agreement.

"Maybe we should write a book about this sort of thing, " I suggest. "Like Facebook manners for beginners, or something. It would make it clear to people what the rules were. We could set out clear guidelines for the exact amount of time you have to know someone before you should flick bogies at them."

"Maybe," she agrees slowly. I let it go.

But, regardless of protocol, Facebook is an interesting phenomena, causing people to interact in a new way. Admittedly, I can think of more positive uses of our time, like meditation, or gradually working our way towards world peace, but even so.

At least it's not serial killing, and there's a lot to be said for that.

You can take that as a recommendation. Sort of.

My friend and fellow Peace Cafe Irregular, Spoon (I gave him this nickname because he's a little stirrer, and I'm unquestionably proud of how much he hates it - as an aside, it's a personal ambition of mine to get everyone calling him Spoon), has just joined Facebook and took great pleasure yesterday in announcing to the Cafe at large that he had just poked me. And from across the room.

See what you're missing out on?