There's an adorable (and very funny) children's book called 'Time Stops for No Mouse' by Michael Hoeye, which has as its protagonist a mouse called Hermux Tantamoq. And at the end of every adventure-filled day, Hermux writes the things for which he is thankful in his little mousey journal. So I tried it myself. And I can tell you that as a thing to do, it provides both comfort and perspective, and has been useful in dark times.
So here (in no particular order) is a list of the things I have been thankful for recently:
Caitlin Moran: How to Be a Woman
Two Door Cinema Club: Something Good Can Work
Andre Kertesz: Washington Square, New York
Maltesers
The Hour
The video that showed me how to tie a 1940s 'do-rag'. Finally!
Alan Bennett
Stephen Fry's brain
Getting a sloppy baby kiss from BabyBF. (Well, I think she was kissing me. She might just have been trying to put my head in her mouth, which is what she does with everything else she encounters. For the sake of argument, let's go with the former.)
My pals
Gardens of Time
Remembering that I had eaten some beetroot, and therefore was not in imminent danger of death. I'll leave you to work that one out for yourselves.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Friday, 8 July 2011
184. Nora Ephron
I think that Nora Ephron is marvellous. Even if you would rather stick hot pins in your eyes than watch 'When Harry Met Sally' ever again (me), or 'Sleepless in Seattle' more often than once every decade (me), or 'You've Got Mail' unless profoundly ill or depressed and separated from usual critical faculties (this has happened to me) - she is still marvellous. And I'll tell you why.
She wrote 'Silkwood'.
She wrote 'Heartburn'.
(That would - should - be enough for anybody, frankly, but there's more)
She made Julie & Julia which is very sweet but which also had Meryl Streep, Stanley ('Call me Stan') Tucci AND Chris Messina all in one film.
She is friends with Meryl Streep.
She is a natty deliverer of bon mots and a habitual wearer of chic all-black outfits.
She is capable of writing lines so funny and perfectly pitched that I snort in public.
She is friends with Meryl Streep.
She clearly goes to all the best parties in NYC and I bet she's a great guest.
She loves food and cooking.
She uses a Mac.
She has said that the hardest thing about writing is writing - but also that it's the best job in the world.
She is friends with Meryl Streep.
I would like to meet Nora Ephron only marginally less than I would like to meet Alan Bennett. And I don't mean to shake hands. I want dinner and then one more for the road.
Nora Ephron is marvellous. I want to be her when I grow up.
She wrote 'Silkwood'.
She wrote 'Heartburn'.
(That would - should - be enough for anybody, frankly, but there's more)
She made Julie & Julia which is very sweet but which also had Meryl Streep, Stanley ('Call me Stan') Tucci AND Chris Messina all in one film.
She is friends with Meryl Streep.
She is a natty deliverer of bon mots and a habitual wearer of chic all-black outfits.
She is capable of writing lines so funny and perfectly pitched that I snort in public.
She is friends with Meryl Streep.
She clearly goes to all the best parties in NYC and I bet she's a great guest.
She loves food and cooking.
She uses a Mac.
She has said that the hardest thing about writing is writing - but also that it's the best job in the world.
She is friends with Meryl Streep.
I would like to meet Nora Ephron only marginally less than I would like to meet Alan Bennett. And I don't mean to shake hands. I want dinner and then one more for the road.
Nora Ephron is marvellous. I want to be her when I grow up.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
183. Feeling the fear, and doing it anyway
So regular readers will know that the new job is in Hammersmith (on the riverbank just by Hammersmith Bridge, if you fancy a visit) which is quite a way from Home, really. So I've been travelling on the Piccadilly line and trying not to mind the cost and the heat and the smell and the ENDLESS hand-chewing practised by my fellow travellers.
I have been trying to pluck up the courage (and required energy) to cycle, but I am afraid of being crushed into raspberry jam by a bus, mainly because I think if that happened Herself and the Parent would be quite upset, and I don't like upsetting them.
Whether or not cycling in London is scary is all to do with available routes. (This may be true of all cities, but I can't comment.) Cycling into the city was fine, because a)it's actually quite nearby, and b)I knew how to get round the arterial roads. But in order to get to Hammersmith without it taking a couple of days, the cyclist coming from town must take the A4 (no way in hell not never), the Fulham Road (FULL of buses and Chelsea Tractors) or the Old Brompton Road (busy, busy, busy). And, frankly, I had a failure of bravery.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday the tube was just too hot and annoying and suddenly I didn't know what my freakin' problem was. So I made sure the old bicyle was working, and set off this morning to cycle to Hammersmith. And it was fine. I only got the route wrong twice, and never disastrously, and I got to work feeling rather pleased with myself. I'm not so happy that it is now the end of the day and it's pouring with rain, but I will endure.
I felt the fear and did it anyway. A slogan not just for tossers, it seems.
I have been trying to pluck up the courage (and required energy) to cycle, but I am afraid of being crushed into raspberry jam by a bus, mainly because I think if that happened Herself and the Parent would be quite upset, and I don't like upsetting them.
Whether or not cycling in London is scary is all to do with available routes. (This may be true of all cities, but I can't comment.) Cycling into the city was fine, because a)it's actually quite nearby, and b)I knew how to get round the arterial roads. But in order to get to Hammersmith without it taking a couple of days, the cyclist coming from town must take the A4 (no way in hell not never), the Fulham Road (FULL of buses and Chelsea Tractors) or the Old Brompton Road (busy, busy, busy). And, frankly, I had a failure of bravery.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday the tube was just too hot and annoying and suddenly I didn't know what my freakin' problem was. So I made sure the old bicyle was working, and set off this morning to cycle to Hammersmith. And it was fine. I only got the route wrong twice, and never disastrously, and I got to work feeling rather pleased with myself. I'm not so happy that it is now the end of the day and it's pouring with rain, but I will endure.
I felt the fear and did it anyway. A slogan not just for tossers, it seems.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
182. "Lewis"
Oh, how I wish I were cool. (and you can tell that I'm uncool because I believe in the power of the subjunctive. Anyway.)
I was sitting on my tod last evening, the Hound and Herself being out, and I was flicking between 24 hours in A&E, and Lewis. 24 hours in A&E is a wonderful fly-on-the-wall documentary about King's College Hospital. Lewis is a slightly rubbish detective spin-off. I ended up sticking with Lewis.
But I'll tell you why. Because Doris, aged 92, had fallen out of bed and spent the night on the floor, because she couldn't get to the phone to summon help. She was still bright and alert, and she had a smile for all the doctors and nurses who were prodding her, even though she was clearly still a bit shocked and frightened. She was all alone. The lady consultant doctor (usually a fairly brutal breed, in my experience) was exquisitely gentle and non-patronising with Doris, as she tried to work out just how vulnerable Doris really was.
Doris had a broken hip, but she didn't moan or complain ONCE. Not like the young bloke in the bed next to hers, who'd twisted his knee. You'd think he'd impaled his scrotum on a giant metal spike, the amount of fuss he was making.
Only the fact that Doris occasionally gasped or seemed to struggle to catch her breath gave away the pain she was in. And, frankly, I wasn't woman enough to continue watching. Doris was lucky, in lots of ways, still to be living by herself at 92. And the lovely doctor was going to make sure she was OK. But it was too much. It made me too sad.
So I switched over to Lewis. Aaahhhhh. And, relax. There's old Whately, schlumping about, doing lots of eyebrow acting. There's Donkey-Angel Boy, looking ugly and gorgeous at PRECISELY the same time. There's Oxford. There's a cast of B-list English Ac-tors and a not-bad script by Alan Plater. Not real. Not hard to watch. Not likely to make me want to get on my bicycle at 10pm to find Doris and make her come and live in my basement.
So, yes, I'm the dummy. But sometimes I just CAN'T. And Lewis was created for those moments.
I was sitting on my tod last evening, the Hound and Herself being out, and I was flicking between 24 hours in A&E, and Lewis. 24 hours in A&E is a wonderful fly-on-the-wall documentary about King's College Hospital. Lewis is a slightly rubbish detective spin-off. I ended up sticking with Lewis.
But I'll tell you why. Because Doris, aged 92, had fallen out of bed and spent the night on the floor, because she couldn't get to the phone to summon help. She was still bright and alert, and she had a smile for all the doctors and nurses who were prodding her, even though she was clearly still a bit shocked and frightened. She was all alone. The lady consultant doctor (usually a fairly brutal breed, in my experience) was exquisitely gentle and non-patronising with Doris, as she tried to work out just how vulnerable Doris really was.
Doris had a broken hip, but she didn't moan or complain ONCE. Not like the young bloke in the bed next to hers, who'd twisted his knee. You'd think he'd impaled his scrotum on a giant metal spike, the amount of fuss he was making.
Only the fact that Doris occasionally gasped or seemed to struggle to catch her breath gave away the pain she was in. And, frankly, I wasn't woman enough to continue watching. Doris was lucky, in lots of ways, still to be living by herself at 92. And the lovely doctor was going to make sure she was OK. But it was too much. It made me too sad.
So I switched over to Lewis. Aaahhhhh. And, relax. There's old Whately, schlumping about, doing lots of eyebrow acting. There's Donkey-Angel Boy, looking ugly and gorgeous at PRECISELY the same time. There's Oxford. There's a cast of B-list English Ac-tors and a not-bad script by Alan Plater. Not real. Not hard to watch. Not likely to make me want to get on my bicycle at 10pm to find Doris and make her come and live in my basement.
So, yes, I'm the dummy. But sometimes I just CAN'T. And Lewis was created for those moments.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
181. French people in London
There are lots of Frenchies in London at the moment. I'm not referring to backpacked tourists, but to those sensible French people who come to London to live and work. They are sensible because they know that the only way the French will ever positively influence our appalling habits is to live and work among us, and effect change from the inside. So they are sensible, and also cunning.
But mainly, they wear great clothes, and they are often extremely attractive and - best of all - they speak French! It's like being on St Andre des Arts without having to get on the Eurostar.
I feel a bit sorry for them, though, because where are they buying decent coffee, and apart from the French House and Beaujolais, where are they buying decent wine by the glass, and what are they doing with their leetle dogs, and where are they buying their cool and trendy clothes, and why aren't they in Paris - which is like London, only French?
So many questions.
If I could have these questions answered (to my satisfaction) I would be well on my way to forgiving London for not being Paris (or New York) - so answers on a postcard, please, to....
But mainly, they wear great clothes, and they are often extremely attractive and - best of all - they speak French! It's like being on St Andre des Arts without having to get on the Eurostar.
I feel a bit sorry for them, though, because where are they buying decent coffee, and apart from the French House and Beaujolais, where are they buying decent wine by the glass, and what are they doing with their leetle dogs, and where are they buying their cool and trendy clothes, and why aren't they in Paris - which is like London, only French?
So many questions.
If I could have these questions answered (to my satisfaction) I would be well on my way to forgiving London for not being Paris (or New York) - so answers on a postcard, please, to....
Thursday, 23 June 2011
180. Gravy
Why would anybody - ever - refer to something as 'jus' when they could call it gravy? Jus is pointless and affected. Gravy is delicious*
*Not all gravy is delicious. Sometimes, it is grey, lumpy and tasteless. Sometimes, it is greasy and disgusting. But let's think positive.
Roast beef and yorkshire pudding, and lots of thick, rich, glossy gravy - made with beef marrow and good red wine? Yes, please.
Roast chicken with roast potatoes and salad, with lots of gelatine-rich chicken juicy gravy? Yes, please.
(It occurs to me that I might not have much for the vegetarians here. Sorry about that.)
Good sausages, mash, green beans - and salty, scented, onion gravy? Yes, please.
Thai curries are just rice, protein and vegetables covered in hot, spicy coconut milk gravy. Mmm.
And never forgetting my university staple: chips and gravy. Believe me, it works.
So don't call it jus. Gravy deserves more respect than that.
*Not all gravy is delicious. Sometimes, it is grey, lumpy and tasteless. Sometimes, it is greasy and disgusting. But let's think positive.
Roast beef and yorkshire pudding, and lots of thick, rich, glossy gravy - made with beef marrow and good red wine? Yes, please.
Roast chicken with roast potatoes and salad, with lots of gelatine-rich chicken juicy gravy? Yes, please.
(It occurs to me that I might not have much for the vegetarians here. Sorry about that.)
Good sausages, mash, green beans - and salty, scented, onion gravy? Yes, please.
Thai curries are just rice, protein and vegetables covered in hot, spicy coconut milk gravy. Mmm.
And never forgetting my university staple: chips and gravy. Believe me, it works.
So don't call it jus. Gravy deserves more respect than that.
Monday, 20 June 2011
179. The Dobro
My mate Paul gave me a load of music off his computer recently, and I'm working my way slowly through it as I sit on the underground and wend my way to work. I have got a bit stuck, though, on Alison Krauss and Union Station.
I know. But what can I do? My heart is moved, so my brain must follow.
So there's Alison, who's a bit funny lookin' if you ask me but sings as clear and pure as the proverbial lark. And then there's Dan Tyminski who's a dude. Then there's a load of beardy-weirdy muso types. And then there's the dobro. The dobro, for those what don't kno, is the twangy guitar. Yes, that is a technical term. It's a sliding steel guitar or something. Whatevs, it goes great on these toons.
So on 'The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn' (a favourite) the dobro does lots of twanging over Dan singing plangently (is this possible? Ed.) about the silly boy who was too lazy to hoe his corn, got rejected by the good farmer lady next door, and ended up telling her that she'll rue the day. Rue the day, I tell you! It's a serious business, this hoeing. Fuck with it at your peril.
Twang.
You'll know the sound I mean if you have ever,
a) listened consciously to any bluegrass music, or
b) watched O Brother, Where Art Thou
If you haven't done either, then you need to do both RIGHT NOW (you'll do a while doing b in a two for one type deal) and don't speak to me until it's done.
I know. But what can I do? My heart is moved, so my brain must follow.
So there's Alison, who's a bit funny lookin' if you ask me but sings as clear and pure as the proverbial lark. And then there's Dan Tyminski who's a dude. Then there's a load of beardy-weirdy muso types. And then there's the dobro. The dobro, for those what don't kno, is the twangy guitar. Yes, that is a technical term. It's a sliding steel guitar or something. Whatevs, it goes great on these toons.
So on 'The Boy Who Wouldn't Hoe Corn' (a favourite) the dobro does lots of twanging over Dan singing plangently (is this possible? Ed.) about the silly boy who was too lazy to hoe his corn, got rejected by the good farmer lady next door, and ended up telling her that she'll rue the day. Rue the day, I tell you! It's a serious business, this hoeing. Fuck with it at your peril.
Twang.
You'll know the sound I mean if you have ever,
a) listened consciously to any bluegrass music, or
b) watched O Brother, Where Art Thou
If you haven't done either, then you need to do both RIGHT NOW (you'll do a while doing b in a two for one type deal) and don't speak to me until it's done.
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