I was invited to a slide show on Saturday evening. I love slideshows. You can keep your Powerpoint and disappointing laptop screens. Nothing quite beats the magic of the big, white, wobbly screen. The projection gives a real sense of light and depth to the photos, and it's fun to see dust dancing in the beam when you look round. Arranging the chairs to make a mini auditorium, drawing the curtains and turning the lights off adds to the fun. The click click of the magazine whirring through memories and the light blinking as the pictures swap over is very atmospheric. To complete the effect, someone has to wave their hands around to make shadow puppets and you have to be surprised at how messy the hair on top of your head is in silhouette.
I was invited to take a couple of boxes of my slides, and it was completely engrossing digging around in the past trying to choose which would interest my friends and not seem too self indulgent. I have an eclectic selection of slides. These include a set of Escher transparencies, the moon landings, explosions in factories, Arthur Rackham sketches along with some Leonardo da Vinci, and some strange people my sister and I drew as toddlers. I wasn't too disciplined in sorting these into order, so the evening became a bit surreal as we leapt from Neil Armstrong, to the Mona Lisa, to me in a nappy smelling a tulip, to water running the wrong way round a tower, a monochrome fairy and back to some footprints on the moon. It was confusing, but very jolly. There was even one photo of 'mother at the oven' - as I've mentioned before, the oven would seldom be cleaned, but when it was it required a hammer and chisel. My friends gasped in horror as the stark truth of these stories was brought home to them in ghastly, life sized technicolour glory. She was frying something to clog my father's arteries.
Some of the slides brought back sharp memories - father hanging a white double sheet back-drop on the garden fence, arranging us all in a 'loving family' pose and running round the camera before the shutter went. I can remember the unusual glaring whiteness of it all, and the oddity of seeing my father move faster than usual. Even though I could only have been about three, I remember wickedly hoping the shutter would click before he made it into the happy family tableau. I look at the slides now and wonder why my mother didn't iron the sheet before it was immortalised.
Monday 28 September 2009
Thursday 24 September 2009
Vampires with Syringes
As my house is going on the market, I was told by a friend that I needed to clean my carpets, so dutifully rented a Rug Doctor. It was very satisfying (although also somewhat alarming) seeing copious amounts of black gunge build up in the tank. It did make quite a difference, but as the carpets dried, there appeared some very annoying triangular streaks of grey shouting, 'Missed a bit!'. Sadly, I had taken the machine back to the shop, so am now constantly reminded of my mistakes by the grimy patches.
I'm not very keen on my house being so tidy either, it looks rather bland. Everything is going a bit magnolia on me. I also have to keep putting things away, which is an alien concept. Some cruel people at work have suggested I am an alien - strange lights were seen in the sky last night and it was suggested that the mother ship had arrived.
Another friend thinks I've contracted malaria and has been telling me to have a blood test, so this morning I dutifully traipsed off to the doctor and then the hospital for a meeting with the vampire/phlebotomist. He plonked not one, not two, not three, but four vials in the tray and there was a very unpleasant sucking noise, like taking the plug out of a sink, as my arm was emptied. I had a momentary vision of being totally deflated, with just my skin left in a heap on the surgery floor, as the needle drained my insides out. I tried to distract myself by being engrossed in the paper towel holder on the wall. It didn't work, I couldn't but help imagining the syringe becoming larger and larger, like something out of 'Alice Through the Looking Glass', until I was trapped inside, tapping on the sides in panic as the sticky label was applied. I didn't fancy the centrifuge, so was pleased to come back to reality when the little blob of cotton wool was applied and stuck firmly down with some of that papery tape they only seem to have in hospitals - the useless stuff that drops off shortly after.
"I've not seen blood like this before, I wonder where she's from?"
I'm not very keen on my house being so tidy either, it looks rather bland. Everything is going a bit magnolia on me. I also have to keep putting things away, which is an alien concept. Some cruel people at work have suggested I am an alien - strange lights were seen in the sky last night and it was suggested that the mother ship had arrived.
Another friend thinks I've contracted malaria and has been telling me to have a blood test, so this morning I dutifully traipsed off to the doctor and then the hospital for a meeting with the vampire/phlebotomist. He plonked not one, not two, not three, but four vials in the tray and there was a very unpleasant sucking noise, like taking the plug out of a sink, as my arm was emptied. I had a momentary vision of being totally deflated, with just my skin left in a heap on the surgery floor, as the needle drained my insides out. I tried to distract myself by being engrossed in the paper towel holder on the wall. It didn't work, I couldn't but help imagining the syringe becoming larger and larger, like something out of 'Alice Through the Looking Glass', until I was trapped inside, tapping on the sides in panic as the sticky label was applied. I didn't fancy the centrifuge, so was pleased to come back to reality when the little blob of cotton wool was applied and stuck firmly down with some of that papery tape they only seem to have in hospitals - the useless stuff that drops off shortly after.
"I've not seen blood like this before, I wonder where she's from?"
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Trident - Three Questions
If no-one knows where Trident is at any time, why not just get rid of it? In fact, how do we know they haven't done this already?
Who's ever going to be stupid enough to press the button to launch the nuclear warheads? If your country has already been atomised, why would you finish off all the other possible ports?
Who likes being on a submarine so much they would want to melt all the landmasses in the world?
Make love, not thermonuclear war!
Who's ever going to be stupid enough to press the button to launch the nuclear warheads? If your country has already been atomised, why would you finish off all the other possible ports?
Who likes being on a submarine so much they would want to melt all the landmasses in the world?
Make love, not thermonuclear war!
Tuesday 22 September 2009
Are You Receiving Me?
I'm annoyed with my radio. I should just point out that I do love my radio, but I'm experiencing a falling out with it lately. Why is it that you spend quite a time jiggling your set around to find just the right angle to receive the best quality signal, step back ready to get comfy on the settee, and it goes all crackly? I tried several different positions this evening (remember, I'm talking about my radio) and it happened each time. Aha! I thought to myself, if I turn it to a jaunty angle where it is crackly, when I step back it will be tuned in nicely. Very annoyingly it was crackly again. It happened in bed last night too. Got all comfy, pillows and duvet plumped up voluptuously (or was that me?), adjusted my radio to perfection, snuggled down, and off it went again, white noise to match my white duvet set. I used the aerial even though it shouldn't make a difference on medium wave (not sure why this is, but I remember a clever person telling me once). When I was holding the aerial, perfect sound came out, then I let go - well, I don't need to tell you what happened. Perhaps I am full of spooky static. Maybe it depends on whether the radio likes what I'm listening to. Farming Today seems OK, and thankfully, so is the Shipping Forecast (including inland waterways). It must be those plays the Beeb puts on, full of actors used to speaking with received pronunciation trying to sound colloquial - I'm in sympathy with my radio over this.
While I'm on the subject of aerials, my TV goes funny too. The box thing offers a huge selection of channels, but when I select something that looks really fascinating I get a message like 'data channel only' or 'audio channel'. When I find a station that does work, it quite often goes pixilated and Noel Edmonds (yes, I have to confess to the occasional fix of 'Deal or No Deal') starts talking like a robot. Deal or No Deal is bad enough at the best of times, but when you don't even find out what they've won, it seriously loses what little appeal it might have had. I think this has something to do with the aerial being stuffed down the neighbour's chimney. When it's windy it blows round and I get a different set of channels to those I've become addicted to. I've given up watching series, a gale between episodes can be very frustrating.
I've just come up with an invention - the radio stick. I can poke the radio into a good position without my static doing its stuff.
All I need to do now is have a chat with that pixie in the telly.
While I'm on the subject of aerials, my TV goes funny too. The box thing offers a huge selection of channels, but when I select something that looks really fascinating I get a message like 'data channel only' or 'audio channel'. When I find a station that does work, it quite often goes pixilated and Noel Edmonds (yes, I have to confess to the occasional fix of 'Deal or No Deal') starts talking like a robot. Deal or No Deal is bad enough at the best of times, but when you don't even find out what they've won, it seriously loses what little appeal it might have had. I think this has something to do with the aerial being stuffed down the neighbour's chimney. When it's windy it blows round and I get a different set of channels to those I've become addicted to. I've given up watching series, a gale between episodes can be very frustrating.
I've just come up with an invention - the radio stick. I can poke the radio into a good position without my static doing its stuff.
All I need to do now is have a chat with that pixie in the telly.
Thursday 17 September 2009
First Fire of the Season
I scooped up a scuttleful of tired looking lumps of coal that had been lounging around in a heap in the back garden all summer, and filled up the grate in the sitting room. It was wonderful to see the heart come back into the house. Soft, flickering light from the flames and candles, soothing music, glass of red wine and some hot chilly with a very good friend. What could be nicer?
I just love the autumn. I love the crisp chill in the air in the mornings, the smell of bonfires. Woolly jumpers and jeans and walks in the park crunching over dried leaves. Drawing the curtains earlier and earlier and making a warm nest to curl up in. Good books and cups of tea and no guilt about it being a lovely evening - I should go out. Lovely evenings are by my fire, while the rain pelts down outside.
Pull up the drawbridge, batten down the hatches, it's nearly time to hibernate.
I just love the autumn. I love the crisp chill in the air in the mornings, the smell of bonfires. Woolly jumpers and jeans and walks in the park crunching over dried leaves. Drawing the curtains earlier and earlier and making a warm nest to curl up in. Good books and cups of tea and no guilt about it being a lovely evening - I should go out. Lovely evenings are by my fire, while the rain pelts down outside.
Pull up the drawbridge, batten down the hatches, it's nearly time to hibernate.
Monday 14 September 2009
My Desk Today
Filing card box full of telephone numbers that probably don’t exist any more.
Two lever arch files full of useful stuff.
Plate of Jammy Dodgers squiggling around shouting ‘eat us, eat us’ (must move those later).
Stapler looking rather bored.
Heavy duty hole punch, looking quite macho and threatening (especially if you’re a piece of paper).
Bone china cup and saucer, looking too refined for a dishwasher.
Unwanted raffle prize (it wasn’t what it said it was on the box).
Sellotape dispenser in dull grey.
Tub of drawing pins looking spiteful.
Scissors lying atop an envelope with an incorrect address on it(I've always had an urge to find an excuse to use 'atop').
Glass with a film of orange juice across the bottom.
Telephone with knotted cable, letter from a boring, moany person (resist the temptation to reply,‘Get a life’).
Office diary open at October 31st (meaning?).
List of names under the wrong headings, spiral bound notebook with more doodles than notes in it, rubber with worn out ends and black scummy stuff round them, pencil that needs sharpening when I can find the sharpener.
Overflowing in-trays, black and menacing computer crouching, ready to pounce.
Jammy Dodgers shouting ‘eat me’,
Jammy Dodgers shouting ‘eat me’,
Jammy Dodgers shouting ‘eat me’.
Two lever arch files full of useful stuff.
Plate of Jammy Dodgers squiggling around shouting ‘eat us, eat us’ (must move those later).
Stapler looking rather bored.
Heavy duty hole punch, looking quite macho and threatening (especially if you’re a piece of paper).
Bone china cup and saucer, looking too refined for a dishwasher.
Unwanted raffle prize (it wasn’t what it said it was on the box).
Sellotape dispenser in dull grey.
Tub of drawing pins looking spiteful.
Scissors lying atop an envelope with an incorrect address on it(I've always had an urge to find an excuse to use 'atop').
Glass with a film of orange juice across the bottom.
Telephone with knotted cable, letter from a boring, moany person (resist the temptation to reply,‘Get a life’).
Office diary open at October 31st (meaning?).
List of names under the wrong headings, spiral bound notebook with more doodles than notes in it, rubber with worn out ends and black scummy stuff round them, pencil that needs sharpening when I can find the sharpener.
Overflowing in-trays, black and menacing computer crouching, ready to pounce.
Jammy Dodgers shouting ‘eat me’,
Jammy Dodgers shouting ‘eat me’,
Jammy Dodgers shouting ‘eat me’.
Sunday 13 September 2009
Wednesday 9 September 2009
Tuesday 8 September 2009
Playbox Biscuits
I’ve just discovered a hoard of Playbox biscuits in the office. They are my most favourite biscuit in the world. I am in gratitude to the jolly coloured icing brightening up an otherwise monochrome childhood. Playbox biscuits meant a friend was coming to tea and there might be a sludgy looking chocolate cake with Smarties dotted around to go with them. The Smarties went a bit white round the edges as the colour seeped into the wet cake topping. The edges of the chocolate cake would always be a bit crusty and dry – I don’t think my mother’s oven worked too well back then. The icing wouldn’t make it right to the edge, so plates were always left with a handle of disappointing sponge. We had a jelly mould which came out for special occasions. Sadly, my mother never left the jelly long enough to set properly and we would have to scoop bright red, droopy globules of tepid slops onto our plates. I never did see the promised voluptuous structure with domes and columns.
The cake and biscuits were laid out on the dining room table, which was huge. It had been a conference table in a previous life, and a large crank could wheel open a yawning gap in the middle, where extra mahogany slats could be fitted in. I enjoyed turning the handle, like the starting handle on an old car, and seeing the table drift open on its castors. It was always a bit annoying that the slats, having been kept in the darkness of a cupboard, never properly matched the rest of the wood.
The table was so big, that you couldn’t reach food laid out in the middle without more or less standing on your chair. In the middle was ceremoniously placed a pair of ‘Willow Pattern’ candlesticks containing two rather bent candles. We were never allowed to light these candles, which always seemed a bit odd to me, and they became yellow and jaded as well as knock-kneed over the years.
My father was a devotee of classical music, and meals were accompanied by tapes of warbling, opera-singing women. My father, fancying himself as a singer, would add to the ambience by singing along, humming and ta ta di da-ing. If he stopped singing, it would be to ‘twang’ whoever was present. This involved making deliberately antagonistic statements - aimed at the jugular - and when the target became riled, he would laugh and say, ‘Only twanging, why are you getting so terse?’. This meant meal times quite often sank into a simmering silence of resentment.
There was a gas fire in the room, but the table was so big that anyone sitting on the wrong side of the table was likely to get burned. The organ bench was placed this side, as there were never enough chairs, and the smallest children crammed on to roast. Anyone sitting round the other sides would be cold – such is the magic of gas fires.
The youngest child present would get the worst seat, the plate that didn’t match, the bent fork and the scrag ends of the meals. You can see why the Playbox biscuits were so popular – they didn’t discriminate, they were bright and jolly for everyone.
The cake and biscuits were laid out on the dining room table, which was huge. It had been a conference table in a previous life, and a large crank could wheel open a yawning gap in the middle, where extra mahogany slats could be fitted in. I enjoyed turning the handle, like the starting handle on an old car, and seeing the table drift open on its castors. It was always a bit annoying that the slats, having been kept in the darkness of a cupboard, never properly matched the rest of the wood.
The table was so big, that you couldn’t reach food laid out in the middle without more or less standing on your chair. In the middle was ceremoniously placed a pair of ‘Willow Pattern’ candlesticks containing two rather bent candles. We were never allowed to light these candles, which always seemed a bit odd to me, and they became yellow and jaded as well as knock-kneed over the years.
My father was a devotee of classical music, and meals were accompanied by tapes of warbling, opera-singing women. My father, fancying himself as a singer, would add to the ambience by singing along, humming and ta ta di da-ing. If he stopped singing, it would be to ‘twang’ whoever was present. This involved making deliberately antagonistic statements - aimed at the jugular - and when the target became riled, he would laugh and say, ‘Only twanging, why are you getting so terse?’. This meant meal times quite often sank into a simmering silence of resentment.
There was a gas fire in the room, but the table was so big that anyone sitting on the wrong side of the table was likely to get burned. The organ bench was placed this side, as there were never enough chairs, and the smallest children crammed on to roast. Anyone sitting round the other sides would be cold – such is the magic of gas fires.
The youngest child present would get the worst seat, the plate that didn’t match, the bent fork and the scrag ends of the meals. You can see why the Playbox biscuits were so popular – they didn’t discriminate, they were bright and jolly for everyone.
Thursday 3 September 2009
Make your own bed and lie in it
I hate making my bed. You need seriously long arms to cope with a king size duvet and cover. The pillows are too billowy to fit easily into their cases and have to be scrunched up. The elasticated sheet pings off the diagonal corners. I end up grumpy. I can't help it, I just do. It's like pumping up my bike tyres with a hand pump, I end up in tears. Some things just do that. (I have had my wheel rims drilled to take a foot pump now, so no sympathy necessary, thank you anyway).
I wish I was taller, I wish I had arms like an orangutan. The duvet cover is always still a bit damp in one place, but then I quite like that. It's cooling, and I'm always hot. I have to have my feet sticking out of the end to achieve the right temperature. Perhaps my hypothalamus is trying to tell me something.
The good thing about making your bed is you can have a sneaky little lie down when you've finished. It is exhausting work and you deserve to collapse in a bit of a heap. Strangely, when collapsing onto the bed after making it, I always end up at a jaunty angle. It seems a shame to dent the newly billowed pillows. There is something rather pleasant about dangling my head over the edge and staring at the wall, upside down. I wait for all the blood to rush to my head and then decide to get up. There's that slightly giddy feeling, which I quite enjoy, like I've just been on a roundabout without the vomity feeling.
It is then essential to forget about changing the bed, so that you have a lovely surprise at night time, slithering into crispy, cool sheets and letting the fluffy pillows take the strain. I adopt the starfish pose and let the day sink into the mattress. It's a starfish with one limb missing though. But I'm not going to let that bother me. Somewhere on the planet will be a four legged starfish, it's just that no-one has found it yet.
I wish I was taller, I wish I had arms like an orangutan. The duvet cover is always still a bit damp in one place, but then I quite like that. It's cooling, and I'm always hot. I have to have my feet sticking out of the end to achieve the right temperature. Perhaps my hypothalamus is trying to tell me something.
The good thing about making your bed is you can have a sneaky little lie down when you've finished. It is exhausting work and you deserve to collapse in a bit of a heap. Strangely, when collapsing onto the bed after making it, I always end up at a jaunty angle. It seems a shame to dent the newly billowed pillows. There is something rather pleasant about dangling my head over the edge and staring at the wall, upside down. I wait for all the blood to rush to my head and then decide to get up. There's that slightly giddy feeling, which I quite enjoy, like I've just been on a roundabout without the vomity feeling.
It is then essential to forget about changing the bed, so that you have a lovely surprise at night time, slithering into crispy, cool sheets and letting the fluffy pillows take the strain. I adopt the starfish pose and let the day sink into the mattress. It's a starfish with one limb missing though. But I'm not going to let that bother me. Somewhere on the planet will be a four legged starfish, it's just that no-one has found it yet.
Summer?
I think I spoke too soon about the summer. I'm sitting here at my desk in Prefab Towers (note to manager: it's my lunchtime), the wind is howling through the air conditioning vents and whistling round the building. This building actually moans in the wind, 'I want a holiday! I want to get away from the three lane gyratory system that makes me dizzy all the time!, Let me free from my footings!'.
The noises are quite spooky, and all that is needed to convert the whole working day experience into a Gothic horror movie would be the squadron of bats I saw in India that had the wing span of light aircraft. During the day they could hang upside down from the air conditioning vents. In quiet moments, employees could get up and tickle their tummies as a stress busting exercise. We could throw in a couple of rabid dogs slathering at the bottom of the stairwells and lifts that go up and down without picking up any passengers (hang on a minute, I think we've got that effect already).
My slightly grubby-from-pollution net curtains are straining at the rail, billowing out as if allowing access to unseen entities. Time seems to have stood still (sorry, that's just how it feels at the new photocopying/printing machine) and the electrical equipment in the office is acting strangely (no change there either, come to think of it).
This is of course all an effort to take my mind off the yearning I am currently experiencing for a large, iced currant bun. I've had a couple of boiled sweets, but they're just not hitting the spot. I've also eaten all my favourite orangey ones, and am feeling depressed at the thought of succombing, in desperation, to pineapple. If you eat too many boiled sweets, your teeth get a bit furry. You can spend a bit of time deciding whether to suck or crunch (no comments please, I know what you're like now). Sucking gives longer lasting pleasure, the crunch gives a lovely burst of flavour, but runs the risk of follow up appointments with the 'Butcher of Teddington', sorry, I mean my dentist.
Maybe that's the where the real terror lies.
The noises are quite spooky, and all that is needed to convert the whole working day experience into a Gothic horror movie would be the squadron of bats I saw in India that had the wing span of light aircraft. During the day they could hang upside down from the air conditioning vents. In quiet moments, employees could get up and tickle their tummies as a stress busting exercise. We could throw in a couple of rabid dogs slathering at the bottom of the stairwells and lifts that go up and down without picking up any passengers (hang on a minute, I think we've got that effect already).
My slightly grubby-from-pollution net curtains are straining at the rail, billowing out as if allowing access to unseen entities. Time seems to have stood still (sorry, that's just how it feels at the new photocopying/printing machine) and the electrical equipment in the office is acting strangely (no change there either, come to think of it).
This is of course all an effort to take my mind off the yearning I am currently experiencing for a large, iced currant bun. I've had a couple of boiled sweets, but they're just not hitting the spot. I've also eaten all my favourite orangey ones, and am feeling depressed at the thought of succombing, in desperation, to pineapple. If you eat too many boiled sweets, your teeth get a bit furry. You can spend a bit of time deciding whether to suck or crunch (no comments please, I know what you're like now). Sucking gives longer lasting pleasure, the crunch gives a lovely burst of flavour, but runs the risk of follow up appointments with the 'Butcher of Teddington', sorry, I mean my dentist.
Maybe that's the where the real terror lies.
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