Audio Blog - deer

I am planning on branching out into audio blogging, so see what you think of this (deer bellowing in Bushy Park):

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Don't be confused by the 'download this song' option, unless you think the stag was giving a rendition of his favourite tune.

The Round Robin

I've received a Christmas Round Robin and it's still only November.

I find Round Robins challenging (particularly when they underline the fact that someone else has bought, written and posted their Christmas cards before 1st December). There was an exception to this one year when I was featured rather flatteringly, and in my fickle way, decided I actually really do love them. So I think it's a love hate relationship. I love hearing everyone's good news. The 'hate' has something to do with the fact no one writes the tough stuff, so you get a glossy, possibly slightly fake overview of the year, which makes your own year look rather less perfect than you already suspected it to be. Are all these families really having such a great time? Does no-one else settle down to watch a spot of TV and have to wrestle with difficult moral questions like, 'Do you mind if I roll a couple of joints while I sit here?'. Didn't some of those gap year expeditions cause sleepless nights when the last communication with the loved one in question was, 'I feel really ill' and then nothing, nothing for several days, by which time you have decided they have died and no one has found the body yet? Does no one think, 'Hey, I can't afford that holiday in Thailand, I'll go self catering in Wales instead!'

Did no-one have a nothingy year, where nothing special happened and they just plodded on regardless? Granted, this wouldn't make an exciting read, so I suppose there is natural selection in that it is only those successful, confident and dynamic families that will send Round Robins out.

So this is a request, that if you are sending a Round Robin, it is truly rounded and includes some of the grim stuff that will make everyone else think their year wasn't so bad after all, otherwise feature the person you are sending it to in glorious technicolour so they can't complain.

Happy Birthday Buttered Toast!

Buttered Toast Blog is one year old today, hooray!

Thank you for all your support and comments, keep them coming!

Washing Powder and Asprins

Those Persil ads used to really annoy me. Those sad women on TV who hold their children's beach towels up and discuss washing powder. As if.

The TV company over expose the whiteness so it has a sort of halo. Check your bath towel to see if it has a halo. If it doesn't, check whether it smells 'lemon fresh'. You should wear an expression of having just achieved a drug induced high while doing this. Then phone a friend to discuss it all.

No? Don't blame you. Life's too short.

I will think of this next time I pull the sludgy mass of washing out of the machine. Running my fingers round those horrid rubbery edges to the drum and coaxing the load to come out always makes me feel uncomfortably like a midwife. However hard I try, it always lands in a mess on the kitchen floor or a sock spills onto the stairs when I carry it up to the bedrooms. Luckily I gave up nursing in the early stages, so never made it to Midwife. (I've just experienced a nursing flashback here, of shaking a thermometer really hard and smashing it against a bed rail. Little globs of mercury rolled around in every direction. I went to get a dustpan and brush, and was a bit surprised to get back to the bed and find police style tape cordonning off the area and men in white paper jumpsuits and masks looking like they were playing marbles with the little grey spheres. I hadn't just broken a thermometer, I'd created a 'mercury incident' which was quite exciting.)

There is something very impressive about those people in the paper jump suits and masks. You see them on the news quite often. They really look like they know what they're doing, it's more effective than even having a stethoscope round your neck. It's science in action!

On a separate but still medicinal note, I was thinking about the word 'paradox' yesterday. It's a nice word. Sounds like something you might dissolve in water to cure a headache. Take two paradox three times daily. Your headache won't go, and you will certainly be feeling quite confused by bedtime. Which also reminds me of those headache adverts, with more annoying women (maybe the same jobbing actresses?) clutching their foreheads with a pained expression on their faces, then looking like they have discovered Utopia when they see a packet of asprin. So, if you're a woman reading this, remember to act up big time over the headaches, and make sure all your party conversations are centered around the whiteness of your washing.

Blood Money, Bombs and Broken Bodies

How can it be that the best way we can think of in the 21st century to solve problems is war?

The repeated images in our media of the miserable processions of coffins down the main street in Wootton Basset and glossy photos in the colour supplements about our brave servicemen and women, smiling from their wheelchairs, remind us of the cost.

The smiles disturb me. These people have staggering injuries that will keep them struggling to cope with day to day life, all the way into 2069 and beyond - why do they smile?

We are the lucky ones. We can turn the TV off if the howls of grief stricken families become too harrowing. We can turn the page in the newspaper to something less demanding if the photograph of a twenty year old with no limbs disturbs us. We can absolve our responsibility because, after all, it's up to the politicians - isn't it?

How about the others we hear less about? The ones who will never have a good night's sleep again because they wake up screaming in terror from the horrific things they have seen? The families that become fractured by stress and depression? What about the Afghan casualties, the children and civilians that have parts of their bodies blown off by our bullets and bombs? Is it because these don't make such good photographic based stories? Or is it that the emotive sight of coffins and brave young people in wheelchairs raises support to continue an unpopular battle?

Why do we trust our politicians, many of whom have been shown to be corrupt in the way they manage even their own affairs, to send these brave and selfless people into an Armageddon that will last way beyond the political war?

Some people will be getting very rich on trading the arms to keep the battles going. Who exactly are they and what is their influence on this confusing conflict?

Do their consciences keep them awake at night?

Existential Despair on a Park Bench

I was early for an outdoor meeting in a local town this morning, so I bought a lovely cappuccino and sat on a bench by a clocktower, enjoying the view. I was rather surprised when two older women walked past, and gave me a leaflet entitled, 'Comfort for the Depressed' with a soft focus photograph of female with the sort of expression that cleverly combined both existential despair with new found relief. The two women were hovering over me in a 'caring' way, exuding the sort of comfort they obviously thought I needed. I handed the leaflet back, saying thank you, but I wasn't depressed. I could have sworn one of them looked decidedly disappointed, as she tried to press the leaflet back in my hand. No, I said, more firmly, but with a large smile, 'I'm not depressed, I'm quite happy thank you'. They gave each other a look and walked off, I suspect they must have thought I was in denial, why else would I be sitting on a park bench in November? It's an odd pastime, looking for people who are depressed. I think they should be careful, as someone who was only just on the happy side of life might be swayed back into gloom by their ministrations. The leaflet could rustle up more customers by itself, it was mainly a funereal black, and just looking at the miserable woman on the front could turn an alright day into something more glum.

I recounted this story to a colleague back in Prefab Towers, who said I must be the only person who worked there at the moment who wasn't depressed. Those ladies should try their leaflets where I work, they would be a lot happier with the success rate.

The Bells, The Bells

I've taken up bellringing again. I'm quite surprised. The last time I bellrang was about thirty years ago. What has also surprised me is how difficult it is to ring a bell - I'd forgotten - but also how satisfying it is when you get it right. There is a lovely rhythm to pulling on the end of the rope and then the sally (the fluffy bit), and the bells make a nice noise too. Quite an ancient sound, echoing across the centuries. I was also surprised to end up feeling sea-sick. When I was sitting watching the experts ring I realised with some unease that the floor was moving around and making my chair wobble. I tried to focus on the windowsill to see whether the whole tower was going to collapse, but it is impossible to tell whether it was me moving, or the bricks. I realised that it would take quite a while to escape the tower in a disaster, the winding staircase seemed to go on for eons, and was specially built to avoid stairwell confrontations with swords or something, so only one of us at a time could squeeze down.

I put these morbid thoughts to one side and decided to have a read of the boards, which were jiggling around ominously. They explained who rang a peal of what and when and how long it took. About 5 hours for Grandsire Triples in 1804 apparently. I secretly hoped that one day I would be in a pub quiz team and there would be a round (forgive the pun) on campanology, and I would triumph to congratulatory slaps on the back and smile generously as the bottles of wine and handfuls of money came our way.

I wasn't deemed ready for Grandsire Triples or even Plain Bob. I did manage some straight rounds and even received some applause at the end for getting my bell dinging in the right place. I would have said 'round of applause' but you can have too many types of round and it gets confusing.

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You can hear the ropes flicking on the floor.

Popping and Banging

It's Firework Friday. You can tell this from where I am sitting by the sirens echoing off into the distance and the occasional squeal and bang as a rocket takes off. There are more people than usual padding up and down the street. Arms pressed straight down their sides, hands as far into their pockets as they will go, heads bent forward with hoods flopping over their brows. It's also raining. It reminds me I have a gutter that needs sorting out as there is a steady splash of water onto my front doorstep, about the speed of tea coming out of the pot. The splashes creep in under the badly fitting front door and make the carpet there a bit soggy.

I don't mind not going out fireworking, I have someone coming for dinner, and I have enjoyed pottering in the kitchen, rustling up something that is smelling gorgeous in the oven. While the meat was browning I enjoyed finding tracks on CDs I haven't heard for ages, playing them very loudly on the huge speakers and dancing around, imagining I was the most beautiful, sensual creature to walk the earth. It involved a lot of waving my arms around, like 'Music and Movement' in primary school, only better - much better. Every so often the image was spoiled by catching a glimpse of someone quite odd in the reflection from the window, or the pictures on the wall. I'm not sure who they were, but they really couldn't dance.

Anyway, Vanessa Mae did the best fireworks of the year - you can't beat the electrified excitement of Vivaldi with the sky metamorphosing into a maelstrom of colour. I don't need to see a puny rocket wobble out of a milkbottle and worry about whether it's going to take my eyes out. My idea of fun doesn't include a trip to A&E to wait on a trolley for several hours.

Huge Handluggage

I read somewhere that having a big handbag creates the impression you are thinner. I am now the proud owner of the largest handbag in the universe. This is good news as it means I don't have to visit the scary lady at the diet club any more. It is doubly good news as I have lots of space for carrying the iced buns. It is hard to find things in it though and makes fishing for glasses or coins quite frustrating as most of my upper body has to dive into the deep recesses to retrieve them, which is embarrassing at checkouts.

I can't decide whether it's better to carry it over my shoulder (although the straps aren't quite long enough and tend to slide off), or with the straps in the crook of my arm. It's odd, but carrying a bag over my shoulder feels a bit trendy (like flinging a jacket over and being all cas (as in casual, but can't work out the spelling for the abbreviation), whereas carrying it over my arm feels a bit bossy and like I should have a diamonte broach on my lapel. So not only does this bag transform me into a tall, slim being, it has an effect on my personality. Being a bit self conscious of it at lunchtime today, I was swinging it back and forth like a satchel. Someone commented on how carefree I was - proving yet another personality transformation, I was impressed.

So, don't feel down, get out your handbag and take it for a walk and explore all your personality possibilities. Make sure it's packed full of goodies though, you never know when an emergency tea break might be called for.

The Working Lunch

Sometimes it's hard to beat my job for fun. Granted, I did have a stressful morning which included a few minutes where I felt I had completely lost the plot, but a cup of tea and a glazed session of staring at the traffic stopping and starting outside my window sorted out most of the problem. The afternoon had an unpromising meeting scheduled. It started badly (it was that sort of a day) with me not realising the meeting was taking place off site, which explained why the other person hadn't turned up. So, a rather rushed band of us legged it to a local leisure centre to meet a caterer about an event. I hadn't realised this was a tasting session, which involved demonstration plates of food showing off the chef's skills. I felt a pang of guilt about the toasted panini I had already scoffed for lunch, as plate after plate of delicious dinners came out of the kitchen. 'No, no not more' we all cried as some sea bass, potato rosti and spring greens squeezed onto the table next to the stuffed chicken breasts and vegetable parcels. (And this was after some wonderful mushroom soup and warm goat's cheese salad starters). Then, just when we thought we couldn't eat any more, out came the biggest slab of rib-eye steak you could fit on a dinner plate, it was so big, it had to sit on top of the vegetables. As we groaned and clutched our stomachs, the caterer ominously said, 'I hope the bread and butter pudding is on it's way'. Sure enough, out came three different versions of the famous dessert, with chocolate ice cream and fruit. I never, ever drink at work, but the offer of brandy at lunchtime seemed too exotic to be true, so, as it came out despite my remonstrations, I had a little slug to keep me going. It seemed a shame to waste it, and while my back was turned, a colleague thoughtfully poured it into a water bottle, which fitted rather nicely into my handbag.

Banking on Failure

It used to be so straightforward, you’d go into a bank, join a queue, and get sorted.

Now, when you go into a bank, there seem to be more people meeting and greeting than actually seeing to customers’ needs. One I came across was very good at pointing me in the direction of the nearest empty desk, and, when the employee finally appeared, they said I needed to be waiting in a queue upstairs. It must be a cushy number, smiling and pointing and getting paid. Bit like being a politician mounting the party conference platform. They’re trained to point and wave into the crowd, makes them look like they’ve got friends, apparently. Come to think of it, not a bad thing for bankers to start doing.

In the bank I visited today, the person dealing with all enquiries other than straightforward withdrawls and deposits stood awkwardly at a shelf with a computer on it, with his backside up against the printer. As there was no desk as such, customers lingered in the ‘lounge’ area. No one dared sit on the sofas in case they lost their place and had to wait another eon. The loitering mass got a bit shifty and the lack of desk boundary meant you got too close and accidentally heard the financial traumas of the person in front. A toddler with his mother behind me expressed what we were all thinking, by lying on his back in the middle of the circulation area and yawning loudly. Eventually a bullet proof door painted bright red (possibly to camouflage the blood splatters I thought ruefully) was flung open and a harassed manager came out to assist the crowd. She helpfully told me that I could no longer do the transaction I had successfully done in the bank many times before, that I needed to use the card. ‘ I don’t have a card’, I helpfully interjected. She looked quite annoyed, took all my documents into a secret cave where bankers hide, like Bin Laden, and eventually came back saying she’d get into trouble, but she’d done it, in a tone that demanded my gratitude. Having spent most of my lunch hour in the queue there wasn’t much I could offer in the way of gratitude. Maybe she could be grateful she still had some customers, although it wouldn’t be for long judging by the comments they were making in the psuedo lounge, which had since taken on the feel of a party no one wanted to be at. They could start offering shorts, that would help. By the time we all got pressed up against the stressed man at the shelf, we’d be squiffy enough to sign up for anything and add extra noughts on our loans.

Thirty Seven and a Half Minutes

The clock on the mantelpiece stopped this week, broken at 10.37. It struck a chord and after a while, I realised it was the time of one of the morning lesson bells at school. We had these really weird thirty seven and a half minute lessons. It's odd how watching the clock hands move round interminably slowly to 10.37 over a period of seven years, leaves an indelible mark. Break followed at 11.15am. The rich girls had sticky buns to eat, probably why I've spent a lifetime eating them whenever possible, to subconsciously join the elite. We used to sit in small groups on the desk tops, chatting away. There would be a lot of gossip about who had 'gone the furthest' with the boys. There was an air of shock and disbelief when one girl did bravely admit in the cloakroom that she had 'done it'. Apart from being gloriously horrified at her confession, the only other thing I remember about her is that she had hairy legs. Strange, the odd bits that stick in your mind.

Most of the classrooms were the Victorian type, high windows to stop anything distracting us outside, vaulted ceilings and wooden desks with lids and strange holes for long gone ink wells. The wood and chalk dust had a particular smell, not unpleasant, just a mustiness that became so familiar it felt friendly. There were some modern classrooms in the trendy, cuboid science block.

The chemistry lab always smelt of the strange potions in quaint, glass-stoppered jars, and all those puffs of conjurer's smoke in the fume cupboard. The physics lab was always warm and sunny, which helped make up for my dislike of the subject. The biology teacher relied heavily on Banda machine copies on which the writing was reproduced rather faintly, and with a distracting shininess. As it was her own, loopy handwriting it was quite hard to read, and I failed to fully 'digest' the life cycle of the tape worm and other intriguing facts. The maths teacher had a bad lisp and started each lesson with 'do shit down', which resulted in giggles.

We had a music teacher who looked so old she was almost fossilised in chalk dust. She played epic works on the school's grand piano with great gusto, arms flying into the air between stanzas, as if flicking cobwebs out of her blue rinse perm.

The PE teacher seemed determined to give detentions to any girl not wearing regulation blue knickers and, with hindsight, possibly took more interest than was appropriate in checking out our underwear for signs of anarchy.

It was a school where a roll-around blackboard was considered pretty hot technology. I might be exaggerating, but I do believe the lessons were so unutterably dull, even the use of coloured chalk by a teacher made them a bit more exciting.

Girls' secondary schools were moribund places indeed, I hope they've improved. At least I don't suppose anyone has thirty seven and a half minute lessons anymore.

The Train to Nowhere

I was on a train home from Oxford this evening. At the start of the journey, there was a group of lean young men with clever faces, studying books and jotting notes, ensuring a glittering future for themselves. Behind them was a grey suit with white hair, bags under his eyes and a lost expression. He must have been missing the buffet car, as he was meticulously scooping bogeys out of his nose and popping them into his mouth. He needn't have been so thoughtful, the floor was pretty bad and no one would have noticed if he'd dropped them. It was coated in the detritus of the day; a torn back page from a newspaper with a headline screaming bad news for a local club; a sweet wrapper, and a crushed can rolling past a dehydrating gobbit of phlegm.

There was very little relief to the monotony of the journey, apart from listening to the inappropriate intonation of the automated announcements. They made the prospect of arriving at Feltham so exciting, even the bacteria in the gobbit must have wanted to get off.

I made the mistake of visiting the 'restroom'. The door didn't lock and necessitated an awkward sitting position with one foot wedged to prevent intruders entering. It was tricky to wash my hands as there was a beer bottle rolling around in the sink. It was all accompanied by the gagging smell of testosterone laden urine that covered most of the floor. I went back to my seat, past a couple of ticket inspectors bemoaning the drunkards that always came out with the same excuses for not having valid tickets, and how intimidating it was dealing with them. They were so engrossed in their conversation, they missed a youth swaying past them towards the 'bathroom' with one hand clamped round a half drunk bottle of Lambrini. I had to admire the sensitivity of his 'nose', that he felt he would be better able to appreciate the subtle blend of grapes over the stench of dried piss. It would make for an interesting conversation in the off licence, 'Could you suggest a cheeky little rose to compliment the aroma of a train toilet?'. Perhaps, I thought hopefully, he was going to the toilet to tip it away. No, a few moments later he came staggering back to kindly share the beverage among his friends, who I noticed were all too polite to remark on the lack of wine glasses.

My station was approaching, so I made for the perspex partitions that carried the greasy fingerprints of previous train travel victims. As I waited to get off, I heard one woman ask her friend, 'Where are we in then?'.

The friend replied, 'We're in nowhere. We're in Twickenham'.

Model Behaviour

Most of us are aware of the vpl (visible panty line), but not much is written about the visible bra line. It is very annoying to get a bra wrong. Too small and you have deep lines etched across your chest, creating not two, but four wobbly sections which look unattractive. Too loose and everything moves around untethered and uncomfy. It is almost as important to your daily happiness as a well fitting pair of shoes. Get it wrong and you feel quite grumpy by the time you get home from work. And don't even mention going for a run without adequate upholstery. Fortunately I am not built to be a natural athlete, apart from a maybe weightlifting. I am hewn from stocky, solid genes which helpfully create a stable, low centre of gravity. Unlike Claudia Schiffer who I seriously doubt could haul a dingy out of the Thames with one hand. Could she even lift a 25kg bag of coal? Moving coal and dingies is obviously much more useful in real life than posing in high heels with shiny, blonde hair and a pout. Anyone can pout. Thinking about it, I could pout while I fill the coal scuttle up. I could wear high heels while I do the vacuuming (hang on, didn't I see somewhere that men pay good money to do that?).

So, I'm nearly there. I'm nearly a supermodel.

Oh, and if you would like to pay me lots to vacuum my house, I'll turn a blind eye to your attire.

One in the Eye

When I got home last night after cycling back from work, I sat on the settee for a minute to catch my breath (and the end of Deal or No Deal) hurting nobody, when a tiny fly dive bombed my eyeball. It pinged as it tried to penetrate my lens, then wriggled a lot, cunningly avoiding my finger nail as I scraped it across that little ledge between my lash and eyeball. It's probably got a name, the ledge that is, not the fly. Well, perhaps the fly had a name.

I'm sure it's dead now. I can feel it, lodged under my eyelid, but eerily (or eyeily?) there is no movement.

It's rather unpleasant to have experienced death so 'in my face'. I'm also annoyed that out of all the cubic metres available to it in my sitting room, the fly chose to collide with my eye. I expect this is how astronauts feel when out of the infinite expanse of the universe, one of those pesky flakes of paint collide with their sensitive equipment (I'm talking about the outside of the space shuttle here - you're very naughty people sometimes).

Being an even minded sort of person, I can feel sorry for the little fly, and will spare a thought for it at intervals today. A little fly funeral maybe - I could hum a hymn on my bike this morning and say a little prayer for the fly soul as it makes the journey to join his mates who have been splattered across windscreens.

Remember My Name

We went to see Fame at the cinema yesterday - it looked like it might have been a bad idea by the time we were embedded in the queue for tickets among precocious pre-teens. It had a 'started so we'll finish' sort of feel to it, so we ended up in a reassuringly half empty auditorium, a long way away from any theatre school types (not that there's anything wrong with theatre school types, it's just I didn't want to sit near them). The film was OK, the plot even thinner than expected (not even the obligatory dancing competition), but the music was rather good. It was all interspersed by 11 year olds filing past us at regular intervals to go to the ladies to giggle and gossip. They were very polite and kept saying 'sorry' (with nicely rounded vowel sounds), but it did get a bit tiresome. In spite of all this, the film worked it's magic, and I found myself wondering why I hadn't yet written the most acclaimed monologue of the 21st century, or penned some 'keeping it real' rap lyrics. I think it might be quite fun to write some middle class, middle aged, middle management rap. I think I stand more chance of being a success with that, than donning a sparkling bowler and belting out 'Cabaret' for Simon Cowell.

I've just checked the lyrics for 'Come to the Cabaret' and was surprised to read the line, 'Put down that knittin?...that book and the broom'.

Sounds dangerously middle England to me.

Tapping into my Potential

A plumber's van went past at the traffic lights this morning. I'd seen the lights go through their cycle twice already, so was feeling a bit dull around the edges. The plumber's van had a rather uninspiring decoration on the side. Although it was a large box van, only the back end was decorated with a monochrome photograph of a 'trendy' sink (although it reminded me of the ones at school that were demolished many years ago). Perched on one corner was a woman clad in a style which can only be politely described as, 'up for it'. A slip dress, with the strap falling off one shoulder and high heeled, sparkly sandals. One hand roamed casually through her fashionably messy hair as she gave as coy a look as her heavily made up eyes would allow.

I'm going to try it tomorrow morning. I'll dig out those shoes I bought for lying down, and I'll clean my teeth with my back to the sink while practicing my come hither look at the laundry basket.

You'll know if I'm any good because I'll be coming in a plumber's van near you soon!

Salad - why can't it be more filling?

I've just eaten some very tasty rocket and spinach, with a pleasant dressing, some tomatoes and parmesan. I think it's a design fault that the rocket or spinach leaf don't actually fill you up though. You munch your way through, enjoying the little explosions of flavour as they bounce off your palate, feel virtuous that you are not resorting to the pastry encrusted sausage roll or doughy bun, but the plate is empty, and so is your stomach. I've come to realise that the amount of leaves you need to constitute a hearty meal wouldn't actually fit on a normal sized plate. So, my latest invention is the salad trough. Forget dainty tableware and think volume and quantity.

Either that, or serve the salad with a chunk of dead animal that you can really sink your teeth into. Yes, it might have frolicked through the spring time fields of daffodils, or clucked across to the village pond in the late afternoon sunshine followed by appealing, Disney-eyed offspring, but all it really wanted to do, was to relax on your plate surrounded by lettuce.

Thank you, small furry or feathered creatures, for your generous sacrifice to hungry people everywhere.

A Sign of the Times

I keep buying the Sunday paper week on week. It's become a habit I'm not sure I can break. I enjoy the property pages despite the smug couples standing in front of bijou cottages with straplines declaring how much money they've made, and minimalist interiors only the seriously depressed could enjoy (It's got to be tidy! It's got to be clean!). I like the review of the week even though my favourite coloumnist stopped being funny quite a long time ago. I keep reading in hope that the cutting edge humour re-emerges from the grumpiness. The main news is always interesting and so is the colour supplement. This still leaves quite a lot of dross. I once tried to dispose of this at the bin outside the newsagent, but wrestling with the polythene packets and leaflets, advertising fitted library furnishings, in a strong wind turned into a muddle like that party game you used to play putting the pages back in order (still don't quite get where the fun was in that). So as soon as I get back home and settled onto the settee - cup of tea at the ready - I fling onto the floor the what-to-do-with-all-your-money pages (too depressing if you haven't got any), the job ads (I don't want to be the CEO of a multinational - possibly why I don't need to read the money management section), the what's on guide (I'll only end up wanting to watch something on a channel the aerial last picked up two storms ago), the petrol head pages, the geeky techy news and the travel advice (more smug people, only this time tanned, thin, and in white bikinis). I would like sections on travel featuring more 'comfortably' proportioned people with cellulite, someone featuring a house that looks really loved and lived in, jobs you can apply for without a perma-tan and a Jag, and money advice for the financially disadvantaged. Oh, I'd like the colour supplement to demonstrate gender equality, and every time there is an 'arty' photo of a woman with few or no clothes on, they feature a man in the same satorial state. It's not a lot to ask is it?

Seeing Through the Past

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.