The sound of silence

At what point does a comfortable silence turn into an awkward pause?

And what does that mean for us?

Mother Tongue

"We tend to regard other people's languages as we regard their cultures – with ill-hidden disdain. In Japanese, the word for foreigner means 'stinking of foreign hair'. To the Czechs a Hungarian is a 'pimple'. Germans call cockroaches 'Frenchman', while the French call lice 'Spaniards'. We in the English-speaking world take French leave, but Italians and Norwegians talk about departing like an Englishman, and Germans talk of running like a Dutchman. Italians call syphilis 'the French disease', while both French and Italians call con games 'American swindle'. Belgian taxi drivers call a poor tipper 'un Anglais'. To be bored to death in French is 'être de Birmingham', literally 'to be from Birmingham' (which is actually about right).

Mother Tongue, Bill Bryson

I am still here

I promise.

Plumbers

Two interesting things about the plumber who came to fix my washing machine.

1) He had plumber's crack.

2) He was once Mark Fish's plumber.

That made my day, as I'm sure it made yours.

Ode to Ham

Men without Ties

Men without ties don't dress for dinner
Do the Friday night frozen pizza thing
Don't want no wife or no beginner with a knife
You're the Friday night frozen pizza king.
Men without Ties - Paul Westerberg

Could this be it?

Can the US really be rescued?

Fireworks and snow

Welcome to winter. It doesn't feel that long since the last winter...

A small sample

My current To Be Read pile.

Oh God

My Afrikaans neighbours are playing De La Rey, loudly. Why must people cater to their demographic? Why?

Kooky but kool

This great!

Flashback

Courtesy of yearbookyourself.com I present you with the Liz through the ages.

First, there was the fifties.



Then, there was the sixties.



Then there was the mid-sixties.



And then, there was the seventies.



What can I say, I'm a reincarnated geek.

Catarrh

Noun: 1 inflammation of the mucous membrane of the nose, air passages, etc 2 a watery discharge in the nose or throat due to this [French catarrhe via Late Latin catarrhus from Greek katarrhousin from katarrhe 'flow down'.

Happy Anniversary!

Love, again

"I have come back to the same question: how is it I lived comfortably for years and years and then suddenly am made ill with longing - for what? By deprivation - of what? Who is it that lies awake in the dark body and heart and mind, sick with yearning for warmth, a kiss, comfort?" Love, again by Doris Lessing

In Scotland in October it is...

Cold


Colder


Coldest

Tea time

I was surprised how much I loved Glasgow. Everything I've read about it indicated greyness, metal, overworked underpaid people, and general misery. But I like it. It's a pleasing mass of old sandstone buildings, peculiar tenement blocks, the People's Palace and, of course, the Willow Tea Room. Here we have the before:


Here we have the after:

Still standing

The standing stones in Kilmartin.
Three thousand years ago, people were already wondering why these were there.

The words "get a life" spring to mind

Oh, please.

Cachinnator

One who laughs too much or too loudly.

Satisfaction

I first visited the tiny town The Mother is from in 1987. Ok, strictly speaking, I visited it in 1981 too, but I was only about three months old so it doesn't count.
Anyway, I've been wanting to climb to the top of Dun Na Cuaiche, to see the little watchtower, since then. And I finally did it. It was entirely worth it, as you can see by the view from the top.

Moron moment

So...I went shopping for a birthday card and a birthday present today. They were for two different people, so I went into a gifty shop. You know the type, with ribbons and cutsies covering every surface and those creepy dolls staring at you with flat, dead eyes.

Anyway, I narrowly avoided tripping over a shelf of Beatrix Potter china and managed to pick out a silver piggy bank for friend one (she's in finance, I thought it was whimsical). Well pleased with my choice I wended my way to the wall of birthday cards (it's a huge wall, jam-packed with cards) for friend two. Funny cards, rude cards, religious cards, cards that light up, cards with pop-ups, cards with badges, you name it.

And then I see this one card that has a row of buttons on the front. And a little screen. And I'm thinking, cool, calculator birthday card. And then I notice it has "In case of panic" written in big letters over the top. And in the split second it took me to reach forward to grab the card, I realised that I had mistaken the shop's alarm system for a birthday card with a wise-cracking calculator that makes fun of the recipient's age.

Thankfully, I hadn't activated the self-destruct sequence.

Hypnagogia

Hypnagogic imagery is often auditory or has an auditory component. Like the visuals, hypnagogic sounds vary in intensity from faint impressions to loud noises, such as crashes and bangs (exploding head syndrome). People may imagine their own name called or a doorbell ringing. Snatches of imagined speech are common. While typically nonsensical and fragmented, these speech events can occasionally strike the individual as apt comments on – or summations of – their thoughts at the time. They often contain wordplay, neologisms and made-up names. Hypnagogic speech may manifest as the subject’s own ‘inner voice’, or as the voices of others: familiar people or strangers. More rarely, poetry or music is heard. - Wikipedia

Ta ta Manto!

Don't let the door hit you on the arse on the way out!

Dum dum dum da da dum dum da da

Ninja kitteh

Dear Nick Hornby

I ploughed through your Complete Polysyllabic Spree in record time, with sheer giddy enjoyment. I've always liked your fiction, but the chatty and engaging tone of the spree captured my imagination in a way that non-fiction rarely does. How do you do that? Take seemingly unconnected works and link them in a coherent way? Did you practise that chatty style, or is it as effortless as it seems? How do you balance the gentle art of self-deprecation with incisive commentary on, let's face it, a crap-load of books?

The hardest think I find when I'm writing, for this admittedly small and very biased readership, is achieving any kind of volume. That's why I think not everyone has a book in them, some of us just lack the ability to carry thoughts, ideas, people, plots, jokes and riddles to more than a hundred words. I blame journalism.

yours faithfully

a fan

PS I have a friend who has a huge man crush on you. Football, check, mixed tape enthusiast, check, reader and reviewer, check. He's kicking himself now for not patenting the idea before you cottoned on. Thanks for that.

Tired

I have nothing to write about because every last drop of creativity has been squeezed out of me by the longest week of my life. I've written too many headlines, captioned so many pictures and faffed about so many standfirsts my brain has lost the capacity to string words together. This is about as good as it gets. Now on out it's going to be just static.

Bzbzbzbzzzzbzzbbzbzzzbzbbzbzbzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzbzzbzbzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzbzbzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzzzzzzbzzzzzzzzbbbbzbbz

Might as well live

Razors pain you.

Rivers are damp.

Acids stain you,

and drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful.

Nooses give.

Gas smells awful.

You might as well live.

- The inimitable Dorothy Parker (shamelessly purloined from TT)

Atonement

I wasn't convinced that this novel could be adapted into a credible film. But it really is very well done.

Silly, silly girl. In one moment Briony derails two people's lives. The movie really demonstrates the effects of her decision to lie, and doesn't shy away from judging her harshly for it.

I know a lot of people find it hard to read Ian McEwan, find it hard to deal with his authorial voice. But that's what this novel is about - Briony's authorial voice, constantly rewriting the past, trying to come to terms with a moment of fiction that derailed reality.

In the scene where she pretends to drown so Robbie will save her, she flails when he doesn't follow the script in her head. She's constantly scripting her world and trying to order it, trying retain control. And when the people around her throw her lines away, she makes a horrible decision that will haunt her forever.

Fabulous book, intriguing movie.

Discovered

These really work to keep unwanted people out of your room. FYI.

Had we but world enough and time

I made mashed pumpkin, chicken and bulgar wheat for dinner tonight. I had the pumpkin and I decided to be "creative" and sprinkled cumin and coriander over it. It was delicious, if I do say so myself, but I had to stop myself from yanking the chicken before it was perfectly done. As I put it back on the heat, I wondered what my rush was.

Following that thought I read some of the food blogs I enjoy - lots of brilliant ideas - and one recipe caught my eye, for roasted tomato salad. The tomatoes roast for about three hours, then sit for two, then roast for another three hours. And I thought, what's the rush? Why not wake up on a Saturday morning and think, today I'm going to make tomato salad. It's going to take me all day. I'm looking forward to it.

The whole week I've been plagued with a sense of purposelessness. A sense of rootlessness. I'm already tired of living with someone - I want to move on. But I want a house, and a garden, and I can't afford that right now. I may never be able to afford if the credit crunch keeps crunching. I want to grow stuff, and take riding lessons again, and have a room devoted to books, and go to farmers' markets on a Sundy morning, and have a dog, and a cat, and go to Morocco so I can buy a tagine dish, and visit a museum every Saturday, and go out for breakfast, and see a movie with a friend, and take a bike ride in a park, and buy cds and finish Doris Lessing's Love, again, and enjoy my work and be promoted, and have someone around in the evenings to laugh with and bitch at, and to be able to afford to not hang on by my finger nails, and expect the universe to drop out at any minute.

It could have something to do with the MS, but that feels too easy, too pat. It makes the equation too simple, just as blaming it on my birthday seems too transparant to be true.

Nothing is stopping me from doing all these things. Slowly I'm working towards the goals. There's no rush. So why do I feel like I'm running out of time?

And so it goes

My street is alive with Ramadaan fever. Everywhere you look are signs warning that shops will be closed at certain times, crowds are gathered outside the mosque and the coffee shop is doing a brisk trade in sweet treats. So it seemed slightly off to run into a pair of teenagers arguing loudly, apparently about a drug deal that had gone awry.

Heeeeeeeee heeeeeeeee heeeeeeee

The literal icing tragedies killed me.

How to wreck a cake in three easy steps.

An insider's view of the Republican convention

Scary shit.

Twenty-seven

Today I turned twenty-seven.

Twenty-seven birthdays.

Twenty-five first day of spring birthdays.

Two first day of autumn birthdays.

This is the first year that I feel a year older.

For Marissa

The latest books added to my collection are:

The Polysyllabic Spree - Nick Hornby
The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood
Restoring Grace - Katie Fforde
Paradise Fields - Katie Fforde
Life Skills - Katie Fforde
The Shipping News - E Annie Proulx
The Sandcastle - Iris Murdoch
The Idea of Perfection - Kate Grenville
Anna Karenin - Leo Tolstoy
Possession - AS Byatt
Fast Woman - Jennifer Crusie
Enigma - Robert Harries
Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis de Bernieres
The Sound and the Fury - 40 years of classic rock journalism
Disgrace - JM Coetzee
The Castle of Crossed Destinies - Italo Calvino
London's Underworld - Fergus Linnane

A nice derangement I'd say.

To market, to market

I went to Portobello Road market today. It was great, but tons of people. Managed to find an amazing secondhand bookshop and blew my entire budget in about half an hour. I'm immensely satisfied with my purchases, but for the first time ever I felt overwhelmed in the bookshop. Usually I'm comletely at home, no matter how many books there are. I just revel in the idea that there are so many to choose from. But there were just so many books. How am I ever supposed to read and enjoy them as much as they deserve?

Mwahahahahahah!

more cat pictures

Five minutes

Paris je t'aime is a perfect little movie - vignettes from different areas of the city, each focussing on love. Silly love, true love, interesting love, sad love, vampire love. It's fascinating how much can be conveyed about characters, emotions and Paris in five minutes. Perhaps it's enough to just catch a glimpse of people's lives, to be allowed in for a few brief minutes and take what we can away from it. If you only have five minutes, every second matters.

Taking away the kinders' surprise

I am outraged.

Yodelling

My neighbours yodel when drunk.

Big, whooping yodels.

I'm losing the will to live.

Shocked

My father doesn't know how to spell my second name.

PATTOTE: Better living through patricide.

WTF?

This is awful.

Strange meetings

He was about nine or ten, and he stopped me on the station platform to ask where the ticket gate was. I pointed him in the right direction, and suggested that he walk with me so that I could help go through. The train guard stopped us, and the boy told him that his aunt would meet him on the other side. The guard looked me over, as if challenging me to contradict the boy's story, then asked if I'd make sure he was met on the other side.

We went to the barrier and he took out his tickets, muddled about which one he should use. I pointed out the right one and helped him through the barrier. We went to the station entrance, and I asked him if he knew where his aunt was. She lived about 15 minutes away, he had called her and she was coming. Did he want me to wait with him? He hesitated. Would you mind? he asked. Of course not, I'll just let my parents know where I am. Your mum and dad won't be angry with you will they? he asked. Of course not, I said. Don't worry about it.

We stood in silence for a few minutes. I didn't want to pry too much, asking a nine-year-old too many questions just didn't seem right. We both stared fixedly at the door across from us. Finally, unable to bear the silence, I asked him if he was on his school holidays. Yes, he said. He'd come to visit his aunt. Then he was going to go away to Southend. He'd already been to Glasgow. That's far! I exclaimed. Very far, he said. You read for a little bit but then you fall asleep. Do you like to read? I asked.

Yes! He brightened up eagerly. I'm taking part in the libary competition. I only have to read one more book and then I've read ten and then I win the prize. What are you reading? I asked him, curious what nine-year-old boys read nowadays. Horrid Henry! he said. All about the Romans and the Vikings and Booduhka, he said bloodthirstily. Booodukha, I pondered. Do you mean Boudicea? Yes! She poisoned herself after the Romans killed her husband and hurt her daughters. Well, I said, I imagine she thought she had no other choice since the Romans had taken everything she loved. He nodded soberly. Can I ask you something? he said. Of course. Do you think that when people die there's always a lot of blood and it hurts you? he asked very seriously. Well, no, I said. Most of us get very old and our bodies just top working, and if we're lucky we go to sleep and don't wake up. Heart attacked? he asked, with an understanding that comes on from experience. No, not always, I added hurriedly. Mostly we just go in our sleep. I think it's very peaceful. He nodded.

A question of culture

This being England's annual week of summer, I wore a knee-length skirt to work today. On my way home as I passed the "Muslim ethics for Britain" sign, the halaal butchery, the halaal kebabish, the Islamic bookshop, the mosque, and all the men coming out of it, I wondered if what I was wearing was offensive.

Hilariously cheesy

I went to see Mamma Mia, the movie, tonight. It was absolutely hilarious. And cheesy. Just like ABBA. The story was amusing, the singing was terrible, and the cast were clearly having a ball taking the piss out of each other. Go see it. Die laughing. And then have "Take a chance on me" haunt your dreams forever.

PATTOTE: Better living through hearing Pierce Brosnan sing as if he was passing a particularly enormous kidney stone.

Plugged

Der Fuhrer was terribly hurt that I didn't provide a link to The iPod 10-Track Experiment when I did my post on same. As if he needed the publicity. Go on, click here. A fairy dies everytime you do. Puppies and kittens perish when you click the button. Going to that group will bring about a curse so evil that the space-time continuum will implode, taking us all with it. That has to be motivation enough.

PATTOTTE: Better living through Der Fuhrer's ego, which could feed the 5,000

Meeeeeeeeeemmmmmmmmmmeeee

A scattergories meme. Use the first letter of your name to answer the following questions. Do I use Liz or Elizabeth? I'm already failing the test! Panic-stations!

What is your name? Liz
4 letter word: Lazy
Boy name: Lysander (so he can get ruthlessly picked on, just like Mummy)
Girl name: Lola (she was a showgirl, with yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there)
Occupation: Leader (of the world)
A colour: Liver brown
Something you wear: Leotards (bwahahahahaha ahem)
Beverage: Lemonade
Food: Love (the raw fish)
Something found in a bathroom: Laundry basket
Place: London
Reason for being late: Luck dragon got lost
Something you shout: Lalalalala (I can't hear you)

PATTOTTE: Better living through cheating, mercilessly.

Dear Piatkus Illustration Department

Your latest cover for Nora Roberts' Tribute sucks. It sucks big floppy donkey dick, as a friend of mine used to say. Repeat after me, people do not belong on the covers of fiction. They should especially not appear on the covers of romantic fiction if they're blond, vapid and look as if they're being chased through the woods by an axe-wielding psycho. It raises expectations of axe-wielding psychos actually appearing in the book. Which they don't. I prefer my guilty pleasures to have nice non-descript covers. You hear that blondie? Begone from my book, forthwith.

Unsincerely yours

Liz

PS This should in no way put you off reading the book. It is really good and a lot more low-key than some of her recent work has been. The whole murderer part was very secondary to the incredibly cool hero-figure. In fact, the hero-figure is so cool, the rest of the book pales in comparison. So I guess that's a back-handed review.

PATTOTTE: Better living through non-tacky romance covers

Perfect

A few weeks ago I saw Counting Crows live in Hyde Park. As I stood in the drizzle and listened to Adam F Duritz perform Colorblind I thought, this, this is why I'm here. Then some idiot in the audience began catcalling. And then I remembered that the world is full of idiots and the moment almost went away.

But it was a day full of those moments. Drizzle and blue sky and Australians and a wild boar and apple hotdog. Listening to Goo Goo Dolls perform Iris and being transported back to my 17-year-old self in a tiny town on the West Coast of a country a million miles from here, railing angrily inside her head at people who would never know who she was. And listening to the amazing, soul-destroying Counting Crows do Holiday in Spain, and believing that somewhere in the audience was someone who knows what that song really means. And crying, because who knows who or where he is.

Getting animated

I've been reliving my childhood today, and watching X-Men: the animated series. I loved this programme. It contained two of my favourite tortured souls, Wolverine and Gambit. I was always a little bleak that Gambit didn't make it into the movies, his Cajun swamp-rat attitude made a deep impression on my 12-year-old self.

Of course, my heart truly lay with Logan. I could never understand his fascination with Jean Grey, anymore than I could understand her love for Cyclops, who annoyed the crap out of me then with his goody-two shoes attitude and still does. And don't get me started on Jean's dark side. That whole Phoenix thing was just stupid. Anyway, Wolverine is your classic comic hero really - man with a past that is not entirely clear, suffering from an ongoing disability that crushes pretty much everybody he's ever loved (adamantium claws are not conducive to affection), looking for redemption.

I'm sensing a pattern in my superhero boyfriends - Batman's torturedness gets me everytime as well. The combination of deeply unhappy and trying to save the world: irresistable. That's why I always preferred him to the uber-wet Spiderman and the annoyingly perfect Superman. Bruce Wayne was at least flawed. And miserable. And rich. And hot. Ok, Christian Bale is hot, I take that back.

I was never much of a comic reader (although I appreciate the value of the graphic novel) - particularly with X-men there are so many threads and storylines that it was hard to keep track of the characters. And with K-TV's penchant for either showing the episodes out of order or repeating the same one for weeks on end, my actual knowledge of the series is a little sketchy. Thank goodness for the internet. And dvds. Now to find Conan the Barbarian and Cities of Gold.

PATTOTE: Better living through geeky nostalgia

Character-building

An interesting article from the BBC.

The Ipod 10-track experiment

Shamelessly stolen from Der Fuhrer for my own purposes, ie, I have absolutely nothing to write about, so this will have to do.

Random shuffle:

John Lennon - Jealous Guy
The Eels - Bride of theme from blinking lights
Mindy Smith - Little Devil
Green Day - Good Riddance (from Bullet in a bible)
The Weepies - Big strong girl
The Eels - My beloved monster
Counting Crows - On a Tuesday in Amsterdam long ago
BJ Thomas - Hooked on a feeling
Ben Folds - Best imitation of myself
Three Doors Down - Kryptonite

Hopefully the muse will return soon.

R u kding?

"According to The Times, to gain minimum marks in English GSCE papers -- an exam taken by hundreds of thousands of 16-year-olds across England every year -- pupils must demonstrate 'some simple sequencing of ideas" and an ability to put "some words in appropriate order'." (from Yahoo news)

Management speak

"They have already been paid to manage their own lavatorial affairs." As soon on the BBC website regarding workers taking toilet breaks.

What is the point?

I'm seriously asking. What is the point of all this? The drudge, the suck, the constant annoyances. The people. I'm grumpy, and I'm taking your opinions. What is the point?

I feel all smart

I just found out the difference between a situationist and a dispositionist. I think I lean towards the latter.

The wilds of Yorkshire

I have just returned from Harrogate; was up there for our big annual conference. I only saw enough to want to pop up there for a holiday at some point. Very quaint little town with lovely apocalyptic urban legends. My kind of town. Also, a great book shop.

This week is shaping up to be busy, culminating in moving next week. Sharing with a complete stranger....oooh.

The Time-Traveler's Wife

"My apartment is basically a couch, an armchair and about four thousand books." - Audrey Niffenegger

Migraine induced mope

The problem with a migraine is that in the moment, you're convinced you'll never feel well ever again.

Dear John mark 2

You were rejected for mocking my accent.

Saying that the way I flatten my vowels "freaks you out" is not conducive to a good date.

Neither is getting hammered.

Proceeding to get annoyed that I don't like Kevin Pietersen was almost the final straw.

But the kicker was you not being able to let it go. I don't like spending a Friday night with someone who lectures me for more than hour about not appreciating a talented but all-around random batsman.

Thanks anyway.

Latest additions

On Sunday I went to a farmer's market in Loughton. In addition to some wonderful garlic and basil infused olives, glorious sweet garlic cloves, poacher's cheese and a loaf of sourdough bread, was an incredibly well-stocked bookstall. Increadibly well-stocked. So I was really doing them a favour when I brought an enormous pile home. Books and food and stall owners who queried my accent and tried to sell me huge pieces of lamb shank. It made me feel so warm and comfortable.

Anyway, as promised to Marissa, the books in my latest haul are:

March - Geraldine Brooks
Master and Commander - Patrick O'Brian
Post Captain - Patrick O'Brian
The Mauritius Command - Patrick O'Brian
Comeback - Dick Francis
PS I love you - Cecelia Ahern
Wild Designs - Katie Fforde
Orlando - Virginia Woolf
Nineteen Eighty-Four - George Orwell
Beauvallet - Georgette Heyer
The Pilot's Wife - Anita Shreve

Biscuit expert

In my next life, I'm coming back as one.

Conflict of interests

I find myself caught in a quandary. I happened to see the trailer for the Mamma Mia movie. I hate ABBA. No wait, I don't hate ABBA. I loathe ABBA. But Colin Firth is in the movie. I love Colin Firth. No wait, I looooooooove Colin Firth. What to do? What to do?

Defender of brussel sprouts

I just found out there was a National Vegetable Society. I feel protected now. I always knew the mushrooms would rise up against us soon. Now I know something stands between us, the fungi, and any other vegetables with ideas above their station.

PATTOTE: Ready, aim, dice!

No secrets

I've always believed that eventually we meet the one person we can reveal everything to. All our peeves and foibles and silly beliefs. I'm realising that that will never happen. I'm never going to be able to tell it all to anybody. No matter how much I want to.

I feel sick

What's been happening in Joburg, it makes me feel sick. Where to from here? I have thoughts about this but nothing than makes sense, just twisted up feelings, safely tucked away thousands of kilometres in the other direction.

Sinking feeling

This is not good.

Something's gotta give

It's the weirdest thing...I have all this stuff happening. Moving around, going places, seeing people. But it doesn't feel like it's going anywhere. It's just more of the same.

The trappings

Sometimes I think I'm too fussed about the trappings. I'm more concerned with the pen than the writing, the laptop case than using the laptop. Too faffed about the hows and whens than the actual taking action. Too bogged down in the details, that's me.

How you know the universe hates you

1) It's sunny. Wear sandles to work for the first time in a long time because winter was neverending. Visualise to yourself: I am tall and skinny, I am tall and skinny. Trip and twist your ankle. Limp to the tube visualising: pride goes before fall, pride goes before fall.

2) Be at work. Think, today's not going to too badly. I haven't done anything stupid, maybe today will stay a good day. Find out that two of the three pictures you've commissioned actually come from the same organisation. Visualise to yourself: I do not exist, I do not exist.

Random the second

Did you know that vibrators were the fifth household item to be electrified? Right behind the sewing machine, the fan, the kettle and the toaster. It's all about priorities right?

New poll!

Go on, make you mark. Or click. Or whatever.

Random

Yesterday, on my slow walk to the DLR (slow because I was reading The Magician's Guild at the same time), I spotted a lone cucumber lying on the floor. Just a cucumber. And I thought, oh no, someone lost a cucumber! And then I thought, shame, someone is going to get home, unpack their shopping and think, gee, I'm sure I bought a cucumber. And then I thought, wow, what if this lowly cucumber is actually an incendiary device? A really well disguised, advanced incendiary device? And then I hurried on to catch my train.

PATTOTE: The veggies really are out to get us.

A little blog arithmetic

According to my admittedly crappy maths I made:

2.038 posts per week in 2006

1.73 posts per week in 2007

0.88 posts per week so far in 2008.

So at the current rate of posting, I'll post 45.78 posts this year.

PATTOTE: I used the word post a lot in the post.

Results now in!

Larry the Lovely Laptop it is!

PATTOTE: Better living through the naming of inanimate objects

Tie-breaker

We need a tie-breaker people! The poll currently sits between Larry the Lovely Laptop or Piece of Shit.

One more vote will do it - make your mark. And then I promise to change the poll question. I'm thinking of making it a regular feature, a new question every Monday. Then the five people who read my blog will be able to make their feelings known.

The grey zone

A co-worker and I were discussing the relative merits of corporal punishment for prisoners (think chain gangs and flogging, not hanging and gassing). He was putting forward the idea that the threat of physical pain would prevent a lot of the crimes here (ie England) that are motivated by boredom and lack of respect. The country is being held hostage by a horde of teenagers, it has to be said.

This "discussion" got us off on a tangent about human rights (of course) and I was trying to come to terms with the rights of the criminal vs the rights of the victim in my head. And I was realising that the older I get the more I live in this grey zone of discomfort, not completely convinced of any argument, but a permanent fence sitter, a permanent devil's advocate. I'm not happy with that - we're supposed to have convictions, we're supposed to be passionate in our beliefs about things. I don't want to be one of those people who listen to all sides, nod at everyone and then have nothing to contribute. I mean, I do feel things in the midst of an argument. But I wonder if my live and let live attitude has taken over my mind, consumed the argument centres of my mind. I get a bit of a kick out of arguing for a side I don't believe in for my own amusement sometimes. Is this too frivolous?

Can you live in the grey zone? Can you exist with a flexible belief system? How flexible is too flexible? Can you embrace half a theology? Half a methodology? Can you be half a liberal? Half a conservative? Half a socialist? Half a republican? Can you really be"issues driven"? Or will you end up like Patricia de Lille, only voting for the things you think will get votes?

It's all just so much bullshit sometimes, we're all just making it up as we go along. I'd like to think that I still have the courage of my convictions. I'm just not sure I know what my convictions are anymore.

An illness...that's what this is

So I've added four more books to the collection. In my own defence, I was feeling bereft because I had just finished rereading a much loved epic. So I was a bit sad and rootless. It was a therapeutic buy. The newest additions are:

Shakespeare by Bill Bryson
The Magicians' Guild by Trudi Canavan
Slam by Nick Hornby
Children of Hurin by JRR Tolkein

I seem to be reading a lot more fantasy again. I don't know how I feel about that. On the one hand, I love reading good books, and they definitely are. But on the other hand, I don't want to get into a reading rut. I find that happens quite easily and I have to force myself to read something I'm not sure about. The pleasant surprise of discovering something new can't be discounted.

Something to muse about...

The library expands

Today I added two books to my library, and by extension to my to be read pile. Empress by Karen Miller (enjoyed her Kingmaker Kingbreaker series, despite a few disappointments) and Stardust by Neil Gaiman, who I am ashamed to admit I have never read.

PATTOTE: So many books, so little time

Made in China

This, ladies and gentlemen, is called
irony.

Heebie Jeebies

Yuck

Progress

Today I left my scarf at home.

PATTOTE: The warmth! The warmth is coming!

Watch out for weirdness

I've updated and finangled, so things might look a little odd while I sort things out. Consider this a very wordy "under construction" sign.

PATTOTE: Better living through a fresh new look (and answering my poll)

Scene on a tube

The question must be asked - why did the guy I saw on the tube have a unicycle in one hand and a hockey stick in the other?

The nature of indecisiveness

Does anybody else get themselves into a knot about favouring one thing over another? Even when I was little I used to feel horribly guilty when I chose one toy over another, imagining that the other toy was feeling abandoned and forlorn, or even worse, angry and bent on revenge. Of course, this left me never able to choose a favourite. Asked what my favourite book was, I’d be paralysed with the fear of leaving something out, so “I can’t pick one” became my stock phrase, blurted out and bringing every conversation to a crashing halt.

Which is how I ended up having a furious under-the-breath argument with myself on the train about which Jane Austen novel I’d rather be stuck on a desert island with (sidebar: shouldn’t this be a deserted island?). I was reading Persuasion at the time and made the mistake of remarking to myself that I like this one best. Except I can’t like it best because I like Pride and Prejudice best. Although Persuasion is her most advanced and adult work. But that’s what I like Mansfield Park for. They can’t be equal in status. Can they? No, what about Emma? Or Sense and Sensibility? I like them so much my hypothetical children will be called Emma and Elinor! Caught! I’m caught in the web of my own over-rationalisation.

PATTOTE: Better living through Northanger Abbey, which I didn’t mention in this post but which is a brilliant work in it’s own right.

Ask a simple question

I got into an argument with a coworker today on the nature of simplicity (based on my previous post about how people are too complicated). He maintains that it’s all very simple and we make it complicated because we think there’s more to “it” than “this”. What it and this is still up for discussion.

Anyway, he thinks that we should be children, because children know it all. I say this is a cop-out, because the only reason children are “simple” is because they don’t have all the information. By information I mean they aren’t privy to the societal and emotional cues that we develop as we become adults, and which I believe make things complicated. He believes there is no information, that we’re not developing and that only the things around us do. He used the fact that every society has contemplated the human condition without an answer ie there is no answer and understanding that returns us to simplicity.

I feel that saying because thousand-year old books don’t have an answer means we won’t ever have answers means nothing – only that your argument has a thousand-year head start.

I just feel that we are complicated, and saying we’re simple is too easy. I think that in our development from what we were to what we are now (whether we’re hardwired for progress, or biologically geared for survival) we’ve lost and gained communication skills. We communicate more effectively verbally, but have lost the ability to read body language as effectively. We may wish we were simple, but we’re not. Thoughts?

Why are people so confusing?

Why must people be so hard to read, but so easy to misread? Why can't we develop ESP and be done with all this reading between the lines rubbish? It would be so much simpler if every man was really an island. Calm. Peaceful. Quiet.

Oops

So of the books I've read so far this year, only one has any kind of literary importance. Woops. Better get right on that.

Whhhhyyyy does nobody loooooovvvvvveeee meeeee?

No comments, no emails, no smses. Nobody calls, nobody writes.

Whine, whine, whine

How much lower can I go?

Every time I think I've hit rock bottom, something happens to make me realise just how much further I have to fall.

I just keep falling.

Heh heh heh

see more crazy cat pics

Songs that will put you in prison

According to this morning's Metro, people have been received anti-social behaviour orders for:

- Playing Dolly Patron's 9 to 5 up to 20 times a day

- Playing Tammy Wynette's Stand by your man at all hours

- Singing Who let the dogs out at the neighbours

Well, if they were really ugly neighbours...

Reality TV will kill you

Or the flu will.

Why can't I have normal problems?

I've been listening to myself breathe, and every couple of inhalations, I'm hearing a distinct whistling sound. I wonder if my co-workers have noticed...

Mean joke that's just mean

Where do you get virgin wool from?

Ugly Sheep!

i can readz bible?

Lolcat are translating The Bible into, um, lolcat spk.

Here's a sample from Genesis.

I loved this.

"3 At start, no has lyte. An Ceiling Cat sayz, i can haz lite? An lite wuz.4 An Ceiling Cat sawed teh lite, to seez stuffs, An splitted teh lite from dark but taht wuz ok cuz kittehs can see in teh dark An not tripz over nethin."

Loo lingo

Anybody else experienced the awkward silence of meeting a colleague in the office bathroom? An awkward silence pregnant with the knowledge of what happens behind closed bathroom doors.

Wotalotigot

I'm eating a box of Smarties and remembering that when I was little I used to divide them up by colour and eat them in order - all the greens, all the oranges, all the browns.

Childhood nostalgia aside, when Shrek came out Smarties ran promotional packs with green gummy sweets. I loved those - the pleasure of discovering a Smartie that was not a Smartie while sitting comfortably in a darkened cinema. I miss those gummies. I still expect them when I bite into a green Smartie - they taste of disappointment now.

Another list of books I'll need to read

Another item from GuardianUnlimited,the Orange Longlist.

Interview with a giant

Guardian Unlimited has an interview with VS Naipaul here. I read A House for Mr Biswas in third year ahve loved Naipaul ever since. He is an enigmatic and arrogant bastard, but what an author!

Ipod Irony

This morning, as I briefly contemplated the observable differences between men and women, my ipod switched over to...The Penis Song, courtesy of Monty Python.

Ipod Irony Part 2

The Ipod died.

Limboland

I wasn't sure if I wanted to blog this, but I thought it would be weirder for those who do know me if I didn't mention it at all. And since I'll be adding some links pertaining to this, it would seem a little out of the blue if I didn't go into at all.

In July last year I woke up with pins and needles in my hands. I blamed my already crocked back and my kicky sister, with whom I had shared a bed the previous night. The pins and needles then spread to my feet and then I went pretty much numb from the thighs up. You know that old trick where you put your index finger against somebody else's finger and rub over both at the same time, the corpse trick? That's what it felt like. The cherry on top was the phantom itch, which nearly drove me up the wall and out of the nearest window.

I dragged myself to a doctor, and then another doctor, and then another doctor, who referred me to a neurologist who sent me for tests. For future reference, MRIs are best survived by pretending you're in an episode of Star Trek. Try not to visualise the apocalypse, or focus on the sudden itch you'll develop on the tip of your nose.

That neurologist sent me to another neuro, and that led to a lumbar puncture and another trip to the MRI (see above for survival information). I got the results on Monday, and the upshot is that I'm officially in limboland. The cause of my woes was transverse myelitis, which caused the de-myelination of an area in my neck (basically the myelin covering that area has degenerated). They assume that this was prompted by a bad case of flu I had when I was in Mozambique last year. It caused my immune systerm to go into hyper mode and it began to attack that area.

A small percentage of these cases go on to develop multiple sclerosis (like 20% in medical terms), which can be confirmed by the presence of oglioclonal bands in the spinal fluid they withdraw during a lumbar puncture. I have those bands, which is why I'm in limboland. If I have another episode, then that confirms I have MS. But that could never happen. It probably won't. I'm sure as hell not waiting around to find out.

In the meantime, I'm grateful that it wasn't as bad as it could have been (a few millimetres higher, and I would have stopped breathing, a few millimetres lower and I would have ended up in a wheelchair). I'm even more grateful that it happened here and not back home. The only lasting damage is lack of feeling in my fingertips, some weakness on my left side and the phantom itch, which is being taken care of by the blue pills, praise be.

But I'm a walking, talking, world-dominating and soon-to-be deified Liz. So it's all good.

PATTOTE: Better living cause I take the blue ones every time

My office smells like shit...

...no, literally.

That's not my Darcy!

His personality is too boring...

I liked Me and Mr Darcy; actually, let me qualify that with I found the plotline intriguing. The book itself was a bit boring actually. Alexandra Potter writes as though we were idiots, needing every single nuance and subtlety spelled out for us. I wondered more than once if she had written this as a script that had been rejected. The best friend was also unbelievably annoying which is a something I found hard to overlook. It was ok.

Dear John mark 1

You were rejected because of your annoying verbal tic.

It's not flattering to repeat every single one of my sentences.

"I live in Reading"

"...in Reading..."

"I take the train"

"...the train..."

"Do you hear an echo?"

"...an echo?..."

Thanks anyway.

Ill wind

Dear Dude-who-accused-me-of-pushing-him-this-morning-getting-on-a-train

I hope you have a really bad day. Like, a really really bad day. I hope you get hauled over the coals at work. Or break something. Or find out your wife is cheating on you. Or lose your favourite whatever it is.

unsincerely

Liz

(One of ten people cramming onto the same train; the only one accused of pushing)

Things I hate

People

February

People in February

Apt

I have seen too many movies
I have read too many books
I’m the kind that sees sun and brings an umbrella
I have been to fortune tellers

I don't sleep well at all
Hello Saferide

Ja

The subject is now 18 months and his behaviour has changed significantly since his transportation to this planet. He is now in control of his bipedal motion, although control of fecal discharge leaves much to be desired. His predilection for fluid from cylindrical objects still continues at this stage, although enthusiasm for the so-called "sippy cup" is on the rise. The "sippy cup" is somewhat of a misnomer, as sipping is more of a hearty swig at this point.

Perhaps the most fascinating area of the subject’s development is the acquisition of speech. Although he still has some preference for his mother tongue, otherwise known as Confusing Babbling of Unknown Origin Interspersed with Hilarity of Unknown Origin, he is rapidly assimilating the simplistic speech of his host family. At the moment his vocabulary includes:

Ja (a nod, perhaps, at the language of the elders of his family structure)

Sika (his pronunciation of the term used by the bipeds for Dr W. Dr W is another anthropologist on an undercover field expedition. The subject has reported numerous interactions with Dr W, who has transitioned admirably into her position as the family pet)

Car (the noisy and polluted mode of transportation preferred by the bipeds)

Go (the act of moving/escaping/leaving - intoned with a wistfulness that leads us to believe the subject is homesick)

Car go (a crude alpha-numeric sequence, hailed by the bipeds as a "sentence" and greeted with much adulation. We are still attempting to research this)

Gampa (the designation bestowed upon the aging male, apparently a contraction of the word Grandpa)

Nanna (the designation bestowed upon the aging female, apparently a contraction of the word Granny)

Mama (the designation for the maternal unit)

Dadda (the designation for the paternal unit)

Yumyum (the designation of nutritional supplements, greeted with much hilarity by the adult units)

As the subject appears to be in good health and developing normally, we will leave him in this position at this time. He will continue his conversations with Dr W as well, thus furthering our scientific endeavours with the species Canis.

How many NHS doctors does it take to do a lumbar puncture?

Three! But they were very good, and very nice, and hey, it didn't cost me anything.

PATTOTE: Better living through the national health service, apparantly

I'm very bad

How could I not have been to the cinema in two months? How! Where did my life go? Where!

There's a song in there somewhere.

I'm deeply ashamed.

PATTOTE: Better living through facing your failures

The Gum Thief

I've been reading this for a few months. This is unusual for me because I generally rip through every book I start. This one had me lingering though, and I've been trying to figure out why. I think it's because of the style. The story itself is more a little series of vignettes. The pace is incremental. Thousands of little thoughts all connected to the relationship between these people (in the novel, and in the novel inside the novel). I appreciated this style because that's really what we are - a thousand little thoughts connected to our relationship with the world.

I felt a lot while reading this. I was moved, confused, bored in some places and provoked in others. I'm glad I've discovered Douglas Coupland. Now to read the others.

Weird words

Ersatz: adj substitute, imitation (especially of inferior quality) n an ersatz thing (German, = replacement)

Pattote: Better living through ersatz, schadenfreude and other suitably suited German words

Peel me

Naartjie: A naartjie (Citrus reticulata, Citrus nobilis), or nartjie, is a soft loose-skinned South African citrus fruit. It is also known as a mandarin, satsuma or tangerine outside of South Africa.

This is what home tastes like.

The Secret River

I wasn’t sure what to expect from this book, but it was far better than I had anticipated. Brief synopsis – William grows up in London’s slums, is caught stealing and is sent with his family to the penal colony in Australia where they have to make a new life for themselves. But at what cost?

The story unfolds sombrely as William interacts with the local aborigine families, and the other white families who have settled on their land. Back home William craved respectability, hated the ‘gentry’ for the way they treated him, knowing that he deserved to be equal. Now, faced with the local inhabitants he taps into a vein of brutality that takes even him by surprise.

In Australia he is surrounded by two kinds of white people – those who have committed crimes but remain despicable people, and those who learned from their mistakes and are trying to get by amicably. The lowest of the low are also those who are most active in their hatred and mistreatment of the aborigines. They are certain of their prejudice, and it takes a violent and ugly form. Although some of William’s attitudes stem from ignorance, and are a sign of the times, his unwillingness to listen to and learn from the local inhabitants is tough to take.

I was reminded of that particular section of white people in South Africa, who are poor, uneducated and racist and all the more dangerous because of it. Their narrowness has been exploited by numerous governments and they have a sense of entitlement that stems from being the dregs. They have nothing but their delusions of supremacy and that makes them scary.

Up to the climax, what strikes you most about William is the fact that he carefully keeps his mouth shut. His fence-sitting makes the decision he ultimately needs to make even more shocking. I was left feeling that this man had a lot of potential but he succumbed to his darker side.

I dreaded the last part of this book because I knew that something terrible was going to happen. I was right.

Why...

do Marxists drink herbal tea?

Because proper tea is theft.

PATTOTE: Better living through Katie Fforde's crappy jokes

Food for thought

Somebody's sandwich was creating waves - it tasted shit and the owner was trying to pawn it off to hapless coworkers. Unsuccessfully, because he made the mistake of saying it tasted like shit. Not finding any takers, he threw it away. Four slices of bread, some kind of filling, with one bite taken out of it.

Nobody wanted it, and more importantly, there was no-one to give it to. And I thought, what a waste. But I didn't want the sandwich. If I had been at home I would have been able to give it to the nearest beggar, which is good. But it's wrong that there are so many I would have had to pick one. If I had found a beggar around here (they're around, just more carefully concealed), I would have been roundly abused for charity, which is bad. But it's good that there are fewer beggars. But it's bad that they're still around. But it's good that they're taken care of to the extent that they don't want a crummy sandwich. But it's bad that they're out there at all, why the hell won't they do something for themselves. But it's bad that they're being left to rot by the government a lot of the time. But it's good to give someone something to eat when they clearly need it But it's bad that they clearly need it.

Bloody sandwich.

Pattote: Better living through a liberal utopia, whenever that chooses to come along

Douglas Coupland looks good in coffee

Spilling coffee over The Gum Thief - that's what you call dramatic irony.

PATTOTE: Better living through rubbish bins, City of London, rubbish bins in which to throw away my empty coffee cup

Read it 2008

At right you will see a new addition to my page, an idea I pilfered shamelessly from some of the pages I visit. What is a blog without a list of books that have been read? Boring, I tell you. Dull! And if my not posting for the last month didn't lose me readers, this surely will. No, not really! Come back!

Anyway, as with all things in Liz's life, there are rules for the list.

1) Rereads don't count
2) I have to write something about each book as I finish it, even if it is just a virtual blech.
3) I don't have a third thing, but I thought only having two items would be sad.
4) Ending a list on an odd number is bad luck.

So, to the bookshelves!

PATTOTE: Get busy reading, get busy dying.