Books, books, books

Some new additions to the bookshelves:

The Collected Dorothy Parker - Dorothy Parker
Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
What We Talk About When We Talk About Love - Raymond Carver
Fifteen Tales of Modern Attraction - Alison MacLeod

The last two are short story collections. I covered Raymond Carver in third year English, along with other modern Americans, and fell in love then. That was Where I'm Calling From, so we'll see how Love compares. My friend Cams has been recommending it to me for ages, so on her head be it.

I love short stories, and of all the different forms of writing I've tackled, I enjoy that most. Maybe because there's value in the vignette? Power in the pause? Something special about dipping ever so briefly into a character's life, and then having the story end before you're ready to say goodbye.

My Happiness

I was thinking about their gig the other day so for your listening pleasure, Powderfinger.

Well I think it's funny...

When I took The Sister and The Nephew to a wild fowl park the other day, there was an enclosure of ducks and geese that really tickled my fancy. (Disclaimer: I am inordinately attached to geese - they're grumpy and funny, the misanthropes of the bird world.)

The enclosure was enormous, incorporating at least three of four ponds. But every time someone appeared with a bucket of the food you can buy at the entrance, they came charging down to the fence, honking and quacking and flapping and falling over each other.You can see it here, but be aware that all you can hear is me talking. A lot.

New Slang

For one reason or another, New Slang by The Shins has been in my head a lot lately. I finally rediscovered my Ipod and there it was - the Garden State soundtrack. I love the scene in which New Slang is played - Zac Braff is in a doctor's waiting room with Natalie Portman, who has foisted her earphones on him. He's listening to the song and staring at her with narrowed eyes. She stares back at him intently, watching him listen to a song, watching for his reaction. And his face is filled with an overwhelming sadness.

It's a great movie and it's a great song. I really enjoyed the symmetry of it coming up on the Ipod as I sat in A&E with my feet up on the chair, watching people come and go to the words "I'm looking in on the good life". Unfortunately, Zac and Natalie did not make an appearance.

It's life, Jim, but not as we know it

On Tuesday I went into the chippy around the corner. Not just any chippy - they do fish and chips, Chinese food and kebabs. In order to get my food I was required to have a long chat with the keepers of the counter. They asked me who I was, because they'd never seen me before. They asked where I was living before. They asked why I chose Milton Keynes. They wondered if I knew where the various highlights were located. When I took out my book, they asked me if I was a book person. And if I wanted chips with that.

On Wednesday I trudged past the chippy in the rain and I saw the same two in the window.

Today I returned to said chippy (yes, yes, I know, I know, I'll be healthy again next week). They greeted me with "hey Londoner", said they were going to wave at me yesterday but I looked like I was in a rush, how has my week been, how am I settling in, do I like Milton Keynes, and do I want some chips that?

How does it end?

I've consulted tabloid stars, broadsheet horoscopes and internet predictions. I'll turn over tarot cards, throw apple peel over my shoulder and consult tea leaves - I'll even give coffee grounds a try. I've sat in church and prayed (admittedly not enough), I've lain awake at night and pleaded, I've screwed up my eyes and repeated "Now I lay me", wondering if ending it differently will make it all end differently. I've eyed up the hotlines of phone psychics, I've walked past flea market clairvoyants, I've tossed coins down wishing wells. I'm carrying a St Jude's medal on my keyring but am transferring it to my wallet just in case. I've crossed my fingers and held my thumbs. I'm not standing on cracks, or walking between posts or under arches. But I still don't know how it will end. And if it will all be all right. I just need to know everything will be fine.

It'll be fine.
It'll be fine.
It'll be fine.

I said it three times, that should work.

Maybe if I say it with more feeling.

Please, please let it all be fine.

A truth universally acknowledged

'That is very true,' replied Elizabeth, 'and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would've cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.' Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Seth Grahame-Smith

Dear Sophie Kinsella

I loved Can You Keep a Secret. It was just what I needed after binging on crime fiction. And can I just say that what I enjoyed most about the characters Jack and Emma was that they were both capable of apologising? It was nice to have someone admit they were wrong on paper. God knows, it never happens in real life.

kind regards

A Fan

PS I'll stop comparing you to Cecilia Ahern now. That was an unfair thing to do. I'm sorry.

Burning questions

Is it better to:

1) Eat three courses, enjoying every mouthful and then moving on, so that by the end of the meal you've got lots of different tastes in your mouth?

or

2) Have one course, so that you can savour and enjoy that one dish, and that's what stays with you?

I know I can rush through a meal, so that by the end I can barely recall what I've just eaten. I would like to learn to slow down, to remember to taste and savour everything. But sometimes you just want a dessert. Does that ruin what came before? Does having the chocolate mousse kill the delicate seafood paella? Should I just eat the paella? Or, um, the chocolate mousse?

Dear Nora Roberts

Excellent work switching to a new publishing company. There were far fewer mistakes in Black Hills, which just helped me enjoy the mystery that much more. My only criticism would be that it had some stong similarities to Montana Sky. That said, I did like it. It wasn't a thriller by any means, but it was a good read.

kind regards

A Fan

PS Why did you let Brittany Murphy near your adaptation of Tribute? She's horrible! And can't swing a sledge hammer to save her life.

Horse sushi

Finally - something I won't eat!

Thank you, new co-worker, for killing my usually voracious appetite. When I finally hit the magic 80kg, I'll know who to thank.

Benign neglect

In the last three weeks I have:

* Ended one job

* Moved to a new town

* Been unemployed for a day

* Been re-employed

* Moved again, to a different town

* Hurt my back

* Finished a number of books

* Seen the new Harry Potter movie

* Not updated my blog

I will attempt to do better.

Tempus fugit

Two years ago today I wrote this:

I arrived in England this morning at 6:55 on an overcrowded plane from Johannesburg. Virgin provides so-so food, fantastic entertainment and the smallest economy-class seats ever.

I only told The Sister I was arriving today, so I could make it a surprise for the The Parents. It was worth it to see their faces. And now I'm here. And strangely, it doesn't feel strange at all. I had a pang as the plane landed. "I don't live in South Africa anymore." Maybe as the excitement wears off and I start looking for a job, reality will beat me over the head with a mace. But for now I'm just fine with being excited.

PATTOTE: Better living through world domination. I have to start somewhere.

On the move

Just recently I finally hit a wall at work. It was a shitty arse week, brought on by a million things I had asked to be changed and weren't. I got home at 11 and lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought: there has to be more to life than this. There has to be more to life than earning a tiny salary in an expensive city, working at a job I used to love and think I was good at. And then I gave myself a slap for a being an idiot, and remembered that other people's faults are not my faults, or my fault even, and that I have given this job everything and it hasn't measured up and so it's time to move on.

I applied for a job two weeks ago, I went for the interview last Friday and they called this morning. I start at the beginning of July. In Birmingham.

You lose nothing by trying. I'm going to try and live my life, instead of letting my life live me.

The Alphabet Song

Fireman Sam

Mr Darcy carnal desires

This was the google search that led someone in India to this blog.

How?

PATTOTE: Better living through porn with literary merit.

World MS Day

Nothing to say

I've been keeping a list of all the things that I want to blog about. But I've lost it. Sorry.

Proud hausfrau

I managed to get a tomato-based stain out of a white top. I'm so chuffed with myself it's a little ridiculous. And I only damaged myself a little - a scrubbed the top of my index finger raw.

PATTOTE: Better living through washing powder.

Tackling Tetley

I really dislike this advert - it's just so patronising, and twee, and wrong.
Why must they resort to such blatantly wrong stereotypes, especially when it's done so badly that no joke results? If you're going to be insulting, at least be funny.

There's been a suggestion that this is some sort of homage to Alexander McCall Smith's Mma Ramotshwe. But...that's in Botswana.

PATTOTE: Better living through Nando's adverts, which you don't get here to my disgust.

Tartle

A Scottish verb meaning to hesitate while introducing someone due to having forgotten his/her name.

Deeper underground

I'm rather sadly obsessed with things that happen undergound. Love tubes and subways, would love to do a sewer tour. etc etc.

So I was thrilled to see this article in the Guardian. Books and the underground. What's not to love!

PATTOTE: Better living deeper underground, there's too much terror in this town, going deeper underground...

Sunday obits

It's weird, but for the last couple of months, as soon as I check the news on a Sunday morning, someone reasonablly famous has pegged it. Why do people die over weekends? It's convenient, but it's also a little odd.

Lovefilm anticipation

On their way - The Accidental Husband and Jane Eyre!

Two very good ones. Love this adaptation of Jane, because it has the always wonderful Toby Stephens in it. I was never as obsessed with Mr Rochester as some other fans of the book because, let's face it, he's a jackass. But he has a certain charm.

PATTOTE: Better living through Netflix lookalikes.

Eyes right

It never fails - as you take the DLR from West Silvertown to Pontoon Dock, and then on to London City Airport, everybody's eyes are immediately drawn to the Thames Barrier. It sits solidly over the river, inviting photographs and questions that nobody can answer. Why is the barrier there mummy? Um, to stop London from flooding. But how mummy? Um, um, look, an aeroplane. And we're still no closer to an answer.

PATTOTE: Better living through googling, I know, but going to the visitors' centre would be more fun I think.

Hurt

I've been listening to the Johnny Cash cover, because I was watching a really good documentary. It's so..sad.

Here's a video, so that you can all be sad with me.

Click here.

PATTOTE: Better living through the man in black.

You've got mail

I love this movie, it's one of my standbys. When it first came out I went to see it three times in a row - one of the first times I picked a movie and went to it by myself. Today though four things strike me:

1) The cleverly modern computer graphics in the opening scene - really, really dated.

2) The dial up sound makes me giggle so hard. As does the 'you've got mail'.

3) Wait a minute, a movie that came out when I was a teenager is looking dated. Shit, I got old!

4) I was suddenly really taken aback by the fact that Joe was as eager to hear from Kathleen as she was to hear from him. Am I really so stuck in my view that I'm always going to be more interested in them than they are in me?

PATTOTE: Better living through romcom realisations

Scene at South Bank Centre

Love Poem

You remind me
define me
incline me.

If you died I'd.

PATTOTE: better living through love poems and margharitas.

Dear Cecelia Ahern

I must insist that you cease and desist writing novels forthwith.

Having just completed PS I love you and Where rainbows end, I am honour-bound to inform you that necessary parts of my brain leaked from my ears. Your wanton disregard for pronouns caused my face to twitch so badly, doctors believe I will never smile again. And the dialogue. The stilted dialogue. The...stilted, dialogue.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

yours respectfully

Me

PATTOTE: Better living through half-way decent chicklit, which this is not

I see

Relative afferent pupillary defect (RAPD): An indication of damage to the visual system which is greater on one side than the other. The presence of a relative afferent pupillary defect (RAPD) means that the pupils constrict less when a light is directed into the affected eye than they do when the same light is directed into the normal (or less affected) eye . The presence of an RAPD usually indicates damage to the retina or optic nerve that results in diminished light impulses being transmitted from the eye to the brain on the affected side.

PATTOTE: Better living through wikipedia, even though mostly it generates more questions than answers.

Such excitement!

Dark, very dark

Alas, poor Darcy, I knew you well

I've been watching Lost in Austen on DVD. It's a rather random mini-series about a woman in London who changes places with Elizabeth Bennett and proceeds to muck up Pride and Prejudice, while trying to get the story moving. I have loved Darcy since the minute I picked Pride and Prejudice. But alas, I have realised that he is a twat. I'm distressed.

PATTOTE: Better living through fictional heroes, cause real heroes are thin on the ground.

A burning question

So I'm waiting for a letter from my neurologist, informing my GP that it's all stations go on the disease modifying drugs so that my disease can, y'know, be modified. Finally today I got a response from the neuro's secretary. Apparently the hospital in Reading outsources their letter writing. To India. No, really.

They send them the dictaphone tapes (how exactly - because if they upload to email and email it, surely it would just be easier to type it here?) and then they transcribe them and send them back here for posting.

So my letter has been written, but some vital details have been left out ("Maybe the tape was broken," she said. "Or maybe they didn't understand something."). So now I have to wait. For my letter. To come all the way from India. Instead of all the way from Reading.

PATTOTE: Better living through carrier pigeons, which I'm seriously considering investing in.

The Book Thief

At first Liesel could not talk. Perhaps it was the sudden bumpiness of love she felt for him. Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak

Outrage

Today I got a letter from a debt collector.

On behalf of the library.

I have an outstanding fine.

Pay or else.

WTF???

Tasty

When I visited my mum the other day I asked if I could borrow my favourite of her recipe books, which is a blank book she used at school for home economics and has added to ever since.

I love to peruse it, and not just because it has some of my favourite recipes in (my grandmother's doughnut recipe is faithfully recorded, as is my ouma's pannekoek recipe, designed to serve up to a hundred hungry people at a church bazaar). I love to see my mum's handwriting develop, from the straight up and down cursive she used at school to transcribe recipes for things like kidney soup, to the sloppier cursive she used when I was little to write down recipes for funny face cakes, and rice krispie treats. Later the handwriting is more brusque, in capital letters. And now, now it has computer printouts stuffed in the front, recipes googled for and then forgotten.

I love this book, and I have only borrowed it (I'll return it Mum, I promise!). But one day, a horrible day in the future I really don't want to think about, I'd like to say to my sister, you keep Mum's wedding ring and eternity ring. I want her recipe book.

Not safe for children

Train brain

What do you do on your commute?

Heard at Canning Town tube station

Would Inspector Sands please report to the operations room immediately.

Past times

The news comes that someone from the past will be where you are now. And you are simultaneously struck by a wave of apprehension, that in a city of millions of people, they will be the one you run into, and a wave of acceptance, because really, so what?

I walk the line

Mr Pip

A doctor would have said I was suffering from depression. Everything I have read since suggests this was the case. But when you are in the grip of something like that it doesn't usually announce itself. No. What happens is you sit in a dark, dark cave and you wait.

Mr Pip, by Lloyd Jones

Something to crow about

Doubt

This was entirely made for Meryl Streep. She is just so uncomfortable the whole way through the movie - she fidgets, she taps, she twitches, she is irritable, she acts as if she is suffocating in her habit. She's perfect, and this move is all about her.

Trailer: Two Clive Owen movies are on the horizon - oh happy day!

Washed up

Saw The Wrestler last night, which was really good. Mickey Rourke did a bloody good job with the whole has-been junkie thing. Oh wait, I wonder why?

The most interesting thing for me was seeing the parallels between Randy and Cassidy. They're each washed up in the same way, each faking it in the same way.

The end was unnecessarily abrupt though.

Trailer: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I'm just not sure about this one - it looks very sappy and sentimental, despite the headliners.

I'm with stupid

Last weekend, in a fit of domesticity, I invited some friends over for a roast lunch - beef, veggies, bread and butter pudding. It was all going swimmingly until I opened a packet of sultanas for the pudding. As I started opening the packet with a knife, I wondered briefly if I should use a pair of scissors instead. And then I sliced the tip of my finger off.

PATTOTE: better living through scissors, not serrated paring knives with a bend at the tip

Things I did not expect to hear in London on a Thursday night

"Would you like to make group for to be having the sex with us?"

Blow me up, blow me down

I'm sleeping on an inflatable mattress at the moment. It's pretty comfy. Well it has been except for the fact that it's started to lose rather a lot of air. So now I have to frantically pump it up before bed and then hope for the best. But the pumping has definitely entered my subconcious, because at 3am this morning I found myself pumping up the bed in my sleep.

PATTOTE - better living through sleeptasking.

How many books you say?

70!

That works out as more than one a week doesn't it?

Fun author I'm glad I discovered - Katie Fforde

Author I knew I liked but finally got around to reading more of - Nick Hornby

Promise for next year - read more classics

PATTOTE: better living through the written word, lots of them

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