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.

Don't you judge me!

I'm rereading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, my first reread since the marathon initial read the day the tome was published. That's right, people on the tube who looked at me in disgust for apparently only reading the final installment now, I've been reading it since the beginning! I am not coming late to Harry Potter! I was there in the beginning! THE BEGINNING!

Oh look, nice people in white coats.

These are two of my favourite things

Cricinfo compiled a list of famous authors who wrote about cricket. Click click

Laughing at the past

Why the 70s died an unnatural death.

Passenger action Part 2

From wikipedia:

"Most fatalities on the network are suicides. Most platforms at deep tube stations have pits beneath the track, originally constructed to aid drainage of water from the platforms, but they also help prevent death or serious injury when a passenger falls or jumps in front of a train and aid access to the unfortunate person.[15] These pits are officially called "anti-suicide pits", colloquially "suicide pits" or "dead man's trenches". Delays resulting from a person jumping or falling in front of a train as it pulls into a station are announced as a "unfortunate delay", "passenger action", "customer incident" or "a person under a train", and are referred to by staff as a "one under". London Underground has a specialist "Therapy Unit" to deal with drivers' post-traumatic stress, resulting from someone jumping under their train.
The Jubilee line extension is the first line to have platform edge doors. These prevent people from falling or jumping onto the tracks, but the main financial justification for their provision was to control station ventilation by restricting the 'piston-effect' of the moving air caused by the trains."

Well that answers that question.

Stolen Book Meme

(I stole this from Jennifer at Bibliotonic)

Take the nearest book next to you and answer the following questions:

Title and Author:
Sushi for Beginners by Marian Keyes

Is the book dedicated to anyone? If so, whom?
For Niall, Caitriona, Tadgh and Rita-Anne

What is the first sentence?
"Dammit," she realised. "I think I'm having a nervous breakdown."

Turn to page 47. Please share the first sentence of the first full paragraph.
"Ashling woke at twelve on Sunday, feeling rested and only mildly hungover."

Tic Tac Toe

I like challenging myself to the occasional game of noughts and crosses. It's not easy playing against yourself, after all, you have an inside tip on possibly strategy. But sometimes if you zone out just right, you beat yourself. And that's very satisfying in an existential, take that stupid left brain, I really should be working, kind of way.

What's orange and sounds like parrot?

A carrot.

Please don't kill me, I'm to pretty to die.

I think I'm on The Truman Show

Every morning I take a 10-minute walk from my front door to my bus stop. During that walk I will see (and in this particular order):

1) A skinny woman muffled up like a mummy, walking a skinny nervous black dog.

2) A kid on a bike, delivering papers.

3) A man who takes a walk around the block, then goes into a nearby house and emerges with an enormous and arthriticky golden retriever.

4) The retriever, who wees on the same spot every morning.

5) A beat up black station wagon.

6) My bus arriving.

Hmmm. In case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.

Elizabeth is...

creeped out by daylight savings!

The real Big Brother

And you call me paranoid?

In two minds

On my way through town on Saturday morning, I popped into the World Shop and browsed through a fair trade market (I managed to avoid the three(!) evangelists on the way). They had a number of really lovely and yummy things. I bought some freshly made olive and sundried tomato paninis, I dithered over the rooibos chai tea leaves, I admired all the tchotkes and thingamies that seem to have collected in Reading from all over the world.

There were whisper dishes from Tibet, carvings from Kenya, items made out of recycled materials from Zimbabwe or similar. And I found myself horribly torn. On the one hand, they're well crafted and unusual, imported from those countries or made here by refugees or immigrants. Buy them, because they're interesting, because they tell a story, because they're beautiful. On the other hand, by them and if someone asks you can say you got them at a market. In Reading. I love the little carvings and boxes I got in Mozambique because I got them in Mozambique. I want a whisper dish from Tibet, but I want it to be from my visit to Tibet. Is it cheating to buy these things from a shop that also sells fair trade coffee and chocolate, and at night is a good place to score space cake?

I get the same feeling every time I buy coffee from Starbucks. Guilt.

PATTOTE: Better living through the global village - I'm unconvinced.

On fittingness

"Claire spoke often in her poetry of the idea of 'fittingness': that is, when your chosen pursuit and your ability to achieve it - no matter how small or insignificant both might be - are matched exactly, are fitting. This, Claire argued, is when we become truly human, fully ourselves, beautiful. To swim when your body is made for swimming. To kneel when you feel humble. To drink water when you are thirsty. Or - if one wishes to be grand about it - write a poem that is exactly the fitting receptacle of the feeling or thought that you hoped to convey. In Claire's presence, you were not faulty or badly designed, no, not at all. You were the fitting receptacle and instrument of your talents and beliefs and desires."

From On Beauty, by Zadie Smith

Passenger action

When the tinny annoucement comes over the intercom that the Jubilee line has been delayed due to passenger action, what do you think that means?

That there's some doofus in carriage five with a sandwich board declaiming, "Hell no, we won't go"?

That somebody ignored the Big Sign of Impending Doom and Touched The Button That Communicates With The Driver, the hellmouth opened, and they received the much-lauded spot fine?

Or that somebody jumped in front of a train?

I hope it's number one or two.

The Mother Ship

Catching the tube back in the evenings is distinctly apocalyptic. Everybody lining up, as if the final disaster has arrived and we're all being evacuated from the earth.

PATTOTE: Better living through my super secret underground bunker.

Tales from Reception Part 3

Dear Reception caller,

When I say: "Please hold on", I'm not actually putting you on hold. I'm looking for the number to switch you through.

So the guy I overheard yesterday telling his dog: "If you do that again it's doggy hell for you. That's 29. Another 96 and that's it. Doggy hell." should be a lesson to you.

Tales from Reception Part 2

These people are my new favourite enemies.

Example A:

Me (friendly, chipper, faking it to the hilt): Good morning, large unnamed charity, can I help you?

Them: Is that large unnamed charity?

Me (friendly, chipper, biting my tongue): Yes, can I help you?

Them: This is Mrs A.N Body, of number 25 Whatever Lane, Lower Sheep's Bottom, West Sussex, SW5 6XT. I would like to speak to somebody about donating some money.

Me (friendly, chipper, rolling my eyes): I'll transfer you to our fundraising department.

Them: It were a coffee morning, you see. And now I have all this change. I don't want them bandits in the hills to get it. It are a lot of money, y'see.

Me (confused): Yes.

Them: Well girl, are you transferring me or not?

Me: *click*

Example B:

Me (friendly, chipper, faking it to the hilt): Good morning, large unnamed charity, can I help you?

Them: Can I speak to mumblemumble?

Me (friendly, chipper, ears straining): I'm sorry, who?

Them: Mumblemumble!

Me (huh?): I'm sorry, could you repeat the surname for me?

Them: MumBLEmumBLE!!

Me: (weakly): Could you spell that for me?

Them: *click*

Tales from Reception Part 1

Five days in reception.

Four nights of waking up from a nightmare in which I can't find my headset but I can hear people in the background saying: "Hello? Hello! Hello?"

Switchboards are stressful.

Scene from a Bakery

When I went to the bakery down the road to get a Belgian bun for lunch, the chap ahead of me in the queue was large, be-tattooed, be-ringed, and asking for a jam doughnut. It was for his dog, he told the amused cashier. The dog is five. And will be having steak for dinner. The man also bought a gingerbread flower. No clue as to who that was for.

PATTOTE: Better living through Romans. Crazy. These.

Songs to live by

By all accounts my grandpa was a skillful grandfather. He had a wealth of songs (some made up, some embellished, some invented) that have been passed on. I remember him whistling bagpipe tunes, doing magic tricks, and coming up with nonsense rhymes. I've been thinking a lot about the songs that he sang, and which my mother sang to us as well. We're not entirely sure how much was of his own invention, how much of it he learned in the army, and how much he was just repeating. Family history is murky at the best of times. Looking the lyrics up on the internet has turned up some variations as well, which are funny to see.

I would just hate to see any of it be lost. So here are some of the songs I can remember:

An Old Maid in A Garrett
Oh I've often heard it said
By my father and my mother,
Going to a wedding's the making of another.
If that be true then I'll gang without a bidding,

You ken wee Elize?
I found her in a midden,
Singing "Oh, dear me".
What will you do if I be an old maid in a garrett?

There was my sister, Juanita,
She was handsome and goodlooking,
Scarcely sixteen, and a laddie she was courting,
Now she's twenty-four,
With a son and a daughter,
And I am forty-two and I've never had an offer
Singing "Oh, dear me".
What will you do if I be an old maid in a garrett?

I can wash, I can sew, I can keep a household tidy,
Rise early in the morning, and make the breakfast ready.
There's nothing in this wide world, would make me half so cheery,
If some nice young man would call me his wee dearie singing "Oh, dear me".
What will you do if I be an old maid in a garrett?
(Without a shirt)

Without a shirt was the traditional ending to any song Grandpa happened to be singing. I don't know why, it was just one of those things. Also, I lay no claim to the inherently sexist lyrics, I am simply repeating the words. They amuse me deeply.

Mummy says
Mummy says, out you go
With your father's dinner-o
Champit tatties, beef and steak,
And a wee bit corn cake.

Came to a river and I couldn't get across,
Paid ten bob for an old blind horse,
Jumped on his back and his bones gave a crack,
Played on the fiddle till the boat came back,

The boat came back,
and we all jumped in,
Boat capsized
And we all fell in

Singing don't be weary,
Try be cheery,
Don't be weary,
for we're all going home,

My father was a fisherman
And he caught a trout,
Says I to the trout:
"Does your mother know your out?"

Singing don't be weary,
Try be cheery,
Don't be weary
for we're all going home
(Without a shirt)

I always liked this one, but The Sister doesn't. Probably because of the horse's bones cracking!

McCann
I'll knock a hole in McCann,
for knocking a hole in me can.
McCann knew,
me can was new,
and only in use for a day or two.

I lent me can to old McCann
to go for a can of stout.
McCann came running home and said
me can was running out!

I actually don't know if this was one of Grandpa's. The Mother may have learned this at Guides. The Family Songbook has much to thank the Guides for; many of our ditties came from them.

It's strange but nice knowing that my grandpa taught my mother these songs, she taught them to us, we'll teach them to our kids. I'm sure my cousins remember them as well. It connects us, even though we don't know each other. If anybody remembers all the words to The Parcel that came to McRory, please send up a flag!

Big ups to my baby

Even if he is behind bars. Listening to a call-in show on the radio on Saturday, a woman came on asking for a shout-out to her boy.

Presenter: "Where is your boy?"
Call-in person: "He's in the penetentiary, but I visit him, I'm waiting for him."
Me: "Whaaaaaaa?"

I didn't know people actually did that.

PATTOTE: Better living through soundproof cars, so nobody could here my reaction to the crazy call-in person.

Snarky cricket moment #6

Commenting on the "controversial" Shaun Pollock/Kevin Pietersen run-out, the panel was questioning why Pollock was running towards the ball when Pietersen crashed into him.

"Because in cricket, that's what you do," said Nick Knight pithily. "You run towards the ball."

PATTOTE: Better living through anything that takes Pietersen down.

I'm overthinking this

Or am I? I'm going through this whole recruitment thing, and today I turned down the chance to apply for a job with a publishing house. I would be a 6-month contract working on publications for the British Army, their recruitment stuff in other words.

There's not a chance I'd do it; I'd feel horribly guilty the entire time. But at the same time, I really want a job, this was an opportunity to possibly get a job, and I don't want the recruiter to think I'm being ridiculous, even if I don't think I am.

PATTOTE: Better living through...what? Sorry? I was overthinking something.

See Liz Run

I do a lot of narrating in my head. I can't just let my thoughts be all stream of conscious-like. Instead, I edit my thoughts into neat little quotes. Like when I'm buying milk:

"Oh, look, there's the skim. What is the difference between skim and semi-skim?" she asks absently.

"That's 20p apparently. TWENTY PENCE. Do you have 20p? Yes, you do. And also, strangely, some Mozambique change you don't need. You should get rid of that. I'll do that when I get home. Oh, who am I kidding? You have the memory of a gnat. There's no way you'll remember," she says disgustedly.

Those mixed pronouns are lifted directly from my memory.

She says, worried.

PATTOTE: Better living through my eventual domination of all things, she says assuredly.

I'm sure she doesn't care...

...but I left home in a hurry today and didn't say goodbye to the dog. I doubt she minds, she's probably ensconced on a couch by now, but I feel bad.

PATTOTE: Better living through feeling guilty, even if the labrador doesn't give a toss.

Snarky Cricket Moment #5

Commentator David Lloyd is my new hero. During tonight's ritual humiliation of the West Indies, he remarked of Herchelle Gbbs: "In the mood he's in, he might just score a seven!"

PATTOTE: Better living through cricket, even if 20/20 is mostly a waste of time. I mean dancing girls. Pfffft.

A Blinding Realisation

It suddenly occurred to me today, it suddenly became very clear to me today, that my childhood is completely over.

I don't know why it felt so important to realise this. I've been an adult for quite some time now - I've paid bills, fed myself, taken care of a dog, moved myself overseas, survived to tell the tale.

Maybe it's post turning-26 malaise?

I'm completely and incontrovertibly an adult now. This is it. For the rest of my life.

PATTOTE: Better living through living, I hope.

A Crow Symposium

On my way to work this week, I stumbled upon a field full of crows. There were thousands of them circling and jostling. It was menacing actually. I imagine the field has just been turned and every crow in Berkshire decided to descend on it. Or maybe, and this is just a theory, maybe it was a meeting of the finest crow minds. Maybe they had gathered there to decide on a roadmap for the crow way of life? Maybe there were two factions (Those for Cawing, or Those Against)? Maybe they were plotting how to raise the profile of crows in other societies? Crowing over people, eating crow, skinny as a crow - damaging political statements all.

PATTOTE: Better living through dive-bombing crows. Was it crows or blackbirds that were baked into that pie?

Gratuitous plugging? Not so much

Der Fuhrer has had his blog plugged on The Guardian's website. They must be pretty desperate. I don't think I want to work for them anymore.

PATTOTE: Better living through having your ego trampled upon.

I'm writing to tell you...

...I have nothing to say. I haven't had anything to say in quite some time.

PATTOTE: Better living through um. Well. I'm not really sure.

Open Question

Is it or is it not crazy(ish) to need to wait for the phone to ring at least twice, four times for a double ring, before picking it up?

PATTOTE: Better living through ringing twice - and then switching the lights on and off at least ten times before leaving a room.

Raunchy Regency Reads

I like bodice-rippers as much as the next person. Who hasn't flicked through a Mills&Boon equivalent to get to all the lascivious bits? But I thought that a book based on Pride and Prejudice, a novel I love, respect, and re-read at least once a year, would be a little more, hmmm, what's the word? Good? Readable? Enjoyable?

Instead, Mr Darcy takes a Wife is pretty gross actually. And cliched. There should be a limit enforced as to the number of times the words "carnal pleasure", "carnal desire" and "carnal knowledge" can be used per page. Three is too many.

It's rare for me to dislike a book enough to stop reading it. I'm a literary masochist, I can't help myself. So in the spirit of masochism I am going to find and read as many of these sequels (and there are a plethora) as I can find.

Carrie Bebris, you'd better not disappoint.

PATTOTE: Better living through bodice-rippers, as long as they maintain their decorum.

Booker Longlist 2007

The Booker Longlist for 2007 has been released. According to an article on GuardianUnlimited, most of the books focus on history and memory as a theme. I'm ashamed to say that other than On Chesil Beach, I don't recognise many of the titles. I'm setting myself the goal of reading them all in the next year.

The longlist in full:

Darkmans by Nicola Barker (Fourth Estate)

Self Help by Edward Docx (Picador)

The Gift Of Rain by Tan Twan Eng (Myrmidon)

The Gathering by Anne Enright (Jonathan Cape)

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid (Hamish Hamilton)

The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies (Sceptre)

Mister Pip by Lloyd Jones (John Murray)

Gifted by Nikita Lalwani (Viking)

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan, (Jonathan Cape)

What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn (Tindal Street)

Consolation by Michael Redhill (William Heinemann)

Animal's People by Indra Sinha (Simon & Schuster)

Winnie & Wolf by AN Wilson (Hutchinson)

PATTOTE: Better living through book challenges - I'm itching to get going.

What's a Marrow With You?

Standing at Nottinghill Gate station the other day, a chap shambled past me with the most enormous marrow I have ever seen under his arm. He seemed quite unperturbed. I wonder where he got it from. A shop devoted to the care and sale of immensely overgrown vegetables? A caring granny with too much time (and fertilizer) on her hands? Oh, I know what it was. It was an animatronic marrow. Yes! It was a robot marrow and he was taking it to the set of it's new movie "In the Marrow: A diary of dicing, julienning, and sir-fries". I'm so glad I figured it out, it was bothering me.

PATTOTE: Better living through giant vegetables. Especially potatoes.

Turning One

Curtis-the-Fetus is officially a year old today. He's a walking, grinning, trouble-making, tiny person now. A year old and he has a personality. A year old and he already has his own little quirks. A year old, with all the potential in the world. That makes me happy.

PATTOTE: Better living through the heir to all I survey and intend to own.

Unspoilt

It was an all-Harry Potter weekend. The Sister and I queued for the last installment and then raced to start reading. She admitted defeat at about 2am but I managed to finish it. I wanted to get it read before the end got leaked. I'm not going to go into it, because I'm waiting for The Best Friend to read it, but I really enjoyed it.

The movie, however, was not as great as it could have been. Prisoner of Azkaban remains victorious as far as I'm concerned.

I'm glad there are more movies to look forward to, cause otherwise the end of this wonderful, imaginative, heartbreaking series would be a lot worse.

Escape

There's something soothing about the world created in books, something comforting about the reality we inhabit while we read. Coming out of one of my recent reads, I found myself quite upset that my interlude with that other world was over. I know, I know, pick up another book and you're back in that other world almost immediately. But that's the thing, isn't it? Why the eagerness to constantly enter that other world? That other world is full of demons, monsters, horrible people and horrible situations, just like this one. That other world is full of funny situations, quirky people and brilliant inventions, just like this one. Reading is not really any kind if escape. It's more a suspension of present, a brief period of standing still, a much-loved and welcomed moment of peace. It's not what you're reading that matters, it's the act of reading that does.

Book Bargains

I ended up at a carboot over the weekend - one man's junk and all that. The quest to replace my lost treasures (my sorely missed collection of books) is well on its way.

I managed to find:

The Malory Towers series by Enid Blyton
The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, The Hobbit, and Roverandom by JRR Tolkein
Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller
Third Girl by Agatha Christie
Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome
King Solomon's Mines by H Rider Haggard
Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer
The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by CS Lewis
My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara

PATTOTE: Better living through CHEAP books and the people who sell them.

The Tale of the Dead Duck

A woman brought a very limp duck into a veterinary surgeon. As she lay her pet on the table, the vet pulled out his stethoscope and listened to the bird's chest.
After a moment or two, the vet shook his head sadly and said, "I'm so sorry, your Duck, Cuddles, has passed away."
The distressed owner wailed, "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I am sure. The duck is dead," he replied.
"How can you be so sure," she protested. "I mean, you haven't done any testing on him or anything. He might just be in a coma or something."
The vet rolled his eyes, turned around and left the room, and returned a few moments later with a black Labrador Retriever.
As the duck's owner looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table and sniffed the duck from top to bottom. He then looked at the vet with sad eyes and shook his head.
The vet patted the dog and took it out, and returned a few moments later with a cat.
The cat jumped up on the table and also sniffed delicately at the bird from head to foot. The cat sat back on its haunches, shook its head, meowed softly and strolled out of the room.
The vet looked at the woman and said, "I'm sorry, but as I said, this is most definitely, 100% certifiably, a dead duck."
Then the vet turned to his computer terminal, hit a few keys and produced a bill, which he handed to the woman.
The duck's owner, still in shock, took the bill. "£150!" she cried, "£150 just to tell me my duck is dead!!
The vet shrugged. "I'm sorry. If you had taken my word for it, the bill would have been £20, but with the Lab Report and the Cat Scan it comes to £150."

Words I like

Glum
Triskadeskaphobia
Coalesce
Acquiesce
Numbnuts
Vindictive

PATTOTE: Better living through trawling the dictionary for good words.

Accidents and Emergencies

The best part about sitting in casualty is the people. People have some fascinating problems, and they discuss them very openly in front of the twenty other people sitting on the hard benches or buying unhealthy stuff from the hospital vending machines. I just wish that they'd speak up a bit. I'm listening over here people. I'm trying to eavesdrop and you're not cooperating.

Yes you, lady with the blood on her sleeve and the bandaged arm, who looked like she'd come straight from a high-falutin' do, except for her truly crappy shoes. Or you, kiddie with the smashed nose. Your mother says you whacked yourself in the nose with a plank, but you look more like some bullies set on you after school and your mum is trying to cover up. And you, chickie with the hurt back, why were you telling your mother that they kept making you push it in, even though you didn't want to?

Enquiring minds want to know.

PATTOTE: There was another kid in there with a broken collar bone who claimed to have fallen off a mountain. There are no mountains in Reading.

Ahem

My new supervisor has Project Management for Dummies lying on her desk. That's like having a neurosurgeon read Nerves for Dummies right before an operation.

PATTOTE: Better living through Dictating for Dummies