Against Her Better Judgment

In which kitchen scales trump art

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 12:52:00 +0000

I like to think I’m not one of life’s over-consumerist types (says she, who had a 20-minute discussion with various people on Twitter last night about collections of Le Creuset, and colours thereof), but there is plenty of stuff in my house that I have quite an attachment to.

I have plenty of things – some small, some not so – that I absolutely love. My late Granny’s art nouveau bookcase with the silver panelling is one of them. My coffee table is another. As is the slightly shoddily-made but pretty mirror that I haggled down to a bargain basement price from the dodgy Tunisian salesman.

And there are some things that I don’t really feel strongly about one way or the other. Bedside tables bought from Ikea because they’re functional and match the chest of drawers. The little cabinet in the sitting room, transformed from a gramophone player by my late Grandpa, which is now home to a variety of stuff that doesn’t really have another home (letter paper, the camera, nail varnish). A goatskin drum that I brought back from my Gap Yah.

But not everyone is as blasé about the same things as I am.

Helping me pack up at the weekend, and making himself generally useful by shifting heavy things up into the attic, The Writer fell upon the drum as I hoofed it out from under the desk in the spare room where it’s resided since I moved in. I’d earmarked it for the pile resigned to the loft, until it was rescued by TW.

“This is amazing!” he said, grabbing it with both hands before doing that thing boys do with any sort of instrument, and beating out a quick rhythm. “Where’s it from? Can we bring it with us?!”

I don’t tend to give it any thought these days, but to a pair of fresh eyes, I suppose it’s a rather nice little artifact. Given to me when I left by the staff and pupils of the school I’d been teaching in, it’s about a foot in size, and made of a bay and white goatskin stretched across a wooden frame. Looking at it again, I suppose it’s quite a pretty thing. And it has gen-u-wine Tanzanian heritage, rather than being a quaint “faux-ethnic” piece picked up in John Lewis (doesn’t it just. Getting it back on the plane in hand luggage was a pain in the rump).

The same went for a set of pleasingly retro kitchen scales (which also used to belong to Granny Blonde. The woman had taste), aforementioned gramophone cabinet, and a mug with an in-built cafètiere, although not for the Barnet Newman print which I brought back from my last trip to MOMA. There were, in fact, long and strident discussions about whether or not it constituted ‘art’ (I say, good enough for MOMA, good enough for me) and ended in a bout of violent tickling and the compromise that I could bring the Twombly if I left the Newman behind.

Just as well he’s enthusiastic about the Le Creuset, really.

In which I am depressed by the notion that rape is a subject for 'banter'

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 13:41:00 +0000

There are plenty of awful things on the internet, but yesterday I was made aware of the UniLad site. It’s vile.

Ostensibly written for young men at university, it championed ‘lad culture’ – the sort of thing Maxim used to write about in the early 90s – and seemed to focus solely on getting drunk and getting laid.

I use the past tense because, following a Twitterstorm, as of yesterday the site was taken down, citing regret for offence caused by one of its posts.

In a very short version of the story, a piece (I’m loathe to call it an ‘article’ for fear of lending credence) ran on the site apparently condoning non-consensual sex. When called on it by a young woman, the response of the site owner was to call her “a dyke” – and, presumably, to think nothing more of it.

Twitter did what it does best, rallied round and outraged ensued. The site is now down, with at least one university taking disciplinary action*.

I wasn’t initially going to post about the whole thing, because it’s just so depressing.

Normally I’ll take Twittermobs with a pinch of mob rule-salt, but this one was different. This brought to light not just a vile site run and read, I would argue, by boys who have no place at university, judging by the levels of intelligence on show. Instead it casts a focus on yet another deeply saddening example of the misogyny that seems to be increasingly pervasive in society.

(Can I just make it clear at this point that I don’t for a moment think that the disgusting content on UniLad would have any support from the right-thinking majority of the world’s population, male or female. Its portrayal of women is ghastly, but just as nausea-inducing is its portrayal of men. I don’t know any men, at university or otherwise, who’d identify with the vulgarity, crassness and downright abhorrence displayed. No one I know would dream of demeaning themselves – and women in general – by saying, believing, or thinking such vile sentiments.)

I’m not what people refer to as “militant” about my brand of feminism – I don’t think holding doors open for women is an act of “benevolent sexism”. I also like to think that I have a sense of humour, and am quite happy to take a joke directed at women, or myself – if it’s genuinely funny.

But rape isn’t funny. It isn’t a subject for ‘banter’. It’s something that destroys people’s (let’s not forget – it’s not only women who are victims) sense of self-worth, confidence, lives.

UniLad’s defence is one of ‘free speech’. But this isn’t an issue of free speech. It’s an issue of pervasive misogyny, of misunderstanding that rape isn’t a question of desire – rape is about power and violence.

And I do wonder whether, at its logical conclusion, the material written by UniLad could even been seen as incitement. If someone clever and legally inclined would be able to argue that case in a court of law, I’d be thrilled. Then the ghastly individuals behind UniLad – creators and readers alike – might think twice about just how funny their ‘banter’ really is.

* Update: this was the case when I read a piece on the Huffington Post yesterday (31st Jan). The article has since been changed, and I can find no reference to it.

In which I write an open letter to estate agents

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

Dear estate agents,

I’m sure I don’t understand the ins, outs and particulars of your jobs. I’m sure I couldn’t begin to comprehend how taxing it is to have to deal with people looking for a house AND those looking to get rid of one. There must be much, much more to the thing than meets the eye, because that’s the only reason I can think that explains the shoddy level of service that you universally seem to provide.

So let me iron a few things out for you.

Whilst catchy (well, it’s not, but let’s not quibble the point), location, location, location is a phrase used for emphasis. It doesn’t mean you can hear one location from your client before showing them properties in two others. If I ask for flats in Brixton, I’m expecting the properties you suggest to be in Brixton. Not Kennington, not Peckham and certainly not Orpington. If I’d wanted to live in those places, I’d have asked for those places. I didn’t, and whilst I’m sure they’re lovely, I don’t.

I have a finite income. Whilst I’m not on the breadline, it’s not as large as I’d like, so when I give you a budget, that’s what I can afford to pay in rent. I know you’d like me to pay more, because you take your commission. I understand that, I do. But if I tell you my budget is x, and you only show me properties that are one and a half times x, I’m going to ignore your calls; think you’re an idiot; and use one of your competitors instead, leaving you with y% of 0, instead of y% of x. And then who loses out?

I have specifications. If I want a one-bedroomed flat, I want a one-bedroomed flat. That is not the same as a studio flat. And a one-bedroomed flat in Brixton is not a studio flat in East Dulwich. Just sayin’.

I have a job. It’s a full-time job. It’s how I’m able to pay the rent (that’s the rent of x, let’s be clear. Not one and a half times x. See above). You have to let me do my job, or I’ll be fired and then not be able to pay the rent, and then you’re out of your job too. Factors that comprise “letting me do my job” include arranging viewings after 6.30pm and making use of my answerphone facility when I don’t answer the phone instead of further relentless calls every four minutes.

I have a job. It means I have to do the things I’m paid to do, not chase you endlessly because you haven’t been in touch. If I see a property on your site, only to be told, when I call you that you’ve had it on the books for several days and it’s already been let, I’m going to get cross. And the crossness will be directed at you. And that makes for an unpleasant day for the both of us.

So to recap: please tell me (once is enough) about properties that meet my specifications, in the area I want to live in, for the price I want to pay, that I can see after work.

Not too hard, surely?

Much obliged.

In which I say goodbye to a stalwart friend

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

Whilst I am, obviously, beyond thrilled that The Writer and I are soon going to be moving in together, there’s a tinge of sadness underlying the project: I’m going to have to give up Colin.

Colin back in the day in his foster home, atop the scratching post. These days, the top of that would barely take a paw.

I’ve refrained from posting incessantly about him here for fear of seeming quite the mad cat lady (although I think that’s rather undermined by the frequency of the photos that get posted to Twitter), but the truth is that the cat has been an essential part of my home.

Family Blonde has always had cats – it’s just the number that’s varied. From the stray kitten we took in, having found him starving under the chest freezer in the garage to those we’ve bought, or rescued from Wood Green via those we’ve been given when family friends have developed allergies, there’s always been at least one, usually two, often three prowling round the house.

In the bottom of the laundry basket. I didn't have time to take one when he fell into the bottom of the loo

So when I moved back to Home County and in by myself, getting a cat was one of the first things I was going to do. Before I’d even moved in, I called the local branch of Cats Protection to find out whether they would have any kittens available at any point in the next few months.

“Oh, yes, actually,” said the extraordinarily nice lady on the phone. “We’ve got a cat with one of our volunteers at the moment – the cat’s just given birth, so the kittens will be ready to go to new homes in about 12 weeks. Shall I reserve one for you?”

If he can climb onto it, he'll lie on it. Yes, that is the cooker hood.

We had a short discussion in which I said yes, I was fine with a black cat, and no, I wasn’t going to reject it if its eyes were the wrong colour and didn’t go with my décor (seriously: what is wrong with some people?), and I found myself as a prospective kitten parent.

Colin has now been with me for two and a half years. The kitten that used to fit easily inside the palm of my hand is now a large (very large) cat who takes up more room on the bed than The Writer, and eats at least as much hummus.

I love the fact he makes a little chirruping noise when he sees me; that he waits for me outside the front door in the evenings; and that he pulls a deeply amusing expression when you brush the patch just underneath his shoulder with the dog brush. I love that he’ll snuggle into bed on a weekend morning and curl up against me, wrapping his front paws round my arm; that he loves nothing more than hiding behind shrubs in the garden, waiting to launch himself at my unsuspecting leg; and that he has just two, tiny white hairs growing out of the bottom of his chin, making him look every inch the pantomime Chinaman.

But, despite all that, and the fact that I now can’t imagine Blonde Towers without Colin’s panther-like shape (and, to be brutally honest, size) slinking over the back of the sofa, up the stairs, or across the laptop keyboard, I’m going to have to bid him goodbye. Not only is TW allergic and it would be deeply unfair to put him on Benadryl for the rest of his life, Colin is most definitely a country cat – he’d take one look at the big city and get himself hit by a car.

So rather than put either of the males I love through fates they’d rather not endure, Colin is off to the home of Parentals Blonde. He’ll have plenty of space to run around; Pa Blonde to swear blind that Colin won’t be spoilt and then put the leftover Sunday roast in the cat dish; and beds and sofas aplenty to leave covered in long black fur.

So, whilst I’ll miss him, I know he’s going somewhere he’ll be happy, and where I can visit – with hummus – for hugs.

The view from my pillow. I've tried getting him to sleep in his own bed. It doesn't work.

In which search terms are terrifying things

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

When I started this blog’s predecessor over (erk) six years ago in another corner of the internet, I didn’t for a second think that anyone else would ever want to read it. I wrote for myself to catalogue the things that were happening to me whilst I was at university, from the male-shaped disasters to the shoe-shaped ones.

But gradually, readers started to trickle in, and now it seems there are a few of you (to whom I would like to say a whopping great thank you) who come back repeatedly. But there are others who apparently stumble on these pages by accident having gone to Google over the past 12 months for a little advice. And, being the generous-spirited gal that I am, I’d like to provide them with such…

Black suit to Sandhurst ball
Gods above I hope you don’t mean you’re planning to wear a lounge suit. Strictly black tie or mess dress only.

Why am I not married with children by now?
I don’t know. But it’s okay that you’re not, you know. It doesn’t make you a lesser human being.

Christina Hendrick’s bum
You and all mankind, my love.

Well-mannered educated charming Englishmen
They’re sadly not as prevalent as you’d like. If you find one, hang on to ‘em. I snared mine through shared opinions on genocide-related literature and gin. True story.

Sex at61 overse xed older gentl emen
I’m not sure what to say to that, other than that you seem to need to have a quick word with your spacebar.

Rupert Penry Jones
You and all womankind, my love.

No one get married in a castle unless they own it
Ah, you’re after that email, are you? Full text here.

Pictures of middle age friends having group sex after dinner
I know people make assumptions that everyone in the Home Counties is at the swinging thing like the Queen is at gin, but a) I’m not middle-aged and b) I’d hardly post those sorts of pictures on the internet, would I?

How can I carry my things to and from the office?
Controversial as it is, I favour a bag.

Hot blooded heterosexual woman
Why, yes I am. Not sure searching for one on the internet with such specificity is going to work, though.

Fall flat on my face because of high heels
We’ve all been there. Practise, practise, practise. And a little prayer.

First date one-sided conversation
Don’t let him have a second.

Is holding a door for someone sexist?
No, no, no – dear gods. No.

How to play it cool with her
Don’t. If you like her, why bother playing it cool? Grow a pair and be a bit more upfront. Real men don’t play games.

There’s something about a man holding open a door
There’s also something about Mary. Probably not the same thing, though.

In which I'm not drinking

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

Christmas chez Blonde is always a boozy affair. Dinner comes with white, red and dessert wines followed by port and coffee laced with a large dose of brandy. There’s always a drink beforehand, whether it’s gin and tonic or champagne. There’s champagne at midday, and mulled wine permanently on the go, and more often than not, several rounds of cocktails. Not so bad, you think, but when those rounds of cocktails start with margaritas served (in tall glasses. Hic) well before lunch (because why wouldn’t you want tequila at 11am?), it can all add up.

So, with a week spent at the parents’ full of the aforementioned, a few days at Blonde Towers drinking champagne with The Writer, Christmas lunches with journalists, Christmas parties with colleagues, a boozy lunch with TW’s mum and a New Year’s party full of more prosecco than is entirely good for anyone, I came to the end of December feeling decidedly pickled.

And so, stepping into virgin territory, I decided I would attempt a dry January. Before anyone says it: I know, I know: there’s no real point as far as health benefits go, and I’d be much better off having a couple of dry days a week (which often happens anyway, for what it’s worth) – blah, blah, blah. That’s not why I’m doing it: I’m doing it because the thought of anything alcoholic, be it the inside of a boozy choc or a full-blown double Tanqueray 10, makes me feel decidedly queasy.

It almost goes without saying that the announcement was met by laughs aplenty. The Redhead practically keeled over with giggles, and TW looked at me with as much cynicism as I’ve ever seen a man muster underneath a single raised eyebrow. But despite the disparagement of the nearest and dearest, I’ve stuck to my guns and have, at time of writing, not let an alcoholic drop past my lips since the last glass of fizz in the new year’s smallest hours.

And, boy is it hard.

It’s not particularly that I miss the booze – I found myself quite fancying a decent G&T after work on Friday, but the notion soon passed, and it’s not really cropped up since. In fact, quite the opposite: it’s been a relief not to drink anything alcoholic, the thought of which still isn’t vastly appealing.

Instead, it’s the reactions of other people who’re making the thing a bit of a challenge. Whilst I wholeheartedly expected the – admittedly entirely fair – mocking from friends, I didn’t expect to be judged so severely by people whose place isn’t to mock or belittle my lifestyle choices.

Last week, I went to the final Christmas party of the 2011 season. Whilst before Christmas, I’d have been knocking back the booze with the best of them, this time, I wasn’t.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” “I’m disappointed in you.” “Blonde, you’re letting the side down.” “Oh go on, stop being so boring.”

If I were pregnant (which I’m absolutely not. That I know of…) or on a course of antibiotics, it would be acceptable not to want to get blind drunk. Just not wanting to drink is, apparently, not.

Why do we put so much pressure on people who choose not to drink? There isn’t the same feeling about those who don’t smoke or shoot up at the table. Admittedly I’ve been known to look askance at those who don’t drink tea (you can’t be a true Brit if you don’t, surely?), but I don’t berate them about it, telling them they’ve “let me down”.

So, for the rest of the month, I’m going to stick to my dry guns. But I might doctor who I hang out with.

In which things move

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 10:06:00 +0000

It was a strange paradox: the moment the words left his mouth, I knew it was a moment I wouldn’t forget, and yet I wasn’t sure quite whether we were really having the conversation I thought we were having.

The Writer and I were at the tube station at the time, clutching four bottles of prosecco, one of tequila, and a lovingly created, still-warm white chocolate and ginger baked cheesecake, on our way to a New Year’s Eve dinner party.

“I’m just going to renew my Oyster,” TW said, “before the fares all go up tomorrow.” He started to fiddle with the machine.

“Gods above, tell me about it,” I said, complaining about the eye-wateringly, gut-wrenchingly, in all ways tortuous cost of season tickets into London from the Home County. “I have no idea how I’m going to pay for it next year.”

We wandered through the barriers and towards the escalator.

“Well, next year, you could always come and live with me if you wanted to.”

My heart skipped a beat, not entirely sure whether TW was being flippant, or whether, whilst atop a Northern Line escalator, he’d just suggested I move in with him. Wanting to believe it was the latter, I said that, “Yes, I think I’d like that.”

Later that night, cheesecake consumed, and as we sat amidst a host of people unknown whilst at the second party of the night, TW turned to me. “I meant what I said, you know: I want to live with you.”

“I want to live with you too,” I said, again unsure as to whether his repetition was heartfelt, or merely the result of rather too much prosecco and the romance of the night.

So when the subject didn’t surface as we lay in bed on the morning of New Year’s Day, I didn’t say anything. Maybe he was drunk, I thought. Caught up in the moment, and now he’s regretting it. I won’t say anything. Instead, I teased him about how drunk he’d been by the time we left the party.

Finally we dragged ourselves out of bed, and wandered to the kitchen for tea and croissants which we ate whilst browsing the online guide to Leonardo Da Vinci: Painter at the Court of Milan.

Staring studiously at the raspberry jam, TW started to mumble quietly. “You know what I said last night?”

Here it came. That it had been a mistake, that he loves me but doesn’t think we’ve been together long enough to make that kind of decision.

“I meant it, you know. I’m not going to put any pressure on you at all – it’s entirely up to you. I mean, you already have a house that you own, and a cat, and if you’re not ready, then I won’t love you any less. But if you wanted to move in together, then I’d be so happy.”

Of course, I said yes. Gulp.

In which I have an inappropriate crush

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

It was whilst reading a recent interview with Sir David Attenborough that I discovered the national treasure and everyone’s favourite surrogate Grandpa is actually a bit of a dirty old man who admits to thinking “ungrandfatherly” thoughts about 19 year-old girls, and enjoys being chatted up by 18 year-old girls on flights.

Well, hurrah for that.

Because whilst it’s all very well to think of Sir Dave as nothing more than a warm ‘n’ cuddly penguin botherer, my feelings towards him aren’t entirely familial. Because whilst I might be a little older these days than his ideal long-haul travel companion, I still have what might be defined as something of an inappropriate crush on the god of natural history telly.

And apparently, I’m not alone. Tweeting my thoughts about being chatted up by Sir D, I was cheered to find that he is by no means the most inappropriate crush out there, with other women admitting to a whole host of wrinklies. I’m absolutely not judging – frankly, how could I? – but it did give pause for thought that there are people out there who feel downright dirty things about Sir Patrick Moore. Ditto Lord Robert Winston (yes, Redhead: I’m looking at you). (Although, having looked at that little list again, maybe it’s just that we’re all suckers for a title?)

I don’t know what it is about Attenborough that makes him quite so appealing. Given he’s rather in his twilight years, I imagine it’s his immense intellect and talent, and the recently discovered eye-twinkle, rather than any perception of washboard abs (although if I had to pick one over another, intellect would win any day).

My other slightly odd crushes are much along the same lines: what I wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee with the luvverly Hugo Rifkind you could fit on the back of a stamp. And the less said about Bill Nighy the better.

Of course, not everyone is on board with the high esteem in which I hold Dave – or, more accurately, the reasons for it.

I must express some consternation, The Writer emailed, at the nature of your admiration for Sir Attenborough. It has brought our watching Frozen Planet (and subsequent, less television friendly activities) under new scrutiny.x

Oops. Busted.

In which I contemplate the little things

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

Below: an incomplete list of life’s small pleasures:

- Drinking a cup of tea when it’s at just the right temperature

- The first slice of a great piece of cheese

- Sliding into bed in the middle of winter and putting your feet up against the hot water bottle

- Waiting to hear from someone in particular, and seeing their name flash up on the screen of the phone

- Catching a train you thought you’d missed

- Finding a great pen that makes your handwriting look the way you like it to look

- The smell of a warm horse

- A compliment from the girl on the checkout in Marks & Spencer on your eyeshadow

- Having dinner with the family and making Pa Blonde laugh so hard at something daft that he almost chokes on his wine

- Half-waking on a Saturday morning to find the cat’s snuggled, purring, against your chest

- Hearing a long-unheard but much-loved song

- Looking up to find the person across the table watching you, smiling

- Getting a short way into a book to find yourself so drawn in that you don’t want to put it down

- Watching songbirds swarming round the bird-feeder in the garden

- Taking a pair of heels off at the end of a long day

- The smell of a vase full of lilies

- Coming home in the evening after the cleaner’s been

- A day during which your hair does precisely what you want it to

- Curling on the sofa watching a film you’ve seen and loved a hundred times

In which I am made up

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 07:00:00 +0000

It was on the train one morning before Christmas that I ran into The Cynic, on his way into a London office on secondment from his normal lawyering location.

How we got onto the subject now escapes me, this being some weeks ago and my having downed several hundred cubic metres of Pa Blonde’s margaritas in the meantime, but not very long into the journey, TC launched himself into a vociferous rant.

“I,” he said fervently, “am waging a one-man war against make-up.”

I looked at him, blinking out from underneath lashings of pigment, eyeliner and mascara, a smattering of foundation and a little lip gloss.

“I know I’m up against some pretty big corporations, and given that I can’t even get my wife to do it, I’m probably facing a losing battle. But it’s all this…” He completed an exceptionally accurate mime of a woman doing early-morning battle with the eyelash curlers.

I must have appeared utterly horrified because his next comment appeared an attempt to soothe somewhat.

“Look, it’s not that we don’t notice that you’re all beautifully made up – it’s that we think you’re beautiful without it.” Gosh, what a well-trained chap.

Warming to a theme, he went on to suggest that women everywhere should collectively boycott all make-up for a day: we might realise, he argued, that no one would recoil in horror at our unmade-up faces, and we’d all save ourselves a fortune in both time and money.

I’m sure, to men, TC’s argument is a crystalline example of inexorable logic. But as good an argument as he makes, I remain unconvinced.

I’m a big make-up fan. The bag I own is definitely nowhere near bulging as, say, Best Mate’s – I don’t own hundreds of different types of everything in a million different colours, myriad brushes to do very precise things, or products that only the lovely types in MAC would be able to identify, let alone apply. But I am a devotee. There are certain products that I fell in love with, back in the mists of time, and haven’t strayed from since. I prefer the way I look when I’m wearing it, and the ritual of putting it on in the morning is something I actually quite enjoy.

I would never go into work without the stuff on – as ridiculous as it might sound, I think that it belies a certain level of professionalism to wear make-up to work. You don’t need to go all Joan Collins on the situation, but a little mascara suggests that you have a) the levels of organisation required to wake up in time to put it on before you get into the office (public application of make up has already been dealt with) and b) you take the thing seriously enough not to turn up looking like a slob.

As I get older and more confident, I’m happier to wear less of it than I used to be. Back in the day, I didn’t like leaving the house in anything less than a full face of slap. The week at University that I contracted conjunctivitis from my grotty Californian flatmate (remember her, long-time readers? Jeez. What a trainwreck) saw me attend precisely no lectures being, as I was, unable to wear eye make-up.

It’s now not unheard of for me to head out at the weekends or on days off, bearing nothing more than a little mascara and some tinted moisturiser. And yes, the time and effort saved is great, and no small children seem to have keeled over, eyes bleeding at the sight of my pale face and indistinguishable features.

But it’ll take a bit more convincing for me to give up the slap entirely, convincing mimes of eyelash curlers by fellow commuters notwithstanding.

In which I don't resolve anything. Again.

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 18:54:00 +0000

I didn’t make any resolutions at the beginning of 2011. Having previously failed miserably to stick to any, and thinking that there was nothing particular that I wanted to do, I came to the conclusion last January that I’d just meander along as normal.

As it turned out, meandering along as normal presented me with one of the very best years of my life to date. The end of the year saw me in my twenties with a career I enjoy, a home I own, a boyfriend with whom I’m crashingly in love and a cat who, whilst driving me up the wall, brings me much joy and a facility for depositing leftover hummus. Wins all round, really.

So, this year, I’m not going to make any resolutions either. What’s the point when not doing so meant I didn’t finish the year feeling like a failure for not sticking to a vague notion decided upon at random 12 months beforehand, and when it seems to be the best way of doing things?

There are some things I might like to do at some point in the not too distant future, but I’m not going to resolve to do them in the next 12 months. If they happen, great. If not, there’ll be others.

- Save a bit more money. It’s the grown-up thing to do, after all.

- Finish more books than I abandon at page 100.

- Spend a bit less money. This will probably help with the saving bit.

- Drink less. Alcohol, that is. Not water. I don’t think I’d continue to function with any less water. If it’s not alcoholic or caffeinated, it rarely passes my lips as it is. So, maybe drink more water. Yes, that’s it: less booze, more water.

- Get to Edinburgh more. That place is like balm for my soul, and a visit once every 18 months is not enough.

- Go to the opticians. I honestly can’t tell you exactly when I last went, but I think it was some time around my second year at University. Which, fact fans, was about 2005. Oops.

- Take The Writer to New York. For such a great lover of American literature, culture and sports, the fact he’s not been is bonkers. He’ll love the place, although I might lose him to the 20th floor of 4 Times Square. Although the coffee might tempt him back again.

- Have more dinner parties.

- Moisturise more. Morning and night.

In which I consider what I've learnt this year, 2011 edition

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 09:00:00 +0000

Whether we like it or not, the advent of the year’s end is a natural time to reflect on what’s gone before it, and how things have changed – or otherwise.

2010 seemed, at its close, to have been the year of The Date – good, bad and indifferent. Thankfully, 2011 has been rather different. In fact, as far as these things go, I’d consider that this just gone has been a pretty vintage year in la vie de la Blonde.

I’ve finished the year in a different job, in a company that’s doing highly exciting things, and expanding - globally and rapidly. The clients, although demanding, provide me with challenges that I’ve not had in a while – and a few nice words from people at the top suggest I’m not screwing things up too badly.

I’ve met some bloody incredible people that I would now rather chop off an arm than be without (enter The Redhead, stage left, to name but one).

I’ve contemplated what you can tell about someone from what they put in their supermarket shopping basket, and whether you should date them.

I managed to lose a large portion of my library by lending people books, and never getting them back. But at least I know my friends are reading good books.

I went to New York twice; loved it both times; and learnt that New Yorkers have a different definition of black tie to the rest of us.

I contemplated the relative hotness of Don Draper and Rupert Penry-Jones.

I survived a bomb scare.

I had a suspected pulmonary embolism and was reminded how much I love the NHS.

The neighbours learnt the expensive way that it’s not wise to ignore the Party Wall Act (1996) and put up conservatories on your neighbour’s gardens.

I very nearly gave up on dating altogether.

And just when all that sounds like 2011 wasn’t too rosy, I was reminded that life is actually pretty bloody good.

I got cross that people consider men holding the door open for women is sexism. Because it’s not.

I breathed a sigh of relief that I’ve never met a parent quite like the one who sent that email.

I wrote a letter to my 16 year-old self, which suggests that I’ve learnt a lot.

I decided that intellect is an aphrodisiac.

I got cross that, despite running the pictures of hot A-level students year after year, some journos saw fit to get snotty at the PRs who suggested they do.

Oh, and I didn’t give up on dating in the end. And, er, did quite well out of it.

All in all, a pretty good year. 2012 has much to live up to.

In which I am deeply disappointed by Lego

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 07:00:00 +0000

Blog post: Go! read the subject line in the email from The Writer. Contained within was a simple link to a story in Stylist magazine, about Lego’s new range for girls.

He knows me well. Holy mackerel. I don’t even know where to begin with this one.

As a small child, I had a huge amount of Lego, and loved it. Many happy hours were spent constructing unrecognisable structures and then, when I got a little older, more recognisable houses and hospitals and stables in which to house my Sylvanian Families’ ponies. There were also a few less-than happy hours spent standing on unseen pieces of the stuff and wailing blue murder when they caused irrational amounts of pain to a bare foot.

To enjoy it, all I needed was a box of the stuff and some considerable amount of floor space (and not to stand on the things).

I did categorically not need my Lego to be a specially designed range ‘for girls’, in pink and pastel shades. I didn’t need the figures to be ‘more girly’, with a much skinnier figure and breasts. I didn’t need the sets to be full of flowers, featuring a café, a beauty parlour, something that looks like a stage from X-Factor, a bakery, and a fashion designer’s studio. That there is a token ‘inventor’s workshop’ doesn’t cut the mustard, I’m afraid. Having one set that’s got a science bent isn’t a defence against the accusation that that whole shebang isn’t gobsmackingly patronising.

One of the new all-girl Lego figures. Bleurgh.

By releasing such condescending, stereotypical nonsense, Lego has done away with its USP. It no longer embodies something unique: a toy that appeals to both genders without discriminating between them.

If the people at the top of the Lego tree felt that they needed to make their product more inclusive, why didn’t they feel that they could simply broaden their existing sets? Have a bakery – but have it in the original primary colours. Put female figures into the current Lego sets: I assure you, girls are more than capable of going into space. Just ask Helen Sharman.

And, whilst I’m up here on my soapbox: shame on you, Stylist magazine. For a publication which aims to appeal to intelligent women, you’ve dropped a clanger with that little write-up. No, the toys don’t “have an element of ‘girl power’ about them” – rather the opposite. Shame on you for buying into the marketing spin.

It’s not often that you can look backwards to find examples of more equal attitudes towards women and girls. But it looks like Lego hit their peak in 1981 with the wonderful ad below – because the current direction of travel definitely isn’t this palatable:

UPDATE: Having asked @Lego_Group on Twitter whether this new range might be considered patronising, I had the following response: They are core LEGO construction toys designed to optimize young girls' play preferences as revealed through four years of research. I'm not inclined to believe that's English, let alone an adequate argument. Ho hum.

In which I recommend the titles of the year

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:52:00 +0000

In the second of my things-what-I-enjoyed-in-2011 posts, I bring you entertainment. Things I have watched, and stuff I have read...

Films of the year

The King’s Speech
It was way back in 2010 that I spent a memorable evening on a red carpet wearing Gap as I scurried past Colin Firth and his implausibly beautiful wife looking radiant (and, er, in Prada) in front of the barrage of photographers, but I’ve now seen the film of 2011 three times, with Pa Blonde lining up the DVD to watch over Christmas. Beautifully scripted, acted, lit, shot, scored, it’s more than worthy of its handful of Oscars.

Page One
Not so much a documentary as a love letter to the grand dame of newspapers, the New York Times, Page One is the perfect foil to those of us who demand our news instantly, online, in short snippets and for free. A must-see, if only for the wondrous David Carr bawling out Gawker and the Huff Po in inimitable style.

Life in a Day
It could have been utterly terrible: asking the entire world to document their lives on one specific Saturday, and upload the results to YouTube. I fear had I been relied upon for any part of the final edit, it would have had rather more Radio 4 and mundanity in it than it turned out to. As it is, the film was edited by the very clever Kevin Macdonald and is, by turns, heartbreaking, beautiful, funny and inspiring. And not an episode of the The Archers in sight.

The Lion King 3D
Here’s a terrifying fact: the Lion King was released in 1994. NINETEEN NINETY FOUR. That’s SEVENTEEN years ago. But it was, and remains, one of Disney’s finest and thus it seemed churlish to pass up the chance to see it on the big screen – in 3D, no less. TW and I sat, both with 3D specs over our normal glasses (mmm, hot) and tapped our feet through Circle of Life and – I’ll admit – shed a few tears when Musfasa died. A true classic.

Tangled
Those who know me know I have a deep-seated love of children’s films (in fact, I ended up debating them in depth with a newly-met chap at a party on Saturday. Quite how we got there straight from a heated critique of second-wave feminism, Lord only knows. Oh yes, I have ALL the best party chat). So a new animated Disney affair is an exciting thing. Even if you don’t love animated films, I’d suggest looking this one out. A re-telling of the Rapunzel story, it’s utterly beautiful – the scene with the paper lanterns is particularly magical.

Books of the year

The Line of Beauty
Yes, I’m a bit behind. What of it? (I know. I really should try and keep up. I just need people to stop writing new ones and give me a chance to clear my reading-list backlog.) This is, hands down, the very best book I’ve read this year. Set in the hedonistic 80s, it’s the tale of a young, gay guy who finds himself immersed in London society, framed by the wider themes of politics, aesthetics and AIDS. If you’ve not already, which I imagine most of you have, do yourselves a favour and curl up with it over Christmas. It’s brilliant.

Half the Sky
If you’re after a book that will change the way you look at the world, this is the badger for you. Simply and powerfully, it lays out how many of the problems of the world could be solved by educating and empowering women. If you’ve an XX chromosome, or just a vague sense that somewhere, women get a rum deal, you need to read this.

Room
I’ve read – nay, started – so many uninspiring books this year that I’m rigidly sticking to my ‘100 pages’ rule: if, by that point, I’m not thoroughly gripped, it gets put on the pile for the charity shop. Room I read over three not-very-long train journeys. It’s dark and disturbing, but excellent.

The Suicide Shop
If your sense of humour isn’t so dark that your other half turns to you with alarming regularity to tell you you’re “a bad person” when you’ve found something chucklesome, then this isn’t the book for you. However, if you are able to find amusing the notion of a family owning a shop that sells all the accoutrements for the perfect suicide, then this is the book for you. Read it now, before the film hits the screens next year.

Jump!
Natch.

In which I eat my way through 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 12:41:00 +0000

In the first in a string of admittedly lazy posts revisiting 2011 and things I’ve enjoyed therein, I bring you a list of places I have enjoyed eating this year…

Spuntino, Soho
Yet another of Russell Norman’s brainchildren, the tiny, New York-inspired menu at Spuntino is utterly delicious. The truffled egg toast is possibly the best thing I have ever put in my mouth. They’re also excellent at working out it’s a birthday and putting candles in the dessert without your date noticing until it’s in front of him.

Polpetto, Soho
My exceptionally soft spot for Polpetto might be that it was the scene of dinner on the first day of my first date with The Writer. Or it might be because of the swordfish carpaccio with pomegranate. I’d not take any chances, frankly – get down there pronto and try it for yourself.

The Ledbury, Notting Hill
Fine dining at its best. They do an affordably pricey set lunch for those wanting to try the two-star food without remortgaging.

Max, Tribeca
Food in London is brilliant, but there’s something about food in New York. Maybe it’s the whacking great platefuls, maybe it’s the far friendlier service. Whatever it is, it’s special. Max is no different. A low-lit little Italian in Tribeca, the pasta is beyond delicious, the wine is decent and the whole thing is bargainous. Brilliant.

Fishers, Edinburgh
Bowls of mussels the size of your head (the bowls, not the mussels), and a wondrous three-course meal for two with booze and coffee for £30 each? Winning.

The Outsider, Edinburgh
This place, I love. I’ve loved it since I discovered it way back in 2004, and imagine I will continue to do so for the forseeable. Never once have I had a bad meal there, and anywhere that’s going to serve scallops the size of a steak is in my good books. I’ve made TW promise not to write a rave review and ruin the place for ever.

Brick Box, Brixton Village
Now here’s a place that is almost certainly about to be ruined, with Brixton Village having just been named ‘Best of 2011’ for food in London by Time Out. But, if you can get there before the hoards do, go for Sunday brunch. Have the homemade lemonade, and one of their BRILLIANT pancakes (I like the goats’ cheese). If you’re TW, have four in one sitting, and acquire the nickname ‘The Record Guy’ for every subsequent visit.

Yalla Yalla, West End
Cheap and cheerful, and a place that I can legitimately have supper consist entirely of baba ghanoush and hummus. Perfect for grazey, gossipy dinners with friends you’ve not seen in far too long, and an excellent selection of surprisingly tasty Lebanese wine.

Jane, West Village
I’m sure there are a million and three places to go for Sunday brunch in New York, but I keep going back to Jane. Their Benedict Jane (poached eggs, crab cakes, sautéed potatoes, hollandaise) and a good, spicy Bloody Mary are the perfect way to set yourself up for a afternoon on Museum Mile. Or anything else you could conceivably want to do.

In which I decorate my Christmas tree

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 13:34:00 +0000

Having considered whether men and women can ever be friends, I’ve recently been reminded that it’s not just when it comes to matters of sex and friendship that there’s a small battle raging between the sexes – especially during the festive season.

Last weekend saw Pa Blonde and I head out to a local farm shop to select a suitable Christmas tree for Blonde Towers (and, whilst we were there, blow a small fortune on a shoulder of Gloucester Old Spot pork and a vast amount of cheese. Oh, and some mushroom ketchup. Plus ça change…). Having wandered, and pondered, and debated the merits of the various types of tree, I found myself returning home with a 6ft Nordic spruce, ready to festoon to my heart’s content.

Having forgotten to ask for The (usefully tall) Writer’s help in lugging the decorations down from the loft when he was last at mine, I scooted up the ladder into the attic, miraculously making it back down in one piece, with three large blue Ikea bags full of stuff covered in glitter. Three large Ikea bags, that is, full of red and gold stuff covered in glitter. Because, in my house, Christmas has a colour scheme.

The wreath on the front door is largely golden in amongst the foliage; there are golden and red baubles displayed in tall glass vases; golden garlands around picture frames and up the stairs; and holly berries atop the dresser in the kitchen.

And the same colour scheme applies to the tree: it’s decorated with red baubles, and golden beads; red teardrops and golden lights; and topped with a red and gold star.

It sounds a trifle dull, perhaps, but the effect is warm and glowy and Christmassey, and it’s my house, and I like it, damnit. If my mother had her way, she’d do the same – hers tends to be a snowy silver theme, but when she’s left to tree-decorating devices there is, at least, a theme.

Not so when it comes to Pa Blonde’s aesthetic Christmas ideals.

Whilst I’m definitely in the white light camp, he’s a fan of as many colours as you can get on a string. If they flash, so much the better; and if they flash in time to the horrid, tinny carols they pump out in best Christmas muzak fashion, then he’s the happiest of festive bunnies. And trees, when Pa Blonde gets his way, well, they aren’t so much decorated as they are the victims of abuse; the spoils of decades’ accumulation of stuff thrown indiscriminately from point blank range. Be it 70s-style wicker stars; blue tinsel; or the loo roll-and-cotton wool sheep I made at nursery school some twenty-five years ago, it’s all there under the watchful eye of an aging angel whose wings look as though they’d be less useful in flight than a leaden weight.

Every year chez Blonde, there’s a heated debate between Pa Blonde on one side, and Ma Blonde and I on the other, about whether this is the year of The Beautiful, or The Everything, like we’re living in some mini warped version of the Chinese zodiac. And every year, there’s never agreement. So every year, there are two trees.

There’s one in the sitting room, covered tip to bucket in singing lights, and things that used to be discernable as something that might once have been festive but they’ve been hanging round so long that no one knows any more, and little angels who’ve lost one wing but are there because it’s “equal opportunities decorating”. The other, in the dining room, is understated and elegant, twinkling quietly under its layer of wintery silver style. It is quite possibly what’s kept my parents married so long, despite such strident differing Christmas aesthetics.

Still, the less said about the two 3’ LED reindeers on the front lawn, the better…

In which I wonder whether men and women can just be friends

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 09:23:00 +0000

One evening last week, after being thoroughly spoilt* by The Writer, he and I curled up on the sofa and stuck on the grand dame of romcoms: When Harry Met Sally…

The overarching theme of the film, succinctly put by Harry, is that men and women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way. Even as two people in relationships, men and women can’t be friends: This is an amendment to the earlier rule... The person you're involved with can't understand why you need to be friends with the person you're just friends with. Like it means something is missing from the relationship and why do you have to go outside to get it? And when you say "No, no, no, no, it's not true, nothing is missing from the relationship," the person you're involved with then accuses you of being secretly attracted to the person you're just friends with.

It was at this scene that I turned my head to find TW nodding sagely: “He’s right. Women always think that.”

I thought about this for a moment, all ready to denounce such a daft claim, but then found I couldn’t. Much as I don’t want to, by and large I agree.

Because women do seem to get peculiarly jealous when it comes to their boyfriend’s female friends. I think it’s because they’re seen as a threat – which is particularly daft, really, because if he and she wanted to be sleeping together, you wouldn’t be dating him now, would you?

TW has plenty of female friends, and I have no intention of getting in between him and them. In fact, some of his female friends I’ve met and have now got to know, and thoroughly approve of, thankyouverymuch. Girls who can hold their red wine, and have intelligent discussions about Gerhard Richter are people I very much want to spend time with.

But my stance has no doubt been coloured by my experiences on the other side of the coin: more times than I care to remember, I’ve been the female friend who’s been edged out by a prickly girlfriend. No amount of rationally stating my case; getting very cross; or having my own boyfriend has convinced these women that left alone with their man I wouldn’t take the opportunity to jump him.

It’s ridiculous, frustrating – and, if you’ve been friends with said chap for a good long while before the girlfriend came along, painful. Why should you be down a great friend because some girl has got her insecurities in a twist? Of course, it takes two to wreck a friendship, and in these cases, it’s particularly aggravating when your friend of however many years won’t fight for your friendship against his girlfriend’s neuroses. It’s a powerful maxim, anything for a quiet life.

I’m not saying women are the only people at fault here, by the way. I’m sure there are plenty of possessive male types out there who’d rather tar and feather their girlfriend than have her hang out with a bevvy of boys. I’m just lucky enough never to have come across one – and if I did, I imagine he’d get pretty short shrift. My friends – male and female – are important to me, and I won’t have people dictate whom I’m allowed to spend time with; just as, I might add, I wouldn’t dream of doing to anyone else.

Because, whilst I might love the film in all its 80s-haired glory, I fundamentally disagree with its premise: men and women can be just good friends. And I have a few of them to prove it.

*Dear TW’s Boss: if you’re reading this, I’d be much obliged if you’d see fit to give him every week off. Or, at least, every other week. Because I like it when TW is in my house, baking endless brownies, and preparing exquisite and delectable dinners that are waiting for me when I get in from work. And once a girl’s been shown a manner to which she’d like to become accustomed, it’s mean to take it away again. Thanks ever so.

In which I am a little too free and easy with my kisses

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

Can you let the Americans know they don’t need to join the call later? my boss texted from his meeting one lunchtime this week.

Will do, I replied. And then, in my slightly absent-minded state, focussed as I was on a document in front of me, I went and added that ubiquitous graphical representation of a kiss: x

“I, er, I didn’t mean to be quite so affectionate in that text,” I apologised, when the boss got back to the office.

“No worries,” he said. “I just assumed you were being extra-nice.”

Phew.

Texting is one of those things that’s so easy and quick to do that it’s become second nature (unless you’re Pa Blonde, in which case you’ve only just relinquished the habit of sending text messages in which each letter i s s e p a r a t e d b y a s i n g l e s p a c e).

But, by the same token, the ease of sending a text means that it’s equally easy to send one that’s entirely in error. The embarrassment of superfluous and inappropriate textual kisses, I’ve found, is really quite acute. It starts in the toes and creeps up through the body until there’s a distinct heat burning around one’s ears.

“Urgh,” the thought goes. “I can’t believe I did that… Oh GOD, what if he doesn’t think it was a mistake…?!” &c, driving oneself into a little pit of spiralling discomfiture.

Twitter was quick to empathise and assure me that a quick pictorial peck definitely wasn’t as bad as it could have been with stories of other people’s textual woe…

Yes, signing off a text to the new boss, who you've yet to start working for, with kisses. Been there. Mortified...

I sent a text to boss's boss meant for friend, starting "hello petal" and ending with "big kiss". Eeep.

Sent a potential landlord an all caps text meant for my boyfriend saying 'IN YOUR FACE - BATMAN DID KILL SOMEONE ONCE'.

I once texted a friend telling her the TOP SECRET info that another friend was pregnant.... Then sent it to the preggo friend* instead. *not friend anymore.

It could be worse... you could have sent your boss a text meant for your boyfriend by mistake [I could have done. Thankfully I didn’t. Because I’m sure the content of some of those probably constitutes a sacking offence. Gulp.]

Of course, these scenarios can be easily avoided if you take a wee moment to check, double check, and then check again that you’re definitely sending the right message to the right person. But there’s little you can do to guard against other people’s inaccuracies…

When the boss sends you a saucy text meant for his mistress, whose name is directly after yours in his address book…

Ouch. Still, worth having in the back pocket come review time, I imagine?

In which I like Leonardo da Vinci more than the X Factor, but so do other people

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

Over the past few years, it’s become deeply fashionable to whinge and worry about ‘dumbed down’ Britain.

News stories abound about how the internet is making us stupid and that the general public’s general lack of general knowledge is hitting new and extraordinarily low levels. There are even helpful quizzes online to show us just how dumb we are.

My parents’ generation seems infinitely cleverer than my own. Doing the Times’ crossword with Best Mate’s mother is something of a walk in the part, and I know no one on the planet whose geographical knowledge surpasses that of Pa Blonde. I, on the other hand, quake with fear when it comes to the fight for the blue cheese in a hotly-contested game of Trivial Pursuit (let me assure you: there are no other ways to play board games chez Blonde), rarely able to tell you how to get from A to B, let alone the largest city in Asia by surface area.

And daily evidence does seem to suggest that Generation Y, particularly, inhabits a cocoon in which celebrity magazines proliferate and the nation is gripped by television programmes entirely devoid of merit – intellectual, artistic or otherwise. If you need further proof, do check Twitter during scheduled crowd-pullers, when ever so depressingly, people whose opinions you value and enjoy suddenly out themselves as avid fans of the X Factor – or worse, Made in Chelsea.

But sometimes, things come along that remind us we’re not going to Hell in a handcart.

Small things crop up, like the fact that The Writer is currently reading Plato - just for fun, and that a fellow commuter on the 07.29 is currently choosing to teach himself Japanese on the way to work.

There has been massive love shown for not reality television, or talent shows, but a natural history programme during the past few weeks, and both Social Circle Blonde and the wider media have concurred that Frozen Planet might just be the best thing on telly, ever, purely for the number of penguins per frame. And this follows hot on the heels of Wonders of the Universe, and Professor Brian Cox becoming the first celebrity rockstar physicist the country has ever know.

And, perhaps most hearteningly of all, there were whacking great queues last week for the sold-out show of paintings by Leonardo da Vinci at the National Gallery. Massive online scrambles and heaps people willing to stand in the London cold on a November morning for tickets to high art exhibitions fill me with a deep, deep joy.

Maybe it’s not all as bleak as we think. If only I were better at Geography.

In which I am embarrassed in a church

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

There are some instances when you quite want the world around you to cease to exist before the shame and embarrassment of the situation engulfs you entirely.

This weekend, as I do quite often if I’m in the Home County of a Saturday morning, I got up at a respectable time and wandered into the centre of our little market town to grab the papers, something from the baker for lunch, and to have a cup of coffee with my mother in the local parish church (clarification: they open it for coffee and biscuits on a Saturday morning: we don’t just grab a Starbucks latte and go and sit in a pew. Mostly, I’ll be honest, because we’re the one remaining settlement in the country without a Starbucks, but you get the drift).

The mother being a stalwart of church activity, she is generally surrounded on these occasions by a variety of people, chatting away at her about upcoming fundraising activities, the flower arranging rota, or just general gossip.

I tend to slink in as inconspicuously as possible, have a quick cup of coffee (and, if I’m particularly lucky, a half-decent biscuit) and ten minutes with the mother before pleading ‘stuff to do’ and slinking back out again.

Not so on Saturday morning.

“Blonde!” one of my mother’s friends hollered as I sloped in through the double doors, doing my best to remain unseen and quite clearly failing miserably. “Hello! Come and sit down. How are you? Do you want a cup of coffee? Pat, a cup of coffee for Blonde, please.”

Middle-aged women scurried around bearing trays laden with dirty cups as they cleared tables; others replenished the plates of biscuits, the chocolate hobnobs leapt upon without pretence of politeness by the regulars who know that there’s nothing like a Saturday coffee morning in church to remind you of the maxim if you snooze, you lose.

I kissed the mother on the cheek and sat down, hoping I was going to be able to get out in time to get to the market before the chap on the baked goods stall sold out of the good cherry slices.

“So, Blonde, what are you doing on the first weekend of December?” the mother’s friend asked as I was mid-biscuit.

“I’m away, I’m afraid,” I said through a mouthful of custard cream, rather glad to have an excuse to avoid whatever the inevitable request for help with fundraising was that was coming my way. “It’s my birthday, and I’m going to Edinburgh for the weekend.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said, explaining they were running a Christmas market, the proceeds of which would go into the fund for the new church hall (there’s always something. It used to be the roof; these days, it’s the hall).

“Sorry, maybe next time.”

“Yes, maybe. That sounds like fun, though. Lots of shopping, a little bit of celebrating?”

“I imagine so – although I’m going with the boyfriend, so I imagine there’ll be more eating and drinking than shopping, somehow.”

“Ah, I see!” she said, a glint in her eye. “So it’s not just a birthday weekend away, it’s a dirty weekend away!”

“Damn right it is!” I slurped my coffee, thankful my mother had scurried off somewhere to talk about altar cloths. “And I’m thoroughly looking forward to it…”

Before I could continue, someone behind me gently cleared their throat.

At that moment, unbeknownst to me, my father had wandered in through the doors, bearing the weekend newspapers and other crucial bits of Saturday morning shopping.

And it was just as he sat down in the chair next to me that my mother’s friend had finished her untimely sentence.

I looked from my left, where my mother’s friend was grinning away, taking unparalleled and obvious delight in my predicament, to my right, where my father was quietly munching his way through a Bourbon biscuit, quite clearly trying to pretend he hadn’t heard that his eldest daughter was planning a weekend of drunken birthday debauchery.

“Hi Pa… I, er, didn’t know you were coming in this morning.”

“Hmm,” he said, sitting very still as I leant over to kiss him on the cheek. “Clearly.”

In which I judge people by their books and the covers

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

I am, and always have been, an avid reader. Books, magazines, the back of cereal boxes: put text in front of me and I’ll read it. And one of the (admittedly few) benefits to a longish commute is the chance to read. When I’m not falling asleep on the train both ways, I can plough through a hefty novel in a week. Other commuters (who must get enough sleep at night) and their reading habits are also part of the fun, because there are few better ways to judge people than by what they’ll choose to read in public.

Sadly, this fun has been vastly diminished of late as Kindles have proliferated (other e-readers are available). It’s now impossible to judge a person by their book’s cover, the Kindle’s grey plastic giving no clue as to the quality (or otherwise) of the literature (or otherwise) within, leaving people to read tripe in public free from the judgment of their peers.

(Although I did see a chap on the Victoria line this week taking this logic to its extremes, holding a small copy of the Bible inside his Kindle cover. Can I check, just for the record: it’s okay still to read paper books, right? They’re surely now not so passé that we’re disguising our hard copies inside an electronic disguise?!)

I’m terribly guilty of judging people by what they read, and fully expect the same treatment from others. I personally felt that the recent debate on WH Smith’s placement of “women’s fiction” rather missed the point: whilst deeply patronising, it’s quite useful to have the pink-covered monstrosities segregated from the proper reading – that way, I know exactly what to avoid. Because whilst I’m happy to have a stock of books I euphemistically declare ‘comfort reading’, and that I never take out in public, I sure as hell know that, even in bed on a dreich November night after a horrific day at work, I want nothing to do with any novel that has an illustration of a shopping bag on the front.

I’m more than happy to admit that I’ll choose which books I read, and when, based on the location in which I’m going to be reading them. Harry Potter is strictly for private consumption; recent commute-reads have been Somerset Maugham, and a selection of literary fiction in translation from the new indie bookshop near the office.

Of course, there is always someone willing to go one better.

“But everything you read is comfort fiction,” said TW the other day, as I attempted to mount a defence of the copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe on my bedside table. I’d dispute that, saying that there’s absolutely nothing comfortable about Jean Teulé’s Eat Him if You Like, but it’s hard to argue with someone whose idea of reading for fun generally comprises weighty biographical tomes and in-depth studies of US counter-terrorism and foreign policy, and who’s currently working his way through Plato (I maintain first year Philosophy at university was enough to put me off for life and choose to believe that my literary fiction is quite respectable enough, thanks all the same).

And he’s not the only one.

Some while ago, I scrambled onto a train heading out of London to find myself surrounded by people reading only thelondonpaper or London Lite, the evening freesheets, heavy on the slebs and light on the news, and both of which are now defunct.

Feeling particularly smug that I had something a little more taxing on my person, I proudly pulled out a copy of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and settled into my seat to read.

A few short moments later, I noticed the chap opposite look at me and then look at my book. There was a brief pause before he reached into his bag, rummaged a little, and withdrew a copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses. He looked at me, and set it down on the table between us, not opening it, but going back to his paper instead.

The lesson from which is probably judge not, lest ye be judged – something my Bible-reading friend could have told me, and a diktat which people’s bloody e-readers seem to be enforcing on their own anyway.

In which I don't read the Daily Mail

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

It was on Saturday morning during a break from attacking the duvet cover with a lint roller and cursing Colin for being so damned fluffy that I saw a tweet from a PR for whom I had much sympathy.

Bought the Mail for the 1st time in years today (client coverage), it really is like entering an alternate universe.

The Mail isn’t my paper of choice either (and then some), but being a PR sometimes necessitates that we buy publications that fall outside our normal reading habits.

Of course, one might argue this is no bad thing. It’s remarkably easy to get sucked into a media diet of opinions concurrent with one’s own, and suddenly you can find yourself viewing the world through unconsciously self-imposed, but very narrow lens.

I read The Times on a daily basis, and the BBC site. I like Time and the Economist and the New Yorker and, on a Saturday when I have a bit more time, I’ll also pick up the Telegraph (although that’s mainly for the GK crossword when I’ve been beaten by the Times’).

From that little list, you can probably tell an awful lot about me, and if I always stuck within those media realms, I’d get a very particular view of the world. But, because of my job, I don’t: I read a whole host of other publications too, which is invaluable in broadening the mind, and testing one’s views on almost everything.

Of course, reading outside one’s comfort zone has its dangers and can, on occasion, inspire fearsome rage. I don’t read The Spectator because it makes me cross enough to spit; The Writer very nearly had a meltdown over croissants on Sunday morning over something that had been said in The Observer; and the Guardian has the same effect on me almost every time I pick up a copy – the sneering articles about how dreadful posh people are annoy me greatly, and the less said about the spelling, the better.

I don’t buy celeb magazines – something I was told off for in my previous job, because it meant that I wasn’t in touch with a huge swathe of public opinion (little wonder that I’ve decided I prefer corporate to consumer PR). Horribly snobby maybe, but I just don’t care: life is too short to look at pictures of the latest X-Factor contestant’s armpit hair, and frankly I’d far rather read something more intellectually engaging. Or poke myself in the eye with a pencil. Whichever comes to hand first.

But then, maybe I should. Maybe it would do me good to get down off my high horse and discover what’s so compelling about the reams of celebrity gossip – because given the immense popularity of celebrity magazines, there’s clearly something in it. And while I’m at it, maybe I should give the New Statesman another whirl and see if this time I can get through an entire issue without being cross enough to burst into flames.

And perhaps those of us who quite wish they’d lock up the Mail’s Liz Jones – and not just for crimes against feminism, quality journalism and sanity, but for theft as well – should indulge a little more in Melanie Phillips’ views on immigration.

If nothing else, proper immersion in arguments on the other side can test our views, and see whether our arguments stand up. It better informs us about differing views on the world, and gives us a much broader understanding of what’s going on. Or else it induces such levels of crossness that we spontaneously combust in a fit of rage thus negating the need ever to read anything ever again.

In which I am lied to

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 10:22:00 +0000

“No, you of course you don’t look fat in that”; “God, no – I love what you’ve done to your hair”; “the cheque’s in the post” (although the latter is rather less successful in these days of internet banking and, er, no cheques).

Little white lies are critical in maintaining the ebb and flow of everyday life: they are the lubricant in the hamster wheel of life. Without them, people would have to tell the truth all the time, and I am pretty damned certain the world would be a worse place for it.

Because whilst we’re all told as small children that honesty is the best policy, it becomes clear rather too quickly that it’s not always the case. A gentle “you look a little tired today” is vastly preferable to “holy mackerel, I had no idea human beings could even look so grey.”

It’s a phenomenon of which I was reminded during a recent end-of-day phonecall with The Writer…

Now, it goes without saying that, if you’re a girl who’s not recently graced the covers of Vogue, mere mention of supermodels is enough to make you reach for the chocolate, safe in the knowledge that even in a million years, 999,999 of which are spent either in the gym or under the knife, you are never, ever, ever going to look like that.

So learning that one’s boyfriend has spent a proportion of his day sitting opposite a leggy beauty with porcelain skin and an incredible rack and amazing lips and hair down to her (definitely not childbearing) hips doesn’t fill a girl with self-confidence.

That he was there in a professional capacity merely to talk about her latest PR tie-up doesn’t change the fact that she’s a leggy beauty with porcelain skin and an incredible rack and amazing lips and hair down to her (definitely not childbearing) hips.

But, love him, he did the decent thing: he lied.

Not about the fact that he interviewed her, nor how hot she was, because there’s no point in fibbing about that: you can say that Gisele looks like the back end of a bus all you like – it doesn’t make it true, and it doesn’t make anyone feel better about the large slice of office birthday cake they had earlier in the day. No, he was far cleverer about it.

“I spent lunchtime interviewing Hot Supermodel for this latest thing she’s doing,” TW said as he pottered around his kitchen and I lay in bed trying to stop the cat chewing my toes through the duvet.

(There was a split second pause whilst I mentally reached for the chocolate.)

“Oh, really? How was she? Is she really hot?” (I know, I know – I don’t help myself.)

“Yeah,” said TW, faint crashing noises in the background.

And then, without missing even a heartbeat: “She’s really dull, though.”

And suddenly, just four little words from a man who’s previously dumped women on the grounds of their not being intellectually up to scratch, made me feel that, maybe, being a leggy beauty isn’t the be-all and end-all.

Give the man a medal. And pass the chocolate.

In which I suffer a split personality

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 07:00:00 +0000

I’m coming to the conclusion I have something of a split personality. It came to me as, in a rush, I shrugged on a pair of jeans one morning this week and scrambled out the front door.

Because, as so often happens on a Monday, the jeans I’d so hastily grabbed from the drying rack in the spare bedroom weren’t entirely dry, having been put through the wash at the last possible minute the night before. And, in my determination to get out of the door and to the station before the train left, it took the time between putting them on, hurtling down the stairs, grabbing a sandwich and a couple of satsumas from the fridge and chucking them in my bag, scrabbling round in the hall and then dashing back upstairs to find the right black shoeboots, putting said shoeboots on, throwing on a jacket and scarf, dashing to the station and getting on the train before I realised I was enveloped in a faint sense of damp.

Depressingly, if I’m honest, it wasn’t an event that’s completely out of character – at least, in my personal life.

At work, by contrast, I’m the model of organisation. My life is ruled by lists – weekly, daily, by client, by impending meeting, by priority, by the hour. There’s vast white space on the desk, and the stationery is tidied away in one of those little pen pots. Notes are meticulously kept, in several colours, in a very large notebook, and emails are carefully flagged in different colours, and filed by client and project. I have all necessary email addresses and phone numbers, and if I don’t, I know who I have to talk to in order to get them. I have the ability to tell you exactly what time is it in New York at the drop of a hat, as well as the dialling codes for France and Switzerland, and I am alarmingly punctual for meetings

At home? Not so much. It’s possibly not that much of a surprise. I clearly I use all my capacities for organisation whilst I’m at work, leaving no wiggle room to be able to manage my life admin satisfactorily the rest of the time.

Which is why I do things like wear damp jeans to work. Or have three answerphone messages sitting on the home phone for weeks at a time. Or have a study desk entirely covered entirely with old post, electrical cables from long-dead laptops and ratty old t-shirts with holes that haven’t yet made it to the bin, but no room to actually do things like, y’know, work.

Or fall over the cat whilst baking and end up with a floor covered in cranberry and vanilla blondies. Or neglect to take out the cash to pay the cleaner, necessitating late-night trips in jogging bottoms and flip flops to the newsagent to buy an entirely unnecessary Freddo, merely for the cashback. Or lose one’s glasses and not find them in time to go to the cinema, thus watching films in prescription sunglasses.

Or put the shopping away so absently-mindedly that one discovers some hours later that there’s a packet of vine tomatoes on the bathroom shelf, but a box of tampons next to the lettuce in the fridge. Or have various things in the fridge past their use-by date, leaving you to serve your boyfriend manky coffee with his croissants and Observer (I know, I know. I’m working on him. I’ve at least got him to read The Times on a Saturday). Or not have a spare top in the office for emergencies (read: unexpected stays at said boyfriend’s), resulting in your wearing the same outfit two days in a row, but on the second day accessorised with an expensive – man’s – scarf that aforementioned said boyfriend picked up at a press day.

Still, I should be grateful really. With such a capacity for my total lack of satisfactory life admin, I should thank the lucky stars things do get done at work – and that at home, there’s nothing too much worse than damp jeans to worry about.

In which I nearly come a cropper of North African immigration control systems

noreply@blogger.com (Blonde) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 07:00:00 +0000

I mentioned in a recent post that there was an incident some while ago in which PolitiGal and I found ourselves in an alarming situation which looked horribly like we weren’t going to be allowed to leave Tunisia.

It all boiled down to a simple misunderstanding, as these things so often do. But that’s not to detract from the fact that the imminent possibility of a Tunisian jail is a scary, scary thing.

We’d arrived in the country last autumn, fortuitously pre-Arab Spring, for a week of by-the-pool lazing and reading terribly clever and worthy books on policy and aging (PG) and Jilly (me). Having landed in the middle of the night, we queued semi-patiently for what seemed like hours in a stuffy, non-air conditioned customs hall.

Apparently frustrated at his colleague processing the incoming visitors at snail’s pace, one official took it upon himself to chivvy along the ending of his shift by merrily waving us past the desk, no passports checked. Of course, at 1am in a Tunisian airport in close proximity to a bored-looking man with a rifle, one is inclined to do as one’s told and hang the consequences.

Which was all fine until we came to leave, and the consequence was that neither PG nor I had the requisite stamp in our passports to say that we’d been satisfactorily processed into the country.

It all started off happily enough – the customs official took a cursory flick through PG’s passport, and waved her through, and then called me forward.

He looked at my passport, rifled a few pages to find the right stamp and, when he couldn’t, paused. I froze. PG scurried back.

The guard at the desk peered at us.

“Why you not have stamp?”

“We were waved through by your colleague when we got here.”

“No possible.”

“Yes, possible. It’s what happened,” I said.

He motioned for PG’s passport and, on closer inspection, found hers was missing the right documentation too.

PolitiGal cracked out her best I’m English and about to get cross: don’t mess with me voice. “It was very late when we arrived, and your colleague waved a whole lot of people through customs without our passports being checked.”

“You here illegally.”

“No, we’re not. We were doing as we were told by your colleague.” Mine was slightly louder, slightly firmer, and just a touch crosser.

“Hmph.”

The guard peered again at our stampless passports, got up from his desk and took them with him to converse with a colleague at another station. Some muttering ensued.

He came back. “This no right. You should have stamp.”

“LOOK,” I said, hoping that the crossness masked the utter terror I felt, whilst running a mental checklist of people who’d be able to call terribly good human rights lawyers who’d rescue us at the drop of a hat, à la Bridge.

“Yes,” PG chimed in, slowly, loudly, clearly and firmly. “This is not our fault – we were just following instructions.” Ah, if ever there was an English get-out, it’s that: the ‘reverence for authority’ card . “If there is a problem, could we speak to someone else. Your colleague told us what to do, and you’re going to make us miss our flight.”

The guard took another look at our passports, and looked up at us. Behind us was a long queue of people, and in front of him stood two stroppy English women, getting increasingly vociferous.

He exhaled heavily.

“Pffft… Go, then. But next time…” He eyed us carefully as we snatched the passports back from his grip and ran as fast as is possible in flip-flops to the relative safety of the departure lounge.

Revolutions notwithstanding, I don’t think there’ll be a next time, somehow.