Spotted over the past five days:

1. A young man roller-skating down a main street near our house, loaf of bread in one hand, shopping bag of groceries in the other.
2. A young woman roller-skating down Bethnal Green High Street clutching a briefcase.
3. A middle aged man inspecting the different ranges of compost available at our local Homebase – yes, on roller-skates.

Although I proudly passed my level 1 roller-skating certificate at age 9 (ripping round the rink to our local roller-skating classic ‘(Are You Ready) Do the Bus-stop’ by the Fatback Band without crashing even once), I cannot possibly conceive roller-skating down a busy London street with both hands full not expecting to die.

So what’s going on? Are we in the midst of some kind of roller-skating revival at the moment? Is this the new, trendy alternative to bicycles? Do people just like dicing with death? And more importantly, are any of you closet roller-skaters?

Me and the medical profession don’t generally get along. I blame this entirely on all the arrogant, boozy, snorting and downright weird student doctors, opticians, dentists and psychologists that I was unfortunate enough to know at university. Ever since then, I’ve been suspicious of any medical practitioner who for example, leaves the room or even looks in a desk drawer during my consultation – I just know that they’re anxiously looking through crib notes because they can’t remember the proper name or symptoms of the particular problem I’m describing.*

My least favourite routine medical examination is having my eyes tested. Now I’ve worn glasses since I was 10, I have had a lot of eye tests in my time and I should be used to the procedure. It is not embarrassing, intrusive or even boring. People have phobias of dentists, no one has issues with opticians.

No, the problem is that it is an exam, a series of questions which you need to get right or else you are stuck with the wrong prescription –  which will ruin your eyes, give you terrible, terrible headaches and destroy your life for ever more. Well, that’s what’s going through my head anyway.

So for me, the eye test is pure nerves driven adversarial combat.

Before the test even begins, I am on the defensive. In that semi-dark room with my glasses off, I am in a state of pitiful weakness - I can’t even see the eye chart, let alone the letters on it. Secondly, I am wearing the weirdo test goggles which make you look a mad Victorian spectacle inventor.

Then the grilling starts:

‘Can you read the fifth line of letters on the chart in front of you?’

Of course I bloody well can’t, you’ve got my glasses and you’re making me look through this stupid thing which clearly doesn’t have any proper lenses in it.

‘Aha, didn’t think you could! But don’t worry, let’s put some lenses in. Now which one of these two images looks clearer? Number one or two?’

Ok, starting off easy. Number one is definitely clearer.

‘How about this one?’

Two. I think…

‘And this?’

One, or…. maybe two, actually. Yes, two.

‘And this. One or two?’

Errr… they seem similar. Maybe number two…

‘Are you sure?’

So it’s not two then? Mild panic.

‘How about this? Which is better? One or two?’

Two? No, what did I say last time? Is it one? Can you show me them again?

‘Yes, of course. One, two, one.’

They look the same. How can that be right?!

‘Ok, let’s go back to the first chart I showed you. Can you read the fifth line of letters now?’

Yes, but what’s that second row of tiny, tiny letters I can now see underneath? Should I be able to read that? Who can read that? Superman?

Thank God it’s over for another two years.

* This is based on an anecdote from a final year med student I knew in 1994 who, when complaining to his lecturer that it was all very well cramming for exams but how would he remember it in the surgery, was informed me that he should keep a set of medical encyclopaedias in the anteroom to his office that he could sneak out and read under the pretext of washing his hands. The lecturer probably thought that this was a particularly hilarious joke.

Our local council has been embroiled in a long-running farrago regarding the local cinema. Walthamstow’s EMD cinema was once a much-loved Granada cinema, complete with 30s décor and Christie organ. In addition to the screens, the cinema was built with top-notch staging so in the 50s and 60s the likes of Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly, The Beatles, The Kinks and The Stones played there. In recent years though, the cinema has fallen into decline and now it lies unused in a fairly miserable state.

However, those trusty friends of the large historic building, Christian evangelicals (in this case the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God, UCKG) have come to the rescue. Like Finsbury Park Astoria, they have bought the building and plan to transform it into a place of worship.

There has been much public outcry and local campaigning against this decision. Waltham Forest is the only London borough not to have a cinema, people have a genuine fondness for the traditional Grade II* listed cinema and there is very little trust in our local council anyway, particularly its attitude towards regeneration, the arts and heritage. None of this is helped by the fact that there are rumours that various cinema operators have proposed viable plans for refurbishing the EMD and running it as a profitable venue again, but have been rejected by the council. It is all a long, sorrowful story of mistrust between the local authority, the church and cinema campaigners.

So far so typical, sadly enough. This week though, two quotes from local councillors have really made me wonder what world I’m living in.

Councillor Matt Davis: ‘Do you not think the council needs to manage people’s expectations on the EMD, and make it clear that people can get Mick Jagger out and bunches of kids protesting but it won’t make a difference?’

Councillor Terry Wheeler: ‘[a new church will be] more attractive, to particularly young people, than a modified cinema.’

What is happening when public protests (even if they include Mick Jagger) are dismissed so out of hand? And more to the point, what kind of world is it where the council can even think about claiming that a church will more appealing to young people than a cinema?

I’m so out of touch with young people though these days that I wouldn’t have a clue. Maybe he is right. Maybe religion is more appealing to the ‘yoof’ than movies. This can’t possibly be true, can it?

Lynsey De Paul
Sugar Me

This week’s song of the week is dedicated to Mr Five-Centres. F-C recently pointed out the sad fact that Lynsey De Paul’s ‘Sugar Me’ is one of those long-lost songs which is strangely hard to track down on CD.

Fortunately I happen to own a copy and the reason I do is largely thanks to an Australian actress called Abigail. Abigail caused minor controversy in Australia in the early 70s thanks to her sexed-up crumpet role in Channel 10 soap opera Number 96, a show where  her clothes apparently managed to fall off on a regular basis. I am fortunate enough never to have actually seen Number 96, but I have witnessed Abigail’s contribution to one of Australia’s dodgiest films, Alvin Purple, and well, if you’re in any way a fan of the bawdy-70s-sex-comedy genre, then you should check it out.

But that’s all by the by, because in addition to Abigail’s acting career, she (of course) tried her hand at singing and it was her version of  ‘Sugar Me’ that I first heard. And happily, Abigail’s unsubtly sexy purring didn’t quite manage to disguise the quality song underneath.

When I eventually tracked down Lynsey De Paul’s  original, I was initially shocked by how fabulously sultry it is – especially considering her less… overt appearance. Boy, is it better than Abigail’s take, way better.

So the point to this ramble is? Well there isn’t one, sorry. Just enjoy this top tune.

‘Sugar Me’, Lynsey De Paul, 1972

Download audio file (sugar_me.mp3)

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Desperate times call for desperate measures I guess.

Last Friday morning, in a hotel room in Greece, I switched on the TV. You can guess what was on – wall to wall stories covering the demise of the King of Pop (TM). One of the many talking heads dragged out for the occasion happened to mention that the great thing about music is how it defines those ’special moments’ that you will never forget and how, of course,  Michael Jackson provided those moments for many people.

Sadly, although I like his music, Michael Jackson has largely failed to supply me with any personal ’special moments’. Happily though, another group created a ’special moment’ for me that very same day.

We had decided to go on a cruise around some of the Ionian islands associated with the Onassis family (as recommended by Planet Mondo). The morning started off bright and sunny, all was picture perfect as we smoothly glided through the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. ‘This is the life’ people said to each other with big, stupid grins on their faces.

Mid-morning though things started to change: the wind picked up, dark clouds started to loom ominously in the distance and the boat began to sway. By the time we were scheduled to leave our final destination, a lunch stop in Nydri, Lefkada, the sky was dark and it had started to spit. We all hurried back to the boat looking nervously upwards.

Back onboard, the cheery staff decided that what we all clearly needed to buck us up was a blast of the world’s real favourite superstars, ABBA. So with astonishingly well co-ordinated timing, someone hit play on the CD player and ‘Dancing Queen’ burst out mid-song with Frida and Agnetha singing ‘having the time of your life’ precisely at the same time that the heavens opened - thunder crashed, lightning cracked, the boat lurched viciously, people clutched their stomachs, children cried, torrential rain poured, everyone got drenched and a boatload of holiday making Brits, Germans and Swedes failed to be amused.

And as we all sat there with towels wrapped around us, shivering as fresh blasts of rain attacked us all the way home, everyone gritted their teeth, glared silently into space and enjoyed the comforting sounds of a careful selection of ABBA’s most inappropriately chirpy numbers. It was a moment.

But other than that, the holiday was great.

The Andrews Sisters
Rum and Coca-Cola

A left-over bottle of coke, the sole remains of a recent dinner party, is currently languishing in our fridge. Since the other half only drinks Irn Bru and beer it is up to me to save it from undrunk misery. Unfortunately I don’t like coke much either – unless it is mixed with ice-cream or rum that is.

I suspect that my taste for that rum and coke cocktail classic, the Cuba Libre, stems from my equal fondness for this Andrew Sisters tribute. Close listening to the song though reveals that ‘Rum and Coca-cola’, far from a being a happy ditty about GIs enjoying a drink or two, is actually about women prostituting themselves ‘for the Yankee dollar’.

Be that as it may, it’s still a top tune – perfect for swallowing down a Cuba Libre and getting you into the summery holiday mood. Speaking of which, I’m off on holiday this weekend (yes, again) so see you in a week or so.

Cuba Libre
1 and 3/4 white rum
juice of one fresh lime
coca-cola

Pour the juice, then the rum into a highball glass and finish with coke. Bung on a wedge of lime if you can be bothered.

‘Rum and Coca-Cola’, The Andrews Sisters, 1944

Download audio file (rum_and_cocacola.mp3)

I was standing on the pavement this lunchtime, waiting for the lights to change and immersed in my own thoughts when I gradually became aware that the man standing next to me was shooting peculiar looks in my direction. I think I had vaguely patted my hair down and checked to see that I hadn’t tucked my skirt into my tights before I realised what the problem was.

I seemed to have Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonders dreadful paean to racial harmony ‘Ebony and Ivory’ in my head. Worse, I seemed to be singing/humming it out loud. No wonder he was looking at me strangely.

I don’t know where it came from, how it got into my head or what my sub-conscious could possibly have been thinking but there was no denying that this dreadful song was emitting from my mouth. I smiled sweetly at the man in question as the lights changed and scuttled off embarrassed.

If this is proof of work stress, then we can only be thankful that I don’t work in international relations.

I am not a huge fan of festivals. Standing in a field of mud, getting wet, getting sunburnt, queuing for hours for a drink, queuing for hours for the loo, your favourite band playing a remarkably average set somewhere in the middle distance, getting bored and leaving before the headlining act comes on… no, music festivals were never my cup of tea to begin with.

But what really stops me from going to festivals is other people. As a time-honoured music snob, I’ve been long convinced that most people who go to festivals do not actually like music. Festivals are just another item on the social calendar, another ‘experience’ that needs to be ticked off by the cool and the trendy. Why else would someone pay ££££ to see a load of great bands, then just proceed to talk/pass-out/take endless photos of themselves and their designer wellies through the gig? Basically, the kind of people who go to festivals are the kind of people I would prefer to avoid.*

So you’ll understand how delighted I was to see a new shop open in Spitalfields recently which is entirely dedicated to making the festival experience even easier for this kind of person. It is called the Marsh-mallow Festival Boutique.

This clearly much-needed addition to the cultural life of East London not only sells tickets to festivals, but all the festival accessories you could ever need – designer wellies and waterbottles, cool sleeping bags (as seen on The Apprentice apparently), ’stylish’ hats, ‘in’ umbrellas, eco-friendly plastic macs and limited edition Raybans – everything the cool, trendy person could possibly need to make their summer festival experience one to remember.

Except liking music perhaps.

* with apologies to all the people reading this who um, like going to festivals – I’m sure you’re all very nice really and didn’t buy a £129 pair of wellies especially for the occasion.

Well, spare a thought for Liberty, this countries main defender of British human rights. As a dutiful member, I went off to the 75th Anniversary conference last Saturday for a day largely devoted to intelligent and thought provoking discussion and debate about civil liberties and the governments usurping of them. Speakers as diverse as Yasmin Alibhai-Brown, Tony Benn, Nick Clegg and er, Jon Gaunt spoke eloquently about the impact of id cards, anti-terrorism laws, police powers, freedom of speech and constitutional reform (if only we had a constitution to reform).

Then Liberty Trustee Dame Vivienne Westwood came to the platform. Did she arouse the audience with inspired rhetoric about protecting human rights in these challenging times? Or even share some amusing anecdotes about her life in fashion? No. Instead she treated us to a spectacularly random rant which encompassed everything from climate change and The Times’ book review section not taking it seriously to the BBC failing to commission her idea for a TV show about 7 year old painters who are very talented you know, and how she doesn’t like TV anyway, or the internet either because the only good thing about the internet is that it tells the truth about things like 9/11 which was a clearly an inside job and everyone knows this but won’t admit to it and what is wrong with the world today and what is wrong with Any Questions?, that show just doesn’t make any sense does it because no one ever asks any proper questions and where do they get those stupid people from anyway?

By the end the audience were openly snickering and the panel she was sitting on (including MP Diane Abbott and journalist Kate Adie) were shifting nervously in their seats.

You could argue that this is exactly the sort of presentation you would expect from an eccentric known for bringing bondage trousers, razor blades and safety pins to the world of fashion or that the audience response was pure snobbishness from a typical liberal lefty audience. Both are probably right, but either way, Dame Vivienne’s performance made me feel pathetically grateful for my work’s motley bunch of trustees.

I’m in love with a man called Ira Glass. Before we went away on holidays I was moaning on here about my technology addiction. This is partly because of Ira Glass.

Ira hosts This American Life, a weekly one-hour programme on Chicago Public Radio that I’ve been slavishly following via podcast for the past couple of months. For those who don’t know it, This American Life is an hour of themed stories about… er, American life. It’s kind of hard to describe. I could say that it is like how Home Truths on Radio 4 used to be, but less twee. However, it would probably be kinder to compare This American Life to The New Yorker. The New Yorker’s writing is so good you find yourself reading about things you don’t even like; in This American Life the  journalism is so good you find yourself listening to things you never knew that you were interested in.

Over recent months This American Life has played havoc with my life. I almost burnt the tea when I was suckered into a segment about a man who clones his favourite bull. I stayed an extra half hour at the gym to hear about a ghost who plays pranks on guests at a hotel in Wisconsin. I missed a train because I was listening so intently to someone’s story of driving around Utah interviewing schizophrenics as their own life was falling apart. I had to wipe tears from my eyes on the way to work because I was so moved by a writer recounting how, despite being an ardent atheist, his mother’s death has found him sitting in empty churches.

And Ira Glass holds it all together somehow, weaving these disparate stories into a satisfying and compelling whole. He also has the kind of voice that I could listen to forever. This American Life is the perfect radio package.

If you’re in anyway a nosy person who finds other people’s lives endlessly fascinating then you have to listen to it. But get to it - we’ve got 14 years to catch up on.

Just a few months ago I’d been happily conversing with Mrs H. in the hallway. She was proud of her grandchildren going to university, annoyed with tiresome salesmen trying to flog her satellite TV and wondering whether there was an optimum time to cut the hedge. Although several decibels louder than usual, conversation was normal, lucid and flowing. Things were fine.

Then we noticed that Mrs H. was starting to forget things and beginning to repeat herself. Her daughters noticed too and arranged for a daily visit from a care worker to check that she was alright. Mrs H. confided in us that she hated this. There seemed to be different carer everyday and they always bossed her around – of course she’d remember to take her medicine, she didn’t need to be told what to do. I empathised with her, but told her that it was always good to have another reminder, we all forget things sometimes. Yes, she agreed, sometimes she did forget little things.

Then Mrs H. forgot something big. A few weeks ago I was awoken by the sound of someone trying the key in our door downstairs. I went to investigate. Mrs H. was there, fully dressed, smart with her handbag in the corridor. She was upset, she wanted to go shopping but couldn’t get back into her flat. It was 4am. Her door was open and she had confused her flat, where she has lived for more than 20 years, for ours. I gently tried to explain the problem, escorted her to her bedroom and helped her take off her shoes. Although she trusted me, she didn’t seem to know who I was or what she had been doing.

And now this morning, Mrs H. was again lost, bewildered and confused. I dare say we don’t see much more of her. Like the man next door who we used to share gardening tips and beers with over the back fence – he ‘had a fall’, was taken away and we found all his possessions in a skip out the front of the house – her long life on our suburban street will probably come to an abrupt end.

God, I fear old age.

Sneaking away from the parents, we decided to hit the town in Polperro, the small fishing village in South Cornwall where we were staying the other week.

We head to pub number one. W. has heard that Richard James is playing there that night and is convinced that we should visit – just in case it is the same Richard James who is the Aphex Twin. Of course it isn’t. But whoever this Richard James is, he is incredibly popular and we can’t get in the door.

Pub number two advertises its wares on a hoarding outside: ‘Half price Stella during half time – we show ALL the matches’. The place is empty. We decide to follow the advice of the absent crowd.

Pub number three sports a ‘rock guitarist’ as their main attraction and as there seems to be more than two people in there and this is the only pub left in town, we head straight on in.

In the corner, the rock guitarist struts his stuff. Imagine the type of guitarist who refuses to give in to old age and hair loss, who cites his musical heroes as David Gilmour and Gary Moore, has a wardrobe crammed with identical black jeans and black t-shirts and who is proudly fighting a long running battle against ‘the man’ and the hairdresser, and you’ll be able to picture exactly the kind of rock guitarist that I mean.

The rock guitarist is thoroughly immersed in some complicated fretwork and is oblivious to the world. Which is good – at least someone is enjoying themselves. The audience clearly aren’t. Two elderly ladies sit with small glasses of wine carefully placed in front of them and look at their fingernails, a middle aged couple  silently glower at each other in another corner, a younger pair frantically ignore each other, talking with other more interesting people via text, a possible contender for town drunk holds up the bar, ‘entertaining’ the bored barmaid with apparently well-worn anecdotes.

We have a great time though. The others may not be  appreciating the rock guitarists impressive ability to insert lengthy solos into songs you never knew had them, but we do. Let me tell you, it takes talent to transform Bryan Ferry’s  ‘Let’s Stick Together’ from a 3 minute pop song into a 10 minute anguished Pink Floyd style epic.

Gradually more people start to drift in and enjoy the music. Sadly though just as the place reaches the critical mass required for ‘a good time’, it is the end of the rock guitarists shift and he packs up. So do we.

Jerry Fuller
A Double Life

I’d like to dedicate this weeks somewhat early song of the week to myself – for I will be leading a double life over the next 9 days. You see, I am going away to Cornwall with my parents.

Putting aside the fact that I haven’t spent this much time on a ‘holiday’ with my parents for at least 10 years, I will in addition be struggling with my double ‘technology’ life. In short, I am addicted to email, to the internet, to this blog, to various podcasts and to my ipod. To say that my parents are not sympathetic to this condition is an understatement. It will be a week of trying to bury my withdrawal symptoms under a pile of cream teas and Sharp’s bitter rather than face their barrage of cynical jibes about me being a needy victim of fad technology. I know that I am not alone in this weakness so any sympathetic thoughts would be much appreciated. Just send them to: the woman without an ipod or 3G phone, Polperro, Cornwall.  

But enough of me, listen to Jerry Fuller. I picked this Ace CD up on a whim and haven’t regretted it yet. He did rockabilly, he did soul, he did R&B, he did Byrds and Dylan rip-offs. He probably would have done email and the Mark Kermode/Simon Mayo film podcast if he could have.

‘Double Life’, Jerry Fuller, from A Double Life: The Challenge Recordings 1959 – 1966, Ace, 2008

Download audio file (double_life.mp3)

Camera Obscura
If Looks Could Kill

Being a sad fan, of course I rushed out and bought the new Camera Obscura album, My Maudlin Career, this month. It’s very good, but so far nothing has leapt out and lodged itself in my head quite as much as this single from their last album.

So hit play, turn it up loud and pretend that Phil Spector and his weird hair aren’t languishing in a gaol somewhere, but hanging out in Glasgow with serious looking girls who wear hair slides.

‘If Looks Could Kill’, Camera Obscura, from Lets Get Out of This Country, Elefant, 2006

Download audio file (if_looks_could_kill.mp3)

Last week, thanks to some work colleagues, I had a nasty flashback to my youth. Back, back I went to the dark, dingey dive that constituted the one nightclub in our country town. Think painted up young women dancing around handbags, blokes leering over lager, blaringly distorted top 40 music, couples snogging in darkened corners, people passing out on sticky floors by 10pm and 2-for-1 offers on the sort of cocktails where you go straight from a sugar high to feeling strangely queasy as soon as you stand up, and you’ll know the sort of place I mean.

If I was being cruel I might describe this as a typical Australian night out for people of a certain age. It was definitely something I hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

So it was with bemusement that I witnessed this same scenario taking place again just last week. This time the location was a  dark, dingey bar in the City of London (known as ‘the financial centre of the world’ until last year), and my town’s shop girls and army jerks were replaced by corporate lawyers and management accountants. And as I sipped on my 2-for-1 Pina Colada, which tasted more like sugar than rum, and watched my 19 year old colleague get her bum pinched to Beyonce whilst a man did ‘amusing’ things with his tie, I reflected on the universality of horrible bars and nightclubs.

Mostly, however, I was snobbishly greatful that I now knew that there was life beyond drinking Sex on the Beaches and Slow Comfortable Screws to bad over-loud music.

The next evening, safely installed at home, I made us our own garish pink cocktails (but ones which actually tasted like alcohol), switched on Frank Sinatra (at a reasonable volume), got out the olives and sighed contentedly. Like Five-Centres says, it’s called ‘getting older’.

The Pink Lady

1/4 oz lemon juice
1 egg white
1 -2 dashes of grenadine
1 1/2 oz gin

Shake well over ice cubes in a shaker.
Strain into glass and enjoy.

‘Our first memory is a key that unlocks the adult persona’ says the article about earliest memories in the current issue of The Economist’s ‘lifestyle’ magazine Intelligent Life.

The piece goes on to detail the first memories of a random bunch of people – comedian Bill Bailey, racing driver Stirling Moss, Mike Skinner (i.e. The Streets), poet Blake Morrison   etc. Of course, all of them have have very meaninful first memories.

Rent-a-philosopher Alain de Botton’s earliest memory is of a dream where the rails that he is leaning on give way, forcing him to tumble into the water. The memory ‘captures my life-long anxiety about how things are going to turn out… I have become a writer in a semi-conscious attempt to increase the number of psychological railings around me. Books are my safety-nets.’

Professor Susan Greenfield, now a neuroscientist, claims that one of her earliest memories was realising that different people had different perceptions of the colour red.  Explorer Ranulph Fiennes remembers having to find his way home from school one day in South Africa by himself, a distance of 5 miles.

Yeah right, these are people’s first memories! They all sound suspiciously convenient don’t you think?

Here’s my first memory:

I am sitting in the back of the car with our old English sheep dog, Dougal. We live in Melbourne and Dad is driving us up into the Dandenongs, a nearbye mountain range, to take Dougal to the kennels because we are going away on holidays. I don’t seem to feel sad about this though – I am enjoying watching the tops of the tall trees whizz by and ‘Those Were the Days’ by Mary Hopkin is playing on the car radio and I rather like it.

What does this say about me? Well, I don’t own a dog, I don’t drive, I don’t own a copy of ‘Those Were the Days’ and I don’t make whimiscal car adverts with annoying soundtracks, but umm… I still like looking at views out of windows whilst listening to music. Sadly, I’ve yet to make a career out of this.

I wonder if that nasty rumour that Australia has more long weekends than any other country is true I asked myself?

No, is the short answer.

Here is the public holiday tally for some random countries:

Australia – 9
Brazil – 14
Canada – 11
Czech Republic – 13
Italy – 12
France – 12
Japan – 15
South Africa – 13
South Korea – 13
UK – 9
US – 10

So I think that we can all agree that, quite frankly, both the UK and Australia are hard done by when it comes to bank holidays* and could do with some more. Perhaps an annual ‘Snow Day’ or ‘Get Drunk in the Park Day’ would be appropriate. Any other ideas?

In the short term, we could all just get jobs at the Australian High Commission in London and Edinburgh. Here the staff enjoy public holidays from both countries (including Canberra Day for heavens sakes – why not take Melbourne Cup Day as well while you’re at it folks!).

Pfttt…

*To be fair though, I have to point out that  at least Australia and Britain have vaguely generous annual leave allowances – unlike say, stingey old Japan and the US.

Jorge Ben
Take It Easy, My Brother Charles

If there is a compilation to get you in the summer mood (lets be optimistic here) then it’s this splendid Soul Jazz Tropicalia album from a few years back.

Obviously, I could have selected anything on here from Gilberto Gil, Os Mutantes, Gal Costa,  Caetano Velosa et.al. but I’ve chosen Jorge Ben’s contribution – simply because I’ve been pathetically amused by the stuffiness of the title (’Charles’) versus the informality of the actual song lyrics (always ‘Charlie’) since I first heard it. Yes I know, small things for small minds…

‘Take It Easy, My Brother Charles’, Jorge Ben, 1969 from Tropicalia: A Brazilian Revolution in Sound, Soul Jazz, 2005

Download audio file (take_it_easy_my_brother_charles.mp3)

At a meeting with an architect the other day, we were informed that men and women have different tastes when it comes to the interiors of public toilets and restrooms. Men prefer darker colours, wood textures and dimmer lights. Women like a light bright feel, lots of mirrors and pastels. Therefore, men and women’s toilets should have separate designs and colour schemes.

Our party of women was somewhat surprised by this and curious as to where this wisdom came from. It’s common knowledge, the architect arrogantly replied, and what would you know anyway – how many men and women’s loos have you been to in the same place to compare?

He got us there.

Since then I’ve found myself contemplating men’s toilets. So can someone tell me, are they really dark, woody and dim or is this just a load of bunk?