the kitchen

growing younger

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 21:06:00 +0000

Hey you!

I am having such a wicked time in Marseille that I'm only just realising exactly how awful last year in Toulon really was; It was spectacularly awful. I advise everyone living there to move away. Do you live in Toulon? What for?! Move. You'll thank me for it. Honestly.

I'm actually living again! And I'm fucking loving it. Yay! Whole days have past when I haven't even used the internet. And my Guardian online intake is verging on skeletal. My knowledge of British current affairs is now more appropriately representative of someone who doesn't actually live in the country. All this was unthinkable just mere weeks ago. How I've progressed.

I've got so much to write about, but hardly anytime to actually write about it - on account of the living again part. I still need to give you the grand tour of my flat. How rude of me - I must get round to that. I'm fearing this is going to be a bit of a slow blogging year. Quality not quantity, repeat after me.

One of the things I'm really enjoying is just meeting new people - some of whom I actually like. (That's the best part). People that are genuinely interesting and fun who do interesting and fun things. In fact, one of the only good things about waitressing is that as jobs go, it's really very sociable. There's no denying that. Perfect for a foreigner like me. One of the things I missed in Toulon was basically, well having a life, but what I really mean is having a life of my own - one slightly independent of TTRL. I need to have my own friends. Do you know what I mean? I think its essential really - and it was always like that when we were living in England.

So I'm having a lot of fun. Drinking a lot, taking the odd pill AND not giving a fuck about it. Because often I'll give myself a good stern talking to if I've been going at it a bit too hard. But this time I feel confident that I've earned the right. So I'm just going for it, partying hard and somehow surviving the hangovers; I'm not 21 anymore. Although I do still feel very young. And lately, I find myself wishing that I could actually be 21 again. Would I do anything differently? Nah. But after a decent fry up and a nice cuppa tea I'd be right as rain in the mornings, I tell you.

Although, in all seriousness, I am kind of secretly having a crisis at the moment. In my head. My colleagues that I've been hanging out with are all quite a lot younger than I am. And although there are moments, being with them and their mates, where I do feel noticeably older, I actually don't care in the slightest. I like them. Generally they just remind me of being at uni and not having a care in the world - and I feel strangely envious of them. It makes me scared to be so settled down. But would I really want to do that all over again? Fuck no - although, yes. Hell yes.

Now I'm all talking about growing tomatoes.

What the fuck happened?

music is for the ears

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 07:44:00 +0000

When I was a teenager I used to love going to gigs. Almost every weekend, as I remember it, I would be up into London with my mate Muzz, watching indie bands at various London venues. And I loved it. But back then, drinking - if we could get served - was still a novelty. Even just going out at night was a novelty. And we were in London and everything was bright and shiny and exciting. And the hangovers still weren't that bad. And I used to count how many bands we'd seen, until it got to well over a hundred and we went to glastonbury where it was impossible to keep track. Each band was like a treasured trophy.

I don't enjoy watching live bands anymore. My tastes in music have changed over the years, and generally speaking I'm not really even that big a 'fan' of music. Don't get me wrong, I love music, but I don't know anything about it. I don't follow it. I hear songs that I like, but I might not make the effort to find out who they're by. But then again, I might. But I don't like watching bands anymore. I do like live music - last week we went to a pub where there was live jazz and it was wicked - but it was in the background, so you could still speak to people and enjoy yourself.

What I don't like about gigs is the way they are completely antisocial. Everyone unnaturally faces in one direction - all eyes upon the band. But there's nothing to see - its just some people playing instruments before a crowd of adoring fans. The last few times I've found myself at a gig, I've been really bored. Even if its music I like, I still find myself hoping that this song will be the last. Because no one wants to talk to you; everyone's too busy 'watching' the music, even though you can barely see the stage and there's nothing to see anyway. It's not always music you can dance to. And even when it is it feels a bit weird dancing between people who are mostly standing sipping pints of beer. You could always go to the front if you're really into it, but only if you don't mind jumping up and down in a crush of mindlessly idolising teenagers.

A couple of years ago I went to see Buena Vista Social Club in Bristol. I thought it would be wicked because its really fun music and you can dance and have a bit of a drink and a laugh, and it would still be sociable, or so I imagined. And nothing against the musicians because they were great, but to my horror it was an entirely seated venue. Is that not completely fucked up? Can you imagine literally sitting down and attentively 'watching' Buena Vista Social Club? No drinking allowed in the auditorium. It must of been well weird to play for a seated audience as well. Only in Britain. The reserved finger-snapping, foot-tapping, seated British public.

Now that I'm a bit more settled in, in Marseille, I've had time to start living a bit. I've been finding out things that I can do and places I can go and then doing them and going to them. I've been to see some exhibitions and to the 'arthouse' cinema where they play films in their original languages, and I'm planning to go and see some plays and I've been to a pub where there was some great live trumpety jazz playing. But I don't reckon I'll be going to any 'concerts,' in the traditional sense. And if I do, well, I'll try, but I probably won't have a good time.

its that time of year again

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 17:08:00 +0000

Yo yo yo yo! Happy new year! Yay! Better late than never, eh? Ahh, it's good to be back in the kitchen.

After a diabolically depressing year in Toulon, I'm finally in Marseille starting a brand new life, in an old and charming flat. I am feeling well lucky. Especially as I got out of all the physically hard moving part of moving house on account of being on holiday in England (did I mention its on the 4th floor without a lift, or that the stairway is ridiculously narrow?). I'm currently getting stuck into a bit of the old DIY; it's already starting to feel like home. I'm back at work too and most importantly, I've been reconnected to the internet. Praise the lord!

Everything's slotting into place nicely and I've got that fresh feeling of starting againism where everything is exciting and new and anything seems possible.

This optimism will no doubt be completely annihilated as the reality of my day to day existence sets in and I reembark on the long monotonous road to becoming an embittered career waitress. But let me enjoy it while it lasts.

It feels appropriate that this new start co-insides with the new year. A totally new beginning for 2009. I still haven't done my resolutions. I've thought about doing them, but I wanted you to be there. It's more of a commitment if you're there you see. And well, there's no time like the present.

Looking back over 2008, although its true that I didn't achieve anything of any real significance whatsoever, I did have a good stab at the resolutions I made;

I managed to read the 12 books I set out to, plus another, wait for it, 5, (!), for good measure. I'll need to add to this in 2009. Although, you know, books are of varying lengths so its a bit impossible to really compare. War and Peace, if I were to go there, should probably count for at least 3, where as something like Le Petit Prince would only be a 0.5. But it doesn't work like that. They are all equally worth 1 book read.

I did not get a boiled egg mould. Probably, this represents my greatest failure of 2008, when you think about how easy it would have been to just, well, buy one. I'm not going to renew this resolution because my burning desire for a boiled egg mould has somewhat cooled, but also, although I do still think they are an incredibly awesome and enriching invention, it would probably still be a seldom used novelty item - even in my hands. And now that I'm on an environmental kick, I've got to ask how many novelty items does the world really need?

My French has improved a lot. I have a passable level of French. Thank you! I'm still a long way from being fluent, mind you, but there's time. I really can't begin to describe how much of an improvement this has made to my life. Obviously the ability to communicate is paramount. By the end of 2009 I'd like to be pretty fluent. In a language like French I'm just going to accept that I will make mistakes for years, possibly, forever, but I've got me some books and I'm going to knuckle down and get the study on never the less.

In 2008 I managed to get a job. Just waitressing, nothing to write home about, and I know I complained about it, but it was good for learning french - and the money. Plus, it got me out of the house. Now I've got myself yet another waitressing job, and although this depresses me no end, it at least pays the bills. I like the people I work with and the tips here are actually decent - which makes it more worth the demoralisation and the pain. But the only thing that will really justify doing it, again, is if I really make a go of my art practice - which is the reason I'm doing it in the first place, (because its part time, and I don't take it home with me). So in 2009, now that I'm actually in a city that actually has a vibrant cultural life, where I will no longer be forced to make art work in a vacuum, and now that I can speak a bit, I'm going to have to get to know other artists and arts organisations, get involved generally and exhibit my work.

Also in 2008 I finally cut my hair short. In the summer I cut it to just below the shoulders, and at the end of december I cut it again to mid-neck length - its very short at the back, and plunges forward at the front. My story, by commis chef. Fascinating, I know. But it's hard for a long-haired girl to rid herself of her locks. I read something Zadie Smith had written where a girl cut off her hair and it was supposed to be representative of cutting off her girl hood. Like a female castration. Apparently. I thought that was bollocks; I just wasn't sure if it'd suit me. And it does take an awfully long time to grow back you know. Happily, my fears couldn't have been more wrong; I'm well hot.

This year, as well as all the things mentioned above, I'd like to grow some plants and have them live for more than a few weeks and maybe even long enough to produce a vegetable or two. I know I can't become self sufficient growing vegetables on a balconette half the size of a bath tub - its more about discovering this pleasure of gardening that I've heard so much about. I'm thinking herbs; bit of basil, some rosemary, maybe even a tomato or two. Or some aubergines if I turn out to have any green in my fingers. Who can tell?

But my main goal for this coming year is to up the production of my art work, develop my practice, become involved with art related things in Marseille and exhibit. So with that, the language fluency thing and the vegetables, I'll have my work cut out for me.

i must have been a good girl this year

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 08:34:00 +0000

I'm off to England tomorrow for christmas and new years! YAY! This is going to be the best holiday ever - why? Because TTRL isn't going to be there, which although sad in many ways, is fantastic in another; because while I'm away he's going to rent a van and move all of our shit into our new flat! Hooray TTRL! It's going to be the most stress free move ever. For me. PLUS I get to see my mates (sans adam, sadly) and my family and eat copious amounts of delicious English food. And just generally party and not have to work or think about what a twat my new boss is. Or that I'm a 27 year old waitress.

I can't promise I'll be blogging while I'm away. You know how it is, I'll be too busy christmassing and new yearsing it up. So if you don't hear from me before, have a good one. Or at least try to. I know it will hard without me.

You'll be fine.

permission to unload denied

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 08:42:00 +0000

One of the things I don't like about Marseille is that it is so densely populated. This isn't the problem in itself that bothers me, but what it means is that the ratio of dogs per square kilometre is also much higher than what I've been used to. I wouldn't mind that either if it didn't also mean there was a lot more dog shit all over the place. So far, since I've been in France, where dog shit is a problem, well, everywhere, I have managed to avoid stepping in it. As far as I know. For sure all my shoes carry traces of dog shit on them.

It's actually forbidden to not clean up your dogs shit in France, though clearly the threat of a 100€ fine has absolutely zero effect. The most annoying thing is that because they don't want to get caught, you'll often end up with a scattering of dog turds over a few metres of pavement where the owner has tried to postpone their dog from taking a shit by dragging it towards a quieter road. Leaving you to weave your way through the obstacle course of plops, instead of just jumping over one neat pile.

TTRL stepped right in one the other day. It was more of a slipped in one actually - though he didn't fall. We were on our way to visit a flat. Nothing says, 'please don't rent this flat to us' quite like a steaming fresh dog shit on the bottom of your shoe.

I reckon they should up the stakes of the fine. Or fuck the fine, and just take away the dog and give it to someone who's willing to show a bit of respect for their fellow residents.

AND/OR, invite me to go and take a shit in their living room. That should do it.

permission to unload

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 08:31:00 +0000

One of the things I love about Marseille is that it's packed with food markets, specialist and ethnic food shops and little independent corner shop slash mini-supermarket places, especially in the area where I hope to be imminently living. The best thing about this is the almost complete elimination of the need to ever go to an actual supermarket. All the things I hate about the giant supermarkets and the generic shopping experience they offer, far outweigh the things I like about them; namely the convenience (because now the local shopping experience is the most convenient), the choice, (because now there is an abundance of choice) the comparative cheapness (questionable because of the competition between the small businesses), and the sheer variety of new 'exotic' foods available that we don't find in Britain (because the novelty, after living in France for more than a year, has worn off). Oh, but I will have to find somewhere I can buy the catfood my cat likes, and a boho, middle-class, overpriced health shop where I can find organic eggs. Because I have committed myself to only ever buying organic eggs. Why? Because buying organic, especially where animals are involved, has a big impact on the environment, and the standards of care for the hens are the highest - better even than free range. Plus, I just reckon everyone should commit themselves to buying at least one organic product all the time, so that the industry will grow and more farmers will be persuaded to go organic themselves. So now you know.

Anyhoo.

Supermarkets. Even some of the mini supermarkets I'm talking about have the little conveyor belt thing going on at the checkouts. But they're quite small little enterprises, and they often only have one of those little divider signs that you put down in between your food and the people before and after you so the cashier knows precisely where your stuff stops and the next persons begins. I don't know why they don't have more than one. Times are hard, I guess. The other day I noticed that when this happens to me, I'm reluctant to put any of my things on the belt, even if there's loads of space available, until the little divider has been placed behind the person in front of me. Only then do I feel permitted to unload my basket. What am I afraid off? Surely, I could just leave a bit of a gap, and put the divider there afterwards? I had a little chuckle when the person after me did exactly the same.

hello friends!

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 13:26:00 +0000

I went dark then for a bit, didn't I? Don't worry. I'm here now and everything's going to be okay.

My new life in Marseille has already begun! Sort of. Well, I'm working. The contract is signed, so its offical. Commis chef is once again a waitress. Hooray. It's quite a nice restaurant at least. The boss though, is an obsessive perfectionist; everything must be just so. It's hard, and actually kind of annoying, to work for someone like that because you can only ever do things wrong - he's never going to be satisfied, because basically I'm not a robot. And I just don't care - enough. If I leave a salt shaker on the table for a second too long its as though I've completely ruined what was previously someones magical dining experience. I'm getting used to him though. I've stopped feeling nervous before I go in, so that must mean... something.

I've only just got my toe in the water of my new life at the moment though; I'm there Monday to Friday, working and staying at a mates house in exchange for cooking lessons. (Vegetarian cookery lessons by default. My friend is going to eat more vegetables this month than he has for the rest of 2008. Quite probably). I'm still in Toulon at the weekends, and most of my free time is spent either flat hunting or worrying about not finding a flat. So I haven't had much time yet to enjoy just being in Marseille. All that will come in good time.

Apart from the fact that its really stressing me out I'm enjoying looking for a flat. I've seen some proper holes, some dumps, some soulless boxes and one beautiful flat in a cool area. We are trying to get the beautiful one, of course, but nothing it certain until the contracts are signed, and until that happens I can't relax.

In Marseille there is really two types of building; The old ones, and the new ones. The old ones generally ooze with character; the buildings themselves are charming on the outside, often with little iron balconetts. Inside there is usually a spiral interior staircase, the floors are tiled with little red hexagonal tiles, and inside the flats themselves there are often many charming features - high ceilings, fireplaces and old fashioned fixtures and fittings. Depressingly, they are usually in various stages of disrepair. The new buildings are characterless boxes. Perfect for ikea families. Enough said.

I just want to find a flat where I would be happy to live for say, at least 2 years. Because moving house is a fucking nightmare.

buy nothing day

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 15:46:00 +0000

It's international 'buy nothing day' today. In theory someone like me should love buy nothing day, because I support the thinking behind it. I like the idea of having a holiday from consumerism and excess. And I suppose it 'raises awareness.' For one day. But I just can't help but feel that it would be far better if in general people just bought less all of the time.

Especially because last night I actually said to TTRL that 'we better get some wine for tonight... and tomorrow cause it's buy nothing day.' Which obviously completely defeats the purpose if you're going to buy what you need a day in advance anyway.

In any case it would be better if it was 'buy nothing except essential consumable items day.' Such as bread. I'll admit that I bought a loaf of bread today. And damn it, I'm not sorry. I just didn't think that not buying it would make the slightest bit of difference. I'm already sold on the idea. Normally I'd be well up for supporting it, but I already do support it almost every day of the year by not throwing money away on crap that I don't need in the first place, and then when I do spend it, by being choosy about where my money goes, and by looking after and not wasting anything once it is in my possession.

I'd rather spend more money on something quality that will last a long time, than something cheap that will need to be quickly replaced. This is also better for the environment. I'd also rather spend my money on products that support my local community, or that are sustainable, recylced or fairly traded. Or all of the above. I frequently choose second hand over new, especially when it comes to furniture or books, because, firstly it involves less trees and secondly, it prevents my home from looking like a ghastly, vacant replica of an IKEA catalogue. Charm over cheapness. That's my moto.

Don't get me wrong though - I'm still well up for cheapness. So long as its combined with charm and quality.

There is so much joy to be had in the smaller things in life. Going on a walk, cooking a meal, reading a book, eating a boiled egg in a space-man shaped egg cup. Even writing a blog if you're that way inclined. If people didn't just realise this, but actually did something about it, I reckon they'd shop less, and I bet they'd be more satisfied with life.

Not buying anything for one day is not really going to achieve anything when what is really needed is a complete shift in our attitudes to the things we value in life.

Also, if everyone could just stop reproducing so much that would help. Seriously. Because think about it; the government wants people to have lots of kids. Why? Because a growing population keeps people in jobs so it's good for the econonmy, which is needed to pay for things like the pensions of a growing elderly population. But then, when those kids have grown up, they're going to need yet more people to help support the endlessly enlarging population. But the worlds natural resources are not endless. They are finite. And we have already used a third of them.

In the last, what, 150 years?

Is it me, or can you see as well as I can that that doesn't quite add up? Well then, why not do something about it?

Go on, get yourself some recycled toilet paper. Splash out. Close the loop. Make a difference.

so guess what...

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 19:20:00 +0000

... I start Wednesday.

Lets celebrate by watching this wicked video my friend Adam made, which won a competition in no less than the Guardian! Wow!! Nice one Adam.

Double reasons to celebrate.

see you in the autumn from

adam kershaw on Vimeo.

is it because your body is changing?

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 14:56:00 +0000

Have I ever mentioned my distaste for children and teenagers? Well, sorry, but I'm going to mention it again today because today, ladies and gentlemen, I was abused by some fucking teenaged cunts on the way home. They may be young, but that doesn't mean they haven't already become gigantic arseholes. Honestly, I'm really quite wound up. My blood is boiling. I'd quite like to scream at the top of my lungs, but that might scare the neighbours.

It was just typical teenage bullshit. 20 of them in the back of the bus, and yours truly, quietly reading my book. Already that's an annoying situation, because you've got 20 loud numpties being their desperate, hormone-overloaded, attention-deprived selves and someone who just wants to mind their own business and read a book. Easy target. One of them threw their chewing gum at me. I flicked it away and carried on reading. Then I was attacked with several other projectiles, but what the fuck could I do? It's at times like these especially that I really wish I had perfect fluency in French, because any kind of accent or error is just fuel for their pathetic abuse. So I tried not to react because that's what they want, but then the one behind me started touching my hair clip. I wanted to punch his fucking face in. I turned around and shouted in my most severe threatening voice 'you don't fucking touch me' and then I walked to the front of the bus.

It doesn't sound that bad when I write it down, but it was really intimidating. I'm incensed to the extent that I'd have liked to relieve them of some of their teeth. What is the world coming to? Teenagers are little shits in England as much as in France. It scares me. No doubt some of them will grow into fine human beings, but some of them will be cunts for the rest of their sad depressing lives. They'll probably reproduce at a faster rate than their kinder peers, and before you know it everyone you know'll be a fucking cunt.

Lovely.

I can't really imagine myself having my own kids any time soon, and I could seriously never be a teacher. It would end in tragedy. I'd probably have to do some jail time. I actually feel sorry for some of my teachers now. We were arseholes. Not especially me personally, but we're all implicated at one level or another.

We had a geography teacher that had absolutely no control over the class, so naturally we took the piss. It was a real class effort. Everyone would start humming at the same time, which infuriated him because he couldn't blame one person. Then everyone would start coughing or tapping the desk. All our books would drop on the floor, or we'd all get up and swap chairs at a particular time.

Maybe I've finally just got my cumupance.

Sorry Mr. Donaldson.

He was Welsh as well.

Nothing against the Welsh, but it didn't do him any favours in a class full of 30 adolescent fuck faces from Croydon.

is it even worth it?

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 16:43:00 +0000

I've been given a trial shift for this Friday coming for that waitressing job I told you about. I've got to be honest; I'm not sure if I'm going to like it. It strikes me as a marmite type of place to work; you either love it or you hate it. Actually no. It's more like twiglets; you love them or hate them, but even if you love them there's something punishing about them, yet still strangely compelling.

The interview was an hour and a half long. I know! For a waitressing job it was very thorough.

The boss is one of those people that's nice, but very strict. He told me he 'likes to form people in his own image.' That's 'his thing.' Which I think means that he likes things done his way. Either that or he's incredibly egotistical. Normally I think he takes inexperienced people and moulds them 'into his own image' from scratch. Whereas a career waitress like me (gun anyone?) could be too set in their ways for his liking. This job is far from a shoe in. He also told me that if he doesn't like something I do he'll tell me, and if I do it again he'll sack me. Which is good to know, I guess. I've been warned.

He's a no nonsense kind of guy. After he finished telling me about his fascinating journey through the hospitality industry, culminating in this restaurant which he now owns, we talked about me and what I thought about things for a while. This part of the interview seemed to go quite well and I must admit he was relaxed and easy to talk to. I think this restaurant is really his baby, you see, and that's why he's a bit severe. But that at least commands some respect and shows that he cares.

But he has this way about him, on occasion, that really pisses me off. He has this way of making me feel as though I'm being presumtuous, when I'm not at all. For instance, I heard about the job through the people I work with now, (though it was all a bit vague), so I decided to go and check it out the next time I was in town; I wanted to at least have eaten in the place before having an interview. So we went one day, and I asked the person at the bar, (who happened to be the boss), if they were looking for a server, (I wanted to make sure I had the right restaurant). I was expecting him to say yes, and then I was going to introduce myself, say that I was the girl he had been expecting to come by, and ask for a table. But instead he said 'no.' That threw me a bit, so I said to TTRL that maybe we had the wrong restaurant. Then I turned to the guy and explained questioningly that I worked in this other restaurant and that they informed me that there was a job here. Then he showed some recognition and mentioned that he had indeed spoken to them about me, but that this really wasn't the time to talk about it - making me feel as though I'd come right in the middle of the service to have an interview or something. So I said, of course not, we'd like to have lunch.

And then at the end of our meal we set a date for the interview and I explained that I had wanted to eat there to know if it was the type of place where I'd want to work, and he said he thought that was a good idea and everything felt fine. Though I still felt wrongly judged by his earlier comment.

Then today something else happened. He's not exactly sure when he wants the person he chooses to start. The problem for me, is that I want to go to Marseille ASAP, but my current work wants me to stay till just before Christmas. I told him that I'd already worked my months notice so I was available when he wanted, but that it would be good to know the date to inform my boss so that he can know when he needs his new person to start. Reasonble, right? At the interview he told me that he would call me Monday to tell me. But then he didn't. So I called him today.

First of all he wasn't in. Then he wasn't available as he was in an interview (so there's definitely more than just me in the running) so I left a message and asked him to call me back when he had time. He called me back and said he didn't understand my message. I thought I'd been pretty clear. I specifically did not want to seem presumptuous, so I'd said that I needed to know if he knew when the start date would be if he chose me so that I could inform my boss when he would potentially need a new person.

He said a lot that I didn't get because it's harder for me to understand French on the phone, but I understood when he said 'Im not going to tell you on Friday if you've got the job because I need to think about it for a while,' which led me to believe that he thought I was assuming I'd already got the job. Then he said he still wasn't sure about the start date, and that in any case, my boss isn't his problem. Thereby making me feel like I was annoying him and wasting his time with a really unreasonble and presumptuous request.

I don't enjoy feeling like that.

Now I just feel like I'm not sure if I really want to work there. I'll do the trial to see what it's like, but I can't help feeling that me and the boss could be like chalk and cheese.

What do you reckon? Don't you think, considering the fact that I've actually wasted an entire blog post writing about it means that it's stressing me out way too much for a fucking waitressing job that I haven't even started yet?

In a sick way, I'm looking forward to the trial. If it goes well, I may actually get the job, which is one problem solved. If I fuck it up, well, at least I'll get a blog post out of it.

Bet you can't wait.

your hero, commis chef, is officially a dick

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 16:28:00 +0000

Today at work I was a dick.

There's these two blokes, regulars, who've been coming in several times a week since before I started working there. They look alike, and I have assumed for ages that they are father and son. Plus, they seem to work together (as they lunch together several times a week) which in my mind insinuated a father and son type business, and further more, seeming to confirm this, it's always the 'father' who pays, (actually he has an account, but he's the one who signs for it).

Unfortuantely, some times I forget that the fantasy world that I create for the customers isn't actually reality.

Today when they were signing the ticket I decided to take our usual chit chat one step further and went boldly ahead and asked if they were father and son. I could have asked if they were family. Or even if they were brothers as though to offer a cheesy compliment to the 'father.' But I didn't. I asked if they were father and son. They looked back at me, and asked 'what?' Nothing clicked. So, I asked again.

Turns out, they're brothers, one is 42 and the other is 45. Can you imagine how insulting that seems to the older brother? In all honesty, the younger one looks mid 30's and the older one mid 50's. But that actually doesn't make what I said any better. (Don't worry, I at least didn't try and explain my way out of it). The younger one then said to me in English, 'big mistake.' The older one, said nothing. I wanted to die.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. Half of me feels really genuinely bad about it, but the other half can't stop laughing. What a twat I am. Somehow confessing it to you, makes me feel a bit better.

In other work related news, there's another regular customer who decided on monday to give me his business card, along with his credit card when it was time to pay. Since he would have no reason to think I'm in need of a helicopter pilot, I can only come to the conclusion that he was giving me his number (and also letting me know that he's a helicopter pilot). I never know how to react when somene gives me their number. Obviously I'm not available, so the answer is a definitive no. But how to deal with the situation? Should I say, 'oh, no thanks, I've got a boyfriend,' which would leave me open to being accused of being arrogant, or presumputous, but would at least make it clear that I wasn't up for it?

Not knowing what to do, but not wanting to be rude, I looked at the card while he was typing his pin code, and said, 'are you a pilot?' Which was really a very dumb question to ask, but whatever. He said 'oui,' handed me back the machine and I wished them a good day and walked off hoping that would be the end of it.

No such luck. He was back in today. Watching me while I was working. I fucking hate that. It makes me feel like I'm performing. It is a performance in a way actually, the job, but all the same, I don't like feeling someones eyes burning a hole in me. Happily, he wasn't in my section, so I rarely had to go over to them. When I did go over, he made it clear that he was interested in me, not by asking if I had a boyfriend (seriously why doesn't he just ask someone else who works there and make life easier for the both of us) but by asking if I liked to play sports. I said not especially, which is the truth (actually the truth is that I hate them) and then he said that he was going to ask me if I wanted to play a game of badminton with them. I politely declined, saying that I was crap at sports and avoided going back to the table the entire time.

I'm really not the sporty sort. I can't even imagine myself playing badminton. Plus my face goes really red when I excercise or drink red wine, so I tend to avoid over exerting myself. Nothing could come in between me and my merlot, though.

So, now it's just really awkward. He looks about 45 as well. Although, we've established how limited my age guessing capacity is.

I am flattered, if I wasn't I would be wierd. It's a bit of a wierd idea for a date though, isn't it? Maybe he was playing it safe; a kind of non-date date. Or then again, maybe he's just a friendly pilot looking for someone to play badminton with. Yeah right.

But I've got to tell you, for everything that I've written about today I am well happy that in a few weeks I will no longer have to show my face in that restaurant. Speaking of which, on the Marseille front, I have an interview on Friday for yet another waitressing job. Hooray. It's part time, and I know I promised myself I wouldn't do it again, but I need to eat, and the only other thing that could justify this move and make it all worth while is if I really make a go of it with my art work - and that is what I fully intend to do. If I get the job, I start on the 1st December. Which is wicked cause it will make flat hunting easier if I'm already in the city. And it's in 11 days!

I AM GETTING SO EXCITED ABOUT MOVING TO MARSEILLE THAT I CAN'T HELP BUT WRITE IN CAPITAL LETTERS AND USE AN EXCESSIVE AMOUNT OF EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!!!! WOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOO!!!!

the first cut is the deepest

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 16:08:00 +0000

Ever since I started working back in March I've been trying to use my time more productively. I've failed in almost every way imaginable.

Although it may seem illogical, I put this down to not working enough. Not having enough obligations. You know what they say, don't you? You do, don't you? They say that if you want something done that you can't do yourself, you should ask the busiest person you know, because they will fit it in and get it done. Ask the person with the most time on their hands and they'll put it aside to do it later and probably forget about it entirely. Once upon a time, I was the former type of person. I liked being that person, but somehow I have degenerated into the latter type of person. I also blame my internet addiction and all kinds of other exterior forces outside of my control.

But there is one thing that I have succeeded at, and that's reading books. As I may have already mentioned, I've read more books this year than I have in the last 2 combined at a guestimate and I'm loving this new found dedication. The problem is that my commitment to reading has taken place almost exclusively on the bus to and from work; 2 x 20 minutes reading per day = lots of books read (even for a slow reader, like me). I'm a bit worried about where I will fit in my reading when I go to Marseille because I may not have to commute to work. Reading at home makes me feel guilty because I should be doing artwork, you see. I do read in bed occasionally, but I tend to nod off after the first few pages. Plus, bed time is traditionally my crossword puzzle time. I love me some crossword bedtime action. And I refuse to apologise for it.

So why am I telling you all this? Well, this whole reading on the bus shindig has become a bit of a ritual for me. It's like my 'me' time. It's perfect 'me' time for someone like me, because it's properly scheduled into a slot that could not be used for anything else. When the book is good I can get completely lost in the words and it's like I don't even exist. I am free from myself for a while, and I am entertained. There is quiet in one normally active part of the mind, and action in one that is normally quiet. Do I know what I'm talking about? Probably not. But these days, I actually look forward to getting on the bus. It's the highlight of my working day. Im glad I get off at the last stop.

Anyway, there are only 3 things that can deny me this pleasure; Either, I forget the book, or I'm in a rare odd mood where I just want to look out the window, or this woman with halitosis gets on the bus and won't stop talking to me.

It all started back when I started working. It was pissing it down and as there is no shelter at the bus stop I shared my umbrella with this woman, Aisha. When the bus came and I got on, I realised we'd made a bit too much chit chat for me to be able to quietly slip to the back of the bus without seeming rude. So I was stuck. I had to sit with her and continue small talking. I didn't mind that much at the time as I thought it would be a one off. It turns out she works nearby and finishes at around the same time as I do. Lucky me.

I don't mean to sound horrible, but when small talk is such a chore in the first place, it doesn't get any better by throwing language difficulties and bad breath into the mix. Today Aisha was there. I had to run for the bus, so I didn't know she was there until I got on (I have been known to wait for the next bus if it's not too long a wait, such is it that I enjoy my reading), and she ordered me to sit down next to her. I was instantly dissapointed because I'm at a really good bit in my book right now. We did the pleasantries and then, as normal, the conversation started to thin out. When she turned her head, I saw my chance and whipped my book out. I felt it was time to make a stand - I don't want to be rude, but I do want to read my book.

Aisha wanted to know if it was an English book. I said yes. And then I felt that was a bit too short, so I added that I'd tried to read some French books but I gave up because it took me about half an hour to get through the first page. Aisha told me I probably needed glasses. I didn't understand how she'd drawn this conclusion, but I decided to agree with her and then get back down to my book. I couldn't really get lost in it though because I was always aware that Aisha was there peering over me, wanting to talk to me. But it's my book reading scheduled slot for gods sake and I treasure it! Its my 'me' time!

Aisha got off the bus. She didn't say goodbye. I moved as though to get ready to say goodbye should she turn around, but she didn't. Aisha is offended. I feel responsible and mildly bad about that. But I also feel I've turned a page, (forgive me please); now that the first time's out the way, it will be easier and easier to talk less and less to her, until eventually I can just walk straight to the opposite end of the bus, where I can better hide myself and more easily resist interaction with other human beings. Aisha will probably shun me next time anyway. Or at the very least she'll be expecting it. And it won't hurt as much the second time.

the american election is finally over. HOORAY!

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 16:27:00 +0000

As it would be weird to let such a momentous occasion pass without comment, let me say today that the Obama win did not pass me by unnoticed. In fact, although I think it's best to have a healthy scepticism of politicans, I must admit that I was thrilled that he succeeded. It was a real will he/won't he nail biting affair for me. Would the republicans manage by the skin of their teeth to win another 4 years in office? Or would the republicans manage by blatant use of vote rigging (or by some other transparent tactic to halt the voting of the democratic demographic) to steal the election? Thank god the answer was no. Or in any case, unsuccessful.

So it's in the bag, done and dusted and the most important thing to look at today is what this result means for me, a young white British female living in France. My most immediate concern is how I will the fill the time once used devouring the coverage online. Now that the guardian has reduced its dedication to the election to only about 50% of its entire content, and counting, what will I do with the hours I once spent listening to Obama speak eloquently about policy that would actually improve the quality of life for the majority of Americans? Or watching McCain make increasingly ridiculous and desperate accusations about Obama with his wierd facial expressions and beady eyes? And surely nothing could even come close to being an adequate replacement for the hours spent laughing at Palin cocking everything up?

Somehow reading about problems with the NHS isn't quite as captivating.

Because the thing about the American election is that not only is it the worlds 'most important' election it's also the worlds longest and most entertaining. It is indeed a spectacle to behold. It's been two years in the making, which means that for half of every election cycle, there's a campaign a running. This is highly unusual. The UK's election is only a couple of months tops - and once they've won they take the wheel immediately. Americans still have 3 months to wait and see the pigs ear that Bush will no doubt make of his last three months in office.

The thing that's struck me most in the last few US elections is just how dirty and personal American politics has become. From the outside, the smear campaigns come accross as a blatant distraction from talking policy. And that was all McCain did for the entire duration! If it happened in Britain it would be pure comedy. Can you imagine getting a phonecall 'approved by' the prime minister, for example, alleging that because the leader of the opposition once sat opposite someone with radical rightwing views at, say, university, and brushed sholders with them on at least one occasion in the corridor, that he is clearly a rightwing facist himself. It would be highly entertaining - especially if it was recorded with an American voice over in the style of a film preview. They'd never get away with it in Britain.

Even at the campaign rallies, the difference betwen the type of people were clear. McCains rallies were full of fearful haters shouting abuse at the democrats and spreading what amounts basically to lies about Obama being one of those muslims (Oh no!) or worse, a terrorist (because his middle name is Hussein for fucks sake people). Or that he would raise all their taxes, his promise was to raise taxes only for households earning over 200,000 dollars - i.e. people who can afford it. Whereas at the Obama rallies people were just happy and feeling inspired and hopeful and optimistic that things could finally take a turn for the better.

I do think the televised debates are a good thing. We should do this in the UK. But with the entire cabinet and shadow cabinet. And they have to do it in the parliamentary style of standing up when speaking only and referring to eachother as the 'right honerable gentleman.' (Or 'lady' as the case may seldom be). But because British politics and the style of British politics is generally less entertaining with less mud slinging and so on, some kind of additional challenge would have to be added; They could sit facing their counterpart and play a game of slaps. Whoever gets the first slap in, gets to stand and ask the first question. Then their slapped opponant has a chance to respond to their right honerable counterpart and then they sit back down and the slaps continue. When the politicians aren't talking policy there's a sports commentary on the physical half of the debate to keep us going.

Anyway, I'll leave you to ponder that for yourselves.

And incase you didn't see this video of Amy Poehler rapping for Sarah Palin on Saturday Night Live, enjoy it now before it becomes completely irrelevant. (Starts about one minute in).

i'm still alive

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 17:29:00 +0000

But my laptop isn't.

To be fair, considering the beating it recieved over the past four years, it's done me proud. But a few months ago, things started to go wrong. My friends cat knocked it on the floor. It would be easy to blame the cat, but not really fair as I've done it before myself and I'm certain it was just the last straw. But, unfortunately, this time there were devestating consequences; I lost my wireless connection. The whole point of my computer for me, is the interent. This is where I live, depressing though it is to admit. My live-in technicien managed to bypass this major setback by sticking something in the side of it. Phew. But now, I realise as I look back in sadness, that this was really just the beginning of the end.

Eventually it started turning off by itself. And having its start up disk completely full. (Thank god for that though because it made me move all my photos onto another harddrive). And then last week it started making a loud whirring noise. It was still working, but I thought it might explode and make a mess of my legs so I turned it off. TTRL's professional opinion is that 'its fucked.' Luckily for me he has donated his laptop to the cause. At first I thought this was a really generous, selfless act, but then I thought it more likely that this is his cunning way of justifying buying a new laptop for himself in the not too distant future. Someone's going to be buying himself a laptop shaped present for christmas.

The thing that sucks most about losing my laptop is that I've lost one very important document where I'd been writing down everything I spent money on since April. I know this seems really anal, and it is, but it was a really interesting excercise. If you're me. I love records and receipts and lists. I could have told you how many tips I earned in a month, or how much money I spent on food, or going out. If you'd really wanted to know. It was my way of controlling what I spent in these crunchy times, and I've found that since I've lost it my frugalness has gone out the window. Now it's all a bit of what I fancy here, a browse on ebay and a purchase there. I'm out of control.

The other major disaster is that all my passwords were saved on the computer and are now lost forever. Normally I use the same one, but I can't check my bank acount as that password is supplied by the bank, and I couldn't get into blogger for several days, which is wierd because I'm sure I used the same password. I was close to the edge.

Now my mum is visiting me. Her jaw clicks when she eats.

Please think of me during these difficult times.

No prayers though, thanks.

french bread - everything you ever wanted to know

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 08:20:00 +0000

The thing that sucks about French baguettes is that they’re really only good for one day. And that’s a lot of bread for one or two people to get through in such a short amount of time. If you're not eating sandwiches.

Before I even get into that though, I should point out that even managing to get a ‘decent’ baguette ‘worth eating’ in the first place, you have to find a good bakery through a process of trial and error purchases. Recognising a good baguette is a skill that needs to be honed over many months and years, and some may find that even an entire lifetime is not long enough. Although, on the whole, I feel I’m making progress in this very important area of my life, there are still days when I'm convinced I’ve got a good baguette, yet TTRL will tell me what his facial expression confirms, that it’s ‘disgusting.’ I felt this was a slight over reaction, personally.

(Honestly, French people are so fucking snobby when it comes to food).

Part of the reason why it’s probably harder for me to spot one, is because we tend to eat loaves of bread in England so I imagine my bread skills tend to be more loaf focused. Also, French people eat a bit of baguette with every single lunch and dinner without exception, and sometimes even with their breakfast, (not in the toast style as we would go for, but a long hunk of baguette which they may or may not cover in jam, but either way will dip into their bowl of coffee and slop it into their mouths in a horrible soggy mess). Basically, that’s a lot of baguette consumption. They know their baguettes. Or at least some of them claim to, because evidently there’s still plenty people buying the inferior ones.

So how DO you spot a good baguette? First, you have to do the sound test; Hold the baguette close to your ear and give it a little squeeze. It should make a delicious crusty cracking sound. I’m good at this test. So we can deduce that a soft exterior that lacks good quality sounds is undesirable.

Next, break the bread. Just tear in half say. Now do the touch test; Hold one of the halves so that the white interior bit of the bread is facing down. Give it a little rub. Do a lot of crumbs fall of it, or does it hold together well, the way a proper baguette ought to? If it’s crumby, then it’s probably too dry. You want a nicely moist interior.

Now go ahead and open it up along the middle like you’re making a sandwich. If it’s densely packed full, it’s probably got too much bread in it. You don’t want it to be too empty either, though. Finding the balance is key.

Here’s an interesting French sandwich fact for you. (I say fact, because I assume that when TTRL does something a particular way it must also apply to the entire French citizenry). Once they’ve opened up the bread to make their sandwich, they’ll tear a lot of the bread out of it. TTRL will play with this little morsel of extracted bread, maybe make a little ball out of it, before munching on it while he’s making his sandwich. He says it’s to make more space for the fillings. A very good reason. Also, they only ever open the bread on one side so it opens like a clam. Something about the fillings not spilling out everywhere. And they don’t use butter on bread. Ever. Even on the bit of bread they have with their meals, it’s literally just a hunk of plain bread.

Man, I love buttered bread. It’s bread and butter. A classic combination! But I suppose when you eat bread at every meal you need some way of not becoming a fat bastard.

In more bread related news, I had lunch at TTRL’s parents the other day. How they serve the meals here, is that they put the dishes of food in the centre of the table, give everyone an empty plate, and TTRL’s mum, (or I imagine who ever has done the cooking – in TTRL’s families case, always TTRL’s mum), serves it out to everyone. When it’s your turn to be served, you bring your plate towards the dish, so it’s easier for her to do it. This time I happened to have my little hunk of bread on the plate, and the entire family gave little disapproving groans and TTRL’s brother said something like ‘Oh la la, le pain sur l’assiette et tout,’ as though it was the most unbelievably uncivilised or impolite thing ever. It seems the bread should always be left on the table. (Not on a side plate mind, but the actual table – because that is more polite). Honestly though, who gives a shit about table manners these days? Anything goes. Although I draw the line at putting my face in the plate, like a pig at the trough. (I’ve always wanted to go black tie to a restaurant and eat like that for a laugh). (I’m not well). I obviously laughed about their reaction, (which I think was in itself in good humour) and pointed out to them how I’m free from their French rules.

I try to make a point of doing things the French way, when in France, most of the time. Like when I’m at their place, I’ll eat the bread, I’ll use it instead of a knife, (obviously not to cut things but to push things onto my fork which I’ll hold in my right hand), and I’ll wipe my plate clean with it. But some things, like the bread on the plate thing, you know, I won’t bother with, because what’s the difference? I won’t remember to keep it off anyway because it’s so irrelevant to absolutely everything of any importance in my life. Also, another thing I refuse to adapt to, is the way they eat their cheese, in the cheese course part of the meal. They’ll cut off a wedge of cheese and put it on their plate. Then they’ll cut a corner off of that, (note; it’s not a slice), and put it directly in their mouths. Then they’ll take a bite of their bread. This is apparently the correct way. I however, don’t enjoy a mouthful of cheese like this and I insist on cutting thin little slices off my wedge of cheese and making mini open topped sandwiches out of them. I think TTRL’s family frown slightly on this. But they let me do it. I think it’s more that they pity me a bit because, not being French, I don’t know how to enjoy my cheese properly.

So now, coming back to my original point, which I had completely forgotten about during the course of writing this rambling, yet fascinating post, a French baguette is generally only good for one day. That is, a ‘proper’ ‘decent’ baguette, made without using ingredients that would make it last longer, because in doing so it would also ruin some of it’s essential qualities. The bread is usually as hard as a brick the next day, even if you put it in the bread bag. If you put it in a plastic bag though, it will last, but it will not be the same high quality baguette you bought. It goes all soft and chewy, like a hot dog bun.

The good news is, it doesn’t have to go to waste because you can slice up your brick of bread and make croutons with it. Everyone’s a winner.

to health

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 04:06:00 +0000

Hello.

It's six o'clock in the morning on Saturday and I'm blogging. Why? Because I drank a bit too much last night and woke up feeling mighty parched, but otherwise not hungover. I quenched my thirst and returned to bed where a mosquito snacked on my exposed portions of flesh and would not let me go back to sleep. I started thinking about how I'd run out of those seriously poisonous mosquito repellent things and then about health in general and how important it is. And then it occurred to me that you're probably dying to know what commis chef has to say on the matter. So here I am. I hope you appreciate it.

I was thinking about how lucky I am that so far in my life I have had no serious illnesses. I've never had to stay in hospital, (except for one time in Vietnam, but that was only because I had a severe case of the shits and a plane to catch). (Sounds trivial now, but honestly, I thought I was dying). (Luckily, I was insured, because I had no idea that the bill was going to be over £2,000). (!!!!). (That would have completely crippled me). (I didn't even have the money actually, I had to get my Dad to cover it and pay him back when the insurance cheque came). (Thank god he had it). (And even to actually get the cheque, I really had to fight for it). (Fucking insurance scum).

So, as I was saying, I've been fortunate enough to have good health, (touch wood), which I suppose can be attributed partly to luck, partly to genes, and partly to a middle-class upbringing by older parents. (The Guardian reported yesterday that the younger and poorer a persons parents are the more likely they are to suffer worse health). In England, I hardly ever needed to go to the doctor. But when I did, I never had to pay for it. Why? Because it's paid for through taxation and every person is entitled to it. And these are taxes that I for one was always happy to pay, just knowing that if something should go wrong in the future there was a safety net there if I needed it. It's true that the systems not perfect, and sometimes there can be long waiting lists to see specialists or receive particular treatments, but I'm still glad that I'll never be faced with the choice between sacrificing my health or feeding my children. Even prescriptions in Britain will only set you back about £7 - regardless of the medicine. (Unless you're under 18, a student, a pensioner or otherwise entitled to free drugs). And birth control is completely free. I imagine the government figures this makes good economic sense as providing free birth control is cheaper than paying child benefit, (of which, I believe, every parent is entitled to claim, regardless of income).

In France there is a similar, but not quite as good, system. Unfortunately, as I am still waiting for my Carte Vitalle, (Thanks France), I have to pay upfront and then send off some papers, (no doubt do the requisite to and fro of paperwork for several months with the infamously inefficient French authorities), before being fully reimboursed. So far, I have been to the doctor twice. The price seems to be capped at 22€. My prescription for the pill costs me 5.85€ for a 3 month supply, for which I will also recieve payment. Last week, a check up at the dentist cost me 27€, and a subsequent appointment for two fillings and some cosmetic work where he filled in a small chip on one of my lower front teeth cost me 75€. I am also expecting this money back. The system isn't quite as good as Britain - firstly because obviously I have to cough up the money and then endure the ridiculous abyss of French buraucracy before I get my money back. And secondly, its only partly covered by the Carte Vitalle thingy magigy. The other part is covered by something called the 'mutuelle' which TTRL is taxed about 50€ a month for, (it's an optional tax, but worth it as it covers both of us for everything we could possibly need).

In both countries, you can pick and choose your GP. In France I think you can even choose your specialists and hospitals, (not sure about the UK). I'm entitled to the same medical care as a French person, even though I'm not French. Even if I wasn't from the EU, if I was working or resident it would be the same. I have no idea how it works for tourists. Also, if I wanted to and could afford it, there is still the option of going private.

In America, where I did a bit of growing up, none of this was the case. There is no national healthcare system. I believe my Dad had some kind of insurance because I remember going to the doctor when I needed to and my family seemed to be reasonably well off at the time. Thank Goodness, because I recall my mum telling me that it cost $50 just to see the doctor. But even though we were fortunate enough to be able to afford the medical care we needed, is it not still ridiculous that when my sister had braces it set us back over $3,000? Yes. $3,000. Just to have a bit of metal stuck on her teeth and tightened once a month for a year or so. In England, my twin brother and I both had braces at the same time. Guess how much it cost? Not one single penny. Imagine if we'd still been living in the states. I think even a reasonably well off family would struggle to pay $6,000 for twins who needed braces at the same time. Maybe they would have had to choose which one of us was going to get the beautiful smile and which one would go to college. (We both went to University for free as well, by the way, as my mums income fell below the threshhold and the annual fees of between £1,000 and £2000 were therefore paid by the local education authority and not us). (Although, I am now over £14000 in debt to the government since they stopped offering grants and I needed to take the full student loan they offered to survive, despite also working part-time throughout). (Thanks New Labour Cunts).

I sincerely hope that Obama wins the next election so that our American friends can start to enjoy something slightly more resembling the type of care that us evil liberal Europeans have completely taken for granted for decades. I don't think healthcare should be left to the lottery of birth. Especially when that lottery suggests there is a direct correlation between the age, education and financial means of a parent and the subsequent health of their baby, which, in effect, means that the least able you are to afford health care the more likely you are to actually need it. And I definitely don't think a persons fate should be in the hands of insurance companies. Because at the end of the day, if you don't have your health then what have you really got?

This message was approved (and brought to you) by commis chef.

corsica - what's it all about?

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 16:28:00 +0000

Well, the coast looks a little bit like this with a plastic tree infront of it:

While inland tends to be a bit more like this:

With a bit of this thrown in for good measure:

There's a peppering of tasty little old school villages, (and not much else in the way of civilisation). You know, narrow streets:

Quaint little village squares with antique ovens where once upon a time the villages bread was baked:

Classic shop displays complete with classic electric street lamp:

This one was even spectacularly poised on the edge of a cliff:

Nice.

The Corsicans themselves are a charming bunch, very friendly. Very tiny. Pint sized, especially the elderly. Sometimes it appears there's no one driving the car in front of you. Many also feature a prominent chin and a witches nose. Slightly unfortunate, but on the other hand, full of character. They make excellent cheeses and jams, and TTRL tells me, the sausages are really something else, all of which they sell to tourists at extorionate prices - but it works, so who can blame them?

Overall though, I found Corsica to be more of an outdoorsy type holiday. As far as I could tell, (and my experience was admittedly limited) the culture doesn't really go beyond food and tourism. Oh, and hunting, but then that's outdoorsy and food related. Except, they have a strong, almost Italien sounding accent, many of them hate the French and want to be an independent nation as can be seen in the crossing out of the French spelling of places on signposts everywhere. That, and they have this weird tradition of burying people in massive tombs:

And now that I think about it, they're quite a religious little island as well. Yes, and I'm now recalling seeing images of one of their Christian festivals, (don't ask me which one), where one of them gets dressed up like a member of the KKK but in red and carries a massive cross around the town. Very odd.

And then there's the archeological sites which were quite interesting if you enjoy old monolithic structures and the odd gigantic penis:

(Don't you think that ones a nice shot? Good lighting or sumat, I reckon).

Despite all that though, if there was a battle between culture and nature, (if such a thing is even feasible because they are surely interlinked) culture would get the shit thoroughly kicked out of it, and here's why;

While walking randomly along rugged coastal paths, you will more than likely run into some wild cows.

And pigs! Wild ones! Roaming freely about all over the place. Lovely! There's a general abundance of farm yard animals wandering about and that is unusual and strangely pleasing. It is somehow much more thrilling to see a cow crossing the road, than seeing a bunch of cows in a field as we do in England, for example. And stranger still to be thrilled at seeing a cow at all. They seemed happy. I'm sure this pig was smiling at me.

Then of course there are some truly delicious little corners, like this:

and this:

Which just makes me happier to be alive knowing that they exist. There were about 15 or so of these gorgeous natural pools, but the water was sadly glacial. I was gutted. Having decided that there was no way we could swim in it, I tripped and fell in anyway completely soaking my trousers, trainers, and socks. I suppose I may as well have taken a swim after that but I mustn't have had my shreddies or something, cause I just couldn't bring myself to do it, tempting though it was. Still, it was a bountiful feast for the eyes. What a shame though - it's just dying to be swam in. LOOK!

Then there's the whole finding food growing all over the place thing. Strange fruits I've never seen before and whose names I cannot recall. Not very insightful. Sorry. I ate a lot of wild black berries though, which was delightful. Perhaps the best thing was discovering this growing in our campsite:

It was in focus in real life. But, Yes, this really is how asparagus grows. It was just there on its own, a solitary asparagus. I totally would have guessed that it was part of a larger plant, but evidently it just grows straight out of the ground:

There was a big storm one night though, and the little guy didn't make it through. This made me momentarily sad. And then I completely forgot about it.

We did several long walky/hikey type things which were really wicked. Very rewarding landscapes you see, and it justified the daily bottle and a half of wine I drank. And the large amount of cheese that I consumed. But you know, I like enjoy going on big long walks, (good state of mind permitting). Me and TTRL were the most unprofessional looking ramblers. We just had piles of clothes, hats and scarves and a cheap poncho at our disposal. Because, you know, it's just walking. It seemed like everyone else had 'his and hers' matching outdoor waterproof jackets, high-perfomance hiking boots, walking sticks, windproof stuff, hi-tech thermal hats and gloves, woollen socks, special water containers with an easy access straw device, backpacks that no doubt converted into luxury tents complete with inflatable mattress and sleeping bag, and those fucking trousers that zip off at the knee to become shorts. They really piss me off.

However, I will concede that at least the hiking boots would be a good investment. I was using trainers, which actually worked perfectly fine, so I don't know what I'm talking about. I did wish at one moment though for a wind proof jacket. We were climbing a mountain trying to reach this beautiful lake:

Basically, it was an hour and a halfs climb upwards. But even before we left we were both not up for it - mentally. The tomtom had taken us on a really windy, dangerous, not-properly-paved road, we hadn't eaten lunch, and it took hours more than we thought to get to the starting point. I was so not up for it, but it felt like we'd already been on such a mission that if we didn't do it, everything would be even worse. So climb we did. It was freezing. There were bitterly cold winds. I had only my jumper and scarf and hat and it felt like the wind was reaching my bones. My ears were burning and my feet felt like blocks of ice. Every time we thought we approached the summit another ridiculously high piece of mountain appeared. We wanted to give up. I actually wanted to kill someone. And finally, once we had decided once and for all that if it wasn't over the next peak we'd abandon it, we actually made it. And we were elated. And then the strangest thing happened that made me forget all my grumbling and how fucking shit and hard the walk up had been. We met this man:

Wearing a t-shirt. TTRL had even put his poncho on to give a bit of wind protection by this point. Originally we assumed he must be some sort of lunatic, but it turned out he was just English. He'd been intending on cycling to the start point you see, but after 8 kilometers he got a flat tire and had to run back to the village to get his car instead. In his haste he forgot to pack his, more than likely, high-performance gear, and instead decided to grin and bear it and just jog up instead to keep warm. Because he was already there and it would have been a waste not to climb it and see. In this moment, this man became my hero. Because he somehow tipified that characteristic British quality of making-the-most-of-it-ism, and made me change my frame of mind. My mood, already much happier to have found the lake, became totally ecstatic. I was transformed. I even remembered to have a good time. Then, obviously feeling weirdly inspired and temporarily mentally impaired, we actually jogged down the mountain, which made us warm and took half the time.

The thing I like most about camping though, is sitting outside in pleasant surroundings in fine weather, drinking wine and having the time to read books. I read two and a half books, which brings my annual total to 12, which means that I have actually achieved my new years resolution of reading 12 books. Hooray me! I won't go into them now, except to say that one of them was Salman Rushdies' 'Midnights Children,' which I've already attempted twice before. The shear length of the book means that in reading it you're making quite a commitment, (which is why I failed previously), and the fact that something important happens on virtually every page so that you really have to pay attention if you want to make all the connections and not miss anything. When I finished it, it was honestly as though I had achieved something just by reading it.

Camping also gives you a lot of time to try to peel oranges in one satisfying piece:

I did it! It was very perfectly circular and very satisfying.

And finally, I like this picture:

france one year on, part four, the finale

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 08:20:00 +0000

part one, part two, part three

As soon as I found a job my life got a whole lot better. Suddenly I had a bit of structure in my life, (no more moping about in pajamas all day), a bit of money, my French improved much faster, I was around other human beings every day and I got to rebalance the power in the house; No longer was I going to be chief cleaner upper.

We’ve never sat down and divided the jobs because we’re just not that anal, but it seems to have worked out that my main tasks are cleaning the bathroom and about 90% of the cooking, which, although it pains me when I look at it from an equality point of view, I must admit I actually genuinely enjoy. On the other hand, it equals out because TTRL ends up doing most of the cleaning. He does the dishes religiously every morning while I hide in bed. (I think he secretly enjoys it). It's part of his morning routine which has the air of a therapeutic ritual about it. TTRL is also just naturally tidier than me, you see. Which is probably why he just does the dusting and hoovering, washing the floor, cleaning the cat litter, and ever since I insisted on buying a washing machine, the washing as well. (I try to make myself look busy while all this is going on. I’ll potter about in the kitchen as though preparing for a gourmet meal, i.e looking at recipe books). Sometimes I'll lend a hand hanging the clothes out if i'm asked nicely. Or ordered to.

Neither of us goes anywhere near the ironing board. My knickers are gloriously crumpled.

Going back to the job for a minute, one of the only good things about waitressing is that it’s quite a social job. I stopped feeling so alone all the time, cooped up in the flat. Most of the people who work there are nice to work with – but sadly, they’re not friends. They’re work friends. It’s different. I wouldn’t be friends with the vast majority of them outside of a work context. We just don’t have that much in common.

I’ve been really unlucky on the friends side of things. Either that or I have some serious personality problems. Around the same time that I got the job, you may recall that I started frequenting the ‘Café Culture’ in town? I wanted to get involved in anything creative that was going on and also to meet people. Unfortunately the café seemed to attract an unfair share of potential serial killers and other loners. I ended up getting roped into giving an English Workshop there for a couple of months. That was painful. Lets just say that I’m relieved that that’s over – I eventually got the guts to make up an excuse and get the fuck out of there. I haven’t been back since. Even for a coffee. It wasn’t normal.

Back at home, I was actually managing to produce some semi-credible art work. But my rate of production hasn’t been anything to write home about. Because basically, I’m making artwork in a vacuum. And that is completely pointless. There is nothing to keep me going. No support structure. No people to talk with about it or put on shows together. No goals. No potential. I need a vibrant thriving contemporary art culture around me in order to progress. For now, I will have to be content plodding slowly forward.

TTRL also got a promotion, which was great, except that he hates it and it means that he’s away all the time. This is a bit shit really, given my no friends situation. Also, the bad side of working (apart from working itself and the fact that I’m probably the most overqualified fucking waitress in France) is that it obviously takes time away from my writing here in the kitchen, especially since I’ve also restarted my arts practice. Not feeling particularly on the happy side doesn’t leave me feeling exactly inspired either, which makes it harder for me to feel excited about people who collect things, or the variety of different salt and pepper shakers on the market, or why I think its impossible to really truly have a favourite colour. Which is what I really want to write about. Basically my writing mojo has suffered and I attribute that directly to my disheartened state of mind.

Because of this, plus the realisation that my art wasn’t going to go anywhere in this town, coupled with my growing disdain in general for Toulon, my inability to meet people that I actually want to be friends with and my general state of not particularly happy-ness, made it clear that for my own mental well being and progression as a person I needed to get the fuck out of this town and move somewhere better; like Marseille.

And this is about where I am now. I’m handing the 3 months notice in on our flat today. Once that’s done, I’ll be counting the days to a better life. It represents the beginning of the end of this era, and that in itself makes me feel more positive. I’ve got ideas. I’ve got plans.And I’m off on holiday for two weeks in Corsica this Sunday, which I’m hoping will rejuvenate me and put me back into a better frame of mind.

So my first year in France hasn’t really been a picnic. If I had to decide today to stay in France or go back to Britain I’d leave. But I don’t have to decide today. And I’ve come too far to give up now. Plus, Marseille is a wicked city. I think my life could be good there. Things are getting better all the time.

You know. I’m alright.

Thanks for listening. (I promise I won't make a habit of it). See you when I'm back from Corsica and once again the cheery old commis chef you know and love.

france one year on, part three

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 15:57:00 +0000

part one / part two

By the time Christmas came around, I was well excited to be spending some time in Blighty, but worried that I might enjoy myself a bit too much, what with being around friends and all. Frankly, just being able to understand the babble of background chatter thrilled me to no end. Fortunately I managed to have a wicked time and still come back to France not feeling homesick.

Having had nothing but time on my hands for the last four months, I'd been doing a lot of thinking. What was it that I really wanted out of life? Was I a writer? Was I seriously considering throwing in the towel on my arts practice? What's really important in life anyway? Did I want to find a full time respectable job and succumb to the status quo or was I prepared to do part time waitressing, again, and juggle that with making a go of the things I really want to do with my life? And did I even know anymore what that was?

I had managed to wangle some quite lengthy, and free, French lessons two times a week, which greatly improved my French and gave me some much-needed structure. I loved going to those French lessons. As much for the French as just to have people to speak with. More of that wonderful human contact.

My mate Naz also came over to visit, and talking with him I was able to start sorting my head out. Why, for example was I wasting my fucking life knitting scarfs when what I really actually want to do with my life is to make my art work? And how do I know if that's really what I want to do anyway? Should I not just settle on enjoying the small things in life and get on with it? And why when I have a studio, in my flat, and all the time in the world am I not jumping at the chance to develop my practice?

Well, self-doubt and fear, mainly I suppose.

The knitting was at least good for giving me time to think. And then one day, mid-project, I put the needles down and thought, fuck this, enough is enough.

I needed structure and financial security. But not too much. I started looking for a part time job and I managed to find a little waitressing gig that was perfect for me, within a few days of looking. I couldn't believe how easy it had been. But of course, now, being a master of the very basics of French I had more courage to try, seeing as the prospect of actually getting a job was a more realistic possibility.

At the same time, I pulled my finger out my arse, got myself some supplies and started making some highly questionable contemporary art. (You've got to get the shit out of your system before you can accomplish anything worthwhile). (At least that's what I keep telling myself).

Things were looking up.

Part four, shortly.

france one year on, part two

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 14:23:00 +0000

Read part one here.

Looking for flats was good, because it gave me a purpose and I got to look inside people’s homes. It must be the voyeur in me, because I’m rather partial to a spot of spying on other people’s lives. It’s interesting to see what buildings look like on the inside, but also to check out how other people live, how they arrange their things and so on. (Which can be revolting at times; I nearly suffocated from a smell so intensely mouldy I could barely breath in one disgusting place that had no natural sunlight). Some of the flats were empty, and we ended up taking one of those.

Once we’d finally sorted out all the paperwork (yet another bureaucratic nightmare) and moved in, I was a happier person. I must say, I love this flat. It’s a shame its on a really busy main road. I've even got used to the four flights of stairs. It was mid-October by now and after two months of not lifting a finger, I can’t even begin to explain how good it felt to have things to do again. There was all the unpacking to do, loads of DIY projects to get stuck into and I had all the day to day tasks to think about as well. I relished going to the market and cooking up some of that good old British food that I'd been missing. Mostly I was just glad to have something to do.

And I agreed to do a lot of it. So much so that I began to feel like a trapped, alienated housewife. TTRL was working full time and supporting both of us, so I feel it was fair. I had to pull my weight somehow. But I couldn’t help but start to feel I could be dangerously setting the tone of things to come. Smoothly laying the path for my eventual role as principle cooker, cleaner and shall we just say, bitch of the house. Time was somehow turning back and I was in danger of morphing into a housewife from a bygone era, who enjoys baking muffins at 6 o’clock in the morning and ironing knickers. And that, my friends, is not what I came to France for.

The other down side to moving out from TTRL’s parents place was that I wasn’t constantly around people speaking French. So although I was studying I didn’t make a lot of practical improvement at this time, which was discouraging. I also stopped looking for work completely and gave myself until after Christmas to start thinking about it again. I just wanted to concentrate on studying French and doing the things I love, which, at that point, meant concentrating mainly on writing this blog and cooking really delicious meals.

The two months until Christmas passed pretty quickly. I had managed to keep myself half occupied with projects; I started knitting, which I really enjoyed. I had to stop it eventually though because the reality of it started to depress me, (more on this in part three). There were many days though when I didn’t leave the flat once, or even get changed out of my pajamas. And at the time, I didn’t really mind it. I even enjoyed it. But you can’t go on like that forever. It starts to get you down.

On the plus side I had started to give a few English lessons on the sly, so I finally had a bit of pocket money to play with. This was great, because even though it wasn’t that helpful for my French, I was meeting people and talking to them. Human contact. Definitely not overrated.

Animal contact is also good. In a normal pet/human relationship. One of the best things that happened during this time, was getting our cat Farni. He’s our first pet and I seriously can’t imagine him not being around. He brings the flat to life. He’s an awesome little bundle of cuteness who keeps me constantly entertained. Not having him would suck. You can't go from having had a pet, to not having a pet. They're wicked. If you haven't yet, you should try getting one of your own. Magic.

coming soon; part three

france one year on, part one

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 16:01:00 +0000

A few weeks ago my one-year anniversary of living in France passed by without so much as a bottle of cava. To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed myself until a couple of days later, and so it was that the passing of one entire year on these shores was left unmarked. A complete non-event.

But still, I feel a blog entry or two, is a necessary and worthy way to mark the occasion, don’t you think?

I normally try to steer clear of the personal posts but here, and in the coming days, I’m going to throw caution to the wind and invite you for a rare visit into commis chefs inner sanctum. Please, make yourselves at home.

France. Where to start?

Moving to a different country isn’t something most people would do lightly. But I was so ready for a change of scenery and in need of adventure, and with TTRL being a native, I really did take moving to France in my stride. I packed my bags and left England without even batting an eyelid, excited about all the unknowns that lied ahead. I had no illusions that it would be easy, (I had already lived in France for four months before and that had been hard) and felt that I was at least prepared for that. It really has been far, far from a walk in the park.

After a three month sojourn about Europe, we arrived at TTRL’s parents flat, where we were to spend the next, 2 months. It must be said that TTRL’s family are lovely and welcoming and all the rest of it, but, what with me only speaking 10 words of French, times were hard. Languages, I have learned, are not my forte. I am fascinated by them, but there’s no pretending I’m someone who picks them up easily. Every day, especially in the beginning, was difficult. Even the most mundane of tasks becomes a challenge when you can't communicate effectively with people. Trying to buy the right thing, or return something, or explain what I was looking for could be a nightmare.

But it was early days and although I had moments of doubt and depression, I remained optimistic. I looked for jobs and studied eagerly every day. We spent a lot of time running cluelessly around Frances bureaucratic labyrinth trying to sort out various bits of official paperwork. That was a real eye opener. I quickly realised that I didn’t have a chance in hell of getting a job with my current level of French, and although I continued to look every day for anything I was capable of doing, I pretty much gave up any realistic hope I had of being employed for the time being. Eventually, even my daily internet searches went out the window.

Although I spent most of my time hiding in the bedroom, overall, I enjoyed staying with TTRLs parents. It was a good way to be introduced to the country, embedded with a French family so to speak. Apart, of course, from the fact that I had no idea what was going on 90% of the time. I ate really well, and was looked after like one of the family, but eventually, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, this actually got really annoying. I wanted to retake control of my life. I missed things like doing my own shopping, cooking food that I fancied eating when I fancied eating it, doing my own laundry and just generally being the boss of me. Although I got accustomed to having ironed and folded knickers, there was still something about them that disturbed me, (and sadly, those would not cease to continue for several more months until the arrival of a highly desired and much awaited washing machine). Ironed and folded pants made me sad.

I had absolutely no responsibility, no friends, no obligations, no communication skills and nothing but this blog and unlimited internet access to pass the time. So when TTRL found a job, I became bored. I would go into town everyday to entertain myself. I’d take photos and visit ‘the sites,’ but Toulon, as I now know, is just really not where it’s at. It is culturally dead.

I felt like I couldn’t even justify buying myself a coffee and just chilling out and reading a book for a few hours in a sidewalk café when TTRL was working and I didn’t have a pay cheque coming in. So my visits to town slowly decreased as I ran out of things to do there.

The good thing though was that because TTRL would have a pay slip to prove he was in employment, we could start looking for a flat of our own, which would mean I could have my life back. Or at least something vaguely resembling it.

Stay tuned for part 2

commis chefs handy eco-homemaking tips; first edition

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 10:19:00 +0000

Eco-balls. You’ve heard of them, but do they really work? The answer, my friends, is yes. I’m very happy about this.

However, they don’t fragrance your clothes. That’s the first thing you’ll notice. And I could care less actually, because you know what? I don’t need fragranced clothes. From the moment they’re clean and they don’t smell bad, I’m satisfied. If you were really bothered about this you could probably add a few drops of essential oil, or fragrance yourself, (using an ecologically and ethically produced perfume of course) but as far as I’m concerned it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

You might think 30 odd quid is a bit steep to fork out, in the short term at least. That’s why I say use your noggin and get them on ebay for £12.50, (plus postage and packaging) and your laughing. Plus they’re refillable. And you don’t need to refill them for 150 washes. They’ll pay for themselves before your transformation into a crusty (yet cleanly clothed) hippy is complete.

The other thing to note, is that they won’t get rid of stains – so you’ll need to treat those first.

Now here’s a handy hint for you; the other day I got an oily tomato sauce stain on a brand new white top I was wearing; what a twat. In the book I was reading, ‘Go Make a Difference – over 500 daily ways to save the planet,’ it suggested that rubbing chalk on oil stains would get rid of them. So I nicked a bit of chalk from work, and went home to take care of the stain. I rubbed it vigorously on both sides of the fabric. It didn’t fucking work! I was well disappointed. I decided there was nothing else for it but to give it a hearty scrub - but not right at that moment because after the failure of the chalk I just felt defeated. So, I picked it up and chucked it back in the laundry basket.

About a week later, I went to do a wash of whites and pulled out that top to give it a good old fashioned scrubbing, and I couldn't believe my eyes; it had totally vanished!! There was no oil, but even the redness of the tomato couldn’t be seen! Hooray for thrifty, ecologically friendly stain removing techniques that actually work (when you leave them for an extended period of time)!

Your welcome!

failure

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 15:07:00 +0000

One of the annoying things about living in a country where you're not fluent in the language is that you constantly fuck everything up.

A few weeks ago I made a surprisingly successful peach cheesecake. I know. The housewife within is ever flourishing. Worringly unstoppable even. Normally I'm crap at making desserts, even when I follow a recipe. And to be honest, I'm not really a dessert person. Savoury over sweet, any day of the week. One of the problems is if the recipe is in English it can be difficult to translate exactly which type of flour to use, or what kind of yeast or bicarbonate of soda or the like. These things don't translate well. So I decided to follow a French recipe; I bought all the exact ingredients, followed the instructions, and would you believe, it worked a treat.

Following the success of this cake and feeling pretty confident, I decided to recreate a strawberry version for when the 'belle famille' (they just can't help but be poetic) came over for dinner. It was a disaster. A sloppy horrible mess. Everyone soldiered politely on, which was nice of them, bless'em, but honestly, it was inedible. It had the texture of old tea and coffee skins piled high on a burnt crusty base. I would say it was embarrassing, but the housewife within isn't quite at Brie Vanderkamp levels yet. Thank christ. But at the same time, it wasn't funny. If it had happened in England I'm fairly sure it would've been nothing short of hilarious. Of course, someone would need to be initially very honest about its awfulness, but after it was out in the open it would have been fair game.

I couldn't figure out where I went wrong.

I had followed the recipe again and I thought I did everything exactly the same as the first time, but a closer inspection revealled a schoolkid error. I was feeling slightly cocky, you see, at my previous success, and failed to use the dictionary to varify a meaning of which I was not quite sure. The recipe asked for '2 cuillères à soupe rases de farine' which I decided meant '2 soup spoons of yeast.' My logic behind this was that 'farine' is flour, and 'rases' is very close to the English 'raise,' (alright, close enough), so it must mean something like 'raise the flour.'

This, as I found out, was not at all the case. 'Rases' comes from the verb 'raser,' meaning 'to shave.' Here it meant two 'level' soup spoons of flour. Cheesecake doesn't work if you replace flour with yeast. Don't pay for the same mistakes I've made.

See what happens when you get too confident? Something comes and knocks you right back down. The most annoying part is that with every culinary failure I serve TTRL's family and French people in general, their idea that all non-French food is disgusting is wrongly validated.

the perils of shopping

noreply@blogger.com (commis chef) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 14:48:00 +0000

As I have no doubt mentioned before, rare are the days that I buy non-essential items. I’m not tight, I’ve just already got everything I need. I do shop occasionally, but never excessively. I’m frugal is all. And I’d prefer to spend my money on a nice restaurant than a new outfit any day of the week. This isn’t just part of the new improved commis chef; I’ve been into the habit of generally just not buying stuff for years now. I imagine this stems from my teenage years when a lack of money was a constant worry. Although, at the time I constantly wanted to consume, nowadays I tend to feel the need to save as much as possible.

Happily, I actually hate shopping. It’s the only activity that gives me a headache. I know that many people, particularly women, love shopping, but I honestly can’t see what’s to like. Everything about it disgusts me. The activity itself just encourages us to want the kind of lifestyles that most of us can’t possibly sustain. I don’t want, to want, you see. I think my hatred for shopping comes from growing up in Croydon, where, apart from the cinema, literally the only thing to do is shop shop shop in one of the many gigantic shopping centres. I spent a good portion of my youth just loitering around the shops, wishing I had more money to buy more things to make me cooler.

Now I absolutely detest the entire experience. I loath the endless swathes of people, the crowded fitting rooms, the plastic bags and just the general endless consumerism that surrounds you. There is something genuinely disgusting about people racing around greedily stuffing their baskets full of unnecessary ‘bargains,’ like pigs fighting to get the biggest share from the trough. If I stop what I’m doing and stand around watching what’s happening before me for a bit, it makes me feel sick. At sale time this is magnified as people rifle through mounds of unfolded clothes like there’s no tomorrow. But then, who can blame them when the message we constantly receive is clearly that what we have isn’t good enough; there are bigger and better products to upgrade to, even if what we have works perfectly well. Wide screen tv’s anyone?

I particularly despise clothes shopping. Why? Because the whole nature of the beast is that it changes with the seasons, meaning that every 3 months or so people feel pressured to buy more and more and more clothes to keep up with the style, regardless of whether they need them or not. I’m no exception. Actually, fuck it, I am. I normally hate most of whats new. I just like clothes that are quite plain, but well cut. Yet, I still go clothes shopping regardless. I often manage to catch myself out on the odd near impulse buy, and ask, ‘do I really need this?’ Either way it’s still disgusting to watch.

I vaguely remember a few years back in the cut-throat world of Ikea in Croydon, they had an unbelievable sale that opened at midnight one night with sofas selling for ridiculous prices, like 80% off. People actually got stabbed in the desperate rush to get a sofa. This is truly insane.

Despite my overall desire to consume less, recently, I have actually been buying a whole lot more than I usually do – like the ecoballs and the sewing machine, because I need the tools to be more environmentally friendly and skill myself up a bit. This has led me to discover the sinful pleasures of internet shopping. It allows me to buy stuff without feeling like I’m buying anything. I can spend money at the touch of a button, and it feels as though nothing has happened. There are no blood-thirsty crowds gorging themselves on excess. I can buy easily from ethical companies. And a few days later I receive a gorgeous little parcel, old school style in the snail mail full of internet bought goodness. Yummy!

The act of consuming is completely disguised.

And this is why it is so dangerous. Yet still a thousand times better than the frenzied, generic and sterile experience of shopping in a homogenised mall. With an increasingly commodity-thirsty and violent public.

Yikes.