Hey Bitch-Cake Face

After my "tired and emotional" day yesterday, I am still feeling somewhat crabby, but not the monster that once was. Mr and Mrs Pedro, it turns out, are battered and bruised. They were sat in the back of a camper van, without seatbelts, when a tyre blew out on the motorway. In what sounds like a nasty nasty scary thing, the van went up on two wheels, before flipping completely, sending them all into a jumble. Luckily the van was well cushioned, otherwise things could have been so much worse. But they still spent several hours in l'hopital and are now pondering how to get their shaken selves back to blighty. So my bad mood towards Pedro was (as I always knew) very unjustified. Though still don't want to do his fandangoing work!!

One good thing (if it can be called that) to come out of massive grumpiness is a sudden urge to write stuff, darling..... hence a new entry in poetryblog after a long absence of creative thought. And "Let it Go" is not inspired by me, me, me like things usually are, but a whole lotta of everybody and everything. Hope yooo like.

Tired and Emotional...

Here we go again. Spent all my morning and most of the afternoon down the beloved Central Middlesex Hospital. They never fail to see me at least one and a half hours later than my appointment, only to tell me nothing new. This time the doctor wrote me a prescription, and sent me to the pharmacy to wait another half hour. My only comfort at this point was that I wouldn’t have to pay for these particular pills. Except that after a couple of questions from the pharmacist, money was indeed asked for. “Er what??” says I. The lady explains that as they are not being prescribed for their primary purpose, I have to pay the full charge. “Okay” says I (rather indignantly) “If I tell you that they are also for contraception do I still have to pay??” Anyway I leave the darned place not so much rueing the £6.85 now missing from my purse but rather the indignity. Yes my life is as barren as the Sahara, but does it have to be rubbed in my face, by taxing me for the double whammy of being ill and without sex. Thank you very much world!

Then arrive at work and find that some kind of tsunami has swept a hundred patient files into it, and all over my desk and into huge piles, for good measure. And there I am feeling subhuman, and I have precisely three hours left in the day to do three days worth of work. What follows involves swearing and cursing and wanting to weep in public. And all this knowing that I have a close friend in serious need of a place to lean, so I spend several hours after work not winding down but listening to someone’s true heartbreak, only interrupted by a text (sent accidentally it seems) from Mr and Mrs Pedro. They’ve crashed their van in France, not just crashed it but rolled it over, and ended up in hospital. And the worst thing is, all I can think is: Pedro’s not going to be back in work tomorrow, how the fuck can I manage all his work?? It seems from what little information I can glean, that there are no serious injuries, but it (and my reaction to it) is still pretty shitty.

And now back home, I am mulling over all sorts of things. I watched the Great Gatsby yesterday; possibly my favourite ever novel, and this adaptation (with Toby Stephens) possibly the best of the three so far made… but it’s not exactly the most uplifting of tales is it? The characters are full of longing, but too clumsy and too careless, to ever achieve what they wish for. Foe sent me an email today, rather out of the blue, and made me feel very careless indeed. There’s nothing like a few truisms to bring out the maudlin in me. Monky called me “bloody” and “stubborn” a few weeks ago. I can’t decide whether it’s a point of pride, or a chronic flaw. But I do know that when I’m feeling vulnerable I get mighty prickly. Today is a mighty prickly day. Today I feel ever so ever so prickly indeed.

Minus the Smoke and the Flames

Am feeling slightly less emotive about the old sailing ship today, now they've doused her down, and surveyed the damage. She's not exactly pretty, but apparently there's more of her left than they'd originally hoped, and part of the hull, most of the interior fittings, and her masts and sails, were elsewhere, so presumably with a bit of T.L.C she can be rebuilt once more. Also, I'm happy to report that the famous figure head - a luscious lady with her tits out - was also away from the action, and Shaggy assures me that happily the collection of figureheads, that I remember so fondly, were also AWOL.

"Cutty Sark" means a short shirt or undergarment, apparently, but the ship is probably named after the witch in the poem Tam O' Shanter (by Robbie Burns). Which brings me along nicely to a few articles I've read lately, saying paganism and witch craft are now massively rising in popularity, particularly among young ladeez, who no doubt appreciate it's respect for the feminine (absent in nearly all the modern incarnations of the world religions) and of course the earth itself. Which is good news for me, seeing as I proudly wrote "pagan" in the last census. Not sure I'm ready to move into the whole witchcraft thing just yet, but there's nothing wrong with worshipping mother earth. All the rest of you folks, still railing to the big fella above, and poring over the archaic texts of yester year, no offense, but I think you're just wasting your time...!

Cutty Sark ~3

Cutty Sark ~2

Cutty Sark ~1

The Cutty Sark

Currently on fire apparently. Presuming this is the work of arsonists (and it usually is) congratulations you ignorant tossers!! Not only my favourite all time London (and possibly British) manmade landmark, but the oldest surviving tea-clipper in the world. Well it was until a few hours ago. GRRRRRRRRRRR. Apparently there were significant parts of it that weren't present, as they were being renovated. But presumably not enough to put the thing back together again in all its former glory. I wonder if the collection of weird and wonderful dredged up figure-heads that used to be in the hold, are gone. Probably.

Hmmm, it's a bit strange isn't it, just as the West Pier in Brighton got the go ahead for a multi-million pound restoration, it goes up in flames. Just as the Cutty Sark's super expensive put-it-in-a-glass-bubble makeover starts, it goes up in flames. Maybe these things aren't the work of little fuckers, but a group of renegade right-wingers, voicing their anger at too much public spending!! As a theory I realise I haven't thought it through too well, but I'm sticking with it!!

Now, let me wallow in my bad baaaaaad mood.

Hen Weekend (A.K.A Yooo slaaaaaaggggggs)

Just returned from a hen weekend in Brighton town. Despite the above title, the assembled company were not your average shrieking barbie-doll bints, but a fine mixture of Norn Irish and English city high-fliers, mother-in-law, and...er...me. I admit I was looking forward to it like a baseball bat to the face, but there is a certain advantage to being a pessimist. Sometimes, you're pleasantly surprised....

Brighton was lovely, very pretty and vibrant. Our hotel was on the seafront overlooking the shell of the West Pier. Helped by the blustery (more like gale-force) weather and dark skies, and my own penchant for staring with wonderment at old architecture, I found myself slightly moved by its decline. Quite how someone thought fit to douse it in petrol is beyond me. But I suppose there is something to be said for leaving certain things to decline. Decay can be beautiful. It's just a shame that it couldn't be left to rot slowly, rather than condemned in one big ball of flames. And definitely wish I'd bothered seeing it before it slipped into the sea. Anyhoos, here's a piccie of the old girl when she was most of the way to falling down...

There's something to be said for the East Pier and its tackarama, though was most disappointed that it was too windy to go on the upside down rollercoaster. Then again, having settled for a lesser ride, that simply span me around very high up, and creaked and jerked around like it was just about to dismantle itself, I probably should thank my lucky stars I didn't get to ride it...

Anyway, back to work and all that. Bah. Cycled in today for the first time. TFL journey planner told me it would take 48 minutes. In fact it took me 2 hours!! And I didn't even stop at the fricking hills. Though I did go round Finsbury Park approximately ten times before I found the right road, so maybe that explains it.....

Bank Holiday Bender (in more than one sense...)

Proving how elderly I am becoming the nearer I get to thirty, I closed my eyes on the train this morning, and it felt like a ship. And all because I went on a bit of a bender on Sunday evening. Uggg. However, despite drinking too much and sleeping too little, I had a throughly good weekend. Went home to the 'ding on Friday, and had a very lovely dins courtesy of Monky, who psychoanalysed me and the world around us, most successfully. Went to the footie, watched the mighty ones go down in a most unmighty way to relegated Watford, but still felt warm in my heart. What a bonza season! Now I have to find some other weekend amusement until the football comes round again in August. Argggg. Then on Sunday evening Choc Chip and Schwesty joined me for a folk bender in Islington.

Started off with a barn dance (!) which although I stayed well away from, looked seriously quite fun. Then Man Eyken and band played.... as usual blimmin marvellous. Followed by some slightly odd (and definitely in no way German) people playing really not-very-German tunes, but dressed as Bavarians. Hmmm. Finally it was boogieing until the early hours to a Congalese band. It was at this juncture that, merried up on wine, I had to radically reassess my school girl crush on Man Eyken. Man Eyken was also boogieing, and as usual being lovely and friendly with all those around him. But particularly "friendly" with the big-haired, camp-as-you-like compere for the evening. Total GAYDAR failure on my part. But I guess that's what schoolgirl crushes are meant to be. Totally unrealistic!!

Eventually, with the world around me swaying, we got the night-bus back, and had an (only when you're drunk) loud, hysterical conversation about how we'd missed the gayness of Mr Van Eyken. I also proceeded to try to fall off my seat (whilst gesticulating wildly), only to be rescued by an embarrassed looking young black man, who promptly moved, lest all the gay-talk disturbed him from his music any further... it was finally decided by Choc Chip (after I started cursing my nearly-new and nearly-newly-rubbish mobile phone) that I have superhuman "breaking" skills. One look at a peice of technology, and it's bust. One girlie sigh in the direction of a handsome fellow, and he's a bender. Which is not to suggest that gay men are broken, but as Choc Chip helpfully summed it up "they are broken to the opposite sex". D'oh!

And yesterday. Well uck. Sickie sickie sickie sick sick. Sigh.

Soooo Bored I Tell Thee...

Here's some info about the bloke that wrote "The Drover's Boy". Credited as the man that introduced Rolf Harris to "Two Little Boys" and thus clearly a genius:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Egan

Have also tracked down the writer of "Still is the Memory Green in my Mind" (to give it its full title) and doesn't he look like a proper folkie, bless 'im:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Rosselson

It Goes Like This...

Just come back from a pleasant evening down the pub with Didcot, watching the mighty ‘ding kick some Geordie arse 1-0. And wouldn’t you know it, but it was my favourite ging who scored (step forward Dave Kitson!).

You may have gathered my mood has improved somewhat since Saturday night / Sunday morning, in keeping with my current manic disposition. Going to listen to some live music always revives me, and a first trip to Walthamstow folk club, to hear Nancy Kerr and James Fagan proved just the tonic. The duo were superb as always. And a lovely little venue. Perhaps because I was feeling delicate (but I’m pretty sure it was just the quality of music) a couple of the songs really hit me in the guts: “The Drover’s Boy”, an Australian song recording the ills of colonial racism through a tender little love story, and the mesmerising “Still is the Memory”, a song that seamlessly combines the themes of a nuclear holocaust and falling in love! As Nancy Kerr pointed out, the two don’t always feel too dissimilar....! I’ve been searching out the lyrics on the internet, with not much luck, so will have to get my hands on the CD, and do some force feeding to people!

I needed to be in a better mood as it happened. I’ve finally got round to booking my flights to Naz and Boo’s wedding (of which the joy of not getting a plus one on the invitation is still coursing through my veins) and on a whim decided to book flights to Belfast one day earlier, so I could spend a little time there. Why oh why do I do this? Assuming I have friends is the best way to prove I have none. Foolishly I asked Foe whether I could borrow a floor for the night, rather nonchalantly assuming that this would not be a problem, and that he might even quite like entertaining me for the evening. Nope. Apparently his moving house now (April) will mean he can’t lend me a floor in…. July. I asked Didcot’s opinion as to how I should react to this. He suggested resending the email with an insertion after “I won’t be offended if you can’t” to the order of [WHEN I SAID THIS I WAS ACTUALLY JOKING. I WILL BE OFFENDED!!]. Or perhaps just turning up at his house, and pretending I never read his email at all…. instead I shall just go along with being slightly morose, and wondering why I bothered.

If Foe does happen to read this, enjoy your new moustache. My being miffed is most probably a compliment. As I’m sure you’re aware blah blah blah etc.