Statues of Doom

This childhood 'gem' turned up over the weekend in the course of a parental house clearout. I can only assume that Steven Moffat has taken to raiding Sussex homes in search of his Dr Who storylines.

I'll admit his title was an improvement.

Statues of Doom

Martha and Julia were walking through the park. It was a warm, sunny day, and the grass was shiny green. They were going round the park because four new statues had been put up, and they wanted to see them.

A few minutes later, Martha and Julia saw the statues. They were standing around a stone pillar, with their arms by their sides. Julia suggested that they should take a closer look.

Then, when they were by the statues, something willed them to step onto the pillar. They felt themselves stiffening. The statues creaked, and joined arms.

The next time the mayor came round, he was puzzled.

"How come there are six statues today, when there were only four yesterday?"

21st November 1989

Things I learned from a London cab driver

I learned some important things from my cab driver today. I was on the way to a meeting with a colleague and we were discussing house prices when the driver chipped in.

“Ah, house prices are a sin,” he said. “But it’s no fluke you know. The government wanted us to get into debt so they made us take out mortgages that were six or seven times our salaries. It’s all part of their plan.”

“The government may have some culpability,” I said, cautiously, “but surely we as individuals are ultimately responsible for the decisions we make? If we choose to take out mortgages of 100%, don’t we have to accept the consequences?”

“That’s what they want you to think,” he said, giving me a very intense look in the rearview mirror. “But they’ve been working towards this for years. That’s why women’s lib was started, you know; no offence to you of course. The whole reason they allowed women to start work was so that they could tax them too. And now you’ve got two people working in a house, taxes have gone up, and the economy’s falling apart. Now we’re dependent on the government – we’re following in the footsteps of American policy, and you know why? Because of the politicians. They’re all part of the same group, the [B---]* group. They’re all in it – Blair, Brown, the Americans, Thatcher. It all started with Thatcher, of course – haven’t you ever wondered why they all pay her so much credit in public? Because of the [B—] group. They’re the ones who control global political policies and they’re the ones who decide the price of oil. That’s how they keep their power, you see.”

In the back of the cab things were getting a bit speechless. Unfortunately, it didn’t do us any good.

“You’ve gone very quiet on me,” he said accusingly. “You need to do research on this yourself, then you’ll understand. I found it all out on the internet, it’s all out there for anyone who wants to look for it. But they don’t think you’ll do that, so they don’t bother hiding it.”

Luckily, at this point we arrived at our destination.

I feel positively enlightened.

*eds note: I can’t remember what it’s called. Google for ‘secret rulers of the world’ if you want enlightenment; it's probably about as reliable as he was.

“First and the last of the Morgan SLRs”

This week, after two years of very hard restoration work on the part of some of the country’s top Morgan mechanics (and I’m not just saying that because they patched up Connery after Emily made me run him into a pillar) the Morgan SLR is finally making its first public appearance at the RAC Club, where it will be on display for the rest of the week.

If you've been reading this blog for a while you may remember that I’ve talked about the SLR before. Since then I’ve learned a bit more about where it came from, courtesy of dad's research. It’s one of three SLRs designed and built in the early ‘60s by Sprintzel Lawrence Racing (can you guess where the name comes from now?:). Chris Lawrence, one of the brains behind the Morgan Aero, intended the car to be a high performing sports car based on the Morgan +4, whose chassis, suspension and running gear frankly kicked the competition to the kerb.

And it was worth it, right? This is one of the earliest photos dad's been able to get his mitts on, from (we think) the car's second incarnation - no pun intended.

Of course, as is the nature of such things, the car’s first owner wrote it off almost instantly. Chris then rebuilt it after the other two had been completed – making it both the first and last SLR made. It was raced competitively by a series of its owners and in the mid 70s was painted fire engine red by Sir Aubrey Brocklebank, after it and he were singed in a fuel leak which caught fire at Silverstone!

In the late 70s the car was then exported to the US by a gentleman called Bill Fink, who raced it at Monterey and other circuits for almost 30 years.

Two years ago its current owner (my esteemed parent) brought it back to the UK and had it restored to its original condition by various fabulous people* – just in time for this year’s Morgan Motor Company Centenary.

Isn’t she lovely?

*To name names: restoration and race preparation by Brands Hatch Morgans of Borough Green, Kent; bodywork by The Historic Coachworks (formerly Rod Jolley Coachbuilding) of Lymington, Dorset, and paintwork by Panel Craft Elite of Sittingbourne, Kent :)

Christmas, Commitment and Cooking

The Boy and I moved another step closer to Serious Commitment with this weekend’s purchase of our very own Christmas tree. Given that my beloved flat, while awesomely located, is only about 2ft square, installing a whopping great tree may seem rash - but it’s an essential part of the festive season. What would I do with all that tinsel otherwise?

He looked rather alarmed when I told him that as far as I was concerned this was a much bigger relationship hurdle than moving in together. It’s the first time I’ve ever committed to joint tree ownership with a boy, whereas moving in together is something I’ve done with just about anyone in the past (with inevitably erratic results). Luckily he shook it off in time for Saturday night, when a bevvy of lovely ladies descended on us for an evening of wine, wine and a rather tasty three course meal whipped up, believe it or not, by the Boy himself.

For a man who doesn’t cook I have to say he did rather well – foie gras parfait followed by roast duck stuffed with wild boar, and tarte au citron for dessert. God bless Borough Market, says I; we’ll have do this entertaining lark more come the New Year.

Although given that I set the frying pan on fire last night trying to make pasta, I might leave the actual cooking part to him.

Mostly Harmless

For about the last 12 months, in every photo of me taken after midnight, I seem to have my lips planted firmly on the cheeks of the nearest unfortunate soul - usually with a massive grin on my face and a half-empty glass sloshing around in my hand. In one or two forums this persistent trend has gained me a reputation that I suspect may be quite hard to shake, not to mention my own growing concern that I might be turning into some kind of crazy cougar wannabe.

This weekend, nursing yet another festive hangover and reviewing the latest batch of photos on Facebook, I realised the happy truth: it’s not that I’ve turned into some kind of minor sex pest, it’s actually all about the cheekbones.

No, really! Puckering up to the person next to me is the only absolutely guaranteed way of faking the bone structure that genetics failed to grant – and as an added bonus, it hides the second chin that certain relatives (who shall remain nameless) tell me is the curse of our family once we hit our late 20s. (Well, that and the raging alcoholism.)

I have to say, as strategies go, it’s really not that bad.

A moral tale (on slippery foundations)

Well, O Best Beloved, I have had full-on horrible man flu for five days, during which time I missed the entire start of the festive season, including the annual reunion of my University posse - on what would, this year, have been the ten year anniversary of our first meeting. I am utterly gutted and therefore rather annoyed that this morning life added injury to insult by tripping me up on a piece of invisible ice outside Caffe Nero.

It did however teach me a valuable lesson: at the time I was thinking how irritating and noisy school children are and focusing my silent hatred on a particular group standing just in front of me. All of a sudden out went my feet and over I slid, cracking my elbows and throwing my ginormous coffee half way up the street. And who is it that rushes over to help me up and send me back to Caffe Nero for a free replacement? Yep, you guessed it. Those very same irritating and noisy school children, who actually turned out to be rather sweet. We slid up the street together to my office where I waved them goodbye and skated in with my tasty new coffee and a series of rather fine bruises up my elbow.

What do you mean, there's a moral to this story?

Oh so Special

Let us pause for a moment to reflect on the unsung genius behind the Special K marketing campaign. Well, what's your first thought when a woman in red appears on your TV screen? For me at least it's always the same - "ah, must be Special K".

So ingrained is that pernicious “stay special” message that even when the newer chocolate-loaded or honey-soaked varieties find their way into my shopping basket they’re accompanied by a definite feeling of virtue, like I’ve made the healthy choice and picked up something really wholesome.

Today, munching Oats ‘n’ Honey out of the box as my virtuous post-dinner snack, it crossed my mind to wonder whether this was actually the case. 3% fat really sounds too good to be true: what’s the catch?

I can only assume it's stuffed with crack.

Plans and schemes

For the next week and a half I’m a woman on a mission. Every day of this hard-earned leave I will do something extravagant, unjustifiable and completely credit-crunch inappropriate.

I’ve spent a relaxing weekend doing useful house things (aka clearing out the wardrobe for an influx of shiny new things) and making plans. The Boy du Jour is off work for the week too – actually, he's off work entirely, but that’s another story – but the upshot is that I have a partner in crime for all my brilliant ideas. Who knows, he may even have a few of his own ;)

"It's not that big of a deal"

It’s been nearly two months since Almostalady Jr upped sticks and moved out to Philly to change the world with some mysterious branch of high-energy Physics. Reports of progress (which seems to be made mostly in local cocktail bars) are good, although I have yet to see any real commitment to online communication. Where, pray tell, is the blog? Where the Twitter feed? Surely a new ex-pat in the land of the free has some worthwhile news to share with friends and family at home, especially one week before an election that has the world waiting with baited breath?

Still, we make do with email and MSN, and even with this periodic communication I've become aware of a rather worrying situation. After only eight weeks away from the motherland, it appears my scholarly Cambridge-educated sister is losing her grip on the English language. The biggest sins so far? “That’s hella awesome” followed swiftly by “It’s not that big of a deal”.

It's not that big of a deal? Really? Dear lord, save us from the mangling of the English language by lazy Physicists. I can’t think of any way of curing her except by tying her to a chair over Christmas and reading her “Eats Shoots and Leaves” til her head explodes.

Speaking of which... happy Hallowe'en!

Three for three

Hello, you lovely people. It's been a while since we've spoken!

In my absence it seems I've been tagged in a couple of quite entertaining memes - you'll have to indulge me over the next couple of days while I sift through the best of the bunch.

Some time ago I was tagged by Big Tim Bond in a remarkably prevalent meme started somewhere in the depths of Twitter. Now, let's see, how did it go...

My top 3 non-work websites
1. Gawker
Gawker really is second to none in the well-targeted bitchiness stakes. It can't be healthy to love a website this much and yet, somehow, I do.
2. Go Fug Yourself
Thank the lord for people who share my views on leggings. GFY is a bit of a pop culture phenomenon and deserves every bit of kudos that comes its way. Ever looked at red carpet starlets and wondered what on earth was going through their minds? My friend, you are not alone.
3. The Art of Manliness
In these politically sticky times it's just so gosh-darned hard for a man to know what it means to be a man. Want to Man Up like the real thing? This is the site for you. Sometimes funny, sometimes useful and sometimes just really thought-provoking.

Top 3 karaoke songs
I don’t karaoke, but if I did...
1. Grease Megamix – I don’t really feel this one needs any justification
2. Living on a Prayer – if I'm drunk enough to sing I’m going to want to sing this
3. Build me up Buttercup - the original and the best!

Top 3 cocktails
Making this decision is really what's taken the time. Seriously, just three?
1. The classic champagne cocktail
They call it classic for a reason - like an Yves Saint Laurent tuxedo, it will never go out of style. Just for heaven's sake don't try and make it with Cava.
2. Champagne Mojito
I have always loved Mojitos. Rum, mint, demerera sugar and club soda - could anything possibly be better? Well yes, as it happens. I met this little gem a few weeks ago when out with a client and it frankly made my day. Night. Whatever.
3. Cosmopolitan
Believe it or not, it's not always about the champagne. I love a good Cosmo - something I used to think was impossible to screw up until Emily took me bar hopping in Letchworth. I ask you - who in their right mind would put grenadine in a Cosmo? Still, that unfortunate experience aside, a well-made Cosmo is a thing of beauty.

I think I'm right in saying that there are still some people who haven’t shared their answers with the world... so take it away Polly and Rob!

Champagne Thursday...

Last night I did something I haven't done in a long time: I got blitzed on a schoolnight.

Yes, yes, I know. I'm 29 now, I'm old enough to know better. I really don't think you should judge me too harshly though - those six bottles of champagne were just me doing my bit to hold up the economy. Keeping the money circulating, y'know?

However, the evening has reminded me of the many, many reasons I no longer go drinking with work. I distinctly recall revealing my Secret Plan for World Domination at some length to my unfortunate client; I also have dim recollections of telling some stories from my misspent youth that perhaps, with hindsight, would have been better left unmentioned.

It all gets a bit hazy towards the end and I have very little idea how or when I got home - although I do remember finding myself in Highbury some time around midnight. (I don't live in Highbury so to be honest your guess is as good as mine..)

What I do recall is a very unimpressed boyfriend waiting for me when I eventually stumbled through the front door. Apparently I called him several times en route to insist that he order me a pizza (I didn't want to do it myself) and while I don't recall exactly how the conversation went, he isn't really speaking to me this morning.

Which is a shame.

Someone also seems to have gone into a bit of a frenzy with the garlic and herb dip in my living room.

Good times all round :)

Star(bucks) People

I spent a few productive hours on Tuesday morning hooked into the WiFi in Starbucks while the o2 store next door tried to fix my comatose mobile phone.

That much time in a coffeeshop makes for an interesting people watching exercise. Who are you, my Starbucks-bound friends, and what brings you to this high street store at 10.30 on a Tuesday morning?

A sad man in a business suit sat at the next table to mine for the best part of an hour, staring out of the window and occasionally scribbling a brief note in the dog-eared pad that sat beside him. Who are you, sad suited man? Are you a small part of the chaos in the City, escaping to your coffee-house haven to decide what to do next?

A group of screaming tweenie girls whirled in like banshees about 10.45, grabbed all the croissants left in the place and swept out, a distant cry of “he said WHAT” dissolving in their wake. The sad man watched them go and made a few notes on his pad.

A woman with a laptop came in and settled on one of the large twin sofas. We caught each other’s eye briefly, but she looked away before I could offer a co-conspiratorial smile. Two other women with enormous but empty pushchairs wheeled in and sat around her on the sofas, sipping milkless coffees and talking a bit too loudly for the comparative quiet of the morning. The woman with the laptop ignored them stoicly for a while but eventually gathered up her things and departed.

As she walked past me I couldn’t help noticing that her shoes needed reheeling.

By now the sad man was engaged in an industrious spot of notepad-scribbling. He barely looked up as two twenty-something creative types walked in, all trendy jeans and spiky hair. “I can’t believe she put that forward,” one of them was saying. “I mean, isn’t that exactly what she suggested for the campaign last year?”

Curiosity made me watch them to the counter, where they ordered eight takeaway coffees between them and left, trays in tow. One of them ran into a pushchair on the way out; he didn’t stop to apologise, but the women on the sofas barely noticed.

The sad man stopped scribbling again. Elbows on the table and chin in his hands he was staring out of the window and slowly sloshing the dregs of his coffee around the bottom of the cup. With a sigh, he got up to leave.

“Have a nice day,” I said to him on impulse, giving him my best-and-brightest smile, the one I keep for special occasions and presents I really wanted.

He looked around for a moment, surprised, before focusing on me. “Oh… thanks,” he said, and smiled back.

And then he was gone, and I got back to work.

Does sexism still exist?

Emily posted about this a while ago and it’s been playing on my mind for a while.

I have a number of friends – most, interestingly, made through my professional rather than my personal life – who tease me affectionately about calling myself a feminist, and ask me why I think I need to defend a cause that our mothers already won.

So, after some thought, here’s my explanation.

I rarely experience sexism in either my personal or professional life. I’ve been very lucky. In fact, the only incident that springs instantly to mind is a business pitch from a year or two ago where I was the only woman in the room. The potential client – a 50-something white male, self-declared success story and “industry visionary” – sat at the head of the table, winked at me (or rather, at my cleavage) when I entered the room, and spent the rest of the pitch looking through me, cracking crude jokes and ending each one with “well of course if there wasn’t a young lady present I could tell you some REAL stories, ho ho ho”.

Just thinking about it is making my blood boil all over again. But that’s beside the point. The point is that I can count those experiences on one hand, and I try to remember every day that this is a rare, rare thing. I have friends in other industries who can top my little handful of stories with one petty insult for every day of their working lives, one comment that made them uncomfortable, one little example of how they’ve been taken for granted, put down, laughed at or patronised simply because they are women.

My friends and I represent a very, very small sample of the world. I try to remember that, too. I try to bear in mind the hundreds, thousands and millions of women who aren’t as fortunate as me. The unlucky ones who fall into a job where they are undervalued, sidelined and bullied because of their gender, or who find themselves in a destructive or abusive relationship they can’t escape from. And, of course, all of those who are born and brought up in cultures where being a woman automatically makes you a second-class citizen.

There’s no denying that those jobs, those relationships and those cultures exist. That’s why I can’t let the small slights go. To me, it’s just an insult I can shrug off; but it’s also part of a bigger, nastier picture that stretches across the world. And it’s not just the world three thousand miles away - this is the world just down your street, where these things are happening every day, whether we see them or not.

So yes, I’m a feminist, and I’m proud to say so. What does that mean? It means I believe that we are all equals, that we deserve the same opportunities in life, and that we should be be judged on something beyond our genders.

Sadly, that's still a lot to ask.

Mortal... Kombat?

Thanks to Bateleur for bringing this video to my attention. A must for anyone who was brought up on the same heady mix of Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat as me.

I knew this was what happened when the cameras stopped rolling.

And while we're sharing... Hello, Kombat!

I'm not sure which is more twisted.

Hormonally yours

Can you tell me why PMS is so bad? Really? Every single headache-inducing, broken-nighted time?

For me the bar-none worst bit has got to be the mood swings. Sunday/Monday was doubtless not improved by a lack of sleep out in gay Amsterdam (of which more later), but a bit of tiredness neither warrants nor excuses the split-second transition from homicidal rage to "someone ran over my cat" wobbly lower lip and tear-filled eyes.

Nor does it help knowing what's going on. You may well be able look at your grey-faced reflection in the PC screen and tell it that you know it's only hormones making you want to beat the postman to death with the photocopier toner cartridge - but it doesn't stop you wanting to do it.

The best solution I've found for when the Crazy descends is to consume vast quantities of chocolate as quickly as possible and let the endorphins do their thing. I'm told that to actually get any kind of high from chocolate you'd have to eat more than twice your body weight or something equally ridiculous - still, I'm prepared to give it a go. But surely there must be a better way to deal with it? Last week we recreated the Big Bang - can we not sort out PMS next?

Now I come to think of it, the Emergency Chocolate stashed in my desk drawer was actually provided by a forward-thinking colleague who sits next to me... perhaps my inner emotional turmoil isn't quite as discreet as I'd hoped.

(On the streets of) Philadelphia

Even as we speak, my sister is sitting on a plane on the tarmac at Heathrow, waiting to take off for pastures new. It's a very big adventure - she's moving to Philadephia for two years to take up a post-doc position at Penn University.

People often ask me what it is my sister does. High-energy Physics is the answer, although that's about the sum total of my knowledge. She spends a not-inconsiderable period of time two miles underground in Canada (and sometimes Texas) looking at particles, but exactly what she's up to or why she's doing it has always been a bit of a mystery. At least it was, up until this weekend, when she admitted that her Physics crew is connected to the Physics crew who are trying to bring the Universe to an end on Wednesday. She kept that little gem to the last possible minute.

"If the Big Bang happened as we think, then the Universe was created from the collision of two forces," she explained for perhaps the hundredth time over lunch. "For every piece of matter, there has to be the same amount of anti-matter. Think of it this way: for every one Almostalady, there's an anti-Almostalady somewhere. We're just trying to find her."

"Doesn't sound like a very good idea to me," I muttered dubiously, poking the remains of dessert with my fork.

"What they're going to do is fire two different kinds of particles at each other to recreate what we think happened," she said, ignoring my glowers. "They're hoping to see the Higgs particle. Or get some more insight into the nature of antimatter."

"Isn't that rather like inviting the Apocalypse?"

"Would you like me to refill your wineglass?"

And so off she goes to associate with the great and the good of the Physics world. For the most part I'm looking at it not as losing a sister but gaining a holiday home 45 minutes from New York. Still, I'm a bit sad. It only feels like five minutes since her Starburst She-Ra doll kicked seven shades of crap out of my Thundercat Cheetara on the bedroom floor. Where does the time go?

On PR

Contemplating work
Thinking that press releases
Should be in haiku.

Ladies of leisure

Yesterday Dr Almostalady Jr and I were ladies of leisure, cruising through London town on my long extravagant pre-birthday treat. We're great believers in extended festivities; it's not the actual day for another month, but since she's leaving the country on Monday to pursue an academic career in the States she won't be around for the real thing. (Ungrateful wretch.)

We implemented a deeply strategic four phase plan for the day, rigorous in its extremes and demanding in its deliverables.

First phase: Shopping

For a successful sibling shopping trip you must follow a few golden rules:
1. You shall not go into shops that make both parties go 'meh'.
2. If one party has found something to try on, the other must try something too (or have something chosen for them by their companion).
3. You shall not go into Barratt's, for it is rubbish.
4. While frequently disputing the acceptable level of boob for office wear, you shall join together to mock people wearing clothes neither of you like.
5. You shall implement frequent booze breaks to maintain equanimity.

Which leads nicely into phase two...

Second phase: Tea for two

Loaded with bags, our next stop was for champagne tea at the Connaught. The house menu boasted a four course sandwich, scone and cake menu (I kid you not), deeply decadent chocolate petits fours and a specially hand-decorated treat for the birthday girl. Yum.

(Pic here for those who have been wondering what The New Haircut looked like. No no, not mine. Hers.)

Third phase: A little self improvement

Late afternoon saw us landing at the Earth salon for a lengthy hair and massage ritual. Three hours of intensive work on the part of my charming stylist resulted in a combination of colour which, while a bit Gothic, is vastly preferable to my natural shade which looks not unlike the dead leaf slush you get underfoot in late October.

Fourth phase: The curtain call

Last but not least, dinner near Charing Cross with maman, fresh from her early soiree at a friend's palatial Cheyne Walk abode. We spent a relaxed hour or so putting the world to rights over a few glasses of wine; also putting in place the first plans for next year's trip to Philadelphia. Only 45 minutes from NYC, or so they tell me.

And finally, home, and the end of a perfect day.

I really must have afternoon champagne more often.

Less fighting, fewer arguments…

This weekend I had a MASSIVE fight with the Boy du Jour.

Let me set the scene.

I’m lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, when he bounces in and starts talking to me about something. In my fuzzy state all I’m picking up is a few key points – just enough to keep my end of the conversation up. That is, until a stray comment drifts across my consciousness: "So then there were less than there had been to start with!"

"Fewer," I mumble. "Fewer than there were to start with."

His brow creases. "What?"

"Less is a volume. Fewer’s a number. S’nothin. Sorry. What happened next?"

"But most people use less to mean numbers."

I’m starting to wake up a bit at this point. Those who know me will be aware that I have a love of the Red Pen and the big less vs fewer debate is a particular bugbear of mine, no less because I came to it shamefully late in life. "Well, then, most people are stupid."

"Why?"

"Because of the grammatical imperative-"

"Surely language is meant to evolve to reflect its usage?"

"Not if its usage is wrong!"

With hindsight, this is where it all started to go a bit tits up. Surely, the Boy said, the OED accepts new words every year based on their usage by we-the-people. So why doesn’t grammar work the same way?

Because we’d rapidly cease to understand each other, I explained crossly, and we’d end up with a nation of imbeciles who communicated only in grunts.

That’s a very narrow world view, he said. I think you’re wrong. We can’t be bound by the rules of a grammar system that makes no sense to anyone anymore. If no one uses it, we’re not wrong - the language is. And it needs to change.

Everything gets a bit hazy here; all I recall is thunder rolling and the red mist descending. And why? Because I couldn’t answer him. I knew with every fibre of my being that what he said was wrong and that I should smother him with the pillow before letting such poison spread into the world – but for the life of me I couldn’t articulate why. (So what exactly did I spend those three years at Oxford doing? Not learning to communicate, that’s for sure.)

So what do you think? Am I too constrained by my preconceived grammatical notions? Do we need to throw the rules of grammar out of the window to reflect the way the nation uses it today (no matter how stupid that may be)? Or – and I really do hope this is the case – does good grammar still have a case for me to argue?

Wii!

My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!
My Wii Fit is here!

Of course the Wii itself doesn't arrive til Saturday (complete with Lego Indiana Jones - all my geeky dreams come true at once) but at least that means I still have 24 hours left of my social life.

The question now is how to make the most of it...