Winter of Discontent

I'm cold. I'm so cold that I'm seriously considering cutting my head off and burning it to produce some heat. I want to hibernate and not come out until there's blossom on the trees.

Asking for it

So... according to a third of respondents to the Amnesty survey out today, women who dress provocatively and flirt with men are asking to be raped.

I imagine I'm preaching to the converted here, because presuambly that third of people are sitting in a wood somewhere trying to communicate by banging on bits of animal bone. But it makes me too angry to ignore.

It's not only insulting to women, it's insulting to men by saying that they're so bloody primative that they can't help but rape a woman as soon as they've got a glimpse of her ankle.

Women (or men for that matter) always have the right to say no. Even if you've been flirting shamelessly all night. Even if you were hoping to have a one-night stand that night with someone else. Even if you've already promised sex and change your mind at the last minute.

To say that some women could use some crime-prevention advice is one thing, but to put any blame whatsoever towards the victim of a rape is absolutely unacceptable.

MadwyfSetsFyr2Haus

So, a professor has shortened literary works into text message style summaries. Apparently this is meant to help students study literature. I have no problem with students being given a nice friendly summary PRIOR to reading the book (particularly with things such as Greek plays where the audience were meant to know the plotline beforehand), but to say that these summaries could actually replace literature is completely fucking ridiculous.

For example,

5Sistrs WntngHsbnds. NwMeninTwn-Bingly&Darcy. Fit&Loadd.BigSis Jane Fals 4B,2ndSisLiz H8s D Coz Hes Proud. Slimy Soljr Wikam Sys DHs Shady Past.Trns Out Hes Actuly ARlyNysGuy &RlyFancysLiz. She Decyds She Lyks Him.Evry1 Gts Maryd.

Where do I start... Where's the humour? Where are half the characters? How can you have Pride and Prejudice without Mrs Bennett or Mr Collins? How can you introduce Wickham as "slimy" when we're all meant to fancy him a bit when we first see him?

I appreciate that when you're young it might be difficult to get into Shakespeare, Chaucer, or even Dickens for that matter, but these summaries aren't helpful at all. If I were teaching a group of moody teenagers, I'd start with the section in David Copperfield when he gets pissed with his mates. This passage remains one of the best descriptions of drunkeness I know. I'd get them to read Northanger Abbey for Austen -I challenge anyone not to find that book funny. I'd take them to see Shakespeare at the theatre. I'd get them to read poetry aloud. Anything but those bloody awful bloody summaries.

The Constant Gardener

I saw The Constant Gardener yesterday. It's one of those films that makes you want to pack in your job, sell all your worldly possessions, and go and work as an aid worker in some far-flung country the other side of the world.

The trouble is, you sit in the cinema feeling all indignant and self-righteous, but then that feeling slowly drifts away as you're on your way home, and before you know it you're watching Antiques Roadshow in your comfy slippers and eating a Kit Kat.

In reality, I'm never going to jack it all in to do something heroic and worthy. So what do I do with these feelings of wanting to do more? It's overwhelming to think about everything we could be doing. So I suppose the trick is to do things one stage at a time. Last time I saw a film like this I joined Amnesty and Oxfam. Maybe this time I need to realise that giving money isn't enough. I should actually start reading the stuff they send me and do things like selling raffle tickets and writing to my MP. But all of this seems pathetic and embarassing compared to the hard work that 'real' people are doing in places of crisis.

Oh dear, what am I going to do?

Call that art?

I went to the Tate Britain last Friday to have a look at the Turner Prize finalists. There was a tour by Mark Kemode which mainly consisted of him telling us he knows nothing about art and not to bother asking any questions.

I definitely have an ambivalent attitude towards contemporary art. On the one hand, I don't want to be one of those loud, middle-class people who talk too loudly at art galleries about how 'brave' the artist is, when they actually have no idea what they're looking at. And I really don't have any idea what I'm looking at. My knowledge of art history is pretty minimal and I probably couldn't pick a contemporary artist out of a line-up (apart from Tracey Emin, but I only know her because of that time she turned up for a television interview pissed and stormed out to phone her mum).

On the other hand, I think that artists are getting a really tough time at the moment. I hate it when someone says "a tent with names on? But I could have done that!" because I always think, well why didn't you then? It isn't just about artistic ability, it's about having innovative ideas.

And there are some exhibits that have really moved me in the past. Take Tracey Emin's unmade bed (don't actually take it though, she's still a bit cut up about what happened to her tent). I admit that on paper it sounds crap. An unmade bed. But when I actually saw it, I suddenly got what she was trying to do. It's a self-portait without the subject. It's as if she's just that second left that room but you can still sense her being there. It made me think of when I went to a funeral last year of someone I'd never met; I got a real sense of who she was by the things and the people that had surrounded her. In some ways I didn't need to meet her to know what she's like.

Looking at the bed made me feel incredibly sad. The bed (and all the paraphenalia surrounding it) showed what a mass of contradictions a person really is. It evoked both childhood and adulthood: innocence and sex. It felt empty and sad and probably affected me much more than a portait has ever done.

I've always said that all I want from art is for it to make me feel. Jude the Obscure will never be a 'favourite' novel because it's so bloody depressing, but the fact that Hardy can fill me with such a sense of doom is really impressive. So, my favourite of the Turner finalists is Darren Almond. After about two seconds of seeing his work I wanted throw myself onto the floor sobbing and banging the floor with my fists because it's so melancholy. I'm not sure whether he's necessarily the best artist there, but he's definitely the one that will stay with me the most.

It's Christmas!!!!!!!!

Sleighbells ring, snow is glistening. I now pronounce today, 27th October, the first official day of Christmas. It gets earlier and earlier every year, and isn't it fantastic?

Our work Christmas do is already booked. I've started thinking about what presents to buy for people. The complicated 'whose parents this year' debacle seems to have been sorted out. I'm full of the joys of Christmas and am this close to wearing antlers to work.

Who'd have thought I'd have anything to be grateful to Jesus for?

And one for luck

It's my birthday today. I must be the only woman I know who actually quite enjoys getting a year older. I am now the grand old age of twenty-six, which means I can officially say I'm in my late twenties.

I know so many women (and men for that matter) who talk about thirty as if it's some kind of dirty secret (if they've passed it), or something hideous lurking on the horizon (if they haven't).

Maybe I'll change my mind in ten years time, but at the moment, I like the feeling of becoming older and (ahem) wiser.

What I did in my Summer Holidays...

I've just got back from a week at Center Parcs. Now, I was slightly concerned about this before I went. Being a lazy bugger I didn't really relish the thought of spending a week surrounded by screaming children while attempting to abseil / rockclimb / bungee my way to serenity.

Despite spending most of the week feeling ill (I got period pain pretty much as soon as I stepped through the door of the villa because my womb is indeed a bastard) I ended up having a fantastic time.

The subtropical swimming paradise was great and I loved going down the rapids and slides (although I did have to go through several degrees of terror the first couple of times). I learnt how to play pool. I sat serenely on a pedalo looking at ducks while my boyfriend and sister pedalled away. I had a very eventful night bowling - firstly when I got a strike by lobbing the ball so hard that it rebounded and came back up the lane, and secondly by nursing my sister after she trapped her finger between two bowling balls and it went purple.

I signed up for a line dancing class. I was a little concerned about this, but when I turned up and saw that half of the class had purple rinses and dodgy hips, I actually ended up really enjoying myself.

The spa was fantastic - three hours of visiting various saunas and steam rooms. It felt ever so slightly like I was in a bordello but then that's never a bad thing.

My biggest hurdle was bike riding. A few years ago I decided to re-learn how to ride a bike so that when I moved to China I could zip along the little Chinese streets wearing a big straw hat and a long moustache. Sadly, I have to hold my hands up and admit that I am the one person in the world who forgot how to ride a bike. It's true. I can't understand it either. But I literally had to re-learn it from scratch. So, it was with some trepidation that I picked up my bike from the cycle centre. I forced everyone to leave the villa and then my boyfriend tried to coach me on the art of cycle riding once again. To my relief, and possibly thanks to my boyfriend's straight face and genuine encouragement, I didn't have any problems at all. This was good all round. It's tiring being the only person in the world unable to do something.

So, I've returned refreshed, covered in bruises and with 'My Achey Breaky Heart' going round my head, and would definitely go again.

Vikings

I'm going up to York this weekend. Sorry, try that again, I'm going oop to Yark. I can't wait. I'm going to swim down the Ouse, catch a duck and eat it along with a fat rascal at Betty's.

Meg's Rules for Tonight

1) No wine
2) No wine even if someone else buys it for me
3) No puking
4) No dancing to the Macarena when I know full well that I never bothered to learn it the first time round
5) No singing 'Wuthering Heights' by Kate Bush
6) No scenic routes home
7) No wine

Behold

I've turned a new corner in my life. I've found the very reason to be. Please all bow down and worship the one and only god that is... Ikea.

Now that we're properly stationed in our new home I thought it only fitting to make my first ever trip to Ikea to buy some furniture so that we no longer feel like squatters. The place is amazing. We bought a bed for sixty quid. And it's only collapsed twice since Sunday which I think is pretty impressive. We've got new shelves, new bedside cabinets, blinds, AND we ate lunch there and it only cost about 3p and a conker.

It's one of those places that once you've learnt the rules you can feel incredibly arrogant and laugh at people who don't know where the warehouse is. To guide you through the showroom there are arrows on the floor like in a carpark. These I followed religiously, barking "obey the arrows!" every time my boyfriend seemed to stray from the fold.

I am seriously considering moving out of my brand new place and just sleeping in one of the beds on the showroom floor.

Shut it, you tart

As predicted by my mooing colleague, Over the Moon, Eastenders has reached new heights over the last week.

Until this point, it's gone through an excessively boring streak (Alfie trying to chose between Kat and Little Mo is NOT a true Eastenders storyline. Trying to choose between Kat and Big Mo, now that I would watch!). But suddenly, the pace picked up as Sam "with snot running down her face looking like something the dog's puked up" went well and truly bonkers, accused Charlie of trying to grope her, gave Tracy a bloody nose (that actress must have been delighted - she's waited years for a scene like that) and then dug up Den's body with flawless timing to co-incide with Sharon and Dennis's return from their wedding.

Eastenders is rubbish when it tries to portray real life. But melodrama is when it really starts to shine. Dot, Little Mo, Den and the Mitchell Brothers are clearly all refugees from a Dickens novel. We're only one step away from Lucy Beale declaring "God bless Us! Every one" or Pauline Fowler shooing donkeys off the alotment. And there's certainly an Oscar Wilde quote in there somewhere that only someone with a heart of stone could not have laughed when Jamie Mitchell died.

I hope the melodrama continues for a while yet. If there isn't a suicide, murder or Chrissie laughing demonically at a burning Vic by Christmas, I'm switching off.

Don't call me a homo!

I am now officially a homeowner. I exchanged on my flat yesterday and am moving in a couple of weeks.

This has led to me feeling very grown up all day. That is, until the Health and Safety man at work said I needed a special chair "for someone of my stature". Back to square one.

Super

For the boyfriend's birthday yesterday I bought him a Sonic the Hedgehog collection for the Playstation 2 (yes, you heard that right). I spent a day watching him play it, in awe of how much he could remember, before I decided to dust off my gameboy and play a game of Super Mario Land.

It is extremely creepy to think that I haven't played it in about ten years, yet I still remember when to randomly jump in the air to find a hidden block, when to bother going down a chimney and when not to, and how to out-manoevre a baddy.

Playing it was better than any time machine and, when I eventually looked up from the game I was shocked not to find myself in my parents' house with Dad watching football on the telly and a Hexagone French textbook on the dining table begging me to do my homework.

Random memories, such as the wrapping paper I covered my maths book with, or how uncomfortable it is to wear a school kilt, are now swimming round my brain.

I think it's time to put the Gameboy away again. It's been far too emotional.

Ooh, it's a little monkey, look!

Yeah, yeah, I've blogged about it before. And the blogging community is obviously far too effete to join me in my hysteria. BUT... How fucking good is Big Brother this year?

There's been stalking, cross-dressing, an immaculate conception...

It has a Tory speechwriter going insane and seeing imaginary monkeys.

It has the housemates having to guess which famous horse Big Brother is thinking of in order to win toilet roll (and Anthony guessing "Is it Sandy, the horse from Dogtanian?")

Moments have even emulated Waiting for Godot. ("I'm going to leave" says Orlaith. She does not leave.)

To be honest, I'm desperately saddened on many levels that Kemal was evicted and isn't going to win. Although, on the other hand, I'm quite glad he's left because I think I was starting to develop a bit of a crush on him which is something a hetrosexual woman on the brink of marriage should never EVER say about a nineteen-year-old transvestite.

The tasks this year have been genius. Putting them each in individual cardboard boxes until they couldn't bear it any longer was one of my favourites. I also liked it when they made Maxwell sort maggots into different piles while the other housemates pretended they were doing the same task, but were actually having a party.

I love the fact that in moments of pure boredom at work I can approach a colleague and say "You're my best mate here and I want to look after you. I'm not perving on you though," and about five hours of conversation will follow. So many people watch it and they all have an opinion.

Yes - all the housemates are irritating attention-seeking little shits

Yes - it shows how sad and lonely my life must be to enjoy watching strangers sleeping

Yes - all they do is argue, drink, play practical jokes and run around naked

But I love it.

Patriotism

I've always felt uncomfortable with the notion of patriotism. It's basically a way of saying your country is better than anywhere else in the world. Which is obviously bollocks, because most people (residents of war and famine-ridden places excepted)love where they were brought up simply because it's familiar.

But my attitude towards it changed when I lived abroad. I found myself constantly having to defend the British way of life. And my 'patriotism' towards London became even stronger when I lived 'oop North where people were constantly saying that Londoners are rude (an ironic statement, I always found...)

I'm feeling even more strongly aligned to London at the moment. Maybe it's the terror attacks, maybe it's the Olympics, I'm not sure. But I seem to be slowly edging towards the kind of flag-waving freak that I always tried so hard to avoid.

Give it a few more days and I'll be digging out the Charles and Di commemoration plates.

If you are wise, you'll listen to me

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is in the cinemas today. I'm filled with a warm glow just thinking about it.

I love the film with Gene Wilder, and Johnny Depp is one of the few actors I trust to do an equally good job. I'm hoping this new film will combine exactly the right amount of saccharine and creepiness to make it work as well as the first.

It's inspired me to re-read the book. I'm a huge Roald Dahl fan (and a fan of children's literature in general). When I was little, I wanted nothing more than to meet the BFG, move objects with my mind, defeat a coven of witches, and hopefully die peacefully of the dreaded shrinks.

There's something so special about a really great children's author. 'Not Now, Bernard' still makes me nod sagely, and the last page of 'I am David' still makes me sob. Recently I read 'Vicky Angel' by Jacqueline Wilson and it's great to see that new writers are continuing where others left off. I hope I never reach a stage in my life when I don't feel like a five year old being tickled at the sight of the last page of 'When the tiger came to tea', where the tiger's saying "goodbyeeee" and the word curls round the page like a snake.

Enough already!

Since July 7th, my life has become saturated with thoughts about suicide bombers. Every time I get on the tube, I at least consider the possibility that the people around me will be either my executioner or my buddy during an escape down a darkened tunnel.

I'm spending quite a lot of time working down at the temporary mortuary set up for the victims of the bombing. This means that, even when I'm at work, it's on my mind, and the fact that the office has News 24 on ALL THE BLOODY TIME doesn't help.

So, I've had enough. If it happens, it happens. Until then I'm going to get on with doing things exactly as before and not get hysterical every time there's a security alert.

With this in mind, I went and did something completely random and unrelated on Saturday. I bought a wedding dress.

I clomped into the shop with my short hair and trainers, not convinced that white was for me. An hour later, I was pirouetting about the room wearing a series of white dresses and even (deep breath) a tiara, while my mum and sisters oohed and ahhhed and took pictures. It was all quite traumatic but strangely fulfilling. Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.

Bombs

Well, if ever I timed a day off well, it was Thursday. Thank god for flexible working hours.

The timing and positions of the London bombs mean that I easily could have been involved, which is something I'm trying not to think about.

I'm not going to write about how angry I feel. I think there have been some excellent speeches from people who know a lot more than me. Ken Livingstone was spot-on when he said that this wasn't an attack on presidents and prime ministers but on ordinary people of all ages and backgrounds. I admire DAC Paddick from the Met when answering the question "are these Muslim terrorists?" by saying that there is no such thing. Islam is a peaceful religion and the people who committed this are simply murderers. Good answer - so any Islamaphobes can fuck off.

I'm not sure if Londoners really are better at handling crises but I'm glad we're carrying on as normal. And we've still got the Olympics and it's going to be FAB.

She waits

So... only a couple of hours before we find out if we're going to host the Olympics in 2012. Stratford is all geared up for a 'Thank You Party' which will take place whether we win or not. Typical Londoners... always prepared for a negative result. Why can't we have a bit of faith in London, today of all days?

Of course, we all know it's going to be Paris.