I saw an advert last night in which one of the characters said something along the lines of "we know that mums care about their children eating healthily". Now, is it just me, or is that kind of statement not acceptable anymore? What was going on in those advertisers' tiny minds when they decided to use the word "mum" over the word "parent"? Do they really think that mothers have nothing better to do than wake up in a cold sweat worrying about which brand of bread their children eat? And do fathers not give a shit about their children's health and spend their spare time rubbing sugar into their gums? I know it seems like such a small thing but that kind of casual sexism really winds me up.
I had a conversation with someone at work once who, despite being quite senior, had always assumed that she would quit work one day and become a housewife. Now, that's fine if that's the agreement that she's reached with her partner, and it's the arrangement that works best for them, but then she followed the comment up by saying that women make better parents anyway. Apparently it's something to do with hormones. I completely disagree with that. I think that's the kind of statement which does a total disservice not only to fathers but also to adoptive parents. When I was growing up both my parents worked and a lot of the day-to-day 'parenting' stuff was done by my grandma. Now, unless I'm actually living out an episode of Eastenders, she didn't give birth to me. But she was still a bloody good parent.
And, if ever you think that we're living in a modern world without sexism, take a look in the Argos catalogue and look at which toys they have the boys playing with, and which ones they give to the girls. Interesting.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Slutbunwalla
It's suddenly dawned on me. Getting married means changing my name.
Well, obviously I don't have to change my name. He could take my name. I could (spit) double barrel it. Or we could make up a whole new name that grows organically from our love for one another. Like Slutbunwalla.
But I have, on reflexion, decided to take his. I tell everyone that it's because I want to show that his family are important to me. It's a really big gesture to make to someone you love. Of course, those of you who know what my current surname is will appreciate that having a name which is cockney rhyming slang for cunt is enough reason in itself.
My name will suddenly multiply from three syllables to five. I'll have to create a new signature. Last time I did that I was eleven and it involved the 'n' metamorphosing into a small animal. I'll have to say another name when I answer the phone. And, worst of all, my new name makes me sound about sixty years old.
Marriage I can cope with. A new name... I'm not so sure.
Well, obviously I don't have to change my name. He could take my name. I could (spit) double barrel it. Or we could make up a whole new name that grows organically from our love for one another. Like Slutbunwalla.
But I have, on reflexion, decided to take his. I tell everyone that it's because I want to show that his family are important to me. It's a really big gesture to make to someone you love. Of course, those of you who know what my current surname is will appreciate that having a name which is cockney rhyming slang for cunt is enough reason in itself.
My name will suddenly multiply from three syllables to five. I'll have to create a new signature. Last time I did that I was eleven and it involved the 'n' metamorphosing into a small animal. I'll have to say another name when I answer the phone. And, worst of all, my new name makes me sound about sixty years old.
Marriage I can cope with. A new name... I'm not so sure.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Smarter, faster, easier
I appreciate that people have a right to go on strike. I think it's important that they do. But, (sigh), I wish they'd pick their battles carefully. An annual strike about one big issue is far more effective than several smaller ones.
I did my preparation for the tube strike yesterday. I got an early night and left at seven that morning. I was clad in trainers and lots of layers. I was properly equiped with an A-Z, tube map, water and food.
I only spent two hours travelling which is a pretty good record as far as tube strikes go. The trouble is that I never got more than about a mile from my house, and after two hours of travelling ended up back where I started.
I was not amused. And was even less amused when I phoned work to hear that everyone else had perfect journeys to work, complete with chocolate fountains and naked dancing girls.
I did my preparation for the tube strike yesterday. I got an early night and left at seven that morning. I was clad in trainers and lots of layers. I was properly equiped with an A-Z, tube map, water and food.
I only spent two hours travelling which is a pretty good record as far as tube strikes go. The trouble is that I never got more than about a mile from my house, and after two hours of travelling ended up back where I started.
I was not amused. And was even less amused when I phoned work to hear that everyone else had perfect journeys to work, complete with chocolate fountains and naked dancing girls.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Flying Spaghetti Monsterism
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flying_Spaghetti_Monster
Please visit. Please.
Please visit. Please.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Civil Partnerships
My building is holding its first civil partnerships (gay weddings) today. The place is all scrubbed up, with flowers leading up the stairs, and the security guards looking all polished. BBC London are on the steps looking bored and waiting for couples to start turning up. I feel strangely proud of our little island today. It will be better once we have one type of wedding which is open to all, but it's definitely a step in the right direction.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Girls Girls Girls
I've just got back from Amsterdam. It's possibly one of the most surreal places I've ever been - a fusion of sex, drugs and beautiful architecture.
Amsterdam is so liberal that it even makes me, with my beardy-lefty-onward Comrade views, question myself. The prostitution debate keeps going full circle in my head. I fully accept that legalising prositition can mean that the government can protect women working in that industry. I understand that it's going to happen anyway, so it might aswell happen out in the open. I think that sex is natural and not something to be ashamed of.
Window prostitution in Amsterdam (which accounts for about 20% of all prostitution there) allows women to make their own choices. They rent the appartments themselves on a 12-hour basis. There are no pimps involved. They decide who, what and how much. It all seems quite laudable when you've been there a few days and are fully used to walking down a street with red-lit windows either side of you in which there are women in white bikinis, smoking a cigarette and talking on their mobile.
I think there are two main things that bother me about it. The first is that many of these women (you could argue all, but I'm too scared of them to do that) are vulnerable, poor or have mental health issues. Would anyone really chose to do that as a profession?
My other issue is that so much of prostitution seems to be about men paying for women. Why? Because men don't want to be prostitutes? Because there isn't a market for male prostitution? I think the answer has much more to do with a long-standing attitude towards women: that their primary function is to serve men. Well, if that's the ethos behind prostitution, then suddenly it becomes something I'm not happy with at all.
Amsterdam is so liberal that it even makes me, with my beardy-lefty-onward Comrade views, question myself. The prostitution debate keeps going full circle in my head. I fully accept that legalising prositition can mean that the government can protect women working in that industry. I understand that it's going to happen anyway, so it might aswell happen out in the open. I think that sex is natural and not something to be ashamed of.
Window prostitution in Amsterdam (which accounts for about 20% of all prostitution there) allows women to make their own choices. They rent the appartments themselves on a 12-hour basis. There are no pimps involved. They decide who, what and how much. It all seems quite laudable when you've been there a few days and are fully used to walking down a street with red-lit windows either side of you in which there are women in white bikinis, smoking a cigarette and talking on their mobile.
I think there are two main things that bother me about it. The first is that many of these women (you could argue all, but I'm too scared of them to do that) are vulnerable, poor or have mental health issues. Would anyone really chose to do that as a profession?
My other issue is that so much of prostitution seems to be about men paying for women. Why? Because men don't want to be prostitutes? Because there isn't a market for male prostitution? I think the answer has much more to do with a long-standing attitude towards women: that their primary function is to serve men. Well, if that's the ethos behind prostitution, then suddenly it becomes something I'm not happy with at all.
Monday, November 28, 2005
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.
Monday, November 21, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, November 14, 2005
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?
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?
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
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?
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?
Monday, October 17, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
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.
Friday, September 23, 2005
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
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
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, August 26, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
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.
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.
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