Best video of the Gnu Song EVER!
Friday 30 April 2010
Thursday 29 April 2010
Matters of Size
A particular gentleman, who shall remain nameless (partly because I don't know his name) came into the shop last week to change his t-shirt, which he was wearing at the time, for a different size. I wasn't surprised, really, as the t-shirt in question looked a bit on the small size. The problem was he wanted to change it for the next size down.
He asked my opinion on the new size, trying to decide if he should go for medium or even small. I can't remember what I said. I believe I may have squeaked. Well, it was the only non-commital noise I could think of at the time. Anyway, he bought the medium in the end. But someone really does need to tell him HIS T-SHIRT IS TOO SMALL.
Any volunteers?
He asked my opinion on the new size, trying to decide if he should go for medium or even small. I can't remember what I said. I believe I may have squeaked. Well, it was the only non-commital noise I could think of at the time. Anyway, he bought the medium in the end. But someone really does need to tell him HIS T-SHIRT IS TOO SMALL.
Any volunteers?
Wednesday 28 April 2010
Antydisestablishmentarianism
Officially, I have three housemates at the moment.
Unofficially, I have several hundred.
We have an ant problem, you see. I have no major objections to them on principle, but I really don't want them in my kitchen. Rather like tinned sardines, actually, and Angel Delight. This association between ants and food may seem strange to some, but I have actually eaten ants, albeit inadvertently. During a week's camping trip in France, I stupidly left an open bag of ready salted crisps in my already ant-infested tent. One nap time, whilst reading, I absentmindedly reached for the bag of crisps and started eating them. Only after a couple of handfuls did I realise that the black bits were not pepper.
I tell you this that you may better understand my reluctance to allow the ants the run of the kitchen, and my decision to wage war against them using shock, awe and a hoover.
Back to the cupboard now. I think there's some ant powder in there somewhere.
Unofficially, I have several hundred.
We have an ant problem, you see. I have no major objections to them on principle, but I really don't want them in my kitchen. Rather like tinned sardines, actually, and Angel Delight. This association between ants and food may seem strange to some, but I have actually eaten ants, albeit inadvertently. During a week's camping trip in France, I stupidly left an open bag of ready salted crisps in my already ant-infested tent. One nap time, whilst reading, I absentmindedly reached for the bag of crisps and started eating them. Only after a couple of handfuls did I realise that the black bits were not pepper.
I tell you this that you may better understand my reluctance to allow the ants the run of the kitchen, and my decision to wage war against them using shock, awe and a hoover.
Back to the cupboard now. I think there's some ant powder in there somewhere.
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Book of the Fortnight, no. ?
Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again...
Got it yet?
I'll give you another clue: Mrs Danvers.
For many, the title of this book will have been evident from the first line alone; the opening sentence of Rebecca must be one of the most recognisable in the history of English literature, bested, perhaps, only by "Reader, I married him" and "It is a truth universally accepted that a single man, being in possession of a fortune, must be in want of a wife" (name those books!). Somehow, this sentence has succeeded in permeating the national consciousness in a way that few other have. The character of Mrs Danvers, too, is instantly recognisable. Actual contemporary situations, too, are compared to that of the second Mrs De Winter living under the psychological shadow of Rebecca. And yet, many have never read the book; until last week, I was one of them.
I have a slight issue with so-called classic books. The way their reputation precedes them is, at times, forbidding; it takes a certain amount of courage, or persuasion, to tackle one. At university, I took three different modules just to make myself read certain things, most of which I enjoyed when I got to them. Reading the Iliad, the Odyssey and the Aeneid for Classical Literature 1A, for example, broke the mystique surrounding ancient literature and gave me the nerve to pick up Ovid's Metamorphoses, which I read in ten-minute chunks on trams around Grenoble, a treatment it lent itself particularly well to. Intellectual History made me read Plato and Cicero and Aristotle, St Augustine and Thomas More. I enjoyed that somewhat less, possibly because of the way the course was structured- City of God in one week, anyone? No, thought not.
I am a great believer in public libraries, but it's easy to borrow a book. Once you get it home, though, there's no pressure to read it. And so, just after Christmas, I bought a copy of Rebecca as part of a three-for-two offer at Waterstones. If I've bought it, you see, I have to read it, otherwise it would be a great waste. Yes, you see, it's that self-guilt-tripping thing again. It works, though, you know.
Anyway, I'm very glad I did. Rebecca is a truly wonderful book; in spite of its gothic novellish tendencies, it stays just the right side of melodrama and remains firmly within the bounds of reality. There are no ghosts, and Mrs Danvers is not a monster, at least not in the Frankenstein sense of the word; the nameless Mrs De Winter is terrorised by a falsified idea based on a misunderstanding, not by ghouls and spectres. The reader, looking in from the outside, sees Mrs De Winter fall into a psychological trap from which she cannot escape, caused not by explicit lies but by concealed truths, helped along by the peculiar behaviour of a clearly psychotic housekeeper. Rebecca is in some respects a very modern book, ahead of its time. Du Maurier's decision not to name the second Mrs De Winter is a very clever plot device; at the beginning of the book her reasons for doing this are not clear, but by the end, it is difficult to imagine what the heroine could have been called without the book losing something.
Off back to the cupboard now to check for skeletons and psychotic housekeepers.
Got it yet?
I'll give you another clue: Mrs Danvers.
For many, the title of this book will have been evident from the first line alone; the opening sentence of Rebecca must be one of the most recognisable in the history of English literature, bested, perhaps, only by "Reader, I married him" and "It is a truth universally accepted that a single man, being in possession of a fortune, must be in want of a wife" (name those books!). Somehow, this sentence has succeeded in permeating the national consciousness in a way that few other have. The character of Mrs Danvers, too, is instantly recognisable. Actual contemporary situations, too, are compared to that of the second Mrs De Winter living under the psychological shadow of Rebecca. And yet, many have never read the book; until last week, I was one of them.
I have a slight issue with so-called classic books. The way their reputation precedes them is, at times, forbidding; it takes a certain amount of courage, or persuasion, to tackle one. At university, I took three different modules just to make myself read certain things, most of which I enjoyed when I got to them. Reading the Iliad, the Odyssey and the Aeneid for Classical Literature 1A, for example, broke the mystique surrounding ancient literature and gave me the nerve to pick up Ovid's Metamorphoses, which I read in ten-minute chunks on trams around Grenoble, a treatment it lent itself particularly well to. Intellectual History made me read Plato and Cicero and Aristotle, St Augustine and Thomas More. I enjoyed that somewhat less, possibly because of the way the course was structured- City of God in one week, anyone? No, thought not.
I am a great believer in public libraries, but it's easy to borrow a book. Once you get it home, though, there's no pressure to read it. And so, just after Christmas, I bought a copy of Rebecca as part of a three-for-two offer at Waterstones. If I've bought it, you see, I have to read it, otherwise it would be a great waste. Yes, you see, it's that self-guilt-tripping thing again. It works, though, you know.
Anyway, I'm very glad I did. Rebecca is a truly wonderful book; in spite of its gothic novellish tendencies, it stays just the right side of melodrama and remains firmly within the bounds of reality. There are no ghosts, and Mrs Danvers is not a monster, at least not in the Frankenstein sense of the word; the nameless Mrs De Winter is terrorised by a falsified idea based on a misunderstanding, not by ghouls and spectres. The reader, looking in from the outside, sees Mrs De Winter fall into a psychological trap from which she cannot escape, caused not by explicit lies but by concealed truths, helped along by the peculiar behaviour of a clearly psychotic housekeeper. Rebecca is in some respects a very modern book, ahead of its time. Du Maurier's decision not to name the second Mrs De Winter is a very clever plot device; at the beginning of the book her reasons for doing this are not clear, but by the end, it is difficult to imagine what the heroine could have been called without the book losing something.
Off back to the cupboard now to check for skeletons and psychotic housekeepers.
Thursday 22 April 2010
Book of Last Fortnight
Yep, I'm running late again. That's what work does to you.
I read Atonement two years ago, and I'm slightly ashamed to admit it made me cry. Not just sniffles, mind, proper lying-on-my-bed-howling in a way I hadn't since reading Black Beauty for the first time at the age of eight. In my defence, I was tired, but it does take one heck of a book to do that to me. This from someone who got through the literary bloodbath that is Russian Literature 1A without shedding a tear and who, at the age of three, on seeing a pigeon mown down by a lorry declared it to be "quite interesting, actually".
What I'm trying to say, in a roundabout way (no, not a Magic Roundabout, though my hair does look a bit like Dougal at the moment) is that I think Ian McEwen is one of the best English language authors around at the moment. Sure, it's not high literature, but his work is entertaining and engaging and honestly, speaking as one who has to sift through heaps of dry historical documents on a regular basis, that's often what I want from fiction.
Here comes the bit where I tell you what I've actually been reading. Don't worry, I won't turn round at the end and tell you the nice bits were all made up and actually they all died. (Bitter much?)
The book was, as you've probably guessed, by Ian McEwen, and it was On Chesil Beach. The book is set on the wedding night of a young couple in the south of England at some point in the after-war period. I have a great fondness for books set in England in the first half of the twentieth century. This was the time of Elgar and of Vaughan Williams, the time of DH Lawrence and Vera Britten, of Rupert Brooke swimming in the mill pond at Grantchester. The period lends itself well to escapist imaginings: far enough away in time to be idealised, but close enough to keep a sense of familiarity.
We see the newlyweds' story through the prism of this one place and one time, the evening spent by Chesil Beach. The book is short, but tells us all we need to know to understand. The two protagonists find themselves at loggerheads, but the reader, sympathising with both, does not find themself taking sides: McEwen's delicately balanced treatmentof the dispute does not attribute blame. What happens happens because of a slightly mistimed movement, an unwise choice of words: no-one is at fault. The outcome is far from ideal, but it is hard to see how it could have been otherwise.
Back to the cupboard now. I have much to do.
I read Atonement two years ago, and I'm slightly ashamed to admit it made me cry. Not just sniffles, mind, proper lying-on-my-bed-howling in a way I hadn't since reading Black Beauty for the first time at the age of eight. In my defence, I was tired, but it does take one heck of a book to do that to me. This from someone who got through the literary bloodbath that is Russian Literature 1A without shedding a tear and who, at the age of three, on seeing a pigeon mown down by a lorry declared it to be "quite interesting, actually".
What I'm trying to say, in a roundabout way (no, not a Magic Roundabout, though my hair does look a bit like Dougal at the moment) is that I think Ian McEwen is one of the best English language authors around at the moment. Sure, it's not high literature, but his work is entertaining and engaging and honestly, speaking as one who has to sift through heaps of dry historical documents on a regular basis, that's often what I want from fiction.
Here comes the bit where I tell you what I've actually been reading. Don't worry, I won't turn round at the end and tell you the nice bits were all made up and actually they all died. (Bitter much?)
The book was, as you've probably guessed, by Ian McEwen, and it was On Chesil Beach. The book is set on the wedding night of a young couple in the south of England at some point in the after-war period. I have a great fondness for books set in England in the first half of the twentieth century. This was the time of Elgar and of Vaughan Williams, the time of DH Lawrence and Vera Britten, of Rupert Brooke swimming in the mill pond at Grantchester. The period lends itself well to escapist imaginings: far enough away in time to be idealised, but close enough to keep a sense of familiarity.
We see the newlyweds' story through the prism of this one place and one time, the evening spent by Chesil Beach. The book is short, but tells us all we need to know to understand. The two protagonists find themselves at loggerheads, but the reader, sympathising with both, does not find themself taking sides: McEwen's delicately balanced treatmentof the dispute does not attribute blame. What happens happens because of a slightly mistimed movement, an unwise choice of words: no-one is at fault. The outcome is far from ideal, but it is hard to see how it could have been otherwise.
Back to the cupboard now. I have much to do.
Friday 9 April 2010
Attitude Problem
This country has a serious attitude problem.
No, I'm not talking about anything to do with the forthcoming General Election. There will be no politics on this blog.
What I AM talking about, however, is the attitude to unemployment which seems to be prevalent in this country. Look through any tabloid newspaper and it's a fair bet you'll find the word 'slackers', 'moochers' or similar somewhere in there. Actually, that might make a pretty good drinking game. Hmmmmmm. One shot every time The Sun, The Mirror or the Daily Mail says anything about people on benefits.
I never knew much about unemployment before. Sure, I knew it was a bad thing for the people experiencing it, and I knew people kept moaning about how benefits were too high and how the system benefited scroungers. (Ah yes. That's the other word I was looking for earlier). Well, that's a load of rubbish.
I had it easy, I was living with my parents. I could have fed myself on the statutory fifty pounds a week, no bother. But I know I couldn't have afforded to pay bills on top of that. Another thing I couldn't have afforded- and this is the bit that really gets my back up- is the £5.60 I had to pay for a return bus ticket to the job centre once a fortnight. When you're living on fifty pounds a week, that's more than five per cent of your income. On principle, I asked, and there's no help available. The sheer injustice of losing that proportion of one's benefits just for living in a town without a job centre is staggering.
I'll talk about the job centre itself some other time when it's less fresh in my mind. But for now, I will not be going back. I have escaped the system, attained the nirvana to which every unemployed person aspires.
Yes, people. I have a job.
No, I'm not talking about anything to do with the forthcoming General Election. There will be no politics on this blog.
What I AM talking about, however, is the attitude to unemployment which seems to be prevalent in this country. Look through any tabloid newspaper and it's a fair bet you'll find the word 'slackers', 'moochers' or similar somewhere in there. Actually, that might make a pretty good drinking game. Hmmmmmm. One shot every time The Sun, The Mirror or the Daily Mail says anything about people on benefits.
I never knew much about unemployment before. Sure, I knew it was a bad thing for the people experiencing it, and I knew people kept moaning about how benefits were too high and how the system benefited scroungers. (Ah yes. That's the other word I was looking for earlier). Well, that's a load of rubbish.
I had it easy, I was living with my parents. I could have fed myself on the statutory fifty pounds a week, no bother. But I know I couldn't have afforded to pay bills on top of that. Another thing I couldn't have afforded- and this is the bit that really gets my back up- is the £5.60 I had to pay for a return bus ticket to the job centre once a fortnight. When you're living on fifty pounds a week, that's more than five per cent of your income. On principle, I asked, and there's no help available. The sheer injustice of losing that proportion of one's benefits just for living in a town without a job centre is staggering.
I'll talk about the job centre itself some other time when it's less fresh in my mind. But for now, I will not be going back. I have escaped the system, attained the nirvana to which every unemployed person aspires.
Yes, people. I have a job.
Friday 2 April 2010
One-a-Penny, Two-a-Penny
Hot Cross Buns!
As ever, apologies for my pathetic attempts at photography. They actually looked quite pretty in real life.
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I am a great believer in Hot Cross Buns. Firstly, they have a fixed season, and a short one too- it makes you appreciate them all the more knowing they're only around for a few weeks. Secondly, bread products. Nom nom nom. With raisins in them. OM nom nom nom nom.
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(Incidentally, the Woodsettes scored a major victory the other day- we managed to get both our parents to use the word "nom" in the course of one meal. Virtual high five? Yes, I think so).
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Thirdly, there's all the symbolism. The cross bit is pretty obvious. But there's also the fact that you wait three hours for them to rise (spot the Easter parallel...) and that they're traditionally made in batches of 12, like the 12 disciples.
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Home-made hot cross buns, however, have always been a bit of a problem. Firstly (yes, I'm in a numerical listing mood, can you tell?) they tend to be a bit dense, veering towards the cannonballesque. Secondly, they're practically inedible within six or seven hours as they get even harder. Thirdly, even fresh out of the oven, eating the traditional flour-and-water cross bit is in itself something of a penitential experience.
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This year, I decided it might be time for a new recipe. Normal bread without chemical treatment goes stale very quickly, a fact anyone who's tried to eat a baguette more than a day old can attest to. Brioche, on the other hand, is much softer to start with and keeps a bit better because of the fat content. It also gets eaten faster because, well, it's tastier. The obvious solution to the hot cross bun problem? Adapt a brioche recipe! It proved fairly straightforward, actually, and the test batch I made last week (just to check, you understand) all got eaten before they went stale. The only problem was the crosses on top, which were still quite painful to eat. Now, I could have gone down the icing route, but that just wouldn't feel right- a hot cross bun should be cooked with its cross on, adding the cross later is somehow cheating.
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The answer?
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MARZIPAN!
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Had I been organised, I would have bought marazipan. I wasn't, so I made some instead. It's very straightforward, actually, and for once I wasn't left with half a packet of marzipan drying out at the back of the fridge. For reference, the recipe is as follows:
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4 oz ground almonds
4 oz icing sugar
1 egg white
pinch of salt
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Mix everything together. If it's too sticky, add cornflour little by little until it behaves itself. Knead and leave in fridge overnight to harden up a bit. Keep the egg yolk for glazing your hot cross buns.
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That's it! Being disorganised can be awfully tasty, you know.
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Back to the cupboard with a dozen or so hot cross buns, methinks. Om nom nom.
(Incidentally, I'm having a couple of formatting problems, so please excuse the slightly peculiar layout).
Thursday 1 April 2010
Before and After
Guess what I've been up to this week?
The photos below should give you a clue...
Before... (before what? Possibly Before Christ, if the state of the cushion is anything to go by)
...and after, back at home under the piano
Yes, I'm about this far away from becoming a Lady Who Lunches. Please send help. Or invitations to lunch, either will do.
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