Reflections in a rain-spattered train window

Ever have one of those weekends that makes you so glad to live the life you live? It's weekends like these that make me regret ending my OneHappyMoment experiment. This weekend has been chockers with them.

I shared pizza with middle bro on Friday night (using a voucher I got from my estate agent), went for an epic bike-ride to Hiede Museum of Modern Art with a group of like-minded women and a couple of dapper gents on Saturday, and had a lovely lunch and vino with friends at the Shadowfax winery today, followed by a winding game of 'tag' with her little boy giggling hysterically the whole time.

Lately I've been thinking, if only I had a boyfriend, things would be perfect. Then I realised that actually, no they wouldn't. It would just make my currently reasonably balanced life way more complicated.

What is it with us girls? It's like we're conditioned to believe that without a man, we are nothing and none of our achievements amount to anything. I have a good life, I am enjoying my work more than I ever have now that I have a certain amount of autonomy, and I am surrounded by loving family and friends. My life is great. But still I feel like something major is missing. I can't tell whether it's society at large that is responsible for the pressure on women to settle down and procreate; whether it's biological; psychological; familial/tribal; or just innate.

I like to think that if I had a daughter, I would make sure she understood that the choice to be with someone or not is hers and hers alone. The choice to have children or not is hers alone, and no one has the right to judge her based on those choices. That her life is entirely her own to enjoy and experience. I like to think I would teach her to think for herself so that she could see beyond the social and cultural templates that offer women a limited number of roles.

So why can't I apply these beliefs I support so passionately to my own life?

I guess we all need love and intimacy. Sure, relationships are hard work at times, but there is nothing like that feeling of having someone on your side. It doesn't make any sense. But I still want it.

I guess that makes me a typical woman, huh?

Going with the Flo*

Lord knows I've gone on about how much I love a kooky female singer/songwriter on this blog.

Throw in some way-out costuming (hello Björk), occasional use of a harp ('sup Newsom), lyrics strewn with violence and otherwordly themes (Amos, I'm talking to you), delivered with utter fearlessness and total abandon, and you've got me hooked, baby.

It almost goes without saying that I was always going to love Florence & the Machine.

I haven't been this excited by a female singer since I discovered la Amos in high school (it seems I have a thing for melodramatic redheads). So excited in fact, that after I got back from her amazing gig on Monday night, I couldn't sleep for the tangle of songs in my head and the aftershock of tribal drumming in my chest. The afterimage of that flame-haired goddess striding the stage in diaphanous gown hitched up to show off her alabaster legs and gold-studded ankle boots is going to haunt me evermore.

I thought the album was absolutely blinding, but live? In person? Let's just say if the album was Florence turning it all the way up to 11, in concert she blew the needle clear off the dial. The lungs on that girl. I was in awe, torn between gawping at the pre-raphaelite vision jerking and prancing on stage and tearing myself away from the balcony for some mentalist dancing. I ended up doing an odd combination of both (I am great at prop-dancing. Chair dancing, bike dancing, balcony dancing - I'm your woman).

The crowd did that annoyingly English thing of standing still for most of the gig (despite Flo exhorting everyone to jump and howl) only to totally lose it for the final song of the encore. What's up with that, English?

It was a spell-binding night of one electric track after another, starting with the dark-eyed My Boy Builds Coffins and ending with the glorious Rabbit Heart. It was truly one of the greatest gigs I've ever had the joy of attending. And that is not an accolade I throw about lightly. If you don't believe me, ask Walks. Or Sincs (I don't actually know either of these people, by the by).

*with apologies to Sweet Nothings for stealing his headline. I couldn't think of a better one. In my defence, I didn't get much sleep.

Bestival 2009

Man, I am so happy to have left behind my twenties. I struggled through those years really not liking myself very much, not knowing myself very well, and not looking after myself as well as I should have. Thank f*ck I made it to my thirties. Yes, there are also challenges particular to this decade, but I know myself so much better now. I know that I need a certain amount of space, comfort and privacy in order to stay sane. I know that if I start feeling self-conscious, drinking more is not the solution. And if I feel like a cup of tea while everyone around me is drinking cocktails, I am just going to go ahead and get a frickin' cup of tea and I honestly couldn't give a toss what anyone else thinks about that. I LOVE TEA.



All of this is to lead up to the point of my post today, which is that I really enjoyed Bestival. Way more than I ever expected to enjoy a festival. Yes, it was dusty and dirty. Yes, there was a terribly long and painfully slow queue for the loo's in the morning. Naturally, there were noisy people who made sleeping difficult. And it was so cold at night that my bones ached even with 3 pairs of leggings under my tracksuit pants. At times it did feel like an endurance task.

All of those things are part and parcel of the festival experience, non? I knew what to expect in terms of the level of physical discomfort. I had prepared myself as best I could (toilet paper, baby wipes, antibacterial gel, wellies, my own tent). What I didn't expect was that I would spend quite so much time giggling like a school-girl with my friends; or that I would find myself dancing like an idiot in an outdoor rave one evening, deliriously sober; or that the crowd would excell even my wild imagination with their incredible costumes.



Saturday was a constant colourful parade of amazingly outfitted people, like a mass hallucination taking place in broad daylight. There were Judy Jetsons and Ziggy Stardusts and astronauts galore. There was a Lady Smurf, a group of monkeys in space outfits, a female Predator, and a man who simply wore a giant ear on the front of his t-shirt, with a sign saying "last in stock" above it (think about it). There were meteors and mars bars and milky ways and black holes. We saw several Buzz Lightyears but only one with a life-size toy grabber (he was attempting to grab one of the Thunderbirds crew when I last saw him). We were mugged by men clad in full-body (including head and face) morph suits in various hues one afternoon. They appeared like a scary hallucination and, probably sensing our fear, made their way over to hug us en-masse until the day-bed we had been reclining on collapsed under our combined weight.

I think perhaps the secret to a good festival is not to put any pressure on yourself. There were really only a few acts that we made a point of going to see - Florence and the Machine*, Friendly Fires, Jack Peñate, Fleet Foxes - and the rest of the time we wandered happily unfettered by a schedule, lazing in the sun, doing a bit of hula-hooping, but mostly checking out the utterly gob-smackingly amazing crowd. We went to bed when we were tired and/or cold, rather than forcing ourselves to stick around to see the last acts. I didn't even feel guilty laying in my tent on Sunday evening, warm at last after stuffing my sleeping bag with every piece of clothing I'd brought with me, as I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of Elbow playing the main stage.

Go ahead and judge me. My twenty-year-old self certainly would have.

My overall Bestival experience? Much fun and many memories that are making me laugh out loud right now. I would share them with you, but I'm guessing you had to be there.

*For the Flo fans, I totally get "You've Got the Love" now. I had thought it was a bit of an insipid and unecessary closer to an album full of belters, but no: it's just meant to be played to a field full of happy people who are feeling the love, against a backdrop of the gloriously setting sun.



Our Festival Glossary:

Foldies: The Festival stalwarts. People who attended the original Glastonbury in 1970 and aren't ready to give up the dream. Characterised by long greying hair and doped-up smiles.
Fluts: Festival sluts. Generally wearing tiny shorts and big hair, with rings of dark make-up around the eyes. Working their way up to Groupie.
Eninens: Nice n' normals (that would be us). Like a cider (or a tea), are careful not to tread on anyone, bring their own camp chairs.
Festies: Proper dread-locked, bare-footed hippies with dirt caked under their nails.
Frents: the über-cool parents who bring tiny children along to the festival so that they can learn all about the effects of excessive drinking and drug-taking first hand, while being exposed to the educational ditties of the Klaxons.

Why I ♥ London, part the second of many

London is a shock to many Australians when they first arrive. I spent my initial months here heartsick and lonely; numbed by the crush of the crowds and the cool distance of the people, dismayed by the grime and the grey. I lived in Archway (shudder), commuted for hours every day to various jobs where people barely spoke to me, and turned a lurid shade of pale from the lack of sunlight. I have never felt so utterly dispossessed as I did in those early months of 2003.

Strangely, despite how miserable I was, not for a nanosecond did I consider turning tail and going home. I'm stubborn like that (or maybe just plain stupid).

I'm not sure when the turning point came. I don't think it was until I found myself single after a four-year long relationship that I truly fell for London, heart and soul. It was my London now. A lot of people expected me to move home after that break-up, but instead I dug my heels in and looked around me with fresh (if somewhat red and watery) eyes. This time around, London nurtured me. I'd put in the hard yards. For the first time, I felt free to make the most of living in such a populous, diverse, surprising, stunning, rich cultural centre. I moved into a bright, girly flat in a pretty area with a lovely English girl. I knew about some of London's secret oases and went out of my way to discover new ones. I relaxed my self-imposed rules about saving money and just committed to enjoying my time here. I started going to gigs again. I said "yes" to most of the things that people asked me to. I bought a bike.

Now, I fall deeper for this city every day. Several times a day in the Summer.

I love the incredible music scene, the soft quality of the light, the sly and silly humour, the pretty Victorian/Georgian/Tudor architecture, the millions of cultural happenings going on all over town, all the time.

But above all these things, I think the thing I admire most about London is that there is an audience for absolutely every kind of pastime imaginable, no matter how random or esoteric.

Examples? Here is a smattering of odd things in which I have recently taken part:

- the Iron Cupcake competition (as a taster, not a baker);

- the Sunday Stroll, a massive meet-up of roller-bladers who stop the traffic and take over the city streets for a couple of hours every weekend;

- urban barn dancing;

- Laughter in odd places (Richard Herring at the Museum of London, amongst the bones and arrow heads: v. funny); and let's not forget

- the European Hard Court Bike Polo Championships (spectating only, apparently you have to have a moustache and knee-high socks to play).

I know that you could probably seek out similar weird and wonderful underground happenings elsewhere in the world (including Melbourne), but London does seem to be the epicentre for eccentricity, attracting odd-bods from all over the globe. Random silliness has been elevated to an art form here (see: Monty Pyton, the Goodies, the Mighty Boosh et al). No sport is so crazy that some damn fools wouldn't try it, no bet is too ridiculous to follow through on, and no subject is so seemingly narrow that it couldn't have a museum dedicated to it.

London is full of people who refuse to grow up and start taking life seriously young man, harumph, you think this is all a big joke, don't you? and that suits me just fine.

Cupcakes, Gandalf and flying pans

What a week! I have: seen the gorgeous Fleet Foxes at the Roundhouse, turned 32, copped a frying pan in the shoulder, consumed outrageous quantites of cake, had a close encounter of the celebrity kind, been immortalised in song at my flatmate's album launch and *inhale* started volunteering at a local primary school (just one morning a week at this stage).

Phew!

The best thing? Overhearing a couple of the Year 5 students talking about me and saying that they wished I was their teacher.

The second best? Having Happy Birthday sung to me by Gandalf (more commonly known as Sir Ian McKellen) at my work birthday lunch. We were having a perfectly pleasant time sitting at a local café enjoying our meals, when he walked past the big window overlooking the courtyard. As he made his way into the restaurant, we used our awesome powers of casual observation and spied Dame Judi Dench at another table, and Patrick Stuart (Mr. "Make it so") tucking into his sandwich in the canteen area. Apparently Simon Callow was there too, although I didn't recognise him without the crazy hair and kilt.

Anyway, when our table started singing Happy Birthday, everyone at the restaurant joined in and apparently Ian turned around in his seat to sing along. I was – regrettably - facing away from him at the time. Can you Adam and Eve it?!

The worst thing: the frying pan incident, involving an over-head rack and a poorly hung frying pan connecting with my shoulder on the way down. Just served to reaffirm my life-long belief that housework kills.

V-Day Hoe Down (not as bad as it sounds)

I went barn dancing on Valentine's Day!

I hadn't been barn dancing since Primary School, when the local High School gym was "transformed" for the night into a barn via the use of dim lighting and randomly placed bales of hay, complete with a band featuring a lagerphone, trestle tables laden with cheezels and fanta, and a sea of suburbanites clad in stone-washed demin and checked shirts (and the odd leather vest). I can't remember what I wore, but it must surely have been the pale blue ra-ra skirt that features in many photographs of that era.

The modern-day barn dance has been growing in popularity here, especially amongst unfeasibly cool Shoreditch types who apparently love nothing more than dressing ironically like hillbillies. I had read a few good write-ups and thought it sounded like good, clean, mildly aerobic fun - the kind which you won't find at a typical sweaty, drunken club.

So Valentine's Day eve, I donned a red dress, borrowed a suitably love-worn cowboy hat, put on my dancin' shoes (actually my converse sneakers seemed the most sensible option) and headed down to the gorgeous Finsbury Town Hall, along with a load of other assorted geeks, trendies and weirdos. The two single friends I had with me were quite apprehensive (rookies!) - it took a few G&T's before they took to the dance floor. Not even an impeccably mannered old-school cow-dude could change their minds - we turned him down en-masse, regrettably. The G&T's hadn't kicked in yet. Sorry, Mr. Cowboy. And don't worry, I got a taste of that bitter rejection later on.

As it was, I ended up doing more dancing with one of my female companions than with any lonesome cowboys. But still, it was great fun, and took me right back to that heady night in the gym/barn, lining up to "thread the needle", dosey-doe-ing your partner, then dosey-doe-ing your neighbour, left hand star! right hand star! and generally having a good old stomp on the floorboards. Literally, during one particular dance. The only instructions we got from the caller were: "Left foot, left foot, left, stomp stomp! Right foot, right foot, right, stomp stomp!". There was many a bleeding ankle at the end of that one (not mine, thankfully, I got off lightly despite my inappropriate footwear).

Speaking of which, the caller was a brilliant, miniature madwoman with bright pink hair, goggles, and a string of lights coming out of her boots, shouting gleefully at us through the microphone, while the band played merrily in their 50's inspired rock-abilly outfits. I was in awe as she expertly organised a heaving, partially drunken crowd into groups of smiling strangers dancing and weaving around one another, with nothing but the power of her lungs.

It was an interesting crowd, that's for sure. Gingham was the textile of choice, while the only acceptable colour options were red, white, blue, denim and leather (with the odd bit of silver or gold electro-bling to bring it up to date). One girl waiting with me at the bar was rocking a full-length prarie dress (which made me wish I had held on to that costly mistake I bought at Beyond Retro a while back).

All in all, it was a fun night and when the band started winding up, my first thought was "What? I was just getting warmed up!". Probably best not to push these things, though. I am just glad I got to do something a little random - a nostalgia kick with a twist - with some brave souls prepared to do something random with me (or at least to watch my drink while I barnstormed).

Thankee, little ladies! Much obliged.

Fink broods; Liz Phair talks dirty

First up: Fink. I saw the man play at the supremely wonderful Joe's Pub recently. It was good to break out of my usual female singer/songwriter rut, and I must say, sitting only a few feet away from him as I was, I was a little taken with his unapologetically masculine presence on the stage. He struck me as a staunchly old-school bloke - the anti-metrosexual if you like - with his shorn head, wiry form, beer-swilling, anti-fashion uniform of grey sweat top and dirty grey jeans and occassional self-conscious "nice one". His lyrics are (in keeping with his sartorial style) simple and direct, tending towards the everyday - being late for work, buying maple syrup from Asda (or not), perving at girls (in the sexy sexy Pretty Little Thing) - but his voice and guitar playing elevate the songs to another level altogether. Deep, bruising and hypnotic. Shudder. Catch him live if you can; some of his magic is lost in the recording process.

Then there is Ms Liz Phair: a pint-sized dynamo striding the stage at the Hiro Ballroom in leather vest, hotpants and cork wedges. How rock and roll is that?!

I love Liz for the honesty in her music and voice, her brazen sexuality and the f*ck-you attitude that has gotten her into trouble on more than one occassion. This gig was a celebration of the re-release of Exile in Guyville, with Liz and her all-male back up rocking through every song on the album - from 6ft 1in to Strange Loop. I have to confess, despite the fact that Supernova was one song guaranteed to get me on the dance floor in the 90's (the others were Sabotage and Connection), the first album I bought of hers was the comparitively mild-mannered Somebody's Miracle, and that was only a few years ago. However, it was interesting enough that I have been catching up on her past releases ever since.

This gig was my first introduction to Exile, so unlike many devout fans in the crowd, I couldn't sing along rapturously. However, as an Exile-virgin, the stand-out songs for me were (typically) the slower, sadder ones: Glory, Dance of the Seven Veils, Canary, Girls! Girls! Girls!, and Gunshy; and then there was the dirty shock of Flower (whoa momma!) and of course the infamous Fuck and Run.

Lord, why did no one introduce me to this - the ultimate collection of pissed off break-up songs - when I was 23 and torn up with misdirected anger and confusion?

Both Liz and Fink mentioned how great it was to be in New York, and how much they loved the New York crowds; and both mentioned previous lacklustre gigs in Chicago (Liz) and Pittsburgh (Fink). Sadly, my time in New York will shortly be at an end.

Damn, I'm going to miss this town.

The New York List*

Brunch
It's all about brunch in New York! The popular places can have a wait of an hour or more, but I aim to go and eat early (10-11am) on the weekends. Most places serve bottomless coffee for you caffeine junkies.

Pastis. A New York brunch institution, in the meatpacking district. Lovely old world European style interior, serving up classy French morsels. So-so coffee, but great brioche French toast. A must do.

Mud coffee. Very cool coffee joint in Greenwich Village. Hand-picked by my friend Amy, supreme coffee vixen.

Casimir. Another great (but tiny) brunch place in the hip lower East side, on a friendlier scale and budget than Pastis.

Diner. Supremely cool diner in Williamsburg, populated by local hipsters. Watch out for the spindly outdoor tables, which couldn't contain my giant aussie legs (lots of coffee spillage).

Florent. One of the first all-night diners to open in the meat-packing district before it was trendy: soon to be closed because of the sky-rocketing rent in the area. Shame, the home fries were lip-smacking and the place has got buckets of personality.

Balthazar. Fancy-pants French restaurant on Spring Street, popular with tourists and locals alike (prepare to wait up to an hour for a table). I prefer Pastis slightly, because it is a little less hectic.

Penelope's. My favourite brunch spot so far! Very cute little cafe on 30th and Lex, with delicious home made cupcakes, coffee served in mismatched mugs and yummy, yummy food. Oh my god, the blueberry waffles with orange butter... words cannot do justice.

Clinton Street Bakery. The Best Pancakes Ever. Lovely homestyle food, lower East side.

Food
There is such a plethora of choice when it comes to food over here, it's ridiculous. Your best bet is using a combination of the Zagat Guide (the NY restaurant bible) and a more discriminating guide like the Time Out City Guide, and of course local recommendations.

Supper. Atmospheric little Italian place on the Lower East side with exposed brick walls and pretty chandeliers.

Ali Baba Turkish Cuisine. The most delectable, smoky babaganoush I have ever tasted.

Grimaldi's pizza. You deserve one of these world famous pies after walking all the way over the Brooklyn Bridge. Just be prepared to queue (it's absolutely worth the wait).

Café Sabarsky. The rather posh Neue Gallery restaurant. Get yourself a Viennese coffee and dessert (I had the dark chocolate and apricot cake). Natalie Portman had the apple strudel, in case you were wondering.

Katz's Deli, where Sally proved to Harry what great manipulators women can be. It's a lot grimier than it looks in the film, but the girl behind the counter wouldn't accept payment from a fellow Melbournite, so I can't complain.

Nobu next door. Slightly cheaper and easier to book than Nobu, this is the best meal I have had in the city so far - amazing. Promise me you'll go there and try the fresh yellow tail sashimi with jalapeno, and also the rock shrimp tempura. Still drooling.

Adrienne's pizza bar. It's a pleasure eating outdoors on a warm night at this great upmarket pizza bar. The street is lined with bench-style tables, hidden away on a cobble-dy street near Battery Park.

The Empire diner. I can't believe it didn't occur to me to visit an old fashioned American diner. It took an out-of-towner to suggest it. Proper old-school burger-and-milkshake-at-the-counter territory, served with a smile and a wink.

John's pizzeria. Famous pizza pie joint on Bleecker street. Atmospheric, with years worth of names carved into the small wooden booths, but Grimaldi's pizza is superior in my book (I think it's an Italian vs. American thing.)

Drinks
Alcoholic beverages and bars are not my strong suit, I have to admit - I am a lightweight and don't like noisy, crowded bars - but here's a list of the few places I have visited. Don't forget your ID!

Ayza chocolate and wine bar (Midtown). Try a "flight" (3 little samplers).

Flat Iron Lounge. Groovy bar with retro cocktails, near the iconic building.

Under the volcano. Atmospheric (and very dark) tequila bar in midtown. Fierce margaritas.

Divine Bar, right near Times Square. The cinnamon toast with caramel ice-cream was sooo good, but you might feel a little self-conscious ordering the "Stinkin' Dirty Whore-tini". Try the Angel's Tit instead (truly divine).

Darkroom. A photographer friend (appropriately) roped me into coming to this low-ceilinged den and I enjoyed myself dancing inanely to Stevie Wonder and other crowd-pleasers.

8 Mile Creek. Surprisingly tasteful Australian themed bar in NoLIta (north of little italy). You wouldn't really know it was an Australian bar, except that you might be offered a Tim Tam with your drink.

Superfine. A bar in dumbo which is exactly that: super fine. Fantastic G&T with lime, kick-ass music, and rotating local artworks on the walls.

Music/Venues
You gotta see some live music if you come to New York, it has been hands-down my favourite thing to do here - there are some great small venues and you are spoilt for choice when it comes to gig listings.

Smalls. Even for jazz-novices like myself, an umissable experience.

NYC Town Hall. I caught Flight of the Conchords here, but they have all sorts of stuff on - classical, poetry, world music. Lovely old-fashioned theatre with good views from most seats, right near Times Square.

The Mercury Lounge. Proper dark and dinghy rock venue on an intimate scale, East Houston. I saw the fragile but heart-breakingly beautiful Joan As Police Woman here, with New York's coolest in attendance (including a Warhol wannabe).

Bowery Ballroom. My favourite NY music space so far. Beautiful mid-sized venue in a stylish 1920's building in the lower East side, showing loads of cool acts. I caught the very lovely Laura Veirs here (supported by Liam Finn).

Southpaw. Laidback (but supportive) local venue in Brooklyn, far enough from the beaten track to make you feel like one of the locals. I saw Hayden here.

Summerstage. A series of free concerts over the summer in Central Park - what could possibly go wrong? Well, it could pour with torrential rain and thunderstorms on the day Vampire Weekend are playing...but aside from that, much fun to be had.

Joe's pub. My (and Fink's) favourite New York venue. If you call ahead and book a table, you can sit right by the stage and enjoy dinner and drinks while you listen in this intimate space.

The Hiro Ballroom. I saw Liz Phair rocking out at this sumptuous kung-fu-style venue, with paper lanterns hanging from the curved dark wood ceiling. Very cool.

Culture/Activities

Falling Water. More Pittsburgh than New York, but worth the pilgrimage to see the most beautiful example of mid-century American architecture around.

The New York Public Library. Gorgeous building, worth going in for a look. I went to see the Gutenburg bible, but nearly cried when I discovered the actual, real life Pooh, Piglet, Kanga, Tigger and Eyeore, once owned (and obviously well loved) by Christopher Robin Milne.

Avenue Q on Broadway. Cute and funny. I was hysterical at interval: I don't even remember why. Caveat: The Americans will never touch the British when it comes to humour. I think I was just high on life at the time.

Coney Island. I don't think this counts as "cultural", but it's certainly an "experience". Shoot the Freak, ride the Cyclone, ogle the carnies and tuck into a world famous hotdog. Not for the faint of heart. Scheduled for redevelopment, so get there quick if you want to experience the authentic tawdry-run-down-fairground atmosphere.

The Guggenheim. Another cool Frank Lloyd Wright building full of cutting-edge modern art.

Neue Gallery. I tracked this down after spying a Klimt poster on 5th avenue. I adored it: it is a Klimt-groupies dream. And the most gorgeous display of Wiener Werkstätte jewellery imaginable.

Central Park Boathouse. Fortify yourself with an American-style super sweet breakfast at the Express Café before heading out for a row on the lake. If you are feeling energetic (I was), hire yourself a bike from Metro Bicycles (cheaper than the Central Park bike rentals) on 88th and Lexington for an easy cycle round the entire park.

Wicked. The front row seats are allocated via a ballot system - turn up between 5 and 6pm to put your name down and take your chances for the 8 o'clock show.

BAM. The Brooklyn Academy of Music to be precise, but they also put on plays and have a cinema where I saw a bunch of short animated films from around the world, with a Q&A session afterwards.

Whitney Museum of American Art. Great but dissappointingly small collection of modern American art, including Hopper, O'Keefe, Oldenburg, Pollock and De Kooning. Luckily they had one tiny room in the basement dedicated to my all-time favourite sculptor: Alexander Calder; as well as a collection of exquisite Mapplethorpe polaroids.

P.S.1. Contemporary art museum in a converted school building in Queens, affiliated with MoMA. Very cool and definitely worth the trek. I saw a brilliant show around the themes of "flags, weapons and dreams" - a great insight into the underbelly of the American dream.

MoMA. This is the best collection of big-name modern art I have seen in the world - truly awesome. A fantastic space and a definite must-do.

The Met. For some reason, I was expecting the Met to be a bit fusty and boring, but it blew me away. Utterly amazing collection of artworks from throughout the ages, from ancient Egyptian to contemporary American.

New York Botanical Gardens. I spent a very wet and humid Sunday traipsing around this lovely park, seeking out the Henry Moore pieces which are on exhibition at the moment. A serene retreat from the city, up in the Bronx.

*To be updated during my stay.

Geek rock: Laura Veirs at the Bowery Ballroom

I just can't seem to escape the geek connection lately. Ever since I started wearing glasses, my world view seems to have shifted somewhat (and not just because distant buildings/trees/signs are uncomfortably sharp now).



I think I admire Laura all the more for her ever-present specs. In fact, it was a picture of her in said specs on the cover of Year of Meteors which first attracted my attention at the Highgate library. Unlike 95% of young female artist cover shots, it was not sexy, not overly styled, and she was not smiling, just gazing straight out, a strange combination of reserved and defiant - serious but with a trace of a mocking smile. I took it home and what sealed the deal for me was 1. the sound, original, pure, captivating and slightly melancholy (if I had to categorise it, I would say indie folk) and 2. the lyrical themes of night skies, literature, swimming, mermen, caves and mountains.

Alone on stage at the lovely Bowery Ballroom, just one girl with her guitar and reverb pedal, Ms. Veirs did not disappoint. The most surprising thing was her strong and sure presence on the stage. She did say towards the end of the night that she was feeling especially relaxed and happy; like she was doing a lap of luck-xury, which she went on to explain was what she and her tour-mate did every time they got a hotel with a pool, to bring luck for the evening's performance.

She played a good selection of recent and older songs (I only know the stuff from her last two albums), as well as a couple of covers and an ode to Obama that sounded so heavenly, she almost changed my mind.

Oh-bah-mah-a-ah, Oh-bah-mah-a-ah, isn't he handsome? Isn't he smart?

A few people in the crowd felt compelled to call out Hilary's name afterwards. There is such a blatant popularity contest going on over here, but Obama seems to be winning in the public profile category.

For the encore, Laura came out with her support act in tow, Liam Finn (who was a tad disappointing with his self-indulgent racket-making), and they joined forces for a rousing version of Galaxies. With Liam restrained from his earlier freak-out and restricted to back up vocals and drums, it was a heavenly way to end a night which made me feel smug to have discovered such a cool artist whose sensibilities are so in tune with my own.

Flight of the Conchords at NYC Town Hall

So, against the wishes of my mum and her boss and all the lovely people who have my best interests at heart, I went along to the Flight of the Conchords gig last night. How could I not? I have been obsessing about these boys since a little article in the Guardian tv guide piqued my interest many months ago. Seeing them was the thing I was most excited about doing during my time in New York. In fact, there are those who have suggested that my entire motivation for coming to New York was to see Bret and Jemaine in all their sexy, beardy, low-key, funkalicious glory. That may or may not be true, I'm not prepared to comment.

And anyway, I already missed out on Feist, whom I had tickets to see last week. Damned appendicitis, derailing my 3-month non-stop NY fun-fest.

The crowd was mostly made up of blokes, interestingly, in pairs or small clusters, who were dressed like their heroes - lots of checked shirts, retro t-shirts and quirky glasses. Geek chic, which is the new look I am rockin' in my specs (the need for which I really can't deny any longer), was the overall vibe. One girl even yelled out a request for the "Binary Solo!" - now if that girl is not at one with her geekiness, I don't know who is. It was basically a big love-in really, with various female audience members shouting out their adoration for one or the other of the pair throughout the night. At one point Bret felt there was too much attention being paid to him, and not enought to Jemaine, so he got all the blokes in the hall to yell out "I love you Jemaine." And they did!

This is a new era, people, one where a heterosexual guy can tell a heterosexual guy that he thinks his booty is fly.* But still not one where it's ok for a bloke to cry.

It was a very lovely, friendly atmosphere, with Bret and Jemaine their typically laidback, understated, unpresuming selves - Bret so much so that at one point he made a little tent from his guitar cases and laid down after professing to feeling a little bit tired. Jemaine brought his mike over and attended to him like a gentle uncle with a nephew worn out from all the excitement of the day.

The duo ("we're a band, if you can have a one-man-band and a band with 3 people, we are definitely a band") played some well-loved songs from the TV show - Rhymenocerous probably got the biggest reaction, but Robots was also a crowd-pleaser - as well as some very cool new stuff, with lots of laidback observations in between. As with many of their songs (apart from the odd theme song or heavenly daydream), there were lots of slightly love-lorn odes about girl problems. There was one in which Jemaine does a roll-call of all his ex-girlfriends and what went wrong ("Flo had to go, Stephanie pulled a Persephone"), before asking whose idea it was for all his ex-girlfriends to get together and form a choir. They finished with a slightly tragic story of a local tour guide and the object of his affections.

I think the 'chords are part of a new wave of comedy. Low-key, sweet and very funny in a very gentle way, marked by a more imaginative and fantastical sense of creativity than the previous cocaine-fuelled ego-maniacs and world-weary cynics of yore. Bravo, boys.

*Jemaine proceeded to explain that "putting a wig on you" is some kind of jive talk which shows your respect for the other person, as in "I dig you brother! I put a wig on you! I put a big blonde wig right on you!"

Saturday night

The Glitter Bandits. No further detail necessary, really.

Where music is born

Picture this: a back room in a beautiful old pub near Newington Green - creaking wooden floor-boards, fairy lights twinkling overhead, reflected in the atrium ceiling. A simple stage is set up with tube lighting running around a small area, with a stool, mike stand and a couple of speakers.

You sink into an old sofa, beer in hand, as the first act runs a sound-check. Slowly, people start filtering in, but not so many that it is crowded or uncomfortable or too noisy. There are plenty of seats for everyone, though the sofas are at a premium. Avoid the old church pews if you can.

You settle in and watch a series of amazing new musicians get up and do their thing, each one with their own particular style and technique and way with their guitar or lyrics. The room ripples with laughter at some witty line, or goes into a kind of awed trance at the intricate sounds one man can make with a guitar. One artist who looks like a woodsman from the 70's urges the crowd to join in at the chorus, and they do; shyly at first. But this a good crowd, mostly made up of friends of the people playing, and they are all eager to support one another.

People of London: I would strongly recommend that anyone in the North East who loves seeing new, live music head down to the Edinburgh Cellars of a Wednesday night, for a lovely, chilled out, and inspiring evening of new music. You can listen to what I heard last night here.

Halloween legs

The infamous purple tights, of Prince concert and work Summer Social fame. I knew I would use them again, and what better occassion than a Halloween fancy dress night down at my local?

Enjoying the sunshine at Notting Hill Carnival

Photos courtesy of the lovely Emma.



Highglights: Some of the costumes were extraordinary. The atmosphere was thumpin'. And the jerk chicken was bloody amazing. In fact, I think there should be a festival devoted solely to jerk chicken. Not jerky at all, just freakin' tasty.



Lowlight: waiting 25 mintues to use the toilet, in an extremely slow-moving queue of irate women, with a constant stream of men walking past to take a quick slash in the mens.

Asahi's, guitars, flip-flops and umbrellas

I had so much fun at my flatmate's gig the other night. In fact, I feel like I am paying an emotional toll now, for the overdose of fun (and beer) I had. It is like I am only allocated so much happiness, and if I go overdrawn, I have to make it up in grumpiness.

Anyway, the gig was excellent. My flatmate writes funny, sweet, quirky and interesting little ditties, which are more like short stories (or modern day fables) set to music, mostly to do with the folly of human relationships. There were tons of people crammed into this little basement room under a pub in Farringdon, but the atmosphere was very friendly. And blessedly unsmoky. Smoking ban, I love you.

We stuck around for the second supporting group, One Eskimo, who were really good, and obviously aiming for the Bigtime. They were a really polished act, with trumpets, some sort of electric hookup (the sound of school kids cheering was a bit disconcerting), and their own logo - a really cute eskimo illustration I wish I did. I can't think who to compare them to - Keane? Coldplay? - no one seems to fit their style of hypnotic soft pop/rock. Anyway, they were lovely, check them out.

The main act were the very smiley Noel Prior Band, an energetic folk group from Truro, Cornwall (I been there!). The lead singer sounds a little like Elliot Smith, but their songs are a lot more upbeat and impossible not to jig to. Although, the typically London crowd managed to spend most of their set standing stock still. At one point, a random girl pleaded with me and the two girls I was with to go up to the front, to give the band a little encouragement. We didn't - I for one didn't want to look like a groupie. Finally, for the last number, the band appealed for some movement, and the small crowd finally loosened up. It was like watching a room full of robots get switched on simultaneously.

Much fun!

Shopping with girls

I have always maintained that lone shopping is the only way to go. I don't understand those girls for whom shopping is a form of entertainment and "leisure", who head out in noisy, colourful gangs and make a day of it. For me, I want to have a very quick browse on my own, maybe try on some things, buy what I want, and then get the hell out of there. If there was some magical way for me to order clothes over the internet, whilst being able to try them on at home without the hassle of returning the duds, I would sign up in a flash.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy a bit of clothes shopping. And I secretly think that, had I married a footballer - in some parallel universe where I turned out girlier and more idiotic - I would quite happily shop more at a lot better class of store. I don't have anything against a bit of rack-fondling and trying-on of outfits I know I am never going to buy.

But whenever I go shopping with other girls, without fail, I end up buying something that I regret later. And the other night, I outdid myself.

I don't know how exactly I ended up buying an original 80's, faded retro dress with puff sleeves and a blowsy rose print, but I know that I did, because it is in a yellow bag on my bedroom floor, with a receipt for £20.

Can I claim Temporary Insanity due to overdose of oestrogen particles, lack of oxygen due to intense giggling, and befuddlement of senses due to Gary Numan blasting out of the speakers?

Best Weekend Ever

Hola! You know, usually I hate people who fit the description "bright and bubbly", but today I am feeling like I totally get those people. My style is usually 80% eeyore, 5% tigger, 15% Christopher Robin, but today those completely made-up statistics go flying out the window.

I just had the most lovely weekend. Friday afternoon - my meeting finishes earlier than scheduled (4.15pm!) which means I get to leave early. I walk from Embankment Place to Victoria station, taking in the beautiful St. James park on the way, and stop at the bridge to gaze at possibly the most picturesque view in London. I keep walking and all of a sudden I notice the presence of several extremely well-turned-out policemen, complete with old-fashioned Bobby helmets. It dawns on me that I just walked by Buckingham Palace (I have never seen it before). I turn around and go and have a proper look, amongst all the Dutch/American/French/German tourists. The guards are like dolls, they are so still and perfect.

So, after buying a few souvenirs for my mum, I meet my boyfriend and we go get some quick noodles at Wagamama before seeing the show we are seeing, stopping at Marks afterwards for dessert. My boyfriend and I are tight-arses of the highest order.

Billy Elliot, the stage musical, is fantastic – blisteringly energetic, heartfelt, moving, and gaspingly funny in parts. The stage works like a clockwork marvel, with a staircase leading to Billy's bedroom spiralling up out of the floor and back, and streetscapes transforming into a cosy front room and then into a community hall, seamlessly. I am floored, as I always am when I see a big west-end show in London. I hope that magic never wears thin for me.

Saturday, we sleep in until nearly midday. For a chronic insomniac, I have been sleeping well lately. We head down to Islington, and spend a lovely afternoon tinkering around a shop called After Noah, which specialises in retro nostalgia. We buy a load of sweets which my boyfriend hasn't seen since he was a nipper (refreshers, toffo's, sherbert fountains and shrimps) and I proceed to eat them all on the bus trip back.

I make cod and veggies for dinner, with stewed apples for dessert, and we settle down to watch one of my favourite films of last year - Little Miss Sunshine.

Sunday morning, I am dreaming that I can't get to work because my car is stuck in a tight corner and keeps conking out. My alarm goes off and I wake up in a panic, thinking I am late for work. I can't figure out why my boyfriend is so relaxed when I tell him it is 8am already, until he reminds me that we still have one day of the weekend to go. Bliss! Back to sleep.

I make rice pancakes for breakfast (we are going wheat-free for a month). Most of the afternoon is spent working on an identity for a friend. This is the first job my boyfriend and I have worked on together, and it goes fine. He tinkers with my designs, I tinker with his, it is all very co-operative. I walk to the shops and struggle back in the wind and snow with the groceries, but it's OK because there are crumpets with jam at the end of it.

My boyfriend makes polenta pizza (my suggestion), with a bit of help from me, and it turns out to be really yummy. I have not had much luck with polenta in the past - I remember some Jamie Oliver biscuits I made years ago which had the texture and crunch of sand. I think the trick is to get polenta meal (or flour), which is much finer and cooks much quicker.

We watch Clerks II (welcome back, Kevin Smith) and fall into bed...

I want more weekends like that.