Panic at the zebra crossing

I am making my way home, cycling along in a little bubble of a daydream and feeling a little shaky because I have forgotten to throw back a late afternoon snack to keep me going. I try to change lanes in the peak hour traffic at a particularly tricksome roundabout when the car in front of me brakes suddenly and I skid to a halt just behind it, my tyre bumping their back bumper.

I can see the businessman in the front seat put on his handbrake as he hauls his massive bulk out of the drivers seat and waddles around to the back of the car, sun glinting off his bling-tastic cuff links. "Sorry!" I smile apologetically, a little surprised that he feels the need to come and inspect the back of his vehicle. There is a tiny scuff mark where my tyre touched his bumper, which he points to with a chubby finger, bellowing "What do you think you're doing?". He reaches down and wipes the smidge of dust off his bumper. There is now no trace of any contact on the bumper. "I could SUE you for this you know!" he spits in my face, turning purple in his rage. "Really?" is all I can think to respond. I look down at the invisible mark on his bumper. I stare at him. He stares back. "You cyclists think you OWN the road!!" We stare at each other some more. I say "sorry" again, because I really don't know where this is going and I am tired and need some food. The collars of his expensive looking purple shirt quiver.

He stares at me some more. I sit back on my bike seat. He finally decides to leave it, and walks back around to the drivers seat, stopping to give me one final hard stare (just in case I didn't get it with ALL THE STARING). He takes off in a fug of petulance and I cycle on home.

I've been seething quietly ever since.

You want to know who acts like they own the road, Mr. 40-carat cufflinks? DRIVERS, THAT'S WHO. Drivers who turn left in front of me. Drivers who get impatient if I delay their journey by all of two seconds who then scream past me with a whisker to spare. Drivers who nearly run me off the road twelve times a day. Drivers who pull out without checking for cyclists (the cause of all the accidents I and other friends have ever been involved in). Drivers who refuse to give way to me at roundabouts. Drivers whose short-sightedness and lack of care and general recklessness I am CONSTANTLY compensating for. And don't even get me started on white van men!

And yes, I reserve the right to feel slightly superior to fat car-driving types like yourself.

How much more can a deeply cynical/hopeless romantic take?

There comes a time in every single girl's life (so far, so frickin' Carrie Bradshaw, right?) when she feels that she is done with the whole search. Done. Over it. She is at the end of her tether, and she just can't summon the energy to even think about putting herself back out there. Her options at this point seem to be:

1. convert to lesbianism;
2. become a nun; or
3. get cats.

None of these options are open to me because:

1. I like boys;
2. I like boys; and
3. I'm allergic.

Picture this scenario. You meet a guy, a lovely, tall, kind-eyed guy who you stumble across in the course of your everyday life and, after enjoying a long and rambly chat outside in the sunshine, pluck up the courage to ask him out for a coffee. He says yes. The stuff of daydreams.

So you meet up for a date in an intimate venue and it's going really well - the attraction is apparent, you talk about all sorts of things, and the more time you spend together the more you discover you have in common. A love of folk music. A disdain of alarm clocks. A belief in the revolutionary power of cycling.

A couple of hours fly by.

And then, just as he is saying how glad he is that you asked him out, and is suggesting that you meet up again soon at a place he knows, you make an off-handed comment about how scary it was asking him out, when you didn't even know if he had a girlfriend or not.

He squirms. He says "What if I told you that I do have a girlfriend? And a son?"

WHAT. IN. HOLY. HELL.

The "date" ends shortly thereafter.

So. Not the worst date I've ever been on (I'll blog about that another time), but definitely in my Top 3 All-Time Shitty Dates. Being single in your thirties sure does suck sometimes.

The fifth rule of online dating is...

...don't neglect the real world. There are a whole lot of options out there. It's easy to become a bit disillusioned with internet dating - if I read one more profile by a "pub lover" who likes "putting the world to rights over a pint", my brain is going to shut down in protest. By comparison, real-world meetings can seem much more straightforward and agenda-free. You like roller-blading? I like roller-blading! Coffee? Simple. Well, maybe not quite that simple, but y'know - the attraction is apparent; you don't have to waste any time emailing aimlessly back and forth; and there aren't a frillion other girls competing for his attention at the same time.

It's good to step away from the screen now and again.

* * * *

Actually, this rule pretty much applies to modern life in general. I read in the weekend papers about an internet rehab clinic that's been set up outside of Seattle, to help people (gaming geeks, mostly) wean themselves off their unhealthy addiction to the 'net. For about a millisecond I wondered if I qualified as addicted (I do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time online nowadays - doesn't everybody with a computer-based job?) - but then I remembered that I went cold turkey for a week in Slovenia and I didn't start getting the shakes 'til day 6.

Part of me is amazed by the possibilities the internet represents (building virtual communities; instant access to vast amounts of information on virtually any topic, yada yada), and part of me is worried about the consequences of living so much of our lives via an electronic interface, not to mention the deleterious effects of exposure to the 80% of online content that is porn/paranoid conspiracies/celeb gossip-mongering/blogs about people's boring-ass lives.

Just typed myself into a corner there. Back-up!

It is rather amazing to have witnessed how quickly the internet has infiltrated every aspect of our lives since we first heard whispers of a "world-wide web" (gasp!) around our High School circa 1991. I was remarking to someone just the other day how grateful I was to have been born into a pre-digital world: one consequence of this was that my generation had a simpler, slower-paced, generally more innocent upbringing. We certainly don't take instant electronic communication for granted. Those post-digital-revolution kiddies are going to freak-the-flip-out out when the grid goes down.

Hard to be a girl, so nice to be a boy

I was never a girly-girl. On the flipside, I was never the stereotypical scrappy 'tomboy' either - I think I just grew up in less gender-defined times, when boys and girls were kind of lumped together in a big amorphous mass, all sunburnt limbs and interchangable t-shirts. I didn't wear a skirt until my grade 6 graduation. I never wore make-up, even in high school (assuming you don't count Body Shop lip gloss) - social suicide nowadays, judging by the prozzy-painted faces of school girls at the bus stop. Coinciding happily with the end of my schooldays and the beginning of my painfully self-conscious adolescence was the Grunge movement. Grunge tied in nicely with a) my burgeoning feminist principles; b) my fingers-down-the-throat reaction to anything pink, sparkly or adorned with heart motifs; and c) my inherent laziness.

However, since I've been living in the UK, I think it's fair to say that I have been slowly but inexorably sucked over to the feminine side of the gender divide. It started with a boyfriend who encouraged me to wear dresses, then developed via working with a bunch of girls who knit and make jewellery and cut their own hair (my measly contribution to this girl-fest is baking).

Further proof of my girlification: just recently I've bought five new necklaces (because I couldn't decide between them - I love them all!); gotten my first ever bikini wax (Not Worth It); and even applied a little bit of Holiday Skin to my legs (a purely humanitarian act - so that I don't blind pedestrians with the sight of my brilliant white legs scissoring past them in the morning sunshine).

Like 99% of my gender, however, I represent a startling mass of contradictions. Champagne and heels one day, cutting my knees open roller-blading the next. I like to think I nurture both sides; the girl who loves bright colours and new clothes, and the tomboy riding the mountain bike to work with plasters on her knees.

I was reminded of this contradiction when I watched the final series of Sex and the City for the first time recently, and (god forbid) enjoyed it, albeit guiltily. Scarier still, I identified with it. Crikey O'Blimey. I openly sneered at this show when I was in my twenties; now - single in my thirties, having lived in New York, asking myself a lot of the questions that Carrie poses, living away from my parents and family (and thus, my grown up responsibilities) - this show resonates in a way that it never used to. However, I do not condone the reckless consumerism it promotes, and I think anyone watching it should be aware that they are participating in fantasy-level escapism (girl-porn, basically).

However, just so I don't tip too far over, I have also been devouring Series 4 of The Wire. For those who have not yet been harangued to watch this show by their geekier friends, The Wire is probably the most beautifully understated, brilliant, real Police drama ever aired. This is a show that celebrates old-school manliness of the hard-drinking, straight-talking, solitary-living, authority-shunning kind. It is absolutely absorbing to watch; not least because it feels so unnervingly real that you can't help but be drawn into the worlds of the many characters, despite the often obscure jargon bristling from the dialogue. I've learned to go with it even if I don't always understand it - David Simon, the show's creator, maintains that "The first season of The Wire was a training exercise. We were training you to watch television differently." It's not supposed to be an easy watch. I have to watch it alone, because the distraction of someone sitting next to me is too much - it requires 100% attention. But damn, it's worth it.

God, someone should do a mash-up of these two shows. That would blow my mind.

And now for the good news...

"Having a Big ol' Womanly Ass May Be Good for Your Health, Study Finds"*
(*possibly not the actual wording of the article title)

Rejoice, fellow fat-bottomed girls!

I was bemoaning that little bit of extra Christmas podge in the mirror only last night, but this morning I came across this cheering article which throws hip and buttock fat into a new, far more flattering light. It also served as a blindingly brilliant reminder of why Freddie Mercury totally rocked.

I have been waiting patiently for the chance to have a good old rant about how the media has become increasingly obsessed with youth n' beauty - to a disturbing extreme - in my lifetime. Watching programmes and films from the seventies, the first thing you notice is how frickin' normal everybody looks. Seen through the spectacles of noughties perfectionism, everybody looks strangely frumpy and poorly dressed, with bad skin - until you remember that actually, that's how most people look in the real world. Off-screen life ain't pretty, at least not without a major effort (for the vast majority of us). Before digital manipulation and botox became the norm - in Hollywood at least - adults actually looked like adults; not like the most beautiful kids at your high school.

When did we reach that point where media saturation reached critical mass and became the standard by which we judge reality? Was it the rampant one-upmanship of the eighties? The self-obsessed nineties? Or could it be the current digital era of Myspace profiles, celebrity stalking, and Photoshop?

I feel like we all need a media-detox to get a grip back on reality. Imagine a nation-wide week where there was no TV, no magazines, no posters, no ads, no internet, no images anywhere - just other people, in all their messy, crumpled, ageing, lumpy, wonderful, diverse glory.

I have been watching old episodes of Two Fat Ladies recently, an old-school English cooking programme which feels like it is from a time before women on television had to be eternally youthful goddesses - but which actually aired in the late nineties.

There is hope after all!

Here were two women who were overweight, middle-to-late aged - Jennifer was in her sixties when the show was filmed - and from incredibly posh backgrounds. They were also eccentric, comical, rebellious, defiantly un-PC and a joy to watch. Each episode featured the two of them zooming around Great Britain in their motorbike and side-car, pitching up at various picturesque locations and cooking lovely old-fashioned meals for the benefit of various groups including a Boy Scout troop in Northumberland; a Welsh Men's Choir in Llandudno; and a lacrosse team in Cornwall.

A toast to those two glorious ladies who didn't give a fig what anyone thought of them, and to all those who would rather read a good book than go on a diet; and a big fat butt slap to vacuous celebrity worship. I'm off to tuck into some seriously rich Borough Market brownie. All in the name of butt-reinforcement.

* * * *

Please note, I hope this little rant doesn't preclude me from appreciating the beauty of certain blokes on occassion - it's just that I feel judging people by their outward appearance shouldn't become our default position, and should instead have a clearly defined place within a much more diverse context. There's swooning at the latest Hollywood star; and then there's firing a 37 year old TV presenter for being too old.

Feelin' brighter

Ahhhhh. Turns out all I needed was a little space to myself, a creativity injection in the form of a short illustration course at Central St. Martins, and a few days of nice weather to cycle in to turn my mood around.

I suppose one of the up-sides to global warming is that, when the oil runs out, there will be no excuse for people not to get on their bikes even in the depths of Winter. Although we'll all be bacon by then, and hopefully the planet will be initialising recovery from the legacy left by the stupidest species ever to walk upright.

Rant over!

So, the cycling. My bike is a big old heavy mountain-bike which takes some beltin'. It is slow - even those miniature folding bikes with wheels the size of plates regularly whizz past me - but I feel safer astride it than I would a dinky little racer, and it copes well with the vast potholes Hackney Council seem to pride themselves on. It has a few lovable quirks, like the way it skips gears when it feels like it, and occassionally decides to lose the chain altogether - what, you didn't want your feet to go flying off the pedals in the middle of a busy intersection?! - and it certainly isn't a good looker.

Still, I have become strangely attached to my flawed hunk of (semi) working metal parts, and it has brought me much happiness.

Embracing my inner nerd: part 2

Another nugget which confirms my geekhood: I used to be obsessed with the X-Files, as were most of my family. I can still remember my brother's face, locked in an expression of hilarious concentration as he whistled along to the theme tune. It took me a while to get hooked - the first few episodes seemed to be entirely composed of Dana Scully wandering around the woods at night, shining her torch around wildly and calling out "Mulder? Mulder?!" in an increasingly frustrated/worried tone - but slowly Fox Mulder's good looks and gravelly monotone got to me.

So imagine my delight when I discover that Mr. Duchovny is appearing in a new show, Californication, in which he plays some kind of writer/sex fiend cutting loose in LA after the breakdown of his marriage.

There were a few things about the pilot which disturbed me, however. One was that David Duchovny didn't quite convince me as Hank Moody, the bad boy writer gone off the rails. Then there was the completely unsexy sex scenes. And then this charming encounter where Hank taunts his blind date after she asks him to tell her about herself, using his creative intuition (seeing as he's a writer and all):

“I think you were born in the valley. Nice part, though. Your father was middle-management, white collar executive. Stay-at-home mom. You didn’t want to stray too far to go to college so you went to USC. You had a serious boyfriend in college, you broke up right after, he married the next one. You got a low maintainence gig in a human resources industry, you had a string of bad relationships, you put on some weight. You looked around, you saw all your friends starting to pair up and get married so you decided you should lose the weight, you joined a gym, maybe you did a little running.

You say you want to work - maybe start your own party planning business, you fancy yourself kind of a poor gal’s Martha Stewart - but what you really wanna do is sit at home, on the couch, with some poor sap, watching reality TV while he watches you get fat again.”

Pretty bitchy, huh?

Afterwards, I stayed up and watched the pilot episode of 30 Rock, a new show I knew nothing about. Here's Jack Donaghy (played by Alex Baldwin) sizing up his new employee Liz Lemon in the first episode:

“Sure...I gotcha. New York, third-wave feminist, college-educated, single and pretending to be happy about it, over-scheduled, undersexed, you buy any magazine that says 'healthy body image' on the cover, and every two years you take up knitting ... for a week.”

When did men get so damn catty?! I mean, I know these characters aren’t real (hyuk - I ain’t stupid), but this dialogue was written by men... wasn’t it?

Well, actually, this particular episode of 30 Rock was written by a woman - the woman who plays the "over-scheduled, undersexed" Liz. You are letting down the sisterhood, Liz. I'm disappointed in you. And in you, Mr. Duchovny, object of my teenhood affections and Executive Producer of a show which seems to divide women into two groups: potential sex partner or object of derision.

On being female and 30

So, I turned thirty earlier this year. The media here is pretty much hysterical about "women in their thirties" (insert concerned but judgemental frown). Men won't date them - they're too desperate! In a panic about their shrivelling ovaries! Realising they can't have it all! Throwing themselves into work/the gym/binge-drinking!!

Personally, I am not that happy with the way things have turned out for me - but that's nobody's business or concern but my own. Society has changed massively since my parent's lifetime. The future seems uncertain but most certainly grim. Our society is in thrall of excessive consumerism and the pursuit of wealth, at the expense of individual and communal wellbeing. I do feel that, in this instance, ignorance would have been bliss (had I settled down in my mid-twenties, bought the house, had the kids, and stayed cocooned in the miniature inwards-looking world of the family).

Then again, maybe not. I have always been an obsessive worrier, since about the age of 4. Every childhood picture of me - every holiday snap, every school photo, every family portrait - shows a skinny little blond kid with crooked teeth, looking worried.

In fact, I looked pretty much like this girl:



Remember her?

Some days I wish I could turn my back on romance altogether and harden my heart, be that strong, independent girl I used to feel like sometimes, striding through the city Amazon-like (it matches my physique, anyway).

Brain, I am ordering you to override heart! Did you hear me, Brain? That's an ORDER!

* * *

Useless brain.

Grumpy, snappy and cranky

Grrr. Hayfever has made a weeping mess out of me. I know a lot of other people are suffering, and let me tell you, I FEEL YOUR PAIN, people. It (the pain, suspended in mucus and tears) is running down my face and pouring out of my nose. Strangers are offering me tissues on the street and asking me in soft, concerned tones who my next of kin is.

Historically, my hayfever has been a lot better since I moved UK-side. I think the pollen count must be worse this year than usual. Plus, I haven't been sleeping and things at home have been a little - shall we say - fraught? Also, I just moved offices, so I am back on the tube. Otherwise known, in my head at least, as the Stinkin', Overcrowded, Frequently Delayed Festering Tunnel of Communicable Disease (or SOFDeFToCD for short). If you have even the slightest hint of hayfever or a cold, your journey on the tube becomes almost unbearable. The filthy air quality adds to the general torment happening all over your face.

To summarise, I am NOT in a good way.

Despatch from London town, where the media-boys never grow up

Two buses pass in front of me, one after the other. The side of the first bus reads (because every single available space in this city is for sale): "For the love of boobs". I think it was for breast cancer awareness, but nowhere does it mention this. Or at least not in a font size that is legible to anybody looking at a bus from the street. The second bus reads: "www.lynxplayers.com". The "www" bit is made out of boobs. Cleavage. Actual photographs of actual cleavage. I am too scared to look at the site. I think it may give me a heart implosion and make me take permanently to the wimple.

Sometimes I feel we seem to have gone backwards, way back to those dark old days of the seventies, when it was perfectly OK to treat a woman like a piece of meat. Heck, if there was a woman at your workplace in the 70's, it was your right to make jokes about her sexual proclivities and pinch various parts of her at your whim, all in the name of good, clean fun.

It seriously annoys me that all the feminist movement appears to have done is to drive this compulsion underground, to some altogether seedier, nastier place. Most days, there is some complete tosser on the bus or tube, gazing unselfconsciously at a nude woman in his paper. Perfectly typical sight, this. I once saw a man who, from the outside, was reading a respectable paper - but had a porn mag tucked inside. At least this guy must have realised that it is a little bit wrong to view hardcore porn in public, and had tried to hide it (although not very well - the drooling and glazed stare was a dead giveaway).

Advertising agencies have a lot to answer for. And while I realise that my work (graphic design) is uncomfortably close to advertising, I would never be so thoughtless, lazy and retrogressive to use a pair of boobs to sell stuff to men.

Brothers, if you are reading this, please boycott Lynx for my sake. And your girlfriend's. And our Mum's.

London Rag Lights Up My Morning

The British press do a great line in putting a negative spin on virtually any story you can throw at them. This morning: Cig Ban Will Lead To Blaze Death Chaos! or something of that nature, in the reliably sensationalist Metro paper. Apparently, the impending cigarette ban will lead to more people smoking in their homes; which means more house fires and more deaths as a result.

Smokers? I'm sorry, but I don't care if you die in a fiery inferno, sparked by your own supidity and laziness. One dead smoker is one less a**hole making my journey to work/trip in the elevator/lunch at the pub that much stinkier.

In other news, Bob Fossil got on my 43 bus this morning. And I am happy to report that his hair is still very much in character.

Hairy tales

Can I just make one thing clear to the reader: I detest getting my hair cut. I can think of nowt worse than having a weirdly-dressed stranger take my bag, wrap me in a tablecloth and guide me to a chair where I will have to sit still for a good half hour, with nothing to look at but my own miserable reflection.

I love having the new hair cut. I love walking out of the salon feeling incredibly self-consious, with luscious bouncy locks which will be history by afternoon. It's just the cutting of the hair which I hate, and the accompanying pre-cut and post-cut fuss. I hate the pre-wash in the uncomfortable neck-contour sink (whose neck? An ostrich?). I hate the nuclear-voltage blowdry where they deafen you whilst simultaneously scorching your scalp to a glowing ember.

Some hair-related things I have learned the hard way:

1. Don't go to a discount hair salon which is aimed at blokes (G.I. Joe's in Richmond, I am looking at you). I cried all over my colleague when I came back one lunchtime with a small boy's haircut (short on top, shaved at the back). It might have been cute on Mia Farrow, but I looked like a frickin' idiot.

2. Having said that, hair grows - it is never going to look that great for long, or that awful for long.

3. You don't necessarily have to talk to the hairdresser while they work. It is such a relief to come across a naturally quiet one who doesn't want to chat endlessly about your holiday plans, in between regaling you with vivid tracts from her hectic social life.

4. It is worth putting on some lipstick and changing out of your tracky-daks. If you show up at the salon looking like a bogan, they will give you a bogan haircut.

5. Don't get stuck in a hair rut. I have had all lengths from lesbian crop to (the current) born-again hippy, and all colours from brown (bad) to fiery red (strangely good), to rediscovering my mousey roots (current). It takes time to work out what suits you best - and your hairdresser must surely be sick of cutting her millionth "long layers, please" for the day.

6. It's just hair. You shouldn't need to spend upwards of £40 for a haircut. You wouldn't spend £20 getting your nails cut, would you? Well, maybe you would. But I sure as hell wouldn't. That money could be going to more useful things, like a new CD or more chocolate.

* * *

It was OK in Australia - my littlest brother's girlfriend happens to be a fantastic hairstylist. Brilliant! Discount super-smart haircuts for life. Fingers crossed they get married and we have a permanent hair-fixer in the family.

If only my middle brother was going out with a music-label guru. Or a master chocolatier. I'm not fussy; either will do.

Must Try Harder, Mr. Besson

We watched Angel-A on the weekend, a "new" Luc Besson film. I say "new" in inverted commas because the trailer only appeared on apple.com very recently, yet it was available for hire at our DVD joint (Archway Video, for the locals). I suppose this should have given me a clue as to the lame-osity of this flick, but remembering the Besson-worship of my university days, I decided to give it a go.

My Besson-obsession began way back in 1994 with Léon. Ahhh, Léon. You were such a sweet, intriguing, truly deadly hitman. I loved the way you dressed up to play charades with a tiny, tiny Natalie Portman; and drank glasses of milk with the gangsters. I worshipped your deep French voice and your little French singlet.

I think Besson could make anybody look cool, maybe even Burt Newton, but Jean Reno directed by Besson was smokin'.

I didn't discover Le Grand Bleu 'til later. Is there anyone who didn't watch The Big Blue and decide they were going to give up their job, travel to Europe, and become an immensely cool free-diver answerable to no one but the vast blue depths?

Or wish they were an incredibly fashion-savvy alien after sitting through The Fifth Element a few years later?

But Angel-A. Deeply, deeply crapulous, poorly scripted and paced, with a leading lady who had plenty of talent in the area of "looking hot in a mini skirt" but none in the crucial art of "acting". And no, Mr. Besson, filming in black and white doesn't make you more high-brow.

I loved you once, Luc, but now it's over. You scruffy, sleazy little French man.