The Hot List - appended

Chris Rock

"I prefer dark topics when I'm doing comedy. I like to kind of dig myself out of a hole. And I don't take it for granted that people are going to laugh … so if you're up there and no one's laughing, wouldn't it be great to be talking about something interesting?"

Guillaume Nery


Jason Segel

Devouring Freaks and Geeks right now, which I adore. Adore! Look at me with the enthusiasm.

David Eagleman

I love him for his MIND. His amazing, creative, playful mind.

Jack Donaghy

He makes me laugh - and if a man can do that, he's golden. Although, Tina's the writing genius behind 30 Rock, Alex just brings the silver fox to the mix - so I guess I should transfer at least 50% of my crush to her.

Best Christmas Present Ever.

It's the gift that just keeps on giving. I am thinking about suing the authoresses for copying material from the inside of my brain.

Go get some!

Books currently strewn about my bed

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry
The story of a serious and inquisitive little prince and the world he discovers when he decides to venture out beyond his home asteroid one day. Full of wonder; heartfelt and exquisitely moving.

The Introvert Advantage by Dr. Marti Laney
The best self-help book I have ever read (and believe me, I've read a few - or should I say, started them and given up after the first few chapters), and by far the most relevant to me. It's nice to know that I'm not alone - 25% of people (apparently), like me, are inwards looking, get their energy from being alone and need downtime to cope with the outside stimulation of everyday life. I can't tell you how much this book has opened my eyes to my own nature, and helped me to accept it. It's nice to know I'm not a freak. Well, at least not a certifiable freak.

You are What You Eat by Sham Dr. Gillian McKeith
Yes, I find McKeith loathesome for reasons I can't quite articulate, but in a moment of madness I decided to do the one-day detox she describes in this book (including the body brush and mineral bath before bed) - and I have to say, it was surprisingly easy. Plus, my new juicer is the funnest toy ever. Yes, I know funnest isn't a word. But it should be.

Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties by Rainer Maria Rilke and John J.L. Mood
Rilke is a German poet I discovered in a very roundabout way. A bit over a year ago, when I was going through an epic break-up and trying desperately to find some peace of mind, my yoga teacher quoted a line from this poem (the words in bold) and it affected me so much, I had to trace it to the source. This book is some consolation for those who, like me, seem to suffer more than their fair share of heartache.

...and still struggling through A Suitable Boy. In fact, I seem to be at a standstill. Somebody make a film of this already, for gosh sakes! I am only one-sixth of the way through the three massive volumes that comprise this monster, and I am losing momentum.

A glimmering of sunshine between the clouds

Eurrrgh. I am in the final stages of recovering from an illness which seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my being over the Christmas period. As if January in London wasn't hard enough work!

Rather than whinge, however, I am going to recommend a book which I read in my sick-bed, a book which I have read at least five times previously and a book I hope to be re-reading until the day I die.

(Thank you, goldfish-capacity memory, for the ability to be delighted anew by the same thing, again and again.)

The book to which I refer, my friends, is the autobiography of one Mr. Stephen Fry: the obscurely titled Moab is my Washpot.

More British than Jammy Dodgers, more rendolent of London than black cabs and red double-decker buses passing by Westminster, more English than the Queen Herself. To me, Fry represents the Ultimate English Public-school Chap and All-round Decent Fellow.

He also has a charming and highly distinctive way with words. He is a man in love with the English language, and you can't help but get caught in the champagne bubbles of his enthusiasm. Even when he is talking about his darkest, grubbiest, most shameful moments, he is a pleasure to read.

What does it for me, though, is the honesty with which he chronicles the struggles he went through during his time at school, his sense of being the outsider, and the burning intensity of his emotions. I could identify with that, although my experience was as far removed from that of a posh boy attending boarding school in the English countryside as you could imagine.

However, the story of a "sensitive young weed" (Fry's words) struggling to find her place in the soulless outer suburbs of Melbourne, terrified of getting a "C" for Maths and worried that her art isn't "Arty" enough, doesn't make for such interesting reading. I never managed to get arrested, for a start...

Or did I?!?! [cue dramatic music]

Words AND pictures - what could be better?

It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that I am a bit of a nerd. All I wanted in High School, and Uni, was to be cool. It seemed to me (at the time) that being cool was somehow related to "not giving a shit" and being extremely laidback about, like, everything. To display enthusiasm towards anything was to reveal yourself as deeply uncool. I think this must have been the time I learnt to hide my enthusiasm away, because now I have trouble getting enthusiastic about anything. Except chocolate, of course. But I digress.

The geekiest thing about me? I read comic books. Witness the progression of my life through the funny papers:

1. I start out on Asterix and Obelix, borrowed from the local library.

2. Move on to Peanuts, then Garfield throughout primary school.

3. Read MAD magazine feverishly through high school.

4. I discover Calvin and Hobbes through a friend at Uni.

Of course, in the meantime, the Simpsons were exploding all over TV, South Park came out and all of a sudden cartoons were not Just For Kids anymore.

5. My Dad introduces me to Krazy Kat, the sweetest and most lyrical love story between a cat and a mouse that you will ever read.

6. Somewhere along the line, I come across Robert Crumb and his whacked-out hippy comics from the 70's.

7. A friend gives me a copy of Ghost World for my birthday, which I enjoy on a visual level, but which leaves me with an uncomfortable, desolate feeling (maybe that was the point).

8. Since being in the UK, I discover the razor-sharp Life in Hell, by Matt Groening - as well as:

9. the Persepolis series, by Marjane Satrapi. That is a proper grown-up, educational read, my friends. You no longer need feel ashamed that you are reading a picture-book.

Then came:

10. Maus by Art Speigelman. Words cannot do justice to this incredible book. It won a Pulitzer prize. That should shut those cool kids up.

Anyway, back where it all began.

Yesterday I walked past one of those shonky "temporary" book sales, and I couldn't resist buying a set of 10 Asterix comics for the bargain price of £22.

I inherited my love of Asterix (and subsequently my love of all story-based comics) from my Dad, who could frequently be found sitting up in bed of an evening, cup of tea on the bedside table, giggling quietly over the antics of that indomitable Gaulish village, holding out against the Roman invaders...

Thanks, Dad. I shudder to imagine how different my life would have been if you had been heavily into competitive sports or something.

Melodramatic sigh

A quick update: I moved into my temporary home last night, which was weird, but not as bad as I thought it would be. The most traumatic part was packing up my flat earlier in the day and lugging the last of my stuff to work on the bus, crying all the way, my ex-boyfriend barely holding it together next to me. The situation between us is vastly complicated - we both care so much about each other, but we just couldn't seem to make it work. It is so sad.

However, I know now that I need to spend some time on my own to sort my head out before I can be in a successful relationship. If I'm not happy, my boyfriend is never going to be happy - certainly not enough to want to marry me and make a future with me. The truth is, maybe I will never be completely "happy" and maybe I will never be in a life-long relationship - and somehow, I have to come to terms with that.

A friend from work (the same one who came and looked after me when I got sick at the tube station), helped me lug my stuff all the way to Hampstead and kept me entertained with talk of the banana harmonica she is bidding for on ebay (100% true). My thanks go out to her and her fruit-instrument obsession.

* * * * *

I am reading Alan Bennett's "Untold Stories", which (so far) is about his family and the secrets, illnesses, and everyday struggles that seem to exist in almost all families once you get past the rosy public face. He describes, in his very gentle, precise style, his two independent aunties, who see themeslves as more daring and free-spirited than their timid, married middle sister. Both of them end up marrying late in life, but the husband of the eldest aunt dies not long into their married life and leaves her distraught and angry to have lost something she waited so long for. Bennett, drafted into driving her to the funeral, finds himself getting impatient with the show of emotions she "puts on", feeling she is hamming it up somewhat, uncomfortable with the uncontrolled display of her feelings.

This particular recollection really stung me. I have been accused of being melodramatic in the past, by a member of my family. I don't think I am a dramatic person generally - most people would describe me as cool, calm, shy, quiet, not in the habit of calling attention to myself - but I have always been at the mercy of my emotions. The strength of my emotions can leave me lying in a useless heap on the ground, too weak to stand; they can make me physically ill; or they can (very occassionally) lift me up to a state of bubbling excitement. I have always felt things very deeply, and taken everything to heart, privately. I feel my emotions are what hold me together; define me; are as much a part of me as my blood. To dismiss them as "put on", for the sake of creating "drama", is repulsive.

Anyway, most importantly, me and my thin skin are surviving. And I am feeling more on top of my emotions now (despite the current mess) than at any other point in my life, especially my early-to-mid twenties. What I am aiming for, ultimately, is an even keel. Oh, how I envy those emotionally-steady-as-a-rock people.

Cult-cha

One of my many birthday presents - it was a bonanza turning 30, I tell ya - was some national book tokens. I love getting book vouchers. There is just something nice about going into your local bookshop and actually walking away with something to show for it.

As opposed to leaving empty handed after browsing aimlessly for hours, listening to every CD on the rack, reading unpurchased mags on the sly and drinking bottomless cups of coffee. Which is enjoyable enough on its own, but means you have nothing to read on the bus home.

So, the books I bought (and have enjoyed to varying degrees since) were:

1. Born on a Blue Day: A Memoir of Aspergers and an Extraordinary Mind by Daniel Tammet;
2. The Night Watch by Sarah Waters; and
3. Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See.

All laid out for your viewing pleasure above. I am a graphic designer; I can't help judging a book by it's cover.

My favourite by a mile was The Night Watch. It is a beautifully written book that plunges you into 1940's London - right in amongst the blackouts, bombings, and night wardens. Every little detail, including the language that the characters use, adds to the evocation of that very different era.

The book is also made more interesting for being played out in three parts, moving backwards in time. The first part of the book is set in 1949; the second in 1944; and the final section in 1941. As you move through the book, the back-story to the characters lives and relationships is slowly revealed to you, and you piece together what events have taken place in the intervening years.

I think I have always had a bit of "lez chick-lit" snobbery about Sarah Waters, which I now see was completely unfounded. The fact that some of her characters are gay is almost irrelevant to the main themes, apart from adding a layer of intrigue in those less-tolerant times. However, the main focus is on the complexity of their relationships and their individual characteristics and situations. As with Brokeback Mountain, you get so involved in the humanity of the story, you forget any awkwardness you may have had about watching two men hug.

Speaking of men hugging, Born on a Blue Day was a fascinating memoir by a high functioning autistic savant. He can make massive calculations instantly in his head, has memorised Pi to the 22,514th decimal place, and constructed his own language. Slightly intimidating, I imagine, to talk to. What originally caught my interest was his description of seeing numbers as colours, shapes and textures which built a kind of landscape in his mind's eye. It seemed a lovely cross-over of the world of pure mathematics (completely alien to me), and the artistic world. Also, most autistic savants are emotionally restricted, but David has managed to build strong relationships with the people around him and comes across as rather lovely and gentle-natured - which could be down to his upbringing (his parents loved children and he was the first of eight).

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan was a little disappointing. I guess I was expecting another Memoirs of a Geisha or Sky Burial, you know: the sweeping epic and the intricate details of a completely foreign culture and time, with all the romance and wonder that entails. It was interesting enough, with the descriptions of foot-binding and other cultural practices, but the story didn't really grab me. It was presented as a study of the intimate relationship between a Chinese bride and her "old same", a special life-long female friend chosen by her family - a relationship which is in some ways more intimate than that she has with her own husband. It felt a little like a folk story, complete with unexplained gaps and moral overtones. I couldn't help feeling that, in the hands of a better author, it could have been a much more compelling read.

For now, it's back to the library. But not before I add some Sarah Winter to my (ever-expanding) Amazon wish list.

The ultimate chick-lit makeover

I recently read the memoirs of a fellow Melbourne chick just a few years older than myself - Kate Holden - called In My Skin. The book details her transition from dreamy uni student, to heroin user, to addict and finally, perhaps inevitably, to sex worker. What differentiates this story are a couple of notable things. One is that her upbringing was not the classic tragedy you might expect (absent father, depressed/alcoholic mother, abusive step-relatives), but a pretty normal, loving, suburban one - in fact, one not so terribly different from my own. The other thing that sets this memoir apart is Kate's refusal to portray herself as a victim, and that, incredibly, she managed to find some pride in her work as a prostitute despite the hardships she endured. Speaking of which, if you are thinking of reading In My Skin, be prepared for some eye-watering descriptive passages.

The emotional strength she relied on to do her job well eventually bolstered her enough that she was able to kick her habit and move on.

I do find it kind of infuriating that the book publishers here in the UK have decided that the original cover (the one I own) wasn't "glamorous" enough:

I actually remember thinking as I read the book, that if anything it was a bit too glam. It features a photo of the back of a classy-looking woman taking off her bra in a car, through the rain splattered window. In the novel, Kate is at her lowest, sickliest, most pitiful point when she resorts to getting into strange men's cars on the streets of St Kilda.

However, this cover obviously didn't attract enough readers, so in order to lure the Bridget-Jones-reading, yummy-mummy crowd, the publishers have gone for a lighter touch - a whimsical illustration in soft pastels of a woman removing her stockings, with a typeface borrowed directly fromSex and the City:

When I first saw the new cover it made my blood boil at the sheer inappropriateness - the unthinking arrogance - of making a shockingly honest memoir of a woman barely surviving on society's edges, look like a light-hearted bedroom romp.

Now I just smile when I think of all those smug, snobbish, middle-class mums who are in for the shock of their lives.

10 Novels that have thrilled me

The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts
The True History of the Kelly Gang - Peter Carey
1984 - George Orwell
Like Water for Chocolate - Laura Esquivel
White Teeth - Zadie Smith
Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh
The Life of Pi - Yann Martel
Fear of Flying - Erica Jong

(This list is by no means conclusive. The author reserves the right to make additions/ommissions from this list at any time without prior notification. This list represents a personal opinion and should in no way be used for the forces of evil)

Kell's Bell's! Recommendations: Part Two

For a political thriller which is beautifully shot, impeccably acted and *gasp* emotionally involving (forget the book), go see:

For extremely lo-fi chill-out music which is surprisingly moving, coming from a lone husky-voiced girl and a clunky piano:

For a fascinating, hand-drawn look at a young woman's life in a turbulent Iran:

For dunking in your coffee and using as a rectangular straw before the whole structure collapses into a gorgeous, chocolatey mess (you can get these at the bigger Tesco's stores now - woo hoo!):

Kell's Bell's! Recommendations: Part One

For listening to while driving along a winding coastal road with the sun breaking through the clouds:
Tori Amos - Scarlet's Walk

To remind you what a tragi-comic genius Woody Allen was back in the day:
Crimes and Misdemeanors

For the most delicious dark chocolate/berry experience this side of a Cherry Ripe:
Cote D'or Experiences Noir Framboise

To remind you that your family isn't all that crazy, comparitively speaking:
My Family and Other Animals, by Gerald Durrell