Miss Write

Some Like it Hot: still sizzling today

2011-11-01T15:28:00.000Z

I've really enjoyed The Guardian's series of favourite film and album blogs, so I was thrilled to see my personal favourite, Some Like it Hot, pop up today as Becky Barnicoat's chosen flick. This film is cheeky, sexy, silly and hilarious. People who have just heard of it in passing or seen the iconic stills will think this film is popular because of Marilyn Monroe, the same way Breakfast at Tiffany's is cherished mainly for Audrey Hepburn's performance (despite having some iffy acting and some seriously un-PC content.) This is a bit of a myth. I do feel that Monroe is the only person who could have played the voluptuous, lovelorn Sugar Kane, smart enough to go on the run from heartache but dumb enough to fall for an imposter. But it is the script, the pace of the screwball plot and the combination of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon that makes this film a classic.

I have had serious love for SLIH since, as a GCSE media studies student, I was told to go away and learn about comedy genres: parody, rom-com and screwball included. Some Like it Hot was the first video - yep, I'm that old - I picked up, and I was instantly enchanted. Two regular Joes (well, one Joe and one Gerry) have to get out of Chicago after witnessing the St Valentine's Day massacre and going on the run from the mob. Their best option is donning some hosiery and lippy and joining all-female jazz band Sweet Sue and her Society Syncopators to escape to Florida. The script is pow-pow-pow quickfire comedy, Tony Curtis is smooth saxophonist perfection (even in drag) and Lemmon's romance with Osgood Fielding III sublimely ridiculous.

There is even some hot jazz along the way, with the sexy Runnin' Wild rehearsed on the train, Monroe's infamously slinky I Wanna Be Loved By You and her desperately sad rendition of I'm Through With Love at the climax of the film. Barnicoat mourns the lack of Technicolor in her blog post, but I think black and white makes this film what it is. Monroe's hourglass silhouette needs no zesty palette to improve it, Joe and Gerry's hastily-acquired drag looks just about convincing, and the whole picture just smokes with romance, mischief and jazz.

If you're in need of a cosy weekend film as winter takes over, or just haven't seen this enduring comedy yet, I would highly recommend it. I might even dig out the old VHS myself...

Love Letters

2011-10-05T13:20:00.000+01:00

I have posted before with other blogs I adore, but this one has something special about it.

Letters of Note is a collection of papers that have nothing in common except being in some way funny, touching or extraordinary. It frequently fills my eyes with tears of laughter or emotion (beware, desk readers), two recent examples being this hilarious response to a botched speeding ticket and this gorgeous reply to a small boy from a children's TV star.

I have always been fascinated with letters. By the time I engaged in any sort of correspondence beyond the birthday thank-you note, mobiles, texting, email and instant messaging were all at their height. But so many of my favourite novels were filled with scribbling heroines, sisters swapping revelations via telegrams delivered on horseback and true love exquisitely expressed with only pen and paper, that I wished I had some reason to write to someone. My diaries may have provided a physical written outlet, but there's nothing quite like receiving a letter just for you.

Email and Facebook messaging are too instantly gratifying, too quickly back and forth, to replace the feeling of a long-awaited, carefully thought out reply on paper. During my first year at university I rather pathetically tried to resurrect the letter, demanding siblings and friends write to me in my pokey little halls room, but it never caught on. By the time the information had arrived, it was no longer relevant - everyone within reach of Facebook and text already knew. But as such I do have a few lovingly preserved missives from my sisters, mum and boyfriend at the time, so much lovelier to look at than a hastily-typed email.

Letters of Note is a treasure because it is a sort of online museum of correspondence. People bother to write and mail a letter for all sorts of reasons - gratitude, anger, sadness and usually, love. There is a letter from a man, dying of Leukemia, saying goodbye to his three-year-old son and one from a 26-year-old on death row thanking a reporter for believing in him (as well as lighter reading - see this fake memo from an irate Disney executive.)

What I love most about this blog is that what makes letters 'notable' is not simply their place in history or fame, but the sentiment within and the honesty or eloquence used to express it. It has inspired me to write more of my communications down on paper. Letters can be cherished, re-read and passed on to future generations and it seems a shame to lose that simply because I was born in the wrong century.

The 'Next' Factor

2011-10-01T22:34:00.001+01:00

There is something equal parts compelling and abhorrent about this year's X Factor. The contestants range from the bland to the surreal, with a few actual stars snuck in there to confuse things. One thing that has had me ranting at the TV every weekend is the judges' collective blind eye to anyone who sounds exactly the same as an existing artist. In fact they bloody love it.

Freaky Friday?

Irish imp Janet has clearly stolen Ellie Goulding's voice in a shady Little Mermaid deal (seriously, have you seen the Goulding anywhere lately? Yeah, she's off gesturing wildly at her throat while Janet strokes the shell necklace that is the source of all her muted, squeaky blahness.)

Adele-lite Jade has a voice that could lull you to sleep. Literally, because all we've heard since it dropped in January is Adele's bloody album, and one more husky note could actually anesthetize me. I love Adele as much as the next easy listener, but this snivelling Scot has 2% of her voice and 0% of her personality.

Adele's voice would eat Jade's for breakfast

Then we have Johnny, who I actually do love, mainly because I love a classic gay with a set of brilliant one-liners - "Those lads are like Chippendales; I'm more of a chipolata." However, he has got through entirely on a bizarre, nasal Etta James impression that clearly won't work with anyone else's songs. I'd keep him in for his 'Oooh matron' humour alone though (and the fact he is a real life Derek Faye.)

Who dear, me dear, Etta James dear? Yes dear

Luckily many have been cut by this point, but we also waded through a guy trying his best to be Damien Rice but coming out a bit Damien Semolina, a Shania Twain lookalike wearing an actual cowboy hat and even two clear Glee obsessives channelling Finchel. Not one of these people sounds like anything near themselves, and yet we hear the word 'original' bandied around far too much. Why is no-one pointing out that yeah, you can hold a tune, but you're holding it in the tribute-act style of Tina Turner? Even 'larger than life' lezzer Sami is a strange Jo from S Club/Jane McDonald hybrid.

They're no better across the pond; fantastic 18-year-old hopeful Melanie Amaro strolled in with a killer set of lungs and a fresh face, but sang Listen note-for-note AS BEYONCE. It was like she was auditioning for Beyonce's maternity cover.

There is a point at which imitation stops being flattering and starts being frightening, and I think this is that point. Not one of the US X Factor judges pointed out this weird Sasha Fierce ventriloquism; Paula Abdul even called her 'original.' Maybe on Paula's medication that sounded original, but from where I was sitting it was pretty carbon copy.

Come on X Factor, have another look at your show's name (and its definition) and let's get some vaguely interesting people in there, preferably singing in the voice they were given.

My tips are Misha and Amelia Lily from the girls, The Keys and The Estrelles from the groups and John from the boys. But going on the show and its hype so far, we'll end up instead with a whole new range of artists sounding exactly like someone already in the charts. Le sigh.

The C Word

2011-07-20T17:38:00.018+01:00

I've dated them. I sit next to one on a daily basis. I'm even starting to embrace being one.

That's right, I'm now a fully-fledged commuter.

Commuting is something people always tend to moan about. The early starts, the timetable disruptions - not to mention the time spent with your septum wedged in some less-than-fragrant armpits. But the truth is, I love it.

Yes, there is the odd day when you wish you cycled ten minutes to work somewhere dainty like Stow-on-the-Wold. One such was Monday night, when someone's delightful decision to end it all between a fast train and the tracks at Wimbledon meant I left for work at 7.30 and got home at 9. You know you're a hardened commuter when your first sharp reaction to a fatality announcement is, 'Why not a Southern train, you Guildford-hating bastard?'

So, why do I love the extra two hours (at least) added to my working day?

The Gift of Time

I'm one of those people who rarely uses their flopping-on-the-sofa hours after work wisely. I would rather watch trashy TV than pick up a novel, read Glamour in the bath or do my nails than go to an evening class. But my mind is miraculously hungry on the 7.51 train, and that's when I get my reading done.* One morning a week I learn Greek on my iPod, although vigorously mouthing a grecian 'Are you here on work or pleasure?' or scribbling a baffling alphabet in a notepad is unlikely to win me any commuting admirers.

The Sound of Silence

Ah, the sweet, sweet sound of seasoned commuters ignoring each other. Now and again a rookie will step into the carriage, talking loudly on their phone or blasting Rihanna from inadequately insulated headphones, and we who have committed to this unwritten code of aural lockdown will glare deafeningly in their direction. Britishness at its best.

The Sense of Purpose

I like to be going somewhere. I'm not someone who enjoys spells of unemployment (I know, I know - wrong industry), or longs to live a WAG-tastic life. The feeling of getting up early, having a brisk walk, then watching suburbia shoot by and the city roll into view just suits me fine.

The Extended Morning

This is less poetic, more pragmatic. If I were ever to live ten minutes away from my workplace, Lord knows what I would do. A bag of Mary Poppins proportions supplies me with make-up, moisturiser, a hairbrush, spare shoes and even on occasion, breakfast. On those cursed days when a sprint for the train means flats, frizz and perspiration, all can be rectified on the move.

So while I may aspire to move further into the city this year or next, and perhaps sacrifice my morning train time by doing so, for now my commute adds more to my day than simply hours. Don't see it as a waste of time; put it to good use and you'll be well-read, frizz-free and desk ready by 9am.

*I've just wept through the end of The Book Thief and started on Wolf Hall, both glorious. As you can see, my stack of morning reading is fairly substantial, but new tips are always welcome.

Top photo: steve_w

REVIEW: Bridesmaids

2011-06-23T18:48:00.010+01:00

Today I found out I've landed some much-needed employment, and to celebrate I took myself out to see the movie of the moment, Bridesmaids. Now and again, a film comes along that you spend more time reading about than watching. Whatever I had built up Bridesmaids to be in my head, it was totally different. Quirky, yes; full of charismatic women, yes. But it wasn't fully about the hellish journey from dress fitting to Big Day; it was a direct split between wedding disasters and the spiralling life of lonely protagonist Annie (writer Kristen Wiig.) Rather than giving a human edge to the more heavily-advertised half of the plot, this strand just made me wonder if Wiig had found opportunities for bridesmaid antics a bit thin on the ground.

Melissa McCarthy, Ellie Kemper, Rose Byrne, Wendi McLendon-Covey, Maya Rudolph, Kristen Wiig

Don't get me wrong, this film is definitely worth a look. A few scenes are indeed laugh-out-loud, most are just amusingly surreal. Annie, already on a relationship and career low, is thrown when her oldest friend Lillian (Maya Rudolph) gets engaged, but leaps at the chance to be her maid of honour. The most amusing obstacle comes in the form of Helen (Rose Byrne), Lillian's glossier and richer 'new' best friend, and the two women's sneaky battle for best BFF is nothing short of hilarious. Byrne is deliciously despicable, and Wiig charmingly neurotic. For me, Annie's predictably schmaltzy romance with cop Nathan (played by the IT Crowd's Chris O'Dowd) only detracted from the insane brilliance of the all-female moments.

The only part that lived up to the trailer and the reviews, though, was Melissa McCarthy's performance as boisterous sister of the groom Megan - one of the best rom-com characters I've seen in a long time. And this is a rom-com. While critics claim it rivals dick-flicks such as The Hangover - and it does break ground in terms of vomit, swearing and realistic-looking women - the central romance, and Annie's anxiety about losing her friend, still keep it in traditional wedding-comedy territory.

In fact, I would've liked to see less of Annie's sad singledom (except for the painfully spot-on guy stringing her along at the beginning of the film) and more of Annie and Lillian's relationship. There was more than enough sentiment to be wrung from the erosion of the best friend bond, and I could take or leave the cop romance.

Still, there are laughs a-plenty, if not, as journos such as Zoe Williams have implied, gallons more wit or feminist pizazz than most decent romantic comedies. There is one particularly brilliant scene on a plane to Vegas, supporting bridesmaids Becca and Rita keep it light and funny, as do colourful characters like Annie's mum - who goes to AA meetings just for fun - and surreal roomates Brynn and Gil (Rebel Wilson & our own Matt Lucas.)

Wiig's Saturday Night Live past is evident in the ballsy screenplay; the film opens with the same song as ex-SNL colleague Tina Fey's teen masterpiece Mean Girls, and clearly aspired to a similar level of bizarre to her sitcom 30 Rock. Sadly, I just didn't feel it lived up to Fey's fast-paced, wordy scripts, instead resorting to vomit, bad sex and in-flight drugs to fuel the comedy.

I can't tell if the amount of hype ruined it, and had I just walked into screen 8 on a Thursday afternoon whim I would have been raving about it, but I'm not sure Bridesmaids is the innovative and stunning comedy the press has built it up to be. There are lovable characters and memorable moments, and Wiig has fantastic comic timing, but I don't know if I'd buy the DVD.

True Beauty

2011-04-19T12:04:00.008+01:00

A song came on my iPod this morning that I realized I always skip, but have never deleted. It was Beautiful by Christina Aguilera, now best known for being smotheringly overplayed circa 2003, and subsequently murdered by numerous talent show contestants. But when the song came out, it was a remarkable pop milestone. Not simply for Aguilera's catchy defiance, but for the haunting, controversial video that came with it (directed by Jonas Akerlund.)

A great teacher sat down my entire school year one morning, buzzing with attitude, prejudice and disrespect for their state education, and made us watch every frame. Men kissing, drag queens dressing, anorexics gazing in the mirror - you could have heard a pin drop. Uncomfortable perhaps, but it was a bold move in a school where homophobic bullying was part of the daily dialogue, and so many labels in that video were feared and targeted.

I can remember being absolutely astounded by the video myself, liberal as I was - gay kisses and diversity in general being even less visible in the media back then. I had completely forgotten about that moment until today, and am infuriated that I can't remember my peers' reactions to the video.

I guess I just want to credit Aguilera for championing love and beauty in all its forms, long before Gaga ever burst onto the scene. Ms Germanotta has done fabulous work raising awareness of issues like Don't Ask, Don't Tell and making a generation of 'little monsters' feel like they belong, but she does it with savvy lyrics and red carpet publicity stunts, rather than anything as daring as the Beautiful video.

The song was recently voted the most empowering of the last decade for gay and bisexual people in a poll by Stonewall (Born This Way came in third.) A cynical person might think that Gaga and Christina's 'people' both identified a powerful gay market to seduce and went for it, but as this type of reaching out isn't typical to Aguilera's back catalogue, I still believe her song is heartfelt. Gaga may be giving the LGBT community something to rave to, but Christina gave them an anthem.

Under the video on YouTube, the following message was posted just yesterday:

Dear Christina,

I am 18 and gay. I try to make the best of it but sometimes living in a house of homophobes can bring me down. But when ever I feel awful, I put on this song and feel stronger. I couldn't thank you more.

-Chris

Cristina Aguilera - Beautiful by shqrk

It is important not to become complacent, thinking the world has moved on since that video. Last week, the landlord of the John Snow pub in Soho, of all places, removed two men on a first date for kissing, reportedly calling their behaviour 'obscene.' Pink News today reported that Facebook has removed a picture of two Eastenders characters kissing (yes, fictional characters) from a blog post in support of the 'kiss in' now being organised in reaction to the incident. My home town's MP and a coalition Minister of State, Chris Grayling, was in hot water this time last year for suggesting that B&B owners should be allowed to refuse gay couples. I can't find one still online of that kiss in the Beautiful video.

Whatever people's personal squeamishness about watching same-sex couples express their affection, there has to be equality when it comes to public places and forums. Get involved, question these things. Don't sit back and let the lifestyle of more than 3 million Britons become erased from our public landscape. Words may not bring us down, but we can challenge the actions of a prejudiced few.

10 years of Glamour

2011-03-03T21:49:00.015Z

Whilst on my magazine journalism course, I've been looking at my mag-habit a completely different way. We're told in lectures that women are largely impulse buyers, while men are more brand loyal, but I have basically bought the same magazines for years. A couple of monthlies, a couple of trashy weeklies, and the odd giant, luxurious Vogue or Vanity Fair for fun. The only one I buy practically every month is Glamour, which today celebrated 10 years on our newsstands.

Glamour was launched in 2001 as the smaller-sized magazine "that fits in with your life, as well as your handbag." I'm trying to work out from which point I started reading (I was 14 in 2001), but when I look at the first ever issue, currently published in PDF format on their Facebook page, I feel like I remember the cover. Maybe I had it or my elder sister did. I do know I've been reading it many years before I hit their market age range of 25-35.

So what's so great about Glamour? It has a real mix of subject matter and feature treatments - not Cosmo-sexpert, not Elle or Vogue-fashionista, but friends, single life, relationships, style, beauty, health and culture. I just flicked through that first issue and it was a really good read. Most of the celebrities featured have remained high-profile; Kate Winslet was their coverstar as a fresh-faced new mum, Gwyneth Paltrow's wardrobe was the most desirable and Victoria Beckham wrote a style feature.

It had tips on entertaining, timeless beauty, great reads (I think they would be wise to go back and extend their books content) shocking real-life features and fabulous celebrity access. I still read it every month, but I do think Glamour's upmarket content has slipped from that glossy first go. There used to be a layer of celebs who were Glamour-worthy; Rachel Weisz, Liv Tyler, Halle Berry, Cate Blanchett, Sandra Bullock and Natalie Portman all graced the cover in its first three years. Now, you're more likely to find Katie Price, Lily Allen and even Abbey Clancy staring back at you. Either the 'Glamour woman' has changed, or the team's budget and access has.

Obviously their sales figures must look favourably on La Price, or she wouldn't have popped up multiple times, but putting her there seriously downgraded the escapism and luxury factor for me. Similarly, Abbey Clancey's recent cover was a tie in with The Great British Hairdresser, on which editor Jo Elvin appears. It was trying to make a case for Abbey being misunderstood by the press, and really being a very sweet girl, but I think it missed the mark on what readers so love about Glamour.

Elvin has steered the ship since the launch (and writes a practically perfect first editor's letter in Issue 1.) In a recent lecture, Haymarket publishing veteran Mel Nicholls used Glamour as an example of brilliantly written and designed coverlines. They use bold sans-serif font, different sizes and colours, and highlight numbers, key words and hot lists. They especially know when to push a great offer or competition.

Features wise, Glamour isn't afraid to throw in something a bit political, controversial or uncomfortable. Recently they ran a feature about women in their twenties and thirties getting sick of hearing about other peoples' babies, which I'm sure got a lot of flack. But the team are not afraid of stirring up debate; post-Twitter, I even had a little clash with Elvin last year over their Women of the Year choices. She's very Twitter-active and often responds to reader comments.

I've also done work experience at Glamour, and the team were very lovely (and truly glamorous) in person. It's successful for a reason, and that reason is a good sense of consistency, reader needs and marketing genius. I love their little franchises and would miss them if they went: Hey, it's Ok, the witty lists on the last page, and the more recent Celia Walden lunch interview. I think Glamour deserves some serious applause at its birthday celebrations tonight. I think it's the cream of women's mags, and manages to be universally appealing without trying to please all the people all the time. Bravo.

Here are some of my favourite covers from the last decade (often the month they stopped dialling Britney and took some risks):

November 2004: Renee goes brunette.
The focus is unusually on fair skin and piercing eyes.

July 2003: Charlie's Angels. Glamour
breaks with industry tradition and triples
their cover star. Smokin'.

December 2008: Leona isn't the most exciting of celebrities, but as well as being one of their few mixed-race cover stars, it also looks like they've let her be herself. I also have to give them snaps for putting a cosy jumper on the cover in winter, rather than a skimpy party dress (see also Charlotte Church last December.)

December 2009: Leighton Meester
They also recently put her co-star Blake Lively on the cover, but
this shows a nod to the future of glamorous Hollywood, as a
new generation comes up through the ranks. More Blair and
less Jordan, please!

Bloggers bite back...

2010-11-04T17:55:00.002Z

A guest lecturer today told my year of journalism students that blogging is not opinion, it is a conversation. This started me thinking about little old MissWrite, and how I got to where I am with it today. I started off just wanting to comment on things I saw and heard, much like a columnist would (except a columnist usually has some sort of authority or status that makes that column worth reading.) I had only my thoughts, my laptop, and at times, my temper. I have always sort of thought that blogging was about sharing your opinion, and to some extend I still believe that. What Adam Tinworth was saying was that your blog has no commercial value, no stamp of valuable journalism (rather than citizen journalism) unless you offer a concept and engage with other people online in your analysis of it.

This, in turn, got me thinking about the comments function of a blog. I was delighted the first time MW received a comment; a little thrill of 'I exist!' (in cyberspace) ran through me and a blogger was born. We only write to be read, after all. But I have been slapped over the wrist on more than one occasion by commenters who thought I couldn't take fair criticism. I had one anonymous troll (I'm still convinced they're one and the same) who just had it in for me. The different between their disagreements with my posts and others' was that it was personal, pedantic and laced with venom. Every not-quite-literal phrase was picked up and every motive questioned. So I chatted back to them, not in an especially feisty way really, but genuinely wondering what their issue was. And swiftly, I was told by the blogging community that we just don't do that - accept their comments with grace or don't blog at all. I remember someone commenting that 'If I wanted to get into this line of work, I should expect to be criticised.'

I do expect feedback (and get it in gallons on this course, an avalanche of red pen) but which overlord of the blogosphere decided I couldn't react to it? As I suspected, and Tinworth confirmed today, it is a two-way conversation. If people are allowed to comment on my ramblings, I am certainly allowed to comment on theirs. And so the circle continues. Stephen Fry has today - and lots in the past - used his blog to defend himself from rumour and negative press. Good on him - if he was indeed misquoted, why shouldn't he have a platform for rebuttal?

Similarly, a peer brought this blog to my attention today. NME receive a lot of web comments, some clearly on a mission to ridicule their brand in general, and today a couple of their writers got in and debated with the 'trolls' that were beginning to depress them. Why not? It's their job to report on things, and if people are just blandly criticising the topic (which they clicked on), the website (which they clicked on) and not discussing the points made in the blog, I think it's fair game to knock them back in your own comment. What do you think? Is there an unwritten code of conduct for bloggers to remain quietly dignified? Comment away - but don't expect me to stay out of it.

Cute as a cupcake

2010-10-22T19:26:00.003+01:00

Since I returned to student life, I must have made about 150 To Do lists, all scribbled on cheap Wilko ruled paper and lost to the bottom of a bag or the floor of a lecture theatre. Every time I tick something off mentally, another task pops up and I panic just a little. So I thought a while back of buying a little whiteboard to keep a rolling list of errands and course work, but even Argos, would you believe, charges extortionately for these things. I'm so glad I didn't buy this clunky school version, because today when I was in good old New Look (buying shoes, I confess) this absolute beauty of a board was in their crafty impulse buy section:

Not only does it pick up my largely-pink bedspread in a very white room, it also has cupcake doodles, is magnetic and makes homework that bit more fun. Oh, and it's only £7.99. Guess I can have my cake and eat it, Argos overlords.

Hate Never Dies

2010-10-21T07:37:00.012+01:00

When I was little, I remember my sisters and I (along with some family friends we thought of as 'plastic cousins') singing a little ditty that went like this:

Margaret Thatcher, put her in the bin
Pop the lid on, sellotape her in
If she comes out, knock her on the head
Glory, glory, Margaret's dead

I didn't think much about it at the time, but this means I've been wishing the worst on Baroness Thatcher (albeit death by bin) since I was about six. I certainly knew who she was - this was John Major era - and in the finest black-and-white logic of childhood, that she was a Bad Person. The curious thing is that, as Thatcher vitriol was presumably not knocking around on the playground, our parents must have taught us this. There is something potent about propaganda in song which meant this zoomed back into my mind when I clicked on this link, posted on Facebook today. I can see how the site might be humorous, but I didn't laugh - I was interested. Something is so culturally consensual about the 'we hate Thatcher' standpoint, whether you're the son of a miner or someone who was three when she resigned. But I only realised today, as I watched people counting down to her demise and making playlists to celebrate, how little I actually know about the woman, her career and her legacy.

It is clear that with this week's cuts came a lot of bad memories, and Thatcher's reported bad health and hospital stays have been consistently linked in with George Osborne's announcements. Unemployment has become a regular part of the news again, and though people aren't quite as vitriolic about Cameron, the resigned feeling that the Tories are going to cock it up again for the Average Joe has been wafting around since before the election. Although unlike Family Man Dave, it seems to me Thatcher never wasted much time trying to be likeable.

Funnier than Is She Dead Yet was the irony of the Chilean miners' rescue dominating what should have been her 85th birthday. People were all over Twitter and Facebook with their Thatcher/Miner jokes. Largely people who hadn't even hit puberty when she was at the peak of her power. Obviously a bad legacy spreads, and we all rightly hate Hitler without ever having been persecuted by him, but it just fascinates me how one woman has dominated decades as the villain of politics. She was our first and only female Prime Minister, a fact eclipsed by her Iron Lady image and the social mess she left. Will we ever elect a woman again? It seems unlikely, for if she has the balls to head up a party she will no doubt be compared to Thatcher, but if she is as saccharine and smarmy like Cameron, she'll have no chance either. One thing people appear to agree on is that these new cuts have a good chance of recreating the depression and turmoil of the 1980s.

Johann Hari thinks that Osborne and Cameron have 'blindly obeyed the ideological precepts they learned as baby Thatcherites: slash the state, and make the poor pay most.' He makes a good case against the depth of the cuts; their disregard of the advice of prominent economists, the Financial Times, and the evidence that countries like South Korea, who stimulated spending following the recession, have made a better recovery. British history, not only the Thatcher years, but the post-WW1 recession, also suggests that this is not the way to go. Forgive me; I am not a politics expert or an economist. It just struck me for a moment how much the shadow of a dying 85-year old continues to hang over the news and common debate. Something doesn't sit well with me about stirring up a mob of people eagerly awaiting a person's death, whatever they've done, however long they've lasted - and while unemployment can have devastating knock-on effects, there was no genocide here, no dictatorship. She was not one person acting alone, in this country is is a party and a parliament who make things happen, for better or worse. Hari may be right about the 'colder and crueller' country ours has just become, but let's not forget the many people, organizations and events that contributed to that. Including your vote.

Image: The Guardian

Big diff

2010-10-14T20:24:00.002+01:00

Ok, so I moved to Cardiff, became a student... and stopped blogging. This is partly because of the exciting brand-new experience that is Cardiff Journalism School, and partly because we've had to start new blogs, open social media accounts from Flickr to LinkedIn, and my head is still spinning from all the online and mobile journo things I'm learning to do. So I will post properly soon. Right now, in honour of my jubilation at being back in Wales, here are my favourite ever Gavin and Stacey moments. Feel free to post your own as a comment - and if you haven't yet discovered G&S (by which I think we all know I really mean Nessa & Smithy), for the love of Bryn get yourself out and buy the DVD. Noswaith dda!

Oh, Doris, where's the salad?

Pete, have you thought about my bhunas?

Tell'em what gwarn' blud

Can we ALL stop calling it a HONEYMOON?

You can't denyyyyy me

It's no way to live
(actually any reference to Nessa's past, but there aren't enough good clips!)

More elaborate post to come soon....

TwitPick

2010-09-21T13:05:00.003+01:00

Rapper 50 Cent is the latest celeb making waves in Twitterland (if not the music industry) simply by being a chronic oversharer. But in gangsta speak. Tune in to Fiddy and you’ll learn about his oral sex preferences, who he just nailed, his musings on the ladygardens of female celebrities, who he’s just bailed out of prison, and even interior decoration (‘Ima buy this AK47 gold lamp in silver’) if you can find it amongst all the vigorous copulation. I've just realised how euphemistic 'interior decoration' is in itself, but I digress.

The man who once took us to the Candy Shop and invited us most cordially to join him In Da Club is pretty darn funny just by being a walking reality show, but then someone set up English50Cent which translates his tales of bitches and hoes into musings on lady dogs and gardening equipment. Very amusing stuff. Not for the kids though, as 50 thoughtfully broadcasts over and over again. He also tweets as and to his dog, Oprah. You can't make this stuff up. Enjoy!

Dancing with My Self

2010-09-21T11:51:00.011+01:00

The last few weeks I have been reading the somewhat overexposed Eat, Pray, Love, something I’ve been meaning to pick up after months of recommendations, but was finally spurred to open by of the impending film adaption starring Julia Roberts. For those who aren’t familiar with this bestseller, it is the memoir of American writer Elizabeth Gilbert, who, following an acrimonious divorce and general listlessness, took herself off to Italy, India and Bali for a year, spending an even four months in each. I’ve really enjoyed it, although it hasn’t all been unputdownable; the first section which describes Liz’s initial turmoil, decision to travel and pasta pilgrimage to Rome was a pure delight, but the middle third detailing her time meditating in an Indian Ashram and ensuing spiritual education was, for me, less compelling. I am currently part way through her adventures in Bali, which are back on her more interesting themes of immersion in culture, meeting new people and relaying poignant anecdotes. I am looking forward to seeing the film in many ways, and can certainly understand Hollywood’s eagerness to put EPL on the big screen; the visual feast on the page just lends itself to a film version, although the real heart of the story, Gilbert's constant, honest introspection, will be harder to incorporate. Today in the Indy, Rebecca Armstrong bemoans Hollywood’s frequent fudging of much-loved books and hopes that Eat, Pray, Love will not prove another casualty. It is a precarious case, as meditation on the self + Julia Roberts + a soaring soundtrack could equal something unbearably sappy, but I really hope they have included some of the individual appeal of the book as well as the inevitable shots of smiling Indian children and sunsets.

There has been a flurry of negative pre-release assumptions, from some of my favourite female writers amongst others, dismissing both book and adaptation on Twitter and in the press. The brilliant Lindy West was not a fan (the savvy Telegraph snapped her up for this cutting review) and I’m sure others will follow. Gilbert is accused of being smug, self-obsessed, hypocritical and clichéd in a ‘moany rich woman finds herself’ sort of way, and on these grounds the book is deemed worthless chick lit. I can’t say I agree. While, on paper, her New York existence prior to her travels might be deemed privileged (published author & journalist, wealthy husband, big house, friends, parties) the point of the opening is exactly that – on paper, her life is perfection. Her chronic sadness is openly based on her guilt that she isn’t happier, that she can’t make her marriage work and that she finds she doesn’t want a baby to complete the domestic picture. I have rarely read a writer more frank about her own shortcomings, selfishness and neuroses. This is, I believe, why so many women found the book refreshing and absorbing: we all have meltdowns, panics and periods of unhappiness. Yes, a lot of it is described in group-therapy schtick, but that’s how contemporary Americans communicate. This self-awareness makes us Brits uncomfortable, but also with a slight hint of envy at being able to admit to your own issues. The writer dwells on her own self more in this book than most people will in a lifetime, but she does it with an educated finesse that makes it palatable.

Whatever her motives, a newly-single Gilbert decided to end the pretence of her glossy city life and visit places that fascinated her. The tripartite structure of the book reflects the poetry the narrator finds in everything she encounters; the neat introduction describes how her tale is divided into 108 small stories, the number having spiritual significance in Yogic philosophy. Whatever her sentimental reasons for conveying her story thus, it worked for me. The small, almost isolated anecdotes are each a charming peek into a completely self-centred adventure (in the best possible way.) We meet her new friends, hear their stories, but more often than not we are privy to her own thoughts and ponderings on life. The narrator is shaken up time and time again by natural beauty, the range of human experience and the ability of others to remain smiling, in a positive look at self-discovery if ever there was one.

But the snobbery over this memoir and its subject matter is not only mystifying, it has eclipsed all critical and public acclaim the book attracted when published in 2006. I was really annoyed when the Daily-bloody-Mail ran a ‘novelty’ feature about their egotistical columnist Liz Jones taking the same trip, making a direct comparison to Jones’ preoccupation with herself that disregards all the beauty of the original. Elizabeth Gilbert is apologetic many times in the novel for her overthinking of things, and relays her joy and satisfaction with the world and its inhabitants far more than her misery at her own situation. Her gift is her ability to tell the stories of others and to put the vividness of a moment on the page. The only thing they have in common is daring to think their own lives might be worth writing about. Maybe the problem is that women are not supposed to be selfish, in any circumstances. But regardless of background, money earned and property owned (and Gilbert started life on a Christmas tree farm in Connecticut, not Park Avenue) I don’t think the book is just a whinefest about her rich Western malaise. She gives good reasons for her escape, including her dependence on men for happiness - having been in relationships basically her entire adult life - and her husband’s venomous approach to their divorce flattening her self esteem. I have nothing but respect for someone who is determined to lift themselves out of the torpor of depression, be that with a U-turn in career, ending a relationship or just taking off in search of something new. But some women seem to be embarrassed by such shirking of domestic responsibility. It is puzzling to me, as there seems no better time to take off than following the painful end to a childless marriage. There is an argument that we don’t all have the money to traipse off and sit on mountains every time we feel sad, but she paid for the trip with the publishers' advance for the book – offered to a result of her own reputation as writer, built up by years of hard work.

Gilbert's choice of destinations was also interesting to me. Rome I can completely relate to, where she essentially indulged her taste for fresh, rustic Italian food, the Italian language and the stunning architecture. This was the most moving part for me, as she nurtures new friendships and finds freedom in pursuing nothing but pleasure. There is a sublime passage where Liz and her new friends celebrate Thanksgiving in the Italian mountains, and she realizes just how many things she is thankful for. At another point, she finds the strength to persevere with her Yogic studies by focusing on a nephew she is fiercely protective of. In moments like these I found myself so in tune with Gilbert’s voice that I felt the lump in the throat, the tear in the eye or the surges of happiness as she narrated them. Make what you will of the cliché of a Westerner dabbling in Yoga, religion and Eastern philosophy, but you can’t deny the power of the writing. In India, her language was more difficult to me as her openness to the idea of a non-specific God as well as energy, meditation and enlightenment are so far from my own views on the world. But it is her hope that something greater than herself can enrich her life, rather than a preachy ‘knowledge’ of this, that still managed to charm me. In Bali, her love affair with its quirky and laid-back population is filled with admiration rather than touristy condescension, and the charismatic medicine man she learns from is one of my favourite figures. Perhaps I found the book so arresting because the thought of leaving my world behind and venturing out alone is both terrifying and alluring to me; in all honesty I don’t think I currently have the balls, but I’d love to in the future, and the fact is so many people’s responsibilities and duties prevent it from ever being an option.

Whether the film is fabulous or a flop, I hope people will still read the book if they find themselves intrigued, as I did this month. Whether you are going through an introspective period yourself or simply want to travel vicariously, this is a fascinating example of someone taking themselves out of their comfort zone and actively trying to widen their perspective. Not only this, but the uncommon spirit of Gilbert’s diary-memoir style shows an appreciation throughout of the beauty, poetry and wonderful contrasts of the world and its communities, something rare and to be cherished in a book. I hope the coven of female media types scoffing at the whole concept stop and think about such things now and again; if not, I know which experience I’d rather have. Review of the film to follow...

Bitchin'

2010-09-14T10:44:00.003+01:00

A massive tee hee to this blog that posts weekly reviews of The X Factor with a strong all-bitching stance. I got hooked on the same anonymous reality-show bloggers during the last Andrew Lloyd Webber casting series Over the Rainbow (where their blog Over the Rainbitch provided a scathing critique of the girls’ performances and conduct.) It’s best to start early on these blogs as the in-jokes and references to the loved and hated judges/contestants do build up. If you’ve been a fan of the ALW shows from the start, you will still enjoy their I’d Bitch Anything blog in retrospect, especially their annoyance at Pirate Jessie and her frequent use of ‘sidegob’. Whatever your poison, there’s a blog for you: Strictly Come Bitching, Bitching on Ice, Bitchwood, The Apprent-bitch and even Bitching’s Next Top Model. One of the reasons these blogs work is because they’re reported by several people, with the others chipping in occasionally. They often have different opinions on the contestants, injecting a bit of banter into the proceedings. Some of my favourite snippets below:

…but what’s this? He has another song you say? The ‘sing another song’ gimmick is this year’s WHO IS DEAD and I am so, so over it already. The Bitch Factor

[Lauren] just makes me wonder if she can do any extreme emotion other than VERY ANGRY. I do enjoy her face on the word "confused", though, which denotes confusion in a Joey Tribbiani style. Over the Rainbitch

Jessie's Cockney accent is even worse; Dick van Dyke is watching this and sighing with relief that the worst Cockney accent committed to celluloid will no longer be his. I’d Bitch Anything

Ads. Cheryl tells us we’re worth it. Alexandra tells us her deodorant keeps working for 48 hours, the shower-avoiding weirdo. The Bitch Factor

Backstage, Jessica reminded us that she's just so privileged to be here, because she is REALLY REALLY NORMAL. Expect to see her running up a mountain and showing us her bra any day now. Over the Rainbitch

Olivia is next, and her zombie picture is hideous, in a good way. Elle loves it because "I haven't seen you look like this!" Well, yes, because this isn't Britain's Next Top Zombie (although I would watch the shit out of that show if it existed). Bitching’s Next Top Model

Do have a read, especially if you are a closet trash-TV lover like myself. Some others rocking my blogosphere at the moment:

My New Favourite Thing
Olivia writes about all things beautiful and quirky, from fashion and cupcakes to travel and teen crushes. This gives me regular bag envy but it’s worth it for the stunning photographs and our shared love of Dolly Parton.

West End Whingers
In their own words, ‘Phil and Andrew begrudgingly cut into their wine time to tell you whether it’s worth missing the Merlot for the Marlowe.’ A cross between the Muppets’ Statler and Waldorf and Sex and the City’s Anthony Marentino, these two go to see West End shows and report back scathingly or excitably on their findings.

Style Bubble
Susanna ‘Susie Bubble’ Lau takes us on a whirlwind tour of the catwalk, her shopping adventures, street style and anything she thinks is cute. What started off as an underground consumer blog is now an established comment on the fashion world.

PostSecret
One of the best blogging concepts out there, PostSecret is a project where people anonymously send in their secrets (some funny, some shocking, some sombre) and they are posted here for all the world to see. Fascinating.

No... just... No

2010-09-13T16:46:00.005+01:00

I love Gaga. I have mentioned many times on this blog my love for her music, her boldness of performance and costume, her immaculately-maintained pop art persona... but this time, Gaga, you have gone too far.

Yep. That's right. You are not seeing, as on first glance, a strangely textured reddish-cream dress. It's meat. Raw, stinking meat that should be on a cow's bones, on the grill, on my plate, but categorically should NOT be worn to the VMAs. After my initial disgust, I was a tiny (tiny, tiny) bit impressed with the inventive use of a whole steak as a headpiece and the meat shoes bound with string. But I'm afraid to say this one has tipped the taste scales for me, especially as La Gaga doesn't seem to be sure what message she's promoting with this avant garde creation:

"If we don’t stand up for what we believe in and if we don’t fight for our rights pretty soon we’re going to have as much rights as the meat on our own bones. And, I am not a piece of meat.” she stated broadly when questioned by veggie Ellen Degeneres. If this is a comment on the pornification of culture (valid) then why not come as a blow-up doll, or lose the porno-platinum locks. If it's genuinely a reaction to fears someone might eat her, to Gaga I say this: you have very little flesh on your bones and would therefore be an odd choice for a lurking cannibal. But until she explains a valid reason, and perhaps showers off the greasy film no doubt left by raw beef under hot stage lights, I cannot look at Gaga for a while. It's not over - I just need a little space.

One to Watch

2010-09-10T13:06:00.011+01:00

I have a new girl crush (yeah... move over Ellen.) Taylor Momsen has just whooshed up my fab-ometer, with the grungy sounds of her new music venture The Pretty Reckless.

I love Taylor not only because I'm a confirmed Gossip Girl addict, but because as a kid, she used to do this

So she could have ended up like this

Or this

But instead, at 17, she's decided to do this

And I never thought I'd say this, but I really like their music. The Pretty Reckless' first album, Light Me Up, is strictly grungy, sexy, angry rock - and not Avril Lavigne rock-lite, but a harder sound more than matched by Momsen's gritty vocals. I like her style because where it would have been really easy to swallow painkillers like they're Haribo and get a boob job in order to say 'I never wanted to be the kid in The Grinch, F*CK YOU!' she's saying it with a creative outlet, and one I want on my iPod at that. Lohan was the kid in The Parent Trap even before her cringey Herbie years (enough to give anyone a drinking problem) and Mischa Barton was the little ghost girl in The Sixth Sense, as well as grinning her way through a host of commercials. Both have become Hollywood clichés with their partying, their DUIs and substance abuse issues, but savvy Momsen seems to be more in control of her own destiny.

I think the problem is where cutesy looks give way and the talent underneath is doubtful (remember Lohan's short-lived music career? If you want to, here it is). Momsen has been honing her voice and the band's 'sound' for a couple of years now, and co-wrote every track on the album. I recommend downloading My Medicine and Makes Me Wanna Die to start with, but I think the band as a whole have real potential. There are the obvious Courtney Love comparisons with Taylor's platinum, smokey-eyed vibe, but to me she looks much more together than the mad auntie of rock' n'roll. She works the vampiric style, hopefully minus the self-destruct button. I loved her as the sweet-then-scheming Jenny Humphrey in Gossip Girl, and I really respect the fluidity of Taylor's next career move, when she could probably party comfortably for a few years on the LA scene before having to raise her profile again. Have a listen to TPR and tell me what you think!

Lunch Lust

2010-09-09T10:22:00.001+01:00

Today an unrequited lust, as I’ve heard great things about this place but have yet to sample its wonders. Inamo is one of those ‘revolutionary dining concepts’ (that always conjures up images of a Jetsons/space age set up and then quickly disappoints), but then this pan-asian joint has the added perk of some bargainous set menus, small plates and starters as well as the big hitters like Black Cod and Thai curries. Having chuckled at Ariel Leve’s recent rant about the evils of small plates, I am actually a fan of the phenomenon. One of the nicest meals I’ve had recently was at Yauatcha in Soho, where we asked the waitress for a selection of their best dishes. The rest of the evening was a mouthwatering blur of sensational dumplings, spicy fried squid and jasmine tea-smoked ribs. Inamo looks like a similar order-everything type of place, and the soft-shell crab maki rolls and the salmon and avocado ceviche would be top of my list. Now all I need is someone with excellent taste to take me there…

I is for Inspiration

2010-09-06T19:02:00.009+01:00

So many people and things inspire me. Any given day, song or a book can inspire me to be stronger in a personal attitude or make a decision, a friend’s poise and dignity can inspire me to behave in a similar way, a commuter’s bold choice of outfit can inspire me to experiment and those further ahead down the route to being A Writer can inspire me to stop dwelling on the ‘what ifs’ and carry on. I thought I’d write a little ode to those who push me and motivate me and encourage me to be a better, braver or simply more fabulous person.

Caitlin Moran
You probably know this if you’re a regular reader, because I reference Moran’s wit and wisdom quite a bit. It’s hard to describe her if you haven’t read any of her stuff, but as a freelance writer, interviewer and all round journalistic firecracker, she inspires me to work harder or risk never being as well-read, articulate and funny as her. She’s also from humble beginnings and the state school system but works for The Times, as well as having fabulously punky tastes and a penchant for overexcited capitals (usually when tweeting the word *SCREAM*). If you’re still not sure, follow her on Twitter and I guarantee she will have you howling in minutes.

Angelina Jolie
*Sigh*, no, not for the husband-stealing or the wafer-thin calves, but because the woman’s a bloody phenomenon. Jolie shows that no amount of personal craziness or bad PR record can obscure true talent, and looking at her you just know she’s never stopped to think ‘What if this wrecks my chances of getting that next big part?’ Because she’s hypnotic as a psychotic teen in Girl, Interrupted, she’s harrowing as a courageous mother in Changeling and funny as an assassin with a suburban double life in Mr and Mrs Smith. Because she’s the only choice for icons as diverse as Marilyn, Cleopatra and Lara Croft, and because she kicks more ass per movie than most Hollywood males put together. When I read she’d turned down a Bond Girl role because she’d rather be the next 007, I could’ve kissed her. As well as being a thrill-seeking badass and a stellar actress, Ange also manages to be wonderfully chic and feminine on the red carpet. I'm going to ignore all the 'rainbow mom' stuff as i'm sure it's just too many years in Hollywood, but she is also genuinely and deeply involved in the UN and not afraid to speak up on important matters. If you hate her, I'm pretty sure it’s just because you want to be her.

My Mum
My mum is the most direct inspiration for me because she has always seemed to ‘have it all’ – not in the material sense, but in terms of style, intellect, friendships, work ethic, ambition and maternal brilliance. So I suppose she’s always ‘balanced it all’, and taught me the equal importance of further education and being able to whip up a sublime bread and butter pudding. She was an amazing stay-at-home mum (due to being creative with working from home and sacrificing lots of luxuries) for years, studied her socks off to get a degree, worked her way up to management level in fewer years than anyone I know and even managed to wedge in an MA this year as well as getting her dream job and celebrating 30 years of marriage. Need any more reasons? She’s also the best hugger in the entire world – fact.

Lady Gaga
There’s been a bit of a Gaga backlash of late and I honestly can't understand it. People seem to think she’s a fame-whorish type who is all exhibitionist and no substance, but I can only assume they haven’t listened to a note of her music. It’s pop, but it’s crazy, bold, lyrically sharp pop, vocally challenging and endlessly catchy. She’s also absolutely incredible live – I won’t hear a word against this – just watch this for starters. She has famous fans ranging from Elton John, the hard-to-please Perez Hilton, Janet Jackson and Helen Mirren, and is a very vocal gay rights activist, as well as giving all her little teenage ‘freaks’ and ‘monsters’ a powerful role model to identify with during adolescence. In an industry filled with bland, girly, autotuned one hit wonders, we should surely regard Gaga as some sort of female messiah? More than anything, she just seems fearless – I love that she puts all of her money back into her live shows and designs her performance concepts. More vulnerable than Madonna and saner than Michael Jackson, a better songwriter than Kylie and ten times more talented than Britney; she’s just a tiny little thing under all the glitz and theatrics, but Gaga’s a budding icon and should be recognised as such.

Christine Stovell
I have only had the pleasure of meeting Chris once, but I follow her blog and have watched the well-deserved publication of her brilliant book Turning the Tide in the last year. She is inspirational because she decided it wasn’t too late to do the thing she’d always wanted to do, and proved she had the metaphorical balls to do it. Not only do I respect her as a writer, but she has reminded me that the urge to write never goes away; so on those days when a nondescript but well-paid job beckons to me with its perks of a stable life and steady income, I know I shouldn’t give in so easy. Follow her on Twitter and look out for her next book!

Blair Waldorf
Oh well... there had to be a fictional one. Gossip Girl's Blair is a purely aesthetic idol of mine, a perfectly groomed Park Avenue princess with pearls, gloves and a pout to match. It's funny as it isn't really my style, but the first time I saw actress Leighton Meester as the scheming anti-heroine of the show, I just fell in love with Blair's buttoned-down look. If you're unfamiliar with the addictive trash TV that is Gossip Girl, this blog explains Blair's look pretty well. She may not be the 'world peace' type, but she's impossibly chic and I can't help but covet her from her beret to her Mary Janes.

Jason Robert Brown
Finally, an inspirational male! Brown is one of my favourite composers (and in my opinion, one of the best in musical theatre), and I'm practically hyperventilating at the thought of seeing him performing his work live in less than three weeks' time. His musicals and song cycles, including Songs for a New World, Parade and The Last Five Years include some of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard, so technically complex and lyrically witty, moving and brutal that I never get tired of listening to them and always hear something new each time. JRB is so good that I bought two of his piano books - and I can barely play Happy Birthday. If you're not a fan of the genre (described amusingly in Bridget Jones' Diary as 'men standing with their legs apart, bellowing') I suggest you listen to Lauren Kennedy's album Songs of Jason Robert Brown, but if you do like a musical - and a real story, none of your Sweet Charity nonsense - I would recommend The Last Five Years.

Nigella Lawson
I adore Nigella. I adore her buttercreamy, olive-oily, chocolate-saucey TV shows and cookbooks, her cooking community website, and her glorious sex bomb image that confirms that 50 really can be your prime. They say that after a certain age you have to choose between your face or your arse (the logic being, I presume, that plumper women have a sort of natural collagen effect happening) but I think Nigella is living proof you can have your cake and eat it.

Jo March
My favourite literary heroine, a tomboy with a hot temper and a desire for independence who never lets the fact that she is a girl push her to give up her dreams or conform to a small-town ideal. I like Jo because she's flawed, impulsive and has big dreams, as well as being the at the centre of one of my favourite childhood books. If Louisa May Alcott and her literary avatar Jo could pick up a pen and compete with the male novelists of their time, hindered by huge petticoats and cultural prejudice, I really don't have a reason to moan in 2010.

Lindy West
Another writer, brought to most people's attention with her less-than-rave review of Sex and the City 2 (some harsh language, folks) and who keeps me smiling regularly with her original style and ponderings on the world. Her column in Seattle paper The Stranger is a cult hit, and many of my favourite writers have followed her work since that review. Why do I love her? Because no subject is too obscure to comment on, from hippy rituals to liquorice. She can transform anything into excellent reading, and that inspires the hell out of me.

This ended up being a slightly weird combination of the very real, the loosely acquainted, the fictional, the obscure and the mega-famous. But it's all true, and I don't think a girl should have to pretend she's only inspired by Mother Teresa or the Lorax. Feel free to drop me a comment with your own inspirations.

RIP GMTV

2010-09-06T14:13:00.011+01:00

Last Friday early morning classic GMTV was laid to rest in favour of a dire new concept called Daybreak, and like so many things (Opal Fruits, Woolworths, my youth), I just didn’t realise how much I’d miss it until it was gone. It’s a good thing of course, lifestyle-wise; I used to chop and change between BBC Breakfast and GMTV during my toast-munching time, thus missing out on valuable current affairs snippets in favour of red carpet gossip and stories about heroic pets. It’s a new dawn, and that dawn will be filled entirely with disheartening news about house prices and graduate jobs. But I forced myself to watch a good six minutes of the first Daybreak this morning, just to see if it had any of GMTV’s trashy warmth, silliness or unintentional hilarity.

Reader, it did not. Even if you can stomach the toxic combination of Bleakley and Chiles (really?), they are wedged in far too close to the camera in an uncomfortable ‘we get on great!’ proximity. Her rubbery spitting-image smile and his melting caveman expression make it difficult to decide which side of the screen is less painful to focus on, and while today’s weather probably wasn’t a production decision, the vast greyness behind their heads just added to the notion that this was a dark, dark day for breakfast television. The news (and I know no-one ever watched GMTV for the NEWS) was like any other third-rate channel’s news – dull, read by an attractive but nondescript woman and with the same terrible 80s-looking graphics as the rest of the show. Purple and yellow? Outside of an Easter Hat Parade these colours have no business appearing side by side. It’s hard to believe this is the big shift in ITV’s morning schedule, months in the planning. It looks like they had to come up with something in 24 hours, planned using only post its, purple crayons and a perpetual soundtrack of James Blunt in the background.

'I'm gonna punch you in the ovary, that's what I'm gonna do. A straight shot. Right to the babymaker.'

It’s not that GMTV was a sensational piece of topical television; it simply stood for a time when I had options. Bleak day, hungover day, can’t-bear-to-hear-another-economic-reason-my-life-is-about-to-suck day? Ben Shephard’s boy-scout charm and the ramblings of their (clearly on crack) TV guy Richard Arnold would momentarily disperse the challenges of the day ahead. Bad satellite links, verbal stumblings and crying babies drowning out interviews were all part of its wayward charm. Transparent timewasting – during their World Cup coverage, Shephard had a troupe of vuvuzela players competing with an English brass band for a number of minutes I will never comprehend – provided a good opportunity to flick over to the real world, aka BBC Breakfast. But while I know many of you were always exclusively Breakfast watchers, there is a small part of my brain, the same part that enjoys reading Cosmo in the bath, that just doesn’t know how it will get through some segments of a purely-BBC morning. The other day one of their correspondents was wedging himself through small tunnels in a cave for what seemed like hours, as some sort of topical nod to a big cave-related story. I can’t even remember what the point of it was, so traumatic was the coverage. It also doesn't help that the hosts are as forgettable as they are professional, and the business and sports presenters are snoozeworthy even when sipping your first caffeine fix of the day.

So farewell, GMTV: farewell to the interchangeable blondeness of Penny, Kate and Emma, farewell to the Pussycat-Doll-esque weathergirl, farewell to Real People interviews marred by grizzling babies, to Andrew Castle’s valiant stabs at being ‘cool’ and ‘hip’, to Fiona Phillips’ inability to be remotely likeable, to Richard Arnold’s pun-a-minute, ‘ooh matron’ TV coverage, and to many other little moments of lightness in my weekday mornings.

TwitPick

2010-09-02T14:17:00.002+01:00

I follow a great many wise and witty Tweeters, but this week's pick of the bunch has got to be the inimitable Dolly Parton. Yes, a lot of it is clearly run by her 'people', but Dolly has long been a fascination of mine - not just that voice and those songwriting skills, but the deft combination of everything I usually detest in a woman (fake blonde, cartoonish surgery) and everything I adore (self-deprecating wit, straight-talkin' savvy, one's own theme park.)

Some recent Dollyisms include:

I hope people realize that there is a brain underneath the hair and a heart underneath the boobs.

Find out who you are, and do it on purpose.

Some of my dreams are so big they would scare you!

Smile, it enhances your face value!

and my personal favourite,

Don't get so busy making a living that you forget to make a life.

Even if you think this sort of mantra just puts the twee into tweeting, I implore you to stick a bit of '9 to 5' on your iPod and just feel it erase all the tension of even the vilest working day. Dolly, I salute you.

Lunch Lust

2010-08-27T16:09:00.002+01:00

As I make the transition from working life to student journo, I'm going to incorporate some regular slots into the blog - Twitter & blog recommendation, style crushes and most deliciously, a bit of a restaurant watch.

This week's lust is Artisan and Vine (the site of my first online dating experience). I already knew they sourced delicious local and specialist wines, but from next week they are starting a new lunch menu which, reading it through, could have been created in my most delirious dream.

Fishcakes with hollandaise? Moules? Goats cheese tart? And all with the know-how behind the bar to set you up with the perfect refreshment. I feel a little drunk already.

GlobeStrutting

2010-08-27T10:23:00.005+01:00

I love to travel, and it grieves me that the only real way to get started as a travel writer is to travel as much as you can and document your adventures. This is tricky as a would-be writer, because if you’re doing all you can do get into the industry - work experience, internships, further education - you probably can’t afford a constant stream of worldwide jaunts. You save for periods of unpaid work like others save for holidays, and while they’re often great fun and invaluable experience, on grey and drizzly weeks like this that have no place in August, the lack of vitamin D and new sights can really drag you down. This is the first year I can remember that I haven't been abroad, and I have felt it. I live vicariously through travel sections, friends’ tourist photos and travel blogs, visually cruising through New York, Brazil, Vietnam and Australia and mentally jotting down my ‘to go’ list. Those who trot the globe in style constantly inspire me and make me long to extend my travel knowledge further than my own (lovely) continent and the US.

It isn’t all bleak though; I really enjoy reading about someone’s connection with a place, and there are some excellent blogs out there, in particular. A friend recently went to Tokyo and wrote a street-style piece about her trip on her great fashion and pop culture blog. A girl on the same journalism course as me this autumn has a great account of her travels through Vietnam, as well as some fab film and music reviews, and for completely unrealistic travelporn, you can’t beat the luxe offerings of the Mr and Mrs Smith blog. It might sound a bit sad to muse about travel heaven when you have neither the time nor the funds, but one day I will and all this inspiration will be put to good use.

I think a lot of people that know me would laugh at the thought of me roughing it on a shoestring in foreign climes, but isn’t that the point of the Big Travel Experience? I didn’t do it at 18 and don’t regret that; I think I would have been overwhelmed, frizzy and subsequently diva-ish for most of it, not especially making me a better person. But while even a week in the med is unattainable travel heaven in my current lifestyle, it’s nice to think that a few years of hard graft and experience could lead to more of an adventure somewhere. I do think it’s important to do it, even if that means sacrificing a hot shower and fluffy white towels in favour of grubby sleeper trains and greasy locks once in a while… what else are dry shampoo and baby wipes for? Granted, I’m not usually a festival type, but I’d do it for the right destination. I also have a split in the places I’d want to hit with a bit of cash (Tokyo, New York, Cairo) and those I’d be happy jetting off to on a budget (Bangkok, Prague, Budapest).

I think if someone handed me the money right now - where’s that anonymous benefactor when you need them, eh? - I would probably head to Asia, as it’s somewhere that I’ve never been and has always fascinated me. Something like Thailand (travelling 101) – Vietnam (history & culture) – Hong Kong (shopping & skyscrapers) – Tokyo (style & sushi) – and then rounding it off with somewhere beachy and glorious like Bali would be heaven. I’ve never been that desperate to hit Australasia; it does look gorgeous but I’d want a more alien experience, but I can imagine it being perfect for a career gap or family trip later on in life. South Africa is a little daunting but also rich in sights and culture; I think I'd need to go with someone I felt safe with and later in my travel life. Another friend recently went to South America for a few months and has been posting endless stunning photos of Brazil, Bolivia, Peru, Belize and Guatemala amongst others. It helps that she’s as ridiculously photogenic as the scenery itself, but that was definitely my biggest pang of travel envy this year. So that corner of the world is firmly on the list as well. At this rate I’ll have to win the lottery and take a few years off to work through it, but one can and should dream.

Here are the top 10 I’d love to explore:

Vietnam
Japan
Hong Kong
Thailand
Indonesia
Brazil
Cuba
Hawaii
Madagascar
Southern India (Kerala etc)

Timeless

2010-08-23T16:06:00.006+01:00

At the weekend, my sisters and I threw our wonderful parents a surprise party to celebrate their Pearl wedding anniversary. The surprise part was a bit of a first for us, but we pulled it off (as my dad's best man later remarked, it had better-kept secrets than parts of the Gulf War.)It was a truly lovely day and I felt it somehow refreshed my attitude towards life; not merely making me feel hopelessly single and miles away from my dream career, as I had suspected, but renewing my belief in several more fundamental things. Firstly in people genuinely enjoying each others’ company and being good to each other for such an impossible time span as thirty years - rare, but it happens - and secondly in lasting friendships, as I watched them greet people they’d shared their younger years with, as well as our childhoods, and who we knew as the cast of many fond and hilarious stories.

Something else that celebrated thirty years of success this month is the excellent film Airplane! which my parents, who have impeccable taste in comedy as well as life partners, introduced me to years ago. The Guardian celebrated it with this article, and even more significant than their hefty praise are the 129 (and counting) comments that come below it. I am a little bit obsessed with reader comments, as you may have realised from my posts about other online press, but I find the comment function a fascinating cyber-addition to the press. You can absorb a massive wave of public feeling, wit, anger or mockery just by scrolling down a little further than the last published line. The Guardian website’s commenters are also very, very funny (although they have competition from the Daily Mail’s less intentionally hilarious readers.)

Obviously with the mention of 30 years of Airplane! came a lot of quotation. It is probably one of the most-quoted movies of all time, and even before I can remember cracking up at the laugh-a-millisecond script, I know my parents were saying things like, ‘…and don’t call me Shirley.’ I caught a bit of Team America: World Police last night – very funny, but still one I can promiscuously channel-flick during – and it struck me how Airplane-ish the humour was, with a much more four-lettered Parker/Stone twist. While the design & puppetry are sheer genius, Team America just feels so heavy-heanded in its delivery, and sacrifices all the lightness and joy of its 1980 predecessor in favour of more accepted obscenities and racial issues. This year one of my favourite nights in included having some good friends round and watching Airplane!, and we still chuckled our socks off at the brilliant disaster movie parody and off-the-wall moments. There are too many sublime gags to pinpoint; it makes more recent comedies just look lazy. Someone commented on the Guardian article that they’d been on a plane recently where a small boy was taken by cabin crew to see the cockpit, and a nearby passenger couldn’t help leaning out and commenting ‘Joey, have you ever been in a Turkish prison?’ These moments just lodge themselves in your funnybone and refuse to leave.

I love how the combination of silliness and deadpan have made this film so enduring, where the swearing, puppet-sex and casual racism might make something like Team America more divisive (the Airplane! team also didn’t need to resort to a five-minute vomiting sequence to pad out their story.) The latter is probably top of my comedy list, and if somehow this cultural gem has passed you by, I suggest you grab the DVD now.

Incidentally, I believe a capacity for silliness and humour is a large part of my parents’ success, and their shared love of films like Airplane!, along with Monty Python’s Life of Brian and these days, everything from The Simpsons to Gavin and Stacey, have made me able to laugh at others and myself in a good way, I think. I can only hope the film-makers of this century’s teens will rise to the challenge and create more stellar comedies that will stick around into their tricenarian years (and if someone wants to stick around with me for that long, I’ll count it as a huge blessing too.)

'Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue...'

Daily Fail

2010-08-20T09:52:00.008+01:00

Further to this post, and this one – I think we can agree that spelling Nazis are awful, but somehow brilliant. I’d like to think my corrective Tourette’s is limited to verbal exchanges, but when people are so irked that they grab their pencil in a blind spelling-fury it does tickle me exceedingly.

I remember being in the toilets of my university department a few years ago, where someone had thoughtfully blu-tacked an advert for a housemate on the inner door of the cubicle, with some foresight as to the maximum time one spends stationary in such situations. They were obviously eager to fill the spare room, and their big sell went as follows:

Two students; one male, one female, looking for a friendly, clean, non-smoking housemate. Recently refurbished house; rent 260 excluding bills; 5 minutes to Tesco; 10 minutes to uni; 15 mins to

At which point the text broke off, and someone had neatly scrawled, ‘ponder the use of the semicolon?’ Granted, this was the English department, but it greatly amused me that someone had bothered to stop (possibly mid-flow) to find a pencil and gently correct a fellow student’s writing.

It's the guerilla tactics and passive aggressive point-making that really makes my day. This was recently re-tweeted by @BadJournalism and shows a similar frustration with everyday errors and typos; it sounds odd, but it can seem disrespectful to misspell something like the announcement of a death. It’s like someone trying to spell ‘Will you marry me’ in rose petals or spaghetti or something and getting it wrong – it just seems careless. As is substituting all punctuation with that most vibrant of symbols, the question mark.

I do recommend BadJournalism if you’re jumping on the Twitterwagon. They find and are sent tips of brilliantly bad-taste headlines, subbing fails and hilarious subject matter. I recently drew to their attention, for example, the Daily Mail’s groundbreaking announcement that 'Nearly 70% of working mothers in the UK are now employed.’Good on them, I say.

I Believe in Love

2010-08-18T14:45:00.006+01:00

I didn’t know what to expect when I skipped into the West End to see Hair the musical last night. Hair is one of those unavoidable chunks of culture; you’ve heard the music (even if it’s via the Müller ads), you’ve vaguely picked up on references to the nudity and you probably know more than you think about the premise (hippies/drugs/Vietnam.) The main reason I still felt unsure, despite this psychedelic frame of reference, was that I hadn’t heard any standout songs and the synopsis itself didn’t draw me in hugely. But the iconic nature of the original late 60s production, the hit songs it produced and the buzz this year as the new Broadway revival was brought to London all made me curious about the show. I don’t particularly adore the music that I do know, but I had heard that it was such an infectiously uplifting night out that many friends were going back for more. So last night, just a few weeks before its schedule closure in September, I finally went to find out what all the fuss was about.

My verdict? It was great, but it wasn’t incredible. The music and the story didn’t blow my mind, but the vibrant vocals, colour and energy did. Audience participation is something I’m usually horrified by (my reserved Britishness finds it cringeworthy and my love of storytelling jars with the breaking of the fourth wall) but the rambly chattiness of the charismatic stoners and the weaving of the cast in and out of the audience, stroking hair and giving out flyers, was utterly charming. I would like to be able to say that this would also have been true of a British production, but I do feel the full-on Americana of the cast is what made it the solid, confident and slick spectacle it is. The quality of each singer just launches it into a different league to the rest of the West End.

The part I found baffling in such a hit was how hard it was to follow; I’m pretty clued up on the Vietnam war period, but the speed of the lyrics and the lack of diction (perhaps a conscious decision, but it didn’t work for me) meant I spent much of the first few character ‘snippets’ feeling completely lost, if very entertained. I hadn’t appreciated how much it had clearly influenced Rent, one of my favourite musicals, with its scenes of anarchic camaraderie, shock factor and loveable characters. But the tribe, whilst charismatic as a dancing, chanting, belting whole, did not have as much individual appeal as the bohemians of Rent. Caissie Levy really stood out for me with her honeyed vocals and subtlety of performance, but the limitless riffs of Aquarius soloist Dionne and the soaring optimism of leading man Gavin Creel also took my breath away. The group songs are the lifeblood of the show and the ensemble, most of whom have been together since the beginning of the Broadway revival last year, create a gloriously unified sound.

By the end I was certainly feeling the Love, the twin ideas of Peace and Love being a central part of the show. The air was fragrant with incense, the set lit with rainbow colours, the cast (on a bog-standard Tuesday night performance) seemed fresh as a daisy and high on life. I wasn’t as moved as I thought I’d be by the Vietnam war theme, perhaps due to the surreal ‘bad trip’ sequence that once again entertained and baffled me at the same time. This baffletainment sort of manages to work though, and there are quite a few laugh-out-loud moments. Most of all you just want to be part of the gang, and even as someone who loves a power shower and loathes tie-dye, I had never found hippie life so seductively portrayed. For something less gripping than Wicked and less moving than Les Miserables, however, it is a shame that there is no option for cheap tickets. For £29.50 though, you can get into the Dress Circle, which we soon realised was prime hippie-partying ground. I didn’t have anyone dance along the back of my seat, but a tribe member did take a sip of my coke. So if you’re wandering the cloudy streets of London in the next couple of weeks and feel a bit bleak about life, I suggest you Let the Sun Shine In and bask in the transcendental aural trip that is the cast of Hair.

Miss Write: Unplugged

2010-08-16T10:34:00.006+01:00

This article made me so sad. And not just a brief moment of tut-tut-what-is-the-world-coming-to sad, but strong-desire-to-throw-my-laptop-out-of-the-window-and-drown-my-mobile-in-the-nearest-beverage sort of sad. Technology has been a part of my entire adult life – I got my first brick-like Nokia 3110 at about 13, way behind most teens at my streetwise school, and joined the dark cult of texting, instant messaging and constant miscommunication. I suppose when we flippantly say ‘technology’ we suppose it to be internet and mobile phone based ‘extras’, when of course the original landline phone is a piece of technology in itself. But it is the extras, seemingly endless, that are causing problems in my social sphere. Blackberries, iPhones, laptops and Wifi mean everyone is online everywhere they go; it is incredibly liberating in the sense that if you send someone a query via Facebook, Twitter, Blackberry messaging, voicemail or a good old fashioned text, you are pretty much guaranteed a response within minutes or hours. But on the other hand, it is incredibly frustrating if people don't or can't use one of these nifty mediums to get back to you. The basic assumption is that everyone is connected now, 24-7. No one is out of touch. Re-read that sentence. Is it a positive one? Are we even allowed to be out of touch?

I would describe myself as a technophobe, yet I am a Tweeter, a Facebooker, I have both webmail and Outlook accounts, an abandoned MySpace page, a Blackberry and a touchscreen phone. I had to be bullied into the latter as I was solemnly told by the 3Mobile goblins that only the touchscreens, Blackberries and ‘smartphones’ (the basic Nokia evidently the D student of the class) were compatible with the best contract deals. I stubbornly resisted for some time, until being coerced into purchasing a touchscreen LG this summer. This phone and I haven’t really settled into a honeymoon period yet; it sends blank and unfinished texts, its predictive dictionary is bizarrely devoid of any useable words and most unsettlingly, the display flips over into landscape from portrait if you so much as tilt the handset. I am clearly not as smart as my smartphone. If it even qualifies as a smartphone, which I suspect it does not. iPhones make me slightly queasy, and although I have a freebie BlackBerry which is very useful for free instant messaging and things like the GoogleMap application, it still has roughly four thousand logos standing for functions I can’t even begin to comprehend. So maybe I am just a technophobe by my generation’s standards.

I often come home from work to find three or four family members and friends perched on our sofas, each engrossed in the laptop in front of them. This remarkable combination of companionship and isolation is surreal to look at, but I know I have joined in on more than one occasion. My own laptop is no longer with us, having hung on admirably through six years, several knocks and drops, and resurrected itself more than once. It lasted its final months with the screen half hanging off, lots of amateur sellotape surgery holding it together and a tendency to simply switch off mid task. So now I watch people’s close relationships with their laptops with a certain detachment, before I rejoin their ranks in a month or so with a much-needed replacement for my impending student year. This woman’s description of her text and email-based relationship with her sons was a bit of a wake-up call, although it’s something I’ve been gradually coming round to for a while. How on earth do you break the cycle of cyber communication?

A couple of my friends have managed it; I may have to call them up via the alien device that is the landline phone and ask them if there is some sort of nirvana at the end of the process. The unfortunate fact is, for those who can’t bear to be out of the loop (and by the loop I mean recent photos of great days and nights out, invitations to future ones, and the general stream of wit and banter that Facebook has to offer) it is a huge step to remove oneself from a social networking site. I fear for my monastic ambitions to really take root, all of my favourite people would have to similarly shun the good ‘book and make a profound pact to call each other or, in a maverick twist, actually MEET UP to share conversation or pictures. There are people I haven’t seen for actual plural years who I consider myself ‘in touch’ with. Would the removal of myself from social cyberspace encourage more real-life contact and more tangible memories? Once something moves down the endless feed of Facebook debate and exhibitionism, it is forgotten. I’m just not sure what these endless options for instant communication are doing for our friendships.

Of course, there are so many advantages, logically speaking. With a Facebook message I can put out an idea of an outing, get everyone’s feedback (visible to all other guests) and summarise with the actual plan. Events are a fine way to get a head count and for people to RSVP easily, and I can’t say seeing people’s feedback on your photos is entirely disagreeable. But it brings out the worst in me and so many others. Trying to get over a break up in dignified silence? The temptation to make him feel bad and elicit sympathy from your friends will prove too much to resist. Getting married/having a baby/moving house? Boring people with the daily details is always a risk. Enraged by an acquaintance? Why not passive-aggressively bash out a generalized rant about ‘certain people’? Because if you drag your gaze away from the screen and glance in the mirror, you will see the distinct glaze of crazy in your eyes, that’s why.

So I’m considering the neo-Luddite route; Lily Allen’s done it twice (or thrice, it’s hard to keep track) but however much she tries, La Allen finds it just too damn simple to announce something like a pregnancy or a ‘retirement’ through a press release or an interview alone. Where’s the fanfare? There’s something deliciously controlling about reporting constantly on your own movements and actions. Even our parents are getting in on the act, if not seamlessly (my mum still asks us to ‘send’ her photos on Facebook, the tagging process continuing to elude her). The UK’s eldest Twitterer, Ivy Bean, recently passed away at the age of 103; greatly missed, if only for the quaint concept of being on Twitter at such a grand age. But I don’t like the fact that if someone’s busy, they can still be ‘in touch’ without having to actually see you. It is harder than it should be to explain why twelve texts and a funny wall post doesn’t constitute having seen someone, but maybe we don’t feel who is really there for us with this bizarre set-up of communication from all angles. Equally, maybe we are not really being there for a friend if we ask them what’s up on Facebook chat or respond to their Tweet. My biggest problems with the world of technology at the moment are the misunderstandings, the unread messages, and the odd frustration at those who are not as communicatively wired up as we are. It is easy to ‘overhear’ other friends planning or discussing a recent meet up on these mediums, and be offended at your exclusion. And in the event of heartbreak, the breaker is maddeningly visible to the breakee if they are not strong enough to hit that ‘remove’ button. Perhaps if we signed off, retired the mobiles and returned to a traditional phone call at least, we might get on a little better, move on a little faster, and say what actually needs to be said.

Of course, the major flaw is that I wouldn't be able to blog (or promote it in any way.) But I also wouldn't care who was reading, what they thought or if I was offending anybody. Today it feels infuriating that I want to do something so entangled in communication and self-marketing. In another life, or maybe a few years down the line, I would unplug everything, get away somewhere less polluted with the buzzing of phones and the pinging of emails, and do something very simple with my time. And maybe have clearer relationships as a result.

H is for Hospitality

2010-08-12T11:54:00.008+01:00

I love being the hostess. I have no idea why; it’s often a stressful, thankless, one-sided thing to open your home and feed and water people, but maybe it’s my own personal control freak thing. I love the triumph of a good night, well thought-out snacks and drinks, themes and celebrations and the sounds of people laughing and talking in the comfort of my home. When I was little and at Brownies, we were set the mammoth challenge of achieving our Hostess badge: this involved putting a small shop-bought cake on a plate, making a cup of tea and serving them to a volunteer ‘examiner’ (the intensity was in no way lessened by the fact that this was my mum.) I think I did fairly well, although I’m not sure what the criteria for failure would have been – spillage, plate-smashing or insulting your guest, perhaps? I remember the task vividly, even though in hindsight you’d think it was a quaint finishing school assignment rather than a 90s after-school project.

When my most exotic relative, my aunt from Switzerland, would come to stay with my family, my sisters and I would often create a ‘hotel’ environment for her; carefully-scrawled menus for breakfast in bed, 24-hour service and welcome notes in her guest bedroom. It is unclear why this generosity was reserved for her alone, but she played along admirably during her stays at the Swan Hotel, even when Weetabix and Coco Pops were the only items offered in the Continental breakfast. So I’ve always enjoyed hospitality, in play if not work – my few stints in catering and bar work were less enjoyable, rude customers, sticky floors, complaints and all. My mum and my grandma both have the inclination as well, in that when people visit there will be premeditated refreshments and a selection of drinks on arrival.

Lots of my food and drink memories are based around this civilised touch – on hot, sticky driving holidays through France, Spain and Italy, we would stay at Eurocamp sites, where you would be met by the reps as you pulled in, taken to their tent and fixed a drink of your choice to unwind from the journey (always exciting). I lived with an excellent hostess in my second year at university (not usually the domain of domestic goddesses), who taught me the grave importance of quality shot glasses, proper coffee and matching your party food to the ambience of the event. I left that flat a much better hostess and full of enthusiasm for full on, fifties-style hospitality. In a less intelligent life I think it might have been fun to be a party or wedding planner, and in retirement I still think it would be incredible to run a sweet little café or tea room.

This isn’t to say I want to abandon all career aspirations, become a WAG and suppress any irritating backchat that might upset the all-important man in my life. But I like taking pride in my hosting skills, love a bit of home baking and definitely think cocktail hour should be reinstated. And never underestimate the joy that a pretty Cath Kidston teapot, a nice cake stand (or if you're not the afternoon tea type, premium vodka and a beautiful set of martini glasses) can add to your social gatherings.

Stung by the Spelling Bee

2010-08-12T11:08:00.009+01:00

‘We can definately seperate this in one manouver.’

Does the above make you bristle just a little?

The Telegraph reported last week that 'separate' is the most commonly misspelt word, followed by definitely and manoeuvre, according to a study of 3,500 Britons. I have ranted before about how much constant misspelling bothers me, but ‘definately/definatley’ is certainly the blunder that I see the most. I think I’m a good speller for a few reasons: reading a lot (i.e. constant exposure to correctly-spelled words), genes (both my parents are pretty immaculate spellers) and a slightly photographic memory. I tend to be able to memorise phrases and passages word-for-word fairly easily, which made English a natural subject to continue with after school.

Separate is interesting though, as it’s one I remember being corrected by spellcheck and teachers in my teens, by which point I had most words pretty well absorbed. Some words definitely take longer to stick, especially in a language full of exceptions and quirks. It’s usually a phonetic issue, for instance we do say ‘sep-er-ate’, so the logical written form might well have an e where there is an a. This doesn't work for everything - by the same logic, definitely would be spelt 'definutly'. But I had some good teachers who offered me ways to remember the right spelling (I remember someone pointing out that ‘finite’ was the root of definitely, and I never forgot it.) Surprise is another one; we tend to omit the first 'r' from its pronunciation and thus 'suprise' makes much more sense. I am interested in the words in our hotchpotch of a language, I like to know where they come from and how they are linked internationally and to Latin, Greek and Scandinavian roots.

I do sometimes wish I was someone who is blissfully oblivious to the little errors of spelling and speech, I do recognise in an out-of-body way how annoyingly pedantic it is. There is a Mitchell and Webb sketch where David Mitchell’s character casually shoots people in a meeting for referring to espresso as ‘expresso’ and saying ‘pacific’ instead of specific. It’s so true though, for some people it just feels like an itch that needs scratching. I apologise for myself and the others, but let us correct you – we need to – and then go about your business, probably thinking slightly less of us. For now, be thankful you are not this particular young (I hope) Facebooker:

Twitter gets bitter

2010-08-11T16:33:00.004+01:00

A few people have asked me lately about Twitter, and why people bother using it in the Facebook-dominated world of social networking. A year ago I probably would have agreed that it was a pointless addition to our modern obsession with constant communication and self-exhibition, but I became curious after I began reading the Tweet Beat posts on the brilliant blog Jezebel. These bizarre and funny snippets from people in the public eye were very entertaining, and I thought I’d give it a go. So I joined in September, following the few people I was interested in: some journalists, publications, news feeds, comedians and the odd celebrity. Twitter for me is not for connecting with friends, but a tailored feed of witty banter, breaking news and insider information. If you’re into theatre or music, you can follow venues and artists and get the earliest offers and news of gigs and shows. If you’re an avid reader of Heat, you can follow drunk, indiscreet and scandalous celebrities and chart their highs and lows. If you’re a journalist you can follow a variety of news sources, PRs and public figures to get the speediest and most accurate information. I don’t tweet my own thoughts and movements that much, often just re-posting great links and recommending people to follow, but I go on to catch up on things once in a while and end up reading articles and finding out about things I never would have via standard print or online news. Plus, most people tend to be quite witty. And unlike Facebook, you can cull your ‘following’ list guilt-free and pare it down to only the very best tweeters. However, unlike Facebook, when too many people converge on the Twitterverse one is often confronted with the Whale of Doom – meaning ‘come back later’, but an image both irritating and distressing.

However, it does have a nasty side. Once you’re used to people getting sucked into rows it becomes merely boring, but the impersonal side of this sort of blind networking means that people find it very easy to hit out at others. A while back a friend of mine made a benign comment about a flavour-of-the-month popstar, and some deranged fans started hurling very explicit abuse at her and anyone who tried to defuse the situation. This was my first encounter with the saddos that use the site for stalkery and mischief; before then it was all Stephen Fry musings and Ed Byrne chuckles. There is a lot of Outrage on Twitter as well, which can become wearisome – usually Jan Moir related (chill out and stop reading the Mail, people!), at one point leading to people trying to post the writer’s personal details and home address so people could admonish her directly. This is the kind of mob mentality that has started to show a nastier side to the innocent-birdie-fronted website. Obsessive fans gather and start huge campaigns against people; Stephen Fry - one of the site’s most popular celebs - once mentioned that a user had referred to his tweets as boring, and it wasn’t long before his followers were baying for blood. Fry had to swiftly follow up his comment by asking people not to harass the poor guy.

Today Dom Joly, usually fairly jovial or at most a little acerbic, started a row when he dropped in a casual allusion to Keith Chegwin’s joke-stealing ways to his Independent column last Sunday. From the look of Joly’s war of words with his unimpressed followers since then, Chegwin has a crazed army of tweeting fans ready to take down anyone who makes him the butt of their (original) joke. Instead of maintaining a dignified silence, Joly has argued with, insulted and re-tweeted his least literate and most indignant followers, despite constant claims of being ‘bored’ with the furore. This is the fascinating thing about a constant stream of activity available for all to see; reading Joly’s tweets back, it is evident that he is more than a little riled by the negative reaction, not finding it ‘hilarious’ as insisted. Obviously I’m team Dom here – Cheggers is an pilfering little twerp who would clearly sell his granny or sleep with Susan Boyle to cling on to his waning fame. But the ensuing row showed an ugly side of a funny guy for a while there. Perhaps the Twitter backlash is beginning as celebs begin to see the dark side of the public having unfettered access to them. Equally, if you slag someone off on Twitter, you’ll likely use their ‘@’ identity to refer to them, and thus send the criticism in their direction as well as your followers’. This makes every bit of negative feeling public and aggressive, rather than privately aired in frustration.

There are moments of genius though; after Jeremy Clarkson’s book came out with the testosterone-packed tagline ‘Read Clarkson. Think Clarkson. Act Clarkson’, writer Caitlin Moran poked fun at the PR machine by inviting her followers to ACT CLARKSON that day and tell her about. The resulting hashtag (creating a separate feed of tweets on that subject) was pure brilliance. When a large event is happening – the world cup for example, or the final of a reality show – Twitter is filled by witty commentary on the events unfolding. When the BP spill happened, someone took the name ‘BPGlobalPR’ (since taken down) and tweeted tongue-in-cheek ‘official’ comment from the corporation’s HQ. Some genius is posing as the Queen, and flits between describing their gin-induced hangovers, Prince Edward’s cross-dressing and changing song lyrics to include the word ‘one’ (One wants to ride one’s bicycle, one wants to ride one’s bike…)

It’s a funny old invention, really – excellent for raising awareness (my sister’s charity have had their messages and links re-tweeted by the likes of Bill Bailey, Sarah Brown and Lorraine Kelly to their thousands of followers), PR, arts & culture recommendations and instant reviews, as well as just making your daily reading material more diverse. But I don’t enjoy the speed at which criticism of one person can build up and spread, resulting in a sort of grown-up cyber bullying of an individual. I hope anyone who becomes a Twitter convert uses it to educate and entertain themselves, rather than combating their own insecurity and frustration by belittling others (I wonder if my own Anonymous is on there?) But I think it’s essentially A Good Thing as it’s put people’s PR into their own hands and sped up things for the media and communications industries. Let me know if you are pro or anti-Twitter, I find it to be a bit of a cultural Marmite.

Easy, Breezy, Beautiful

2010-07-30T15:02:00.003+01:00

I do love this September ELLE cover, tweeted earlier by their Executive Editor, Tom Macklin. Not only do I adore Miss Blunt (for her style, for her Brit cool, for her show-stealing character in The Devil Wears Prada, for having dated everyone's guilty-pleasure crush, Michael Bublé... the list is endless.) I like that ELLE don't just stick the current face of L'Oreal in a jewel-coloured frock and make her laugh next to a wind machine. The pose is striking, the lace is chic and autumnal, the kohl-smudged eyes grab your attention and she looks porcelain yet very real. And not to get too curvy-girl crusader-y, but they notably haven't emaciated her shapely thighs with an overzealous airbrush. Big thumbs up to ELLE; this will no doubt shine out on a shelf full of cluttered, psychadelic covers. Can't wait to read the star interview.

Internships: heaven or hell?

2010-07-28T10:06:00.003+01:00

At the weekend The Guardian brought this issue to my attention, and it's quite nice to see a range of opinions on it in the piece itself and the fervent web comments below. For a long time the topic depressed me because I was living it; for the eighteen months following my degree, I flitted between internships and unpaid work experience placements, drifting around London on the airy high that comes from being (albeit superficially) in the industry you desperately want to work in. To the credit of the UK's major publishing companies, I was rarely out of ‘work’ – it just so happened that the work was challenging, unpaid and with no guarantee of progesssion.

Being an intern is a giddy sensation at first. You’re in the big city, in my case in the chic West London HQs of the glossy magazines you’ve been reading for years, everyone’s very glam and you’re walking past Stella McCartney, Selfridges, McQueen and admiring the displays before work (while worrying about forking out for that essential H&M purchase in your lunch hour.) You don’t even think about the money to start with, you just feel lucky to be there. Then a few months go by, you learn some skills and gain confidence, you feel qualified to comment on things and contribute ideas and you start to feel the hours and the poverty kicking your ass a bit. I have always been very fortunate to work at places that are reasonably grateful to have interns, that pay expenses (bar one or two publications) and crucially, that give you exciting things to do.

Working at top magazines, you do see that the fashion interns have it harder. There are more of them, usually 6-8 girls - all tall, slim and stylish with a hungry look of ambition in their eyes (that might actually be hunger.) They get the everyday mundaneities of sending out and calling in merchandise, keeping records and tidying the fashion cupboard – but once in a while there’ll be a chance to go to an incredible shoot, personally assist a fashion Ed or contribute to the style pages, and thus competition is fierce. And all while looking chic and on trend with hardly any bank balance to work with. It’s a bit like an episode of America’s Next Top Model, but without the big mansion and the raw sexual magnetism of Nigel Barker. So I do appreciate that fashion interning can be a thankless task. If I hadn’t had the fairly frequent boost of seeing my words in print, I don’t know if I would have hung in there as long as I did.

Features is different; I think you learn a lot quite quickly because you’re constantly having ideas knocked back, writing picked apart and being sent on wild goose chases in your research – you have to get tough and work harder. I think if I hadn’t had those eighteen months I wouldn’t be as resilient and as sure as I am that it’s still worth it. Going straight into a salary would put more pressure on you – Am I earning this? What if I don’t know what I’m doing? What if this isn’t right for me and I need to get out? – with an internship, you are allowed to get things wrong, try again, and leave with zero guilt if it’s not for you. You also learn useful things for your career decisions, such as there are no straight men (I've maybe met three in total in the magazine world), some women are just allowed to act like Mariah on a daily basis, and there are a lot of fun freebies and invitations to keep you going on even the bleakest day. People forget to mention that internships can be fun - and if they're not fun at all, maybe you're in the wrong work environment.

But I do agree that you shouldn’t have to do it forever. Unfortunately all my enthusiasm went into my first few months of whirlwind unpaid work experience, and by the time I was a paid features intern at Elle, I was feeling the grind a bit. It was still the best work experience I’ve ever had, responsibility and opportunities-wise, but being the young not-quite-staff-member amongst all the regulars was hard. So this is where the sheer length of interning time at the moment is a drawback – there is the potential to become jaded before you’ve even found your first job. In the media no-one seems to have moved up since I started doing work experience back in 2007. The people I met as juniors and assistants back then are for the most part still in those roles, and as no one is getting pay rises or promotions, and people are fearful of leaving because of the recession, there is no natural movement up the ladder. I’m staying focused in the hope that this will change. What is true in the Guardian piece comments is that there is an elite club of media hopefuls being bankrolled by their parents, who can of course afford to be in London on zero pay, mingling with the hot new faces in the hot new clubs, and drifting home to a comfortably central flat paid for by Daddy. Lucky them - but surely this doesn't make for an ideal range of young writers and trendsetters? As suggested by Caitlin Moran recently, we don't want to end up with a media industry filled with braying Hatties, Fenellas and Sheherazades - so there have to be opportunities for the less-than-minted state school brains to come through. Internships are a way of doing that, and if you're savvy enough you can do one, work for a bit and save, do another, and so on. It may take longer but it will feel much sweeter when you do break through the wall of blonde hair and jodhpurs.

What many people point out in their comments on the Guardian article is that many artistic and creative industries are frivolous, expensive and not essential to our economy. Why shouldn’t it be a little harder than getting into them? In my bohemian-wannabe generation everyone seems to want to be an actor or an artist, but equally want the money and the lifestyle they are used to – as such people end up pursuing their dream for a few years after studying, then slipping into a more corporate role as they realise bills must be paid and actors are often little more than auditioning waiters. Industry placements help you weigh up what’s worth sacrificing and what’s not – a bad experience can turn into something wonderful for your career perspective. But this doesn’t mean I want to hit 26 or 27 and still have gotten no further than being a student and an intern. Especially without having had gap years or long periods of unemployment. That would be taking the biscuit, and I wouldn’t hesitate to find a more attainable role. I do think fashion and art should be harder to get into than being a nurse or a teacher, as they’re often better paid (and with a lot more perks) at the top than those socially vital roles.

In relation to this article, I must contradict commenter TaylorHarrison when they suggest that Guardian News & Media themselves are just as bad as the cutthroat high-fashion industry. I have only had two weeks in their delightful Kings Place building (at the lovely Observer Culture section), but I found them to be flexible with my hours, a suitably buzzy and creative environment and somewhere that kept me very occupied, including getting a couple of bylines. That may not sound like a lot, but for two weeks - which is really the maximum you should do completely unpaid – it actually did more for me than many of my month-long placements. From lunch and walks round the canal with the team, to the fact that when people google me now the Observer pages will come up, it was beneficial and exactly what it said on the tin – an experience of the job. The bad thing with being so ethically organised is that they won’t have people back after the appropriately short unpaid placements, for fear of exploiting them, when I would dearly love to be exploited by the Observer for a more sustained period. So magazines have it right in terms of lengthier intern opportunities – special mention must go to Elle here, who regularly employ multiple interns on a modest but significant salary, as well as being generous with exciting opportunities, invitations and assignments. Others could do better, but everyone’s just watching their costs at the moment, and that can’t be helped. It can’t be any nicer to work for 20 years in the industry, get to the top and have your pay and budget frozen for the same economic reasons.

There is a real camaraderie in an industry where pretty much everyone has been an unpaid lackie, and thus know what they’re looking for in a newbie but want to help them grow as a writer, designer or stylist. Internships can be bliss and they can be hell, but I think you can lose sight of their value if you constantly think about the money or the time. There is no better time to be out of pocket and rich in life experiences than your early twenties, so try and make the best of it.

G is for Girl Crush

2010-07-27T17:01:00.009+01:00

Ellen Page is just cool. She oozes attitude by being a diminutive powerhouse in the massive boy club that is Inception, with her wit and guts in Juno and decidedly non-fluffy roles in Hard Candy and X Men: The Last Stand. Page should depress me as we are more or less the same age, with very different life CVs, but she's just too damn likeable.

In an interview with The Guardian following the success of Juno, Page said somewhat presciently, "I think a lot of the time in films, men get roles where they create their own destiny and women are just tools, supporters for that." So it was wonderful to see her work her charm and individuality as dream architect Ariadne in Inception last night. The film had my eyes widening, my head spinning and my fists clenched for its entirety, and the swirling plot was enhanced by drops of lightness and comedy here and there in a brilliant script. Page more than holds her own with Hollywood heavyweights Leonardo DiCaprio, Michael Caine and Marion Cotillard (who I’ve always found a little creepy… great that Inception brought that out in her.) To be 5ft and baby-faced and still have the presence and sharpness to be cast as a lead in a blockbuster like this is an incredible feat.

At the modest age 0f 23, she's an Oscar-nominated acting veteran with a huge indie following and has achieved a boyish, funky style which means she avoids cutesy photo shoots in favour of the classic edginess that usually comes with being an 8ft gazelle with jutting cheekbones and vacant eyes.

Loving the big pants

To top it all, she’s a dog person, loves outdoorsy things and just seems like a smart, down-to-earth lass:

[On role models] "As a girl, you're supposed to love Sleeping Beauty. I mean who wants to love Sleeping Beauty when you can be Aladdin?"

[On abortion] “I am a feminist and I am totally pro-choice, but what's funny is when you say that people assume that you are pro-abortion. I don't love abortion but I want women to be able to choose and I don't want white dudes in an office being able to make laws on things like this.”

[On courting the press] “I don’t really think they’ll do a story about Ellen Page eating a mooseburger in Newfoundland.”

So box up the Doc Martens and order me a pint, because I’d definitely give up men to turn the Page.

Ellen Page designs dream worlds in the brilliant psychological thriller, Inception

Les Bizarrables

2010-07-26T17:51:00.005+01:00

The first musical theatre I can ever remember hearing is the 80s classic Les Misérables by Boublil and Schönberg. We used to have the tape of the soundtrack in the car, and on long car journeys and driving holidays we sang merrily along (no Tweenies for us, oh no – death, prostitution and revolution galore.) And we loved it, along with our well-worn cassettes of Miss Saigon and The Phantom of the Opera. When I went to see the blockbuster adaptation of the latter, I was shocked to realise I know every trilled word of the score. But Les Mis was our favourite by far. Cruising along the M1 back in the early Nineties, you might have caught a glimpse of three cute little girls chirping along to the rousing Lovely Ladies:

Lovely ladies
Waiting for the call
Standing up or lying down or any way at all
Bargain prices up against the wall

Yes, we were worldly children. But we didn’t need to fully understand the complex social tragedies of Victor Hugo’s plot (although mummy spent much time patiently explaining: ‘Yes, she’s selling her hair… Because she needs money to pay for her illegitimate child. It means she wasn’t married to the child’s daddy. No, she hasn’t made enough money from being a Lovely Lady.’ Dad, helpfully: ‘In the original text, she actually sells her teeth.’) The music spoke volumes: the exhilarating melodies of the student uprising, the über-romantic strains of first love and unrequited love, the swansongs, the feuds and the hopeless waste of young life.

It is a connection that has never faltered – while I have ‘grown out’ of some scores and showtunes, the recitative, the melodrama and the romance of Les Mis are timeless. Which is probably why this year it celebrates its 25th anniversary. In honour of its sage longevity, there are a number of tributes – a touring production which will climax at the Barbican and an anniversary concert at the O2, with tickets like gold dust (actually I hear gold dust is probably less likely to bankrupt you.) I browsed the shiny Flash-tastic website for some info today, and this page made me very sad. All of the plum female roles seem to have gone to TV ‘faces’ - and not even hugely impressive ones at that. Samantha ‘Isle of Sam’ Barks was only third favourite to play Nancy – a much less emotionally fragile and charismatic role – in a TV casting show, and Lucie bloody Jones is X Factor alumni. She shouldn’t be allowed NEAR a West End stage (although we know the folks down at Chicago and Legally Blonde would have pretty much anyone from prime time at this point.) But I expected better from you, Cameron Mackintosh; Les Mis deserves exceptional, breathtaking, once-in-a-generation actors and singers, and happily has a range of playing ages and vocal ranges to cast, which should make it easier to get the very best for each. I was a little sick in my mouth when Kimberley from Girls Aloud was allowed to ‘join in’ with the show on the band's Passions reality show, but as she was merely Ensemble/Whore (great billing) for a short time I let that one pass. Then Jodie ‘actually Nancy’ Prenger joined the cast to get some work experience before her leading lady engagement. Now, don’t get me wrong – the Prenger was the best thing in Oliver - but Les Miserables is no-one’s West End test drive.

Incidentally, X Factor’s Lucie (who memorably sang a song from Disney’s Camp Rock, not well, on the show) follows Camilla Kerslake in the role of Cossette. Who? Exactly. She happens to be the latest moderately-talented classical hottie whose bland album deal was entirely based and plugged on the fact that she was discovered by Gary Barlow. Are there really no elegant young sopranos on the musical theatre circuit wishing to audition for this part? Or could it be that the Les Mis hall of fame (boasting Ruthie Henshall, Kerry Ellis, Lea Salonga, Judy Kuhn, Frances Ruffelle and Michael Ball among others) is now set to be cluttered with people having their five minutes of TV-whored fame? I dislike this notion and it almost makes me wish the show had gone out quietly before ticket sales, PR pushes or plain vanity brought it to this.

Talking of Michael Ball, the role he originated is currently filled by the irritatingly pure teenage face of Nick Jonas (and the stage door area subsequently filled with a tsunami of hormones and Charlie Girl perfume) which offends me even more. I don’t care if Nick Jonas and Lucie Jones’ true love finds a way amongst political turmoil and danger. I know their smug, airbrushed faces too well to get caught up in the moment, and I’ll probably end up hoping a stray bullet rebounds off the barricades and right into one of their skulls. Producers of Les Mis, I implore you: go back to casting from the thousands of individual, raw, talented nobodies who have loved the music for years and been inspired to act and sing because of it, or close the show if it really can’t last without casting integrity. Every time one of those beautiful refrains is sung by someone whose generic face I have been battered to death with in Now magazine, I die a little inside. Thanks.

Turning points

2010-07-20T10:21:00.002+01:00

I’ve read a lot of try-hard books lately. Or more accurately, I’ve attempted to read them. After three years of over-analysis in lecture theatres and libraries, books start to become merely a product to pull apart and judge, rather than the cosy old friends of my childhood (when I would routinely romanticise the process by trying to find a window-seat to curl up in – or at last the end of the sofa nearest the window.) Books used to be an irresistible chance to float away on a story and become completely embroiled with its characters; from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s tragic and hopeful A Little Princess – dogeared with re-reading, even in adulthood – to Noel Streatfeild’s charming Ballet Shoes, I devoured my houseful of books. Wherever myself and my family went, we brought far too many books, and there were even books I associated lovingly with my grandparents’ houses. My childhood reading just preceded the trend of absolutely everyone reading a series (think Jacqueline Wilson, Harry Potter, Horrible Histories) and I like to think I chose and loved my books free from PR tactics and peer pressure.

So how I came to be two years out of an English Literature degree, a self-confessed bookworm but secretly, thoroughly out of love with reading – I don’t know. When you’ve learnt to take apart a piece of music bar by bar and question the composer’s motives and influences, it never quite sounds the same. And so it is with books; I find myself unconsciously picking up on Shakespeare-derived sayings, Austenian plots, oxymorons, repeated words, mixed metaphors, overpunctuation, streams of consciousness and the influence of postmodernism, when really wishing I could go back to finding characters, stories and little worlds created seemingly for my entertainment alone. Post-degree, I also tried to go for prize-winners, dark themes and inaccessible styles to continue my analytical education, when really I should have been letting myself back into the groove of enjoyable bookwormery with that elusive of genres, the Great Read. Only two GRs have this year sliced through the pedantic layer of academia that still obscures my reading: the first was the beyond-charming The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (highly recommended) and the second was my most recent commuting - and lunch hour, and bedtime – book, the newly-published Turning the Tide by Christine Stovell. This book has, quite simply, made me hate having a job and a life. What I wouldn’t have given to have an empty weekend to sit and read it from intriguing beginning to satisfying end (it definitely warrants a re-read.) But then again, it just may be the perfect commuter's novel. With the artful suspense of a six-part TV drama – a form which I think it would suit perfectly – the plot ebbs and flows with each chapter, giving you a little more information with each burst of reading.

When smooth-talking hottie Matthew Corrigan starts nosing around the sleepy seaside town of Little Spitmarsh, its bored residents are stirred by his plans for a chic new restaurant on the waterfront, to be followed by apartment blocks and a new-look waterfront. Many think a change is just what the town needs, but tomboy Harry Watling is distraught at the thought of her scenic childhood haunts and the tiny boatyard she inherited from her father being swept away by modernization. As Matthew puts his plans into motion, his cool business head is turned by feisty Harry as she becomes determined to make it as hard for him as possible (no pun intended, although there is a more than a dash of sauce to this classic romance.) Any girl who has been single for too long will identify with the confused and restless girl below Harry’s spiky exterior, and rakish Matthew is almost more fanciable than fictional. I was completely absorbed by the comings and goings of the Little Spitmarshers; adorable gay couple Frankie and Trevor trying to start a new life together, Sophia Loren-esque trout-pouting Carmen Moult waxing, plucking and coiffing the locals and gruff ex-naval handyman George with his immaculately kept caravan and tightly-sealed biscuit tin. You wish them all well in different ways, desperate for Harry to use her feminine wiles as well as her fighting spirit, willing father-figure George to come clean about the family secrets of Harry's past, wanting Matthew to soften and see the natural beauty of the place and its most snarling inhabitant. There is even a compelling mini-drama involving the florists’ canine companions Kirstie and Phil. The book’s magic lies in the frankness of its characters, the balance of their perspectives and Stovell’s ingenious ability to add a tiny twist or leak a piece of vital information just at the end of every chapter, making the wait for the conclusion absolutely thrilling. The romance is, perhaps, inevitable but their slow-burning attraction is realistically muddled and complex, making the reader root for them even more.

The bottom line is this is a fabulous summer read – romance, escapism and chuckles galore – but it is also intelligent, exploring business head versus vulnerable heart, natural beauty threatened by modern progress and the pain of losing an idolised parent, all while neatly avoiding cliché and schmaltz. I would love to go to a rugged coastal town and re-read this compelling novel in a complimentary setting, but it was vivid and absorbing even when wedged against a fellow commuter’s shoulder or in a city park surrounded by noisy teenagers and daytime drunks. Huge credit to Stovell’s talent as an author – she paints the quaintest seaside setting, complete with flaws, and makes her reader care about it so fervently that they begin to feel fiercely defensive of Harry and her quirky home. The chemistry between the two lead characters is tangible and the obstacles dividing them excellently placed. Even if you are nautically ignorant, the sailing theme gives you a taste of the freedom and beauty of our native waters, and Harry is the ultimate independent woman, mastering manual labour and tempestuous seas if not her own desires. As the last chapter came to a close, I got off at my station, sat on a bench in the sun and postponed my walk home by ten minutes or so to enjoy the last few pages uninterrupted, a little oasis of sublime romance in my rushed day. I knew from the first time I picked up Turning the Tide that this was a chance to renew my friendship with reading, and I greatly look forward to enjoying more of Christine Stovell's animated and intricate storytelling in the future. If your mind needs a little break from urban life, take a trip to Little Spitmarsh and fall in love with the sensation of diving into a Great Read again.

F is for Fear

2010-07-13T14:01:00.001+01:00

Since graduating, I’ve felt a little like I’m freefalling without a parachute. An arts degree does not lend itself to a clear or secure career path, the job market is the worst it has been in decades, and I don’t seem to be able to hold on to a comfortable routine or familiar relationship at the moment. At the beginning of this year something happened which I had feared, and it seemed that the abyss was even closer than before. But I was determined not to let a few changes of situation and fortune ruin my year, and I decided, as a instinctively passive and introverted person, to face up to a number of things that scare me. Against my nature, I was taught as a child that you should try things once, from buttery Escargot to rock climbing, and then see if the result is really revulsion or revelation. Some of the things I approached with trepidation never made it into the Likes list – mushrooms and speaking to a large group still make my stomach turn – but a good many have proven to be completely unfounded.

I got the ball rolling a week after being emotionally crushed, by auditioning for a local amateur dramatic show. I used to do a lot of drama and music, but dropped it after high school; incredibly rusty four years on, I felt terrified by the prospect of any audition, let alone one in front of a strange panel with unspecified standards. However, I braced myself, learnt the song, fudged my way through a traumatic dance audition and was delighted when I got a small part. Unsure how it would fit in to my life and whether I’d struggle, I went along to rehearsals and what followed were some of the best weeks of my life, featuring some of the greatest people I have ever met. I don’t know how long I would have stayed in my numb self-esteem crash had it not been for the whirlwind distraction of learning harmonies and lines, costume fittings and on show week, sheer adrenaline. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made, and cemented my idea that scaring yourself can work wonders.

Some other things that make my heart pound…

Flying
This is a tricky one; although not rare, I have an odd detachment from my fear of flying. It is the only one I can truly deem a phobia, as fearing it is like an out-of-body experience for me – I know it is irrational, I will still get on planes every year and I think it is a very unappealing trait in a person. But the minute I get near an airport terminal I feel unsettled, and the adrenaline that rushes through me as we speed down the runway is a far from pleasant high. It feels like a deep-rooted, animal fear of something that feels so totally unnatural to me; perhaps because I don’t even come close to understanding the genius of aviation, every time I fly I feel like I’m part of some dicey maiden voyage on an experimental type of transport. I try to talk myself down from the ledge by reminding myself of all the rational facts: statistics, physics, the fact that people take flights every day as their regular commute. But to no avail; I fear I will always fear the speed, the suspension and the precarious feeling. But I still hope to conquer it. After years of Rescue Remedy, deep breathing and calm visualisations, the only thing I can truly recommend is a large glass of red wine a little while before and perhaps midway through the flight. This is often controversial on early morning departures.

Karaoke
Hand in hand with performing (but much, much worse) Karaoke is literally my idea of a night-out nightmare. Yes, it’s meant to be fun, but anyone who has sat through someone very seriously mewling their way through a Mariah Carey classic knows it can turn from tuneful to tragic in no time at all. Getting up in front of a roomful of strangers (or worse, friends) and getting through a whole three minutes of song is simply my idea of hell. It’s not so much that I take it as a serious challenge to sound good, but that I know the extent of judgement that goes on in my own head, let alone the rest of the crowd’s, when someone takes the mic. I even have three or four pre-approved tracks in my head should I ever be forced up on to a platform with a neon screen of lyrics; a sort of survival plan should the worst happen. Shudder.

Dates
No, not the shrivelled fruit snacks, but one-on-one time with newly discovered men. As I’ve mentioned in my recent posts about online dating, although I enjoy the basic concept of the date, the time leading up to one is unbearable. I suppose this means on some level I can’t bear someone thinking badly of me, or just the hugeness of it all – that this could be someone pivotally important to your life, or even that they might be horribly insignificant. I always have a short phase of ‘How do I get out of this?’ followed neatly by ‘No, I have to do this’ and right at the last minute, ‘Is it too late to run away really, really fast?’ I’ve mostly had good dating experiences, so this isn’t a reflection on the men I’ve been out with, but I can never quite get over the potential shyness or awkwardness a budding relationship poses. Hence the maximum-dating plan, a sort of baptism of fire which I hope will burn off the nervous energy that envelops me when I’m single.

Public Speaking
Though not the quietest member of my family, I have always been the shyest. As a child I found it incredibly difficult to talk to new people, and always relied on my more boisterous siblings when it came to the momentous challenge of making friends. I have no idea why I was hit with the timid stick when I come from such a sociable clan, but I spent lots of my childhood trying to speak louder and more clearly, make eye contact and basically not hide in a cupboard somewhere in the foetal position when it came to new faces or places. Somewhere along the line I gained friends and confidence (junior school?) learned how to fake a bit of attitude and guts, and basically tricked myself into being a more confident person. Drama helped, and getting to an age where it was more acceptable and powerful to be clever. But most of all, I had exceptional examples all around me of articulate speakers and can-do attitudes. I knew just how people went about seeming at ease, and I learned to imitate it until it felt natural to go up and start conversations from scratch. Saying that, the thought of getting up in front of more than twenty people and saying anything makes my head spin slightly; the prospect of having to lecture was one of the main reasons I passed on continuing with the academic route, which is terrible, thinking about it. Commanding the room is a skill I’ve been determined to develop for a while, and it’s definitely on my To Quell list.

Criticism
As has been so delightfully pointed out by many of my readers - sense the bristling already? - I become somewhat defensive when faced with criticism of my writing in particular, and my character in general. I find it hard to brush off a comment once made, and probably because I’m not as resilient and confident as I try to project (see above) it does make me doubt my own ability rather than helping me to get better. Of course it does help, in the long run, especially when I can see that I’ve oversimplified, been arrogant or failed to provide the facts, but at the moment of impact I feel about two inches tall. I now have my blog comments emailed to me to approve; they always go up eventually, but it means I can swallow, take it on board and absorb it before putting it up there for all the world to see. I am trying to be a better person about this (it’s definitely a maturity thing; I’m already much more willing to concede some debating ground than I was pre-twenties) especially, as so many have emphasised, because my ideal career choice will involve all the flack and weekly ranting from every ‘Disgusted of Berkshire’ and lunatic reading. I have to deal with it, but it’s an ongoing challenge for someone who does actually care quite a lot if people like her.

Fear is just fear, you can’t let it rule your life or prevent you from meeting your goals and living your dreams. As Mr Darcy (or Colin Firth, as I hear he likes to be called) once growled during a sweaty fencing lesson: ‘I shall conquer this. I shall.’ And I shall leave you with the words of that fictional hottie as I go off to jab at my own fears with a pointy stick.

You get what you pay for

2010-07-07T17:59:00.000+01:00

A man walks into a bar and orders a pint. The barman carefully pours it, puts it on the bar and walks to the till to ring it up. While he does this, the customer downs the pint and casually strolls out of the bar, refreshed and happy.

Where's the punchline, you ask? Nowhere to be seen - it's not a joke, it's stealing. Stealing liquid, mind, of which there are thousands more barrels, and which the innocent barman did not create, brew and transport all by himself. But a service and a product were provided, and not paid for. Most people wouldn't dream of doing this (although my friend did see someone steal a 6-inch Subway the other day) but thieving isn't such a crisply defined concept anymore. Partly because people feel so disillusioned by prices, recessions and authority in general, but mainly because of the big playground of freebies that is the internet. Young people were the first to hop on the cyber bandwagon in the naughties, and they quickly learnt about the joys of file-sharing, downloading and online trading, before the elders who had established businesses and copyrights had figured out how to stop them. In print media, publishers were delighted at the prospect of reaching a wider audience and providing up-to-the-minute news reporting, and soon most publications were available, gratis, online.

The Times has taken a lot of flack over the past month for deciding to put a paywall up (a week's subscription working out to around 28p per day), with experts predicting the venture will fail and the Guardian in particular taking the opportunity to filch their unimpressed readers. My favourite Times columnist (and general legend) Caitlin Moran wrote a wonderful article a couple of days before the wall went up, defending their decision against a lot of very public outrage and Murdoch-bashing. Of course, if you don't believe in paying for online news, you won't be able to access the article. But she made a good case for the change, which perhaps I am more sensitive to as a would-be journalist, as well as driving home the basic and excellent point that 'Bitch gotta make rent.' The perks of creative jobs are falling fast with the rise of the net, as people can access music, literature, journalism, film and photography without paying a penny to their creator. Moran simply stated, amongst other rational business reasons, that it is hard enough to be a working journalist without your pay diminishing even further. It is a hard business to get into, not at all well paid and almost impossible to live on as a freelancer, and thus more and more financially privileged young writers who can afford to do the job as a hobby are seeping into the industry. No more feisty lasses like Caitlin, who hails from a Wolverhampton council estate and the comprehensive system, writing in one of Britain's oldest and most prestigious rags. An exclusively privileged comment and editorial team would make for a much more conservative and monotonous tone, undoing all the good work the paper has done in recent years in becoming more balanced with diverse comment writers and a wider perspective than, say, the Mail or the Telegraph. Also, I agree with Caitlin that writers deserve to get paid - we read their work most days, they work challenging hours and with tough deadlines, and get nothing like the salaries of the ankers and politicians whose deviance they so often expose. Many would argue that it's too late to start putting up paywalls; the internet has been free to read for years now. But the Times does have a certain caché, and as such many rely on it for firm facts and expert analysis. So I think they'll keep some audience, but more liberal fence sitters and those likely to list the Guardian as 'their' paper (myself included) will just stop reading online, perhaps grabbing the paper itself once in a while. I'm just saying I don't think it's that controversial to put a price on something a lot of people work hard on, especially when that price is under 30p per day.

This discussion had gone on for a while when I followed a link on Twitter that led to the website of the great musical theatre composer & lyricist Jason Robert Brown, where he had posted a very similar discussion about sheet music. Brown, who is a bit of a hero in the niche world of musical theatre, decided enough was enough and went online to try and stem the tide of sheet music 'trading' online and defend his work and copyright. So he sent maybe 400 people advertising the sheet music for his songs online a polite message asking them to take their ad down, including his email address in case they had any questions. Many did, but one tenacious teen emailed back demanding to know what his problem was and questioning his identity and motives. What followed is a very interesting back-and-forth between two generations; the older artist that has worked hard for many years to build his reputation and career, and the young, confident teenager with a strong feeling of entitlement. The teen who argued with him, Eleanor, is fairly articulate and makes a very forceful case that many teens 'can't afford' sheet music, mp3 files and movies legally, and the big 'jerks' who created them shouldn't make a fuss about what is surely a drop in the ocean to them. The thing is, why should they let it go? JRB spent years writing beautiful, witty, perceptive songs that are sung in most musical theatre cabarets here and in the US. They are popular for a reason; his genius and effort. The fact that he is successful shouldn't mean he deserves to lose a massive cut of his potential salary from sneaky sharing and illegal downloads.

Perhaps because money has become less tangible over the years, with plastic, paypal, online banking and standing orders, it’s harder to teach your kids about value and saving. I remember having a solid concept of pocket money; if you saved it up for a few weeks you could hit Woolworths and splurge on that coveted toy (or later, Tammy Girl for that lusted-after shiny lycra top), and at school fetes and bring’n’buy sales myself and my sisters had a couple of pounds to spend wisely on treats. I remember clubbing together with my sister to the tune of £1.50 each for a Barbie Dream House and feeling the first high of a business partnership. Later, we would spend our hard-saved, if not earned, cash on CD singles and albums (back when the CD was still a futuristic novelty.) Jointly we bought All Saints’ first album, and I eyed her Britney Spears Baby One More Time single with envy, knowing instinctively that it was a landmark musical moment. Even now, I find loans, credit cards and overdrafts hugely daunting; not being fiscally minded, I don’t understand and therefore fear laying down money I don’t have. I am saving to self-fund a postgraduate course and money is on my mind most days. I do hope that is not the case my whole life, but with the media nosediving and people refusing to pay, who knows?

The point with Brown and Moran’s defence of their work is, while it may be a bit of a hassle or a dent in your pocket to fork out for their writing or composing skills, tough luck – they provided a product and completed a task which you are now reading/learning from/playing/singing. Cough up. The paywall will continue to be controversial (largely because of Rupert Murdoch’s unpopularity rather than the paper itself) as there are other strong print media options, but I do think at the very least people should buy their music, films and sheet music legally - and come on, an iTunes mp3 is around 79p, sometimes Amazon’s are as little as 29p. Those singles we scraped together for as starstruck teens were £1.99 including packaging – now we can whisk them on to our laptops seconds after they are released for less than a pound. If everyone stopped supporting musicians and writers, only the wealthy self-funders or the Katie Price-style overexposed could afford or would bother to put out their work. The message from the creative industries is clear – we’ve had enough, pay for your stuff.

But I want it NOW!

IntimiDating

2010-07-02T11:29:00.001+01:00

Ok, so I took the plunge and had my first MySingleFriend date last night. I was practically hyperventilating for the 24 hours preceding it, which is unusual for me. It just seemed such a strange medium to show up at a discussed time and place to spend an evening with, essentially, a stranger. Although I knew all this when I signed up, the reality was truly daunting. What if I couldn't think of anything to say? What if he took one look at me and quietly left? How would I escape if he looked like a gremlin and dressed like Jimmy Saville? All these questions and many crazier ones flitted through my mind during my work day.

Luckily Date 1 was great company, very sweet and had fabulous taste. A gorgeous specialist wine bar in South London, Artisan and Vine (highly recommended) a bottle of crisp white outside on a hot evening, and ceaseless conversation. I definitely talked about myself too much, but he had that 'good listener' air, so I fully blame him. No more to report as I certainly would never kiss and tell, but possible MSF Date 2 next week, so the saga continues.

Oh, and I looked nice I think. Skinny jeans, epic heels - he's basically twice my height - and a subtly curve-flattering top. I hope. I also didn't drink to much and overshare. I hope. Survived it though, and that's all we can expect when I was running on adrenaline, fear and alcohol alone. I must be a passable actress though as I certainly don't think that came over - although admittedly this could have been the glow of vino rather than actual success.

I feel like my glory days of dating are over a bit - at university I dated all the time and it was no more significant a mark in my calendar than heading to the pub with friends. I don't know where the nerves come from (apart from the Stranger Danger aspect), as I have been told I'm a good date - polite, interesting, hopefully not too self-involved or rambly, offer to chip in etc. But maybe my little heart has been thrown around a little too much in the last couple of years, and my attitude has changed. But if I break it down to the basics, the whole process shouldn't be too traumatic: I essentially like sharing food and drinks with people and finding out a bit about them, all the good or bad impressions are just surplus. So that's how I'm going to try and see it from now on. No strings (heart or otherwise) to tangle up.

Know thy Enemy

2010-06-29T09:14:00.002+01:00

It's interesting to me that however many books and articles are written about men, how many Cosmo quizzes and pieces entitled What Men Want, What Men REALLY Want, and What Men Want You to Think They Want are churned out, there is still always a market for this 'insider information'. The generalisation of 'men' is nearly skipped over; they, as opposed to us, want certain things. They are animals, cavemen, an alien race. They need to be manipulated, seduced, decieved in order for us, the often-wronged party, to get what we ultimately want. I know there is still a readership for this frenzied speculation, because when a workmate sent me this link today, I clicked eagerly and scoured it for some useful new data on Why Men Do What They Do and How to Beat Them at It. What's funny is that this gender war is only really evident in print; I don't know that many women actually engaging in such media-advocated mind games. We're supposed to hold back and say certain things, not get in touch too much and under NO CIRCUMSTANCES mention weddings, babies or meeting parents - but most women I know just follow their instincts (or hormones) and turn into romantic fools, after which sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. Foolishness aside, my problem is I do still have faith in men, however much evidence life and Cosmo continue to throw at me. I still implicitly hope, if not believe, that when someone is being inconsistent, hurtful or confusing, that they themselves are just confused/busy/immature/having a hard time and will turn out to be perfectly-formed boyfriend material eventually.

Of course, being friends with boys throws a spanner in the works. If you've ever lived with men or just spent enough time at the pub with them, you'll have been privy to the sort of bluntly expressed mantalk which makes you despair for your lovelife. Coming from a family of four women and one fairly reserved man, I had been cocooned in a world where dates and relationships were only talked of in terms of hope and romance. 'It sounds like he really likes you,' we would coo, showing each other sonnet-like text messages and giving dreamy accounts of magical first dates. Even the bad boys were talked of with gentle fondness. Talk new relationships with your close, platonic male friends and you're speaking an entirely different dating language. 'She's alright,' they'll grunt. 'It's not a big deal but she's quite fun and her dad's got season tickets.' We're really just sleeping together', they'll say of the girl you saw glowing with excitement as she cooked him lasagne hours earlier. It's agony, because even if your friend is just a player or a bad egg, the current object of your affection could be saying the very same thing to their girl friend at that moment. And you know they're not a horrible person through and through, they wouldn't be your friend otherwise. It's the male capacity for early dismissal of a new love interest and their ability to keep up a romance while publicly declaring their indifference elsewhere. 'I know I'm not going to marry her, but it's ok for now' is another painfully common statement. But does she know that you're potentially wasting her time and emotional energy while you scout around casually for something more spectacular? I'm not saying women are never as badly behaved, but in my experience if they find themselves having lead someone on or having to let someone down, they do feel bad about it and try and get out as quickly and neatly as possible.

I think I've had enough varied man experience (and eavesdropping) to have a fairly rounded opinion of how they function. In their defence, it's usually the case that only someone very special is enough to lift them out of their wayward commitment-phobe habits. But I do agree that they need to let the non-specials know much earlier if they aren't invested. Much of the above Times article is utter bullshit:

What he says and what he means

Says: “Great to meet you.”
Means: “I didn’t love meeting you and probably won’t be calling.”

Well, this is just a little too easy. For British guys, in all probability this is just a polite reflex their mothers drummed into them as a child, plus if you were a friend of a friend or met online, maybe it really was great to meet you. I'm not going to go around slapping every dude who tells me I was nice to meet, anyway. Writer of this article and author of What The Hell is He Thinking?, Zoe Strimpel claims she spent 'almost a year' talking to a variety of men about their feelings and actions towards women in order to give us such titbits as these (cooking you dinner or watching a dvd early on are 'a studied, and not unenjoyable way of getting you to sleep with them.') But some of her findings, such as men going all out in the beginning in a desperate pursuit of love and attention, then cooling off as they process the long-term potential, join a lot of dots in the man-puzzle for me. In a collision of interpretation, women are taught by the fundamental sources of Disney and romantic novels that an immediate rush of gestures and words is a sure precursor to the L word. In turn, lots of (particularly young) men think they should go in all guns blazing but don't get around to doing the compatability mathematics in their head until much later. I think Strimpel is on to something here, not necessarily groundbreaking stuff, but a decent explanation for the 'mixed signals' dating epidemic currently sweeping my social circle. Strimpel does come across a little bitter in this piece, it's all bad intentions and worse communication, focusing entirely on male cowardice and insensitivity. There are a lot of lovely men out there (there are, there are, there are) who aren't just waiting for the next chance to make you feel stupid and irrationally attached. But my God, do they have their moments.

E is for Elegance

2010-06-28T17:41:00.000+01:00

When I'm wandering around London or at a glamorous party, my eyes are never drawn to the suited and booted gents around me, but always to the female of the species. This is not me coming out to the blogosphere; for kissing, dating and arguing with, I like boys. That's just me. But for sheer aesthetic satisfaction, it has to be women who win every time. It's probably because of the range of fashion options and physiques, whereas boys just have short or not-so-short hair and dark or not-so-dark jeans to work with. I've been enamoured by a number of women who have passed my way lately due to an elusive elegance that wafts along with them. It could be a symptom of my working in a far more corporate environment than I'm used to, but mainly it's because I have become less than elegant, and I aspire to be a lot more so. I hesitate to use the term 'let myself go', but I've certainly become a bit relaxed and blase to the way I eat, (skip) exercise and dress day-to-day. Not necessarily a crash in self-esteem, but a lack of anything to make me up my sartorial game. I am not naturally elegant, but I seem to have stopped trying to be, and this is what peturbs me.

A number of factors foil my attempts to join the E-list, and these are as follows: I am incurably clumsy (known as 'the spiller' amongst friends), prefer keeping my heels under my desk than braving the commute in a sleekpair of 4-inchers, I do not drive, therefore acquiring a flustered rosy glow on the trek to various chic destinations, I do not have a limitless bank balance (I know money shouldn't matter but with style it definitely helps) and alas, I am not of the pale, slender, high cheekboned, ravenous Eastern-European persuasion which bombards our perception of beauty. Actually the latter does not quite fit my own idea of elegance; it can be anything from exceptionally radiant skin to beautifully coiffed hair, stopping by cinched waists and gloriously classic handbags on the way. Beautifully pedicured feet in sandals, light golden or porcelain skin, a glimse of slender wrist in a simple bracelet or a little Smythson leather diary are all part of a very London-specific elegance.

I keep seeing effortlessly shift-dressed ladies, their (usually glossy brunette) hair piled up in a chignon - seriously, who in real life can put together a chignon at 7am? - sleek waxed legs lengthened by simple black or nude pumps, a tres-chic hint of perfume completing their aura. It's true, many of these women will also have the misfortune of being a UBH (Unfriendly Brunette Hottie), casting doubtful glances at frizzy-haired, flat-shoed bag ladies like myself as they grab a soy latte. But often they are smiley, chatting ladies with a spring in their step who are just that lucky. It may take a few more hours at the gym, some high-maintenance grooming and months of saving for a better handbag, but I am determined to take a few more steps towards this kind of urban elegance. I was definitely more gazelle-like a couple of years ago (when I was also brunette, incidentally, although hopefully a friendly species) and I'm sure it can't take too much willpower to head back that way.

Thandie is Chanel-clad, Moet-sipping, chignon-rocking elegance personified

UpDate...

2010-06-25T16:39:00.000+01:00

I've officially been online dating for a whole week now. Well, I haven't really in the sense that I haven't been on a date yet (the ettiquette appears to be a lot of back and forth messaging and covert sizing up of people first), but I'm out there and it's a work in progress. Maybe three or four interests so far, all with fairly interesting degrees and quirky profiles. I've mainly gone for mid-twenties, good looking (but not scarily adonis-like) cuties with a hint of geekiness and wit to their profile. Only one has already asked me out for a drink outright, but I'm happy with a bit of web chat for a while. I suddenly feel a bit self-conscious about the whole blind (well, I've seen a picture - visually impaired?) date thing. What if I'm not very interesting? What if they're nothing like they say? What if it's a total clash of peace-loving, unwashed barefoot hippie and high-maintenance me looking for a nice cocktail and a great view? I know I'll be employing my failsafe 911 tactic of having a friend on call to text if I need them to call me with 'bad news' so I have to dash out of there. In some ways you've got nothing to lose by going on such a date because you haven't had a chance to get excited about them as a person, but I also haven't had one in about a year and a half, so I feel rusty and useless.

Out of the 32 messages I've received from guys on the site, only four were from people I'd added as favourites, and the range of email subjects ranged from the standard 'Hi' to the more bizarre 'sup, fellow aspiring writer' and 'fancy taking the kitkat challenge?' I didn't stop to find out what the challenge was but I'm pretty sure it was a bit unsavoury. Lots of people have got the big comedy thumbs down (sorry overly sensitive readers,* but I'm not on there to be nice to weird strangers.) I haven't recieved any thumbs down but I have had a couple of my messages go unanswered (worse, I think). So it's not like I've whooshed in there and stolen lots of hearts, but it's ticking along quite well; it's heartening to log in now and again and see messages waiting. I'm still surprised by how great some of the men on there seem, very funny and successful - I think a lot of people are just there looking for a bit of a flirt in a city where much of your out of work time is spent wedged in a train with someone's armpit in your face, or being heckled by tramps. It's not the most romantic way I've been wooed, and it's fairly businesslike keeping on top of your mails and who's added you as a favourite, but there's something to be said for organised fun. Less painful uncertainty and less at stake, in some ways. I'd be interested to hear anyone's experiences of internet dating, all romances and horror stories welcome...

Ones to keep at bargepole distance:

Anyone! Who uses too much! Punctuation!!! Just sounds desperate/amphetamine-laced.

Or an overload of smiley faces. :) ;) :P Be a man.

The seriously, no-way-on-this-earth-are-you-a-day-under-forty thirty year old who just messaged me saying I had great pictures, but 'hope you don't run screaming from mine!' Sign me up.

Someone who wrote a boring three-liner about not knowing what to say in these messages, trying out the weather and plans for the weekend, before concluding that both approaches were rubbish. Yup.

Anything with too much self conscious LOLing at their own sentences. Nothing that funny - this is a weird pick-up scenario, so just try to sound as normal as possible. Shouldn't be too hard. Haha. Lol. Rofl.

*For the record, I am aware that I'm not perfection personified myself, but I don't think I should be agreeing to a date with people who come across as awkward, basement-dwelling or psychopathic just because it's nice to be nice. A couple of people have pulled me up on this, but I don't settle for average in my normal dating life, so I haven't lowered my standards for this approach. Plus so many males (the gender most critical of my attitude in this respect) treat women they're dating far worse when they do know them. I see it as being smart and assertive to be straight about what I'm looking for. I'm not just hunting for a perfect Action Man type, I'm scanning for a glimmer of humour and intellect, so it's not entirely superficial. If you've got a nice face and don't LOL your way through life, you've got a shot. Over and out.

Soul Food

2010-06-25T12:21:00.001+01:00

I finally caught up on last week's Jonathan Ross last night; amazing Glee cast interview, especially Amber Riley's acapella singing, but Alan Carr kicked Wossy's ass with his Chatty Man one by breaking into I've Had The Time of My Life with Matthew Morrison. Among other guests, JR also had Al Green - the Reverend Al Green, I should say. The soul sensation who brought us Let's Stay Together came across as totally bonkers, truly talented and above all, really, really happy. Like, prozac happy. Living a rock'n'roll lifestyle in his 70s heyday, Green 'found God' after his girlfriend committed suicide in 1974, subsequently becoming a pastor in 1976. After being injured while performing in 1979, he took it as a sign from God and stopped making his patented seduction music for many years, sticking instead to gospel. In the late 80s he saw sense (in his own words, he realised that without the 'good times' none of us would be here) and returned to performing his soul catalogue, even releasing an album in 2008 featuring duets with Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend.

As you know, I am an atheist and feel a little uncomfortable with the oversharing, preachy aspect of evangelist Christianity. Green's crediting of everything to God and the navigation of his life and career according to whatever he suspects this elusive being wants for him still grated a little, but it got me thinking. The music industry is a surreal place - so many legends are taken down by the sudden wealth, travel, access to drink and drugs, and a general elevation from the real world to the cloud nine of fame. Green's wide smile, still-soulful voice and his connection of his faith to spreading love, joy and great music was actually quite inspiring. He suggested that he would not be here without his faith, with a nod to late greats like Barry White and Marvin Gaye, but refused to say outright that he thought they should have chosen religion. On the year anniversary of Michael Jackson's death - perhaps the ultimate case of wealth and worship transporting an artist to their own disconnected realm of behaviour and habit - Al's fervour made me think, 'Good for him.' He found something that he felt to be real and worthwhile, and eventually found a way to reconcile his talent with doing good. As a pastor he baptises children, sings, preaches and entertains, in a way, but is happier in his church than on the path he had started down in the early 70s.

I've never particularly felt before that celebs 'finding God' or 'being saved' was anything other than annoying (not to mention cliched) but Reverend Al changed my mind a bit yesterday. If lost souls like Michael Jackson, Elvis and Janis Joplin had found something they felt to be a purpose, other than living up to their own iconic reputations, they might have stuck around a little longer. I browsed the web a bit to look into music legends that died young, and a couple of commenters & message boards have hinted that people are glad that we aren't watching Kurt Cobain or Jimi Hendrix get a beer gut, go bald and swap heroin for Earl Grey. I think that's the problem; fans feel like they own a person if they're high profile enough, and if their image belongs to the public, what do they have left? Michael Jackson obviously wanted a family even though he couldn't seem to form or sustain a normal relationship to do so, but his money meant he could strike a deal and essentially have someone breed for him. That's the kind of too much money, not enough reality I'm talking about here. Jacko was definitely into spreading the love and promoting kindness, but he was also caught up in his own image, the headiness of his millions and the extravagance of his lifestyle.

I suppose religion gives someone like this a sort of monastic perspective which means their hype and their bank balance don't matter, or if they do, not as much as God and the church and spreading the word. Looking at Al Green, smiley, relaxed, loving his music, enjoying his age, I felt a new positivity towards the abstract concept of God; it causes so much conflict all over the world but it also gives a lot of hope on a very small, personal scale. Maybe this omnipresent prozac is merely a placebo effect, but I think Al Green (about to embark on a UK tour with a healthy mind and still-sultry voice) is living proof that for some souls, it's worth being saved.

D is for Dating

2010-06-21T19:51:00.000+01:00

We don't really date, as a nation, and I think that's a shame. There is a bit of a suburban culture of one-at-a-time, orderly queue relationships, where it's considered somewhat exotic and experimental if you have a drink with more than one of the opposite sex in the same month. If us Brits did as the Yanks do and shop around a bit for a significant other (with no confusion about the casual nature of a single date) I think we would have better relationships and less painful break-ups. Due to the city pressures of careers, commuting and the sheer volume of human traffic, London in particular has started to embrace singles events, speed dating and the like in last couple of years. In the spirit of this new urban date market, I have decided to cast aside my closing-in-on-5 months of wallowing singledom and join a dating website.

Online dating? I hear you gasp. Surely this is for painfully awkward folk, those almost clinically inept at attracting a mate, or merely specimens with unnervingly lopsided faces? Well yes it is, in some ways - of which more later. But I've jumped on the bandwagon anyway. I felt my attitude towards online dating change gradually this year as I kept finding myself chatting to very normal, attractive, charming people who had given it a whirl and reported back with mixed, but often positive, experiences. A particularly attractive male acquaintance confided that he had tried most of the big sites, and admitted it was awkward at first but on the whole, great fun. A good female friend (who is a dating dream: bright, successful, pretty & interesting) was giving it a go and feeling boosted by the assertive nature of the process, and even one of the most straight-talking, no-nonsense girls I know was nosing into cyberspace in search of a hottie. Maybe it's the facebook revolution or perhaps people are just bored with pretending that we meet fantastic potential life partners every day, but it's no longer weird to approach your lovelife as you would an ASOS spree. So as a single, slightly bored blogger, I felt I needed a slice of the action too.

I plumped for MySingleFriend.com, highly recommended as the least intimidating and most relaxed UK dating site. Instead of trying to match you intensely based on life values and pet preferences, MSF aims to be more like a large online pub - you scout around for faces you think look nice, get the insider info on them from their friend, and 'favouritise' them much like a facebook poke. The idea to have a friend write your description is a stroke of genius - there are no cheesy 'I like walks on the beach, sunsets and a nice glass of Merlot' spiels, as well as it hugely taking the pressure off creating your profile. As a result of the recommend-a-friend system, there are no GSOHs or 'free-spirits', just a lot of quirky descriptions and jokey speculation as to why their single pal hasn't met the right person yet. On my first man search (a heady experience, shopping online for cute boys) I was surprised by the amount of passionately bromance-y descriptions by male friends, even more so by the amount of older sisters giving their hapless little bro a nudge onto the market, but most of all by how many friendly faces and witty profiles I actually came across.

Now, don't get me wrong, MSF is no Cosmo centrefold; there are plenty of nice guy/hopelessly lopsided face scenarios, and even a few tanned and waxed Adonises who appear to have clicked 'seeking a female' by mistake. But now and again you come across an interesting description, a lighthearted picture and a hook of some sort, be it an Anchorman quote, a PhD or a winning closing sentence. Considering I don't tend to go for muscley dreamboats so much as funny geeks, I was quite relieved to see the focus was firmly on personality. If nothing else comes of this experiment, it has proved a huge ego boost with minimal effort from me. I asked a friend to back up that I was not a psycho or a misanthrope, came clean about my musical theatre habit and lust for Greek food, stuck a couple of pictures up and went about my own business. On returning to my inbox 24 hours later, I had 30+ notifications that people had added me to their favourites, and even a few messages were coming in (some concise and witty, others stilted and cliche-ridden). So it's good to know I am not hideously malformed or tragically invisible. Granted, some of the aforementioned facial landslides were among those singling me out as a possible match, but as part of the well-organised wonder that is MSF, you can send a delightfully crisp and cruel 'Thanks, but no thanks' message to any real Quasimodos. It's actually a bit nicer than it sounds, more 'I don't think we're a good match but good luck with your search and all that', but it does mark the rejected party's messages with a cartoon thumbs down sign, clearly separating the tasty wheat from the dating chaff.

So what have I learned in part one of the saga? A good male friend took the time to say that I'm quite a nice person (I blushed a little), 60 random males took the time to click on my profile and liked what they saw enough to add me as a favourite (woo-ha) and I learned just what my bizarre and fairly shallow manhunting criteria are, doing it as I was sober and from the comfort of my sofa. In short, nice face - tick, good smile - tick, too much sport - no thanks (they'll only be disappointed at my lack of ineffectual berating of little men on TV), too much travelling/skydiving/shark-wrestling - next, any mention of food loving - on the right track, bad spelling - chaff, chaff, chaff, and any admission of guilty pleasure films or TV are also surprisingly attractive amongst hundreds desperate to look cultured. I am being a little brutal, but that's the great thing - you never have to meet these people or worry about crushing their feelings so you can judge away on first glance. Knowing how to sell yourself (and having a witty friend) goes a long way on this site, so it will be very interesting to see how profiles compare with the real product... if I ever stop hiding behind my laptop and actually accept a date with any of these virtual suitors.

My top tip so far would be ALWAYS look at the 'secondary' pictures as well as the one on the profile. Some people just have one very flattering shot (or have gone for black and white, moody lighting or a good angle) and their further shots are nothing short of horrifying. I'm also watching out for anyone who has 'possible marriage material' selected as one of their personality traits; I don't care if their friend ticked it, it's totally weird for a man not to appear shrouded in commitment-phobia at first and it actually isn't what women want to be hit with before they've even met the bloke. There are also a few 'thirty year olds' who have either spent a large proportion of those years chain-smoking in bright sunlight, or are in fact not thirty at all. No one said it wouldn't be a minefield, but just like a Wetherspoons on a Friday night you have to dodge the old creepies, sidestep the court jesters and keep an eye out for the cute advertising exec at the bar with a nice glass of red. Next stop: testing out the actual dating bit...

C is for Controversy

2010-06-15T12:24:00.000+01:00

So, apparently I caused a bit of a rumpus in Glamour HQ this morning.

I casually tweeted Glamour magazine's editor, Jo Elvin (@jo_elvin) some thoughts on their June Women of the Year issue; namely that I had been a bit unimpressed by Lily Allen opening the section with a somewhat self-pitying attitude. As we all know, Lily's tired of the limelight and wants to retreat into 'oblivion' and have lots of babies. So far, so good - more power to her. But in the context of a section filled with witty, successful celebs like Ruth Jones, Zoe Saldana and Lea Michele, all at the top of their game, her moany interview just went down like a lead balloon with me. Anyway, Jo wrote a blog post on their website defending Lily from those criticizing her life choices. I can see how my comment suggested it, but I don't actually have a problem with Lily's bid for domesticity. I do however, have a problem with her own 'issues' with fame, stardom and a few grand in the bank - issues she feels compelled to press on us every chance she gets.

I like Lily; in a sea of PR-savvy schmaltz, she really is refreshingly honest. But when presented with an award voted for by thousands of readers, I'm sorry, you just suck it up and say thank you. Her response didn't seem to say that at all. Instead she criticized the public ('people have stopped buying music'), the media (particularly 'the image we're sold of beauty' - by magazines like Glamour, Lil?) and basically everyone who's got her to where she is today. Because she doesn't seem to like where she is, even if that is at the top of the charts, the awards shortlists and the style pages.

I just felt disappointed that someone could be offered a lovely photo shoot, an interview with the editor-in-chief, and ANOTHER award, and still feel compelled to re-iterate their boredom and disillusionment with their situation. It's not exactly the worst of the worst, after all. And yes, Lily, we get that you're all loved up right now, but I really didn't need to hear you witter on about getting your man's dinner on the table in time for him getting home after football. I, personally, don't think that's very inspirational (or even relevant) in a woman's magazine, in a section about great female celebs. I do agree with Jo Elvin that a woman's right to choose between dizzy heights or washing his whites is important and should be respected, but I just don't think Lily proved herself a great choice by being so negative and melodramatic about her own stardom.

Picture This

2010-06-07T16:32:00.000+01:00

I read the news every day, partly to generate blog ideas and partly just because I like to keep up. I do buy papers but I tend to promiscuously read all of their websites on weekdays (Buy papers! Jobless journos and failing publications everywhere!) and they are very useful when it comes to getting up-to-the-minute news on current events. In an intriguing and macabre fashion, you could follow the hunt for Cumbria killer Derrick Bird last Wednesday, as the news sites kept a moment to moment account of any police information. Similarly political announcements, such as the first coalition press conference and today's speech on the budget deficit, are reported live online. I'm a bit of a comments freak (as you may be aware, I do read my own ;) and I tend to scroll down, particularly on opinion pieces, to see what people have to say. It's interesting as it provides an insight into a site's readership, general public opinion and the reasons people have for commenting at all. If it's a lighthearted article, the wit of the readers can add to or even surpass it, whereas on serious news stories you get the vitriol or the sympathy of the public and often the debate between them.

Recently, I have started to notice a real distaste for the way some of the more respected papers have published particularly grim stories on their websites. Not the words chosen, though - the pictures. Last week, the breaking news of shootings in Cumbria was accompanied by a picture of a concerned policeman radioing information while a blanket-covered body lay just visible in the background, behind crime scene tape. Immediately the comments began, demanding to know why Sky News were putting up a picture of a victim. It was distasteful, heartless and tacky, they cried. People seemed more distressed by the pictures than the unfolding events. People seemed to be saying they had opened a news page only to read and imagine the information, and that the visual evidence was a step too far.* As far as I remember, there have always been appalling images to accompany alarming news reports, from desperate businessmen jumping from the smouldering twin towers to the footage of teenager Neda Soltani dying in the street after being hit by a bullet during the Iranian protests last year.

Today's sad news that twin baby girls had been mauled by a fox that had managed to get into their house was met with dismay, not only because of the essential tragedy of the story, but due to The Times' leading picture of their mother's face, crumpled with devastation. I do think this picture, like the innocent victim's body, is uncomfortable to look at, but sometimes the world is an uncomfortable place. There were no pictures of the infants' injuries, obviously, and no tabloid-sensationalist description save a few clinical comments on the sites of the wounds (face, arms). The only visual they could go for was presumably a shot of the family house, the hospital they are being treated at, or the parents. As the story centred around the mother's comment on her daughters' condition and the incident itself, I don't think this was an invasion of her private grief - just a shocking image to summarise a shocking story. She obviously felt ready to express her worry and sadness to the press, and I find it hard to see how a visual confirmation of her quoted statement could offend. Perhaps I am oddly resilient; I didn't feel disgusted at Sky's use of the Cumbria photo - which was also used on either the Guardian or Times website, it's near impossible to find archived 'breaking news' - as I felt it summed up the serious nature of the case and was probably one of the first or only images from the scene. What were they supposed to have, a Sun-style 'this is what a gun looks like, folks' illustration? I remember first learning the word propaganda in high school history, and spending hours analysing the choice of pictures in home and foreign press in the past. A picture can hit you with the story much faster than the text, and it is an important part of the story in my opinion, far more than being simply decorative.

I would be interested to hear if you think a certain level of unpleasant image should be left out of the news. Maybe some people read the 'highbrow' publications to hear only very brisk, factual accounts of current affairs, and avoid the emotive nature of tabloid fare. Even if this were so, I fail to see what could be more factual and straight from the source than a photograph. What of the war, genocide, violence and natural disaster that happen all over the world? Maybe we wouldn't feel the full weight of the story or attempt to help in some way without being faced with the grim pictoral evidence. When I was working at a tabloid around the time of the Haiti earthquake, they filled a two-page spread with the image of a child's body being thrown on a pile of corpses as locals attempted to to clear the streets, along with a moving first-hand report of the devastation. This is probably one of the more horrific photos I've seen used, but I bet it stopped a few fatcats from wealthier countries in their tracks. When people die from drug abuse or drink driving, relatives sometimes have the strength to give a photo of their dying or dead loved one to the papers in the hope that it might make people think twice and prevent more needless deaths. I don't believe it's a sick voyeurism that puts these images online and in print, but the media's basic function as a transmitter of information. We are very lucky to have an uncensored press, and I for one don't think the desire of a few people to bury their heads in the sand during dark times is reason enough to remove the important aspect of photography from our news.

*Incidentally, if I search the original news stories I cannot find the image I am referring to - perhaps the voice of the people won in this case? There is a similar shot on the NY Daily News site as the of the shockwaves of the shootings continue to be reported.

B is for Britain

2010-06-03T10:31:00.001+01:00

We all seem to have a daily rant here in Britain about the rubbishness of the weather, the transport, the politicians and the chavs, but I have to say I bloody love this country. Not in an English-flag brandishing, football-loutish or snobbishly imperialistic way, but in that I'm happy being here most of the time. I don't share the now-fashionable obsession with emigrating to sunnier climes (although it's amazing to get away and I would love to live abroad temporarily) but I do have what is better described as an overwhelming fondness than a fierce patriotism for this sceptred isle.

It's easy to forget the fundamental joys of living in a developed Western country, but of course they are many - freedom of speech, equality, democracy and an uncorrupt justice system. But it's the littler things, those you miss at the end of a holiday, that warm my heart on a regular basis. The politeness - I have been told by more than one non-Brit than our pleases and thank yous are excessively and unnecessarily used, but I appreciate every little piece of verbal etiquette that comes my way. Yes, we apologise when someone else bustles into us, and often to entirely inanimate objects, but it's a compulsion that makes us loveable. I love the amount of satire in our press and on TV, especially the topical panel shows such as Have I Got News For You where no-one and nothing is too sacred for examination. I enjoy our eccentrics (even the Royal Family for their entertainment value) and traditions, and personally think we have a pleasant balance of conservative and liberal minds. I enjoy a cup of tea on a drizzly day while snuggled inside on a sofa. Sunshine puts me in a great mood, but 365 days of roasting heat a year leaves no room for seasonal contrast or variety, from your wardrobe to your leisure activities. Can you imagine being without the glorious novelty of a beer garden in summer, or a snowball fight in winter? We appreciate jetting off somewhere warm so much more for having such an unpredictable climate here. I love the smalltalk, the wit, the humour and the diversely styled fashionistas. I enjoy our straight-talking celebs more with every bland Hollywood soundbite from a US star, and the irreverence of our entertainment TV and awards shows. The history and culture of London is far superior to so many tourist destinations, we just find it hard to see that when we're so close to the action.

From our offbeat advertising to our disloyalty to political parties (the 'Ok, show me what you've got' approach to this year's election was truly impressive) and our ability to laugh at our own failings, from teen mums to snobbery, is what makes Britain unique. In some ways - mostly financial - we could be described as Broken, but in essentials we are flourishing. I like that a grown man can be reduced to tears by the kick of a ball and someone convinced they are Yoda or Jesus can get on their soapbox at Speaker's Corner without being moved on. In the next 24 hours I will definitely complain about the weather, become enraged by fellow commuters and needlessly mock a public figure, but deep down I'm happy that by random chance and good luck, I happen to live here.

When Derrick Bird shot twelve people on a seemingly motiveless killing spree in Cumbria yesterday, the reports were not met with sad resignation as a sign of the times. There were and are ripples of outrage, numbed shock and furious questioning in every paper, on every website and around every watercooler in the country. Do we ever stop and appreciate that such large-scale and tragic violence is a distinct rarity here? Sometimes it's hard to remember amongst the tax moans and the MP gags, but from high school shootings to Taliban-esque restrictions, terror and violence is part of the everyday for so many people around the world. That's not to say it is any less tragic that twelve innocents have been killed by one selfish man determined to punish the world for his misfortunes; simply that we should look around us once in a while and reconsider our disdain for this little piece of earth.

Thin Skin

2010-06-01T16:30:00.000+01:00

I came across this piece today about Mariella Frostrup's apology to the editors of Radio 4's Today programme for calling them misogynists. Another hot-headed woman, I thought briefly and unconsciously, before looking into the story behind her accusation (like you've never fleetingly cursed 'Bloody woman driver', girls!) Turns out Today editor Ceri Thomas had hinted in an interview that the reason there weren't more female presenters in his line of work is simply that men have the thicker skin and therefore the employable edge to deal with the pressures of the job. What he said was this, essentially that women should have a place on the BBC but probably not on the Today programme, as it's really scary and tough and they might cry. Now, I can see how this was very tactless, especially as he works in the media, but perhaps the exceptional thickness of his very manly skin has numbed any sensitivity to such matters.

Here's a surprise though: I agree with him a bit. Not with the 'all women', but with the 'why not as many women appear on confrontational current affairs shows' bit. I'm a woman, and as a very tiny percentage of the population (and a small percentage of the media-career-inclined) I can tell you with no hesitation that I'd be too fragile and emotional for that kind of full-on daily environment. Most women I know are not ambitious enough, or conversely they're smart enough, to avoid any job where they may end up in rehab, heart-attack territory or simply hiding in the toilets in tears. That isn't necessarily to say we have thinner skin, although I secretly agree with that too - of which more later.

Jennie Bond, who apart from the curious 'ie' choice of name spelling has the hardy air of an ex-Olympian about her anyway, dismissed Thomas's comments as "complete bollocks" (interestingly gendered choice of words there) and quite correctly stated:

"I reported extensively for the Today programme and presented it for three years. It's tough, it's hard and it's challenging but of coursewomen can present it."

The point, I feel, is not that they physically can, but that they aren't. Most of the gals are going for cushy daytime sofas and entertainment reporting because it's fun, full of perks and they are less likely to be depicted as a stone-cold harridan in the media. Who wants that sort of pressure that early in the day anyway? Men, in my humble experience, seem more inclined to go for such 'challenging' (read: often unbearable) positions - they are less likely than women to weigh up home and work life, personal and professional happiness, and health and success before taking a promotion or new job.

"Women have a different way of having a thick skin," said presenting veteran Joan Bakewell when asked her views by The Guardian. Bakewell was dubbed the original 'thinking man's crumpet' after daring to be both a talented journalist and a regulation hottie (it's a bit of a sexist industry, in case you're not up to speed.)

"It's amazing how you can get your own way without being confrontational. Women are good at analysing how to tell a story. Don't you get tired of all those clashes [on the Today programme]? Look at Prime Minister's Questions. I think it's probably intolerable for any woman to watch that without hating all politicians. Women are bad at it [shouting at the dispatch box] basically because they don't like doing it, and it isn't the only way to do things, it genuinely isn't."

I quote Bakewell so heavily here because, crumpet or not, it's the sanest viewpoint I've read on the subject so far. Not wildly defensive, a la Frostrup (even when retracting her misogynists comment, she mainly conceded that the Today editors were 'not demons') and not blithely in agreement either. She simply iterates that women have a different approach that is valuably used elsewhere; I think, for example, that women make better interviewers for print. I dislike Jeremy Paxman but can appreciate his battering-ram function in the media sphere. Sometimes 'thin skin' makes for wonderfully perceptive journalism. My very first work experience placement was on the late Richard and Judy show, which I loved - live and packed with crazy segments, debate and guests of all backgrounds, the reason it worked was the combination of Madeley's rhino-skin pushiness and Finnigan's more patient and paced interview style. From this and many other media encounters, I learnt the valuable difference between trying to be a man in a man's world and using your innate femininity to get that bit more out of a situation. Would a male interviewer have boldly gone far as Caitlin Moran in her recent sensational profile of Lady Gaga, or would he have sat opposite her, barking questions and jotting down notes on the size of her thighs while half-listening to her answers?

I fear we may have become so fixated on total gender equality that the facts of our (sometimes wonderful) differences must be hushed up. Men and women are different, not in terms of either being harder, better, faster or stronger, but in having different skills and strengths. Nearly all stem logically from primal instincts (compassion, aggression, patience) and although there are always individual exceptions, look around in any workplace and you will see a lot of male focus and drive at work alongside a lot of female negotiation and diplomacy.

I am always eager to be proved wrong though, so if you are a woman who is ferociously determined to get to the front line (of journalism, management, politics, Afghanistan) please do comment with your thoughts.

Homos and fauxmos and straights, oh my!

2010-05-28T12:10:00.000+01:00

One huge thing I've learnt in the single patches of my tempestuous dating life is that men are tricky. When you're young you're taught that boy will meet girl (eyes across a crowded room), say hi, be lovely - and single - and love will blossom in the blink of an eye. Not so. Noughties males seem to make the already baffling task of meeting a decent specimen much harder than it needs to be, not least because sexuality has become so flexible. Some social scenarios are easy to navigate; last week I went to the fabulous West End Eurovision, and I knew I didn't need to bother with looking hot in a squealing sea of gay men and dancey girls. But, confusingly, there's such a thing as the Gay Straight Man; I once worked with a gorgeous guy at a kids' summer camp, and was convinced he was flirting with me... until I added him on facebook and checked out the photos of him at a recent Gay Pride event. Many just don't go for the tank tops and hair product, and there's nothing more embarassing than thinking you were having a frisson with someone who was merely checking out the darling embroidery on your cardi. Please see Sue Sylvester's 'Sneaky Gays' rant for further disapproval.

Fauxmosexuals are even harder to spot - these are very well-dressed straight men who play up to the Gay Best Friend-type relationship (bitching, gossiping, hugs) and then BAM! hit you with the news that they actually like girls, usually by launching themselves at you. Goodbye potential GBF and hello bafflement. And don't even get me started on Bromance. Our formerly boisterous and marginally homophobic straight friends are now free to frolick with their boy pals, cry, hug and jump on each other in a non-rugby context without any censure. This is beautiful of course, and I would never want to turn back the clock, but then what chance do potential girlfriends stand? If their mancrush doesn't like you, you're out. If you hang in there, chances are your new boyf would rather cosy up with him of a weekend. The boundaries have changed, and we don't always enjoy it. 'Metrosexual' I have a bit of a problem with - is this not just another word for 'preening git'? By all means guys, spray tan, manicure and guyliner yourself into the blurry area between gay and straight, but I certainly won't be going there. Who wants a boyfriend who can lend you organic lipbalm and a tiny mirror at a moment's notice?

Mixing in drama circles, you'll find the tiny percentage of straight men are bursting to prove their hetero virility between trills and pliés. They'll hit on anything in a skirt to boost their fragile ego (yes, the jig is up, we all know you were the fat/spotty/weedy kid in school) while certainly having a covert girlfriend, and being a thespian, having the ability to pull out any line at any time to charm you. So the point is, I'm puzzled. Single life seems shark-infested right now, as I lose track of the types I need to mentally cross off the list. There seem to be so few simple, unbaggaged, nice men out there available for a straightforward drink and a no-surprises flirt. I've had enough drama for one year and am in the market for some smooth sailing. Although for now, the (non-sneaky) gays are perfect for drinking and dancing your troubles away with...

A is for Age

2010-05-26T15:32:00.000+01:00

I haven't really felt my age since I was about 18. I feel like very little has changed for me since then, although I know I must be a little wiser and perhaps calmer than I was.

These unretouched pictures of Madonna's latest campaign for Louis Vuitton are circulating online, and they made me think about how skewed our visual perception of age has become. My sophisticated first reaction of OH MY GOD, WHAT'S HAPPENED TO MADONNA'S FACE?? surely can't be right, when after a moment of consideration the answer is clear - time.

On third glance, she actually looks fabulous for a 51 year old woman (with some hefty cosmetic procedures on her side) minus the airbrushing - why does LV need to go one extra step to de-age her by a quarter of a century? Of course this is the way we've been trained to receive and appreciate advertising, but we all know how old Madonna is - especially those who danced to her 80s tracks as clubbers in their twenties, but have mysteriously zoomed past her in terms of their physical ageing. It's no secret, but she and we are happy to collude in the 'Madonna looks so great' myth. The overwhelming feeling I get from the raw pictures is tiredness, sheer exhaustion. Not due to age perhaps, but to the titanic effort of maintaining her everlasting youth. The teenage boho hair, the leotards, the dewy make-up, the playful bunny ears are all part of the theatrics.

The interesting thing about the brand she represents is that Louis Vuitton is a classic label. It represents wealth, maturity, the security of being able to buy their luxe leather goods to travel with. Couldn't they have unveiled a new Madonna with a more fifty-plus look tailored to her own style and image? She is, after all, the queen of reinvention. In the re-touch Vuitton have not only de-aged her, but feminised her - note the sculpting away of arm muscle and softening of expression. They aren't fully celebrating the defiant, bordering-on-bionic Madonna, but giving us a completely different person than the icon photographed.

I do agree that you're only as young as you feel, and I admire Madge's energy and determination that her life and career shouldn't need to slow down after fifty. But I do think other celebs manage to stay in the limelight while still looking fabulously middle-aged in it - it's a hard time for those who have built their career around their body or face. Age can be a beautiful thing, if you're at one with the self that remains: in your mind, your conversation, your laugh. I can't see myself filling my cheeks and forehead with every type of silicone and poison available to me post-fifty, but who knows - I'll get back to you when my face starts to collapse.

Alpha Female

2010-05-26T13:07:00.000+01:00

A-Z tag.There are 26 letters in the English alphabet. Think of something you love, or something important to you starting with each letter of the alphabet and post 26 corresponding blogs.

I shamelessly stole this from another great blog - I'll be interspersing my Alphabet topics with my usual ramblings. I'm not usually short of ideas but it'll be a nice challenge and motivate me to post more...

Let's not get Carrie-d away...

2010-05-25T10:55:00.000+01:00

With this Friday's release of the second Sex and the City film, there has been a bit of a media backlash against Carrie and co as people begin to tire of the glamorous foursome's adventures. The fabulous Stylist magazine (that I love a little more with every issue)has a four-page feature on why men don't get SATC - it's vapid, banal and wildly unfeminist, apparently - and The Guardian's Hadley Freeman this week slates the first film while casually dropping spoilers and judgements on the second (which, it must be noted, she has not seen yet.)

I find it all very amusing that people get so hot under the collar about a little 90s HBO entertainment; I cringe a bit when people declare that SATC changed the world, and I bristle when they dismiss it as misogynist tripe, but mainly because (until Hadley) no one has really made a distinction between the series and the film. They are very different creatures, but in my experience fans of the show tend to adore the first film, and those who always hated the concept were equally unimpressed by SATC on the big screen. I enjoyed both in different ways, but I have to agree with Freeman that the the original TV series was sharp, witty and gritty yet chic. It went from fairly realistic (Carrie's frizzy bob, Sam's hoochy lycra) to uber-glam (bigger budgets, better labels, chicer styling), but all the while maintained its key weapons - snappy dialogue and pacy storylines.

It was groundbreaking, if not revolutionary, because it tackled abortion, cheating, and STDs with aplomb, never once giving them a palettable Hollywood gloss. There was dark humour, discomfort, and real sadness as well as bad puns and outrageous outfits. One of the reasons I've always found it compelling is the acting; as well as most American dramas and sitcoms having predictable dialogue, fairytale storylines and sanitised humour, they are also generally acted in the most attractive way possible (if that makes sense.) I will stick my neck out and say that I think Sarah Jessica Parker is an extraordinary actress; when Carrie cries, most women will too. Her ability to sacrifice lightness and glamour for a crushing narrative moment is rare. I appreciate that she is not conventionally attractive - while not worthy of being constantly portrayed as the direct opposite to viagra in the male mind (or as 'looking like a foot' in Family Guy) - I think she has a glow and an animation on screen (specifically as Carrie) that women are drawn to. The girl's got charisma.

As well as Samantha's HIV test and the erectile dysfunction ruining Charlotte's perfect marriage, the SATC writers domesticated modern things rarely seen on the US small screen - women smoking, the gay club scene, non-maternal ladies having babies and a plethora of weird sexual preferences. Yet I have never felt it to be gratuitously shocking; the show basically took the freakshow that is the world of dating and relationships and laid it bare. Men like those writing in Stylist choose to focus on the cocktail chats about sex lives and the amount of shoes Carrie owns (a relatively small part of the narrative, if you've ever sat through one continuous episode) but there was a whole other level to the TV show. These women were work and friendship first, and romance was generally something that they fit around those two things - an approach I and many others admired. In suburban Surrey, looking for an ambitious single girl is a bit of a needle/haystack scenario - domestic bliss has swung right back into vogue and everyone seems to be settling down. Take the 30 minute trip into London and you'll find plenty of perfectly pretty, lovely, witty single girls juggling dating with the many other things they want. Toby Young's assertion in the Stylist article that women inspired by the SATC girls shouldn't expect a boyfriend or a marriage as they have merely been duped into a no-strings, promiscuous lifestyle seems way off base to me. Most women still want the lovely traditional things our parents and grandparents had, we just want to live a bit first. The choice to wait and shop around in order to find the best relationship for you is an exciting prospect for those who didn't find Mr Right in week one of our dating life, and the more you date the more you realise that life does go on after a relationship ends. You see the flaws, you learn from the mistakes and you carry on better equipped to make a new one work.

Carrie's writing also inspired me because she looked out for something that was in the air that week, being mulled over at brunch, in the celeb world or in her own life, and tackled it as a cultural trend. I never minded the puns, the neurotic girlfriend behaviour or the sometimes terrible style choices because that's who she was - imperfect, especially when it came to men, and that was much more engaging than any of the glossy women of Friends or Desperate Housewives. Equally, Miranda was the first female lawyer I had seen in fiction, and very realistically the writers made her great at her job but consequently a little frazzled, intimidating to men and struggling to juggle family bereavements and motherhood with work. Samantha's character is a bit of high camp which I can't believe SATC's critics take so seriously - I have never met a woman like her, and the best way I've heard her described is as 'a gay man in a woman's body.' There isn't as much of a market out there for famously promiscuous women as the show would have you think, but it's a bit of fun and allows for most of the funny sex stories and frank conversations that are its hallmark - and she is as much about her career as her sex life (especially poignant in the episode where they discuss women crying at work.) I do think talking openly about sex is the way to go for better relationships and less teen pregnancies, so she was a good role model in that sense at least. And Charlotte is the perfect example of the dangers of the Prince Charming dream that no real relationship can live up to. But her optimism and Miranda's cynicism made the show an interesting debate about what women want, expect and actually get in life.

I think that the follow-up films have taken on a life of their own. I won't say that the SATC creators have created a monster, as I think they've stayed true to much of the original charm, but they have definitely sacrificed the integrity of a cult series in favour of more cash. Like most fans, I loved the way SATC broke off ever so coolly after just six seasons (when they could have done ten), leaving the girls in various stages of happy-ever-after, but with plenty of compromise as well as romance. I didn't need to know how it went with Carrie and Big, but then along came the film franchise to ram that down my throat. As a separate story I enjoyed film 1; I cried, chuckled and enjoyed the ride... and I also felt a bit let down by the things the characters settled for: an insecure fiancee, a giant penthouse, a cheating husband. But you could argue that this is a dose of realism - women do have to forgive things and compromise more the older they get, so it was fairly reflective of reality.

Film 2 looks more like a 'romp' - uh oh - so I fear it may damage the memory of a great show even further. The forty and fiftysomething women are looking freakishly youthful, even Big's had one too many eye lifts, and the whole hysterical 'getting away with the girls' thing just seems tragically unrealistic - I would have liked to see them getting more middle aged, buying a Slanket, catching up over tea and talking about the menopause. Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte were real women in so many ways (periods, laser eye surgery, grey pubic hairs and all) in the TV show, but the whole movie franchise has descended into glitzy madness. I will probably still see the sequel, but I will also feel a little sad to see a concept that was so original becoming just another cash cow.

The straight-talking girls back in series 2...

...and unrecognisable behind the labels and airbrushing.

*Since writing the above, two interesting pieces have come out about the backlash....

1) Laurie Penny for the New Statesman on the death of 'sex-and-shopping feminism'

2) Lindy West for The Stranger on her utter, extreme boredom with the whole concept (warning: contains unsavoury language and imagery - also may cause pant-wetting)

Both interesting - the first because it analyses why SATC2 is so irrelevant to most women at this point (although who would go and see a film about 'the lives and problems of ordinary women', I have no idea.) The second hits on the bizarre choice of Abu Dhabi as a getaway location, and the fact that so much of SATC's material is fantasy because it is 'essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls.' So both point out that the film is escapist fantasy, but also suggest that we shouldn't want to see or enjoy this. I don't mind a bit of fiction in my fiction films, but I do see their (especially West's) scathing point about very privileged women moaning about the minutiae of their expensive lives being fairly unrelatable to me and my friends, here and now. Betcha it still makes a ton at the box office though...

** Andrew O'Hagan of the Evening Standard read my mind and tackled the 'escapism' question... touché.

The heart of the matter

2010-05-20T12:44:00.001+01:00

Stephen Fry recently tweeted a link to this letter to a local Vermont newspaper. The Valley News apparently receives regular letters from Vermont's aggressively Christian/conservative residents about the 'homosexual menace' they perceive to be infecting their fine community. Eventually a local mother of a gay man wrote this passionate missive to contradict - and reason with - the prejudiced group. It is very striking (Fry admitted it made him cry) and well written; not necessarily because the writer is superbly educated, gifted or has a better point - although she does - but because it is simply and logically expressed and comes straight from deeply-felt personal experience.

I just thought I'd pass it on as it is a perfect example of how to express your point without resorting to overly emotional or defensive tactics - this is the kind of writing I'd be proud to produce. I know mine isn't flawless (as some readers kindly remind me on a weekly basis) but I'm still learning and developing my opinions, and I hope that in time I can get somewhere near this level of eloquence.

It also put me in mind of this post, and the fact that tolerance does work both ways. I wouldn't want someone to have to hide their sexuality in the workplace (although like religion, I believe your business is your business) so even I learned something important reading it. A good link to pass on to any anti-gay acquaintances you might have, religious or not - sometimes people have to see a human example to make a move towards acceptance.

Spellbound

2010-05-18T16:08:00.000+01:00

To make my desk days whizz by, I often browse around for funny sites that are a great read, so I don't just find myself tweeting constantly like some chronic oversharer [note to some... if you find yourself tweeting the words 'Note to self', stop and think for a moment. You have misunderstood the basic function of Twitter.] Some recent gems I have found include Over the Rainbitch - an endlessly spot-on critique of the Andrew Lloyd Webber casting show - the deliciously dark confessional Postsecret, and the latest, AwkwardFamilyPhotos. This last one is utter genius; people send in anonymous family photos that range from the bizarre to the heavily posed, and we all laugh at them. They are excellently captioned (although the messy blog-style site could do with a makeover) and accompanied by a thread of awkward stories. The stories are more hit and miss, but several, including an intense set of instructions for a family Thanksgiving meal and an equally asphyxiating birthday celebration itinerary, are just brilliant. Although quite America-specific, they celebrate the weirdness of families and their unintentional hilarity.

AFP's creators posted an email a while ago from a reader named Greg, who had sent them some fairly constructive criticism about the website. Unfortunately he had done so with very few words spelt correctly and, unforgivably, even suggested that they re-think their 'righting'. This sparked an epic surge of comments, many mocking the hapless Greg for his idiocy (often ironically in cackhanded online 'righting' themselves) some defending him, lots finding the colossal reaction to a little mispelling completely baffling. I do agree that lots of people suspend accuracy for their internet comments, tweets and statuses, but this was an email, and a formal critique at that. Shouldn't that have warranted a little care? I feel bad for him (and a little admiring, reading his razor-sharp follow-up), but I also feel that even the most valid point is dented when spelling and grammar is abandoned. Not only did the Gregster fail to see the comic potential of his email, but he sounded like a raving hypocrite. Emphasis on the raving.

Spelling and grammar are slipping ever closer to extinction - I read Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots and Leaves recently and sympathised with her exasperation. I know the wily pair don't come naturally to everyone, so some people have to put more time in and check their writing a little more carefully, but essentially, it's practice. I don't like overly pedantic people [especially vicious little anonymous twerps who comment on my every slip - yes you, arseface] but if we all stopped caring and thought, 'They'll know what I mean", no one would ever write anything compelling. I'm immediately turned off by writing with mistakes in it, from national newspapers to short online comments, and it inevitably undermines the writer's core message because it screams laziness if not stupidity. The immediacy of the internet is a wonderful thing, but how are younger generations going to learn to read and write correctly if such breezy inaccuracy is the norm online? It is vital to most jobs, especially when securing deals and seducing clients via email. In many a magazine office I've worked in, journalists either laugh at or swiftly discard badly spelt or nonsensical press releases; I know PR is a fast-paced environment, but you're selling something - at least run it by the spellcheck.

I would be interested to know which camp people are in: is it only us hardcore language fans still devoted to the preservation of the correctly-placed apostrophe? Do we need to chill out, or do the spelling culprits need to sharpen up? I'm not sure, but I do know I'll be proofreading this one to death.

Set the Mood

2010-05-12T12:53:00.000+01:00

Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life ~Berthold Auerbach

After my iPod recently passed away (an unfortunate incident with a sports-cap bottle of mineral water in my bag) I was iPodless for about a week. After plenty of iMourning and just a little iRage, I decided I couldn't live without my choons and purchased a new model nano - I was replacing one of those little square flat ones, my fourth mp3 player - and set about putting the music back in my life.

The thing about music is, if I'm having a bad day, a little iPod fix can turn it all around. I never realise how much I use this little device for inspiration, motivation, therapy and escape until I am without one for a while. I realised it more than ever as my camera and phone were also taken out by the mini-flood, and I missed my mobile soundtrack the most. I am a total playlist freak and am always making those 'On the Go' ones on the way to things. Today I made a workout one as I resolved to start using my work gym; I have chillout lists and glamming up lists and tidying lists galore. Many would just put their iPod on shuffle, but I feel the few minutes it takes to put together a playlist mean you have exactly the right ambience to promote energy, efficiency, happiness or relaxation. A misplaced track can be jarring, jolting you out of whatever state you have carefully lured yourself into. A playlist means old and new music and genres of every kind all coming together with only their attitude to connect them.

Here are some excerpts from the playlists that rock my world - I've had to use the third more times than I care to mention...

Workout (Think pop remixes, angry pop/rock & club collaborations)
Starry Eyed - Ellie Goulding
My Favourite Game - The Cardigans
Pump It - Black Eyed Peas
Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon
When Love Takes Over - David Guetta ft. Kelly Rowland
Hounds of Love - Kate Bush
Telephone - Lady Gaga
The Creeps - The Freaks
Untouched - The Veronicas
In Your Eyes - Kylie Minogue

House Party (Blasts from the past, seductive riffs, a general sense of mayhem)
Stripper - Sohodolls
Daft Punk is Playing at My House - LCD Soundsystem
Butterfly - Crazytown
No, No, No - Destiny's Child
Love Sex Magic - Justin Timberlake/Ciara
Let me Think About It - Fedde Le Grande
Higher Ground - Red Hot Chilli Peppers
Why Don't You - Gramophonedzie
Run This Town - Jay Z ft. Rihanna
Ooh La La - Goldfrapp

Getting Mad/Even (Anti-man rage - I generally sing along loudly and clean things)
Never Again - Kelly Clarkson
You Oughta Know - Alanis Morrissette
Fly Away - Lenny Kravitz
Cry Me a River - Justin Timberlake
Harder to Breathe - Maroon 5
If I Were a Boy - Beyonce
It's My Life - Bon Jovi
Paint it Black - Rolling Stone
Fighter - Christina Aguilera
Speechless - Lady Gaga

So whether you're thinking 'I'm superwoman', 'Let's party', or simply 'Screw you', there's a playlist for every occasion. Get creative!

Playtime

2010-05-09T22:25:00.001+01:00

As a follow-up to this post, (and a neat way of side-stepping more commenter abuse in a fortnight where I've had to work extra hard to slip my blogging in around a new job and show rehearsals and performances every night) a more lighthearted style post today. I bought two playsuits as part of my 'Break the Rules' plan for my Spring/Summer wardrobe. Having browsed around some of the high street shops and not seen anything perfect, I found two gorgeously retro and curve-friendly ones on Boohoo.com (I must add to that free advertising that they cocked up the 3-5 day delivery more than once and they took two weeks to get here.)

They are both gorgeous on, however, and such a joy to wear. The shorts are flattering on my less than sky-high legs and the whole look is every bit as glam as a dress while feeling more casual and playful. I road-tested the more daytime checked one yesterday and felt great in it, while I'm saving the more dressy navy one for another occasion. I'm so glad I decided to branch out on my clothing options, it is so easy to get stuck in a jeans and T-shirt rut at weekends. Now I just need the sun to return so I can actually wear my new purchases...

Holy Crap

2010-04-28T19:41:00.000+01:00

I read a brilliant piece in yesterday's Stylist magazine by Alice Wignall ('Losing Our Religion?'). I think of Alice as a sort of mentor; not only because I've been lucky enough to work with her in the past, but because every time I'm thinking of giving up my creative ambitions and settling for something well-paid and immediate, one of her features will pop up and remind me of the sort of writer I'd love to be. She writes for everything from The Guardian to Cosmo - look out for the name. This article was about the recent notion of Britain turning on its formerly official religion, Christianity. The Archbishop of Canterbury has complained of a 'bullying campaign' in this country towards devout Christians, citing cases like nurse Shirley Chaplin from Devon who lost a tribunal against the hospital who banned her from wearing her crucifix necklace at work. This sort of discrimination claim really annoys me. Everyone's workplace has a dress code and a hospital's obviously has to be more rigid and sterile than most. The angle of this piece was more about the everyday Christians - young women who fear mentioning their piousness in the workplace in case people treat them differently.

It seemed quite topical to me, as just last week, a good friend was telling me about a colleague whose beliefs were becoming an issue. We all want to be tolerant and kind, but some Christians just ruin it for the rest of them by making it a huge part of their personality, conversation and identity. I have no qualms with the faith itself, but it should be just that - private, personal and just one aspect of a person. I don't like to be submerged in someone's views, just as I wouldn't pelt someone with incessant titbits about my love of musical theatre or garlicky foods. It's just not necessary. This is the kind of Christian that gets my goat. I remember going to the funeral of a friend in my teens, and another friend's mother remarking that such times made her so sorry for anyone that hadn't embraced God in their lives. I hated her for that, so ill-judged at a time when God had never seemed less fair or relevant.

Of course many practicing Christians manage to be quietly devout; a person first and a Christian second. I suppose I just link any sort of religious fervour loosely to madness*, and if you were unfamiliar with the bible, many of its teachings would indeed sound like the ravings of a lunatic. This, coupled with the person's affinity to a dogma that suggests many of my friends deserve to burn in hell for their lifestyle choices, does not a firm friendship make. Is that so terrible a reason to secretly judge someone? The Stylist piece quoted many women who admitted to feeling a 'discomfort' around someone on finding out they are a devout Christian. This does seem injust, but I know the feeling they refer to - it's a sort of 'Watch your step, this one has views' aversion - and the reason I know this is because it is not simply applicable to Christians. I feel the same kneejerk discomfort on finding out someone is teetotal (terrible, I know), a vegan or a Daily Mail reader. A hard-line Tory or a militant feminist are similarly so far outside my values and opinions that I will hesitate to treat them as I would a kindred spirit. Especially if they make their 'thing', whatever it be, a huge deal every single day. This is the only circumstance in which I can imagine a Christian would face mass criticism, and it seems to me that it is a very insecure person that needs to so heavily advertise their own religion.

There are numerous little things that put us off a person slightly (drinking milk straight out of the bottle and putting it back, anyone?) Just because they used to be the default religion for this country, some Christians appear to think people not wanting to hear their preaching is a terrible movement of persecution, when in fact most of us have simply moved on from all that. We abandon outdated laws and language from our culture all the time, why not religious ones? It's ok if you believe in God, but many of us also believe in our professional environment being free from such intense subject matter. That may seem like bullying to the Archbishop, but whacking an acquaintance over the head with your creationist beliefs is probably less bearable. So pipe down - we'll risk going to hell if it means we don't have to hear you thanking an invisible deity for your morning coffee.

* Shortly after posting this, I turned the page of the book I'm currently reading on the train, and saw an excellent description about how the humanist/logical mind processes the idea of religion:

The primitive thinking of the supernaturally inclined amounts to what [Henry Perowne's] psychiatric colleagues call a problem, or an idea, of reference. An excess of the subjective, the ordering of the world in line with your needs, an inability to contemplate your own unimportance. In Henry's view such reasoning belongs on a spectrum at whose far end, rearing like an abandoned temple, lies psychosis.

- Saturday, Ian McEwan

Serendipity

2010-04-28T17:02:00.000+01:00

I am in work heaven. Well, life scenario heaven. I recently got on to a prestigious postgraduate Journalism course and my only worry since has been how to fund it, as it's quite pricey and starts in September. In a generous moment of good karma, a very new friend (who I met through my new am-dram hobby - coincidentally, a new year's resolution for both of us) offered to pass on my CV, and I managed to get a great little temp job in London. It's perfect because as it's switchboard work, I get little lulls between bouts of busy calls to sort out my life (or at least my BlackBerry). I also plan to browse the news online and google something new every day. So by the end of the summer I should be financially secure, a little bit more knowledgable and will also have met lovely new people and added a dimension to my social life. I couldn't be happier to be commuting and working again, being out of work for a few months really makes you appreciate the benefits of routine.

Anyway, just a little update on my journo ventures - I haven't given up on my perilous editorial quest! Just ploughing on, writing when I can and trying to keep enough cash for a cute pair of shoes every now and again. But with this new job and a slight educational detour in sight, Miss Write is back on track.

PMS

2010-04-20T15:46:00.000+01:00

Relax, the initials I refer to are that which currently dominate our airwaves, screens and thoughts - Prime Minister Seduction. Well, it's about 50/50 Election and Volcanogate at the moment, but I am belatedly feeling a surge of democratic power after catching up with the weekend's media commentary on the campaigns, and watching the groundbreaking ITV party leaders' debates online. It's a thrilling thing be able to vote, and while the last election seemingly passed by without me noticing it, this year the public really seem to be getting involved.

The 18-20s particularly strike me as more vocal than I was in their position; perhaps it's the new surge of enthusiasm for the Lib Dems which appeal to them, or just the shaken-up feel of British politics that has seemed so stale and inevitable for years. Post-Expenses scandal, MPs are more apologetic and desperate for our support than ever. A lot of the high-faluting crap has been cut out as they begin to realise how jaded and savvy the public are about the spin and gloss of their campaigns. In my very first post on this blog, I wrote about the reactions to the Obama/McCain election and expressed a sadness that British politics are so much less passionate and patriotic. I just don't think it's our style though; as a nation we're unmoved by a soundbite and unconvinced that any party will bring large-scale change (quite rightly, really). Now I am impressed that things seem to be moving forward and becoming more focused here, with campaigns edging towards more info and less PR. I've grown to like the grey area in our system - I am not loyally 'Republican' or 'Democrat' but instead entitled to see what's on the menu and order as I see fit.

The TV debates have been the epicentre of this new approach - party leaders abandoned monotone voices, lengthy policy description and generalizations in favour of dramatic pauses and angry accusations, short'n'sharp outlining of aims and bizarrely specific anecdotes. I particularly enjoyed David Cameron's description of meeting a 40 year old black man who had moved to the UK aged six and served in the navy for 30 years. In fairness, neither of his rivals jumped to correct him after a spot of mental maths I imagine a six year old immigrant could do themselves. I did like the ferocity of approach, though - points had to be made quickly, sincerely and on the spot.

General consensus is that Nick 'Who?' Clegg came out on top after months of obscurity, but I wasn't that much more impressed with him. He had the best tone, body language and used the most accessible vocabulary, but I just wasn't feeling that musty yellow tie on him. Just joking - I felt he stumbled more than the other two over his answers, cleanly avoided the negatives surrounding tackling the econonmy, and kept reverting to the Lib Dem appeal as an alternative to 'Old Politics' (Did you know the Lib Dem party, founded in 1849, has been around 40 years longer than Labour?) A fresh face, yes, and definitely the one I'd shag if I had to choose, but he hasn't got my vote yet.

Poor old Gordy is the opposite of 'fresh face'; dowdy, practical and worn down, but I would always trust a leader (headmaster, boss, bank manager) who looks like the face of experience rather than the face of Creme de la Mer. In the blue corner, Cameron is almost oddly collagen smooth, with a sneery manner and just a hint of sleaze behind the good suit and family man image. If you're pro gay rights and equality, do make sure you watch the footage of his interview with Pink News, where he not only faltered over his policies and values but had the unmistakable glint of panic in his eye as his 'New Conservative' diversity-friendly image collided with the long-standing values of his party. I would also take a glance at the Don't Judge My Family campaign, countering the Tory plans to give straight, married couples a tax break. I have known married couples stay together far longer than they should, causing knock-on problems down the line with a sustained, unhappy family atmosphere. Equally, marriages can break up as a result of one person rather than both - should the abandoned party be left to pay more tax because they couldn't or wouldn't beg their partner to stay and make it work? Judging citizens based on their marital status is laughably backward - 'smug, Victorian finger-wagging', as Harriet Harman so eloquently put it. So the Tories are not scoring highly in my books, especially with Chris Grayling's (my local MP, oh the shame) recent comments on B&B guests.

I still haven't 100% decided where my vote is going, but I do feel sorry for the flack Labour gets. Whoever is in power will cause dissatisfaction and attract mockery after thirteen years at the helm, especially in the wake of recession depression and a (non party-specific) expenses scandal. In the TV debates, for me, Gordon made the shortest, neatest points, seemed the most honest - including addressing the tough stuff - and seemed to have his policies most firmly in his head, and not in his notes. That said, he also made cringey jokes and got suckered into Cameron's playground bickering. I liked that he picked up on Cameron's constant quest to avoid giving any kind of answer ('This isn't question time, David, this is answer time.') Dave just seems to think he can respond with 'Yes, I agree *carefully registered name*, we're in a real mess. But look at what Labour have done about it - NOTHING. I'm not going to promise we're going to do any better but... Look! Look at them! Gordon can't even smile properly!' The day I see him respond with something resembling a plan of action will be the day I consider him as a possible leader.

I'm interested in the Lib Dem's ideas, but need to hear more than 'We're different.' This isn't Lidl trying to compete with Sainsbury's and Tesco, if you're a real contender come out with your policies up. Equally I need to read more into Labour's plans and track record, but I will certainly be stepping out to vote come May 6th. I think the Lib Dems will get much of the youth vote, if only because they're not such a broken record. Anything that gets my generation voting is fine by me, but make sure you get all your info before heading in to that polling station. I would love to hear if anyone's developed any new political leanings this year, and why. Particularly any new young Tories, oxymoronic as that may seem to me.

The world's unsexiest boyband [Brown's just a step behind on the choreography]

Ex and the Shitty

2010-04-13T10:39:00.000+01:00

There was an item on The Wright Stuff today (my daytime guilty pleasure) about going on holiday with an ex, or a partner 'you can no longer stand.' (I have a bit of a problem with the latter description - who stays with someone they can't stand?) I've had some experience of this, having booked a holiday with a boyfriend a few years ago and ended up going together post-split, with a determination to have fun 'as friends.' I can advise that things are never that simple, however great your relationship was, and to instead bring a friend or even just go alone. Sitting alone on a beach is infinitely preferable to the emotional hell of two recent exes in foreign climes with only each other for company.

It was an interesting debate though. Several phone-ins revealed people who had found out their partner was cheating the day before a holiday and gone anyway (ouch), or couples where the relationship had clearly fizzled out, but they had a trip coming up so decided to patch things up for the duration. The problem is, and it's hard to see when there's money and unfamiliar destinations involved, that holidays are supposed to be relaxing. All of the things that warrant the payment - a break from work, sunshine, empty schedule - become blighted by uncomfortable silences, bickering or tension you could cut with a knife.

The whole 'friends with an ex' thing is a total minefield anyway. I am mildly suspicious of couples who move straight to being great chums, laughing at each others' jokes without a hint of bile and happily meeting new partners without any stabby thoughts. I always hope that I will end up as friends with an ex, but with the emphasis on 'end up' - with room for a quarantine period of hatred, drinking and secretly willing heavy objects to fall on them first. Maybe I'm just a horrible person or my relationships are too intense, but I've never been able to go, 'Ok bud, we've had fun - good luck with everything and call me anytime.' There are always a few stabby thoughts.

If we were totally honest, the next time you're really going to be able to wish your ex well is when you've moved on, be that with a full on new relationship or just a distracting crush. It's a terribly superficial thing, but the battle to prove you're not going to die alone always dominates post-breakup relations. As the winner of that race, you are elevated to smug, sympathetic pal who asks them how it's all going and encourages them to hang in there. The problem women tend to have with a split is wondering where all the feelings evaporate to, and trying to stay close and keep that person in their lives. Do we really need to? I think if you were friends first, or dated substantially (this is where the Americans have it so right) you have established common ground, great chat and a bond before things get physical, and thus have more of a shot at the friends thing. Equally, if you have lots of mutual friends, you're forced to make it civil which can turn out to be a great thing.

However, if it was a whirlwind thing cutting straight to the passion, chances are you were too high on hormones and butterflies in those early stages to really register a personality in the other person, and in this instance I say cut them loose. Chances are you have little or nothing in common and if there's no friend foundation it won't last anyway. The easiest thing to do is really hate someone, so it can be a gift if they've cheated, battered your self-esteem or broken up with you in some tacky way. Obviously it won't seem like it at first, but whack on the Alanis Morrisette, energetically clean things and dig out your dancing shoes. Rage is often the catalyst for speedy moving on.

I would be interested to hear some feedback on feelings towards exes - are they still the centre of your social life or just the centre of your dartboard? Would you go to their wedding years down the line or are they now simply a hilarious dinner party anecdote? I would also like to know how to avoid the evil thoughts period and float straight to benevolent smiles and best wishes. Are voodoo dolls and Oscar-worthy acting the only way? Let me know your thoughts.

For the Record

2010-03-24T09:12:00.001Z

Ok... I'm often peturbed by how people with miniscule talent and giant bleached teeth take good airtime from truly amazing talents, but on this occasion it's just silly.

So how on earth is Cheryl 'struggling to sing my own song' Cole MURDERING this on Live Lounge, and they haven't booked the lovely Tori Allen-Martin a spot? This is what we call singing, Live Lounge producers. Note how she's emitting pleasant sounds, whilst simultaneously being able to produce more than three words in one breath.

Just saying.

The worst bit, if you can pick one, is at 1:39. Ouch.

Smooth and creamy as a Bailey's Latte.

Rules are for fools

2010-03-23T17:55:00.000Z

Just an update on my Break the Rules self-challenge to wear some of the trends I would usually consider a no-no. I tried out #1: White Tights last week, and was pleasantly surprised. I decided to go for a full on Alice in Wonderland look with a belted high-waist skirt, hairband and china blue and white tones, but having worn them I think they'd go pretty well with lots of little dresses I own.

I'd say they require a short-ish skirt or dress and quite lofty heels if you're a 5"4 munchkin like me, and I went for little black round-toe dolly shoes which I thought worked pretty well for a birthday meal. Overall, very cute, a nice winter-spring crossover look and made me feel very quirky and chic. Big tick for trend experiment number one.

Atonement

2010-03-23T11:25:00.000Z

Lying in bed this morning, trying to prepare for an interview by catching up with the weekend's magazines and supplements, I came across a rare wave of honesty in a sea of upbeat features. I cannot criticize the novelty and wit of the entertaining pieces that for the most part fill our national magazines, they are the sort of thing I like to write myself: general musings on current or trending topics. But now and again a piece is commissioned that is distinctly less comfortable, jarring with your weekend cuppa and comfy sofa. The Guardian is good at slipping these in; just the other week I was both sickened and compelled by an investigative piece about child abuse and social work cases which was emotional yet detached, and intensely uncomfortable to read. But I learned something and was glad I hadn't instinctively flipped the page. Saturday's Guardian Weekend mag was its usual mix of style, famous faces, a nod to politics and gastronomy, but the article that caught my eye was an unassuming black and white two-pager by novelist Lionel Shriver.

I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I haven't read any of Shriver's books, even though her comment pieces in various magazines and papers have always stood out to me just as this one did. Having heard of her via several recommendations to read We Need to Talk abut Kevin from a couple of years back, I wasn't even aware until last year that the author was female (real name Margaret Ann.) Shriver has a knack for completely baring her soul while keeping her writing succinct, factual and candid. The piece that caught my eye was this one, a confessional outpouring of regret at not spending more time with her best friend before she died of cancer. Outpouring isn't the right word, actually - it was a critical analysis of her own behaviour during her friend's terminal illness. With cancer seemingly everywhere, it can seem overexposed or not 'niche' enough (in the businesslike world of planning and editing a magazine) to gain sympathy with a mainstream audience, but this wasn't a cancer awareness piece - this, it seemed, was a bid for atonement, a small act that might cancel out her professed neglect prior to losing her friend.

It might seem self-indulgent or distasteful to use the death of a loved one to talk about your own feelings, but how else do we make sense of something as cruel and superior as cancer? After years of finding we cannot combat it, even where we can stall and delay it, the topic has fallen fairly silent in the media in favour of more exotic conditions or winnable wars. The article is about a universal fear of those around us dying, and how people use their busy modern lives and commitments to avoid immersing themselves in such everyday tragedy. I recognised myself in the writer. I have always had a slight neurosis about hospitals (I hesitate to say phobia) and not because I find myself overwhelmed with feeling and compassion for their patients, but because, well... they're full of ill people. This is not an attractive trait, and one I had to overcome many times when my elder sister's genetic disease deteriorated over a period of years. The sterile smells, the neon lighting and the whirr of machinery is imprinted on my brain, and I do fear selfishly for my own eventual demise. The thought of slipping away in the habitat I can least endure is a terrifying prospect. And all this without ever suffering a serious illness or a hospital stint since my fairly uneventful birth.

So Shriver's tale of how she let anxiety about her dying friend lead her to distract herself with her career and her schedule really struck me. When my sister was ill, I feel I was there as much as someone at university in another city could be there - I remember reading through Measure for Measure out loud by her bedside while a ventilator breathed for her, and making notes for my exam the following day. I remember people in the waiting room kindly asking what my essays were about as I scribbled them from a plastic seat, waiting for visiting hours to resume. But I also remember the elation of being 'free' to return to my new friends and social life the minute she was stable, and I do remember the fleeting disappointment, even resentment, at missing the new term's parties and socials. I would never have dared admit it at the time, but I was scheduling her in along with my exam timetable. Maybe I can only admit this now because she did get better (thanks to the wonders of organ donation) and as a product of my relief at still having many more years to make memories with her.

The problem is, drama and literature would have us believe that good people rush to the bedside of a dying friend or relative, dropping everything and cancelling all plans to make their last days or months a little easier. But the spanner in the works is the long, drawn-out nature of modern death. No one deserves it, and it shouldn't be an excuse, but it is simply impractical and impossible to be there and undiverted for months or years of ill-health and uncertainty, and the guilt we suffer for not being there enough can be unbearable. Shriver's guilt is that her career as a novelist was just taking off as her friend Terri was diagnosed, but would Terri really have wanted her to put that on hold to sit by her through the bad times? Another problem for the writer was that her friend couldn't or wouldn't bring herself to consider the inevitable, leading their meetings and lighthearted talk to become heart-wrenching for Shriver:

Pretending that the treatments were working and she was going to come through this injected an artifice in our relationship at odds with the confidences we'd shared for 25 years.

She notes that the last bit of time they had together, the two women 'spent an appalling proportion of that final visit talking about mashed potatoes.' I can understand how hard this must have been as the friend, but I am also of the belief that the way someone wants to play out their own death is the way it should be. If they want to be their own cheerleader, rooting for a miracle, then everyone around them should wipe their tears and grab their pom-poms. If the ill person wants to talk through their greatest fears and cry for all the things they'll never see and do, then their beloved should provide the Kleenex and a listening ear. I don't think there should be any guilt on Shriver's part, because she was giving her friend what she needed at the time, even if that was potato-mashing tips. There is no right way to support an ill loved one. Every person copes differently, and no one else can say how you'd feel and what you'd want if you were the one sentenced to your final months. All you can do is make time, scale down, and adapt. For those who recognize mine and Shriver's instinct to flee the situation, you are not a bad person. You are simply the person who dares to admit it.

Single woman + flat = cat?

2010-03-19T14:18:00.000Z

Something very small and easy to brush off as bad journalism really irritated me on the ITV London news this morning. On one of their headline reports between GMTV segments, there was a short piece on how 'most women' enjoy having a cat as their companion. Infuriatingly, it was such a hit-and-run item that I can't even find it on their website. Perhaps they've realised how dazzlingly patronizing it was and removed it. The 'report' basically went like this:

Lots of women, as opposed to men, are cat owners. Some live alone and really enjoy the company. *Cue interview with a woman with two frighteningly muscley sphinx cats climbing menacingly over her armchair while she coos over them.* Short summary: lonely women like cats, they make good company.

Now, unable to find the clip, I feel like I hallucinated this around 8am. It was staggeringly badly researched and directed with no apparent factual anchor, and I felt quite offended. I am a real dog person. I've wanted a dog pretty much since the day my toddler mind grasped what a dog was, I often get more excited and sentimental over people's dogs than their babies and my absolute dream pet is a big, slobbery, loving, loyal canine. I just finished reading Marley and Me and embarrassingly wept no fewer than five times while reading it on packed trains and tubes (a great read - a story of man's realizations about family and life as well as some damn funny anecdotes about their behaviourally-challenged labrador.) I honestly think if I found Mr Perfect and he told me he wasn't a dog lover, it would be as wounding as finding out he was a BNP supporter or secretly waxed his chest. In other words, a deal breaker.

I feel I'm owed some sort of explanation from ITV about their surreal feline revelation - was it just to contribute to the film, TV and book myth that women unable to find a man end up shacking up with a cat just to have someone to talk to at the end of the day? I don't know many women who would describe themselves as a cat lover, and I myself think they are fickle and cruel animals with a cold, mercenary look in their eyes. Give me a giant, clumsy, boundy dog to curl up at my feet any day of the week. Dogs for men, cats for women? The strangest example of mass gender-based assumption I've seen for a while.

Ostensibly male Andrew Lloyd Webber told press in the build up to his new casting show Over the Rainbow that he'd rather cast a cat as Dorothy's Toto as he's not a dog person at all. You may be interested to know that other self-proclaimed cat lovers have included Freddie Mercury (who had several named Tom & Jerry, Delilah and Romeo), Andy Warhol and, ironically, Snoop Dogg. The Pope also has a cat called Chico - perhaps an homage to the latino X-Factor contestant?

Conversely, President Obama, Audrey Hepburn and Thandie Newton are all Team Canine. I feel I'm in good company here (we'll ignore Paris Hilton - her dogs barely qualify.) Let's just keep the divide to dog people and cat people and leave any mention of gender and sex (or lack thereof) out of it.

PS. Here are some of my dream dogs. In case anyone wants to gift me one...

Just playin'... pretty damn cute though!

Blogspiration

2010-03-18T16:26:00.001Z

I try to read as many other blogs that I come across, but some immediately grab you and make you want to go back again and again. One such piece of genius is Jezebel. Granted, unlike most 'organic' blogs it is staffed like a small magazine rather than by one musing author, but these various female writers post witty, observant and interesting things going on in the world every day, often setting trends for mag features.

If you want an idea of what Jezebel are all about, check out this post. And then scroll down, because the real heroes of this blog are actually the commenters... you have to post a trial comment and be approved by the creators to have a reader identity and leave your thoughts, so the quality ends up being amazing. Not only do these clued-up gals leave brilliant witticisms below each blog post, but they make some damn good points too.

I really recommend it to women and men alike for a short, sharp look at the world of women, entertainment and culture, or just to absorb a good debate.

Sexual Heaving

2010-03-17T12:12:00.001Z

*WARNING: some sexual references appear in this post*

As you may have gleaned, I haven't been working the past few weeks. In the odd, bug-stuck-in-amber world of unemployment, real life whizzes by you and inevitably you start to hear yourself starting sentences with, 'There was this thing on Loose Women the other day...' while your employed friends nod along in quiet pity. One of the least stimulating ways to pass the time is to stick on This Morning between 10.30 and 12.30 - somewhere between the buzzy morning segments of GMTV and the raucous hysteria of Loose Women, this bizarre two-hour festival of novelty news, low-budget props and D-list guest dominates daytime TV. I was a student in the heyday of Phil'n'Fern, and enjoyed their rapport - the giggling fits, the empathy of their interviews and a general feel of not taking it too seriously. I love Holly Willoughby, but she doesn't strike a blow in the name of female journalism. She's very blonde and made-up, playing to the dumb 'I can't cook and I sure as hell don't know where Finland is' persona and just not really having anything interesting to say.

So - picture a sofa-bound Monday 16th March, and nothing much to flick on to but This Morning. Harmless fun, I thought, but how wrong I was. Sex week. Great, I mused, it's a little odd at this time of day but I'm all for opening up the sex debate and making it more of a light-hearted, natural pastime that we should talk about freely. I'm no prude, but fluffy daytime TV in all its uncomfortably live glory managed to defeat me on this occasion. I only lasted about fifteen minutes before flicking over to The Wright Stuff (actually quite good morning TV: news analysis, discussion, some bizarre viewer phone-ins). I felt unbearably straight-laced for not surviving the 10am sexathon, but their pre-watershed 'frank discussion' demanded constant warnings about the delicacy of the subject and this combined with the awkward way things were demonstrated did not make for great viewing.

For those of your poor souls that missed it, the first sex-themed show involved the following: a young woman suffering from anorgasmia being coached in how to have an orgasm by a much older sex therapist, with the aid of a rubber vagina 'dummy' and a giant trunk of sex toys and lube. Their age gap and the neutral sofa setting gave the unnerving impression that we were eavesdropping on a bizarre mother and daughter lesson in masturbation. The poor girl was then plonked on the TM sofa where Phil and Holly eagerly asked how she had been doing with her home practicals since her pre-recorded consultation. Basically, 'Have you had one yet?' No pressure, dear. Then 'Sexpert' Tracey Cox (who seems to pop up everywhere like a pesky erection) talked Phil and Holly through the most common sex problems she wanted to tackle, using morning-friendly language and way too much emphasis on 'fun', of course. I half expected them to whip out the whipped cream and insert some swannee-whistle sound effects (don't laugh too hard - food/sex games are scheduled later on this week. Making me even more relieved to be back at work.)

The problem is, when it comes to palettable sex-focused TV, for me (and I'm not alone, I had facebook-status feedback agreeing that it was unwatchable) it has to be sciencey docu-style or late-night erotic advice. Any show centred around a sofa and a fruit bowl is not going to make successful strides in spicing up the nation's sex life. The dislike i'm registering here is not part of the Daily Mail Outrage school of thought - Sex Week didn't offend me, it just proved a massive turn off in all senses of that phrase. I know ITV is fielding complaints and Philip Schofield is defending the show's choice right, left and Twitter, but I stand firmly by my choice to avoid the saucy antics in favour of some traditional breakfast TV banter. Mine wasn't a disgusted channel change, but a 'I'd actually rather watch anything other than two sixty-somethings being told to get into the 'lazy sex' position' sort of impulse. Perfectly reasonable, I feel. Do let me know if you were disgusted, enthralled or if Sex Week is even on your radar, I'd be interested to know just where I feature on the Prudence McPrude scale of prudiness.

It might have been more 'frank' to make Phil and Holly demonstrate the sexual positions, perhaps with a Benny Hill-style musical accompaniment

Cooking up a Storm

2010-03-11T14:24:00.000Z

I think I've replaced love with baking. Actually I've replaced work, relationships and normality with it. Baking and I are very happy together - it gives me what I need, is always sweet and delightful and I don't even mind cleaning up after it.

Don't get baking confused with cooking - cooking and I have been going strong since I was about fourteen. I love to throw together a vibrant stir-fry, cook carby, creamy comfort food like macaroni cheese or even just put a new spin on a classic like scrambled eggs. Baking is a new thing in my life. It's a separate concept - cakes, cookies and brownies are not necessary, they are treats. Taking the time to bake something delicious that's both unnecessary and a little naughty takes love and patience. There is something unbelievably satisfying about beating a cake mix until it's perfectly smooth and airy, or sieving flour, or whipping up creamy icing. Sharing your baked goods with other people is like introducing them to a boyfriend - you're half proud, half scared no one will like it, with just a pinch of wanting to keep it all to yourself.

My latest baking challenge is Nigella Lawson's Chocolate Guinness Cake. It's the sort of mix of indulgent and quirky that you wish you had created yourself. I added some melted Bournville chocolate (I refuse to believe that merely cocoa powder and sugar is enough for a rich chocolate cake) and it's still baking, but I'll update with the results and a picture. I'm not a huge Guinness drinker, but alcohol in puddings is only ever a great thing in my experience, and the mixture smelled irresistable pre-oven. I still have to make the cream cheese/sugar/double cream whipped icing, but not a lot can go wrong from here.

Cooking is totally cathartic (as well as a brilliant skill to have, especially if you can trade off cooking for the person/people you live with shopping or washing up) and while some people love going for a run or a swim to clear their head, for me - tragically, for my waistline - it is cooking that does the trick. I recently read Julie & Julia by Julie Powell, and it's such a great read for anyone interested in blogging or cooking. Julie was in a dead-end, depressing job in New York in the aftermath of 9/11, and felt trapped and suffocated by the pressures of her life. She set herself a mad goal to cook every one of the 524 recipe's in Julia Child's hefty Mastering the Art of French Cooking book in one year, and to document her efforts, her victories and failures in a blog (back when blogging was still a new concept.) The book is not published with blog entries but as a more fluid story, with some references to her readers' comments and her personal life. It is fascinating, and takes some getting into (Julie is a somewhat acerbic character and not at all concerned with being likeable, which I loved) and it's really just about being a normal person with problems and joys and ambitions, trying not to get swallowed up by a big city in turmoil. I highly recommend it, as well as suggesting that you persevere if you find it slightly slow-moving or inaccessible - I was totally absorbed and rooting for Julie by the end.

Essentially, Julie comes to feel a huge personal satisfaction in setting herself little goals in the form of complex dishes, and also in feeding those she loves. It's a primal thing to nourish those around you, and I can totally relate to her turning her life around in the kitchen. This is not to say that this will become a cooking blog, but just that baking is putting a smile on my face these days (not least because I'm blasting Journey in the background and singing along) and I kind of like it.

Down the Rabbit Hole

2010-03-09T15:57:00.000Z

I've followed the hype for Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland as much as anyone else, but I wasn't entirely sure it would be my cup of tea. I have a bit of an issue with the fantasy genre; I kept way out of Lord of the Rings, Beowulf and Pan's Labyrinth, and the Harry Potter films have been a constant source of disappointment. I don't believe the plots, I don't get absorbed in the fantasy worlds, and my mind just wanders. If there's a book original involved, it's often ripped apart and cut down, with casting that clashes with my mind's interpretation. With CGI still in its pubescent years, a lot of the action sequences and setting choices just seem like a way to flex various technological muscles. All in all, they end up feeling less like a story and more like an epic film experiment.

Since seeing Avatar just before Christmas, I've opened my mind up to fantasy a little more. For once I just appreciated it for being something truly beautiful, and I let myself be absorbed (ironically, as this was the fantasy narrative other people slated the most.) So with Alice in Wonderland, I decided to ignore the Burton 'cult' factor, the slightly tired-sounding casting, the fact that I absolutely hated what he did to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - bring back Gene Wilder and the orange oompa loompas! - and give it a go. More specifically I decided to go on my own, in the spirit of falling down the rabbit hole, and to an unsociable screening time. It was essentially me, a massive screen and my imagination. I don't often take solitary cinema trips, but having done it to review things before, I knew it was the best way to avoid taking on other people's reactions or getting distracted at crucial moments.

Luckily, distraction wasn't a problem as Alice is totally gripping. It wasn't too wacky, it used the CGI and the surreal dimension to enhance certain things, but it didn't dominate the story. Having heard nothing but Johnny Depp this and Helena B-C that, I was delighted to hear Stephen Fry as a purring, whimsical Cheshire Cat and Alan Rickman as the pipe-smoking blue caterpillar. Factor in Babs Windsor as the Dormouse and Michael Sheen as the White Rabbit, and you've got an impressive range of character actors. But the celebrity casting didn't distract too much from the beautifully detailed characters - one of my favourite moments was when the heroine finds herself in the forest of Wonderland being berated by talking flowers, rabbits, mice, chubby twins and caterpillars for being the wrong Alice. It was so beautiful and striking after the bleached, genteel reality we had just come from, and that's when I started to believe that this was a journey I really wanted to go on.

Mia Wasikowska, looking remarkably like a young Kate Moss (but with 100% more personality), more than holds her own in the title role. I had prejudged her supermodel looks and waiflike stature, but Burton clearly knows what he is doing. She is odd and curious in a way I could totally relate to. I don't know if all girls feel a bit isolated and inclined to say socially unacceptable things, but I often do, and Alice's detached nature and 'mad' statements really worked for me. This Alice is out of place in a regulated and polite human world, then finds herself amongst creatures much madder than she. It made the transition from reality to Wonderland much more interesting. It made me want to go back to the original animated version, where I seem to remember Alice as being a lot more normal and confused by the wacky things she sees. This Alice fits right into the madness and goes with the flow, which I enjoyed. She is not picture perfect, but pale and interesting, with dark inquisitive eyes and a sort of physical resilience that makes her at home in the suit of armour she wears at the climax of the film.

Helena Bonham Carter is suitably posh, lisping and full of tantrums. I liked the animated additions to her character, but it was all as cliched as I'd suspected. Johnny Depp is featured much more than the Mad Hatter demands, and becomes an unnecessary hero of Wonderland (something in his contract?) but just about gets away with it by being believably barking and utterly charming. How much this has to do with his giant, graphically-enhanced green eyes, I don't know. The odd decision to have his accent flit from BBC English to gruff Scottish didn't really do it for me... perhaps another aspect of his insanity, perhaps a chance to fully showcase the skills section of his CV. I found it distracting, just as I found the White Queen's affected 'grace' - I like the imaginative nature of Burton's direction, I just don't like being able to see the mechanics and decisions behind a character.

I did think for the first time that Burton should have snapped up the Harry Potter films; the man knows how to make things odd, quirky and otherworldly without overly explaining or domesticating them. He got the balance between human and other so right in this film, while I found every installment of the HP films jarringly badly scripted and imagined at times. I think he would have stripped them down to the important parts and really brought the characters to life. But perhaps the concept was just too commercial for him. Here, they have taken a classic with enough distance to completely reinvent some parts, while keeping in the familiar ponderings that spring to mind when we think of Lewis Carroll: "Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

I enjoyed the script, I felt the story bounded along through the 'Drink Me' potions, the Red Queen's court and the Mad Hatter's tea party, and nothing felt too long-winded. I loved the little touches of Tweedledum and Tweedledees yoda-like speech, Alice's wound making her tougher and more warrior-like and the Tudor references in the Red Queen's palace. I think a little more humour and lightness could have improved the adventure, but Burton was understandably going for a crueller, darker and more violent Wonderland. The nonsense and riddle was done well and it didn't become a pantomime, Alice returning to her world genuinely jolted me, and I liked the way she was revisiting as a young woman, having thought the place a dream in childhood.

What I find hard in fantasy films is when the world they create is inconsistent, badly communicated or cliched. This Wonderland was solid - characters spoke of people and places as if we were all in on the facts, and this is the root of the story: everyone seems to be speaking a different language and it is Alice who is the oddity. I'm glad Burton didn't try and make Wonderland too easy for us to enter, it shouldn't be. It felt just right as a dash through foreign landscapes, nonsensical speeches and fascinating characters, with the sole aim of widening Alice's perspective so she doesn't settle for the ordinary in the real world. She is made to feel extraordinary in a good way, and goes back to her life with confidence, and this layer of grown-up narrative really gave the film an edge. Yes, I cringed a bit when Depp burst into his 'futterwhacken' dance at the end, and yes there was an over-long 'look what we can do' CGI chase by a Bandysnatch, but overall these indulgences were eclipsed by so many great performances. This is no mean feat, reinventing one of the most imagined and interpreted stories of all time. Google images for 'Alice in Wonderland' and you'll see how many illustrations and ideas have come out of this one book.

I do recommend you take a trip to Wonderland, but do it when you're feeling a bit odd, and if you're brave enough, go alone. I guarantee it will improve the experience.

Break the Rules

2010-03-08T12:17:00.000Z

I'm quite strict with myself when it comes to style. I don't live and breathe fashion but I am a firm believer that your shape suits certain things, and you shouldn't deviate from the flattering, well-worn path you've followed since becoming that shape. Basically - if it ain't broke, don't fix it. My unbroken rules include lots of LBDs, short skirts with long sleeves, opaque black tights, wrap-dress necklines and sky-high heels. I am and always will be a curvy girl, which counts out frilly-detailed tops, waif-perfect volume and athletic playsuits. With curves comes the grave responsibility of not looking like a potato sack.

There has to be waist belts and block colours and no high necklines. As a bit of a shortie, hosiery and shoes must elongate legs, which leaves very little room for pattern or t-bars cutting across the ankles. If I dare to wear a very eighties-flashdance oversized T, every other aspect of the outfit has to scream slim. A flash of shoulder or collarbone, black leggings or skinny jeans, more heels. It's all about balance and proportion for the curvalicious, a logistical nightmare for some trends. I quietly admire most catwalk highlights before mentally putting them back on the rack. This Spring/Summer, massive tribal prints and baggy trousers (which look great on who, exactly?) cropped tops, dungarees, double denim and clogs will all be huge fat no-nos for girls like me. On the other hand, we can console ourselves with military jackets, trench coats and nude-toned shoes (structure, structure, leg-lengthening. Tick.)

This may sound a little style-nazi, but I just don't think shapely women look or feel comfortable in 'arty', experimental clothing. A size 12-14 in a classic DVF wrap dress is ravishing - wedged into futuristic shapes or microscopic hotpants, not so. I think it's great that we get to look to old-school Hollywood starlets for inspiration and can fill out corsets and get that coveted waist-to-hip ratio in voluptuous red carpet dresses. But I don't think 80% of what comes out of fashion week is meant for us. It's like any modern art; lots of us can appreciate the innovative nature of a stained bed or signed urinal, but that doesn't mean we want it in pride of place in our living room.

This year, however, I've realized I'm only inches away from becoming the fashion Grinch when it comes to new trends. So I'm setting myself the challenge to spend this Spring trying the bits that my mind immediately stamped a 'NO' on when I was flicking through the trend reports.

Cute, but will it work on real women?

White tights
Is it Alice in Wonderland fever or just us longing to get back to our party-dress thrill? When I was about six I had white opaque tights with a sparkly Little Mermaid illustration near the ankle that I absolutely adored. Can the thick white tight be resurrected in my 23rd year? Asos magazine seems to think so. I'll have a browse for a suitable pair in the next couple of weeks and get back to you on whether it's nostalgia-chic or just lamb-dressed-as-foetus horror.

Oh, to be Blake-shaped

Playsuits
Oh so flirty and cute on tall athletic chicks, I have long admired and feared the playsuit. Arrogance aside, I think I have the legs for it, but it may have to be a slinky, belted design for me to get away with the look. Might also be time to haul out the fake tan, my legs have had little or no exposure this winter.

The ultimate 'don't'?

Socks and sandals
Whether it reminds you of your grandad or your woodwork teacher, the S'n'S has been a long-running fashion joke. But lo, this month both Glamour and Cosmo are filled with leggy models rocking the (delicate) ankle sock with (epically high) sandal trend. The best real world way to work this would probably be a sheer or lacy black ankle sock with vertigo-inducing black heels, but I kind of love the way Glamour did brights with clashing brights. Either way, this is the one I feel will be the hardest to pull off in urban Surrey.

Hello, boys

Dare to bare
I've always admired a curvy woman who's content to put it all out there and say 'yes - I am a goddess' with everything she wears. In classic terms, this is always Marilyn; a modern day equivalent might be Kelly Brook. When you're ample of bosom and generous of hip, it can be so comfortable to hide under long sleeves, wrap necklines and pencil skirts. But the Marilyn effect of just wearing it, no matter how sheer, strappy or cleavage-enhancing is really quite something. I need the right event for this one (and God knows, the right dress) but I'm determined to do it.

Loud and proud

Tribal
Loud prints and baggy clothing are about as far from my idea of style heaven as you can possibly get. The enviable figures on asos.com are sporting baggy pantaloons, psychadelic dresses and jumpsuits and chunky jewellery. While all of this extra volume may compliment a slim wrist or legs up to one's armpits, how do us mediocre 5-something footers wear it? I'm seriously asking! Fashion bloggers' thoughts welcome.

So I'll get back to you when all boxes are ticked (I've set myself months rather than weeks to try these out... I don't have the budget for weekly fashion experiments right now.) I recommend you set yourself a similar style challenge and step outside your trusty shape-flattering box this season. There are few starting points for someone exceeding a size zero - even Mark Fast's generous casting of size 12s on his runway was undermined by his dressing them in shapeless, badly-fitting knitted dresses that I personally wouldn't touch with a barge pole. But it's the thought that counts.

When you wish upon a star...

2010-02-28T14:24:00.000Z

I've been in a bit of a Disney haze this week - not only because I'm involved in an uber-romantic musical made famous by the superbrand, but because on Thursday I went to see their new feature, The Princess and the Frog. It's the first in years to return to good old-fashioned 2D animation, and while I loved Nemo, Sully and Woody, for me it was a glimpse of the captivating magic I loved as a child. I've never met anyone who didn't love Disney films; they're the perfect combination of escapism, romance, music and humour. But in the cold reality of things, they have some serious delusions to answer for.

Everyone is taught through the magic of Disney that you get a happy ending. Not several stabs at a happy ending - the 'kissing several frogs before you meet your prince' theory isn't even integral to this froggy-themed tale - but one Prince Charming you will meet and just know is the one for you. Obviously this has been ripped apart in recent years by the Shrek trilogy, Enchanted and every feminist critic that could grip a pen, but something about those original 'damsel seeks hero' Disneys has endured - they are still the favourites.

If you watch the progression of their features, they go from zero-irony schmaltz (Snow White, Sleeping Beauty) to fairytales with a fun twist (Aladdin, The Little Mermaid) and then distance themselves from the royal love story with animals, toys and monsters taking over from these prettier and luckier versions of us. I wonder how much of this shift came from audience and sales figures - the last human-based Disney before this one was the not wildly successful Hercules back in 1997. They then got a little siller with The Emperor's New Groove in 2000 (one of my personal cult favourites) and then the freakishness of humans in CGI basically drove us out their Noughties releases entirely.

The Princess and the Frog is a brilliant return to form - funny, clever, charming and sad - but it is acutely aware of all its Disney baggage. In jazz-age New Orleans, heroine Tiana is told that wishing for her dreams on the evening star will only get her part of the way there, and the rest will only happen with hard work and determination. This is a big dose of reality for cartoonland, where previously all a pretty girl had to be equipped with was a chirpy singing voice and a great figure, and she had 'happy ending' stamped all over her. A work ethic seems a funny addition to the list this late in the game. Still, it avoids being too preachy and fits into the formula; Tiana is more lovable than many of their early leading ladies as she scrubs, dusts, waitresses and cooks her way to the top. They couldn't completely ditch their 'All you need is love' mantra, however - Tiana is reminded by her father that while being successful is wonderful, if you don't have the man and the kids, it all means very little.

I think it's almost unfortunate that Disney chose to bring out their first black heroine at the same time as removing her fast-track ticket to dreams coming true. While you could argue that the reality factor comes with her not being a princess, it's also true that non-royal Cinderella had very little to do but sing and look pretty to find love and a crown, while Tiana seems to have an epic struggle before she finds her prince. There are hints of racial tension as her seamstress mother finishes making finery for a local plantation heiress and they subtly move to the back of the bus home. It would all be a little too political were it not for a trumpet-playing alligator, a toothless cajun firefly and a spectacular voodoo conjuror baddie. And fantastic songs. I almost choked on my popcorn as the credits informed me that the music was by Randy 'You got a friiiend in me' Newman, but the setting of the film in the roaring twenties means a jazzy southern score that is as stylish as any of the 2D classics.

As well as the toe-tapping songs, the hilarious playboy prince and spooky voodoo aspect, the performances are amazing - along with Anika Noni Rose's gutsy attitude and beautiful voice, they even got Oprah to appear as Tiana's mother. While there is one soul-crushingly sad moment (I won't ruin it for you) where you will literally feel like a five-year-old who just dropped their ice cream, The Princess and the Frog is a hugely uplifting couple of hours. I think it's safe to say that Disney's got its groove back.

Plan B

2010-02-16T12:28:00.000Z

Maybe it's the whiff of desperation in the air that trails behind Valentine's Day, the drizzly, uninspiring weather, or just the come-down from my hopeful high, but this week I got to thinking about backups.

Way back in the depths of high school, probably at only 12 or 14, my friend Sam and I made a pact that if we weren't married by the time we were 40, we would get together. I'm not sure where the idea came from that we needed to cement a plan B even before puberty was in full swing, but it was probably an episode of Friends. It wasn't the fervour of intense teenagers either, it was done with a sense of whimsy and several of our friends made similar agreements. It seems sweet and funny in light of our current friendship, but I have no doubt I was on to something. It's the same argument made by writer Lori Gottlieb, who shocked the world's fairytale fantasists with her book Marry Him: The case for settling for Mr Good Enough. It suggested that women reaching for the sky is only ending in tears and prolonged singledom, and perhaps that perfectly nice, mildly funny guy who doesn't shake you to the core but maybe puts a smile on your face, is the way to go. Controversial, or just good sense?

My backups changed over the years, but as with every slightly vain girl there have always been one or two guys who I've assumed I could count on to be a great option if Prince Charming never showed up. The criteria is usually as follows: good friend, makes me laugh, good looking enough for me to have checked them out when we first met, evidence they're a good boyfriend, the hope that we wouldn't murder each other and the feeling that, being a little quirky, they too might be single years from now. At only 22, I am distressed to see this theory dissolving aeons before the big deadline, with the a mass coupling-up of my male network (with various women, not each other.) If I browse through my facebook friends - the little black book of the noughties - I find that only 25% of males that I might deem backup material are still single (let it never be said that I don't do my research.) I realise this doesn't reveal how many there are and thus how many are taken, but it would be unladylike to stalk and tell.

Only 1 in 4 of my attractive male acquaintances are still on the market, and this peturbs me. I was never a maths brain, but I know my probability and I need to increase my social sea in order to boost the plentitude of hot single fish, as it were. I met up with a good friend yesterday for a bit of a caffeine crawl (coffee, tea, coke...) and we whiled away a good few hours musing on relationships. This is mainly because we have a hilarious inability to synchronise our relationship status - every time I can remember being single, he has been taken, and now I'm single, naturally he's loved up to the max. It makes for interesting chat because a good straight male friend can hold up a mirror to your girlfriend potential and clarify your manic post-breakup thoughts. As I feared, my relationship accounts are not that healthy, but he nobly offered to help me on my 'more men, more choice' plan by introducing me to his extensive circle of male friends. Even if I don't find exactly what I'm looking for, a good solid backup would suit me fine.

Knight in shining armour: missing, presumed dead

Male Order

2010-02-14T11:49:00.000Z

This Valentine's Day (shudder) I don't feel as downcast as I had anticipated, but hopeful. I woke up with a great sense of purpose, and not just the purpose of drinking wine in the bath and sobbing my way through All By Myself.

Yes, my last couple of major relationships have crashed and burned, but couldn't that be a blessing in disguise? For every wonderful thing both exes had going for them, both relationships were completely devoid of excitement and hope for the future. Both involved an impending move for one of both of us, and that cloud hanging over the fun times was always pissing a little 'where is this going?' juice down on us. I suppose what I'm allowed to consider now is someone who I can have fun with, be compatible with, and have the heady sensation of just seeing where it goes. As opposed to knowing where it's going, and that the destination isn't great.

So this February 14th, I'm taking a leaf out of Jane and Michael Banks' book, and making a wishlist for Mr 2010. Imagine the tinkly music of the Sherman brothers, as I rip up this hopeful missive and send it out on the spring breeze in the hope that a clever, funny and hot Mr Write will come floating back and appear at my door...

♫
If you want this choice position
Have a cheery disposition

Sparkling eyes, no warts!
Cooks well, all sorts

You must be kind, you must be witty
Fully straight and not too pretty

Take me on outings, buy me treats
Never, ever hog the sheets

Never be cross or cruel
Don't still think you're still in high school

Don't have a secret son or daughter
And don't drink vodka like it's water

I'll try not to irritate you
If you never give me cause to hate you

If you don't take yourself too seriously
There won't be any drama
Just love and laughs and tea

Hurry, boyfriend
Many thanks,
Sincerely,

Miss Write

♫

If, during some horribly deprived childhood, you have missed out on this charming cultural reference, here is the original.

It's a Girl Thing

2010-02-11T10:24:00.001Z

You may have caught the latest chunk of the Katie'n'Peter saga on GMTV this morning. The TV equivalent of coke and jelly beans for breakfast responsibly set up (for news purposes, obviously) the warring exes for some fresh feuding. Having had Katie on the sofa earlier this week, it was Andre's turn - desperate, bursting to promote his awful Valentines album - to weigh in about his former wife's behaviour. Luckily the former Celebrity Mum of the Year (who was she up against, Courtney Love and Britney Spears?) handed the researchers a story on a silver platter by posting a gharish picture of her and Andre's two-year-old daughter, Princess, in full make-up and fake lashes on Facebook.

The offending photo

Now, even before this picture was leaked, I have long had my suspicions about that kid. With two naturally dark-haired parents, Cypriot heritage and an appearance-obsessed mother, it wouldn't surprise me if that Barbie blonde hair was dyed. Princess and Junior (don't even get me started on the names) both appear to have their lashes curled and possibly coated with mascara in those endless OK! pictures, and they just don't look like happy, normal kids to me. In this picture, the gharish fake lashes - Urgh! Using lash glue on your child! - and pink lips stand out starkly against her little baby teeth and big blue eyes.

Andre broadly stated that he found the fake-lashes picture 'disgusting', but it sparked some debate over whether girls will be girls, trying on make-up and mum's shoes. The trouble is, this girl is two. At two, girls just aren't girly yet - me and my sisters were definitely in dungarees with short hair, probably some pink but not predominantly, at that age. Toddler interests usually revolve around their plastic cup of squash, the walls and floor, mud, farm visits and the odd tantrum. Girliness, that minefield of pink and sparkle, comes later. That's what troubled me about the Andre kids - their gender seems so enforced. Princess is pink, chiffon, big skirts, curled hair, make up (notably not smudged on by a child, but expertly blended by adult hands) sparkly shoes, even rocking a hot-pink buggy as a baby. Junior is surfer shorts, khaki, white trainers, Logo T-shirts and gelled-up hair on occasion. Because why worry about whether four is too young to break out the Brylcreem when your kid can look like David Beckham? It's the parenting equivalent of tiny jackets and shoes on a dog. Bizarre, and unsettling.

I have a couple of times felt compelled to blog about the Pink Stinks campaign, but have always found myself slightly on the fence. I don't think it is necessarily a terrible thing that small girls gravitate to pink, it is a larger WAG/popstar image that is worrying when imitated. When girls think only about who they want to grow up to marry or what reality TV show they want to go on, that's what makes me sad. Pink Stinks is a slightly neurotic-mum manifestation of today's concerns about girls being flooded with pink, playboy-logoed, princessy clothes and toys. It seeks to redress the balance by promoting cool role models like female Nobel Prize winners and Arctic explorers (good) and bombarding toy stores with angry letters about their stock (hmm).

I know several people who feel strongly that nothing is that black and white (or pink, for that matter) and that girls with strong female examples in their life will turn out great with or without a Barbie obsession. I wasn't half as obsessed with glam, freakishly-proportioned Barbie as either of my sisters, but that hasn't made me any more of a science brain or adventuress. I'm still pretty damn girly, and I swapped ballet for gym and refused to wear skirts for several years. So maybe it's a case of phases - little girls discovering the excitement of sparkly nail varnish, princessy costume and playing mummy. But I don't think opening their eyes to the range of career options and hobbies available to them can ever be a bad thing; it's so tempting to assume that girls like ballet and singing, and boys like football and computer games.

Incidentally, I don't think we'll be seeing any websites devoted to showing boys the perks of wearing pink and taking dance classes. Surely the best you can do is offer a range of fun activities and let both genders mix with each other as much as possible? Take heed, anti-pink mummies: beware becoming just as controlling as those youth-hungry Katie types who project their idea of glamour onto their small child. On Katie's TV show she is filmed proudly showing off her toddler's makeover, saying 'Do you like it?' With no prompting whatsoever, Princess responds, 'I look like a mini you!' Not exactly a rave review.

Green Shoots

2010-02-09T15:35:00.000Z

Ok, so things have been a bit bleak lately. I'm not exactly what you'd call on track, life wise. But today, a perfectly good day to curl up under the duvet and quietly hate the world, I decided to get out instead. I wandered up through the park I used to play in as a child, I breathed in the air and I just had a look around. It felt strange at first to not be going anywhere - I always seem to be on a mission, whatever I'm doing.

I don't know if it was the time we'd spent apart or the insane early-afternoon light, but the park looked absolutely beautiful today. Still a few moody clouds peppering the sky, the sun had decided to resurface after what felt like weeks (months?) of grey, cold, unappealing days. The sunlight pouring through the trees and on to the lake really made me stop and look, and feel the warmth on my face.

The clouds have rolled back in now and it looks like it might rain, but the refreshed feeling I got from wandering around taking snapshots of my afternoon is still here.

This is all beginning to sound a bit Buddhist-hippie irritating, but my point is this. Someone like me is highly inclined to stay in, to mooch, to review the bad things, to dwell on the bigger picture. But getting outside, seeing the colours right there on your doorstep, hanging out with some more chilled out life forms like ducks and frogs - that's what makes you realise that right now is actually a really nice time to be alive. Then life stops being this horrific obstacle course and starts feeling like a walk in the park.

Girl Power Grammys

2010-02-04T12:23:00.000Z

I flicked over to the Grammy Awards on Wednesday night and I couldn't stop watching. The award presentations felt like dull delays between each epic performance, and it must be said that the fabulous females of the music industry totally stole the show. Every time I thought I had been wowed by one pop princess, another came out and completely eclipsed them.

Lady Gaga was her usual level of extra-strength crazy, with an explosive hint at her upcoming tour in her performance of Poker Face and Speechless. They've taken the video off of YouTube now, but it was absolutely phenomenal. The girl has boundless energy and can really sing live, not to mention another geometric hit on the costume front. I loved the creepy ringleader guy and the faceless Gaga-esque dancers, and adored the Terence Koh-designed double grand piano, with sinister clawed hands reaching out of it. Mud-covered Elton John seemed like a genuine Gaga fan and let her outshine him as they duetted on a mix of Speechless and Your Song, even changing his lyrics to say 'how wonderful life is while Gaga's in the world.' Amazing.

Beyoncé came out in killer heels, leather dress and heavy eyeliner and blasted out If I Were a Boy in the theatrical style she uses on tour. I would have preferred the hair to be a little bigger than the ironed-flat look she went for, but I loved the ghetto-fabulous gold armour dress and hoop earrings she wore to pick up her (count 'em) SIX awards. She also slipped into her performance a version of You Oughta Know by Alanis Morrissette, a song I have loved since my angry teenage years, and an ingenious choice which was a perfect match for her huge voice. More power to the girls.

Just when I thought my popstar dreams had all come true, out walked Pink. I always forget how much I love Pink's sultry voice, as she's not a such a strong cultural presence as G and B, but her stunning performance of 'Glitter in the Air' was spellbinding. It was the first time that night that I put down all other distractions and just stopped to watch and listen. She twirled from the ceiling on with acrobatic ease and managed to keep her voice smooth and serene while spinning upside down with water cascading over her. If the 2010 Grammys was like the Diva Olympics, Pink definitely stole the gold. Unknown song, daring performance and understated vocals, but utterly beautiful to behold.

The only lame duck of the night was the unbearably bland Taylor Swift, who not only stole four epic awards from competitors like Beyoncé and Gaga, but quacked out irritating 'OhmyGod' speeches and gave a seriously below-par performance of her already forgettable songs. Organisers even had the gall to ask Fleetwood Mac legend Stevie Nicks to sing with her, who looked completely thrown at having to take part in this shoddy karaoke performance of the teen wonder's hits. I'm with Kanye, she must be stopped.*

The Michael Jackson tribute was a little cringey - Earth Song isn't even good when it's him doing it, who thought adding Celine Dion to the mix was the solution?! - and his kids looked horribly uncomfortable, as well as like little sedated zombies who have as much biological connection to him as cat food. Still, RIP and all that. Generally the live stuff was genius (the Dave Matthews band and Green Day with guests were also highlights), Jay-Z and Beyoncé's support of each other warmed my frosty heart and it just reminded me how slick and powerful the US music industry is. With Pixie Lott, JLS and Cheryl Cole topping the nomination list, I'm not holding my breath for the Brits to top it.

*Edit: After writing this, it popped up on Jezebel.com that after poor wittle Taylor got a lot of flack for her 'singing' at the Grammys, the CEO of her record label decided to wade in with this defence:

"This is not American Idol. This is not a competition of getting up and seeing who can sing the highest note... This is about a true artist and writer and communicator. It's not about that technically perfect performance."

To my great amusement, original Idol Kelly Clarkson retaliated on her blog by writing:

"Thank you for that ‘Captain Obvious', because you know what, we not only hit the high notes, you forgot to mention we generally hit the ‘right' notes as well."
She signed the post,
"One of those contestants from American Idol who only made it because of her high notes."

Teehee.

Bad Romance

2010-02-03T11:43:00.001Z

I'm not romantic at the best of times. Secretly I love being spoiled, treated, and feeling special, but even when I'm in a relationship I find the whole Valentine's thing a little tough to take.
In a twist, this year I'm back out in barren Singletown just in time for V Day, spending the build-up feeling pure hatred towards heart-shaped balloons, cakes, chocolates and stuffed toys, shooting daggers at happy-looking couples on escalators and just wishing it was March already. This may sound sad, but factor in a work day that consists entirely of compiling a Valentine's day supplement for a Sunday newspaper. That's right. We're talking hearts, cherubs, love stories from history and art, and my slow loss of the will to live.

When did Valentine's Day become compulsory? When my relationship broke up I thought, bad timing, but at least I can keep my head down, keep composed and avoid the whole stupid concept of a 'romantic month'. It turns out, you can't escape it - Clintons is practically bursting with grotesque teddies and cards, the chocolate shop near my office doesn't have one box or display piece that isn't heart-shaped and BLOODY GMTV are doing 'Love Week', with special segments on their presenters' real love stories. Fabulous.

Where are the businesses or TV shows run by single people? Surely the CEO and manager of every store and channel isn't glowing and loved up? This enforced romance can only mean that everywhere, suicidal shop girls are stacking the shelves with 'I love you' cards (imagine), TV researchers are angrily brainstorming lovey-dovey ideas for next week's shows and people like me are being forced to research every famous couple that could make it work. It's too much to have to endure a heart-shaped world when your own heart is bruised.

I know I should be a little more detached and appreciate that for some people, Valentine's is a lovely exciting time to spend with their partner, but the more I think about it, the more it incenses me. Valentine's day will never be satisfactory - early in the relationship it's riddled with pressures and fear over doing too much or not enough, further in there are expectations to be met and disappointment when it falls short of perfection, and in marriage it just becomes another day to accidentally forget, along with birthdays and anniversaries. It's hard enough to enjoy a perfectly serendipitous moment with someone dreamy at all, without trying to schedule that moment for one particular day a year.

I have a bad record with Valentine's day. I remember awkward high school years of wishing my crush du jour would look my way, bringing in Love Hearts to give unsubtly (but also the excitement at that first card from an inarticulate teenage boy.) When I was seventeen, I broke up with my boyfriend the day before Valentine's - a dispute over what we were going to do on the day, but really just the culmination of several terse months. Even so, it tainted the experience and taught me that things are not likely to be rosy every February 14th. During university, my single girlfriends and I had cocktails in a sort of 'screw you, we're single' spirit - but even this inevitably turned to boy talk and became a little morose. The last time I was truly spoiled was two years ago, when the relationship was just at the right stage - new enough to be exciting, not too new to make the big gestures - and I enjoyed it in the moment, roses and dinner and all.

But me and Valentine's 2010 are not going to get on at all. I can feel it coursing through me now, as if I'm limbering up for a big fight with a long-term enemy.
Options for the day itself include:

- staying in bed and refusing to concede even consciousness to the vile charade (perhaps letting V Day win a little bit there)
- hosting a vicious 'Bad Romance' party for single friends, complete with angry music, a ban on red/pink/flowers/hearts/chocolate, drinking unromantic beers and spirits and possibly watching a horror film. Or anything where the central love story is ultimately futile.
- combining the two and drinking in bed, crying like a mad person and screaming 'Liarrr!' at any love scenes that dare to cross my TV screen.
- accepting my own challenge to eat an entire jar of Nutella.
- turning up the speakers and caterwauling along to Kate Bush's Wuthering Heights. God I hope no hot men are reading this.

None of the options are particularly pretty but I just don't see how this day is going to be. I was all up for making it just another day of the week before the Hallmark gods started pissing artificial romance all over London. I'm off to stock up on the Jack Daniels and hide all the rom-coms - any suggestions for getting through Feb 14th very welcome. Bring it on.

The Best Medicine

2010-01-27T14:57:00.000Z

I don't know about you, but I'm in need of some smile therapy right now. Newly single, I am reminded of the moment in the SATC movie when jilted Carrie asks 'Will I ever laugh again?' and Miranda advises her that she will - 'When something is really, really funny.' As I'm not prepared to sit around waiting for my friends to soil themselves, I have to make my own amusement, and here are some of my quick-fix remedies to give you an instant lift:

Glee. Every line, every song - the whole concept is absolute gold. Become a Gleek and every week will get off to a better start.

Reading snippets from spoof US News site The Onion at your desk. Silly, perfectly crafted and an instant laughter drug. Also loving my horoscope on there this week: 'You'll find happiness at the end of the rainbow this week, though to be fair, it's the kind often found hanging outside of gay clubs.'

Really creamy, cinammon-laced hot chocolate. Not laughter exactly, but a smile and a warming glow from top to toe can't hurt.

Reading badly written erotic literature with your bestest girl friends (you know who you are.)

Chick flicks with a twist - I recommend mockumentary Drop Dead Gorgeous, high school Heathfest 10 Things I Hate About You and Tina Fey-scripted Mean Girls.

Extra-curricular fun: No, not playing away, but joining a club or team. Rehearsing with the choir I am part of is one of the most laughter-filled evenings of my week. Slightly music-geeky joking and the fact that we don't take ourselves too seriously means it's less work, more play.

Dave on TV - Russell Howard's little-boy delight in the world makes Mock The Week the prozac of panel shows, and the sharp minds and witty one-liners on Have I Got News for You and QI also do the trick.

Revisiting an old favourite. I am re-reading Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason on the train, and had forgotten how funny it is. Brilliant for realizing you're not the cringiest of females quite yet.

Overhearing the bizarre dialogue or phone conversation of a fellow train passenger. I'm not sure why this works for me, but the weirder the better.

Catching yourself in a moment of extra-strength crazy - think imaginary scenarios, almost-sent texts, facebook stalking or being overly riled by the tone of a Starbucks barista. It's oddly reassuring to laugh at yourself.

Do comment with smile-inducing tips and tricks if you can - the tiny things in life can really make or break your day, and mine are looking a little bleak at the moment...