Saturday, 30 May 2009


I bought a jacket off ebay for £1. It's floral and silky with shoulder pads. I love the current floral trend and since it is big and has shorter sleeves, I think I can belt it and wear it as a dress over opaques as well as wearing it boyfriend-fit over jeans. When I showed it to my current flatmate (but only for one more week); that is my mother, she said it looked exactly like something that my recently deceased grandmother would wear. Before adding, 'but you can get away with it.' I think she was sincere I'm not sure, but I am now having doubts about my fabulous jacket. Any comments would be much appreciated. I do generally like to channel 'granny-chic' but perhaps this is a step too far?

Second post about TNG and its art to come soon...

Friday, 29 May 2009

The Guilt of Picking Primark over Picasso..

So.. last week I had a meeting in London. Since I had to trek all the way up to Piccadily Circus and spend a completely ridiculous £30 for a return ticket and Oyster card top up, I thought I shouldn't waste the day. So after a brief foray into Primark on Oxford Street; something I generally avoid until times get so hard and I'm literally dreaming in fashion pages that I have to resort to trashy items stitched by guilt-wrenching 3rd world children. It's truly awful, but it amazes me how they can churn out a new trend days after it appears in a designer shop, admittedly less well made and less beautiful.

Anyway, to atone for my sins and because in my capacity as a writer I like to re-inspire myself with other peoples greatness, I took the tube from Oxford Street to Charing Cross and The National Gallery. Trafalgar Square was heaving as usual, and in the heat of that day I couldn't help thinking about the artist... what's his name... Antony Gormley who is doing the fourth plinth piece. In the height of British summer, I could not think of anything worse than standing on the fourth plinth, sweating and feeling self conscious. The other day I was channel hopping and I caught this program of people pretending to be animals in the zoo, actually getting in cages with them. One of them felt terrible, because of all the people, staring at them, all the time. This is what the plinth would be like. Even for the lucky ones who got the low periods when the tourists had gone home leaving behind only there discarded sandwich packets and maps; wouldn't they worry about falling off? To be honest it might not even be empty at any time now but contain youngsters lurking because of bloody Vodafone and there Flash-mob trend.

Anyway, back to The National Gallery, I eventually got in after not managing to avoid a lascivious comment from the pile of tramps lying on the grass by the stairs. I felt guilty that I had a Primark bag, so clearly some cash. I had an urge to explain to them that infact i had spent the last of my money in Primark, which meant that I couldn't go to the Picasso exhibition, which I would love and was simply making use of one of the last benefits of Britain; free Culture. I realised it was perhaps not the best idea and also hid my own guilty secre; that I had known about Picasso before and had chosen Primark and the rush of a new dress. So, I was going into the gallery to wonder round, get some inspiration, take some notes, maybe try and manifest a short story or two from some of the world's greatest works of art. I'll write about what I came up with in the next entry.

Monday, 11 May 2009

Monday Monday... my first time.

Hello everybody. I guess I should start with that. It is my first post after all. Except I can't really be bothered to do that whole intro thing which makes me cringe so much when I read it in 'chic-lit'. You know the type of thing I mean. Emma was golden-haired and blue eyed and had legs much longer than her body. blah blah. Have you noticed that even when the author is clearly flag marking the heroine as 'normal', she will still have beautiful eyes and soft hair or something. I am a bit of a hypocrite on this actually, because I also hate it when a writer describes their heroine and says ' she was large-bottomed and her hair was wiry'. I think, oh dear, she's not going to have wonderful adventures and meet gorgeous men is she with her big bottom and Susan Boyle hair. I generally think it is better when the author lets you form your own opinions of what the heroine looks like, disclosing only small pieces of information about her bag or shoes or an antique ring she wears; mysterious and requires imagination.

So, basically, what I will give away about myself is that I can be overly sarcastic and dry and often go off on tangents. I am also dyslexic, so the terrible punctuation and grammar use is generally down to this. Indeed my sentences often go on for far too long, so I apologise for this in advance. Finally, like any wannabe writer, I am cringingly aware of my own and others creativity and love to lose myself in thoughts of immortality through literature. Don't worry, I'll try not to do this on the page as it is a little boring for others and to be honest I'm not yet Mr Shakespeare. Though I've often thought I'd like to call my daughter Shakespeare. I don't have one now you realise, this is my future daughter I'm thinking off. Yes, completely embarassing, probably.

Today has been less than satisfactory in my quest for gainful employment. I am feeling rather ill which I think is my hangover from my hangover yesterday. It's two days these days, truly. I have recently received an e-mail from a very successfull family member who I wrote a rather wordy, pleading e-mail to last week about help and contacts. Now I am too scared to read his reply. It is sitting in my inbox, waiting. This is a common issue with me, something to do with confidence I think. It was more understandable when I wouldn't open my A Level results for a day and my degree results for a week until I got completely drunk at my next-door neighbours garden party, snogged one of the guests and stumbled home, ripped open the envelope and tried to read the blurry pages. This time, however, seems stupid. It gives me nervous palpations just thinking about it. I think it is insecurity, but of what I'm not sure. I really should just go and click on the e-mail now, while I'm writing this.

I did it and it was a nice e-mail and he says I write very well. That's nice. It's true about facing your fears, however irrational they may be.