March 11, 2013 · 11:25 am

The importance of socks

My little sister and I have an ongoing competition: who would survive best in a life-threatening situation. Jail, she wins- she’s taller and stronger than me, and doesn’t mind carrying heavy things (we are, naturally, being sent to jail during the Victorian age, and will be spending our time on the railroads, or breaking rocks or something). Inexplicably shoved into a Hunger Games-type scenario?

We’re still deciding, but I think my people skills far outweigh her brute strength. A panicked cross-country flee from a serial killer? I am 100% better equipped to survive. I take 3 minute showers, unlike my little sister, who has a deeply anti-social habit of falling asleep in the shower in the morning; I always know where my Oyster card and passport are; I have shoved all my leftover foreign currency into a box on my bookshelf. I believe, firmly, that people wash their clothes too often, and am perfectly content to re-read books over and over. In short, I will be packed and on the Heathrow Express before my little sister can comprehend that the angry knocking on the bathroom door is the beginning of a Psycho-type scenario, not simply me, wondering angrily how ‘anyone can take so long in the bloody shower’.

I have spent years studying fleeing people in movies and TV shows, and can tell you definitively that they are doing it wrong. When TV people are fleeing, why do they always heap things from the top drawer of their wardrobe into their suitcase? No-one stores jeans or jumpers in the top drawer. I can only believe that thousands of movies and TV shows are letting their protagonists hastily pack bags full of socks.

Now, socks are tremendously useful- I scarcely ever have sufficient pairs, and my own sock drawer is a delightful testament to a life spent ‘borrowing’ other peoples socks (socks are like elastic hair-bands- no one is going to ask for them back, unless you are foolish enough to stumble across their owner whilst wearing them, weeks after the initial borrow; but even then, it is fairly difficult to forcibly remove socks from someone else’s feet without looking slightly deranged), but let’s say you’re making a panicked flight to Brazil from the man who you believe killed your Father and stole most of your inheritance, and is now out to kill you to stop the truth from coming to light- all I’m saying is, socks can only go so far. (Not literally- socks, unhindered by any cross-country regulations or border controls, can circumvent the world at ease, but you know, metaphorically).

‘I think socks are useful. After all, everyone gets cold feet on airplanes,’ My little sister pointed out. ‘That’s why they give you free socks on long-haul flights.’

‘Precisely,’ I replied joyously. ‘They give you free socks! There is absolutely no need whatsoever to pack any socks at all!’ As my little sister began a diatribe on the virtues of washing, and general cleanliness, I quietly pointed out that she had already been killed, whilst I, not even needing to check any baggage, was well on my way to a lifetime of mojitos and ex-pat burning in warmer climes.

‘What about Hell,’ My little sister responded robustly. ‘With your ghostly complexion, you’d never survive. But I’d coerce the other inhabitants into making me a protective enclosure.’ ‘Oh yes?’ I replied, disbelievingly. ‘And why would they do that?’ ‘Socks,’ My little sister replied smugly. ‘I’d bribe them with socks.’

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February 15, 2013 · 7:59 pm

Carbs and other masturbation

‘I’m pretty indifferent to chips,’ My friend told me recently. I stared at him, uncomprehendingly. Personally, I eat carbs in the same way as teenage boys masturbate- frantically, furtively and as often as possible. And being in America hasn’t helped.

Yesterday, for breakfast I had watermelon.

I had to share it with an 11 year old, but we ate the entire thing, so I will lay claim to having eaten at least 10 pounds of delicious red fruit. ‘My goodness,’ I thought smugly as I practiced my jump shot on the basketball court. ‘I simply do not understand why people accuse Americans of being fat. I am literally stuffed with goodness. If I could only get this basketball anywhere near the hoop, I would pretty much be the poster-child for American health.’

My newfound smugness soon wore off- this morning I located the bread cabinet. I say ‘cabinet’, but ‘bread walk-in-wardrobe would be more accurate. Thoughts of watermelon were long-forgotten as I quietly worked my way through half a loaf of bread, 3 bagels and 2 English muffins. (I have recently worked out that anything with less than 50% sugar is quickly dismissed in the States as alien-English muffins join ranks with French fries and Canadian bacon as the US version of ‘foreign muck’).

There is something impossibly delicious about American carbohydrates. And I’m closer than ever to landing that jump shot.*

*Factually inaccurate*

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February 14, 2013 · 6:55 pm

V Day and other disasters

Today is Valentine’s Day. I am not prone to hyperbole, so you can believe me when I tell you that today, February 14th, 2013, is the worst day ever. It started magically- I woke up to sunlight, fresh air and Californian forest (oh- I’m in California now), and went on what can only be described as a little run about a movie set, so perfect is this suburban town. (I don’t want to boast, but I’m pretty sure Eddie, of Eddie’s Deli, was impressed when I sweated around his store, gawping at the size of the watermelons*).

I returned home to an excellent breakfast, and took my 7-year old friend on what she optimistically termed a ‘hike’- as we were away for less than 30 minutes, and at no point lost sight of the house, an English person would describe it as a ‘quick moment outside to check the weather’. This kid will acclimatise to America perfectly.

So far, so good. Until I checked my phone: I love you. <3. Mum.

My Mother has learnt how to send emoticons. Please excuse me- I'm just going outside. I may be some time.

*Not a euphemism*

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February 6, 2013 · 12:28 pm

Zero Dark Thirty: very bad rom-com

I saw Zero Dark Thirty last night. Not on my own- with some friends. And some pizza. Well, lots of pizza and a few friends. Zero Dark Thirty is the follow-up to The Hurt Locker, which I loved. I liked that movie so much, in fact, that I began to refer to almost anything irritating as ‘the hurt locker’. I’m pretty sure that this is precisely what Bigelow wanted, when she made the movie, and therefore simultaneously began to refer to myself as ‘Bigelow’s biggest fan’. (I found this a particularly funny sentence, so often laughed half-way through it. It is possible that between my re-appropriating of the title of her movie, and the inappropriate sniggering when saying her name, I very nearly cost Bigelow her Oscar, but what else are fans for?)

I had heard only good things about Zero Dark Thirty, and was happy to watch it, although I usually try to avoid movies where I already know the ending. Zero Dark Thirty is long. I checked this morning, and in actual, real-world time, it isn’t excessively long (unlike Les Mis- you bladder-destroying monster), but it feels long. Possibly, this is because it details a search that took 10 years to complete, but I personally think it is because the lead character, who is impossibly beautiful, committed and intelligent, does not have sex at any point during the movie.

Now, I did not sit down to watch a re-telling of the harrowing events leading to the capture of Bin Laden hoping to see some artfully shot soft porn. But I did feel it was a little rum that this poor woman, who has been in the CIA since she left college (see, I was paying attention), and spent most of her time witnessing some of the most unpleasant things, who was thwarted at every turn by her male bosses or inefficient filing, was not allowed to have any sex.

‘She does have sex,’ My friend assured me. ‘With the soldiers who come over to Pakistan. We just don’t see it.’ ‘I’m not sure you’re right,’ I replied sadly. ‘For a start, what are you talking about? And for seconds, we see exactly what she does- she sits at her desk, frustrated; she goes to meetings and is spoken over; she puts up with being ignored until she can’t anymore, and shouts for a few seconds to get what she wants. She is right, and at the end she is proved to be right, and loses her job. This really is the bleakest movie I have ever seen.’

‘I’m not sure you’ve really understood this movie,’ My friend replied slowly. ‘I have understood this movie perfectly,’ I replied huffily. ‘And I’m just sorry that you don’t care more about the well-being of our lead character.’ I don’t want to spoil it for those of you who haven’t seen it- but at the end, the lead is crying. Alone. Zero Dark Thirty is the worst rom-com I have ever seen.

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January 29, 2013 · 11:45 am

F.U.R.B. (and all those little things)

I’ve had One Direction’s ‘Little Things’ stuck inside my head since Saturday. To be more specific, I have spent the last 3 days hearing, ‘You can’t go to sleep/ Without a cup of tea’ while I try to shower, eat and generally exist. I, personally, can think of nothing worse than being forced to drink a cup of tea before bed- any comfort gained from the hot liquid would quickly be undone by the subsequent slog to re-brush your teeth and myriad of nighttime trips to the loo.

But I would, on reflection, quite like to have a song written about me. Last year (or maybe it was the year before, I’m not young enough to be certain I’m hearing songs when they come out, and not years later, on Magic FM or the like), it was all about ‘Delilah’. ‘Hey There Delilah’ was the song you simply couldn’t avoid- and some over-eager magazine intern, not realizing that no-one likes a junior who makes everyone else look bad, tracked down the eponymous Delilah to ask how she felt about the whole thing.

Apparently, she had met the singer once, and was now ‘haunted’ by the song ‘in the gym, in my car, in the mall’. (Kudos for getting the gym in there, real-life Delilah; now we can all rest assured that you are skinny enough to merit a song being written about you).

Before that, Eamon released a track entitled, ‘Fuck It (I don’t want you back)’, which, all things considered, was a rather ungentlemanly response to a break-up.

Luckily, Frankee swiftly responded with F.U.R.B. (Fuck You Right Back), a searing indictment of their time together, which included the puzzling line ‘Your sex was whack’. Having given the matter some thought, I believe that the sex was ‘bad’, not that his genitalia was somehow misaligned.

Obviously, when thinking about having a song written about me, I imagine it to be more ‘Lady in Red’ and less, ‘You’re so Vain’, but I think what truly appeals is the idea of the absolute mundanity of my life being shoved into peoples’ ears; the thought that they, too, will be ‘haunted’ by the catchy revelation that ‘If she drinks tea/ She will later need to wee’. After all, it would only be fair, given the hours I have dedicated to wondering what the One Direction girl does when she’s camping, or on an overnight flight, or even staying in a house where the kitchen is several floors below her bedroom.

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January 24, 2013 · 11:43 am

House-guests

You think you know a person, and then they stay in your home. This last week, I have had one of my closest friends as a houseguest. Here are the things I have discovered:

1. When watching the documentary ‘Africa’, she likes to re-cast the animals shown in it as people we know. I was a turtle. I survived.

2. She does laundry. Actually, I knew this before- when we went travelling around Africa together, we had t-shirts made- mine read ‘the girl who doesn’t do laundry’; so it may be that my point of laundry reference is a little askew.

3. She makes you do things you never thought you would do- like bikram yoga. Which was described to me as ‘yoga, bit hot so you don’t stay long’, but which turned out to be ‘yoga, very hot indeed, lasts 1 hour and a half’.
4. She regularly forgets her Oyster card, and instead waves a library card at the bus sensor, whilst making the beeping sound.

5. Used to the village-like atmosphere of Edinburgh, she has found several things about London a little confusing, and I have saved her life approximately 40,000 times whilst she attempts to cross the road without looking, or talk to strangers on the tube.

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January 22, 2013 · 11:43 am

I’m having a bad day

Today has not started very well. We didn’t win the pub quiz, and my little sister and I are playing ‘it’ with the heating, so I woke up freezing at about 4.30am, my friends have gone for a run but I am on deadline so am sitting at home panicking about them becoming skinnier and faster than me, and I just burnt my tongue on my herbal tea. Oh, and I’m drinking herbal tea. Things couldn’t be much bleaker, all things considered.

I’ve started playing with Eric, my little artist’s mannequin, and found myself apologizing to him for not having found a nice artist mannequin lady for him to play with.

It is quite possible that I should be less worried about my friends’ newfound fitness, and more about my encroaching dementia. Luckily, I’ve finally worked out how to balance Eric so that he looks like he’s flying. So things may be looking up. (Not for Eric though- he’s seconds away from certain death).

I am wondering what I can do to improve today-I imagine I’ll have some time remaining once I’ve planned Eric’s (poorly attended) funeral, and my Mother always says that the best way to feel happier is to do something for someone else. I have thought long and hard about what I can do, personally, to make the world a better place. I have decided, therefore, that I will devote the rest of today to making the perfect pancake.

Not only will this help my name to go down in culinary history, it will mean I have an endless supply of pancakes, and will help to fatten up my friend in the name of ‘science’. Really, I’m feeling much cheerier already.

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January 21, 2013 · 12:18 pm

News of idiocy from New York (you know who you are)

I have two friends. They both currently live in NY, so I spend much of my day chatting to them over the internet (sorry I had to explain Gchat for my Mother, who is a loyal percentage* of my reading audience). On Friday, I realised that it is time for both of them to come home.

My first NY based friend told me excitedly that she was going to The Inauguration Ball. ‘Whaaaat?’ I replied, madly over-excited and filled with jealousy.

‘How? What? How? Why? Why you? Why not me? I really think Obama and I could be such good friends,’ I typed incoherently.
‘My friend has a spare ticket, and I’ve bought it off her,’ She replied calmly. ‘Oh my god,’ I typed back excitedly. ‘And do you get to talk to him? Are you going to ask Obama to dance? Do you think Michelle will mind? I love you, but there’s no way you could take Michelle. Have you seen her? She will beat you down. And then help you to eat better.’

‘You don’t get to talk to the President,’ My friend said sadly. ‘Oh,’ I replied. ‘Well, at least try and get a photo with him.’ ‘Yes,’ My friend continued. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen. I don’t think you get to see the President.’ It seems, and I’m not sure because it was fairly hard to read the Gchat window through my tears of laughter, that my friend has spent hundreds of dollars to stand, with strangers, in a room in the same building as the President.

Weeping with laughter, I noticed that my other friend had logged on. ‘Hello!’ I said cheerily. ‘How’s things your end?’ She nattered away about this and that, mentioning a new friend she had made. I logged onto Facebook to check she was making appropriate friends. ‘Why are there no new photos of you?’ I asked her. ‘Have you been mostly sitting weeping alone in New York?’ ‘Oh no,’ My friend explained cheerily. ‘I’m trying to convince people I still look how I did 10 years ago. So I’m not putting any new photos up.’

‘That’s the second most idiotic thing I’ve heard today,’ I told her robustly. ‘It is imperative that we post recent photos- or people who are expecting us to look as we did at 16 years old will get a terrible shock. Speaking of terrible shocks, let me tell you about what really happens at the Inaugural Ball….’

*half

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January 18, 2013 · 11:47 am

What was the last good book you read?

I first met one of my very good friends several Summers ago, when I was staying with her in California. I agree, it seems a little presumptuous to move in to someone’s family home before you have even met them, but we had a mutual friend, and well, I have never let something like ‘presumption’ stop me from having an excellent time.

The second day of my visit, we were walking around San Francisco together. Ignoring my own advice never to ask questions about other people, I turned to my new friend. ‘What was the last good book you read?’ I asked. She stared at me. I stared back. (I was wearing sunglasses, so I felt comfortable staring at people pretty much constantly).

‘Um,’ She began awkwardly. ‘I’m not really much of a reader.’ I continued to stare at her while I wondered what to say next.

See, there are some questions that strike fear in everyone. ‘What kind of music do you like?’ or ‘Are you sporty?’

This is because, whilst purporting to be ‘getting-to-know-you’ questions, they are actually accusatory, impossible-to-navigate tests. Personally, I like to whack a tennis ball about, or be thrashed on the squash court, or do at least 3 press-ups before my arms hurt.

Does that make me ‘sporty’? Is ‘sporty’ a pejorative term? Will I be asked to list my sporting idols in alphabetical order? Is there going to be a fitness test?

Asking a generic, compromising question achieves the precise opposite of ‘getting to know someone’; sending them into a swirly panic of self-doubt and blankness. Which is why I like to ask a specific, answer-driven question. Until this particular friend, it had never failed. People thought for a second, and then told me the last book they could remember. It was both simple and intensely revealing. (To the lady who said, ‘A Midsummer’s Night Dream’, shame on you. You’re 26 years old. You should have read something new since Year 8).

It is testament to the excellence of my friend that we got past this dreadful, gaping conversational black hole that she had created. And seeing as all good stories deserve a happy ending, I wanted to share this with you: currently on holiday in Brazil, she texted me excitedly to let me know that she had ‘finished an entire book with words!’ and told me that I could ‘check’ this statement with our mutual friend. Which, I feel, very quickly reveals the compact perfection of ‘What was the last good book you read?’

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January 17, 2013 · 12:25 pm

Say no to porridge

It’s not even lunchtime, and already I have made a series of fascinating discoveries:

1. There is a way to shut the front door to our flat quietly, rather than slamming it shut.

My little sister explained this to me blearily this morning as I popped out at 6.30am. ‘You need to put your key in the lock as you close the door,’ She grumbled at me indistinctly. ‘Oh,’ I replied, pleasantly surprised. ‘But why have you never told me this before?’ My little sister stared at me. ‘This is the first time, in possibly our entire existence, and certainly during the time of us living in this flat, that you have woken up before me.’ I frowned disbelievingly at my sister.

‘Luckily,’ She continued, ‘This time, when you woke up an hour before me, you woke me up too.’ ‘I do like tradition,’ I replied cheerily, leaving the flat.

2. The perfect winter breakfast. It’s not porridge, or oats, or the furmity slop the Mayor of Casterbridge feeds his wife before he sells her in Thomas Hardy’s novel.

No, this is a food item that has the self-respect to hold its own shape, rather than lazily flounder into whatever shaped vessel it is poured into. It’s potato cakes.

Potato cakes are, quite simply, the best winter breakfast available. They are delicious. They are filling. They can be eaten hot or cold- and unlike their carbohydratey-neighbour, the crumpet, taste good either way. They can be eaten with a topping or without. They can be popped into the toaster 2 minutes before you leave and function as edible hand-warmers. They are sold everywhere; I personally am eating the Warburtons potato cakes, but that’s because they were reduced from 79p to 36p in Tescos. Oh yes- they are also cheap. They are filling, happy-making and cheap. They are the Soma of the breakfast world.

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