Okay, I'm not in such a mood anymore.
And seeing as it's Halloween and I am stuck in hotel room, I think I'll synopsise some things.
So, came back from London, had lots of 'I missed you' sex, slept all weekend, worked all week, and friday Liam's brother came.
He is just like tom if tom wasn't add, ocd or in anyway bothered about anything ever. he is the sweetest nicest funnest most laid back non commital person I have ever met (and if you know my friends and family, that's saying something). We spent the weekend going to the movies, wandering through graveyards and generally bumming around.
Then tuesday at dawn, I got on the train to London. Or rather, at 6:24am I woke up when the taxi company called to say my car was outside my house. My alarm didnt go off as planned and thus ensued a rather raucous scramble for the 7am train and a rather flightly and stressful morning (topped off by forgetting my contacts and having to constantly scrunch up my nose as my glasses slip down all week)
Had a couple of meetings on arrival - and kate you'll never guess who might be coming to my festival - and also made lingered eye contact with a remarkably hansome and quite short guy in soho and then wondered why suddenly, pointedly he looked down as we passed, until I realised he was Joseph Finnes and probably thought I was an oogling fan who was about to make a scene. poor guy.
then wandered about the British Museum as the last crowds filtered out. I couldn't get into the Last Emperor exhibition (that army of terra cotta soldiers and all manner of bad ass things), but the Rosetta Stone is always inspiring and the floor mosaics from roman britain are just fucking ace.
Then an evening of spreadsheets, emails and general maintence from the comfort of my totally lush suite with kitchenette topped off by a phone call to my dad.
Today woke up on time and even managed to get to my meeting in Covent Garden, but with half an hour to kill after, what was there to do but accidentally have an adventure?
So orla kiely (orlakiely.co.uk) is the must have of london. or was 3 years ago, and now is almost barely affordable. so, i popped in to have a look as I noticed it nestled between boutiques. being in a cheerful mood and loving the coin purse in the window, I greet the conspicuous, ridiculously cool 3 staff members standing behind the bar. They ask how I am, and general shop talk I disregard and pleasantly reply, thinking nothing of it.
Then they ask me to sign in, and thinking this is some mailing list perk or bet yet prize draw, i don't hesitate.
My pen hesitates only slightly as I skim the list that all say Mary Corontini, Marie Claire and Sophie Davies, Elle wondering if I need to fill in my job, so I put the book festival and wonder if the girl will say anything and starting to wonder what I am doing.
She doesn't though, and a nice young gentleman appears with a goodybag for me to take home and guides me to the showroom. I go down the stairs and it begins to dawn on me this isn't a store at all, but a premiere show for next summer's colletion for the fashion journalist elite. I see some lovely things, turn down the absolutely towering confectionary on every table, and breathe a sigh of relief when there is an exit out the third show room so I don't have to go back and face them. The girl at the door hopes I have a nice say and I mumble some apology for having to rush through like this and dash away before they take back my brilliant gifts.
And by then, it's time for another meeting so I get on with my day.
Which other than half a dozen meetings, also consits of going to a cool book award ceremony over the thames where it's actually given by teenagers (so I obviously chat to them instead of network and convince myself this is intensive groundwork research into my audience), get slightly tipsy and just barely make it to my last appointment.
Then it's a wander through covent garden market, nab a quiet corner in a pub for a steak pie and a good relishing of my new novel, follwed by a quick nap and off to a brilliant lecture on the future of picture books by the childrens laureate.
And now it's 9 pm, I'm back to the spreadsheets and going to do it all over again tomorrow (except the blatant theivery of designer goods part, though i can't promise i won't do something equally preposterous at the mummy museum book launch tomorrow night).
31 October 2007
"I hope my children aren't nerds. I want them to be sporty and fun!" (small air punching cheerleader gesture)
I actually heard this fall from an obnoxious american girls mouth on Great Russell Street today.
Granted my sudden rage at this exclamation maybe needs some context. My business trips to London are rather quiet, floating affairs - seeing as I am completely on my own all day everyday just wandering about (think Lost in Translation in english with less hating it), so I generally, on the whole without, decernable emotion. Other than cheerfully glancing at a beautiful pair of shoes or being slightly irked my steak pie turned out to be a chicken pie, it's a relatevely calm almost hollow existance.
And to walk down a sunset street, with the great wonders of western discovery on my right (The British Museum), one of the great feats of quirky modern design under my arm (an orla keily bag), and a wonderful epic historical novel in my hand (the blue flame), I couldn't have been less disappointed in the flippant lack of scope and sanity in college girls. May I never speak to one again.
I actually heard this fall from an obnoxious american girls mouth on Great Russell Street today.
Granted my sudden rage at this exclamation maybe needs some context. My business trips to London are rather quiet, floating affairs - seeing as I am completely on my own all day everyday just wandering about (think Lost in Translation in english with less hating it), so I generally, on the whole without, decernable emotion. Other than cheerfully glancing at a beautiful pair of shoes or being slightly irked my steak pie turned out to be a chicken pie, it's a relatevely calm almost hollow existance.
And to walk down a sunset street, with the great wonders of western discovery on my right (The British Museum), one of the great feats of quirky modern design under my arm (an orla keily bag), and a wonderful epic historical novel in my hand (the blue flame), I couldn't have been less disappointed in the flippant lack of scope and sanity in college girls. May I never speak to one again.
19 October 2007
So, here I am. Riding first class back home after a week in London. The beauty of first class is free tea, coffee and wifi. Plus, no one sits next to you. It's brilliant. even if the old lady in front of me smells of fish and they have run out of pasta lunches.
Mostly London was just meetings and rubbish take away curries in my hotel room to be honest. A very real look at the boring hollow existence of corporate travel. But it did have some highlights.
Met up with old college friend blobel and wrangled him into a illustration exhibition where we possibly got him a job, got v drunk, and met john howe of lotr fame whose illustrated beowulf is outstanding.
Also saw Glengarry/Glenross with Jonathan Pryce in the west end, and one should always see Mamet on your own in an akward vintage theatre. It totally helps.
Plus, watching crap late night tv, caught the life-changing 'the girls guide to 21st century sex' which was far more graphic and weird than you can possibly imagine. Not only including porn star re-enactments, she had an internernal camera inplanted so we could witness all the build up and action (*addendum: and by we all I mean completely and totally me. As 1, I wouldn't be caught dead watching this with real people and 2, I was probably the only person in the country who tuned in to such pseudo-science rubbish). It was oustandingly weird. The hollywood counsellors on velvet sofas added an air of glamour, and then a whole segment on the 30 Lorraina Bobbett incidents a year in Thailand.
I think i need to repeat that. About 30 women a year mutilate and or cut off their husbands dicks in Thailand - and most of the men can look forward to a completely normal life after reattachement up to 15 hours later. It turns out cocks are like starfish legs or newts tails or something. And the beauty of it is, many of the couples stay together - forgive and forget genital multilation I guess. Jesus.
Then waiting in Kings Cross this afternoon, I came across a copy of Diva with Shane from the L word on the front, who is admittedly quite sexy in a flat-chested sort of way. And the cover story was about lesbian authors. Being a woman who loves her some Carol Ann Duffy and has been meaning to read Tipping the Velvet for several years, regardless of my or the authors orientation, I was interested. And I was shocked and appalled at my own hesitation to pick up a lesbian magazine in the crowded bookshop. It was quite surreal actually having the flashes of violence, insolence and general social awareness of prejudice in my head - and sizing up the trucker on my left and the goth on the right to see if it would actually be risky if I was seen picking it up.
So of course I immediately did - freaked out by my own stupidity and being obstenent. Because, really what are the chances they are on my train much less psychotic enough to rape and/or maim me in a lashing out of misguided homophobia? how fucked up.
So yeah, it's been an odd few days.
ps - I hope this post comes out okay, because for some reason the wireless has linked into the swedish version of blogger and i can't read any of the buttons. go figure.
Mostly London was just meetings and rubbish take away curries in my hotel room to be honest. A very real look at the boring hollow existence of corporate travel. But it did have some highlights.
Met up with old college friend blobel and wrangled him into a illustration exhibition where we possibly got him a job, got v drunk, and met john howe of lotr fame whose illustrated beowulf is outstanding.
Also saw Glengarry/Glenross with Jonathan Pryce in the west end, and one should always see Mamet on your own in an akward vintage theatre. It totally helps.
Plus, watching crap late night tv, caught the life-changing 'the girls guide to 21st century sex' which was far more graphic and weird than you can possibly imagine. Not only including porn star re-enactments, she had an internernal camera inplanted so we could witness all the build up and action (*addendum: and by we all I mean completely and totally me. As 1, I wouldn't be caught dead watching this with real people and 2, I was probably the only person in the country who tuned in to such pseudo-science rubbish). It was oustandingly weird. The hollywood counsellors on velvet sofas added an air of glamour, and then a whole segment on the 30 Lorraina Bobbett incidents a year in Thailand.
I think i need to repeat that. About 30 women a year mutilate and or cut off their husbands dicks in Thailand - and most of the men can look forward to a completely normal life after reattachement up to 15 hours later. It turns out cocks are like starfish legs or newts tails or something. And the beauty of it is, many of the couples stay together - forgive and forget genital multilation I guess. Jesus.
Then waiting in Kings Cross this afternoon, I came across a copy of Diva with Shane from the L word on the front, who is admittedly quite sexy in a flat-chested sort of way. And the cover story was about lesbian authors. Being a woman who loves her some Carol Ann Duffy and has been meaning to read Tipping the Velvet for several years, regardless of my or the authors orientation, I was interested. And I was shocked and appalled at my own hesitation to pick up a lesbian magazine in the crowded bookshop. It was quite surreal actually having the flashes of violence, insolence and general social awareness of prejudice in my head - and sizing up the trucker on my left and the goth on the right to see if it would actually be risky if I was seen picking it up.
So of course I immediately did - freaked out by my own stupidity and being obstenent. Because, really what are the chances they are on my train much less psychotic enough to rape and/or maim me in a lashing out of misguided homophobia? how fucked up.
So yeah, it's been an odd few days.
ps - I hope this post comes out okay, because for some reason the wireless has linked into the swedish version of blogger and i can't read any of the buttons. go figure.
15 October 2007
Julie
It's not everyday you celebrate someone's 30th birthday. And Julie being Julie, we had to do it in style (bearing in mind last year she organised an ice skating outting in which I slipped in a monumental moment of slapstick inspiration and busted my tailbone leaving me bedridden for almost a week. Hilarity ensued for almost everyone involved, or so I hear).
And of course Julie being Julie, she is obsessed with the Sound of Music.
Work obligations prevented us actually going to Austria (the original plan), so we had to make do with Edinburgh.
A lunch of schnitzel with noodles (which is actually quite nice) and the soundtrack wafting through the house, followed by a photoshoot in the gardens (some evidence of which is on facebook). Pinafores, a guitar, a little too much giddy singing and my piece de resistance - insisting everyone re-enact the cuckcoo song by popping out from behind her back in sequence as she strummed tunelessly and giggled like she won the lottery.
Then home for warm apple strudel and the film (and a few brown paper packages tied up with string).
There is something so wholesome about good old childish play and a musical birthday party. If only I had the guts to turn my russet drapes with the golden phesants on them (oh yes, they are mine) into leiderhosen I think she could have died happy that day.
And of course Julie being Julie, she is obsessed with the Sound of Music.
Work obligations prevented us actually going to Austria (the original plan), so we had to make do with Edinburgh.
A lunch of schnitzel with noodles (which is actually quite nice) and the soundtrack wafting through the house, followed by a photoshoot in the gardens (some evidence of which is on facebook). Pinafores, a guitar, a little too much giddy singing and my piece de resistance - insisting everyone re-enact the cuckcoo song by popping out from behind her back in sequence as she strummed tunelessly and giggled like she won the lottery.
Then home for warm apple strudel and the film (and a few brown paper packages tied up with string).
There is something so wholesome about good old childish play and a musical birthday party. If only I had the guts to turn my russet drapes with the golden phesants on them (oh yes, they are mine) into leiderhosen I think she could have died happy that day.
11 October 2007
So how's life? I am completely devoid of one at the minute. Let's take my yesterday as the perfect example.
Get up, crawl out of bed hungover from publishing dinner with this really amazing American author, throw on whatever is sitting on my chair. (Let it be noted here, it may be wining, dining and general glitz, but it is also hard fucking work chatting and niceness and cajoling the right people and not letting the conversation die. Socialite behaviour is a cultivated skill of gross professionalism.)
Go to morning meeting tiptoeing around an arts partnership that while incredibly promising for the profile has no discernable pricetag attached and I can't get Judy Blume to come for free.
Spend the rest of the day color coding my London visit. The city map behind my desk is covered with post it arrows like a battle plan. The spreadsheet of meetings is color coded by availability and area. Spend a large chunk of time researching appropriately trendy and relaxed cafes in which to set up meetings where they won't mind me sitting with endless cups of tea as a revolving door of publicists joins me for up to 5 hours at a stretch.
Leave work late, do the grocery shopping.
Schlep home and begin unpacking the boxroom, hanging pictures, folding laundry until I realise it's 7:15 and I haven't started the risotto.
Mushroom and wine risotto is fucking excellent (espcially with ceasar salad and crusty bread), but it takes almost an hour and a half to get the rice sufficiently creamy. My self-inflicted domesticity is becoming draining.
Spend an hour standing at the stove, book in one hand, ladle in the other.
Liam comes home, we have dinner, it's 9:30 somehow.
He runs me a lavender bath, then goes to do the dishes while I relax in the steamy foam.
And then i am so tuckered out from the warm fuzzy goodness in my muscles, we get only halfway through the 'what are we doing for christmas' coversation before I conk out.
Okay, maybe I exaggerate. Proper night out, productive day planning first class business trip, culinary delights and a cuddly bath and bedtime.
Life could be much worse, but it could do with a little more excitment at the minute. I want a carpe diem of running through leaves and new riding boots and a train journey to the shore. Not another trip to fucking IKEA and anything remotely resembling microsoft excel.
I cannot wait until thanksgiving. I so need to get a car while I'm in america and escape for awhile.
Get up, crawl out of bed hungover from publishing dinner with this really amazing American author, throw on whatever is sitting on my chair. (Let it be noted here, it may be wining, dining and general glitz, but it is also hard fucking work chatting and niceness and cajoling the right people and not letting the conversation die. Socialite behaviour is a cultivated skill of gross professionalism.)
Go to morning meeting tiptoeing around an arts partnership that while incredibly promising for the profile has no discernable pricetag attached and I can't get Judy Blume to come for free.
Spend the rest of the day color coding my London visit. The city map behind my desk is covered with post it arrows like a battle plan. The spreadsheet of meetings is color coded by availability and area. Spend a large chunk of time researching appropriately trendy and relaxed cafes in which to set up meetings where they won't mind me sitting with endless cups of tea as a revolving door of publicists joins me for up to 5 hours at a stretch.
Leave work late, do the grocery shopping.
Schlep home and begin unpacking the boxroom, hanging pictures, folding laundry until I realise it's 7:15 and I haven't started the risotto.
Mushroom and wine risotto is fucking excellent (espcially with ceasar salad and crusty bread), but it takes almost an hour and a half to get the rice sufficiently creamy. My self-inflicted domesticity is becoming draining.
Spend an hour standing at the stove, book in one hand, ladle in the other.
Liam comes home, we have dinner, it's 9:30 somehow.
He runs me a lavender bath, then goes to do the dishes while I relax in the steamy foam.
And then i am so tuckered out from the warm fuzzy goodness in my muscles, we get only halfway through the 'what are we doing for christmas' coversation before I conk out.
Okay, maybe I exaggerate. Proper night out, productive day planning first class business trip, culinary delights and a cuddly bath and bedtime.
Life could be much worse, but it could do with a little more excitment at the minute. I want a carpe diem of running through leaves and new riding boots and a train journey to the shore. Not another trip to fucking IKEA and anything remotely resembling microsoft excel.
I cannot wait until thanksgiving. I so need to get a car while I'm in america and escape for awhile.
25 September 2007
things are just right.
i keep using the word perfect, but it's not really accurate.
what i mean, is things are perfect for me. if i knew what it was i'd like to think I would have arrived here years ago, but all I know is it suddenly fits.
A lot of it is Liam. Is us. How we fit so easily and are so seamlessly well, together. No matter what. Not in an every minute of everyday sort of way. But in a connected, comfortable sort of way. Because as he says, this is a sort of always and forever scenario. Not that we can ever know that for sure, but you know, as much as a romantic pessimist can believe. and god do i want to believe.
I used to think this sort of calm meant stasis. Somehow more boring or lame because it meant routine and settling and boredom. Meant doing things differently or changing what i do because I'd do couply things and be eaten by this entity known as 'us'.
But really it just means we are having adventures together. Same silly shit, same rough edges, but somehow completely and utterly new and better than ever because we are sharing it.
And part of me appreciates this now since we have settled into our new flat with its accompanying routine for two. And partly because we are on a romantic vacation in Bath, the city of Austen, walking down cobbled lanes and picnicking in the park.
And a lotly because we are going to meet the family soon. Not me going home, but us. being with them. for the first time.
I have never brought anyone home to meet my parents before. Not that I ever seriously dated, and not that any of them would have been worth the trouble, but still. It's a hurdle I am approaching rather late in the game, and I don't think it's to my advantage. My parents still act like this is some fling. Some nice boy I go on dates with and am using as a step in the growing up process. I think my being away has left them a little behind in the sara-development scale.
And I worry. That he'll be anxious. That I'll forget to tell Grammy he's a vegetarian and it'll be aweful. That my parents will be either that weird overly friendly 'aren't we young and cool' thing with the swearing and the bodily functions chat or the overbearing nun routine with grilling him and their weird embarassment about intimacy and the palava over who sleeps where. That what should be a joyous occasion (and frankly not primarily about us anyway) will be riddled with akward on all sides.
But I hope more than anything I can share how happy I am, and share how wonderful he is with my family and it's not weird.
Because I have never been happier. I could burst with joy and beam so much it almost hurts. And better than anything that has happened, is looking forward to the rest of it yet to come.
It's about the marriage, not the wedding as they say (no I don't remember who, I read it somewhere. shut up.)
i keep using the word perfect, but it's not really accurate.
what i mean, is things are perfect for me. if i knew what it was i'd like to think I would have arrived here years ago, but all I know is it suddenly fits.
A lot of it is Liam. Is us. How we fit so easily and are so seamlessly well, together. No matter what. Not in an every minute of everyday sort of way. But in a connected, comfortable sort of way. Because as he says, this is a sort of always and forever scenario. Not that we can ever know that for sure, but you know, as much as a romantic pessimist can believe. and god do i want to believe.
I used to think this sort of calm meant stasis. Somehow more boring or lame because it meant routine and settling and boredom. Meant doing things differently or changing what i do because I'd do couply things and be eaten by this entity known as 'us'.
But really it just means we are having adventures together. Same silly shit, same rough edges, but somehow completely and utterly new and better than ever because we are sharing it.
And part of me appreciates this now since we have settled into our new flat with its accompanying routine for two. And partly because we are on a romantic vacation in Bath, the city of Austen, walking down cobbled lanes and picnicking in the park.
And a lotly because we are going to meet the family soon. Not me going home, but us. being with them. for the first time.
I have never brought anyone home to meet my parents before. Not that I ever seriously dated, and not that any of them would have been worth the trouble, but still. It's a hurdle I am approaching rather late in the game, and I don't think it's to my advantage. My parents still act like this is some fling. Some nice boy I go on dates with and am using as a step in the growing up process. I think my being away has left them a little behind in the sara-development scale.
And I worry. That he'll be anxious. That I'll forget to tell Grammy he's a vegetarian and it'll be aweful. That my parents will be either that weird overly friendly 'aren't we young and cool' thing with the swearing and the bodily functions chat or the overbearing nun routine with grilling him and their weird embarassment about intimacy and the palava over who sleeps where. That what should be a joyous occasion (and frankly not primarily about us anyway) will be riddled with akward on all sides.
But I hope more than anything I can share how happy I am, and share how wonderful he is with my family and it's not weird.
Because I have never been happier. I could burst with joy and beam so much it almost hurts. And better than anything that has happened, is looking forward to the rest of it yet to come.
It's about the marriage, not the wedding as they say (no I don't remember who, I read it somewhere. shut up.)
20 September 2007
The constant bulletins and newsletters circulated in the world of arts professionals are usually quite sweet and sometimes pithy.
A youth orchestra in venezuela's new initiative to bring classical music to urban slums.
An award for an environmentally conscious theatre production done suspended from tree branches.
The obituary of Pavarotti and Jude Law's risky Hamlet make for in depth reading while the statistic pop and rock stars are twice as likely to die and early death than other people is cocktail party conversation in the making.
But today, pulp fiction is at the forefront with my current favourite idiot:
From an article in ArtsProfessional:
A Polish pulp fiction writer was sentenced to 25 years in jail last week for his role in the abduction, torture and murder of a love rival, a crime that he then used for the plot of a bestselling thriller. Writer Krystian Bala was found guilty of orchestrating the murder seven years ago of businessman Dariusz Janiszewski, in a crime of passion brought on by the suspicion that the victim was sleeping with his ex-wife. Janiszewski’s murder had detectives baffled for years until, that is, they read Bala’s – clearly ill-advised – novel, in which the villain gets away with kidnapping, mutilating and murdering a young woman. No such luck for the bad guy in real life as Bala was sentenced to life imprisonment, at the end of a case that has gripped Poland for months.
Lordy.
A youth orchestra in venezuela's new initiative to bring classical music to urban slums.
An award for an environmentally conscious theatre production done suspended from tree branches.
The obituary of Pavarotti and Jude Law's risky Hamlet make for in depth reading while the statistic pop and rock stars are twice as likely to die and early death than other people is cocktail party conversation in the making.
But today, pulp fiction is at the forefront with my current favourite idiot:
From an article in ArtsProfessional:
A Polish pulp fiction writer was sentenced to 25 years in jail last week for his role in the abduction, torture and murder of a love rival, a crime that he then used for the plot of a bestselling thriller. Writer Krystian Bala was found guilty of orchestrating the murder seven years ago of businessman Dariusz Janiszewski, in a crime of passion brought on by the suspicion that the victim was sleeping with his ex-wife. Janiszewski’s murder had detectives baffled for years until, that is, they read Bala’s – clearly ill-advised – novel, in which the villain gets away with kidnapping, mutilating and murdering a young woman. No such luck for the bad guy in real life as Bala was sentenced to life imprisonment, at the end of a case that has gripped Poland for months.
Lordy.
12 September 2007
I'd just like to state for the record (as it seems this was news to me last night):
1, I don't like sambuca.
2, I am too old for shots
3, work nights out are brilliant, 1 & 2 aside
4, except when one is chairing a meeting at 9 the next morning on the plan for the forthcoming year to the entire staff
I think it has been so long since I have gone out I forgot how to do it.
But in other news, blobel has moved to london. what a random exciting bit of news.
ps - if anyone has an idea if my parents will be decending on my life next week I'd love to know. More importantly, I think Liam will need some preparation No one should be indoctrinated (and possibly adopted) by the Gradys as a surprise weekend excursion.
1, I don't like sambuca.
2, I am too old for shots
3, work nights out are brilliant, 1 & 2 aside
4, except when one is chairing a meeting at 9 the next morning on the plan for the forthcoming year to the entire staff
I think it has been so long since I have gone out I forgot how to do it.
But in other news, blobel has moved to london. what a random exciting bit of news.
ps - if anyone has an idea if my parents will be decending on my life next week I'd love to know. More importantly, I think Liam will need some preparation No one should be indoctrinated (and possibly adopted) by the Gradys as a surprise weekend excursion.
04 September 2007
hello again world.
it's been awhile since I was cogent.
The festival is behind me, the move is in progress and life is grand in a remarkably sunny scotland.
Our new flat is beyond perfect (or will be when i hang the chandelier and sort out the slipcovers) and it's been a such a treat to take time off for the move and settle in properly. Last night I watched the sunset with a glass of wine while I listened to Liam half heartedly hum as he did the dishes. in our beautiful kitchen. There is a perfect sort of calm in this house, we both feel like we have finally come home.
Which is surreal when you think about it. Feeling more at home in this strange new little place than I ever have before. And yes, it's fucking terrifying. This is not ever a life I imagined - namely the living in sin with the british partner and having a jet setter job - it's fucking weird.
But then, having the dream of a quaint little corner of the world to call my own with someone I love has always been the goal, so I am not so far off really. Just refocused maybe. Things are never quite what I expect and yet some how they always turn out for the best. Go figure.
I guess what I mean is I have spent a great portion of my life waiting for it to start. For the dating and courtship and weddings and babies I always thought I was supposed to do because that's how it works. Mostly because I thought that was the gauntlet one went through to find the perfect life in which to forsake it all, and then settle down.
And slowly I have come to understand that the traditional path to the traditional forever isn't really for me. I hate dating, I don't like coddling, and I have never really wanted my own wedding as much as I love attending other peoples. And frankly, I don't see settling down as a change in path but just a readjustment based on new variables. (If and when sara, if and when.). It's all just so different when I think of what I want, not what I think is supposed to be happening. And it's sad that is a revelation.
Once again I have to admit to myself there are no shoulds in this life the way I thought there were. The manual I wrote for myself out of movie scripts and novels was far from accurate and I should stop behaving like a tourist in this world and just live.
Luckily my life went ahead and started without me, or perhaps (as I secretly hypothosise) I work best on autopilot. And now I have managed to get the perfect happy ending without even meaning to.
It's fucking ridiculous. And I have never been happier.
it's been awhile since I was cogent.
The festival is behind me, the move is in progress and life is grand in a remarkably sunny scotland.
Our new flat is beyond perfect (or will be when i hang the chandelier and sort out the slipcovers) and it's been a such a treat to take time off for the move and settle in properly. Last night I watched the sunset with a glass of wine while I listened to Liam half heartedly hum as he did the dishes. in our beautiful kitchen. There is a perfect sort of calm in this house, we both feel like we have finally come home.
Which is surreal when you think about it. Feeling more at home in this strange new little place than I ever have before. And yes, it's fucking terrifying. This is not ever a life I imagined - namely the living in sin with the british partner and having a jet setter job - it's fucking weird.
But then, having the dream of a quaint little corner of the world to call my own with someone I love has always been the goal, so I am not so far off really. Just refocused maybe. Things are never quite what I expect and yet some how they always turn out for the best. Go figure.
I guess what I mean is I have spent a great portion of my life waiting for it to start. For the dating and courtship and weddings and babies I always thought I was supposed to do because that's how it works. Mostly because I thought that was the gauntlet one went through to find the perfect life in which to forsake it all, and then settle down.
And slowly I have come to understand that the traditional path to the traditional forever isn't really for me. I hate dating, I don't like coddling, and I have never really wanted my own wedding as much as I love attending other peoples. And frankly, I don't see settling down as a change in path but just a readjustment based on new variables. (If and when sara, if and when.). It's all just so different when I think of what I want, not what I think is supposed to be happening. And it's sad that is a revelation.
Once again I have to admit to myself there are no shoulds in this life the way I thought there were. The manual I wrote for myself out of movie scripts and novels was far from accurate and I should stop behaving like a tourist in this world and just live.
Luckily my life went ahead and started without me, or perhaps (as I secretly hypothosise) I work best on autopilot. And now I have managed to get the perfect happy ending without even meaning to.
It's fucking ridiculous. And I have never been happier.
26 August 2007
Today was a world first.
I helped concoct and hosted the first skype linked episode of who wants to be a cosmic billionaire (it's cooler than it sounds).
Lucy Hawking did her first ever event for her book George's Secret Key to the Universe which she co-wrote with her dad, Stephen Hawking. She is lovely and amazing and she even brought the action figure of him based on his Simpson's appearnce as her pocket-sized dad since he couldn't come.
Then we called Stephen Hawking live from the Book Festival and asked him the kids best voted science questions (such as 'how far from the sun could you be and get incinerated?', kids never fail to please). Finally his digitised dulcet sounds came through loud and clear and I almost lept with joy and bringing the greatest mind alive in contact with the doe eyed youngsters.
Obviously any event that gets kids excited about science and makes books cool is ace by me (and vaildates my entire being), but one where the author shouts 'you're caught in an asteroid belt!' and pelts kids with space rocks (literally specially commissioned peppermints that say space rocks on them) is obviously the work of a family of geniuses (or geni as I will now refer to them).
I helped concoct and hosted the first skype linked episode of who wants to be a cosmic billionaire (it's cooler than it sounds).
Lucy Hawking did her first ever event for her book George's Secret Key to the Universe which she co-wrote with her dad, Stephen Hawking. She is lovely and amazing and she even brought the action figure of him based on his Simpson's appearnce as her pocket-sized dad since he couldn't come.
Then we called Stephen Hawking live from the Book Festival and asked him the kids best voted science questions (such as 'how far from the sun could you be and get incinerated?', kids never fail to please). Finally his digitised dulcet sounds came through loud and clear and I almost lept with joy and bringing the greatest mind alive in contact with the doe eyed youngsters.
Obviously any event that gets kids excited about science and makes books cool is ace by me (and vaildates my entire being), but one where the author shouts 'you're caught in an asteroid belt!' and pelts kids with space rocks (literally specially commissioned peppermints that say space rocks on them) is obviously the work of a family of geniuses (or geni as I will now refer to them).
24 August 2007
that festival feeling
It's day 14 of 18.
It's sunny and sparkling. The school kids are all away to their buses, my floaty grace kelly cobalt blue dress is a hit all over town, and I've an evening of champagne and a picnic with my lover planned.
The garden is glorious (aside from it's boggy odour from the drying up swamps in the corners), the public is happy and all is well. I even got flowers from an appreciative publicist and managed to sound not-retarded on national television. It's manic and chaotic, frustrating and complicated. But I love it.
Things are remarkably good considering I've not slept in days, I'm not nearly finished and things are far from perfect.
I have never been too tired to have sex before. It's a new level of fatigue I could do without repeating. And the fact my schmancy online grocery order never came due to a server error at the store is a bit rubbish as I am eating complete garbage these days (today? stale bagel, 2 cans of coke, bruised apple and chocolate cookie).
But still, I haven't lost hope. And with the end in sight, I'm even more excited for the next one, which will be better planned, better organised and easier all way round.
It's sunny and sparkling. The school kids are all away to their buses, my floaty grace kelly cobalt blue dress is a hit all over town, and I've an evening of champagne and a picnic with my lover planned.
The garden is glorious (aside from it's boggy odour from the drying up swamps in the corners), the public is happy and all is well. I even got flowers from an appreciative publicist and managed to sound not-retarded on national television. It's manic and chaotic, frustrating and complicated. But I love it.
Things are remarkably good considering I've not slept in days, I'm not nearly finished and things are far from perfect.
I have never been too tired to have sex before. It's a new level of fatigue I could do without repeating. And the fact my schmancy online grocery order never came due to a server error at the store is a bit rubbish as I am eating complete garbage these days (today? stale bagel, 2 cans of coke, bruised apple and chocolate cookie).
But still, I haven't lost hope. And with the end in sight, I'm even more excited for the next one, which will be better planned, better organised and easier all way round.
17 August 2007
I thought I'd take this minute (while my graphic novel masterclass begins and before my first aiding responsibilities commence for the night) to update you.
It's rough. I'm not going to lie. It's sneaking around in the darkness at 7am while huffy flatmates queue for the toilet to get ready. It's waiting on a jam packed commuter bus to reach a soggy muddy puddle of a garden for a day of standing around with demanding unapreicative artists, their sycophantic hangers on and gently coddling and foraying into the general uptight over zealous public.
It's fucking hard.
But everyday, almost every hour, something spectacualr happens. Whether it's seeing a whole bunch of grumpy goths literally light up at the sight of the master of horror, or the little pink clad tinies prancing about in their fairy wings, I have spent a lot of time and effort and tears on making this a place of joy, sancutary and comfort for thousands of people. No matter how old they are, no matter how much they make it can be inspiring. and fun. and exciting. the things that make life worth living.
and for all the 14 hours days. and all the back aches from carrying the endless spreadsheets on a clipboards, and the earaches from constantly wearing a wireless headset. and lack of sleep and decent food and recognition and assistance I crave - nothing in the world compares to the glow in my heart when I've created something people can care about and enjoy.
When it is possible, for one minute, to make a difference.
It's rough. I'm not going to lie. It's sneaking around in the darkness at 7am while huffy flatmates queue for the toilet to get ready. It's waiting on a jam packed commuter bus to reach a soggy muddy puddle of a garden for a day of standing around with demanding unapreicative artists, their sycophantic hangers on and gently coddling and foraying into the general uptight over zealous public.
It's fucking hard.
But everyday, almost every hour, something spectacualr happens. Whether it's seeing a whole bunch of grumpy goths literally light up at the sight of the master of horror, or the little pink clad tinies prancing about in their fairy wings, I have spent a lot of time and effort and tears on making this a place of joy, sancutary and comfort for thousands of people. No matter how old they are, no matter how much they make it can be inspiring. and fun. and exciting. the things that make life worth living.
and for all the 14 hours days. and all the back aches from carrying the endless spreadsheets on a clipboards, and the earaches from constantly wearing a wireless headset. and lack of sleep and decent food and recognition and assistance I crave - nothing in the world compares to the glow in my heart when I've created something people can care about and enjoy.
When it is possible, for one minute, to make a difference.
15 August 2007
Bacchic Banter and Bumph
Last night I did a dash from work (literally unplugged the headset, ran to my desk, threw on a fab dress and grabbed a taxi in the pouring rain) to the Kings Theatre.
I had booked tickets for us to The Bacchae. Classic greek tragedy with a camp Alan Cumming - it sounded exactly our cup of tea (or mixed cocktail as such).
And as the gold lame kilted queen decended from the ceiling I had high hopes for a drama of decadence and retribution to be swift, sharp and slick.
But as the gospel choir of vegas showgirls glittered through the sloppy choreography and Alan was little more than panto tongue-in-cheek with little investment and less sympathy, I wondered exactly what Euripedes had to do with this.
When the bloody violence of act three rolls around, the raging, guilt ridden angst of grief and pain fell flat against a minimalist set and feather boaed crowd. And I must say, most of the audience was sniggering at the out of place melodrama in the otherwise flippant glitzy show that could have been good fun, if only they'd chosen another script.
A good laugh, a decent spectacle, but at the end of the day it wasn't much of a performance. I was a bit disappointed, but that said, we had a lovely evening out (beautiful dress, hansome partner, post-show mind blowing sex) and I'm happy.
I had booked tickets for us to The Bacchae. Classic greek tragedy with a camp Alan Cumming - it sounded exactly our cup of tea (or mixed cocktail as such).
And as the gold lame kilted queen decended from the ceiling I had high hopes for a drama of decadence and retribution to be swift, sharp and slick.
But as the gospel choir of vegas showgirls glittered through the sloppy choreography and Alan was little more than panto tongue-in-cheek with little investment and less sympathy, I wondered exactly what Euripedes had to do with this.
When the bloody violence of act three rolls around, the raging, guilt ridden angst of grief and pain fell flat against a minimalist set and feather boaed crowd. And I must say, most of the audience was sniggering at the out of place melodrama in the otherwise flippant glitzy show that could have been good fun, if only they'd chosen another script.
A good laugh, a decent spectacle, but at the end of the day it wasn't much of a performance. I was a bit disappointed, but that said, we had a lovely evening out (beautiful dress, hansome partner, post-show mind blowing sex) and I'm happy.
11 August 2007
the first day, saturday
6:45 - creep out of bed
7:28 - get the bus to work
8:00 - make the list of all the unfinished work (loose nails on the walkway, buggy park wall falling off, lock missing on storage shed, wireless radio battery dead)
8:30- staff meeting
9:00 - double check site. pre-set venues f0r first events
9:30 - soweto gospel choir sing as gates open, manage onslaught of stampeding teenage girls
9:45 - meet 3 authors for three events, introduce to three chairs, get them off to their events
10:00 - first three events start, go back and get the 2 10:30s
continue through morning
11:00 - take slight break to go to office as am soaked through and muddy. discover squelching from hole in my shoe, borrow flipflops from co-worker.
11:48 - radio call for missing storyteller for noon storytelling, source last minute replacement
12:15 - chat with publisher panicking on undersold event
12:30 - fetch coffees for lunchtime musicians
12:45 - commence afternoon events
1:50 - take "lunch break" to gulp a can of coke
2:00 - calm panicking author on empty event
2:30 - help storyteller unload 6 garbage bags of craft materials in my storage shed for tomorrow
3:00 - 2 more events take off
3:20 - clean workshop of glue and gitter for artist masterclass with famous illustrator
3:30 - get illustrator off the ground
3:40 - prep charlie & lola party
4:00 - get two more events off the ground
4:10 - furiously radio to find out where the refugee children attending are refugees from
4:30 - check email and do maintence for tomorrow
rain finally lets up
5:30 - 3events finish, man their signings
6:30 - last signing ends, start packing up events
6:45 - finish storing last of supplies
7:00 - call Liam
7:15 - eat left over burger and beging typing this
then:
7:40 - dress for opening party
8:00 - set up opening party
8:45 - guests arrive
9:05 - speeches
9:30 - band plays
10:00 - finish first aid duty, commence drinking
11:30 - taxi home
12:15 set the alarm for 6:30, go to bed,
sleep once, and repeat. for the next 18 days straight.
7:28 - get the bus to work
8:00 - make the list of all the unfinished work (loose nails on the walkway, buggy park wall falling off, lock missing on storage shed, wireless radio battery dead)
8:30- staff meeting
9:00 - double check site. pre-set venues f0r first events
9:30 - soweto gospel choir sing as gates open, manage onslaught of stampeding teenage girls
9:45 - meet 3 authors for three events, introduce to three chairs, get them off to their events
10:00 - first three events start, go back and get the 2 10:30s
continue through morning
11:00 - take slight break to go to office as am soaked through and muddy. discover squelching from hole in my shoe, borrow flipflops from co-worker.
11:48 - radio call for missing storyteller for noon storytelling, source last minute replacement
12:15 - chat with publisher panicking on undersold event
12:30 - fetch coffees for lunchtime musicians
12:45 - commence afternoon events
1:50 - take "lunch break" to gulp a can of coke
2:00 - calm panicking author on empty event
2:30 - help storyteller unload 6 garbage bags of craft materials in my storage shed for tomorrow
3:00 - 2 more events take off
3:20 - clean workshop of glue and gitter for artist masterclass with famous illustrator
3:30 - get illustrator off the ground
3:40 - prep charlie & lola party
4:00 - get two more events off the ground
4:10 - furiously radio to find out where the refugee children attending are refugees from
4:30 - check email and do maintence for tomorrow
rain finally lets up
5:30 - 3events finish, man their signings
6:30 - last signing ends, start packing up events
6:45 - finish storing last of supplies
7:00 - call Liam
7:15 - eat left over burger and beging typing this
then:
7:40 - dress for opening party
8:00 - set up opening party
8:45 - guests arrive
9:05 - speeches
9:30 - band plays
10:00 - finish first aid duty, commence drinking
11:30 - taxi home
12:15 set the alarm for 6:30, go to bed,
sleep once, and repeat. for the next 18 days straight.
07 August 2007
i have been on my period for a month.
not just spot bleeding. not just patches. full on clots and cramps and illness.
how can the doctor insist i am fine?
how can i be on the same perscription (refilled in britian, but the same chemical make up) and suddenly it doesn't work?
why does no one believe me?
now is not the time to be battling hormones.
as if there was a good time to feel this rubbish.
not just spot bleeding. not just patches. full on clots and cramps and illness.
how can the doctor insist i am fine?
how can i be on the same perscription (refilled in britian, but the same chemical make up) and suddenly it doesn't work?
why does no one believe me?
now is not the time to be battling hormones.
as if there was a good time to feel this rubbish.
02 August 2007
holy mother of insanity
jesus fucking christ.
i just need a fucking break from all this fucking shit and the dickhead retard cunts i seem required to interact with on a daily fucking basis.
i do feel a bit better now. thanks.
i don't want your dirty dishes in my sink. i don't want you calling me every five minutes with inane questions. i don't want belated impossible requests far too late in the game. i don't want your overflow piled on my desk. i don't want guff at the checkout counter. i don't want your skepticism tainting my shit. just fucking stuff it and let me get on with my own life.
there is a point at which one cannot be kind and tactful anymore. a point at which a spade is a spade, you are just wrong, it is a problem and i can't smile at incompetence or laziness anymore.
it's a real shame that point is still 8 days before the festival where all of the above tolerance, kindness and tranquility will be required of me 18 hours a day, 7 days a week.
i need a beer and a nap pronto.
i just need a fucking break from all this fucking shit and the dickhead retard cunts i seem required to interact with on a daily fucking basis.
i do feel a bit better now. thanks.
i don't want your dirty dishes in my sink. i don't want you calling me every five minutes with inane questions. i don't want belated impossible requests far too late in the game. i don't want your overflow piled on my desk. i don't want guff at the checkout counter. i don't want your skepticism tainting my shit. just fucking stuff it and let me get on with my own life.
there is a point at which one cannot be kind and tactful anymore. a point at which a spade is a spade, you are just wrong, it is a problem and i can't smile at incompetence or laziness anymore.
it's a real shame that point is still 8 days before the festival where all of the above tolerance, kindness and tranquility will be required of me 18 hours a day, 7 days a week.
i need a beer and a nap pronto.
28 July 2007
27 July 2007
the high life (and no, not MGD)
so friday afternoon is certainly an odd time to remenisce about last weekend. but it hasn't been done yet, my network is being weird and i could do with a break from spreadsheets (i may be too busy for a lunch break but no one can brgrudge me a minutes peace).
so, last friday:
finish work, walk home in the sunshine with homemade peanutbutter cookies with chocolate blobs on top. yum. my baking has improved exponentially.
6:32,surreptitiously liaise with my hook up. namely, trade said cookies for an early copy of Harry Potter from Jamie*. In fact get two, as part of the bargain is I deliver the other to a mutual friend on the dot of midnight as a surprise.
*names have been changed to protect the innocent
6:34 begin reading.
7:20 Liam comes home. He surmises the situation and drifts away to make dinner.
8:02 Liam brings me dinner in my room and I give it up for the rest of the night as it is just stupid to think I can't wait another second. Spend the rest of the evening goofing off as per usual.
saturday morning
sneakily wake up before 7am alarm as Liam must be up for work in a couple of hours. quickly dress and wait by the window for cab to arrive.
am whisked to new station for pottermania live radio interview.
other than in my sleepy haze calling the completely wrong person on arrival (instead of station, call a picture book author friend of mine who gets v confused and eventually says 'sara. i have no idea what you are talking about. what's going on?' where i realise i've called the wrong person, have to explain the faux pas then cut short as am late for interview now!)
sit in a red felt booth the small enough you could touch all the walls, fitted with headphone and microphone and clock. am fired questions from some bodiless voice frmo glasgow in front of god knows how many weekend insomniacs on live radio. (said author friend listened in after this and reassures me i did just fine). it's harder than it sounds, radio.
taxi home to cuddle up with the book again for a few hours.
saturday afternoon
bundle and pack as liam and i are away for the weekend when he finishes work. i couldn't afford to take time off for a week in brussles like we hoped, so we are going to blow my holiday stash on a decadent mini-break with only an hour's travel time.
the important question of what does one pack for a weekend where you don't intend remove the supplied fluffy bathrobe or eat anything but room service takes up a good portion of the afternoon.
after, trek to town and realise i think i should buy something nice for our little excursion. suffice to say this becomes a detour to the weird leather & lace sex shop for some ace kama sutra massage oil and a surreal conversation with the comic-book-guy like employee about lube with a easy access squirt handle.
saturday evening
pick up liam, hop the train, sit together eating blueberries while i read Deathly Hallows and he reads Azkaban with regualr interruptions where he asks for the current death toll.
arrive One Devonshire Gardens (where the likes of George Clooney, Justin Timberlake and the rest of the visiting pazparrazzi-ites go as it's the poshest one in the city, and Glasgow is the poshest city in Scotland). Men in kilts take our bags, ply us with whiskey in the opulent living room and I sign away my life savings.
get the tour of our Classic King Suite (with full on four poster with massive draped, bay window bigger than an SUV overlooking the garden and a black marble bathroom.) and try to have the 'should we tip' conversation with only our eyes behind the consierge's back.
when we're alone obviously we immediately put on the fluffy robe (and matching slippers), play a bit of putt putt with the specially engraved putter supplied with every room and check out the minibar (full mostly of champagne and imported chocolate)
I order the room service while Liam runs the bath. There are candles and bubbles and it's deep enough water comes up to my shoulders. It's spectacular.
Then all pink and glowing (and still in robes), we sit down to a multi-course dinner on silver platters at the little table in our room like real celebrities. We even got a visit from the sommelier and our own waiter (who we wouldn't let stay while we ate because that is just fucking weird, so he went to get the next course).
If you care, I had a beautiful salad and steak. Not that it mattered by then.
Before crawling under the canopy for for a relaxing massage, we hang our breakfast order on the door and then retire in the decadent silence of the high life.
sunday morning
wake up just before breakfast is delivered at 11 on a massive tray. though, with liam still in bed i insist on taking it at the door.
we peek open the drapes and have a leasurely breakfasting the sitting room. pastry, fruit salad and a pot of fresh tea. sigh.
sunday afternoon
after a nap, a shower and the final few pages of harry potter, we wander about the west end. things are deteriorating quickly. He is mad and I am upset and everything is rubbish. we have a bit of a scuffle. snippy, tired, crabby and ridiculous we try and scrounge a picnic as I have booked for Shakespeare in the park.
we head to the botanics for what should be a wonderful production of othello and a sumptuous feast only to find it's folding chairs in a greenhouse. crowded, humid and incapable of spreading out the snacks, i break down. i was so looking forward to this as the highlight of our trip and suddenly it looks like a holt high school production I'll have to suffer through for 3 hours
we decide to ditch the play, hedge our bets and have a picnic in the last rays of sunlight in the garden. we are better than mediocre shakespeare anyway, with our fancy seed humous and dried blueberries.
of course, we bought lots of the provisions in a kroger-a-like, so when we had a bag of crisps left over, we had to hide them walking into the hotel. who could flash their wal-bob roots in front of bloomingdales? only the tell-tale crinkle under liam's eggplant coloured velvet blazer could give us away.
monday morning
we are resolved to get out of bed before 4 this time, and have breakfast in bed and read about the flooding in the downs in the paper.
we then head to some tiny little second hand bookshops where i buy a lovely book of errudite poetry and a beautiful edition of vanity fair.
monday afternoon
lunch in a fancy french cafe yields decadent cheese boards (ooh. appenzeller with chilli chutnney on saffron crackers...)
then have raspberry cheesecake in the sunny gardens before wandering through a spectacular museum of Hunter (one of the first medical detectives - babies in jars, skulls with syphillitic groths, it was ace) and then exploring Glasgow's unbelievably beautiful university. It's like if all of Oxford's colleges were combined into one, up on a hill with spiral staircases and a glorious cathedral.
monday evening
then a train ride home and a giddy evening of holiday hangover and calm.
so, last friday:
finish work, walk home in the sunshine with homemade peanutbutter cookies with chocolate blobs on top. yum. my baking has improved exponentially.
6:32,surreptitiously liaise with my hook up. namely, trade said cookies for an early copy of Harry Potter from Jamie*. In fact get two, as part of the bargain is I deliver the other to a mutual friend on the dot of midnight as a surprise.
*names have been changed to protect the innocent
6:34 begin reading.
7:20 Liam comes home. He surmises the situation and drifts away to make dinner.
8:02 Liam brings me dinner in my room and I give it up for the rest of the night as it is just stupid to think I can't wait another second. Spend the rest of the evening goofing off as per usual.
saturday morning
sneakily wake up before 7am alarm as Liam must be up for work in a couple of hours. quickly dress and wait by the window for cab to arrive.
am whisked to new station for pottermania live radio interview.
other than in my sleepy haze calling the completely wrong person on arrival (instead of station, call a picture book author friend of mine who gets v confused and eventually says 'sara. i have no idea what you are talking about. what's going on?' where i realise i've called the wrong person, have to explain the faux pas then cut short as am late for interview now!)
sit in a red felt booth the small enough you could touch all the walls, fitted with headphone and microphone and clock. am fired questions from some bodiless voice frmo glasgow in front of god knows how many weekend insomniacs on live radio. (said author friend listened in after this and reassures me i did just fine). it's harder than it sounds, radio.
taxi home to cuddle up with the book again for a few hours.
saturday afternoon
bundle and pack as liam and i are away for the weekend when he finishes work. i couldn't afford to take time off for a week in brussles like we hoped, so we are going to blow my holiday stash on a decadent mini-break with only an hour's travel time.
the important question of what does one pack for a weekend where you don't intend remove the supplied fluffy bathrobe or eat anything but room service takes up a good portion of the afternoon.
after, trek to town and realise i think i should buy something nice for our little excursion. suffice to say this becomes a detour to the weird leather & lace sex shop for some ace kama sutra massage oil and a surreal conversation with the comic-book-guy like employee about lube with a easy access squirt handle.
saturday evening
pick up liam, hop the train, sit together eating blueberries while i read Deathly Hallows and he reads Azkaban with regualr interruptions where he asks for the current death toll.
arrive One Devonshire Gardens (where the likes of George Clooney, Justin Timberlake and the rest of the visiting pazparrazzi-ites go as it's the poshest one in the city, and Glasgow is the poshest city in Scotland). Men in kilts take our bags, ply us with whiskey in the opulent living room and I sign away my life savings.
get the tour of our Classic King Suite (with full on four poster with massive draped, bay window bigger than an SUV overlooking the garden and a black marble bathroom.) and try to have the 'should we tip' conversation with only our eyes behind the consierge's back.
when we're alone obviously we immediately put on the fluffy robe (and matching slippers), play a bit of putt putt with the specially engraved putter supplied with every room and check out the minibar (full mostly of champagne and imported chocolate)
I order the room service while Liam runs the bath. There are candles and bubbles and it's deep enough water comes up to my shoulders. It's spectacular.
Then all pink and glowing (and still in robes), we sit down to a multi-course dinner on silver platters at the little table in our room like real celebrities. We even got a visit from the sommelier and our own waiter (who we wouldn't let stay while we ate because that is just fucking weird, so he went to get the next course).
If you care, I had a beautiful salad and steak. Not that it mattered by then.
Before crawling under the canopy for for a relaxing massage, we hang our breakfast order on the door and then retire in the decadent silence of the high life.
sunday morning
wake up just before breakfast is delivered at 11 on a massive tray. though, with liam still in bed i insist on taking it at the door.
we peek open the drapes and have a leasurely breakfasting the sitting room. pastry, fruit salad and a pot of fresh tea. sigh.
sunday afternoon
after a nap, a shower and the final few pages of harry potter, we wander about the west end. things are deteriorating quickly. He is mad and I am upset and everything is rubbish. we have a bit of a scuffle. snippy, tired, crabby and ridiculous we try and scrounge a picnic as I have booked for Shakespeare in the park.
we head to the botanics for what should be a wonderful production of othello and a sumptuous feast only to find it's folding chairs in a greenhouse. crowded, humid and incapable of spreading out the snacks, i break down. i was so looking forward to this as the highlight of our trip and suddenly it looks like a holt high school production I'll have to suffer through for 3 hours
we decide to ditch the play, hedge our bets and have a picnic in the last rays of sunlight in the garden. we are better than mediocre shakespeare anyway, with our fancy seed humous and dried blueberries.
of course, we bought lots of the provisions in a kroger-a-like, so when we had a bag of crisps left over, we had to hide them walking into the hotel. who could flash their wal-bob roots in front of bloomingdales? only the tell-tale crinkle under liam's eggplant coloured velvet blazer could give us away.
monday morning
we are resolved to get out of bed before 4 this time, and have breakfast in bed and read about the flooding in the downs in the paper.
we then head to some tiny little second hand bookshops where i buy a lovely book of errudite poetry and a beautiful edition of vanity fair.
monday afternoon
lunch in a fancy french cafe yields decadent cheese boards (ooh. appenzeller with chilli chutnney on saffron crackers...)
then have raspberry cheesecake in the sunny gardens before wandering through a spectacular museum of Hunter (one of the first medical detectives - babies in jars, skulls with syphillitic groths, it was ace) and then exploring Glasgow's unbelievably beautiful university. It's like if all of Oxford's colleges were combined into one, up on a hill with spiral staircases and a glorious cathedral.
monday evening
then a train ride home and a giddy evening of holiday hangover and calm.
21 July 2007
potter publicity
this morning the bbc sent a car for me. i was whisked away to the studio to be interviewed about pottermania and it's aftermath. i don't really remember what i said as 8am radio is just not the best idea when one has been reading most of the night.though i must say, sometimes it is quite cool being the resident expert on kids books.
17 July 2007
last night, after a long day and a rather unremarkable homemade lasagne, liam took me for ice cream.
we meandered through my green and chirpy neighbourhood to the local homemade parlour. it's called Lucas and a family run little place with an upstairs for kiddie parties and penny candies strung from the counter. it's so cute.
and i even got to splurge on a praline parfait with hot fudge. it was in a little plastic stem cup like an old school diner sundae and i was so excited. long handled spoon, holding hands in the sunshine. there is nothing better.
until, holding this stem cup from the bottom, the base and the body proceede to seperate in my hands (like those shitty champagne flutes in college) and the ice cream, hot fudge, nuts and whipped cream spun - literally spun- through the air and directly into a muddy puddle in the middle of a construction site.
we both laughed (but mine were covering tears). and poor liam went and got me another one, which was obviously even better.
and then we went to sit on a garden bench in a tiny hidden green around the corner and smell the honeysuckle.
sometimes it's like a fairytale, just with more comedy value.
we meandered through my green and chirpy neighbourhood to the local homemade parlour. it's called Lucas and a family run little place with an upstairs for kiddie parties and penny candies strung from the counter. it's so cute.
and i even got to splurge on a praline parfait with hot fudge. it was in a little plastic stem cup like an old school diner sundae and i was so excited. long handled spoon, holding hands in the sunshine. there is nothing better.
until, holding this stem cup from the bottom, the base and the body proceede to seperate in my hands (like those shitty champagne flutes in college) and the ice cream, hot fudge, nuts and whipped cream spun - literally spun- through the air and directly into a muddy puddle in the middle of a construction site.
we both laughed (but mine were covering tears). and poor liam went and got me another one, which was obviously even better.
and then we went to sit on a garden bench in a tiny hidden green around the corner and smell the honeysuckle.
sometimes it's like a fairytale, just with more comedy value.
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