February 21st - February 27th 2005
Sunday Giselle
Saturday Family
Friday Chavmalion
Thursday Crossed books
Wednesday Not Shoreham
Tuesday Turkey
Monday Penguins
Sunday 27th February 2005
I've never been a great one for ballet, and classical ballet, in particular, has pretty much passed me by.
But one flatters oneself one's familiar with most of the basic plots.
Giselle for example.
That's the one with the peasant girl, right, who's in love with this guy who's actually a prince, well, more of a Slovakian bisexual line-dancing teacher actually. And it breaks her heart when she stumbles across him being buggered by the butcher. Meanwhile, her father, who lives on top of a telegraph pole...
Time to revisit the ballet, I think.
Saturday 26th February 2005
No surprise to read that Lytton Strachey's family were every bit as odd as he was. But which one would you least want to sit next to at dinner?
"Oliver, the womaniser who became a leading code-breaker in both world wars; Dorothy, who married a French painter, wrote a novel about lesbian passions and adored and translated Gide; Marjorie, the odd one out, the only stout member of a famously tall and thin tribe, a gifted teacher with an exhibitionist streak who liked to undress and recite obscene rhymes at parties."
Friday 25th February 2005
Somedays, some very few days, what seemed an incredibly bright idea when I woke up with it still feels pretty cool by the end of the day, as with:
(With Bill Nighy as Professor Higgins betting he can transform a daddy's girl from Surrey into a credible footballer's wife in a single season.)
Thursday 24th February 2005
Unkeen as I was (and am) personally on the sheer fag of using BookCrossing to monitor my pre-read tomes after I've released them into the wild, I have to admit that someone there has a keen nose for publicity - you haven't been able to open a decent newspaper recently without coming across an article or three.
My own, undocumented, release scheme continues apace - a slow pace, given that I only remember to shove something in my pocket every other day at best.
It's actually not as easy as you'd think to leave a book behind you, even on the sparsely populated mid-evening East London line: ideally, you need to find a seat that's not overlooked by any other passengers if you hope to exit without being reminded you've left your book behind.
Yesterday's pick was Conqueror's Moon by Julian May, an author whose previous 'Pliocene saga' I'd found, at best, unobjectionable but whose latest work (with a servant hero called Snudge) grated on me from the get-go.
The rear half of the last carriage was completely empty, so I flung Ms May's book down on the left hand bank of seats, and settled myself on the right.
At Rotherhithe, two tall (and possibly slightly drunk) women got on, speaking in what sounded like Portuguese.
Implausibly, the first thing they spotted, even before they sat down, was the book. Even more implausibly they both started talking in perfect English: "Oh look!" "Maybe it's a sign!" "Excuse me? Excuse me, is this your book?"
That was a slightly tricky moment. The discarded book was, after all, on the other side of the carriage from me, several yards away, with absolutely nothing to link us together.Trusting to the rapidly-assembled theory that it had, in fact, ceased to be 'mine' the moment it had hit the seat, and remembering to leave enough space in which to register some 'Book? What book? Oh, that book', I smiled and shook my head.
But I couldn't resist asking, "Why would it be a sign?", at which the taller of the two women raised her head and positively bayed "Conqueror's Moooo-oooon". Leaving me none the wiser.Thankfully, Canada Water rattled into view just a few seconds later and I was able to make my exit, leaving them leafing fev'rishly through the pages.I really wanted to turn round and shout, "Julian May is a woman!" through the closing doors. But I resisted: once you let a book go, the next reader must make of it what he, or she, can.
Wednesday 23rd February 2005
Oh, and just for the record, Trevor, no the previous one wasn't "the nudist beach at Shoreham". Though I dare say they look very similar. For all I know.
Tuesday 22nd February 2005
Marcus (whom I'm obviously in love with, since this is the third link in as many days) was kind enough to say very kind things about my drawing when I caught him in a rare moment of lucidity at Horse Meat Disco the other weekend.
So, by way of taking advantage, and in the vain hope of keeping him busy until I get round to bringing this damn blog more up to date, here's another.
But no finger-biting suspense this time, I'll tell you where it was: Turkey.
Monday 21st February 2005
I get my self into all sorts of stupid debates at work by objecting to the unnecessary use of the word 'homosexual' when 'gay' is a perfectly acceptable, and more user-friendly, term. (Except, of course, when it comes to plural nouns - because 'gays' is, just, ick - but I don't tell them that.)
I attempt to justify my rants by drawing a differential between Lifestyle ('gay') and Clinical Definition ('homosexual') - though it's a very thin line.But, just for the record: those penguins... They were homosexual, surely? (Unless they spent their evenings in Old Compton Street and their weekends at Ikea. Which I rather doubt.)
......previous week
