November 28th - December 4th 2005
Sunday Very old
Saturday Mine
Friday Arsework
Thursday Limboid
Wednesday Blame
Tuesday Urban apples
Monday ICE
Sunday 4th December 2005
Blogadoon is five years old today.
That makes it, I think, one of the longest surviving British blogs. Tom at plasticbag is much older than me, of course - older than God - as are Matt at Interconnected and Darren at linkmachinego.
Though cannily switching identities in mid-career, thus avoiding any ungentlemanly references to her age, the longevity of Meg is also worthy of respect as is Iain at notetoself (formerly known as 8letters).
Graybo is 15 days older than Blogadoon and Venusberg a mere 5 days older.
Other than that...who did I miss?
Saturday 3rd December 2005
Lombard Street, Autumn 2005
Friday 2nd December 2005
The figure that sprang out at me from recent reports concerning the Office of National Statistics is that, on average, men spend nearly 1 hour 40 minutes a day on housework.
Speaking as someone who is congratulating themselves on just having done the washing up (for the first time in six weeks), I find that incredible.
Thursday 1st December 2005
Those of you who noticed that the Vatican is about to abolish limbo (and who appreciate that this has nothing to do with dancing) won't be taking any other pronouncements from this Prada-loving pope too seriously.
So let's not dwell on the theological implications of the long-awaited document on gays in the priesthood but turn instead to an examination of the language in which it affirms that men with "deep-seated" gay tendencies should not be ordained (but that those with "transitory" tendencies could be if they had overcome them for three years).
"Deep-seated"? Fnaaar.
Wednesday 30th November 2005
In some Eastern mystical traditions there is a route to enlightenment called 'the Path of Blame'...
The idea is to abandon any outward or inward claim to superiority, to disdain the admiration of the world and discard visible social niceties even, or especially, if it means appearing to deserve the contempt of others.
A typical malamati would eagerly confess along with Hamlet: 'I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.' Through public scorn lies true spiritual growth...
Not that I'm suggesting that Diana Melly is a Sufi, indeed there's very little to suggest any path at all in her life, but the several possible responses a reader might have to Take a Girl like Me are much the same as for those encountering a seeker on the Path of Blame.
In a review of the book in the Independent, Rhoda Koenig, learning from Diana Melly that she has forgiven herself for the neglect and death by heroin overdose of her son Patrick, wonders tartly if the real question shouldn't be whether God has forgiven her.
This is a reasonable response to the entire book; either that or the more secular version, which would be to close the book, put it firmly out of your mind and try to think about something that might attach you more strongly to an affection for humanity.. dismissing her book for the monstrous piece of self-serving narcissism that it appears to be.
All this (and much, much more) by way of Jenny Diski's review of what sounds like an incredibly shameless exercise in auto-biography by the wife of George Melly: a must-read (for everyone except Diana Melly).
Tuesday 29th November 2005
Should you find yourself applying for this post, feel free to brandish the following image (of an item recently purchased from Waitrose) as a case-study:
I'm sure you could work up a fine degree of indignation over the the complete lack of capitalisation and hypenation ('hand-prepared', surely?) or the redundant adjectives (none of yer urban apples here, and no stale foreign parsley neither).
You could then move on to map out the dangerous borderline between deliberate obfuscation on the one hand and misinterpretation on the other (Does an 'apple farce' rely on falling fig-leaves for its laughs?)
Climax with a finely-nuanced discussion of the idea of an audience that is sophisticated enough to understand the concepts of prepping and sous-chefs, yet dim enough to spend almost six quid on the equivalent of two pork chops.
(Failing that, just point to the sticker, and shrug.)
Monday 28th November 2005
Developing a fruitful relationship with an indigent Brazilian considerably younger than oneself is not easy, especially given an increasing tendency on his part to refer to us as 'friends'; his (current) inability to sustain an articulate conversation regretfully strains my patience, as in this recent text exchange:
Hi! How was your week? Xx
My week was COLD
If it was cold to you. Can you imagine to me?
But you have sunshine in your bones.
Mine are ninety per cent drizzle.
[pause]
But with a gold heart. I supose
A heart of ICE.
Can't say he wasn't warned.
......previous week
