Day 52: I Go To Tate Modern

I went to art school for a bit a couple of years ago. Made an installation out of jellybeans and that. It was good, but by the end of it I realised I wasn't very good at art, unless it had sweets in. Anyway, it was a nice day today, so we went to the Tate and had lunch. Then we went to look at some art made by a man called Pierre Huyghe.

I overheard two blokes on the way in:

Bloke 1: How do you pronounce that then?
Bloke 2: Pierre ...
Bloke 1: Hoo ...hoo ...
Bloke 2: Hoog?
Bloke 1: Hoogey?
Bloke 2: Huey?
Bloke 1: Like the bloke in 'Fun Lovin' Criminals'?
Bloke 2: Maybe.

We looked at all his things, but our favourite was a film that was described thus: "The view is limited to two windows, conveying a mood of isolation, which is heightened by the presence of a single, animatronic penguin." It looked sort of like this:

















We thought it was good, but maybe not as good as my drawing.

Day 51: I Am Yet Again Bombarded By Squirrels

Regular readers will be aware that squirrels regularly hold illegal raves in my back garden, and treat my front garden like some sort of Rodent Alton Towers. My astonishingly stupid cat regularly slips outside to eat some grass (that he can then sick up on the sofa); if he ever staggers in looking alarmed, it's probably because he's been ambushed by the little fuckers and ridden round the garden in a Squirrel Rodeo. They are cheeky little bastards and have no shame.

To prove my point, please enjoy these photographs of a squirrel I observed out of my kitchen window mere minutes ago.

Here he is settling down on my fence to eat a delicious lunch of nuts and seeds left out for the 'lovely birds' (pigeons), by my idiotic neighbour.












And see how he enjoys tucking in! "Yum yum, lovely nuts. I must be the LUCKIEST squirrel in the world."













By this point, I am banging on the window and shaking my fist. He looks at me as if I am mentally deficient, flicks his tail and wanders off, chewing on a monkey nut.











Is it OK to shoot them, do you think? I think I can get an airgun from Toys 'R' Us, and if I get enough of the little fuckers, I'll have me a lovely coat for winter, with perhaps enough to make a hat, from which I can dangle their tails. Sensational.

Day 50: I Should Have Been A Duchess

I think it might be time to do some work. I could get a job, but then I'd have to go to an office, go on public transport and be nice to idiots. I have, however, been considering my 'employment skill set' (as I believe 'Human Resources' people describe them), and have discovered that I may well be qualified to do the thing I've always wanted to do: be a Duchess.

My qualifications include:


1. Like patronising tourists
2. Comfortable charging people £35 to look at my bedroom
3. Keen to be called 'Your Grace' to my face
4. Know how to lay a table and write thank-you letters
5. Can assume demeanor of haughty froideur if crossed
6. Know that wearing diamonds in the morning is common
7. Able to consume 3 strong cocktails before dinner
8. Like horses and dogs
9. Like dusting
10. Like wearing robes
11. Know how to curtsey
12. Can make jam
13. Interested in rare breeds of chicken
14. Can say 'ears' instead of 'yes'
15. Don't mind sharing a bed with a stinking 12 year old labrador
16. Like having staff.

The Duchess of Devonshire is my heroine. Here she is with her rare chickens, smirking to herself because she's just made another £7,000,000 selling Duchess of Devonshire branded jam in her Chatsworth shop. In an interview with The Lady (required reading if you are to be a Duchess; where else does one get staff?), she talks of her relationship with the Duke. Now, I will need to find a Duke if I am to be a Duchess, but apparently, it doesn't matter if I don't like him: I won't be seeing much of him anyway. "My husband and I never ever meet at breakfast," she says emphatically. "I have my breakfast in my room at 5.3Oam. We practically lap each other. He goes to bed almost at the time when I am getting up." (I hope 'lap each other' doesn't mean what I think it does.)

If you're a Duke and you're reading this, do get in touch. I'm not doing much at the moment. And whatever you want to do with the labrador is absolutely fine with me.

Day 49: I Find Jesus (at the dentist, on the golf course, in the bank and at the circus)

I'm not religious and that, but I reckon Jesus was probably a nice enough bloke. However, it seems that Jesus has been getting a bit frisky of late: apparently he woke up a sleeping 50 year old man called Larry Van Pelt (hem) in Florida and told him that he wanted him to do some "special drawings". Or, more specifically, "drawings depicting ordinary people in their everyday environment . . . . with one important addition: the presence of Jesus Christ and His involvement in those routine activities". What's so extraordinary about this particular religious experience is that our Larry couldn't draw at all before the Lord paid him a special visit, but look at him now - don't you just want to touch Jesus' hair?

















Not sure about this one though - he seems to have forgotten Jesus' legs.















And look - He is even with yellow clowns, which seems a bit much, frankly.















Larry's idea is that everyone - no matter what job they do - should know that Jesus is always with them. He has ten years to complete his project, and so far he's covered off insurance clerks, bank tellers, carpet layers and many more. You can see if you can find your job here. I've written to Larry asking if Jesus is with the unemployed, but he hasn't written back yet. Fingers crossed, eh?

Day 48: I Discover The Secret Of Rapid Weight Loss

Rick Gallop, Rosemary Conley, Dr Atkins, Montignac: they are all fools. Listen to me, and me alone. There is only one way to lose 10lbs in under 3 seconds. Ready?

1. Eat less.
2. Move around more.
3. Invite someone into your home who weighs themselves on your scales, then comes out of the bathroom saying: "Did you know your scales are broken? They're at least ten pounds over."

Result.

Day 47: I Have A Conversation With My Brother

Me: I've got to go to PC World this weekend.
My brother: Where in the world?
Me: PC World.
My brother: I can't believe you just answered that question.

Day 46: I Am Moved To Tears By A Song, Entirely Against My Will

Women pretending they're musos is as bad as women pretending to like football or cars. I always suspect them of pretending to be interested just to make boys like them more, when in fact most men only like women who listen to Westlife and watch showjumping. I went through a phase of pretending I listened to vinyl but got found out when the Object Of My Affections was lured back to my plush Brixton pied-a-terre and said: "so, where's your turntable?" I said it was at the Cornflake Shop being fixed, when in fact the real answer was: "In the cellar, with my enormous collection of vinyl, which stopped with the 12-inch of 'Blue Monday' and started with 'The Wombles' and 'Dougal and The Blue Cat', with 'For Your Eyes Only' by Sheena Easton and some Lloyd Cole in between". What a twat.

As it happens, I'm not too bad. But only because I really do like it. Music, that is. My parents have good taste, if you discount Yes and Genesis (my father's Dark Years), and my brother is QUITE the hep-cat. Granted, I'm a complete knob in some respects; I've got an iPod and even make playlists (see what I mean?), but generally it's not too embarrassing.

The problem is when songs you don't really like GET to you. I've got a friend who cries if you even mention "Don't Give Up" by Gabriel 'n' Bush. I made her cry in a meeting once by just telling everyone about her problem. Brilliant.

Anyway, there I was driving down Tooting High Street from Wimbledon today, having completed an unmentionable cosmetic medical procedure that was surprisingly painless and in some ways quite amusing (two nurses poking a blindfolded me, going "cor look at THAT, it's BRILLIANT, we WISH you could see them just VAPOURISING"), and 'Chasing Cars' by Snow Patrol came on. They're alright, Snow Patrol, but I'm not that bothered. But every time I hear a tiny bit of one lyric (something like 'these three words'), I well up.

It is quite extraordinary. I've been testing myself. I made myself listen to it twice at home without crying (successful), and then made myself listen to it on the Stansted Express on Sunday night (not successful: tears just outside Harlow Town). I had to turn the telly over when the ad for their album came on (not successful: all they had to say was "current hit single 'Chasing Cars'", and I was sobbing), and I welled up when I read about it being the soundtrack to some film whose name I can't remember.

I don't know what to do. Wouldn't be as embarrassing if it was something good, like James Blunt.

Day 45: I Never Said I Was Original

I used to think I should be extraordinary and remarkable in some way. Then I grew up and realised I'm like everyone else and want the things most people want. Enough money not to worry, friends I like and a nice place to live; perhaps, one day when I am very old and smelling of wee, a relationship with a pleasant gentleman who will ignore the smell and love me for my mind. I think working is a bit last year, and in that I may differ from many people, but generally I'm astonishingly pedestrian.

Of course, life would be considerably enhanced if my belly were not a separate entity made of melted Play-Doh attached to my body by Magical Methods (in fact, I have decided that the day I can bend over without it making itself apparent is the day I can start sniffing around after gentlemen callers), and it would be good if someone gave me a million quid or fell in love with my splendid mind and well-formed eyebrows, but these things are mere pipe dreams, and must, for the moment, be put aside. (Apart from Play-Doh belly, which is subject to 6 visits to the gym every week and calorie consumption entered into spreadsheets.)

Anyway, there is a point to this. I am as interested as the next person in how people find my blog and I look at my Site Meter stats every day. Sometimes I even put on a pair of spectacles and smoke a small pipe when I'm doing it, just to enhance the experience. Many visitors from India in the last few days (hello India), for example. But my favourite is search engine stuff. So I shall now slip in to the worst of Blogging conventions and tell you that someone found this blog today by typing monkey fuck into MSN. But not just any MSN. MSN Arabian Peninsular. I laughed until my nose bled.

Day 45: I Am Sure That I Am Back In London

"How can you be so sure?", I hear you mutter. Well, apart from being in my own home (which is, as far as I know, in London) with my stupid fat cat (who is now an alcoholic), and apart from the fact that there are big red buses and that going up and down the road, I have been given some very strong clues:

1. Anyone crossing a road makes a particular point of avoiding pedestrian crossings. Instead, they choose the busiest part of the street and wander across it as slowly as possible staring at the sky, eating crisps and making mobile telephone calls.

2. Dinner at an OK 'gastropub' (fuck OFF) last night in Vauxhall (for foreign readers: 80% scuzzy, 20% full of people who wished they lived in Notting Hill) consisting of a steak, some green beans, a glass of red wine and an espresso cost £26. You could buy the whole of France for that, let alone a 17-course gourmet extravaganza featuring deep fried foie gras and live snails with hats on doing the can-can. And that's without the tip.

3. The parking restrictions in my road come into effect between 10 and 12 every day. At 10.01, a Lambeth Council Corsa drew up outside my flat and spewed out FOUR parking wardens. This is where my council tax goes. Other things they could perhaps invest my £75 a month include:

- filling the potholes that cause people to fall over and lose their bumpers
- removing the crack dealers from the end of my road
- culling the hoardes of squirrels only now busting some moves in my front garden
- cleaning the streets and that
- stopping the atonal singing Chinese Christians from setting up their Hammond organ outside Brixton tube and filling the air with vile aural pollution
- putting some books in the library
- employing people to answer the phone at Lambeth Council
- putting in some double red lines just before the railway bridge in Brixton so that all traffic jams in Brixton are avoided forever.

4. My gym is half an hour's uphill walk away. But I drive to the gym, and then spend half an hour walking uphill on the treadmill.

5. A bottle of wine costs £300.

6. There are mad people roaming freely in the street. One of the mad people attacked a friend of mine in Great Portland Street last week and smashed her face in. She has just got out of hospital for the second time in as many weeks having had her broken nose re-set.

7. All of my friends are at work, and most of them are not happy about it.

8. There are people EVERYWHERE, and a lot of them look quite cross.

Sigh.

Day 43: I Hate Flying

Don't get me wrong. I like flying FOR WORK. Flying FOR WORK involved:

First class travel to New York. "Champagne, madam?" Yes please. I will mix it with this cheeky Temazepam I just happen to have, and find this film hilarious, and pass out, and wake up in a limousine going over Brooklyn Bridge. What is this in the minibar? That's HILARIOUS. Hoo hoo. Hee hee. What am I doing today? What's that? Eating organic tomatoes with a Son Of Mars and trying to find a VISION for organic pasta spirally things? You pay me for this? Paramount and Royalton when they were interesting? Yes please. Oh dear, I seem to be drunk again. But it's OK, because there's another limousine taking me back to JFK. "Champagne, madam?" Yes please, it goes lovely with Valium. And look, there's a man with a board with my NAME on. Ha ha ha!

Short haul business class flights to various European capitals. Oh look there's that funny man in the Mercedes here to drive me to Heathrow and look, here I am in the BA lounge! Ha ha! I shall drink 10 tiny glasses of orange juice, get someone to send a fax for me, read the paper ostentatiously, and go through the 'I'm important' channel at customs. And look, there's another man at Charles de Gaulle with a board with my name on! Dinner in the Louvre? Yeah, OK. Stranded in Paris during a strike? Forced to stay at hotels full of women wearing buttermilk leather miniskirts and men with matching skin? Why not. Go on. Twist my arm.

Business class to Edinburgh. At what point, actually, is that necessary? £480 for a 50 minute flight to go to a 2 hour meeting? Is the client paying for it? Ha ha!

If you're unemployed you fly Ryanair to La Rochelle a lot. La Rochelle airport is in fact a shed, and until a year ago they unloaded the luggage onto a little cart with trailers and would just drive it into the airport, and you plucked your scuzzy suitcase off the trailer. It had a certain charm.

Now a cavalcade of cunts who wear nylon shorts and England shirts and don't bother to speak French go there the whole time and I have to fly with them. I hate them. Their children scream and are uncontrolled, and the French people and their children are dignified and well behaved, but the English people put ON their matching England shirts and their children RUN AROUND and SHOUT, and then the flight is late, and then some twat leaves a van on the runway so you have to fly round and round in the Essex sky, and the landing is awful because it always is with Ryanair. And some woman sitting in front of you says over and over again: "Are all Ryanair planes the same?", and then she says, "are they the biggest airline?" and you want to shout HOW STUPID ACTUALLY ARE YOU? And then an announcement comes on with some Ryanair bloke offering cheap mobile calls and the bloke next to you mutters "for fuck's sake", and you both tut like the raddled old snobs you both are.

When you finally get off the plane the matching England shirted ones are all turning on their mobiles that have STUPID RINGS ON THEM and shout and go HA HA ISN'T IT CHEAP THE DRINK, and then you see Leicester City Ladies' FC all drunk at Stansted walking around going ALLEZ LES BLEUS in bad French accents, then you notice 2 of them are in wheelchairs having sustained footballing injuries at the hands of, I hope, a far superior French ladies' football team, and are slightly ashamed that you laugh a bit, then you catch yourself pulling DISTAINFUL FACES and you're BY YOURSELF. Then there's the THOUSANDS of IDIOTS getting off flights from hen and stag weekends going HA HA HA WEREN'T WE DRUNK HA HA WHERE'S YOUR BAG JOHN DID YOU LEAVE IT IN THAT BIRD'S ROOM HA HA HA.

I should turn inwards, take up meditation, and accept my fellow human beings as the beautiful individuals they all are, whilst accepting that other people have different ideas of fun, ideas that may not necessarily match my own. I would, however, be happier if they did it at some distance from me, possibly in a different, roped-off area. I don't think that's unreasonable.

Oh dear. I seem to be back in London. How did that happen?

Day 43: I Find The Samantha Fox Fan Club Alive and Well In France

So there we are at the 11ième foire aux ânes (that's 11th donkey festival, before you ask), in Haimps (pop. 434), and what do I see carefully preserved in plastic and stuck to the side of a truck belonging to a seller of melons?

This picture of The Fox. And her, er, melons.*







* Going back to Blighty tonight. Probably just as well.

Day 42: I Find A Guitarist Made Of Cognac

It's not like I think they're good, these posts. The pictures are a bit shit too, come to think of it. Problem is, fuck-all's happening, except me spending a rainy afternoon learning to read the tarot and discovering that I am, in all probability, deeply psychic and may well have mind-reading powers. Strong probability of a hint of the Romany, at least, which may describe my deep attraction to David Essex, who I always imagine sitting cross-legged on the back of a painted gypsy caravan with a horse called Buster, singing "Hold me close, don't let me go (oh no)".

Still, there's a Donkey Festival tomorrow morning, so things are looking up. In the meantime - and to complement the Tree of Bread (see below), here is, as promised, the Guitarist Made of Cognac.

Day 42: I Find A Tree Made Of Bread

Look at that. Good, isn't it. Organic, about 18 inches high, and from a village called Breville, the home of the toasted sandwich maker.

If anyone can think of a joke involving wood, organic things, sandwich toasters and France do let me know - I'm afraid the Tree of Bread was impressive enough for me just as it was.

He also had lobsters made of bread, which were good, but I noticed them on the way out and it was too late to ask for one, really.

Coming next: the guitarist made of Cognac.

Day 41: I Admire A Continental Hairstyle

This hairdo belongs to a gentleman of my acquaintance who has lived overseas (i.e., not in Blighty) for over three-and-a-half years.

The uncontrolled growth of an apparently random panel of hair at the back of the head seems to be an unfortunate and unavoidable consequence of living abroad, which leads me to believe that foreign travel should be avoided at all costs.


His defence was weak: he muttered something about 'not having had a haircut for 4 months' and 'business at the front, party at the back', and left the room suggesting that I 'examine my conscience' for having written this post at all. Can't win, really.

Day 40: I Couldn't Possibly Comment

A CAVALCADE of excitements, no less - none of which I can tell you about if I want to avoid being disinherited. There was a long-distance truck driver in the shower this morning, mind you, and Dad's still in with a chance of winning a Mazda with his Scritch* card.

In the meantime, I have assembled this list of very short famous French men.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec: 4ft 11
Jean-Paul Sartre: 5ft (existential angst? All seems terribly clear now)
Honoré de Balzac: 5ft 2
Marquis de Sade: 5ft 2
Voltaire: 5ft 3

And no, Napoleon wasn't that short. He was a shade off 5ft 7.

* Like a Scratch card, but French.

Day 39: I Am Disappointed In My Readers

For God's sake. I don't make this stuff up, you know. Granted, in the past I've stolen photographs randomly from the interweb (squirrels with light sabres, for example) to prove a point, but I do NOT expect to get emails asking for actual photographic evidence of things I say I've seen. My integrity is and always has been very important to me, but since I am being FORCED to defend myself in this instance, I DON'T expect to have to do it again.

If I SAY I've seen a shite re-enactment of the last 600 years of naval history using model ships, dry ice and water, I MEAN it - but since you insist, here's the photographic evidence.



Same with the tableau of the handless Caveman baby waving from the arms of his Caveman mother. It's not like I could MAKE IT UP, is it?



Honestly. You people. Next you'll be asking if there were any mechanical monkeys there yesterday. The answer's yes, and no you're not seeing the pictures. They're for my own private enjoyment, if you must know.

Day 39: I Don't Find Much To Write About

Haven't really been anywhere today. Well, I went on a nearly-two-hour bike ride up and down the old railway track and on some Rough Tracks through vineyards, waved at a few vineyardy type people on tiny tractors and saw a lot of sunflowers and flowers and that, and then found myself on a 2km-long very long incline in an oncoming wind. Got home, fell off the red bicycle and lay on the lawn panting while the dogs licked the sweat from my face, but otherwise I've just watched 'A Place In The Country' on telly and read emails and that. Oh, and had bean soup and raspberry yoghurt with a few seeds and nuts in for lunch, and an oatcake with cheese on.

It's raining now. Still, the words that I find funnier in French than in English are still good. In a way. If you want to feel the full benefit, imagine you're Charles de Gaulle making a speech from the top of something big:

Poney Club (Pone-eh klooob) Pony club.

Prix Choc (Preee shok) Surprisingly low prices.

Hard Discount (ahrd dees-koont) Surprisingly low prices, in a pikey kind of a way

Le Weekend (luh week-ende) The weekend.

Come to think of it my mother's shopping list was good:

Pork
Grillons
Melons
Red onions
Broccoli
Apples
Water
Goats' cheese
Membership of Alzheimer's Society for your father
New daughter

I added 'cock ring' and she sighed, because I always write 'cock ring' or 'gimp mask' on her shopping list, and I always laugh hysterically at my own sensationally sophisticated sense of humour, like I'm the lovechild of Lenny Bruce and Victoria Wood making the best joke in the word EVER for the first time.

Sigh.

Day 38: I Visit A Museum Or Two In La Rochelle

I promise I don't do it on purpose. Nothing much happened yesterday, apart from a bike ride and a story about Nair, the Cambridge Military Hospital and a Red Cross nurse, and nothing really happened today either. I wrote a boring post about things that sound funnier in French than in English (e.g. Poney Club), but deleted it because I'm the only person who finds that sort of thing funny.

Just as well I went to the Museum of Automata (hem hem), in La Rochelle this afternoon. We didn't know, we really didn't. We thought it would be full of quite serious bits of mechanical stuff, and old advertising and nicely made windy-uppy stuff. But it wasn't. "300 Animated People" it said on the sign outside. Not just people though. Oh no. Milkmaids milking cows (his tail moves as his eyes roll and she bleats a bit); glassy-eyed clowns with spinning heads; endless mechanical hedgehogs; ladypuppets drinking tea; monkeys pushing rats in carts; crosseyed flying fairies dressed in Christmas wrapping paper and a pig on a ladder.







And Judge Judy.












And, um, Roy Hudd. (Not the Emu bloke, the other one. You know the one. Looks like this.)








The thing that's beginning to trouble me, though, is the apparent inability the French have to make sure that their 'models' (moving or not) have adequate facial hair. You may remember Genghis Khan from Day 35. One eyebrow. You know. That one. Look. Here's his bloody brother. Where's his beard gone? What's the matter with his eyebrows? Why does no-one care except me?


I'm not even going to start on what happened when we went next door to the Museum of Tiny Models and saw a) the biggest model railway I have ever seen; b) the last 600 years of naval history re-enacted with the help of dry ice and models moving apparently independently through glassy water; c) a strange panel depicting Early Man, complete with a baby that waved even though it didn't have any hands. And that's without the bloody mechanical piano playing Simon and Garfunkel over and over again in the background. "Are you (plinky plink) going to (plinky plink) Scarborough Fair? (plinky plink?)" I am beginning to think that all of the French are on crack all of the time.

Day 37: I Attend The 'Festival Hippie' in Matha (Pop. 2,167)

I've only ever been to one festival, and that was a wanky middle-class one full of people called Henrietta off their tits on badly-rolled low-grade skunk, meeting all their advertising pals in the vodka tent and shouting 'wicked!!' in loud home-counties accents across the rolling hills of Shropshire. (I hasten to add that I am a middle class wanker, but at least I know it.) One day I hope to be thin and unselfconscious enough to go to more festivals, and not ones full of people I might have worked with once in the Dark Days.

Last night, however, I was enticed to the 'Festival Hippie' in Matha by this super lifesize model stationed on the roundabout on the road to Angouleme. Matha (as you definitely won't already know) is a teeny tiny town with not much in it apart from 4 pharmacies, a supermarket and a bloke in a 2CV van, so we weren't expecting much.

I was, to be honest, both surprised and delighted. It was like I hear a real festival is like, but in miniature. 2 stalls of hippy tat, including bongs of various shades, patchwork pantaloons and Peruvian scarves; 1 tiny beer tent and some excellent banners which you can see above. (What relevance Marilyn Manson, Bob Marley (x4) and Johnny Halliday have to a hippy festival I couldn't tell you, but then the French have never been famous for their contribution to popular music.) We ate nice sausages in bread, drank local beer, and waved at our friends. It was nice. Small, but nice. And not really like a festival. But nice.

The musical highlight of the last night of this 3-day extravaganza was Ronnie Carryl (short, bearded, long hair) who is distinguished by having played guitar with Phil Collins, and known to the French as 'Ronnie-Carryl-Guitariste-Phil-Collins'. He got his childhood mate Charlie up on stage (Charlie is, we guessed, a quantity surveyor from Godalming), and Charlie sang badly.

The people working on the door let in someone with a goat on a string, but wouldn't let in a braying middle-class English woman who was trying to smuggle in a half bottle of wine with a screw-top. ("But I live here!" "And?"). We couldn't find the car, of course, even though there were only about 30 cars in the car park, but then from what I hear, it wouldn't be a festival if you could find your car easily. I know the only time I ever went to a festival it took us 3 hours to find the Micra.

Can't blame them for trying, although somehow Johnny Halliday banners, Blur on the PA and the following sign, spied at the entrance to the 'site' (i.e. field next to barn owned by the local community) tells me they might (just) have missed the point:

Day 36: I Get A Nice Review And It Makes Me Blush A Bit

There's some people who review blogs. They aren't paid, they just do it. They are often very rude, and putting your blog up for review is tantamount to sticking your head in a hungry lion's mouth. I read them everyday because they're good, and so should you. Anyway, they reviewed this blog. If you want to see the review (although why it would hold any interest for anyone other than me and my mum I don't know), go and see them here at Italk2much. Made me a bit blushy as it goes. Surprised they were so nice as they did go and have a gander after 2 slightly weird strong-booze-and-horse-cough-medicine-induced posts.

Oh, and if anyone fancies doing a bit of web design in return for monkey nuts or a brisk rub, do let me know.

Day 35: I Find Out How French Dukes Keep Themselves Busy

I always thought most of the French aristocracy had their noggins cut off by Madame La Guillotine c. 1789, and that all the Chateaux had been returned to the State, but no. There is still a duke (the Duc de Blacas) living in this very castle, Le Château d'Ussé, with his duchess, their children, their many servants, their pets, and his troupe of life-sized plastic friends dressed up in funny clothes.

I'm all up for paying a bit to go and look at someone else's dining room. Obviously I spend most of the time stealing leaflets, bouncing on the beds and pretending to smoke a pipe in all the plushly-upholstered armchairs when the guides aren't looking, but usually I'll spend a few quid and not resent it that much, and maybe buy a packet of branded mints and a teatowel in the Gifte Shoppe that I have to walk through on the way out. But I have to say that the Château d'Ussé (only 2 stars in the Michelin guide, even if it was inspiration for Sleeping Beauty), offered me a world of joy that I could only ever dream of.

See this chap? He's supposed to be a medieval soldier showing off some armour. I thought a bit more Genghis Khan, myself, and he only seems to have one eyebrow. But still we are not allowed to touch his face with our hands, or so the sign tells us. But it gets better, for leave the 'armoury' and who do we find?





Yes! it's everyone's favourite, the Gurning Footman, balanced on his magical transparent flying disc!

Stop, stop, I hear you cry. No. For the good Duke pays for his childrens' new ponies and his wife's new ermine stoles with the 11 Euros he reaps from every visitor to his Château, and I think it's only fair to tell everyone what excellent value that 11 Euros presents. (11 Euros is about 8 quid in English money, and no I don't know what that is in dollars.) Exhausted, we clambered to the top of one of the magical towers that you see at the beginning of this post. What is that delicate tinkling melody? Yes! It is One Day My Prince Will Come and yes, the good Duke is milking this for all it's worth because - lo! What is this? Yes! A lovely tableau of the sleeping princess and her prince. Down to the cave we go (not that kind, the wine store kind), and my heart goes cold.

What on earth is this girl thinking? And what does she think she's going to do with those grapes? Un peu porno, non?















Whatever it is, this chap seems to like it - and he's obviously got an awfully good sense of humour.








And they'd like to join in, but they're not sure where to put their hats.






I won't even go in to me getting diaspora and diorama confused. I'm not sure it's even really relevant. All I know is that that 11 Euros was the best money I've ever spent, ever, on anything, ever. Apart from the 4 Euros for the Cat Museum in Richelieu, of course.

Day 34: I Visit The Cat Museum In Richelieu

Cardinal Richelieu. Prime Minister in one of those pre-Revolutionary periods of French history when the Catholic church were in charge and lovin' it. He wore red and had a big conk and a goatee. Also had an ego the size of a planet, so, obviously, he built a whole town and named it after himself.

Not sure that he'd be that happy nowadays, though. His palace was flattened at some point by some disenchanted peasants and now all the fine town of Richelieu has to offer - apart from some nice architecture and an OK bar - is The Cat Museum.

But the Cat Museum! My dears! Take a fucking fantastic house, and fill it with tat that is loosely cat-related, and what do you get? The WORST museum in the world. If you're wondering what Richelieu looked like, for example, you don't have to wonder anymore: according to this splendid bit of tray-based sculpture, he looked like this (including giant cats in the background, obviously).


The owner of the museum, who was obviously one kitten short of a litter, was very keen for us to enjoy the splendid collection of cat portraiture 'assembled' by some of Europe's finest Cat Artists. Now, I don't get out much anymore, what with the leg and the rash, but I haven't seen that many owls with the faces of cats (one of many splendid exhibits). Nor have I seen that many cats made out of paper and grapes.



Still, it wasn't all bad. Amongst the cats made out of fruit, tin, old dogs, weasels and cake, we found a children's play area where tiny, tiny children could draw a picture of a cat and add their art to the collection. Thinking fondly of my own spastic feline, only now terrorising squirrels back in Brixton whilst I sit in the garden sipping faine waine, I was moved to make this lovely tribute. Do you think it's good enough to make the permanent collection of the Cat Museum? I do.




My Friend commented in the visitor's book: "This may well be the best cat museum I have ever visited."

Day 33: I Enjoy A Dutchman's Wooden Spoon In My Hotel Room

We drive for days and days, listening mainly - and unaccountably - to the Eagles, and finally arrive at this pokey hovel. It is owned by a curly-haired Dutchman who, of course, wears 'feature spectacles' and makes ribald jokes about the tiny size of our double bed. (I am not laughing, for I am sharing the room with an old friend of the opposite gender, but the thought of 'jiggy jiggy' with each other makes us both feel a bit sick, so we were hoping for twin beds or an Elephantine double bed.)

Ours is the second window from the left on the second floor. What you won't be able to see from the splendid photograph above, but will be able to see in the marvellous photograph on the left here, is the lovely wooden spoon (complete with dried paint) that he very kindly left us on our bedside table. We weren't sure whether or not it was a sign of traditional Dutch hospitality, or whether 'returning the spoon' meant that we were happy to take part in the Eyes Wide Shut-style entertainments he arranged with his guests and the locals. I'm going to err towards the former, however, because I discovered that when the Dutchman sits in his window at night tapping away into his computer and chainsmoking, he is not tweaking his porn ring, but learning French online. Anyway, the Friend with whom I am sharing this tiny double bed saw the spoon as a talisman to protect him from any amorous advances from me, and fell asleep with it in his hand only to be woken a few hours later by the sound of it clattering to the floor. This, however, was only one of many interesting sound effects that kept us from sleeping for two nights in a row. They included:

Sheep baaing so loudly it sounded like they were in the bathroom (one of the sheep later gobbed on my Friend, who had to wash his shirt in a hurry)
Random dogs barking
A cockerel, who started up at 4.30am and didn't let up
Tiny French children running up and down the corridors
Gravel crunching
2CV vans starting up
Shouting (random)
A scream
Ribald laughter
Breaking glass.

We are very tired.

Day 31: I Am Frantically Busy

4.30am: wake up. Go for wee. Dogs wake up. Dogs get into/onto bed with me.
4.30 - 5.30am: Coughing, blowing nose, general restlessness.
5.30am: Dog fetches Monkeymother in manner of tiny Jack Russell-shaped St Bernard
5.33am: Monkeymother pours drugs down my throat.
5.34am: I pass out.

Time passes.

11.30am: I wake up.
12.00pm: I eat scrambled eggs.
1.30pm: I eat salad things and drink the wine.
2.30pm: I pass out in garden face down.

Time passes.

5.00pm: I wake up.
5.10pm: We go for a bicycle ride, comment on the sunflowers, wave at the cows, agree that is excellent mode of transport. My chain falls off. Kind friend replaces it. I freewheel quite a lot and snigger.
5.40pm: Wash.
5.40 - present: Sit on bed staring at wall.

I have managed to get dressed. We are going out now. I am aware that if I go to bed now, I will probably not wake up for 3 weeks.

Tomorrow we are staying in a teeny tiny chateau in the Loire which is also a meeting place for international travellers. God help us. I think we're in the Africa Suite.

Day 29: Je Pars En Vacances

Here is a very accurate 19th century artist's impression of me drinking on a bottle of Cognac and smoking a small cheroot, both of which I will be doing virtually non-stop for the next 12 days.

In preparation for my evacuation to the country - which is obviously necessary, what with increasing levels of anger about ambient noise, 4x4s, middle class people being twats in the gym and anything else that crosses my path - I have, over the course of today:

- Remained convinced that all you can buy to eat in France is cheese and enormous buns with custard in (even though I lived there for 4 years when I was little and know very well and that all they eat is Champignons A La Grecque, rillettes and foie gras with fried grapes), so panic-bought oatcakes, brown Basmati rice, wholemeal pasta and seeds which I have very little intention of eating

- Been to have a consultation about an unmentionably vile cosmetic medical procedure and snorted with glee with a very amusing Australian nurse called Bridget, who showed me her armpits

- Bought a proper parking permit from a Zulu warrrior

- Had the following exchange with a very irritating woman in a pet shop:

Me: Great shop! (which it was - Dr Doolittles on Streatham High Street, since you don't ask)
Her: (in sneering tones): Oh! Haven't you BEEN here before?
Me: No! (still smiling)
Her: Where do you LIVE? Streatham?
Me: (want to say The Moon) GOOD GOD, no. Brixton. (Same as Streatham, but has public transport and more middle class Guardian-reading cocks like me living in it)
Her: Oh. Where on earth do you buy your Royal Canin? (poncy dried French catfood that I had to buy as only one that said: for fat stupid cats. She pronounces it with French accent)
Me: At an agricultural supplier in Oxfordshire, where I keep my horses.
Her: Oh, how LOVELY!
(I bet she wishes she lived in Ealing.)

- Had keys cut by man with wall eye who smelt of mackerel and beer

- Eaten half an unspeakably horrible 'low GI low fat' bagel with tuna and fucking celery in it in the car and dropped most of it down my front. Proof: removed 'pretty, if it's dark and he likes fat birds' bra to change into 'fucking ugly, but means you can run without knocking yourself out' sports bra and seeds fell from my cleavage onto the changing room floor. Which reminds me: the French expression for big knockers is il y a du monde au balcon!, which loosely translates (for those of you who are not virtually bilingual, as I smugly am) as cor, she's got some people on the balcony! which, although not a particularly literararararararary translation, will give you the gist.

- Drunk peppermint tea with the lovely friend who is looking after my stupid cat and flat when I am away, and discussed meditation and yoga.

Now all I need to do is pack an assortment of ill-fitting and unflattering black linen trousers and variously-coloured linen shirts, 3 skirts I won't wear, one thing that is nice that I have no need to wear, and a swimsuit that I have only just realised is 3 sizes too big (fuckwittery, not astonishing weightloss) and that will billow about me in manner of Victorian laydee on a day out in Brighton c. 1875, books I won't read, a sketchbook I won't open, and the first draft of a book I won't finish. Hey ho.

Day 28: I Wonder Why Everyone Is Shouting

God, the noise, the noise. My neighbours are moving out and have been running up and down the stairs slamming doors and SHOUTING for 2 days, let alone BANGING on my door at 8 yesterday morning to ask for access to my garden to inspect the roof, and ENDLESS texts asking for the loan of plates and mugs. Next door's pesky kids have been SHOUTING all day. And it doesn't stop there. Everywhere I go, people seem unable to moderate their volume levels.

2 Middle Aged Ladies In Gym

I like going to the gym. It's kind of peaceful in a weird way, and my gym's quite nice. On Saturday, however, it's full of twats. There were two middle aged ladies (overly-preserved, if you know what I'm saying) squawking as they 'worked out'.

Lady 1: I mean for God's sake! No wonder people are COMPLAINING the whole time!
Lady 2: I know! I know! The FLIES on the far wall!
Lady 1: Ghastly. Simply disgusting. I hardly dare do my stretches.
Lady 2: (after 30 seconds) Oh for HEAVEN'S sake! One of the sets of weights is missing!
Lady 1: TYPICAL!

Why did they feel the need to deliver this exchange at top volume? If they don't like it, they can fuck off.

Woman In Late 20s In Gym

In changing room, usually a place of relative quiet and splashing and clunking of padlocks and slapping on of body lotion. Her phone rings.

"Yah, yah, HIIIIIII Nicky! (She is shouting, by the way). Yah I know, spoke to Jonny yesterday, sounds SUPER. OK. Yah. Yah. Yah. Yah I TOLD her there was no point, I mean quarter of a million! (laughs like a spastic). Yah. Uh-huh. OK sweetie, see you at Charlie's later, I'll bring some poo."

4x4 Drivers In London

I have made a number of points about these arseholes already, but any excuse to repeat it, eh? They shout (when they actually bother to say 'thank you' for letting them in their child-killing environment-destroying wankmobiles pass in the road) THANKS AWFULLY out of the window without looking at you, because you are a Serf, and they are the Queen Of The Road. Idiots.

Anyone who lives in Clapham, Battersea or Wandsworth in a terraced house done up like a stately home

Go on, admit it, you wish you could afford to live in Chelsea, don't you? Knob. If you pop down to Battersea Rise on a Saturday evening, you will see fake French restaurants filled to bursting point, spilling men in pink shirts, jeans and deck shoes, and girls with straight hair, good skin, jeans, pink shirts and boots out onto the street so they can drink champagne and BELLOW at each other. SHUT. UP.

Couple In Tesco Express

Queue of about 15 people in Tesco Express attached to the garage. Mid-afternoon. A couple SHOUT across the shop:

Mike: JAN! GET US SOME RIBENA LIGHT!
Jan: NAAH MIKE! IT'S TOO LATE! I'M ABOUT TO PAY!
Mike: WHAT ABOUT THE QUAVERS?
Jan: WHAT ABOUT THE FUCKING QUAVERS?
Mike: DID YOU GET THEM?
Jan: NAAAH. (Jan pays. Mike appears with Ribena and Quavers just as she is about to walk away from the till.)
Mike: HOLD ON WAIT HERE'S THE QUAVERS AND RIBENA LIGHT.
Jan: ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!
Mike: YEAH AND I NEED SOME CHEWING GUM TOO.
etc etc, ad nauseam, ad infinitum.

Briefly At Fruitstock

Mid-20s, fuckwit. Not as pretty as her friends. LITERALLY shouts in my ear in loud boarding school tones: OH GOD I CAN'T BEAR IT ITS SO HOT!! MUFFY WAIT FOR MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I turned and said: do you REALLY need to shout in my ear? To give her her due, she did apologise.

Kids on the bus

Any bus that goes either up or down Brixton Hill has hundreds and hundreds of 13 year olds on it, running up and down the stairs and SHOUTING at each other. On a particularly bad day, the girls all sing. Really loudly. And badly.

I think I need a little holiday.

Day 27: I Discover That It Is Difficult To Overdose On Cough Sweets

How utterly dull. My chest is rapidly filling with something unmentionable, my throat burns with the thousand fires of Satan, and when I cough I clutch on to inanimate objects and gag. I am rubbish at being ill, because I rarely am. I find it boring and undignified. It also makes me feel sorry myself, which is truly repellent. I'm self-pityingly wishing I had a Loving 'Partner'* to administer strokes to the forehead and soup (sod paying bills, being dynamic and chopping down logs: none of these are requirements; kindness is). My mother, selfishly, is in France, probably smoking a small cheroot and drinking Absinthe straight from the bottle, so I must self-medicate.

Anyway, I'm sucking these things. They stop the hacking cough for a bit, but they don't last long. Interestingly, they recommend that you do not exceed the recommended dose in 24 hours. That, to me, would suggest they contain Proper Drugs but closer inspection reveals that the maximum recommended dose of these babies is 5 packets in 24 hours, or 3 packets for children. If you need that many, surely you should be on Lemsip Flu Max Bombardier Super-Strength Power Flu-Away, not gaylordy sugar sweets?

Maybe there's a limit on how many you can scoff because they actually and literally rot your teeth away and bring on diabetes. Still, they taste OK. Kind of blackcurranty and fresh. Make your teeth kind of furry though. I think I may be delirious.

*I am not keen on this word, but in this instance, it is fairly accurate.

Day 26: I See A Strange Thing In The Street

Why is there a 70 year old man (who looks Irish, for some reason), dragging a cart containing an old fridge and a door down the middle of my street at this time of night?

Maybe he is going to build a special playground for the squirrels. In fact, maybe he is the Squirrel Master, and it is he who gets them to run down my road in convoy, and spring across my front wall in formation. Maybe he lives in a shelter made of leaves and newspapers, and calls the squirrels to him with his magical whistle, whereupon they drink pints of beer and smoke pipes.

Ooh.

Day 26: I Witness Purley Being Confused With Penge With Near-Fatal Consequences

Needs must. Car in Penge having MOT. Me late. Penge a long, long way away on a bus or 10 trains (overland), but £10 away in a cab. (For readers unfamiliar with the finer points of South London: yes, Penge looks exactly as it sounds, as does Purley.) 3 phone calls later, the cab turns up. Scruffy diesel Citroen, driven by a surly mass murderer wearing a red baseball cap.

Him: Where you going?
Me: Croydon Road in Penge.
Him: Where's that?
Me: Um, in Penge. I can show you the way I go if you like.
Him: I know where Purley is.
Me: No no, Penge.
Him: Croydon Road, in Purley, not Penge.
Me: Um, this one's in Penge.
Him: I know where Croydon Road is. You saying I don't know my job?
Me: No, not at all, but there is a Croydon Road in Penge too, because that's where I go with my car every few months. I've been there a few times. Do you want me to show you on the A-Z?
Him: What is your attitude?
Me: What?
Him: You have a problem.
Me: Um, I don't, I'm just trying to be helpful and not waste your time.
Him: You have a problem.
Me: Um, OK. Are you going to go down the South Circular and then round through Tulse Hill, 'cos that's the way I go to Croydon Road.
Him: You go that way? (Sneers)
Me: Yes.
Him: That's not the way to Purley.
Me: I know, I go there when I'm going to Penge. Look, I think we have 3 options: 1) you look in a map; 2) I get out of your cab; 3) you let me show you the way.
Him: I'll take option 2. You've got a problem, lady.
Me: Oh.
Him: I'll take you back to your house. You are always right, yes?
Me: No, rarely, as it goes, but ...
Him: ... Yeah. Problem. You're all the same.
Me: WHO are all the same?

He doesn't reply. I say I hope he has a long and happy life as I remove myself from his car, and then phone the minicab office to complain. They are shocked. I pretend to cry. I will no doubt get a brick through my window at some point in the next 24 hours.

I then called another minicab firm. A very nice man came.

Me: I am going to Croydon Road in Purley.
Him: Purley or Penge?
Me: Oh! Sorry! Penge.
Him: Whereabouts love?
Me: Nissan garage.
Him: Oh yes, just up from the Vauxhall garage. Anerley way. You OK with the radio?
Me: (small voice) Yesthanksverymuchindeed.

Next time, I'm taking the bus.

Day 25: I Am Astonished By The Collective Noun For Baboons

See that? That's a flange of baboons, that is. No word of a lie.

Day 25: I Am Surrounded By Squirrels

Here is a photograph of my workstation in the window of Monkey Towers. If you look beyond the stupid (and rather foul-smelling, if I'm honest) 'scented candle' and pointless miniature merry-go-round with aeroplanes on it and through the window, you will see a castellated red brick wall. I have just seen EIGHT squirrels hop along it, in a row. A sort of squirrel day out. Maybe my front garden is Squirrel Alton Towers.



Apparently the collective noun is 'A scurry of squirrels'. This is wrong. A Haunting of Squirrels. A Freakshow of Squirrels. A Stalk of Squirrels. There's also a 'dray' of squirrels (before you all frantically turn to Wikipedia), but that's not as good. Anyway, I don't know what they're doing, but I can tell you this: when a squirrel makes a noise, it QUACKS.

My mother shares my concern, and writes from France:

V. worried about squirrels. Can you not record Monster's [stupid fat cat] miaow and play at 10 times volume? Squirrels, whether imaginary or real should then piss off, unless they have been fed nuts by a moron and have hidden them in your garden.

Day 24: I Consider Methods Of Terminating Middle Lane Hoggers

This is an artist's impression of a middle lane hogger, stolen from the simply wonderful How Motorways Work. I found it by accident after searching for 'middle lane hogger twat' in Google Images.

Anyway, to the point. I'm not a brilliant driver. I get distracted. I talk. I sometimes crunch my gears. I drive brilliantly when I'm alone, obviously. But on motorways, which are big, scary and fast, I concentrate. But mainly I concentrate on how many twats are sitting in the middle lane doing 65mph.

What are these people doing as they drift along in the middle lane without a care in the world? I can tell you what they're doing. They are:

- thinking about their holiday
- wondering when they can pull over to change their wee-bag
- changing their CD
- smoking a fag
- doing their makeup
- eating egg and bacon sandwiches from the service station
- eating hot pies from the shed in the layby
- eating cakes the size of the moon
- drinking whisky
- making calls ON THEIR FUCKING MOBILE TELEPHONE
- being fucking idiots

Now, there are various methods of dealing with people like this:

1. The Swoop Swoop up behind them. Pull back. Swoop. Pull back. Swoop. Flash lights. Person gets message and moves. Not recommended unless you have very big car and are mad, and can't use the fast lane.

2. Flash Merely flash from a distance. Not good. Can cause heart attacks.

3. Be patient Sit behind them at a safe distance, and hope that they get the message from all the other people that are overtaking then slotting in in front of them. Not good, because you can end up looking like a middle lane hogger too.

4. Overtake Highly recommended. Look at them distainfully as you go past. (They won't notice, but you'll feel better.) Then slot in in front of them. THEN move into the left hand lane to prove a point.

The thing that scares me the most is that even if you threw a copy of the Highway Code through their open window as you overtook, and had a flashing LED sign on your roof that said 'get out of the middle lane, fool', they wouldn't notice. They'd still be sitting there, drifting along at 65mph, smoking a pipe filled with Cherry Vanilla tobacco, stroking their beard (that includes the ladies), and listening to Radio 2.

Idiots.

Day 24: I Learn That The Bicycle Thief Has Been Apprehended

Best friend is watering plants in front garden (aye, she's that posh) of house in Dalston whilst rubbing her bruised arse cheek, the result of having been wrestled to the ground by a 13 year old who then made off with her bicycle.

A strange thing happens. 2 policemen go by. On bicycles. They doff their helmets, draw on their pipes and say 'evenin' all' as they pedal past. She thinks to herself: could have done with THEM last night. Then the Teen Tearaway who stole her bicycle goes past. On her bicycle. Not wanting the bicycle thief to know where she lives, she sensibly does not run into the street shouting STOP THAT BICYCLE THIEF. Oh no. Instead, her splendid boyfriend gets into the car, follows the policemen, points them in the direction of the teen terror, and makes off.

The thief is then arrested and the bike taken into custody. However, the bike has been stripped down, and can only be identified by telephoning the British Virgin Islands where the previous owner (and holder of the serial code) lives as a partner in a law firm. A few phone calls later, the bicycle is returned.

She told me this story whilst travelling home on the bus.

Day 23: I Am Perturbed By My Best Friend's Encounter With A Bicycle Thief And An Albino Ferret

Not some surrealist version of a French film, but a true story that happened last night on the way home to Dalston (the posh bit) from Spitalfields. I will let my best friend tell the story:


"On bike, nearly home, approaching bridge outside house. Boy - barely in teens - is standing by bridge vaguely fiddling with knob. I'm going pretty slowly and in 7th gear, look at boy, think "is he having wank?". As I go over the bridge he rushes at me, pushes me off bike and grabs bike.

There's an outraged wrestle and some shouting but he runs off with bike. I get up and shout YOU LITTLE CUNT at him. Go round corner and find 2 blokes talking who are sympathetic, but ultimately useless as they don't know him. One of them is holding an albino ferret throughout the conversation. This is not remarked upon.

I limp home and call police. Have a bruised arse and am quite cross but apart from that OK. Wouldn't happen in Highbury."

Well if she WILL insist on cycling rather than getting taxis everywhere like normal people, what do you expect?