Day 134: I Shall Be Out Of London For The Weekend

At last! I can pretend to have the Life I Want, which involves being in the Country, and In Town! To Gloucestershireshire, where the Gloucestershirers live, for a hen party. But not one with chocolate cocks and L-Plates. Oh no. Something far more civilised. Perhaps.

Anyway, the owners of the crusty pile we thought we had hired have emailed to inform me that there is the wireless internet in the house! Not only are things more Plush than I had imagined, but I shall be able to blog in front of the fire with a glass of absinthe to my left, and a small clay pipe to my right.

Bit first to the Dentist, for more Repairs of Old Dentist's Evil Work! (I mean when's the last time YOU swallowed your own tooth?)

Pip pip!

Day 133: I Shall Go To The Wedding (Thanks To Hyacinth)

I don't often dress like a girl. I'm not talking pink and that. I'm talking dresses and sparkly things and high heels and lipstick. I think I've forgotten how to do it, what with lack of opportunity to Dress Up. But it is the most dear of my Dearest Friend's weddings at the end of December and I will be making a speech. And I must Look Nice. (She would be Impossible to Upstage, even if I were wearing a Honeymonster outfit, leading a pig on a string and smoking a pipe. So it is permissible to go Overboard, I think.)

But what to do? I only like olden days things when it comes to frocks. But ladies in the olden days were Smaller, and I am not Small! I am tall, and Not Thin! I cannot purchase a Vintage Frock, as it will not fit. But I have a shape, and a Dear Friend who is a talented dressmaker. A plan hatches. "Got any pictures? Yes? Can you draw what you want? OK, go and find some fabric samples. Yeah, I can make it by the end of December. Did I tell you I'm pregnant again?" (THAT good.)

I wander lonely as a monkey into John Lewis and stare uncomprehendingly at the rolls of material. Suiting, silk dupion, shot taffeta (last worn in 1983), velvet (would be worn all the time if I could, but Awfully Hot). Get a Rash from nylon; too cold for linen and cotton; that wool thing is too hot. But there is a Lady with a John Lewis badge on! She is doing something with a Multicoloured Swap Shop of polyester lining material.

"Hello. Sorry to interrupt." (I am holding three bolts of material, and am Confused.)

"Can I help?"

"My friend is making a dress for me. Sort of 50s. I need something blue, preferably that sort of grey-blue, you know. RAF blue. But I am worried about looking like a Christmas Tree. What do you think?"

She looks at me and at the material. She tells me to put the material down, and looks me up and down.

"My daughter is bigger than you, and your height. I made a dress for her from a pattern and she won a prize."

I dare not ask what the prize was for, but am greatly encouraged.

She tells me to hang on, and appears three minutes later with the pattern you see above. It is perfect. Not the green one at the front; the black one at the back, but with the low neck of the green one, and in an Astonishing Blue. Fewer panels in the skirt, probably, and a bit longer.

She is called Hyacinth! This is astonishingly pleasing. She has gone from frosty to laughing. She is poking my waist, and telling me that this dress is good for my shape, and will not make me look like a Christmas Tree. I proclaim that I am fat; she sucks her teeth, shakes her head and tells me not to be ridiculous. She disappears again and reappears with a shot taffeta of such a beautiful blue I am Confused. She holds it up to my face and tells me it Brings Out My Eyes. This is terrible. I can't wear a taffeta dress! I'm 37! This is a wedding, not a ball!

This winter, I will mostly be wearing blue taffeta. Seven metres of it. In a dress. Unless someone has a Very Good Argument for me not wearing blue taffeta made up into a 1957 original Vogue pattern.

It'll be high heels and lipstick next. Holy shit.

SPLENDID MONKEY GALLERY: Pictures 16 and 17

In view of the fact that no-one seems to have understood the last post apart from me (tip: look at the photograph carefully; I particularly enjoyed the bit about the pineapple tree being swapped for a hat not unlike that of Carmen Miranda), I fear that it is time for some New Entrants in Splendid Monkey Gallery. Today we have two. Brace yourselves!
























Dr Forte sends in this Splendid Monkey, drawn with her own hands. I particularly like it as it is wearing a hat not unlike that of Carmen Miranda. She writes:

I shouldn't have drawn this monkey because I am supposed to be writing exam papers and finishing some illustrations, but this was more fun.

An excellent use of your time if you don't mind me saying, Dr Forte!

I then receive a begrudging note from Tim (careful, he's got music on his blog):

Dear NWM

I thought you might like this.

It's true to say that it's not actually a monkey, but that one picture you put of was of a monkey without a willy and wasn't even that funny, even though you said it was.

So I'm trying my luck with this Otter cum Monkey.

It's quite pretty and also furry in a way not dissimilar to a monkey, and has a rather hilarious 'I'm plotting the demise of humanity'-style expression on its queer little face.

I hope you like it, but I shan't hold my breath.



That's not a monkey! Still, it's in, just because things have taken a slightly surreal turn of late, and I feel like it. By the way, what's the difference between an otter and a beaver? Is it something to do with tails and dams? (I Genuinely Do Not Know, by the way!)

It only remains for me to say: Congratulations, Dr Forte and Tim!

Day 132: I Wonder If You Can Exchange A Mitten For A Banana

It is early morning in one of the Corporation of London's many outposts. A MAN enters the London Fruit Exchange, holding a mitten, and approaches ANOTHER MAN, dressed in the livery of the London Fruit Exchange.

I have a mitten. Will you swap it for a plum?

Good morning, Sir. A mitten, for a plum?

Yes. It says "London Fruit Exchange and London Wool Exchange" outside. I have three mittens (one spare), and fancy a plum.

No can do, Sir.

But I do not understand!

Are you Foreign, Sir?

Only slightly. I am aware of most of English, but not of its finer points, perhaps. My mother was a Frenchy.

So I can see, Sir. Let me explain. If you offered me an apricot, I could give you a plum. A banana would be two plums. But woolen items for fruit? No.

But it says "London Fruit Exchange and London Wool Exchange" outside the door!

That I can see, Sir, but we are two separate entities, housed within one particularly fine building. Cross-pollination, as it were, is not allowed.

I see. So you are saying a sock for a mitten?

That I couldn't say, Sir. You would have to ask next door.

Thank you. Goodbye.

Goodbye, Sir.

Dried apricot?

Ten raisins, Sir. Big ones.


Time passes. The distant fizzing of fermenting fruit is heard. A sheep baas in a deserted corridor. Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest builds and disperses clouds about the sky. A distant gunshot is heard. The MAN goes through another door and approaches ANOTHER MAN in the livery of the London Wool Exchange.

I have a spare mitten.

Bully for you, Sir! How can we help?

I am lacking a sock. Will you swap a mitten for a sock?

What is your mitten made of?

80% acrylic, 20% Lambswool.

Where is the Lamb from?

Wales, I assume.

Assume nothing, Sir. Not all lambs come from Wales, whatever popular myth would suggest.

I see.

So what we're looking for is a sock that is 80% acrylic and 20% Lambswool. Would you mind waiting for a moment?

ANOTHER MAN disappears through a curtain like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn. Time passes. A dog barks. A pineapple tree moves past the window and is exchanged in the street for a hat not unlike that of Carmen Miranda, made entirely from Tropical Fruits. ANOTHER MAN returns.

I'm not sure I can help, Sir. I've got a 70/30 acrylic/Shetland mix, but that's not quite the same, you see.

Hang on. I've got this. It's a bowl of knitted fruit.

Are you having a laugh, Sir?

2-ply Cashmere ribbed scarf from Brora?

Twelve round-necks from Tesco, Sir.

Day 131: I Am Busy

For the first time in 18 weeks, I slightly Under The Kosh! Today, therefore, sees the introduction of a new type of posting, that shall henceforth be named Speed-O-Blog. Ready, steady ...

Monkeymother Is Not Dead

I have passed on your various kind good wishes to MM and Eric after their near-death experience. They are both well and are dry, if not a little battered and bruised. I do not exaggerate when I say that the communication of these various kind wishes to MM via mobile telephonic device was cheering to her.

Cheese

Today I bought A LOT of cheese from this man. He was very nice and likes cheese very much. You must buy cheese from him too. He is in Neal's Yard Dairy at 17 Shorts Gardens, in Covent Garden. There is also a splendid branch in Borough Market. And they sell North Staffordshire Oatcakes too. Heavens!

(They do not sell fucking Oatibix, but they do sell Poilâne bread which is a sensation, even if it does cost £5 for 4 slices. And the site's worth a gander in English due to the Astonishingly Poor Quality of the translation.)

Jobs and that

For the first time in many years, I have found a job that I would very much like to do, which is quite astonishing and not a little confusing.

In addition, for the first time in many weeks, I have not one but two offers of Writing For Money, one of which requires great speed, accuracy, some numbers and the avoidance of Marketing Jargonese. Gasp!


I am Greatly Amused

A Dear Friend tells me of her mother's attempts to arrange a marriage for her via the internet, despite the fact that at 34, she is perfectly able to choose her own "partner". Her mother has written her profile and describes her as "plump, a little stubborn, and smokes". ("Well, it is better to be honest!")

I am reminded of a previous post.

I Wrestle With Sitemeter (only interesting to those with the web-log, and even then not that interesting)

Site Meter has decided I don't exist, and decided this fact some time last week. I am now using Activemeter, which has a number of terrifyingly detailed stats that I do not understand, but still registers in a vague sort of way the unfortunate information "NUMBER OF SITE VISITS: 2". It can also tell me the location and IP addresses of my visitors, how they found the site and other such nonsense. But all of these things seem superfluous and Strange, and I have no need for them. I have a particular lack of need for the "ROI on marketing investment" bit, as I do not, and never will, carry advertising. So there. (Unless they give me a lot of money and the ads are really fucking good.)

But it seems to be Better than Site Meter, and is certainly much prettier. It also acknowledges that I exist, unlike ...

BT Broadband Hub

... who told me (from India, after an hour) that I do not exist. I face existential crisis after existential crisis. Site Meter, Royal Bank of Scotland Mortgage Centre and now BT! British Gas at least know I exist, for they came round three times last week to read my meter.

I am as yet unclear about the benefits of Wireless Internet in one's own tiny Brixton apartment, as it is unlikely that I will want to send electronic mail from the cellar, although it works down there. I have checked. It is however useful for Guests who are Staying with their Computers, I suppose, as I find it useful when I Travel with my computer and need to check that I Exist.


Adwatch

Marks and Spencer. You should be ashamed of yourselves, with your Bond/Superman crossover Christmas extravaganza. It is rubbish, over-produced, has no idea in it, and does not bear repeat viewing as it is charmless, badly acted, poorly executed, and irritating. I will not link to it, as it exhausts me and I can't bear to see it again.

Productwatch

Sweet Jesus! The fun to be had with Yahoo! Answers. It works like this. You have a question. You type it in. Then people from all over the world answer.

I Am Going On Holiday

Not one, but two! This weekend to the Country, involving cheese, horses, a distinct lack of inflatable cocks, Special Lasagne (tip: cook the mince in milk; include chicken livers), and my best friend's wedding.

Next Friday, to Canada. The latter involves long-distance travel, something that I have not undertaken since 2004. More accurately, I have not flown in the Economy Class since 1988, when I went to New York on Air India. (NB: this is not a Flash Statement; I used to travel for work and have only ever been on holiday in the Europe since. Sad, but true.) I am Enormously Excited about both.

My New Favourite Site

This is astonishing.

Cockwatch

I was skipping down Brixton Hill today and cast my eyes cautiously to the left. And what did I see? The Classical Statue has had his Modesty covered by a straw hat!