This gory pic is the result of one of the more unorthodox dates I've had in recent months, involving the butchering, cooking and eating of hare. I now feel entirely justified in this questionable choice of food, having read two articles in the Bangkok Times on the same day last week:
'A possibly rabid hare attacked a 74 year old woman and her 78 year old husband today. The crazed animal launched itself at the woman while she was hanging her laundry in the garden. The victim fled to the house while her husband tried to scare off the attacking hare. Police officers saw the man "battling the hare" when they arrived at the scene. The animal was shot dead when it tried to attack one of the policemen.'
'A major highway was closed yesterday after a truck carrying rabbits crashed, letting 5000 of the animals loose on the road. A police spokeswoman said "there were thousands of them on the road but they're not using their newfound freedom well: they're just sitting around, eating grass and enjoying the sun".' Sounds alright to me.
Reminds me of the killer bunny sketch in Monty Python that made me laugh for years on end...
Today I spent the best part of my afternoon delivering Labour Party leaflets and 2007 calendars (yes, I know it's April but apparently that's local politics for you). I have to confess that I had a minor existential crisis as I wondered whether those people with the 'no junk mail' signs on their doors would consider my little offering junk or not. The truth is, I had a sneaking suspicion it was.
I'm really confused about this... after all, I ridiculed the Tories at their last party conference (all cigars and champagne and no policy), I laugh (quietly, I don't want to lose my job after all) at the old Whig-type Conservatives that run the council I work for part-time. And yet my recent foray into local Labour politics made me realise that the left isn't much better these days. It's equally full of socially awkward people, it's equally focused on who's hot and who's not rather than what actually matters, and it's equally tedious to *anyone* whose identity isn't defined by 'being in politics'.
In this, I concur fully with The Amazing Mrs Pritchard (was I the only one who loved that programme?) and her Purple Alliance - an average woman who declared 'I could do a lot better than that lot' - and proceeded to knock the politicking, posturing and pretence out of politics. Shame it was a BBC drama rather than real life. I'm just so frustrated by how disconnected political parties now seem to our everyday experiences - whatever clever David Miliband has to say about the need for more people power - and my leaflet session today made me wonder whether party politics has had its day. But if that's my conclusion then I'm really scared: without politics, what are we left with? Who and how would we make really difficult decisions about the things that affect us all?
This plays out at a personal level as well: do I bother to stay involved, tolerating loser local political hacks, wasting precious Thursday evenings sitting around in community halls? Why is it that everyone finds it funny that I'm even vaguely involved? Why aren't any of the people I really admire and respect playing a more active role as politicians and councillors themselves? Should I take a stand and invest precious time and energy in convincing my friends that we have a responsibility to get involved? Or should I spend more time moaning about the death of politics and trying to bring about change in different, frankly more enjoyable ways?
As part of the occasional series of whinges about the costs of being a woman, I'd like to talk about hair. I consider myself to be pretty low maintenance and yet to my horror/surprise, I've worked out that on average I spend about £40 a month removing, cutting, and dying my hair (and I don't even cover up my increasingly grey streak!). This seems like crazy money but I'd wager that most women are in the same position as me. Or at least, most dark-haired women are...
From posh haircuts to avoid the misery of a crappy hairstyle, to shaving armpits, to bleaching arms, to epilating and waxing legs and bikinis, it feels like a never ending cycle of maintenance that is a basic part of being a woman these days. No one ever discusses it, or comments, unless you don't do it (see the views on Darwin Dating noted in a previous post)
Waxing is arguably the least pleasant way of blowing cash ever. Worst of all, I've discovered that I get peculiarly ticklish as the poor waxer tries to do her job. Don't know if it is stress, or embarrassment, or what, but I seriously hope that I'm not the only one who giggles uncontrollably as I get my stupid, persistently re-growing hairs ripped out.
Worst experience ever happened last week, in thailand, as I simultaneously opted for a bikini wax and an eyelash tint. Hot tip: don't try this one at home kids.
OK, so I had vaguely planned (see previous entry) to blog stuff as I travelled around Thailand but it turned out that our quest to find remote places (Ko Lanta and Ko Tao rocked) was successful - which meant no email connections able to cope with the concept of loading up content. So, in no particular order, cool stuff about my holiday:
- Lying on the sand, looking up to the sky and realising we were in the southern hemisphere from the stars being the wrong way up (geography was never my strong point)
- Getting a tattoo from a seriously hot thai guy called Tong
- Chatuchak market
- Having one of the best meals of my life in a car park
- Learning to ride a motorbike on dirt tracks (not entirely successful, it's true, but we can edit the minor accident out)
- Sleeping with the aid of valium
- Living without a mirror for the best part of two weeks
- Cheap facials, manicures, massages from super cool women
Best of all was going on holiday with a girlfriend, especially the moment we woke up after a particularly hot, sweaty and mosquito filled night looking like total crap and realising that it really, really didn't matter. Have come back feeling healthy, sorted and ready to take on the world. Watch this space...
Oh my god. I am in Thailand and yesterday we spent the most incredible 7 hours (yes, 7 hours) in Chatuchak market. Here must be the place that all the buyers for TopShop, River Island, Miss Selfridge and just about every other shop I love come for their stuff. I saw everything I was wearing for sale at various stalls. The only difference? The leggings I was wearing (TopShop, 15 quid) were being sold at just over a pound. AND - praise the lord, shirts fit me here! That's a whole new fashion vista that has just opened up for me...Clearly we're not just here to shop but yesterday was a fascinating day - at the other end of the scale (we visited just to compare and contrast, you understand) the posh shopping mall in Bangkok's Mayfair equivalent was selling dresses (not as nice as the party dresses we both bought in the market) for 300 quid. There must be some kind of dual economy going on.And then in the evening we took ourselves to a cool place (according to Time Out anyway) called Bed Supper Club, a VJ bar that appeared to cater for lots of sex tourists. )incidentallz, who are these guys, i feel another blog coming on when I have more credit in the internet cafe...). The point is, I love it here. It is brilliant. Cant wait fo the next two weeks!
My mum sent me a doom-filled article the other day about how educated women will find it harder and harder to find a man as they overtake men in education and earning stakes. As the article says, we will have to 'downgrade our expectations of Mr Right, or face a life alone'. A part of me really agreed with the argument - you only have to look at sites like My Single Friend (can anyone explain to me why Sarah Beeny runs it??), to see that the women are about ten times more interesting than the best guy on the site. Maybe we're just getting too picky these days.
But part of me also wondered where this argument takes us. The article assumes that all women want is a man that earns more than them. Which isn't far off something my trader friend told me about last night - natural selection speed dating - where 'deep cleavage meets deep pockets'. Here, the argument is simple: women want rich men, and men want women with big boobs. So boys, don't even apply if you're not earning over $1m. And women, just your photos thanks, no need to know about your hobbies dear. Apparently it's all the rage in the city, and everyone is waiting for the concept to migrate from NYC to here. Wow. All that feminism was really worth it, right?
If you like that, you'll love this: Darwin Dating - again, a nice and simple concept (we wouldn't want to confuse all those men now would we) - if you're ugly, fuck off. They don't want to see you if you have 'weird pubic hair', a mullet, disproportionately large ears, fat rolls. On the plus side, fishnets 'are ok so long as you're hot'. Something tells me this was set up by a guy, non? I'm almost tempted to join to see what no hopers are out there. Except, damn, I appear to have 'hair in the wrong places'. Ah well, another day, another dating agency...
Today I came across an artist whose chosen muse is women's lists. Clearly they are the latest artform - I'm inclined to agree as I love lists, really I do. My first memory of them was less positive - a dear friend boasting of her list of over 100 'boyfriends', including BA from the A-team. We were 8 at the time and I recall we disagreed profoundly over her definition of boyfriend... some things never change... However I just can't get enough of them these days (lists, not boys). I have lists for everything. Music to buy (currently pending: Kubicheck!, Maximo Park, the latest Air album - always useful - a slightly random selection I know but I've been doing quite well at keeping up recently). Things to see - films, theatre, exhibitions. I've really failed this month - still to do (and I'm going on holiday in two days) include the Gilbert and George exhibition, Climates, the fashion exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, After the Wedding, Hogarth - argh I am so annoyed that I haven't managed any of these.
More mundanely I have lists for stuff I need to get for my house like a decent lampshade, curtains that are actually the right length, more coathangers. Boring things I need to do like filing (why does that one never get crossed off??), cleaning my windows, paying in cheques, going through my post - the pile has almost reached the unacceptable 3 month stage. Somehow I think that if it's really urgent, they'll call...
What I like best about my latest system is that instead of all these lists being on poxy scraps of paper I just use one moleskine notebook (conforming to my demographic, moi?) and now it's like a little patchwork of my life for the last 18 months - all there in one glorious jumble of things to do - things that I've done with a satisfied tick through them, although there are also a rather distressing number of things that have yet to be crossed off. Lists of music I ripped out of a magazine whilst in Copenhagen are right next to emails I need to send; a list of pros for a particular boy is next to a shopping list for new years eve. Who needs all this prose when a list will do? Forget blogging, it's all about the lists.
I have a knack of making friends with my exes with the exception of one guy (don't think I'm giving too much away if I admit he's the excel spreadsheet one from an earlier post). Generally speaking I think this is A Good Thing: it would feel weird to not stay connected in some way with someone who you've shared a lot with.
But the other day this strategy was somewhat undermined when I discovered that two not-so-ancient exes had found themselves in a meeting together. God, how I would have loved to be a fly on the wall in that particular meeting room! But equally, how I cringe to imagine what was going on in their heads as they pondered the various titbits of inappropriate knowledge they had of each other...
A lesson perhaps in learning to keep my mouth shut. Either that, or an indication that I need to widen my search criteria and stop going out with men who end up in the same world as one another.
Either way, I smell trouble again at aforementioned Glastonbury. So far I know of three former/semi-current beloveds who plan to be there too. Well if nothing else it will add a certain frisson to the proceedings...
I've got a ticket for Glastonbury! Although my ear is still ringing from hearing the engaged tone solidly from 9 to 11.30 this morning, it was thanks to others efforts that I am now (and I cringe to confess this) going to a festival for the first time in my life.
(well, unless Port Eliot litfest counts, which I'm not sure it does - fantastic and wonderful as it was, it involved better showers than I have in my flat, and at least half the people there had kids of the cute middle-class kind.)
I've just never quite got round to it before, not really sure why. I do remember having a row with my mum when I was 15 and miserable about not being allowed to go to Reading 'in case I got crushed' (??). And I guess I spent quite a lot of my twenties (a) with people who thought camping/music stuff was notso hotso and (b) making paltry excuses based on having too much work. Whatever! This year is different. Give me mud and booze and music, I'm ready (just don't ask me to share my tent)...
This gory pic is the result of one of the more unorthodox dates I've had in recent months, involving the butchering, cooking and eating of hare. I now feel entirely justified in this questionable choice of food, having read two articles in the Bangkok Times on the same day last week:
