There's many a snoop twixt cock and hoop


I've decided pub quizzes are the new knitting - a dreary fusty old pastime inexplicably revived by sexy young things in all the best places. It's gonna catch on. Really. I've done one two weeks on the trot now and it's utterly satisfying. Not to win overall - we've come 6th or joint 8th or something feeble - but to feel the giddy zing of the individual correct answers. The renewed fondness you feel for your plucky little brain when it squeezes out answers you forgot it had or never knew it knew. Who knew I knew the hydra had nine necks? Not I.

What's all this then?

The Good

Foxen attempting an avant-garde outdoor production of 'Turandot' at night. They're really going for it. Just as the beast sometimes resembles a horse, or a panther, or a bear, the foxen can be reminiscent of crows, or cats, or sexually-frustrated apes. Really you should hear 'em.

Really wonderful albums by Roisin Murphy, Winehouse (it doesn't get old), Adele and yes yes Britney played a blinder the poor LA urchin. (The pathos of her life makes me want to find and punch quite a lot of people, but selfishly I am just glad she managed to lift her head out of the gutter long enough to record 'Get Naked (I Got A Plan)' - but actually really I hope she manages to stick some semblance of a life together. Ain't right.)

Insanely beautiful spring weather - OK, it's cold, but the sun the sun of it is just gobsmacking.

Charlie, Eli and Shreve.

The Masque of the Red Death at Battersea Arts Centre. Went twice. Blundering around a vast building in a mask, happening upon wrong things in semi-darkness, and marvelling at the fact that such a health'n'safety black hole is possible in This Day + Age. I went through a wardrobe and came out in a fireplace, and my inner five-year-old exploded.

The Bad

Office move imminent. Noooo, they be stealin ma view of Senate House! Remember, all change is bad. (We don't know where we're going yet. We have to be out by the end of the month. Haw!)

No but really, why don't they just have us all donate DNA like we donate blood and have done with it? At least we'd get a cup of tea out of it.

There is nothing on television. NOTHING. EVER.

Unfit and listless and helpless in the face of triple chocolate shortbread, chunky and almost burned and fulfilling as something you made in Home Ec class and rescued just in time.

Camden town went on fire. It is going to cost a lot to fix. Much loss of livelihood. Rotten.

The Fugly

(I could make a better delineation here but, pffft.)

A man grabbed my arse in the street a couple of weeks ago. When I politely suggested that this was not decorous behaviour for a 21st-century male, he did it again. When I walked past a couple of incredibly conveniently-placed police officers a minute later, I hesitated, then carried on. Dammit.

I may give up on the idea of trying to buy a flat. Live fast, rent house, leave a beautiful... windowbox. Peh.

There are other things I'm teetering on giving up on, but I'm probably just being a knob. Knob that I am.

Yes, and how do we mark the occasion of someone we sort of probably quite love (a bit) slipping away? We don't. Nor do we have a gothic fit about it although that seems kind of appropriate (hell, and fun). We just go about our business feeling surreal and shruggy and occasionally a little bit teetery.

(I had to perform an unfriending on the Social Utility. It was like having a small online creature put down. Oh, which reminds me... this is sort of beautiful. And I have no idea why.)

I'm going to attempt to follow the example of the remarkably loquacious Louche and blog thrice daily. Ahem. I am telling you now it won't work.

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