Dear Friends,
At this time of year I like to include a “round robin” letter in our Christmas cards. I find it a good way to boast to friends and acquaintances that I don’t deem important enough to talk to the rest of the year.
It’s been a mixed year for the family. Geoff’s dad has become slightly frail so rather than take any risks we are looking in to transferring all his savings directly to us. He’s well in himself though, although he does feel his cold. To help him with this we have his heating allowance paid directly to us as he does spend every other Sunday with us.
Lynne and Tony are well. Tony has changed jobs and seems to relish his new role as P.E. specialist at an all girls college. Lynne is still very active in am dram and recently undertook the gruelling role of Mimi le Bonk in the Great Munsdon production of “Allo Allo” the musical. They are looking in to adoption. It was hoped that Louise would grow out of the “terrible twos” but she’s still very trying so they hope she’ll fare better with another family.
Will and Fifi are doing very well. Will’s recently floated his company and Fifi is terribly busy redecorating their dining room. Their three children; Horatia, Domenica and Florentina are excelling at school and Florentina is thinking of a part time job in pizza express.
Annabelle is still single and childless.
Pippy, our youngest, has just finished his gap year. He travelled to Thailand where he found a very good job in transportation. He was in the supply end of the chain. He was unclear on the details but I think it involved animals. He certainly mentioned mules. He really is terribly enterprising. Apparently he has earned enough in his gap year to fund him through all three years of university and the people in Thailand are willing to keep his job open for him and are happy for him to work his summers there.
Geoff and I trundle on. We will have been together 30 years this year. To celebrate we are going to have a holiday. Geoff is going to France and I am going to Spain with the girls. Geoff is still very in to his wood work. He has turned the shed in to a workshop and spends many happy hours out there bashing away. Sometimes Sue from next door pops round to give him a hand and they merrily spend the afternoon together.
I do find these letters are an excellent way to keep in touch with people. I find them a great leveller. Everyone from the woman who was my bridesmaid to the people we met on a coach trip to Hastings gets the same – it’s an excellent way of maintaining friendships. However, although addressed to “friends” I shall personalise yours slightly by scrawling in biro at the bottom that we must meet up in the New Year.
Best Wishes
Sandra and Geoff.
About Me
- Angel of Harlow
- Book out now on amazon! Buy, read, enjoy, tell your friends, buy a spare copy.
Friday, 14 December 2007
Monday, 3 December 2007
Banks
I am at war with my bank. Here follows a week in emails:
Wednesday
“Quite a few times of late I have tried to purchase good s over the internet. Always from secure sites, however every single time my card is rejected as my bank has refused the transaction. Whilst I appreciate the extra security, this is beginning to drive me mad and is incredibly frustrating. It has also introduced the element of danger in to all shopping. "Oooh I've just filled my car up and I know I have money in my account but will my bank refuse the transaction for reasons best know to itself". I can't say I am looking forward to Christmas shopping this weekend knowing that every single transaction could be refused. Or as in July this year you could just cancel my card and not tell me for 3 days. I have banked with you for 14 years and have been generally happy until this year. I am now considering changing banks which I am reluctant to do but the lack of customer service (and lack of access to my own money) may leave me no choice.”
Thursday
“Just to keep you updated this has happened again. When I tried to use my switch card for my lunch. For £5-20. Which was not only intensely annoying but also highly embarrassing. This is getting ridiculous. Would you like me to ring you everytime I am going to use my card so you can tell me whether it's going to work or not? I would quite like to buy petrol at around 6pm tonight. It should cost £30, I only have £475 in my current account. Is this OK? Please try and let me know. It'll save you the bother of cancelling it and issuing me with another switch card (which you'll cancel) and save me having to do a runner from the petrol station when I am not allowed to access my own money.”
Friday
“As I still haven’t heard from you I think it’s best to tell you that I don’t intend to spend any money today. I’ve bought my lunch from home (it was bought from Sainsbury’s at the weekend – I can provide you with a receipt if needs be) and tonight I have friends coming round. Therefore if any money is removed from my account today then please block my card immediately, that is if it’s actually working at the moment.
Saturday
“Out for lunch today and then out again in the evening! What a busy life. I would invite you but I don’t think you’d be able to get the money together for the flight – unless of course you would like to use the money from my account. It seems a shame that it’s just sitting there when someone could be using it – even if it’s not me.
Sunday
My aunt went to market and she bought an apple, a banana, a cup, a dog, an elephant, a fire engine, a goat, a herbaceous border, an igloo, a jumper, a kite, a llama, a marigold glove (singular), a nectarine, an orangutang, a purse, a quirkafleet (which we must perform), a rusk, a semaphore kit, a tea set, some umbongo, a vivisection kit, a weeble, a xylophone, a yoghurt and a zulu.
All on my switch card! Please block it immediately.
Monday
Dear ,
Thank you for your correspondence. We understand that having your card blocked and cancelled is frustrating and can cause problems for you. However we are acting in your best interests and are stopping your money falling in to the wrong hands. Please be assured that we are looking in to this situation and will hopefully be able to find a solution to it soon.
In the meantime, it is an excellent idea to keep track of what you have spent so that it can be compared to your statements. However, it is unnecessary to keep up abreast of these transactions.
Please do not hesitate to contact us if we can be of any further help.
Yours Sincerely.
Wednesday
“Quite a few times of late I have tried to purchase good s over the internet. Always from secure sites, however every single time my card is rejected as my bank has refused the transaction. Whilst I appreciate the extra security, this is beginning to drive me mad and is incredibly frustrating. It has also introduced the element of danger in to all shopping. "Oooh I've just filled my car up and I know I have money in my account but will my bank refuse the transaction for reasons best know to itself". I can't say I am looking forward to Christmas shopping this weekend knowing that every single transaction could be refused. Or as in July this year you could just cancel my card and not tell me for 3 days. I have banked with you for 14 years and have been generally happy until this year. I am now considering changing banks which I am reluctant to do but the lack of customer service (and lack of access to my own money) may leave me no choice.”
Thursday
“Just to keep you updated this has happened again. When I tried to use my switch card for my lunch. For £5-20. Which was not only intensely annoying but also highly embarrassing. This is getting ridiculous. Would you like me to ring you everytime I am going to use my card so you can tell me whether it's going to work or not? I would quite like to buy petrol at around 6pm tonight. It should cost £30, I only have £475 in my current account. Is this OK? Please try and let me know. It'll save you the bother of cancelling it and issuing me with another switch card (which you'll cancel) and save me having to do a runner from the petrol station when I am not allowed to access my own money.”
Friday
“As I still haven’t heard from you I think it’s best to tell you that I don’t intend to spend any money today. I’ve bought my lunch from home (it was bought from Sainsbury’s at the weekend – I can provide you with a receipt if needs be) and tonight I have friends coming round. Therefore if any money is removed from my account today then please block my card immediately, that is if it’s actually working at the moment.
Saturday
“Out for lunch today and then out again in the evening! What a busy life. I would invite you but I don’t think you’d be able to get the money together for the flight – unless of course you would like to use the money from my account. It seems a shame that it’s just sitting there when someone could be using it – even if it’s not me.
Sunday
My aunt went to market and she bought an apple, a banana, a cup, a dog, an elephant, a fire engine, a goat, a herbaceous border, an igloo, a jumper, a kite, a llama, a marigold glove (singular), a nectarine, an orangutang, a purse, a quirkafleet (which we must perform), a rusk, a semaphore kit, a tea set, some umbongo, a vivisection kit, a weeble, a xylophone, a yoghurt and a zulu.
All on my switch card! Please block it immediately.
Monday
Dear ,
Thank you for your correspondence. We understand that having your card blocked and cancelled is frustrating and can cause problems for you. However we are acting in your best interests and are stopping your money falling in to the wrong hands. Please be assured that we are looking in to this situation and will hopefully be able to find a solution to it soon.
In the meantime, it is an excellent idea to keep track of what you have spent so that it can be compared to your statements. However, it is unnecessary to keep up abreast of these transactions.
Please do not hesitate to contact us if we can be of any further help.
Yours Sincerely.
Trains
Of all the things I heartily dislike about myself (and there are many) by propensity to buy rail tickets for insane times just because they are cheap is one of the things I dislike the most. Actually I blame GNER for ridiculous pricing but they’ve had enough abusive letters off me over the years and all they ever say in return is “two singles may be cheaper than a return ticket”, which is pretty much telling me to sell one kidney instead of two to be able to afford to get past Milton Keynes. Anyway; at 7am last Saturday morning I was on a train bound to Edinburgh, going out the night before wasn’t a good plan and it meant I was in absolutely no mood at all for the collection of morons and biffers I found myself forced to sit with. People who think they are funny and talk loudly, people who bought their dog on and expected other people to enjoy that (the dog was called Mitzy and apparently didn’t need a lead as the stupid owner could just bellow at it – all the time), over-priced food and drink and a toilet that smelt like it had been used by a terribly unwell egg. And the best thing about it was that in just over 24 hours time I’d be back on it heading home.
Yes, I had a weekend away. I went to Edinburgh. It was extraordinarily pleasant. It was a sort of reunion. There were 8 of us who were terribly good friends at university (we had other friends as well) and so decided to meet up. We scattered slightly after university: Australia, Japan, Dafur, Malawi, Finland, Nottingham. So this was the first chance we’d had to all meet up again, so the 8 of us returned to Edinburgh. Well 9 of us really as I’ve pretty much doubled in size. But it was lovely. We abandoned all attempts to catch up on each others lives (I realised on the train back that I’d never actually asked about a mate’s kids – which is not very friendly but kind of a relief as I’m not actually very interested) and instead drank a lot and pretended we were 21 again. Which we blatantly are not. At university we drank a lot and we didn’t really care where we did it, this became clear when we were talking about a club we used to go to and I recalled it as a sort of garden shed/air raid shelter, turns out it actually had 3 floors but I had never been there sober. This time around we rejected any pub which didn’t have enough seating for all of us.
Some things never change though. I instantly disliked being the tallest girl. Although not exactly tall I am 5’7 in flats which is fine but in heels I look borderline transsexual. This would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that the other 3 girls I met up with are all 5’2 and under. Meaning I look like some sort of giant freak especially in photos where I look like I am eyeing up lunch. Or like some kind of supervisory lollipop lady. Would have helped if I wasn’t wearing a fluro jacket and carrying a giant stick.
But it was lovely. It was nice meeting up with people who have known you for ages and knew you when the height of your ambition was getting the money that had fallen down the back of the sofa so that you could afford to eat that night or who knew you when you slept through a fire alarm and had to be woken up by the terrifying night porter (called Tam, had 3 teeth and an impenetrable highlands accent – not the kind of man you dream of slipping in to your room at night). It was also nice to reminisce about those we left behind. Jacquiline who ate only cheese and used to grate it by rubbing it sideways against the grater (“you might get there a bit quicker if you pushed it up and down there Jacquiline”). Dave – the boy that never washed, you knew when he was coming your way as you could smell him. Ah the joys of communal living. Nice at the time but not something I am anxious to return to. Which is how I felt at returning to the train. The journey back was better, no dogs, no comedians, just an old woman who fed me polos. I still hated it though. I felt obliged to.
Yes, I had a weekend away. I went to Edinburgh. It was extraordinarily pleasant. It was a sort of reunion. There were 8 of us who were terribly good friends at university (we had other friends as well) and so decided to meet up. We scattered slightly after university: Australia, Japan, Dafur, Malawi, Finland, Nottingham. So this was the first chance we’d had to all meet up again, so the 8 of us returned to Edinburgh. Well 9 of us really as I’ve pretty much doubled in size. But it was lovely. We abandoned all attempts to catch up on each others lives (I realised on the train back that I’d never actually asked about a mate’s kids – which is not very friendly but kind of a relief as I’m not actually very interested) and instead drank a lot and pretended we were 21 again. Which we blatantly are not. At university we drank a lot and we didn’t really care where we did it, this became clear when we were talking about a club we used to go to and I recalled it as a sort of garden shed/air raid shelter, turns out it actually had 3 floors but I had never been there sober. This time around we rejected any pub which didn’t have enough seating for all of us.
Some things never change though. I instantly disliked being the tallest girl. Although not exactly tall I am 5’7 in flats which is fine but in heels I look borderline transsexual. This would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that the other 3 girls I met up with are all 5’2 and under. Meaning I look like some sort of giant freak especially in photos where I look like I am eyeing up lunch. Or like some kind of supervisory lollipop lady. Would have helped if I wasn’t wearing a fluro jacket and carrying a giant stick.
But it was lovely. It was nice meeting up with people who have known you for ages and knew you when the height of your ambition was getting the money that had fallen down the back of the sofa so that you could afford to eat that night or who knew you when you slept through a fire alarm and had to be woken up by the terrifying night porter (called Tam, had 3 teeth and an impenetrable highlands accent – not the kind of man you dream of slipping in to your room at night). It was also nice to reminisce about those we left behind. Jacquiline who ate only cheese and used to grate it by rubbing it sideways against the grater (“you might get there a bit quicker if you pushed it up and down there Jacquiline”). Dave – the boy that never washed, you knew when he was coming your way as you could smell him. Ah the joys of communal living. Nice at the time but not something I am anxious to return to. Which is how I felt at returning to the train. The journey back was better, no dogs, no comedians, just an old woman who fed me polos. I still hated it though. I felt obliged to.
Monday, 26 November 2007
Shopping
I went Christmas shopping last night. Thought I'd knock a few off the list in this months pay packet. Some people have some very strange gifts as I was anxious to make use of the 3 for 2's in Marks and Spencers. However I couldn't buy three things that I actually wanted: an advent candle (now I've disconnected my smoke alarms it's fires a go go), an advent calendar with some form of link to Christianity (although obviously still filled with chocolate, nothing says Peace on earth like breaking open a wise man's face to get to some second rate chocolate) and some Christmas cards that were vaguely religious but not vile. So many Christmas cards that sell themselves as portraying "the real meaning of Christmas" are horrific and you would never give them to people for fear of them being physically sick on you at the sight of such hideousness. All I'm looking for is something Christian yet enjoyable. Jesus in a santa hat maybe, Mary pulling a cracker with Herod or something.
Occasionally I think I would like to be a Nun. A proper one in black and white, not a plain clothed one in a grey cardy. It looks like a very peaceful way of life and would mean I actually had a valid reason for being constantly single. Of course it would be difficult as I am not a Catholic. I was raised a Methodist, so perhaps I could be a nun that sings stirring Weslian songs, and I now go to a Church of England church – for the main reason that it's next door to my house – I am praising the Lord by reducing my carbon footprint.
Of course the kind of nun I would like to be would be one that sings a lot and eventually marries Christopher Plummer. I wouldn't bother with the children, especially not the two rather disturbing boys. But I am willing to learn traditional Austrian folk dances and if needs be even sing Eildleweiss. I do think it would be rather nice to live life in a musical, bursting in to song whenever it takes your fancy. And if I wore a nuns habit I wouldn't have to do my hair and all that running around mountains would kick start the keep fit routine so I am ready for Christopher Plummer. I would draw the line at having nuns at my wedding to Christopher though. I have enough self confidence issues without a load of them standing there singing "How do you solve a Problem like Laura" at me whilst I trot down the ailse. Vicious old cows.
But I can't really be bothered to create my own protestant order of nuns. Although I have the hair (and let's face it the beard) I am no Henry VIII and simple don't have the time to action a schism with Rome, or in this case London? Or Canterbury? It would also involve a minor act of treason as I turn against the Queen and being beheaded would set back my plans considerably – although I would become the first martyr of Lauranism. What I need is a good second who is prepared to be slaughtered for the cause and then I can step in and establish my order. I shall get busy designing the uniform.
Occasionally I think I would like to be a Nun. A proper one in black and white, not a plain clothed one in a grey cardy. It looks like a very peaceful way of life and would mean I actually had a valid reason for being constantly single. Of course it would be difficult as I am not a Catholic. I was raised a Methodist, so perhaps I could be a nun that sings stirring Weslian songs, and I now go to a Church of England church – for the main reason that it's next door to my house – I am praising the Lord by reducing my carbon footprint.
Of course the kind of nun I would like to be would be one that sings a lot and eventually marries Christopher Plummer. I wouldn't bother with the children, especially not the two rather disturbing boys. But I am willing to learn traditional Austrian folk dances and if needs be even sing Eildleweiss. I do think it would be rather nice to live life in a musical, bursting in to song whenever it takes your fancy. And if I wore a nuns habit I wouldn't have to do my hair and all that running around mountains would kick start the keep fit routine so I am ready for Christopher Plummer. I would draw the line at having nuns at my wedding to Christopher though. I have enough self confidence issues without a load of them standing there singing "How do you solve a Problem like Laura" at me whilst I trot down the ailse. Vicious old cows.
But I can't really be bothered to create my own protestant order of nuns. Although I have the hair (and let's face it the beard) I am no Henry VIII and simple don't have the time to action a schism with Rome, or in this case London? Or Canterbury? It would also involve a minor act of treason as I turn against the Queen and being beheaded would set back my plans considerably – although I would become the first martyr of Lauranism. What I need is a good second who is prepared to be slaughtered for the cause and then I can step in and establish my order. I shall get busy designing the uniform.
Wednesday, 7 November 2007
Fireworks
I went to many fireworks displays over the weekend. Including one terrifying one put on by my dad in my brother's garden. Which resulted in 4 very scared children. Luckily the adults among us had learnt from our childhood so had elected to stay indoors, lest there be a repeat of dad dropping a lit match in to the box of fireworks or not properly nailing the Catherine wheel to the fence. Both spectacular displays but I missed them whilst I was running for my life. The organised one I went to, however, was excellent. Made all the more enjoyable by not having to worry about someone popping back to check the lit firework.
I felt I had dressed appropriately for the display. Jeans, jumper, coat, hat but on the way out I saw someone in high heeled boots, mini skirt and a boob tube. Was I fearfully underdressed or was she a slapper? I made this comment to my brother and rather than the amusing bitchy conversation I had anticipated got told that I couldn't comment as I used to go to the Supermarket in my pyjamas. This sadly is true, but in my defence my pyjamas were men's pyjama trousers and a black t-shirt. It's not like I was leaping around in a skimpy negligee giving people heart attacks by the nectarines. Also it was the strangest supermarket in the world.
Many years have passed and it's 12,000 miles away so I have no problems in outing this supermarket as being Woolworths in Neutral Bay, Sydney. It was there that I saw 2 men, dressed only in towels, doing their weekly shop. It was also the local supermarket for a woman who used to do everything on roller blades, you'd see her in the city desperately clinging on to lamp-posts or trying to keep her balance as her legs got a way from her. It was a bit like watching that episode of Some Mother's Do 'Ave 'Em. What was really strange was that she was dressed like Lara Croft. A skimpy pair of cycling shorts, a crop top, knee and elbow pads and her hair all tied up, pitching head first in to freezers as she attempted to do her shopping on wheels.
I was forced to shop there however. Not only because it was opposite my house and very convenient but because I was either in self imposed exile from other shops on that road or I was physically banned from other shops on that road. A major stumble in the other main supermarket meant that workers there waved at me when I went in and I could live without that. Plus their food was so manky it had normally rotted by the time you got it home. And I'm not allowed in Blockbuster anymore ever since I ACCIDENTALLY told the woman in there to er f*** off. Actually I was quite polite about it. My exact words were "F*** you lady." Either way, I felt it best not to return to that particular video rental store. I'm not sure why I chose to develop tourettes at that particular moment (although she was being really annoying) but I felt it wise never to return.
Which sadly meant that my flatmate Steve was in charge of getting videos out. His favourite type of film seemed to involve animals in combat. I watched "Brotherhood of the Wolf" and "Dog Soldiers". Well I say watch, I actually made rude comments and read a book. On one occasion he came in and said "I've got us a film. Badger Paratroopers (or something similar). Now I know what you're thinking…. It's in French. But don't worry it's got subtitles". Believe me of all the things I was thinking it wasn't that.
However, it is now Wednesday and Fireworks are still going on. And they seem to start about 3-30. Why is this? Surely the point is that it is dark. Or perhaps there's some hip new style I don't know about. Perhaps its badgers attempting to get revenge for their Oscar snub.
I felt I had dressed appropriately for the display. Jeans, jumper, coat, hat but on the way out I saw someone in high heeled boots, mini skirt and a boob tube. Was I fearfully underdressed or was she a slapper? I made this comment to my brother and rather than the amusing bitchy conversation I had anticipated got told that I couldn't comment as I used to go to the Supermarket in my pyjamas. This sadly is true, but in my defence my pyjamas were men's pyjama trousers and a black t-shirt. It's not like I was leaping around in a skimpy negligee giving people heart attacks by the nectarines. Also it was the strangest supermarket in the world.
Many years have passed and it's 12,000 miles away so I have no problems in outing this supermarket as being Woolworths in Neutral Bay, Sydney. It was there that I saw 2 men, dressed only in towels, doing their weekly shop. It was also the local supermarket for a woman who used to do everything on roller blades, you'd see her in the city desperately clinging on to lamp-posts or trying to keep her balance as her legs got a way from her. It was a bit like watching that episode of Some Mother's Do 'Ave 'Em. What was really strange was that she was dressed like Lara Croft. A skimpy pair of cycling shorts, a crop top, knee and elbow pads and her hair all tied up, pitching head first in to freezers as she attempted to do her shopping on wheels.
I was forced to shop there however. Not only because it was opposite my house and very convenient but because I was either in self imposed exile from other shops on that road or I was physically banned from other shops on that road. A major stumble in the other main supermarket meant that workers there waved at me when I went in and I could live without that. Plus their food was so manky it had normally rotted by the time you got it home. And I'm not allowed in Blockbuster anymore ever since I ACCIDENTALLY told the woman in there to er f*** off. Actually I was quite polite about it. My exact words were "F*** you lady." Either way, I felt it best not to return to that particular video rental store. I'm not sure why I chose to develop tourettes at that particular moment (although she was being really annoying) but I felt it wise never to return.
Which sadly meant that my flatmate Steve was in charge of getting videos out. His favourite type of film seemed to involve animals in combat. I watched "Brotherhood of the Wolf" and "Dog Soldiers". Well I say watch, I actually made rude comments and read a book. On one occasion he came in and said "I've got us a film. Badger Paratroopers (or something similar). Now I know what you're thinking…. It's in French. But don't worry it's got subtitles". Believe me of all the things I was thinking it wasn't that.
However, it is now Wednesday and Fireworks are still going on. And they seem to start about 3-30. Why is this? Surely the point is that it is dark. Or perhaps there's some hip new style I don't know about. Perhaps its badgers attempting to get revenge for their Oscar snub.
Friday, 26 October 2007
Birthday
On Saturday night I went out for my mates birthday. After many drinks, dancing and the most spectacular fall I’ve ever seen by the birthday girl (6 foot off her boyfriend’s shoulders on to her face) it was time to go home. And I really, really didn’t want to walk. Sadly there were no taxies to be had and none to be had for an hour if the control women were to be believed. Luckily we saw a man having a fag outside a shop – and he had a car! After much persuasion (and fake crying) he agreed to give us a lift home. We even made him clear his back seat so we could pile in. It wasn’t until we were a little way from home that it occurred to me that getting a lift with a man we met on the street at 2 in the morning might not have been the best idea. I decided in that split second that I didn’t really want to die, I didn’t want to die on Julie’s birthday and I certainly didn’t want to die to a sound track of Chris Rea.
Pretty inevitably (and obviously) we didn’t die and he just dropped us off. I took a few photos of the car just in case – I assumed they’d find the camera with my body and solve the mystery.
Presuming the worst is an endearing habit of mine. Or incredibly pessimistic and annoying. I often think when I’m driving: “What would happen if I ploughed off the road now and died?” and normally my main worry is – would they report my terrible music taste in the newspaper. “The woman crashed her car whilst listening to Voice of the Beehive. It is unknown whether she lost control of the car or simply lost the will to live due to the appalling music”. Do I really want my rescue to be conducted to the strains of “Snooker Loopy”.
I love the way that music has such strong associations. Play certain songs and you’re instantly transported back to where you were when you heard it and even how you felt when you heard it. Elliot Smith was the soundtrack to my university days and even though it’s some of the most monumentally depressing music you’ll ever hear it’ll always be associated with some fantastic times. I can hear “Walk of Life” a thousand times but it’ll always remind me of being about 6 and dancing around my brother’s bedroom having a “disco” (3 of us dancing and my mum flicking the light on and off). I can’t listen to “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia whilst I’m driving as that’s what was playing when I was in a pile up on the A1.
I think it’s those kind of associations that means everyone has certain musical guilty pleasures. However cool, hip and groovy you are now, and by using that kind of language you can tell that I am down with the kids, there is guaranteed to be one song that you will exclaim “oooh I love this song” when it comes on the radio and everyone will look at you like you’re mental. The cd’s that I tend to listen to a lot but tend to keep in plain covers are usually the music that I listened to in my parents cars. Namely Paul Simon (not too bad), Peter Skellon (odd) and Crystal Gayle (just horrendous and has also sparked a strange love of country music).
But that’s what’s good about music. Although you may heartily dislike a song and the singer something can happen and it can take on new meanings. Find one song you like and you can discover whole new genres and singers. Which in a round about way is why X factor is good. Not that they are introducing brilliant new singers to the world (although I do like Leona’s new song) but in that they cover songs in a way that inspire you to find the original. Mainly on the grounds that watching some halfwit warble Islands in the Stream convinces you that the original can’t have been that dreadful. And anything that gets Kenny Rogers to a wider audience is a good thing.
Pretty inevitably (and obviously) we didn’t die and he just dropped us off. I took a few photos of the car just in case – I assumed they’d find the camera with my body and solve the mystery.
Presuming the worst is an endearing habit of mine. Or incredibly pessimistic and annoying. I often think when I’m driving: “What would happen if I ploughed off the road now and died?” and normally my main worry is – would they report my terrible music taste in the newspaper. “The woman crashed her car whilst listening to Voice of the Beehive. It is unknown whether she lost control of the car or simply lost the will to live due to the appalling music”. Do I really want my rescue to be conducted to the strains of “Snooker Loopy”.
I love the way that music has such strong associations. Play certain songs and you’re instantly transported back to where you were when you heard it and even how you felt when you heard it. Elliot Smith was the soundtrack to my university days and even though it’s some of the most monumentally depressing music you’ll ever hear it’ll always be associated with some fantastic times. I can hear “Walk of Life” a thousand times but it’ll always remind me of being about 6 and dancing around my brother’s bedroom having a “disco” (3 of us dancing and my mum flicking the light on and off). I can’t listen to “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia whilst I’m driving as that’s what was playing when I was in a pile up on the A1.
I think it’s those kind of associations that means everyone has certain musical guilty pleasures. However cool, hip and groovy you are now, and by using that kind of language you can tell that I am down with the kids, there is guaranteed to be one song that you will exclaim “oooh I love this song” when it comes on the radio and everyone will look at you like you’re mental. The cd’s that I tend to listen to a lot but tend to keep in plain covers are usually the music that I listened to in my parents cars. Namely Paul Simon (not too bad), Peter Skellon (odd) and Crystal Gayle (just horrendous and has also sparked a strange love of country music).
But that’s what’s good about music. Although you may heartily dislike a song and the singer something can happen and it can take on new meanings. Find one song you like and you can discover whole new genres and singers. Which in a round about way is why X factor is good. Not that they are introducing brilliant new singers to the world (although I do like Leona’s new song) but in that they cover songs in a way that inspire you to find the original. Mainly on the grounds that watching some halfwit warble Islands in the Stream convinces you that the original can’t have been that dreadful. And anything that gets Kenny Rogers to a wider audience is a good thing.
Holiday
Well that was a lovely holiday. Over now. Sob, sob etc. I would highly recommend a trip to the channel islands. Guernsey museums seem slightly obsessed by the occupation (however the exhibits have made me fairly sure that I am anti-Hitler) but there is a lot of fun to be had. I started out taking a book with me to meals in the evening – how to dine alone and avoid the pitying stares of other diners- but I found that eavesdropping was far more fun. Especially when I over heard the following conversation “Yes, that was Schoellsberg wasn’t it?” “ooooh yes, terrible man, horrible piece of work”, “Well I don’t know about that”, “He was a dictator wasn’t he?” “No, no a bobsleigher”. I don’t think they appreciated my snorting laughter. However as they both declared at the beginning of their meal that they were going to be “terribly Yorkshire and drink tea with their meal” they are blatantly weird and base all their knowledge of Northeners on the Tetley Tea Folk. I base my knowledge of the North on Last of the Summer Wine. Far more reliable. I look forward to a trip North at some point where I shall see old men whizzing down hills in bath tubs and running away from randy old ladies in headscarves.
The boat trip back was vile. I have never been ill on public transport in my life. Even when drunk I have managed to contain myself. However sitting on a small boat bobbing between Sark and Guernsey I started to feel a bit rough, convincing myself it was a case of mind over matter I decided to concentrate on my book (having read all 5 of the books I had taken in the first two days I read a lot of trash magazines and whatever books were left in the hotel. I am therefore deeply immersed in a dreadful family saga.) When that didn’t work I thought I’d look at the horizon. Except the windows were masked by waves crashing over them and it was difficult to look at the horizon when one moment the window was in the sea and the next it was pointing at the sky. So I looked at a fire hydrant and gulped in deep breaths of diesel filled air. Eventually with Guernsey in sight I took a deep breath – and threw up. In to a bag. Grim. Luckily there was a bin on board so I didn’t have to carry it around like a badly served portion of take away soup. 3 hours on dry land and I still felt rough as.
It was a very nice holiday, I don’t want you to go away thinking it was all being sick in bags and mad racists. I went in the sea twice. Baltic (well actually it was the channel) ho ho. I drank far too much VAT free wine, I met some very pleasant people and I read and slept a lot. I also discovered that although you never forget how to ride a bike (there are no cars on Sark) your thighs have given up the ghost and scream with disgust when you attempt to cycle up hills. I bumped in to the mad bob sleighing people when I was attempting to have a nap at the top of a cliff (as nice as the beach looked I couldn’t face the walk back up). He was dressed in some sort of lycra all in one with a bandana and she was wearing sensible walking shorts. I forced myself to sit up and talk to them, thinking that they only thing worse than talking to them would be to continue attempting to sleep and have them think that I was dead upon a cliff and have them try to rescue me. 10 foot away from his lycra clad genitals was fine for me.
The boat trip back was vile. I have never been ill on public transport in my life. Even when drunk I have managed to contain myself. However sitting on a small boat bobbing between Sark and Guernsey I started to feel a bit rough, convincing myself it was a case of mind over matter I decided to concentrate on my book (having read all 5 of the books I had taken in the first two days I read a lot of trash magazines and whatever books were left in the hotel. I am therefore deeply immersed in a dreadful family saga.) When that didn’t work I thought I’d look at the horizon. Except the windows were masked by waves crashing over them and it was difficult to look at the horizon when one moment the window was in the sea and the next it was pointing at the sky. So I looked at a fire hydrant and gulped in deep breaths of diesel filled air. Eventually with Guernsey in sight I took a deep breath – and threw up. In to a bag. Grim. Luckily there was a bin on board so I didn’t have to carry it around like a badly served portion of take away soup. 3 hours on dry land and I still felt rough as.
It was a very nice holiday, I don’t want you to go away thinking it was all being sick in bags and mad racists. I went in the sea twice. Baltic (well actually it was the channel) ho ho. I drank far too much VAT free wine, I met some very pleasant people and I read and slept a lot. I also discovered that although you never forget how to ride a bike (there are no cars on Sark) your thighs have given up the ghost and scream with disgust when you attempt to cycle up hills. I bumped in to the mad bob sleighing people when I was attempting to have a nap at the top of a cliff (as nice as the beach looked I couldn’t face the walk back up). He was dressed in some sort of lycra all in one with a bandana and she was wearing sensible walking shorts. I forced myself to sit up and talk to them, thinking that they only thing worse than talking to them would be to continue attempting to sleep and have them think that I was dead upon a cliff and have them try to rescue me. 10 foot away from his lycra clad genitals was fine for me.
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