More French Toast.
I'm going back to France on Sunday for another holiday with an entirely different group of friends (sometimes I wish Spain or Germany were a bit nearer - I'm getting a bit fed up with France). This one hopefully will be a little more relaxing - I felt like I packed so much into the last one in Paris that I needed another break to get over it (although getting smashed on Waterloo Station on the way back probably didn't help). I thought I'd better at least check in with the old web clog before I go, but I've not had a lot to say recently, not having done much apart from work and sleep, and as I was told when I was a child, if you've got nothing to say, say nothing. So I did.
I have decided, however, that I need to make some time to do some stuff by myself though, mainly because of my finances and the fact that going out costs money. So I've taken up reading again (sounds simple, doesn't it? Well, you try having the attention span of a fly-swat and see how many books you manage to stay interested in). I've got a pile of books I've been meaning to read for ages but not got around to it. I started with Brighton Rock by Graham Greene - my dad used to read a lot of his stuff so I thought I'd probably like it, but I must admit I'm struggling to stay interested, so I've made a start on Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier - I got hooked on Rebecca years ago and it's one of the only books I've ever managed to read over and over again. Also on the list are The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse by Robert Rankin and some of the new Terry Pratchett stuff which I have always liked (is it me, or is he really chucking them out at a fair old speed at the moment?). Finally, I want to get hold of a copy of Chocolat, because I enjoyed the film so much and I think it's on special offer in Smiths at the moment. Any further suggestions of books for a girl with a fly-swat for a brain, do let me know, assuming you know me of course.
Friday, June 06, 2003
Thursday, May 29, 2003
Bonjour mes amis.
I’m sorry to have to bore you all with my holiday rant but it’s going to happen so you might as well read and get it over with. Started on Thursday rather badly, as I totally confused the Central and Bakerloo lines (don’t normally have a problem with the underground but I appeared to be particularly tubularly challenged that day), which didn’t bode well for the Paris Metro. Managed to get to Waterloo 3 hours too early as well so had to sit around like a citron for ages. And it still costs 20p to go to the loo on Waterloo station which I think is disgraceful. It did start me thinking though, how can one ensure that one gets one’s money’s worth from the London Station Toilet Experience? At least it guarantees you a seat while you are waiting for your train.
Anyway, eventually we all made it onto the eurostar and the neuf of us got extremely exciteeeeed about the trip and general silliness was enjoyed by all. However, it seems that as part of the customer service revolution your mobile phone network will send you a message saying “Welcome to France!” which is lovely, but it does mean that everyone’s mobile goes off at once. Got to the hotel (about 3 metres from the Gare du Nord which was handy) checked in and went for a drink at ridiculous tourist prices, but unfortunately I have little concept of the euro so I was blissfully unaware of the lack of value for money beer-wise for most of the holiday (until the boys discovered you can get a pint of Kronenbourg in McDonalds for €1.50 – but only if you buy some chips).
The days that followed were filled with all the usual stuff, went up the Eiffel Tower (right to the top) but typically, it was renamed the Trifle Tower by my lot which is much funnier in my hopinion. Takes ages to get up there but it worth it for the view. Also checked out the Palais du Luxembourg, a palace from the {mumble}th century with loads of gardens and fountains and stuff which was lovely. Popped in to the Catacombs underneath Paris and saw lots and lots and lots of bones (apparently they dug up all the cemeteries in the 18th century, I forget why, ran out of room I think, and put everyone down there). During this, a friend took a cheeky shot of my rear going up a spiral staircase to go beside a very similar shot he took at new year on a very similar staircase at Pembrokeshire Castle – will be more careful who is behind me next time, or there might end up being a whole “Kate’s Bum Gallery” on the web. Got a few pics of the Moulin Rouge to but you have to book up if you want to see a show (I thought they did tours or something of the inside during the day but apparently not) and visited the Musee de l’erotisme which was good for a giggle, although one of our number was a tad unsure about it and asked if it looked as if it was something the National Trust might own. Er, no. Also went shopping on the Champs-Elysses, but didn’t have much cash left at that point (and had no way of getting any more as my switch card had been swallowed at Waterloo station before I left). Arc du Triomphe is bloody big though, innit? Spent a morning at the Sacré Coeur (sp ?) where a service was going on – was pretty spectacular, and was also the place where one of my friends got engaged to his lovely girlfriend on the Friday night!
On top of all the usual sightseeing there was a lot of food consumed and red wine poured down the old hatch (most mornings, about 11 o’clock, negotiations began as to whether the sun had passed the yard arm yet, where the yard arm was, whether yard arm passing was subject to the change in time zone and indeed whether any of it really mattered). The two “eatings” really worth mentioning were La Coupole, which I’ve been to once before where the food was superb, especially the dessert – three balls of lemon sorbet and a shot of vodka poured over – wow, is all I can say about that, and a little restaurant in the Bastille, Le Restaurant sans Culottes (which I think means “the restaurant without little trousers that look like skirts that seemed a good idea in the 80s”, but I can’t be sure as my French leaves a lot to be desired). I was most distressed during that meal to find that my wine glass had got trapped between two plates but my failure to remedy the situation was probably an indication that I’d had quite enough of the 2000 Anjou as it was.
We discovered quite a lot that we (at least, I) didn’t know about France though, things like the Eiffel Tower is 15cm bigger in the summer than in the winter, and you can get machines that take €2 that you stick your foot in and they shine your shoes. And apparently, if you have a sore throat in France they sell you a 4 day course of suppositories (or maybe it was just that when one of us went into a chemist for some throat sweets, the language barrier was just too great). My French got a good workout though, the more wine I had the more willing I was to try some translation but only ended up with things like l’escargot du la nuit, biscuits de la derriere, and we also found out that “red lorry, yellow lorry” is a lot easier to say in French – “rouge cameon, jaune cameon….” Anyway, a generally good time was had by all despite having to get up early on Monday to come back. To amuse themselves on the train, the chaps bought some mags, one got the French version of FHM which was interesting, especially since it had a full colour supplement of the French 100 sexiest women which sparked off a debate about who was attractive and who wasn’t. It culminated in the discussion of the rumour that Freddy Prinze Jr. is gay, to which one of my friends exclaimed “How can you marry Sarah-Michelle Gellar and bowl from the Pavilion end?” which I thought was an interesting way of putting it. On our return to England, another debate started on the Eiffel Tower vs. The Crystal Palace Television Transmitter (they are remarkably similar, you know). But now I’m home and back at work, I really do feel like I need another holiday to get over it. If any of you are reading this, thanks for a fantastic time, guys. Who’s organising Blackpool, then?
I’m sorry to have to bore you all with my holiday rant but it’s going to happen so you might as well read and get it over with. Started on Thursday rather badly, as I totally confused the Central and Bakerloo lines (don’t normally have a problem with the underground but I appeared to be particularly tubularly challenged that day), which didn’t bode well for the Paris Metro. Managed to get to Waterloo 3 hours too early as well so had to sit around like a citron for ages. And it still costs 20p to go to the loo on Waterloo station which I think is disgraceful. It did start me thinking though, how can one ensure that one gets one’s money’s worth from the London Station Toilet Experience? At least it guarantees you a seat while you are waiting for your train.
Anyway, eventually we all made it onto the eurostar and the neuf of us got extremely exciteeeeed about the trip and general silliness was enjoyed by all. However, it seems that as part of the customer service revolution your mobile phone network will send you a message saying “Welcome to France!” which is lovely, but it does mean that everyone’s mobile goes off at once. Got to the hotel (about 3 metres from the Gare du Nord which was handy) checked in and went for a drink at ridiculous tourist prices, but unfortunately I have little concept of the euro so I was blissfully unaware of the lack of value for money beer-wise for most of the holiday (until the boys discovered you can get a pint of Kronenbourg in McDonalds for €1.50 – but only if you buy some chips).
The days that followed were filled with all the usual stuff, went up the Eiffel Tower (right to the top) but typically, it was renamed the Trifle Tower by my lot which is much funnier in my hopinion. Takes ages to get up there but it worth it for the view. Also checked out the Palais du Luxembourg, a palace from the {mumble}th century with loads of gardens and fountains and stuff which was lovely. Popped in to the Catacombs underneath Paris and saw lots and lots and lots of bones (apparently they dug up all the cemeteries in the 18th century, I forget why, ran out of room I think, and put everyone down there). During this, a friend took a cheeky shot of my rear going up a spiral staircase to go beside a very similar shot he took at new year on a very similar staircase at Pembrokeshire Castle – will be more careful who is behind me next time, or there might end up being a whole “Kate’s Bum Gallery” on the web. Got a few pics of the Moulin Rouge to but you have to book up if you want to see a show (I thought they did tours or something of the inside during the day but apparently not) and visited the Musee de l’erotisme which was good for a giggle, although one of our number was a tad unsure about it and asked if it looked as if it was something the National Trust might own. Er, no. Also went shopping on the Champs-Elysses, but didn’t have much cash left at that point (and had no way of getting any more as my switch card had been swallowed at Waterloo station before I left). Arc du Triomphe is bloody big though, innit? Spent a morning at the Sacré Coeur (sp ?) where a service was going on – was pretty spectacular, and was also the place where one of my friends got engaged to his lovely girlfriend on the Friday night!
On top of all the usual sightseeing there was a lot of food consumed and red wine poured down the old hatch (most mornings, about 11 o’clock, negotiations began as to whether the sun had passed the yard arm yet, where the yard arm was, whether yard arm passing was subject to the change in time zone and indeed whether any of it really mattered). The two “eatings” really worth mentioning were La Coupole, which I’ve been to once before where the food was superb, especially the dessert – three balls of lemon sorbet and a shot of vodka poured over – wow, is all I can say about that, and a little restaurant in the Bastille, Le Restaurant sans Culottes (which I think means “the restaurant without little trousers that look like skirts that seemed a good idea in the 80s”, but I can’t be sure as my French leaves a lot to be desired). I was most distressed during that meal to find that my wine glass had got trapped between two plates but my failure to remedy the situation was probably an indication that I’d had quite enough of the 2000 Anjou as it was.
We discovered quite a lot that we (at least, I) didn’t know about France though, things like the Eiffel Tower is 15cm bigger in the summer than in the winter, and you can get machines that take €2 that you stick your foot in and they shine your shoes. And apparently, if you have a sore throat in France they sell you a 4 day course of suppositories (or maybe it was just that when one of us went into a chemist for some throat sweets, the language barrier was just too great). My French got a good workout though, the more wine I had the more willing I was to try some translation but only ended up with things like l’escargot du la nuit, biscuits de la derriere, and we also found out that “red lorry, yellow lorry” is a lot easier to say in French – “rouge cameon, jaune cameon….” Anyway, a generally good time was had by all despite having to get up early on Monday to come back. To amuse themselves on the train, the chaps bought some mags, one got the French version of FHM which was interesting, especially since it had a full colour supplement of the French 100 sexiest women which sparked off a debate about who was attractive and who wasn’t. It culminated in the discussion of the rumour that Freddy Prinze Jr. is gay, to which one of my friends exclaimed “How can you marry Sarah-Michelle Gellar and bowl from the Pavilion end?” which I thought was an interesting way of putting it. On our return to England, another debate started on the Eiffel Tower vs. The Crystal Palace Television Transmitter (they are remarkably similar, you know). But now I’m home and back at work, I really do feel like I need another holiday to get over it. If any of you are reading this, thanks for a fantastic time, guys. Who’s organising Blackpool, then?
Thursday, May 22, 2003
Oi ammmm a Cyderrr Drynkerrrr....
Went to the beer festival on the common last night, not to drink beer (filthy stuff) but to sample the delights of the local, and not so local, ciders. Some of my friends are amazed that I can still drink cider at my ripe old age, but I think it comes from never having made myself sick on it in a park when I was a teenager. I just love the names they give them though. "Yes, I'll have half a pint of Brainfrazzler please, followed by a pint of Yulnevre Walkagen (hic!)" I was delighted to find when I got there that they had one called Jack Ratt (6.4%) from the Lyme Bay Cider Co., named after the notorious 19th century smuggler, Jack Rattenbury, who I know a bit about having spent a lot of childhood holidays in the Lyme Regis area. Unfortunately I've got no idea what it was like because it was the only one they'd run out of (flamin' typical) so presumably it was pretty good. I wonder if you can buy it on the internet (note to self - look into cider purchasing on web)? I did manage to have a taste of two, one from Wales called Osir Medium (6.3%) - lovely and cloudy, with a nice strong flavour, and Rous rat tale Dry (7.5%) which tasted a bit like dishwater, but the aftertaste was lovely. Only having had a small dinner though (some veg - aren't I good? - in cheese sauce) the two ciders I did sample went straight to the old noggin and resulted in a very strange hallucination at the Hog Roast Stall. There were 2 "hogs" going around on two spits, the top one half gone, but the one underneath was yet to be hacked at and imagine my astonishment when I observed that the poor beast appeared to have six legs. No amount of glasses-rubbing or eye-stretching seemed to rectify the situation and, thinking I had either gone insane or genetic engineering had really advanced further than I thought, I exclaimed to my flat mate "Look! That pig's got six legs!!!!" To which he replied "Er, I think you'll find that's three chickens in a row."
Went to the beer festival on the common last night, not to drink beer (filthy stuff) but to sample the delights of the local, and not so local, ciders. Some of my friends are amazed that I can still drink cider at my ripe old age, but I think it comes from never having made myself sick on it in a park when I was a teenager. I just love the names they give them though. "Yes, I'll have half a pint of Brainfrazzler please, followed by a pint of Yulnevre Walkagen (hic!)" I was delighted to find when I got there that they had one called Jack Ratt (6.4%) from the Lyme Bay Cider Co., named after the notorious 19th century smuggler, Jack Rattenbury, who I know a bit about having spent a lot of childhood holidays in the Lyme Regis area. Unfortunately I've got no idea what it was like because it was the only one they'd run out of (flamin' typical) so presumably it was pretty good. I wonder if you can buy it on the internet (note to self - look into cider purchasing on web)? I did manage to have a taste of two, one from Wales called Osir Medium (6.3%) - lovely and cloudy, with a nice strong flavour, and Rous rat tale Dry (7.5%) which tasted a bit like dishwater, but the aftertaste was lovely. Only having had a small dinner though (some veg - aren't I good? - in cheese sauce) the two ciders I did sample went straight to the old noggin and resulted in a very strange hallucination at the Hog Roast Stall. There were 2 "hogs" going around on two spits, the top one half gone, but the one underneath was yet to be hacked at and imagine my astonishment when I observed that the poor beast appeared to have six legs. No amount of glasses-rubbing or eye-stretching seemed to rectify the situation and, thinking I had either gone insane or genetic engineering had really advanced further than I thought, I exclaimed to my flat mate "Look! That pig's got six legs!!!!" To which he replied "Er, I think you'll find that's three chickens in a row."
Wednesday, May 21, 2003
One, two, three, four, five-a-day, that's the fruit and vegetable way....
I'm trying desperately hard to improve my diet at the moment but it's not working out very well. Despite being fairly slimmish, I don't eat very well at all - chocolate I can resist, but crisps and cake will be my downfall in the end....One of my friends was so deeply concerned about the amount of Belgian Waffle I consumed on Monday night, he refused to grant me access yesterday to the Mississippi Mud Muffins he'd bought until I'd had at least one serving of fruit salad, which I sulked through for three-quarters of an hour (needless to say the muffin didn't last that long). I'm not too bad at vegetables (I had a stir-fry last night with three, yes three types of vegetable in AND a side salad - how good am I?) but fruit just really gets on my nerves... I mean, take oranges, and take a chocolate bar. Opening the chocolate bar, even one with the most complex packaging takes all of a few seconds and chomp! It's in your gob. But oranges? Ever tried to get into an orange in a hurry? It's impossible. That's a real failing of the Fruit Inc. Marketing Department, in my opinion, not nearly enough research done there. I picked up a brochure meant for primary school teachers last year about nutrition in the young and was hugely disappointed to find out that fruit juice only counts once a day, regardless of how much you drink - now that sucks, doesn't it? I thought I'd found a lovely little loophole there, just drink shedloads of juice and you'll be fine, but oh no, it's never that easy is it? But then, I was much reassured to find out that baked beans count as one of your portions, and went home to have beans on toast.
I'm trying desperately hard to improve my diet at the moment but it's not working out very well. Despite being fairly slimmish, I don't eat very well at all - chocolate I can resist, but crisps and cake will be my downfall in the end....One of my friends was so deeply concerned about the amount of Belgian Waffle I consumed on Monday night, he refused to grant me access yesterday to the Mississippi Mud Muffins he'd bought until I'd had at least one serving of fruit salad, which I sulked through for three-quarters of an hour (needless to say the muffin didn't last that long). I'm not too bad at vegetables (I had a stir-fry last night with three, yes three types of vegetable in AND a side salad - how good am I?) but fruit just really gets on my nerves... I mean, take oranges, and take a chocolate bar. Opening the chocolate bar, even one with the most complex packaging takes all of a few seconds and chomp! It's in your gob. But oranges? Ever tried to get into an orange in a hurry? It's impossible. That's a real failing of the Fruit Inc. Marketing Department, in my opinion, not nearly enough research done there. I picked up a brochure meant for primary school teachers last year about nutrition in the young and was hugely disappointed to find out that fruit juice only counts once a day, regardless of how much you drink - now that sucks, doesn't it? I thought I'd found a lovely little loophole there, just drink shedloads of juice and you'll be fine, but oh no, it's never that easy is it? But then, I was much reassured to find out that baked beans count as one of your portions, and went home to have beans on toast.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Je suis un petit chou-fleur.
I'm going on holiday on Thursday to Paris. Just for a few days with some mates from school and I'm really looking forward to it - they're really great, chilled kinda people that don't get offended if a couple of you want to do something different to the rest. Which will be brilliant, as most of the times I've been to Paris it's been with people who have had a strict itinerary and I haven't had a chance to wander round and take things in at my own pace (I'm the sort of rare person that actually DOES read every word on the information board at places of interest, so I end up taking ages everywhere). Since I did Spanish at school my French leaves a lot to be desired, so I was just using Babel Fish on Alta Vista to translate some useful phrases like "I would like to purchase that expensive looking French perfume please" (Je voudrais acheter que parfum français semblant plutôt cher svp), "eight beers and a glass of red wine" (huit bières et un verre de vin rouge) and "get out of my way, Frenchman!" (sortez de ma manière, Français!), when I was immensely amused to find that if you put in "I'm a little teapot, short and stout", you get Je suis une petits théière, short et bière de malt.
I'm going on holiday on Thursday to Paris. Just for a few days with some mates from school and I'm really looking forward to it - they're really great, chilled kinda people that don't get offended if a couple of you want to do something different to the rest. Which will be brilliant, as most of the times I've been to Paris it's been with people who have had a strict itinerary and I haven't had a chance to wander round and take things in at my own pace (I'm the sort of rare person that actually DOES read every word on the information board at places of interest, so I end up taking ages everywhere). Since I did Spanish at school my French leaves a lot to be desired, so I was just using Babel Fish on Alta Vista to translate some useful phrases like "I would like to purchase that expensive looking French perfume please" (Je voudrais acheter que parfum français semblant plutôt cher svp), "eight beers and a glass of red wine" (huit bières et un verre de vin rouge) and "get out of my way, Frenchman!" (sortez de ma manière, Français!), when I was immensely amused to find that if you put in "I'm a little teapot, short and stout", you get Je suis une petits théière, short et bière de malt.
Monday, May 19, 2003
I refuse to compromise my arty-stick integrity.
Is it just me, or is Jools Holland having a laugh? I watched "Later" for the first time in a while on Friday night and I have to say it was the biggest pile of rubbish I have seen in a long time. There were a couple of good acts (the always amazing Ladysmith Black Mambazo and McKay), but what about the rest? Goldfrapp weren’t bad although not my cup of tea, and I did like the lead singer’s outfit despite the fact that I kept expecting her to break into “The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” at any moment. But that stupid nob from The Vines who went bananas and trashed all his gear (can you say “ritalin”?) what was that all about? I know music is subjective and all that, and as far as I am concerned people can like what they like, but how anyone can find an idiot like that (who, let’s face it, isn't actually all that talented) trashing a load of equipment and rolling around on the floor like a demented yak entertaining, I don’t know. But then, what do I know? I listen to folk music, which according to some people I know means that I am in no position to comment on the musical preferences of anyone else!
Is it just me, or is Jools Holland having a laugh? I watched "Later" for the first time in a while on Friday night and I have to say it was the biggest pile of rubbish I have seen in a long time. There were a couple of good acts (the always amazing Ladysmith Black Mambazo and McKay), but what about the rest? Goldfrapp weren’t bad although not my cup of tea, and I did like the lead singer’s outfit despite the fact that I kept expecting her to break into “The Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” at any moment. But that stupid nob from The Vines who went bananas and trashed all his gear (can you say “ritalin”?) what was that all about? I know music is subjective and all that, and as far as I am concerned people can like what they like, but how anyone can find an idiot like that (who, let’s face it, isn't actually all that talented) trashing a load of equipment and rolling around on the floor like a demented yak entertaining, I don’t know. But then, what do I know? I listen to folk music, which according to some people I know means that I am in no position to comment on the musical preferences of anyone else!
Friday, May 16, 2003
Nuts to your white mice.
I've decided I don't hate nuts. I thought I did, and I think if I had to eat one by itself I probably still would, but I have discovered Tesco's Honey Roasted Cashews and Peanuts and they are bloody lovely. I thought, until about 10am this morning, I had discovered a healthy alternative to crisps, as I keep reading that nuts (along with fish for some reason), are supposed to be good for you, and I'm trying to improve my diet, given that in the last six months I've eaten about five portions of fruit and veg the whole time, as opposed to every day as you are supposed to. But discussing this with a friend I discovered that they're also high in fat & honey roasted means they are caked in sugar & salt (although had I thought about it, I could probably have worked that out for myself). They always have that little table on the back of food though, don't they? The one that says Fats: 42.9g, of which saturates 7.8g, mono-unsaturates 24.0g af which polyunsaturates 11.1g. I have absolutely no idea what that means. I think saturates are the bad ones... but I wouldn't swear to it. Far more useful would be a table that says Fats: 47.6g. Of which will go to your thighs, 5.9g. Of which will go to your stomach, 7.5g. Of which will go to your rear, all the rest.
I've decided I don't hate nuts. I thought I did, and I think if I had to eat one by itself I probably still would, but I have discovered Tesco's Honey Roasted Cashews and Peanuts and they are bloody lovely. I thought, until about 10am this morning, I had discovered a healthy alternative to crisps, as I keep reading that nuts (along with fish for some reason), are supposed to be good for you, and I'm trying to improve my diet, given that in the last six months I've eaten about five portions of fruit and veg the whole time, as opposed to every day as you are supposed to. But discussing this with a friend I discovered that they're also high in fat & honey roasted means they are caked in sugar & salt (although had I thought about it, I could probably have worked that out for myself). They always have that little table on the back of food though, don't they? The one that says Fats: 42.9g, of which saturates 7.8g, mono-unsaturates 24.0g af which polyunsaturates 11.1g. I have absolutely no idea what that means. I think saturates are the bad ones... but I wouldn't swear to it. Far more useful would be a table that says Fats: 47.6g. Of which will go to your thighs, 5.9g. Of which will go to your stomach, 7.5g. Of which will go to your rear, all the rest.
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Show offs aren't supposed to get stage fright.
I'm actually getting quite nervous about this gig I've got coming up in July. It's for someone's wedding party and we're going to do a warm up slot (my band, which technically speaking disbanded when the bassist moved to Cornwall and I moved away too, was a little covers-only operation, practise once a week, not too serious kind of thing, which suited me fine as I don't have much technical music knowledge). I joined when I was sixteen as a rhythm guitarist (god knows how I managed to do that, I can hardly play at all these days) and when the vocalist left I was supposed to sing temporarily until we found someone else… but we never did. We still try to get together now and again for a laugh. But this gig opportunity presented itself, and we accepted - I can only say it seemed like quite a good idea at the time. Apart from my little jolly up on stage last week, I've not sung in public for a long time, and the thought is really starting to make me feel quite sick. When I'm at home singing into a can of hairspray and pouting at my reflection the mirror I sound alright, but stick me in front of a crowd and suddenly I turn into someone who couldn’t carry a tune if you gave her a bucket. My knees turn to mush, my confidence goes on a business trip to Hawaii and my throat suddenly develops a rather nasty case of wobblitis (I try my hardest to get the songs I’m not very good at at the top of the set list so by the time I get to the ones I’m a bit better at I’ve calmed down and it sounds half decent). Sometimes it can be really hard getting an honest opinion out of someone when you ask how you did, tactful comments are always better to have than people thinking you're a muppet. I know I’m alright once I get going but to improve I'd really like to know what I can work on and it's hard when people just nod and smile…. And the lads in the band don't even listen to the vocals. It's silly really. We'll be at a practice and I'll sing one quite well and be really chuffed with it, but they will muck it up and so they’ll say it was total rubbish, so we'll have to spend time doing it over and over again until it’s fixed – which is absolutely fine with me, but when we do one where they play it fine, but I completely bugger up the second verse, or I’m all out of tune, or the whole song is in the wrong key for me, they say oh, that's fine, no further work needed on that….. they drive me crazy! But to be fair they do put up with my musical hopelessness and my frequent strops. So I can’t complain really. I love them to bits :-)
I'm actually getting quite nervous about this gig I've got coming up in July. It's for someone's wedding party and we're going to do a warm up slot (my band, which technically speaking disbanded when the bassist moved to Cornwall and I moved away too, was a little covers-only operation, practise once a week, not too serious kind of thing, which suited me fine as I don't have much technical music knowledge). I joined when I was sixteen as a rhythm guitarist (god knows how I managed to do that, I can hardly play at all these days) and when the vocalist left I was supposed to sing temporarily until we found someone else… but we never did. We still try to get together now and again for a laugh. But this gig opportunity presented itself, and we accepted - I can only say it seemed like quite a good idea at the time. Apart from my little jolly up on stage last week, I've not sung in public for a long time, and the thought is really starting to make me feel quite sick. When I'm at home singing into a can of hairspray and pouting at my reflection the mirror I sound alright, but stick me in front of a crowd and suddenly I turn into someone who couldn’t carry a tune if you gave her a bucket. My knees turn to mush, my confidence goes on a business trip to Hawaii and my throat suddenly develops a rather nasty case of wobblitis (I try my hardest to get the songs I’m not very good at at the top of the set list so by the time I get to the ones I’m a bit better at I’ve calmed down and it sounds half decent). Sometimes it can be really hard getting an honest opinion out of someone when you ask how you did, tactful comments are always better to have than people thinking you're a muppet. I know I’m alright once I get going but to improve I'd really like to know what I can work on and it's hard when people just nod and smile…. And the lads in the band don't even listen to the vocals. It's silly really. We'll be at a practice and I'll sing one quite well and be really chuffed with it, but they will muck it up and so they’ll say it was total rubbish, so we'll have to spend time doing it over and over again until it’s fixed – which is absolutely fine with me, but when we do one where they play it fine, but I completely bugger up the second verse, or I’m all out of tune, or the whole song is in the wrong key for me, they say oh, that's fine, no further work needed on that….. they drive me crazy! But to be fair they do put up with my musical hopelessness and my frequent strops. So I can’t complain really. I love them to bits :-)
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
The Cat & Custard Pot.
My folks are about to become the proud parents of a new baby narrowboat (I say baby, it's going to be about 60 feet long), but my sister and I seem to be constantly at loggerheads with them over their choice of name. They want to call it Malachi Grace, after a local businessman from the {mumble}th century, and landlord of a pub in the next village over the hill and (not very) far away (my parents live in a fairy tale, don't you know). Now, being a history person (see previous posts) I think the theory behind this is great... heritage, history, local meaning, yada yada yada... but it's just not very nice, is it? It doesn't roll off the tongue, it doesn't look very nice written down....? Unfortunately, I am having trouble coming up with an alternative but my Dad (he of web clog fame) did put this one forward, although quickly retracted it at the raised eyebrow of my mother... My grandad used to live in a pub in Kent called the Red Lion, and the sign hanging outside the pub depicted a red lion (duh) holding a pint of beer. However, the sign had been so badly painted that it became known to the locals as the Cat & Custard Pot, which I think would be a bloody fantastic name for a boat (whether that link is for the same pub I don't know, but I bet there aren't many pubs in Kent with that name). It's still got all the historical type sentimentality that I am such a sucker for, but with added meaning as well. I am therefore starting the Cat & Custard Pot Boat Naming Campaign, or C&CPBNC and I am off to purchase a domain name for the same. Hurrrah.
My folks are about to become the proud parents of a new baby narrowboat (I say baby, it's going to be about 60 feet long), but my sister and I seem to be constantly at loggerheads with them over their choice of name. They want to call it Malachi Grace, after a local businessman from the {mumble}th century, and landlord of a pub in the next village over the hill and (not very) far away (my parents live in a fairy tale, don't you know). Now, being a history person (see previous posts) I think the theory behind this is great... heritage, history, local meaning, yada yada yada... but it's just not very nice, is it? It doesn't roll off the tongue, it doesn't look very nice written down....? Unfortunately, I am having trouble coming up with an alternative but my Dad (he of web clog fame) did put this one forward, although quickly retracted it at the raised eyebrow of my mother... My grandad used to live in a pub in Kent called the Red Lion, and the sign hanging outside the pub depicted a red lion (duh) holding a pint of beer. However, the sign had been so badly painted that it became known to the locals as the Cat & Custard Pot, which I think would be a bloody fantastic name for a boat (whether that link is for the same pub I don't know, but I bet there aren't many pubs in Kent with that name). It's still got all the historical type sentimentality that I am such a sucker for, but with added meaning as well. I am therefore starting the Cat & Custard Pot Boat Naming Campaign, or C&CPBNC and I am off to purchase a domain name for the same. Hurrrah.
Bread.
Had the day off sick yesterday, was feeling really rather crap so spent the morning in bed, but felt better in the afternoon so got up and indulged in my favourite hobby - baking. I love to bake. It's not cooking as such, like meals and stuff, baking involves bread, cakes, cookies, pizza blah blah blah I'm really starting to sound quite dull now aren't I? I don't care. I'm the one who had hot fresh bread with lashings of (I can't believe it's not) butter with her tea last night :-p. And it's very therapeutic, bashing seven bells out of a lump of dough that can't fight back. And guess what? I can sew as well :-) Not what your average 21st century girl is supposed to be doing if you read all the trashy women's magazines (apparently I should be intensely career minded, go to the gym eight days a week, drink fifteen pints of water a day and have a bum like Kylie). Yes, I am multi-talented in a homely sort of way. However I draw the line at cross-stitch.
Also started trying to learn the words to some songs that my old band wants to get together and play at a relative's wedding reception, but yet again they have picked songs done by blokes and my throat has to be in the basement to hit all the notes. I'm going to turn into Barry White at this rate.
Had the day off sick yesterday, was feeling really rather crap so spent the morning in bed, but felt better in the afternoon so got up and indulged in my favourite hobby - baking. I love to bake. It's not cooking as such, like meals and stuff, baking involves bread, cakes, cookies, pizza blah blah blah I'm really starting to sound quite dull now aren't I? I don't care. I'm the one who had hot fresh bread with lashings of (I can't believe it's not) butter with her tea last night :-p. And it's very therapeutic, bashing seven bells out of a lump of dough that can't fight back. And guess what? I can sew as well :-) Not what your average 21st century girl is supposed to be doing if you read all the trashy women's magazines (apparently I should be intensely career minded, go to the gym eight days a week, drink fifteen pints of water a day and have a bum like Kylie). Yes, I am multi-talented in a homely sort of way. However I draw the line at cross-stitch.
Also started trying to learn the words to some songs that my old band wants to get together and play at a relative's wedding reception, but yet again they have picked songs done by blokes and my throat has to be in the basement to hit all the notes. I'm going to turn into Barry White at this rate.
Monday, May 12, 2003
Has anyone else got flat fingernails?
I decided on Saturday to try out a set of false nails. After years of playing the guitar (badly) and biting any excess off as soon as I became unable to form the chord shapes without a nasty “twang”, my nails, unsurprisingly, seem to have deteriorated in condition somewhat and won’t grow long enough to do even the smallest of French manicures, which I’ve always fancied trying. So off I went to Boots, bought a set… only to find that they won’t bloody stick. If I look at my nails, they are flat. These stupid things are all curved, so when I put them on my nails, all that happens is a nice little air pocket and they don’t bloody stick, do they?! How the hell is that supposed to work? I’ve spent most of the day sneakily trying to look at other women’s nails to see if their nails are flat like mine (what I’ve always assumed to be the norm) but theirs all seem to be curved too. So it’s me who isn’t normal, apparently. But determined was I, and have now totally squished them onto my nails :-) However, I picked a particularly long set and any normal day-to-day activities, such as opening a can with a ring pull, or undoing trousers to go for a pee, have become impossible. Gives me one hell of a chat up line though. “Excuse me, could you just undo the top button of my trousers? My nails are too long. No, it’s alright I can manage the zip thank you. Sorry, what was your name…?” I’ll have to try it and see what happens.
Went to the pub today with my flat mate (as in I live with him, not as in he’s flat). There was an open mike blues jam going on which was really good, until I decided to go up and have a bash myself… now, I know all the words to Johnny B Goode, but I’m afraid until today I was unaware that I tend to sing it three keys higher than most people tend to play it, so it ended up sounding, in my opinion, a bit naff. Still, my flatmate thought it was good which would be great, if before I went on he hadn’t told me he’s tone deaf. Marvellous. However I did manage to get one of the really talented people to take my email address so hopefully I might have some people to “play” with soon (assuming he didn’t just take it to get me to stop pestering him). One will now probably spend the rest of the evening worrying that one was rubbish and that one has yet again made a totally unnecessary exhibition of one’s self. Oops. Never mind. Am going to the Salsa night at Po Na Na tomorrow, so will probably make an even bigger arse of myself there and forget all about today!
Also, my other flat mate appears to have unloaded a carful of music-type equipment and brought it into his room. I’ve not got the faintest idea what any of it does, but there are loads of knobs and buttons and dials and it lights up all red and green so it must be good. He asked me if I wanted to do some music stuff at some point, so my shower-crooning can’t be that bad. So it’s been a fairly good day for music all round, considering that I’ve lived in this town for two years now and not found a band yet.
I decided on Saturday to try out a set of false nails. After years of playing the guitar (badly) and biting any excess off as soon as I became unable to form the chord shapes without a nasty “twang”, my nails, unsurprisingly, seem to have deteriorated in condition somewhat and won’t grow long enough to do even the smallest of French manicures, which I’ve always fancied trying. So off I went to Boots, bought a set… only to find that they won’t bloody stick. If I look at my nails, they are flat. These stupid things are all curved, so when I put them on my nails, all that happens is a nice little air pocket and they don’t bloody stick, do they?! How the hell is that supposed to work? I’ve spent most of the day sneakily trying to look at other women’s nails to see if their nails are flat like mine (what I’ve always assumed to be the norm) but theirs all seem to be curved too. So it’s me who isn’t normal, apparently. But determined was I, and have now totally squished them onto my nails :-) However, I picked a particularly long set and any normal day-to-day activities, such as opening a can with a ring pull, or undoing trousers to go for a pee, have become impossible. Gives me one hell of a chat up line though. “Excuse me, could you just undo the top button of my trousers? My nails are too long. No, it’s alright I can manage the zip thank you. Sorry, what was your name…?” I’ll have to try it and see what happens.
Went to the pub today with my flat mate (as in I live with him, not as in he’s flat). There was an open mike blues jam going on which was really good, until I decided to go up and have a bash myself… now, I know all the words to Johnny B Goode, but I’m afraid until today I was unaware that I tend to sing it three keys higher than most people tend to play it, so it ended up sounding, in my opinion, a bit naff. Still, my flatmate thought it was good which would be great, if before I went on he hadn’t told me he’s tone deaf. Marvellous. However I did manage to get one of the really talented people to take my email address so hopefully I might have some people to “play” with soon (assuming he didn’t just take it to get me to stop pestering him). One will now probably spend the rest of the evening worrying that one was rubbish and that one has yet again made a totally unnecessary exhibition of one’s self. Oops. Never mind. Am going to the Salsa night at Po Na Na tomorrow, so will probably make an even bigger arse of myself there and forget all about today!
Also, my other flat mate appears to have unloaded a carful of music-type equipment and brought it into his room. I’ve not got the faintest idea what any of it does, but there are loads of knobs and buttons and dials and it lights up all red and green so it must be good. He asked me if I wanted to do some music stuff at some point, so my shower-crooning can’t be that bad. So it’s been a fairly good day for music all round, considering that I’ve lived in this town for two years now and not found a band yet.
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