* Themes
Closet Corner
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Nottingham Pride
Argy Bargy
Chaotic - And Walker Too!
Glittering Lee
Reluctant Nomad
Troubled Diva
Mother Of The Messiah
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Closet Corner
In Which All Is Explained....
Just in case you were having difficulty getting your head round all that matter/anti matter/ dark matter stuff, those nice people at CERN* have made a handy video which explains all. Now excuse me, I have a plane to catch.... * Incidentally, when did we stop calling it a linear accelerator?
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In Which I Will Be Sure To Wear Some Flowers....
Bags are packed and hats have been decided upon. Traveling outfits are approved of and a skeletal 5 pairs of shoes have been agonised over. I shall be away in San Francisco as from tomorrow and back a few weeks later. Yes, I know you'll miss me but frankly, a girl needs to travel and while there are charming Men I Adore (and Men I Have Yet To Meet) out there and beckoning me over it seems churlish to refuse their kind offer.... Men I Adore Over here have been kissed goodbye and I have promised to come back to them and to be good during my sojourn in Soddom.* In the meantime I have turned off comments in case of trolls or spammers. Save me a space at the bar and I'll see you on my return. * but then really, you'd think they understand that in San Francisco of all places I'm unlikely to be swept off my feet by a red-blooded Lothario.....
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In Which I Interview A New Boss
Well now that Pride has died down for another year (but then there's still the charity celebrity auction, the launch of the new website, the AGM and an accountant to sort out...) I suppose it's time to look for a job. Especially as there are is a whole new winter wardrobe to buy and for some strange reason, shop keepers won't just give me things - even if I ask nicely. So yesterday I went and interviewed a boss for a second time. Seemed promising but there was the massive problem that my period arrrived the night before and so I turned up grumpy, doped to the gills on drugs and more than a tad irratable. On reflection, it probably wasn't a good idea to answer the question "Why do you want to work for me?" by shouting: "Look, I just bloody DO OK?"
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In Which I Surface
Well, sorry about that. I'd just said my goodbyes, made my peace with the world, settled down in a four-star hotel with a couple of dancing boys and a bottle of baby-oil and awaited the destruction of the planet. It's only NOW when I've surfaced (Sorry again. Took me longer than I thought to get through that lot) that I realised that we're all still here.
Reading about CERN in detail though, I do wonder why we went through all that worry. I mean they'd only turned it on, they aren't colliding ANYTHING for quite a while yet. (Unless there's a slight accident with the bicycles they use for getting round the accelerator, and that's more likely to cause a couple of grazes and bent front forks).
It's rather like switching the kettle on and expecting the house to blow up - you really need to worry when you've switched the electric kettle on, absent-mindedly put it on the gas hob over a pan of simmering water, forgotten the kitchen is made of paper and fire-lighters and gone down the shed to play Tetris. We've all done that...
So to re-iterate: Nothing Happened. More News Later. Oh and nice one CJ. Believed it for a nano-second!
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In Which I Say Goodbye
Well I'm not specifically going anywhere but as the world is about to end on Wednesday I thought I'd better leave you with a good exit line. Sorry, have you missed the news? Well, for those of you who aren't up-to-date on particle physics (tsk, tsk. You really should follow such groud-breaking events you know - I mean I manage it even if I do skip over the hard bits involving maths and just think about shoes instead), they will be re-creating the Big Bang in the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) at Cerne in Switzerland. Basically, they're going to make lots and lots of particles whiz round a circular path faster than I can get to Harrods on sale opening day. Then all the atoms will bang into each other and re-create the start of the universe* and we will learn lots and lots of things. Of course, they're not entirely what we'll learn but we confidently hope that we can find Bosun-Higgs particles which have been proved theoretically to exist. ( And will mean that Stephen Hawking** gets a Nobel prize for the paper he wrote years ago hypothesising such events as the particles and that radiation is emitted when black holes collapse. Or are formed - I'm sorry, I skipped a lot of it) But what I may be lightly passing over is the fact that they expect mini black holes to be formed and almost instantly collapsed. Mini black holes? Aren't they incredibly dense and will therefore sink into the centre of the Earth making it unstable and possibly throw us off balance giving us nuclear winters if not imploding us completely? Isn't it rather like just having a minor disaster or a slight apocalypse? Oh well, so long and it's been lovely. I'm not entirely sure that this was what I expected when the soothsayer said I'd die because of a Big Bang but at least I'll be over the Shoe Event Horizon...
*For those of you of an Amercian Creationist persuasion, look away now. ** Don't you just want to know if he whiles away his hours while not thinking doing Davros impressions?
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In Which I Wonder Where It All Went?
Not that I'm complaining of course, but since the blasted virus of the other year which turned out to be M.E. - necessitating 6 weeks off work and a complete turnaround of my social life - I have lost weight. Not that I was anything other than a curvaceous, zaftig sort of woman anyway but I have now gone down at least one dress size and sometimes two depending on shops and frocks and styles. Of course as dress sizes have got bigger over the years anyway I am still a little confused as to what my actual real size is. (You try getting into a vintage 70's size 10 - I tell you if you've got hips, it's an impossibility)* I can get into an American size 8 and fit mostly into UK size 10-12's now but nothing really seems to have changed. I realise my older wardrobe is now quite loose and things I would live on green tea and toast for a few days to get into for that perfect night out now slide easily on. I now buy close-fitting outfits which I would otherwise worry about with nary a second thought and don't worry about taking the clothes off in other than dim lighting and with a Gentleman well-oiled with champagne. But where has it all gone from? The stomach is still no firmly toned smooth, firm layer (blame the disappointments and surgery) and my thighs aren't exactly built for speed but I do still wear short skirts and don't frighten the horses while doing so. The bottom may not be as firmly padded - meaning that skinny jeans are now a new-found joy - and the bosom is still more than a handful which again means that corsetry is still a must. (Although with a few strapless frocks I have to be careful when turning round in case something unexpectedly pops out and has someone's eye out). The cheekbones are a little more prominent but you can't tell me I was actually hamster-faced in the first place. I have lost my appetite a little but through not sat in the office all day I am no longer prone to fighting off boredom by visiting the chocolate machine or the cake trolley or just wandering by the biscuit tin in a spirit of enquiry. And ask a Gentleman whom I Adore and he will tell you that I can quite easily eat up a storm when he is paying AND still have room for brandy and cheese afterwards.
But this is not my worry. The real worry, the panic that has me awake at night (probably adding to the subtle weight-loss regime) is that..... (Brace yourselves, it's a big one) My shoes no longer fit. Yes, I have gone down a shoe size. I mean WTF? You're telling me my feet were FAT? The darling Louboutin now slide around the heels and slip-slop, clip-clop off my feet as do most of the other shoes. I rattle around in the boots and with the four pairs of beautiful be-jewelled satin court shoes** I look like a child playing dressing up in her Mummy's wardrobe. But there is hope. Some of the sandals can be fitted with a tighter application of straps and luckily, the Doc Martens being what they are (i.e a twenty minute struggle to get into them while sat on the floor and cursing) there is no danger of not being able to wear them again. Sadly, I am at a loss as to what to do with majority of the killer heels which make me unable to run for buses, catch trains or walk elegantly without losing a heel in the gutter or it sliding off every fourth step. I mean I can't just abandon them like a basket of un-wanted kittens in the park, but if I do have to replace them all, there is no room to keep 60-odd pairs of shoes just in case my feet get fat again. I suppose I could wear socks with them but I feel what may look cute on a young slip of a thing going for the 50's bobby soxer look would look - quite frankly - mad on an aging Drama Queen. It's no use - I'm going to have to start a shoe museum. And the entry fee can go towards replacing the collection in a smaller size...
*Gentleman, please don't send me photographs of you trying. It's not half as amusing as you think.... ** Sorry, but they were on sale and so I bought them in four colours to match various outfits*** ***Why am I apologising? You're not the man who pays the bills**** **** And no, I don't have a man who pays the bills. It's all me. But if you want to apply for the post, please contact me with photograph.
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In Which A (Media) Star Is Born.
Far be it for me to say that I have the gift of the gab but I appear to be a frequent guest on the local BBC radio these days. I have done many interviews in the run-up to Pride, including the far-too-early- for-a-dramaqueen-who-loves-her-bed 8am slot on the actual day of the festival. Today, I appear to have been one of the usual 'Rent-A-Mouth' people on a panel discussion concerning 'Modern Dilemmas'. (And no, it wasn't the hoary old 'Tits V Kitchen?')
Promising Mummy to be nice to all the other panelists was possibly one of the hardest things I have ever done but in the end we got in famously and apart from - in an old Socliaist sort of way - correcting the Tory when he attempted to tell me that I had 'Proved his Point' there was no real disagreement. And really, it's sort of a no-brainer with some of these dilemmas. You have to do The Right Thing All the time. You have to protect the weak, defend the right of free speech and speak up for injustice. But just occasionally, I want to turn into a frothing mad lefty. And sod the listeners.
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In Which The Times Are A'Changing
Oh what a difference a few days make. Last weekend I was having fun at the festival. Running around backstage, enjoying the hot sun, relaxing with friends, (hopefully doing good and helping out all and sundry) talking to the press - even doing a brief TV interview and ultimately, partying til dawn, missing breakfast and wondering exactly why it seemed a good idea to go to three parties the night before. (Losing the odd member of the entourage along the way, I ended up in a club with just a core of six of us. Two of us left at four am leaving the others to party till dawn. Never saw them again) This weekend is spent in the hell-hole that used to be my home. The kitchen is a shell, everything is packed away and I will be reduced to attempting haute cuisine for ten days or so with just a microwave and toaster. The kitchen equipment is in boxes spread around the house, the diningroom sideboards have been stripped of photographs and carries an assortment of cartons containing crockery and of course, stupidly, I put the booze in a large box underneath the dining table and crammed other boxes in and around it.* So, for the next two weeks while they knock down ceilings, build units, plaster walls, re-thread electrics, lay floors and tile worktops, I will be adrift in my own house
I can see I will be making my favourite thing for dinner for a while. Reservations. * But cleverly thinking ahead, I kept the corkscrew in easy reach.
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In Which There Is No Muderin' Done.
Well Harrogate was great fun. There were unfortunately, no murders. Nary a power cut either, necessitating a negligee clad huddle in the lobby under flickering candle light wondering Who Was Missing. There were however, lots of free books, lots of parties and I am living proof that one can live on canapes and wine. Oh and the friendly person in the corner looking like a be-spectacled science teacher was always Jeffrey Deaver . I have had autopsies explained to me by Kathryn Fox with the aid of a cuddly Grommit and a table knife and Tess Gerritson ominously pointed out that a lot of people wake up in the morgue..... Robert Crais quite turned a girl's head despite wearing a hideous tie which he quickly admitted belonged to Harlan Cobden, not him. Stuart Macbride and I shared a smoking habit - he drew something quite silly in my book - and I got mistaken for 'someone in publishing' by an editor who got quite puzzled when he saw a non-crime book in my handbag and asked how much I had paid for it. £6.99, I said. He was quite amazed that I got in under £7k and wondered if I'd like to work for him. Well it was a publishing party and I was wearing killer heels so maybe that's where the confusion came from. All of the authors I met, despite writing stuff that would turn your hair grey*, were throughly nice, friendly, mild-mannered people who were not frightening in the least, despite having to sleep with the light on after reading their books. But Andy McNab was the complete opposite. Nice books, just right for a bit of escapist readin but damned frightening in the flesh. And he nearly broke my hand when he shook it. And I met Simon Theakston. Yes, of Theakston's brewery. Who gave me free beer and is offering a two-year readership up in Masham. I think I'm in love.
*Must book in with Maurice & Stefan to make quite sure I am pristine however
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In Which I don my Deerstalker
I missed out on the festival at Hay-on-Wye this year. It was back in the days of office work and well, after my damp and dreary experience last year and being a Delicate Little Hot-House Flower at the best of times I ddin't make too much of an effort to go. (And frankly sweeties, I could have recreated the experience reading a book while standing in the flower-bed mud in the back terrace these past rainy weeks.) But I am missing the literary life a tad. I want the joy back in my veins of chatting to authors and picking up those lovely, fresh new books and breathing in the smell of them. So this July I am off to Harrogate. The Crime-Writers Festival is a three-day event as part of the larger International Festival. This time there will be no outdoor, windy, cold and rainy marquees to sit in, no rivers of mud to endanger the heels and no chance of catching trenchfoot in the surroundings that rival a rainy Glasto. It is all being held in comfort of the Crown Hotel. And as I have booked into the self-same hotel for the duration, I may even be able to wander down in a froth of satin negligee and take my breakfast Earl Grey while discussing the finer points of autopsy findings with an author or two. I'm also expecting a power cut, a murder or two and possibly a bit of amatuer sleuthin' (as Lord Peter Wimsey might say) With such well-made plans, what could possibly go wrong?
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