We found a teddy bear in a church. Two young girls, selling their old toys and books for charity. We had stumbled across the church on a Sunday stroll. The sun was high and warm, with a strong coastal breeze. It stood, imposingly large , and we ducked in for the shade. Artists were using it as a gallery for their pieces, displaying mirrored statues and seascapes in an open house. Brighton Festival was in full flow and artists around the city had opened up their houses for the public to see and admire. It felt like we had discovered our own Berlin, our San Francisco on this frigid green isle.
We called him Barnabus. He now sits on the Indian chair. Foraged and assembled by Dan on one of those weekend courses, we found the natural hemp rope for the seat in Pondicherry. It was one of those small shops you only find in India, highly specialised in rope. Every type you could wish for. And we did. We lugged it with us, on our train journeys that lasted days and on dusty, hot roads looking for accommodation. It completed the backpackers look but it was actually necessary. We couldn’t have afforded the same here.
So Barnabus, bought for 50p, sits on the rope seat. He is at home here. A guest, but still, at home.
So we had our first night there. I have woken with a slight headache, ear-ache and sore throat so I am feeling a bit off-balance. But those are caused, as I well know, by a sleepless night. And not our new home in central Brighton. My mother calls it our subterranean control centre. I think of it fondly as our Brighton bunker.
It is underground, under a snazzy hairdressers. It does not appear to catch the sunlight at all, at least I haven’t observed it yet. This is a little troubling as I am a sunseeker. On the day that we moved, we had brilliant, bright blue skies and strong sunlight. The pebble beach was impressively packed for a February weekend. Our little grotto, however, stubbornly retained its cool, dark interior throughout. The light could not penetrate our forces.
This is, however, the only down side of our new home and I do not do it justice by starting off with a negative. It’s a cosy bolthole. The rooms are quite large for a converted flat, with a kitchen and bathroom that are proper sized and not the usual galley jobs you so often get. The living room is the main feature, with wooden parquet floors and an exposed staircase running up one wall to the bedroom and what will soon be our gallery/walk-in-wardrobe above. (for soon, read six months to a year) It is my little slice of Manhattan loft. Except it’s underground and in Brighton.
Last night, after realising that we could not finish the bedroom painting in time, we made a den in the living room. Dan set to rearranging the boxes into the second bedroom/study (currently painted a fetching ketchup red with a black concrete floor) so that we could have space for our mattress. And I tried to unpack the kitchen.
I had thought – novice! – that our kitchen had plenty of cupboards. I recall actually remarking on that to the previous owners. How they must have laughed. After unpacking the usual bits and bobs, I unearthed items that cannot easily be categorised: Juicer. Weighing scales. Salad spinner. Mismatched tupperware and slightly mouldy thermos flasks. Joss sticks. Waffle iron. Where the hell are these supposed to live? My cupboards were full. The painted red shelving (soon to be duck egg. See above) was full of random items I had been periodically throwing up there. The cupboards were jammed. And so they remain. In a box, or rather, boxes. Until further notice.
Unperturbed, I continued to make dinner. A simple pesto pasta and salad, I knew I could handle it and the kitchen in its unpacked state would cope too. As soon as the garlic started frying, and the familiar, scent wafted around, it dawned on me that this little cave of ours was our new home. It was ours to keep. I felt a surge of affection for it, and noted that I was very happy. We uncorked our first bottle of champagne. Jazz fm accompanied the rest of my cooking (a less than perfect station but easy listening) and after a few glasses of some very good bubbles, I actually started to feel relaxed.
It didn’t last. I awoke no less than 7 times during the night. The cats did their best to assist my sleeplessness. At about five, Frankie blessed us with a crap. As his litter tray was about four metres away from my head, the stench almost knocked me out. After gently prodding my fiance, he awoke in a trance and set about clearing it up, even remembering to spray sickly room spray, before blindly falling back down onto our mattress. My hero.
After dreaming I had overslept, I awoke at the alarm, feeling as though my eyes had been punched. I looked worse. My hands won for best appearance, however. After three days of stripping wallpaper, sanding walls and decorating, I looked like a dried, crusty shell. In an effort to appear slightly less heinous, I had coated myself in a gradual self-tan the night before. My palms are now a burnt orange, glowing like bizarre beacons of tanning failure. Now I look like a sunburnt shell.
Which would be fine normally. But in the back of my head is the constant glossy-mag mantra that it is only (only!) four months until our wedding day. The run up to this momentous occasion, or so I am told, is supposed to be a focussed, dedicated session in prepping and preening my body, face and hair into The Best Me Ever. This is just not happening. I work 15 hours a day, we have just moved house, which we have foolishly decide to fix up and decorate all by ourselves. I can barely manage to remember we have a wedding and book essential parts of it, let alone ensure that I am drinking green tea and giving myself salt scrubs every five minutes.
Where DO people find the time to read wedding blogs, let alone have such inane lives as to write the things. Who has time to hand-knit nutmeg holders or make sugar-spun fairy wings? And why, if you had that time, would you spend it doing this crap? Suddenly, clever, independent women have turned into southern American cookie-cutter housewives who obsess about hand-crafting their entire weddings. “It’s just one day!’ I feel like screaming. And yet, when I protest, they look at me smugly. Oh yes, they think, you have your wedding your way with no hand-wrapped, hand-made bonbons, and you will FAIL, my friend. And we will win. And in a flash, I realise: this is a competition and I am already losing. What kind of wife wouldn’t dedicate their entire lives to their wedding day? I tremble in fear. Let the games begin.
The Vickers’ report has been praised for highlighting the importance of competition between high street banks. The report suggests it should be easier to switch accounts, via a system which is “free of risk and cost to customers”. It also suggests the industry should be referred for a competition investigation in 2015. What the report does not pay as much attention to is the quality of service offered to retail banking clients. My latest experience with Lloyds TSB highlights the failings of the part-nationalised behemoth of the British high street.
My simple request of the teller today was to perform a BACS transfer to my solicitors. I was informed that whilst transfers via online banking take just three clicks, the service is not available in the branch and I should head back to my office and make the transfer online (of course, if I had £30 to spare, a CHAPS transfer was readily available in branch). “But I need a confirmation” I begged, exasperated by the implications of this revelation. You see, not only is the CHAPS transfer available, it is the primary option offered to those unable to access online banking – such as the elderly, visually impaired, or those without the means to own or operate a computer. In my eyes this amounts to simple profiteering from those in a vulnerable position.
I digress… “Make the transfer from your desk, and come back with a printout of your statement so it can be certified” was the answer. I refused to accept this, and was offered a seat at a customer service desk to log in from the branch. The connection from the antiquated PC was terrible; and IE 6! No wonder everything takes forever. Not only that, but for reasons unknown to the staff member assisting me, the transfer was referred to a verification team. The latest nugget of advice on my screen: “Check back in 72 hours”. I almost cried.
“Luckily”, I thought, “I’m in the branch – my new friend can help me!” Wishful thinking – the customer assistant attempted to dial the number on the screen, which failed because it was a textphone number, and had to refer to an internal directory to find an appropriate contact number. And so it was that from within a branch of Lloyds TSB I sat making small talk with an impatient assistant whilst we were held in a telephone queue for over 15 minutes. The experience speaks for itself. Lloyds TSB, I’ve been loyal to you for over 10 years; I love your ads (“Eliza’s Aria” by Elena Kats-Chernin is fantastic) but our time together is up.
I’ve now moved over to Nationwide who have proven to be friendly, efficient and no-nonsense. The process of migrating my account was simple enough but has taken quite some time. Perhaps Vickers’ intention was simply to encourage people to consider moving. Until they do banks such as Lloyds TSB will continue to grow more complacent in their dominant position, resulting in nothing but a bad deal for the public.
Links
The Vickers’ Report
“Eliza’s Aria” by Elena Kats-Chernin (scroll down, it’s at the bottom)
NationwideI’m sure any music snob will remind me, soundtracks aren’t proper albums. Apparently they succeed on false merits: would you still love the music so much without the memory of the story it accompanied?
Who cares?! I long ago decided against forcing myself to listen to music objectively and I’m happier than ever listening to album after album fully embracing the emotional response I feel before, during and after hitting ‘play’.
And so it is that my next “Back to Discs” album purchase is a soundtrack which I keep on the iPod at all times: Garden State. The movie is fantastic, highly recommended watching. The quirky love story is heart warming, funny and memorable, and the soundtrack not only provides a perfect accompaniment to the film, it stands alone as a wonderful selection of similarly quirky, laid back and emotional tunes. A perfect album for background dinner party music or chilling on the common in the sun. This is also the album and movie which introduced me to The Shins, a unique favourite band of mine, but more on them later.
Purchased from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0006GVJW6
A huge tortoise shell looms below the sparkling figure gently spinning in a slow descent into the packed Royal Albert Hall. The tortoise shell is ripped from the skeletal dome upon which it rests as the “crystal man” reaches the top of the central prop for tonight’s performance of Totem by Cirque du Soleil. “He comes from space to spark life on Earth”, and so it is that 10 florescent, lizard forms jump into life as his glittering body reaches the ground. They dance and jump through the structure, landing with pinpoint accuracy and perfect grace on the bone-like frame. Two of the cast swing on parallel bars incorporated into the frame, their rotations and jumps perfectly coordinated to avoid an unthinkable clash of bodies. The first act ends with four of these lizard beings spinning on the two bars, a feat which blows the minds of the audience of families and Valentines lovers, setting the tone for the evening ahead.
The acts which follow are incredible. A beautifully choreographed trapeze act sees two reluctant lovers fall (pun not intended!) for one another 20 feet above the ground. Their bodies simultaneously repel and support one another as the artists contort into stunning shapes and then violently yet gracefully transition into sequences of jumps and flips. Earlier, 5 Japanese unicyclists had ridden into the arena over a pneumatically animated bridge on to the stage. Whilst balancing, rocking forwards and backwards in perfect time to the music, the girls take bowls from their heads and place them gently on their feet. As the audience hold their breath the bowls are flipped in the air to be caught on the heads of other artists – seemingly impossible and amazing to behold.
This was my first Cirque du Soleil experience and it surpassed all of my expectations. I arrived having seen snippets of past performances on TV and with the expectation that having seen so many stunts and effects in movies, I might be less than impressed with the live experience, a little desensitised even. Not the case. Seeing the rules of physics I am forced to live by so casually manipulated by other living breathing human beings was breath-taking.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the traditions of the circus have not been lost. Time between acts is well filled by clown acts, humorous and brief, where the audience is reminded of the circus’s own history, just as they act out mankind’s evolutionary tale.
Reviews I read before booking Totem, whilst positive, suggested the acts might be seen as repetitive or less than impressive. I can assure you that from the perspective of a Cirque du Soleil first-timer, this was not my experience. I can only assume that these reviewers are used to better (possible) or are of that ilk of armchair reviewer, casually complacent about the ease with which a performer should achieve such feats as those on display here. Either way, I walked away smiling, with a resolution to get myself down to the gym…
As a music lover I consume a lot of music. I’m a passionate collector and love the physical formats – CDs, vinyl, tapes. I first ventured into the murky world of downloading music in order to obtain digital copies of music I owned on vinyl in around 2004. I used iTunes, but soon grew weary of the restrictive DRM which saw a large number of purchased rendered useless when I invested in a non-apple portable music player.
I began using an alternative service recommended by a friend which had very good pricing and seemed legitimate. I’ve since been made aware of the fact that the site is not necessarily legitimate. This concerns me deeply and so I’ve undertaken to remove all the music I’ve purchased from this site from my library. As such I’m going to have to invest time and money in purchasing the music I will now miss from a guaranteed legitimate source. In my case I’m going to play it very safe, go back to my roots and purchase only physical media from reputable vendors. I hope this will result in a small contribution to the recovery of the music stores which we’ve seen suffer greatly over the past few years, help to compensate the artists who are struggling as the music industry looks for ways to adapt to the digital world, and finally ease my conscience. I’ll update this blog with progress in due course – a nice catalyst I think for me to share some of my music tastes with the world.
So without further ado, my first new purchase:
Kings of Convenience – Riot on an Empty Street
Purchased from Amazon: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00026W82U
Since first hearing Kings of Convenience on a mix-tape my sister made for me back around the time of my European road trip in 2005 I’ve grown to love their laid-back vocal layering and fresh approach to song writing. Erlend Oye has a great talent in particular, his solo work being high on my list for later purchases!
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Update: http://pro-music.org/Content/GetMusicOnline/OnlineStores.php is a useful page for locating legal download sites.
One week on from the riots and vandalism which turned London on its head, and figures from across the political spectrum are scrambling to offer their explanations for the disruptions. Miliband & Cameron are busy drawing battle lines in the political tussle for public favour post-riots; meanwhile the Police are continuing to plough resources into the effort to bring those who looted to justice. It can’t be easy: Cameron’s untimely and ill-conceived criticism of the police – who have suffered the recent loss of not one but two commissioners and who are operating in the shadow of bad press from previous protest responses as well as impending cuts – has distracted the upper echelons from the task at hand.
It is all too predictable, as is the response across the media and from the public. The nation is full of opinions: was it the fault of the bankers, the welfare state, the parents, racial tension? It’s none of those according to David Starkey whose outrageous appearance on Newsnight left a very clear impression of his opinion: it is that most contagious of afflictions, blackness, which is to blame! Read about the interview here or here.
As a long time lover of hiphop music and urban culture I stand as one among hundreds of thousands of arguments against Starkey’s rant. Not that it matters – the concept is so fundamentally perverse that his opinions can safely be dismissed long before we reach for counter-examples. To fail to engage is dangerous however – the fact of the matter is that David Starkey is not alone in his stance and his poisonous words, whilst offensive to the enlightened majority, will resonate with a significant minority across the UK. So, props to Owen Jones for putting up a fight…
I can’t even begin to fathom how such an ill informed idiot ends up being given a platform for such a tirade on national television. I just hope the BBC were blissfully unaware of his unhinged bigotry when they set the cameras rolling.