Ok, so after a long absence, I am back to have an almighty moan.
I am sooooo sick of men.
Seriously....and I never say that.
Why is it they all seem to think that they are highly qualified in telling us:

• what to wear......mine just informed me that my top was too bright..........
• what to eat........mine informed me, (while I was making a lunch for myself, not him, he had already eaten and wasn't hungry, this lunch was just for me), that the pan was far to hot for what I was doing (he isn't a chef BTW) and when my lunch turned out perfect he said there was too much there for me to eat.........
• what to buy............mine felt that rather then tell me that I look really nice in my new dress(which I do), he would instead comment on my already large clothing collection and dangerous spending habits despite the fact that last night he spent £125.00 on intoxicating himself for the weekend (and I'd like to add that I pay my share of everything, 50% right down the line except for the last two years rent where I was paying 65%....yep 65% because he was a full time student. I didn't mind, but I don't expect to get lectured on how I manage my finaces)...........
• what to do......When I suggested that I may come home with a Take Away, mine informed me that this was a gross waste of money, he didn't approve of my actions and if I got a Take Away I could leave him out of it. So, I did and was met with total jealous whinging and having to share my meal, (which he loved so much he has ordered the same dish ever since)........

....and finally when I asked him to listen to or read a piece of work I had written he refused, as he had already heard the first draft and it would be 'annoying' to hear it again..... despite the fact that I have spent the last three months helping him write personal statements on numerous job applications. Each one is practically the same, I have proof read each and I've helped him re-arrange his potfolio repeatidly, even though it means sorting through the same collection of photos, drawings and plans over and over.

Well, today I am cooking my lunch how I like, spending my money on some pampering, I'm wearing my bright top and I'm going home with a Take Away.

And although it may seem childish to slate your boyfriend/partner/husband to the general public online, believe me , it was completely necassary.

I feel a bit better now............... and also a bit guilty.

To See Or Not To See

……..that is the question.
Just recently I’ve been noticing a change in the world, a shimmering fuzziness engulfing the solid mass, a gentle haze over the universe. “What is this” I ask myself. “Am I finally in tune with the cosmic energies? Am I one with the Earth? Am I seeing the splendid aura of all living things?”
I go with it. I assume a life of on-off nicotine, chocolate and crisp addiction has led me to a state of Karmic enlightenment. I look upon my fellow man as they hectically rush around in their haze free reality, with no idea of the inner peace I feel as I finish my packet of Ready Salted.
“The haze is good” I tell myself. “The haze knows all”.
It’s not until the haze started to impinge on my general day to day enjoyment of reading, drawing, recognising people and not walking into things that I wondered if, in fact, it really was my ally.
And so it came about that I reluctantly took myself to the opticians. I arrived at a gallery of lense frames and optically challenged pouting models, coaxing me into a submissive acceptance of my upcoming geekdom and checked myself in at the counter, adorned with a large variety of cases, chains and saline fluids. A very nice gentleman met me for my appointment and led me into a reassuringly private room where he proceeded to look into my eyes using a large array of shiny contraptions. When he had finished he leant back on his chair, satisfied, and announced “You’re astigmatic”. This, apparently, means that instead of my eyeballs being round they are a bit squished (or possibly something slightly more scientific) and I need glasses. All in all I feel I dealt with this news rather calmly, especially as the optician then strapped and tightened a heavy collection of lenses within a most ridiculous adjustable frame to my face and went onto suggest that I take a stroll around the shop in them. I looked absolutely mortified. Surely he could not mean that I make a total spectacle of myself in public. But he did and so I sheepishly ventured out into the waiting room.
“Well” queried the optician. I was about to shrug my shoulders when it occurred to me that I could see every single pore on his face, the weave in his trousers and my own shocking reflection two metres behind him.
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
There was nothing left for me to do but choose my frames, wait for my glasses and anticipate my entry into nerdsville. As there was no getting away from it I decided to jump right in and wear my glasses straight away. However, from the moment I set foot onto the street I was suddenly aware of the hundreds of eyes staring at me. It was official. I was no longer part of the elite, I was a dweeb, a weed, a boff. I hurried home, determined to stick with my specs, but all the time looking over my shoulder half expecting to see the local trainspotters behind me waving their initiation banners.
Finally I got home and presented myself to my partner. He stared at me for a long while and eventually said, “They really suit you. You look really nice”
Oh Hurray, oh joy, oh rapture. I look really nice! Maybe I’m not a geek after all. Maybe I’m the hot librarian or the sexy school m’am. A chic geek. Ecstatic, I turned to whip off my anorak, tripped over shoe laces, knocked my storm trooper figurine off its shelf and landed next to my pile of sci-fi mags.
Sigh.
Oh well. I hear geeks are in fashion.

Brighton Festival 2006

As Brighton Festival closes its doors, packs up it's tent and drives off into the sunset for a whole year, I can't help but feel a slight melancholy. Year after year, the creative masterminds of this fine planet congregate in the coffee shops, nightclubs and concert halls of Brighton and embark on sharing a little of their genius with us and this year was no exception.
In particular were the sweet vocal harmonies of the un-instrumented chorus, Naked Voices, set in the splendidly lavish 'Spiegeltent' at the Old Stiene. Naked Voices soothed my mood with Old English drinking songs, cool cool Jazz and romantic French Madrigals, all sung in perfect layers.
Admittedly, I was less fond of the Jazzy Bee Bop tunes, but by the sounds of my fellow audience (especially the very loud lady sat next to me, but good on her for her enthusiasm despite my eardrums), I was a minority in this case. The members of Naked Voices showed a genuine passion for their work making them a delight to hear. The perfect brightener to a dreary and cold Saturday afternoon.
Also worth noting, in fact worth shouting about, was the spectacular music/dance extravaganza of Warp Moves at the Brighton Dome.
This explosive collaboration between Warp Record's Plaid and Wayne McGregor of Random Dance set a grin on my face that lasted days. The night opened with the creepy choreography of Darren Johnston’s company Array combined with the deliciously dark sounds of Aphex Twin. His atmospheric 'twin mannequin' dance had my eyes firmly rooted to the stage, lest I miss one eerie and perfectly synchronized move. Just as I was settling into this wonderfully clockwork display, I was interrupted by the warm tones and outrageously clever beat-box talents of Jamie Lidell. Then a quick break and back for a hypnotic session with Plaid and, video artist, Bob Jaroc. All setting the scene nicely for the leaping, bounding Random Dance, building to a precisely woven climatic crescendo of movement.
Rocked my world Warp Moves.
Rocked me like a baby.
Rocked like mountains.
Rocked with pink and white spearmint stripes through and through.