I stood behind that very nice man Adrian Chiles in the lunch queue earlier. He was wearing knee-length shorts. I was wearing a shirt dress.
Capsule living
I refer to my flat as the egg because it’s small but perfectly formed, but this is the real thing, almost: a beautifully aerodynamic mobile home of which any chick could be proud (sorry):

Read the full story over at Inhabitat.
Fitness, fatness, and other f words
I’m in the middle of a six-week programme with a personal trainer at my workplace gym, but last week I read Lessons from the Fat-O-Sphere: Quit Dieting and Declare a Truce with Your Body by Kate Harding and Marianne Kirby, and I agreed so vehemently with most of what it says that, even though I am not and have never been on a diet (I like cheese too much ever to consider a world in which I couldn’t eat as much of it as I like), I found myself reluctant to go back to the gym, even though I enjoy it, because it felt like giving in to the body fascists.
Nuts, I know. And I did go back, yesterday, and enjoyed it as much as ever. And I don’t think it’s any saner to deliberately gain or keep weight than it is to try and lose it (though having read the book, I don’t think it’s any madder, either).
It’s a great book, by the way, and I don’t think you have to be fat or on a diet to get a lot from it. I like my round bottom very much, but I had started to feel a bit self-conscious about getting naked in the changing rooms in front of the skinny twentysomethings (and thirtysomethings, and fortysomethings) who are the biggest users of the gym. Yesterday, for the first time, I happily undressed without caring who was looking (not, of course, that anybody was). It may not be a gym bunny’s bottom, but it’s mine and if it weren’t round, all my clothes would fall off.
I am all about liking yourself the way you are, in any case. For a bit, I thought I wanted to get the gap between my two front teeth fixed, but this postcard, sent in to the always-wonderful PostSecret, convinced me otherwise:

And they’re away!
A thrilling start to the new Championship season as Palace thunder to a 1-1 draw with Plymouth. Sigh.
Still, this leaves us in ninth place, thanks to our early alphabetical position. This might be the highest we get all season, so make the most of it!
Lilies
I can perceive intellectually that lilies are attractive; I just can’t bring myself to believe it in my heart. The problem is one of association. Just as meeting a lovely Nigel can convince you that it’s a nice name when it plainly isn’t, lilies’ ability to give me an instantaneous, powerful and lasting headache prevents me from appreciating their aesthetic charms.
That this is a minority opinion is borne out by the two – two! – women who separately got on to my train this evening carrying large bunches of lilies. The first landed at the other end of the carriage, but the second came and sat next to me. The journey only takes ten minutes, but I knew that was long enough, so I got up and perched myself close to the door, breathing fresh air for as long as I possibly could before it slid shut.
I felt a bit bad for the woman. I wanted to explain, but my bad feeling for the woman was trumped by my wish not to have people thinking I was a madwoman on a crowded commuter train.
Fortunately, as I was leaving the train I caught a potent whiff of essence of male armpit, which put all thoughts of lilies – which put, in fact, all thoughts – immediately out of my mind.
Paris photo, and a miniature railway
Here is my photo of Paris in the Schmapp Guide:
http://www.schmap.com/paris/tours_tour1/p=7992/i=7992_110.jpg
I notice they didn’t straighten it out. Never mind.
We’ve just got back from a wedding somewhere in deepest Sussex: I didn’t concentrate too hard on where it was precisely, because my dad was driving and my beloved was navigating, so my mother and I sat in the back and ignored the road.
Anyway. The wedding was lovely, as weddings are, and especially lovely because the couple in question had fought for years to be allowed to live in the same country, and spent many months apart over that time. I don ‘t know how they did it, but I’m so pleased for them now they have overcome every last bit of red tape and can get on with normal life like the rest of us.
But really, I wanted to tell you about the miniature railway which we took a damp ride on in between the service and the reception. The wedding was held at Bolebroke Castle, which is an attractively rundown sort of stately home (I wouldn’t really call it a castle: no turrets) set in rolling grounds, with lakes and bowers aplenty, and the aforementioned miniature railway which, the railwayman told us, runs for some three miles into the surrounding countryside, though most of the line is only open to members of the associated club (if you’re keen, you can find out how to join here).
The route we took ran around the side of a lake, over a bridge, through a tunnel and alongside an enormous uprooted tree which must have shaken the castle”s foundations when it fell (perhaps that was the reason for the leaking roof which dripped into the main hall during our meal).
It started to rain as we arrived at the departure point, and got a bit heavier as we started out, but since we had a two-year-old boy in our party we persevered, and it was well worth it. The ride takes under ten minutes, but it’s very picturesque and mildly thrilling in a very tame funfair ride sort of a way. Our party consisted of self, beloved, parents (mine), an old school friend, her husband and their offspring; said two-year-old. In our cocktail dresses and suits, and clasping glasses of champagne, we probably weren’t a typical group of passengers, but the taciturn operator of the train took it all in his stride.
I’m not sure I’d suggest a trip into Sussex just for the railway, but it’s just up the road from the Ashdown forest, where you can play Poohsticks on the original Poohsticks bridge, and the surrounding villages are acceptably pretty, so if you’re in the area, you could do worse than to drop in. Accompanying child not essential, but you might feel a bit less silly clambering on to the tiny train if you have one with you.
Bolebroke Castle, incidentally, is where Henry VIII met Anne Boleyn. We all decided this should be interpreted as a good omen for the marriage.
Smug
I think today might have been my highest-achieving day ever. This morning I got up and made Glamorgan sausages, washed up, and cleaned the kitchen; all before I left for work. At work, I did loads of work. At lunchtime I went to the bank and paid in a cheque, and went to Morrison’s and bought toothpaste, tissues, a mixing bowl, cling film, teabags and a tray for collecting rain water*, which list constitutes everything I needed and didn’t have in my egg. Then I went back to the office and did loads more work, before zooming off to the gym, and finally home for the sausages. Now I am heating up the remains of Sunday’s apple crumble and thinking about how grown-up I am.
It could only have been improved had I remembered to get travel insurance for our Norwegian fjord cruise next month, and to ring up and renew my library book. But you can’t have everything. It leaves me with something to achieve tomorrow.
* Congratulate me, please: I am the proud new mother of a Sarracenia flava, which in return for a constant supply of rain water promises to rid me forever of flying beasties and similar horrors.
Newspapers
I’ve found myself ignoring the papers for the last couple of weeks, initially because I found the lurid coverage of Michael Jackson’s death distasteful, and then because I started to realise that I find most newspaper journalism distasteful. In Dublin a couple of months ago I picked up a copy of the Irish version of the Daily Mirror, which was almost identical to the UK edition except that the celebrity gossip pages on the inside were all about people I’d never heard of. But reading them, I noticed that the stories about Brian O’Driscoll and Amy Huberman have a very different slant from the ones we get over here about Jordan and Peter Andre. The Irish celebrities were granted respect and admiration – not quite in the cloying tones of Hello magazine, but with an underlying assumption that they were decent people who deserved their success. It was sweet and refreshing and I enjoyed it.
Contrast that with the snide attitude of the UK tabs, whose bile and bitterness is barely concealed whenever they have the opportunity to publish a story (or, more usually, a non-story) about one of our home grown celebs. Beware the pop star or soap actor who flashes some thigh as she steps out of a car, or goes to a party and – the horror – gets a bit drunk; for she (and it will almost always be she) will face the chastisement of our morally spotless guardians of the press the next day. It sunk to an especial low this week with a camera thrust down the modest cleavage of 19-year-old Hermione Granger Emma Watson as she battled with inclement weather at the Harry Potter premiere in Leicester Square. Really, is that the best we can do? It makes me wish there were a heaven so that the photographer who took that shot could line up with the 3am girls, the showbiz editors and every columnist ever and be asked to account for their actions at the ends of their lives.
St Peter: And what did you do?
Columnist: Well, I…sneered. And called people bad mothers, and drew attention to their weight gains.
St. Peter: Hmm. Anything else?
Columnist: I, I…well, I used my column to transfer small gripes and personal feuds onto the national stage.
<thunder, lightning bolt, columnist is never seen again>
But we all know that the gutter press is hateful. What I find more objectionable is the scarcely-concealed attempts of the “quality” papers to bump up their readership by focusing almost exclusively on sport and scandal. The MPs’ expenses row went on for six weeks longer than was necessary or interesting, and now the Guardian looks to be attempting to emulate the Telegraph’s success by creating a jumped-up nonstory over the News of the World’s attempts to bug the mobile phones of, well, just about anyone who sprung to mind. Now, I bow to no-one in my distaste for the way the NOTW conducts almost all of its affairs and I agree that it’s very much Not OK to bug people’s phones without their knowledge and for no demonstrable reason except to gather dirt. But of all the things which happened in the world this week, is that really the one we need to know about the most?
Of course, everybody gets their news on the internet now, so newspapers have had to start shouting and campaigning and resorting to whatever tricks they can concoct in order to shift copies. But I feel the loss of a time when the newspapers told me the news, and did it without feeling the need to pronounce on the character and motivations of everybody they report upon.
Plus, you know, journalists are the worst people in the world, so it’s hard to read their hectoring with any level of seriousness.
In other news
Apologies for the long silence. I have been getting to grips with my new job; which doesn’t give me much time for thinking, let alone writing. I’ve got a nerdy-obsessive Michael Jackson post fermenting, but in the meantime here are a couple of my highlights of the last few weeks, presented in the style of a tabloid newspaper.
SPOOK
Last night I went to a Ghostbusters-themed comedy night, to celebrate 25 years since the original film’s release. I know what you’re thinking – and, well OK, you’re right; but it was still lots of fun. The highlight was a passionate, witty and informative set from Paul Gannon, who is a bigger fan than I have ever been, and from whom I learned the following new facts:
- The follow-up cartoon was called “The Real Ghostbusters” because a company called Filmation (makers of Masters of the Universe, among other things) had sometime in the 1970s produced eight episodes of a truly awful live action TV show with the name “Ghostbusters”. When the film was being made they threatened to sue, but they agreed in the end to allow the film-makers to use the name so long as they (Filmation) retained the rights to use the title for any future animated series. So when the film was turned into a cartoon, they had to give it a new name.
- The scenes between Pete Venkman and Dana Barrett in Dana’s apartment were all improvised by Bill Murray and Sigourney Weaver.
- There is Ghostbusters porn. It isn’t very sexy, but it’s fabulously funny (he had a selection of clips for our viewing pleasure).
UKE
I am now a world record-holder (along with 850 others).
DUKE (grant me literal poetic license on that one, please)
We went to see Bobby McFerrin at the Royal Festival Hall as part of Ornette Coleman’s Meltdown. I am devoutly atheist, but the closest I’ve come to believing in something higher than humankind is when I watch him perform. It’s just insanely brilliant:
PUKE
I have seen Jeremy Clarkson twice in the last fortnight.

