Secrets and Lies by Mike Leigh is one of my favourite films: one of those I can watch every single time it’s shown on TV (there are a few others that never cease to delight me). It’s wonderful: funny, profound, heartbreaking, delicate. The acting is superb. You care deeply for the characters: they are real people with real emotions.
It’s the way Mike Leigh develops his projects: he chooses a subject; selects a handful of actors and tells them to go out there and work out their characters. The scripts evolve through research and improvisation. Very often the actors don’t know what the others are actually playing. In Vera Drake, for instance, only Imelda Staunton, who plays the title role, knew that her character was an abortionist, so when the police come to arrest her the look of utter horror on the faces of the other characters is absolutely genuine.
So, considering what gems Mike Leigh can create (there were also Abigail’s Party and Nuts in May, among others), what was it my partner and I saw last night at the National Theatre? What was that lightweight, banal, lazy, superficial, cliché-ridden play? We bought our tickets ages ago; at the time, of course, no one knew what the play was about – not even Mike Leigh himself. It was announced as “A New Play by Mike Leigh” and it sold out within minutes because… well, because of what I said above. We all trusted him to produce something exhilarating.
It now has a title – it’s called Two Thousand Years – but it’s not worth seeing. It was fascinating while it was a mystery. Now it’s as interesting as listening to a trivial conversation at a party.
Some critics are already saying it deserves to transfer to the West End, after its run at the NT (btw, if you hate E M Forster and love this play I can't be your best friend; don't bother) : it makes me wonder whether we saw the same play. But, then, I didn’t like David Hare’s Amy’s View and Alan Bennett’s The History Boys either (to name but two), and they were hailed as masterpieces.
A slap to Mike Leigh for disappointing us!
Sunday, 18 September 2005
Friday, 16 September 2005
Is this your idea of fun?
I love animals. That, as I wrote in a recent post, doesn’t necessarily make me a better person, but the people I saw the other night on the TV are evil.
I wouldn’t have deliberately chosen to watch a revolting programme about taxidermists, but it was very late and the choice was between that Open University programme about autism, which I’ve seen so many times, on BBC2, or a hockey match on Channel Five. So I chose the one where horrible, macho men and women (women can be macho too) were shown shooting innocent creatures just for fun, just to skin and mount them in weird, so-called “natural” poses.
I’d never asked myself where taxidermists got their animals from; I’d certainly never thought they actually killed them themselves, but it seems that most of them do, at least in America. The taxidermists interviewed for that programme were all American and were planning to compete in the World Championship.
One woman was looking for a coyote. A man went to Africa and shot a beautiful leopard. He insisted on being photographed with his foot on it, like in the bad old days of big game hunting. Laughing, he said, “We got to have a little bit of fun.” He was wearing a necklace from which hung fingers, ears, testicles that had belonged to a monkey he’d previously shot too. Another man had killed a curlew and had some problem balancing it on the stand once he’d stuffed it. One taxidermist was accompanied by his 9-year-old daughter, who kept saying, looking at the corpse of a lovely deer lying in the snow, “Cool!” As her father was removing the animal’s heart, all she could say was, “Cool!” She had herself shot another deer and was going to mount it herself.
One of those barbarians summed up their philosophy, “I get pleasure from taking something lifeless and bringing it back to life.” Lifeless? Lifeless! It wasn’t lifeless until you killed it!
I was reminded of what I’d seen, at the meeting of the Residents’ Association, the other night: one of the members is a young man whose flat is full of bits of dead animals, some killed by him. There used to be two fox tails hanging from the curtain rail (he’s now removed them). He proudly showed us a stuffed cat sitting on a chair. It made my skin crawl. I expect he belongs to the Countryside Alliance and opposes the ban on hunting with dogs. He seems a nice young man otherwise, but I feel I’m not even from the same planet.
I know a slap is inadequate. What else can I do?
I wouldn’t have deliberately chosen to watch a revolting programme about taxidermists, but it was very late and the choice was between that Open University programme about autism, which I’ve seen so many times, on BBC2, or a hockey match on Channel Five. So I chose the one where horrible, macho men and women (women can be macho too) were shown shooting innocent creatures just for fun, just to skin and mount them in weird, so-called “natural” poses.
I’d never asked myself where taxidermists got their animals from; I’d certainly never thought they actually killed them themselves, but it seems that most of them do, at least in America. The taxidermists interviewed for that programme were all American and were planning to compete in the World Championship.
One woman was looking for a coyote. A man went to Africa and shot a beautiful leopard. He insisted on being photographed with his foot on it, like in the bad old days of big game hunting. Laughing, he said, “We got to have a little bit of fun.” He was wearing a necklace from which hung fingers, ears, testicles that had belonged to a monkey he’d previously shot too. Another man had killed a curlew and had some problem balancing it on the stand once he’d stuffed it. One taxidermist was accompanied by his 9-year-old daughter, who kept saying, looking at the corpse of a lovely deer lying in the snow, “Cool!” As her father was removing the animal’s heart, all she could say was, “Cool!” She had herself shot another deer and was going to mount it herself.
One of those barbarians summed up their philosophy, “I get pleasure from taking something lifeless and bringing it back to life.” Lifeless? Lifeless! It wasn’t lifeless until you killed it!
I was reminded of what I’d seen, at the meeting of the Residents’ Association, the other night: one of the members is a young man whose flat is full of bits of dead animals, some killed by him. There used to be two fox tails hanging from the curtain rail (he’s now removed them). He proudly showed us a stuffed cat sitting on a chair. It made my skin crawl. I expect he belongs to the Countryside Alliance and opposes the ban on hunting with dogs. He seems a nice young man otherwise, but I feel I’m not even from the same planet.
I know a slap is inadequate. What else can I do?
Tuesday, 13 September 2005
On yer bike!
I have a folding bicycle. I bought it on eBay last year. I don’t know why I got it since I’m scared of using it on the roads and riding on the pavement is not allowed. I sometimes think I acquire things just to see if my minute flat can accommodate them. And to my amazement it usually does. So this lovely silver bike, which I hardly ever fold or use, sits in my tiny corridor, getting dusty and glaring at me when I go past. Four times I inflated the tyres this summer, with the intention of taking the cute machine out, but I got too busy and, anyway, I couldn’t run the risk of having an accident and breaking my arm, for instance, so the tyres are once again flat.
I used to have another bike (I love bikes, what can I do?). I sold it to our head porter. It was also foldable, but it had a tendency to collapse from under you without warning. Not a good thing in a bike. I was going to try and flog it to the owner of a bike shop, who said he might take it on a sale or return basis, when the porter expressed an interest in it. He offered me a reasonable price for it so he took it away. I couldn’t swear I didn’t half hope the bike would cause him an injury – there’s bad blood between us. In fact, he wanted it for one of his daughters. I think she’s still alive.
Since the events in July, we keep seeing ads on the TV about how cycling is enjoyable and good for you. A lot of folks have abandoned public transport and cycle to work every day. London roads are incredibly dangerous and sometimes cyclists are part of the problem. You know what they’re like: they don’t care about regulations; traffic lights don’t apply to them. I have yet to see a cyclist stopping at a light and waiting there patiently for it to turn green: they always zoom through. As a pedestrian, it really annoys me and I probably should slap them, but I have a nagging feeling I would do the same if I ever took my bike out – which I don’t.
We’ve just had a meeting with the managing agents of the block of flats I live in (my partner and I belong to the Residents’ Association’s Committee) and the question of where to put our bikes came up. Bikes are not allowed in the communal parts, of course, and there’s currently nowhere they can be parked, so most residents keep them in their flats (see, I’m not the only one). But, a little while ago, the managing agents threatened to ban them from everywhere. They said one wouldn’t be able to even cross the communal parts carrying or pushing one’s bike, in case it damaged the walls or something. The lifts shouldn’t be used either in case the wall covering of those lifts got scratched. Outraged, we asked them to find a space to put racks in. Somewhere secure and preferably protected from the elements. They said they would think about it.
I have to slap them for looking at the problem the wrong way:
1) you allow and even encourage people to own bikes, because they’re good for the environment, for health, etc.
2) you create a space for them to keep those bikes
3) then, and only then, you worry about the potential damage to the building and find reasonable solutions to the problem
Who gives more importance to a wall covering than to people’s health or the environment? Slap!
I used to have another bike (I love bikes, what can I do?). I sold it to our head porter. It was also foldable, but it had a tendency to collapse from under you without warning. Not a good thing in a bike. I was going to try and flog it to the owner of a bike shop, who said he might take it on a sale or return basis, when the porter expressed an interest in it. He offered me a reasonable price for it so he took it away. I couldn’t swear I didn’t half hope the bike would cause him an injury – there’s bad blood between us. In fact, he wanted it for one of his daughters. I think she’s still alive.
Since the events in July, we keep seeing ads on the TV about how cycling is enjoyable and good for you. A lot of folks have abandoned public transport and cycle to work every day. London roads are incredibly dangerous and sometimes cyclists are part of the problem. You know what they’re like: they don’t care about regulations; traffic lights don’t apply to them. I have yet to see a cyclist stopping at a light and waiting there patiently for it to turn green: they always zoom through. As a pedestrian, it really annoys me and I probably should slap them, but I have a nagging feeling I would do the same if I ever took my bike out – which I don’t.
We’ve just had a meeting with the managing agents of the block of flats I live in (my partner and I belong to the Residents’ Association’s Committee) and the question of where to put our bikes came up. Bikes are not allowed in the communal parts, of course, and there’s currently nowhere they can be parked, so most residents keep them in their flats (see, I’m not the only one). But, a little while ago, the managing agents threatened to ban them from everywhere. They said one wouldn’t be able to even cross the communal parts carrying or pushing one’s bike, in case it damaged the walls or something. The lifts shouldn’t be used either in case the wall covering of those lifts got scratched. Outraged, we asked them to find a space to put racks in. Somewhere secure and preferably protected from the elements. They said they would think about it.
I have to slap them for looking at the problem the wrong way:
1) you allow and even encourage people to own bikes, because they’re good for the environment, for health, etc.
2) you create a space for them to keep those bikes
3) then, and only then, you worry about the potential damage to the building and find reasonable solutions to the problem
Who gives more importance to a wall covering than to people’s health or the environment? Slap!
Saturday, 10 September 2005
Disleksia doezn’t eggsist
I watched a fascinating programme the other night – about poor readers. I don’t know why I’m so interested in such topics since I don’t have children and I managed to escape being a teacher, but I am. (I know lots about autism too, for instance: there’s this Open University programme that’s on at 3am from time to time; I keep catching it – I must have seen at least three times; it’s from the ‘70s and everything's brown.)
Anyway, it’s been known for several years that there is no such thing as dyslexia: all poor readers – low-IQ ones as well as high-IQ ones – suffer from the same minor neurological defect. They said it was like being a bit colour-blind.
Children who’ve been diagnosed as dyslexic are currently given coloured spectacles to wear or put through exercises to improve their coordination, or whatever. But poor reading has nothing to do with poor eyesight or poor coordination, therefore improving those can’t help in any way.
Contrary to what most people think, they said, reading is not a high-level intellectual skill (lots of otherwise mentally handicapped people can read perfectly well). It’s just a question of decoding tiny speech sounds. The bit of the brain that doesn’t work properly is not involved in anything else and has nothing to do with intelligence. We know about that now, thanks to brain scans.
The causes of poor reading can be genetic or environmental: these days, a lot of kids don’t hear spoken language around them. Parents stick them in from of the TV and don’t sing them nursery rhymes, for instance – probably because they don’t have the time or have themselves poor language skills.
At a young age poor reading has no effect on the IQ, but it very rapidly does, because reading, and therefore the learning of new vocabulary, increases the IQ, since vocabulary is an indispensable learning tool. Poor reading leads to poor spelling to poor writing to poor thinking, etc. (What puzzles me, by the way, is how apparently avid readers can be such diabolical spellers and whether that impairs their thought-processes. But that's beside the point.)
Ultimately, those poor spellers/so-called dyslexics give up on the school system and the system gives up on them.
Even the Dyslexia Society in this country acknowledges the scientists' findings. Yet school authorities are resisting the advice of those scientists and continue to do nothing about the problem except sending children to be diagnosed with something that doesn’t exist. Parents are, of course, a big obstacle: they don’t want their kids to be labelled “poor readers” – “dyslexic” sounds so much better. It makes the kids feel “special” too.
I want to slap them all because it only takes eight weeks of intensive tuition to produce amazing results. All they have to do is to follow a pioneering Recovery Programme developed by New Zealand. Only two local authorities in the UK have introduced it – with great success. Shame on the others!
Anyway, it’s been known for several years that there is no such thing as dyslexia: all poor readers – low-IQ ones as well as high-IQ ones – suffer from the same minor neurological defect. They said it was like being a bit colour-blind.
Children who’ve been diagnosed as dyslexic are currently given coloured spectacles to wear or put through exercises to improve their coordination, or whatever. But poor reading has nothing to do with poor eyesight or poor coordination, therefore improving those can’t help in any way.
Contrary to what most people think, they said, reading is not a high-level intellectual skill (lots of otherwise mentally handicapped people can read perfectly well). It’s just a question of decoding tiny speech sounds. The bit of the brain that doesn’t work properly is not involved in anything else and has nothing to do with intelligence. We know about that now, thanks to brain scans.
The causes of poor reading can be genetic or environmental: these days, a lot of kids don’t hear spoken language around them. Parents stick them in from of the TV and don’t sing them nursery rhymes, for instance – probably because they don’t have the time or have themselves poor language skills.
At a young age poor reading has no effect on the IQ, but it very rapidly does, because reading, and therefore the learning of new vocabulary, increases the IQ, since vocabulary is an indispensable learning tool. Poor reading leads to poor spelling to poor writing to poor thinking, etc. (What puzzles me, by the way, is how apparently avid readers can be such diabolical spellers and whether that impairs their thought-processes. But that's beside the point.)
Ultimately, those poor spellers/so-called dyslexics give up on the school system and the system gives up on them.
Even the Dyslexia Society in this country acknowledges the scientists' findings. Yet school authorities are resisting the advice of those scientists and continue to do nothing about the problem except sending children to be diagnosed with something that doesn’t exist. Parents are, of course, a big obstacle: they don’t want their kids to be labelled “poor readers” – “dyslexic” sounds so much better. It makes the kids feel “special” too.
I want to slap them all because it only takes eight weeks of intensive tuition to produce amazing results. All they have to do is to follow a pioneering Recovery Programme developed by New Zealand. Only two local authorities in the UK have introduced it – with great success. Shame on the others!
Thursday, 8 September 2005
Tête à claques II

This is turning into a gallery, or one of those funfair whatchamacallits, where you throw leather balls at people’s heads.
Today’s Tête à claques is Keira Knightley. I shout at the TV whenever she appears. That's a sure sign.
When I heard that she was filming Pride and Prejudice, I thought, “Nah, can’t be! No one would be so stupid! She can’t be playing Lizzie Bennet!” But she is! You’d have to pay me to go and see that film, and, even then, I might find something better to do with my time. The last TV adaptation of P&P was absolutely superb – you know, the one with the wet shirt and the delightful Jennifer Ehle – and I have no intention of spoiling my memory of it with this new rubbishy one.
I can’t stand KK: in profile she looks like a sheep (and that’s being nasty towards sheep) and she can’t act. She’s so wooden. She was appalling in a recent TV remake of Dr Zhivago (there again, who in their right mind would try and replace the wonderful, luminescent Julie Christie?!). I can't believe anyone takes her seriously as an actress.
And the way she “smoulders”… Ugh! Shrimps are not sexy.
Slap slap!
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”
From my desk – to which I am chained all day – I can see a big tree. It’s beautiful and very leafy. Because of it, in summer, I don’t get as much sun as I might if it wasn’t there – but I forgive it.
In spring, I sometimes catch a glimpse of a single bud or leaf suddenly falling down and I know a squirrel is having a feast up there. If I’m lucky I then see the little furry beast leaping among the branches. Delightful!
Today, I saw leaves falling – and no squirrel in sight. Autumn is around the corner.
I'm not Keats; I don’t like autumn (especially in the city). By the time winter arrives I’ve got used to the gloom and I can bear the cold too, but around now I get depressed by the waning of the light.
I’m slapping summer – my favourite season – for always being temperamental here, in London; for never living up to my expectations; for always being my busiest time.
And for not staying around long enough.
In spring, I sometimes catch a glimpse of a single bud or leaf suddenly falling down and I know a squirrel is having a feast up there. If I’m lucky I then see the little furry beast leaping among the branches. Delightful!
Today, I saw leaves falling – and no squirrel in sight. Autumn is around the corner.
I'm not Keats; I don’t like autumn (especially in the city). By the time winter arrives I’ve got used to the gloom and I can bear the cold too, but around now I get depressed by the waning of the light.
I’m slapping summer – my favourite season – for always being temperamental here, in London; for never living up to my expectations; for always being my busiest time.
And for not staying around long enough.
Tuesday, 6 September 2005
Hey, I haven’t had a holiday for a week!
How many holidays do you have a year? One? Two? What about 26? If you’d like to have a week’s holiday every two weeks get a job with the BBC.
I’m currently translating two programmes for BBC Radio: they’re being entered in a competition in Spain, in November. I’ve done this job for 18 years. I used to have two months to do the work; this year, they’ve given me 11 days (I managed to get a two-day extension , but still… it’s crazy).
So I was already going to slap the BBC for drastically reducing my deadline every year. It’s not like those competitions land on the BBC unannounced. They take place every single year, at more or less the same period. It’s like when British Rail comes to a standstill if a flake of snow or a leaf falls on a railway track: it’s winter, for G-d’s sake!; couldn’t you prepare for it? BBC producers have a whole year to select programmes to enter and what do they do? – they wait until the very last minute.
Anyway, I got the scripts, but I also have to translate synopses and biographies for those programmes. Last Friday, I asked the person in charge of supplying me with them to get his ass off his chair and get them for me asap (oh, I so wish I could actually say that!). Rephrase: I left a polite message on his voicemail. He obviously wasn’t there (why should anyone work on a Friday: it’s gonna be the weekend in a minute). There was still no sign of anything yesterday so I left another message and sent him an email. Silence. Today I called his boss. Within fifteen minutes, I got an email from the guy, saying “Sorry, I have been on leave for a week.”
What sort of excuse is that?! I’ve been working for a week – for you! You knew I needed that stuff; why couldn’t you get it for me before you went away? Years ago, I practically stopped going on holiday: I worked in a publishing house, where no one else could do my job, which meant I had to think of everything that might need to be done while I was away and do it before I left. It was incredibly stressful.
The BBC guy is never stressed. When he has a week’s holiday coming, he just takes off. I know someone else who works for the BBC. He too has multiple holidays all through the year. I’m telling you: that’s the kind of employer you want.
But you don’t just need to choose the right employer; you also need to work full-time, because, as a freelance, you lose on all counts. When you go away on holiday, not only are you not earning but also you’re using your savings. As for getting paid to have fun, forget it.
Actually, come to think of it, it’s my money they’re using (through the licence).
Slap!
Monday, 5 September 2005
Spammers, be gone!
I've just had three spam comments in quick succession (deleted two of them). I expect there will be more so I'm turning on the word verification function. Please don't let this deter you from commenting and slapping, if you feel like it. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Those random mixes of letters can be a lot of fun.
Those random mixes of letters can be a lot of fun.
Sunday, 4 September 2005
Wow! Thanks!
Would you rather be insulted or patronized?
Some compliments are worse than insults.
I was talking to an acquaintance the other day: she's French too and has lived in the UK for 11 years, i.e. a b***** long time. For years she worked in the language department of a prestigious publishing house in Oxford; she's currently the managing editor of another publishing house in London. You'd think she wouldn't have to prove her credentials as an English speaker any more. Yet, she complains, every time she meets someone new the first thing they say to her is, “Your English is very good!” Then they ask when she's going back to France.
It drives her nuts.
I've lived in the UK for 26 years; before moving here permanently in 1979, I spent two whole years in the country (in 1970 and 1974), not counting long holidays in between. I also studied English at school and at university. I worked as a production editor in a London publishing house for five years. I've been a literary translator for 30 years. Yet, on first meeting me, even those who are aware of my background go, “Your English is very good!”
It drives me nuts.
In 1974, I worked as a dresser at the Aldwych Theatre, which was the London base of the Royal Shakespeare Company. In between costume changes I used to go to the Green Room to chat or read. I remember I was reading The Once and Future King, when a young stagehand I'd known for several years and who probably had never read a whole book in his life came up to me, looked over my shoulder and said, “Wow! You're reading an English book?!” I was speechless. I'd had long conversations with that young man: what language did he think we'd been speaking together? I felt insulted and patronized at the same time. The following day, I handed in my resignation and a few weeks later returned to France. I’d suddenly seen myself as others saw me.
If someone insults you, you can retaliate and insult them back. How do you react when you're being patronized?
Take this older person I know. She's a member of my partner's family; she wants to be friendly, but the last time I had a conversation with her she informed me that “The Jews are really clever, aren't they?” Hmm… “clever”. In what way are we “clever”? If we’re so “clever”, as someone said once, how come six million of us managed to get slaughtered so easily? She means “cunning”, “crafty”, “wily”. She’s being racist and she doesn’t know it. She thinks she’s being nice to me. Thanks, but I don’t need you to reassure me that the Jews are “okay people” – especially not in those terms.
A slap to all patronizing people out there!
Some compliments are worse than insults.
I was talking to an acquaintance the other day: she's French too and has lived in the UK for 11 years, i.e. a b***** long time. For years she worked in the language department of a prestigious publishing house in Oxford; she's currently the managing editor of another publishing house in London. You'd think she wouldn't have to prove her credentials as an English speaker any more. Yet, she complains, every time she meets someone new the first thing they say to her is, “Your English is very good!” Then they ask when she's going back to France.
It drives her nuts.
I've lived in the UK for 26 years; before moving here permanently in 1979, I spent two whole years in the country (in 1970 and 1974), not counting long holidays in between. I also studied English at school and at university. I worked as a production editor in a London publishing house for five years. I've been a literary translator for 30 years. Yet, on first meeting me, even those who are aware of my background go, “Your English is very good!”
It drives me nuts.
In 1974, I worked as a dresser at the Aldwych Theatre, which was the London base of the Royal Shakespeare Company. In between costume changes I used to go to the Green Room to chat or read. I remember I was reading The Once and Future King, when a young stagehand I'd known for several years and who probably had never read a whole book in his life came up to me, looked over my shoulder and said, “Wow! You're reading an English book?!” I was speechless. I'd had long conversations with that young man: what language did he think we'd been speaking together? I felt insulted and patronized at the same time. The following day, I handed in my resignation and a few weeks later returned to France. I’d suddenly seen myself as others saw me.
If someone insults you, you can retaliate and insult them back. How do you react when you're being patronized?
Take this older person I know. She's a member of my partner's family; she wants to be friendly, but the last time I had a conversation with her she informed me that “The Jews are really clever, aren't they?” Hmm… “clever”. In what way are we “clever”? If we’re so “clever”, as someone said once, how come six million of us managed to get slaughtered so easily? She means “cunning”, “crafty”, “wily”. She’s being racist and she doesn’t know it. She thinks she’s being nice to me. Thanks, but I don’t need you to reassure me that the Jews are “okay people” – especially not in those terms.
A slap to all patronizing people out there!
Friday, 2 September 2005
“I shall be acceptable.”* “No, you won’t!”
Apparently, a third of European cancer patients are turning to alternative therapies.
What on earth can they be thinking of? Do they really believe that a few lotions and potions, or a few massages or whatever are going to be enough to fight cell division gone berserk?
I’ve had cancer: a very rare ocular melanoma (why can’t I be so lucky with the lottery?!) that had taken seven years before revealing itself completely (I’d had badly understood symptoms before) and would have killed me very rapidly (melanoma is the most virulent form of cancer) had I not had drastic treatment for it. Fortunately, I was in the right country at the right time. Had I still been living in France I would be sporting an eye-patch now, but I was able to benefit from a very new treatment: Cyclotron proton therapy. Only three countries in the world offered it and the UK was one of them. After an operation, during which tiny titanium clips were implanted in my eye, I underwent that amazing treatment in a prefab lab, in a small hospital outside Liverpool. The place smelled of new wood and didn’t inspire much confidence. But, here I am, 15 years later, not quite looking like Mr Squeers (touch wood!).
A few days after I came back from Liverpool, I received a phone call from a dear friend. She suggested I might want to go and have some kind of complementary therapy. I told her that I believed in the cutting-edge treatment I’d just had; that I had put all my energies into it and didn’t want to somehow “dilute” it. Wanting to spare her feelings, I didn’t actually tell her I didn’t have money to give to charlatans.
Poor John Diamond, Nigella’s former and better husband, used to rail against those people who kept telling him he wasn’t getting well because he didn’t have complementary therapy, when the doctors had had to remove his tongue and G-d knows what else and he couldn’t speak or taste any of the wonderful dishes his heartless wife (here’s someone who deserves a slap) was cooking for the public. So much of his precious energy was spent fending off those silly people.
Recently, homeopathy was shown to be no better than placebo in curing illnesses. It is thought that patients think it works because they feel they’ve been listened to properly by their homeopath. The results also show that you have to believe in it very strongly to get any effect from it.
I could have believed all I wanted in homeopathy, or Reiki or spiritual healing or whatever, when I was diagnosed with cancer; it wouldn’t have done any good. I would still be dead today. If you have a serious, life-threatening illness, get yourself to the most high-tech establishment you can find, as quickly as you can, because erratic cell division will not respond to a dilution of arsenic or sulphur. And then you can have all the massages you want if it makes you feel good. Or, even better, leave all that (expensive) hokum to the worried well.
A slap to those snake oil peddlers, who cynically take desperate people for a ride and endanger their lives!
* “placebo” in Latin.
What on earth can they be thinking of? Do they really believe that a few lotions and potions, or a few massages or whatever are going to be enough to fight cell division gone berserk?
I’ve had cancer: a very rare ocular melanoma (why can’t I be so lucky with the lottery?!) that had taken seven years before revealing itself completely (I’d had badly understood symptoms before) and would have killed me very rapidly (melanoma is the most virulent form of cancer) had I not had drastic treatment for it. Fortunately, I was in the right country at the right time. Had I still been living in France I would be sporting an eye-patch now, but I was able to benefit from a very new treatment: Cyclotron proton therapy. Only three countries in the world offered it and the UK was one of them. After an operation, during which tiny titanium clips were implanted in my eye, I underwent that amazing treatment in a prefab lab, in a small hospital outside Liverpool. The place smelled of new wood and didn’t inspire much confidence. But, here I am, 15 years later, not quite looking like Mr Squeers (touch wood!).
A few days after I came back from Liverpool, I received a phone call from a dear friend. She suggested I might want to go and have some kind of complementary therapy. I told her that I believed in the cutting-edge treatment I’d just had; that I had put all my energies into it and didn’t want to somehow “dilute” it. Wanting to spare her feelings, I didn’t actually tell her I didn’t have money to give to charlatans.
Poor John Diamond, Nigella’s former and better husband, used to rail against those people who kept telling him he wasn’t getting well because he didn’t have complementary therapy, when the doctors had had to remove his tongue and G-d knows what else and he couldn’t speak or taste any of the wonderful dishes his heartless wife (here’s someone who deserves a slap) was cooking for the public. So much of his precious energy was spent fending off those silly people.
Recently, homeopathy was shown to be no better than placebo in curing illnesses. It is thought that patients think it works because they feel they’ve been listened to properly by their homeopath. The results also show that you have to believe in it very strongly to get any effect from it.
I could have believed all I wanted in homeopathy, or Reiki or spiritual healing or whatever, when I was diagnosed with cancer; it wouldn’t have done any good. I would still be dead today. If you have a serious, life-threatening illness, get yourself to the most high-tech establishment you can find, as quickly as you can, because erratic cell division will not respond to a dilution of arsenic or sulphur. And then you can have all the massages you want if it makes you feel good. Or, even better, leave all that (expensive) hokum to the worried well.
A slap to those snake oil peddlers, who cynically take desperate people for a ride and endanger their lives!
* “placebo” in Latin.
Wednesday, 31 August 2005
Parlez-vous English?
I hear or read something that annoys me and I think, “Here’s my next slap!”, but more often than not something else even more aggravating gets in the way. It happened again today: I knew what I was going to write about and then I looked in my Inbox and found a weekly newsletter I subscribe to. It was from the French magazine ELLE. I like it: every week, it alerts me to interesting online articles and news.
I used to buy ELLE, when I lived in France (I don't now: it’s imported and costs too much). I used it as a study aid when I worked as a French Assistante, back in 1969-70 – well, that’s how I justified charging the schools employing me for the price of the subscription, anyway. No, no, it was useful. I was supposed to teach French civilization and there’s nothing better than newspapers and magazines for that purpose.
So this is what I read:
Une jupe pour jeune lady
Ambiance rétro british chez Didier Parakian
L'éternelle wrap dress
On ne se lasse pas des robes de Diane von Furstenberg.
Collectionnez les galets
India Mahdavi relooke les cendriers
Un club sucré?
Fauchon réinvente le sandwich
See a pattern here?
Only the last item is ok-ish. The word “sandwich” has been part of the French vocabulary for a very long time; so has “club sandwich”, but it looks like the French are now calling it “club”. They do that all the time, the French – dropping words here and there, like life is too short or something... As for the rest of the English interlopers... preposterous!
As Dickens writes in Nicholas Nickleby, French is a “good” language that can stand on its own two feet, as it were. LOL!
I'm not an intransigent purist: I don’t mind a few foreign (for “foreign”, read “English” these days) words here and there, but this is nonsense.
I'm slapping pretentious French people who pepper their speech with pseudo English words. Who do they think they're fooling? Most of them are not even able to order a cup of tea when they travel over here.
C'est un peu too much! (as I heard someone say on the French radio once)
I used to buy ELLE, when I lived in France (I don't now: it’s imported and costs too much). I used it as a study aid when I worked as a French Assistante, back in 1969-70 – well, that’s how I justified charging the schools employing me for the price of the subscription, anyway. No, no, it was useful. I was supposed to teach French civilization and there’s nothing better than newspapers and magazines for that purpose.
So this is what I read:
Une jupe pour jeune lady
Ambiance rétro british chez Didier Parakian
L'éternelle wrap dress
On ne se lasse pas des robes de Diane von Furstenberg.
Collectionnez les galets
India Mahdavi relooke les cendriers
Un club sucré?
Fauchon réinvente le sandwich
See a pattern here?
Only the last item is ok-ish. The word “sandwich” has been part of the French vocabulary for a very long time; so has “club sandwich”, but it looks like the French are now calling it “club”. They do that all the time, the French – dropping words here and there, like life is too short or something... As for the rest of the English interlopers... preposterous!
As Dickens writes in Nicholas Nickleby, French is a “good” language that can stand on its own two feet, as it were. LOL!
'What sort of language do you consider French, sir?'
'How do you mean?' asked Nicholas.
'Do you consider it a good language, sir?' said the collector; 'a pretty language, a sensible language?'
'A pretty language, certainly,' replied Nicholas; 'and as it has a
name for everything, and admits of elegant conversation about
everything, I presume it is a sensible one.'
I'm not an intransigent purist: I don’t mind a few foreign (for “foreign”, read “English” these days) words here and there, but this is nonsense.
I'm slapping pretentious French people who pepper their speech with pseudo English words. Who do they think they're fooling? Most of them are not even able to order a cup of tea when they travel over here.
C'est un peu too much! (as I heard someone say on the French radio once)
Sunday, 28 August 2005
I don't live there any more. Yay!
Today is the first day of the Notting Hill Carnival. How do I know? I heard some very very loud music earlier – coming from Shepherd’s Bush Green, over there (some revellers were on their way to the most pretentious borough in London). How did I know before 1995? The cutlery in my kitchen drawers used to jingle and my huge sash windows used to rattle. For 11 years I lived in one of the buildings that had the largest sound systems attached to them during the Carnival.
My blood ran cold today when I heard that distant booming music. I hated the Carnival. And so did everyone else around me.
Before I moved into that particular building, in a cul-de-sac, I lived, for five years, in one of those small ice-cream-coloured houses in a side street, not on the main Carnival route. It was loud, but bearable and I had no idea what a nightmare it would become for me later.
Those who had lots of money and/or second residences in the country used to pack a bag and leave for the duration – although the risk of being burgled was very high. Those who, like me, had nowhere else to go felt trapped in our infernal homes, surrounded by unimaginably loud music. It was like living in the middle of discotheque for two whole days.
My cat used to be terrified and refuse to come out from under the duvet. I couldn’t do any work since I couldn’t hear myself think (and August has always been my busiest time). I couldn’t watch TV or listen to the radio. All I could do was listen to music I did not want to hear. Once I tried to go out and take part in the fun; I thought, “If you can’t beat them, join them,” but I couldn’t get back in: the swaying throng outside the gates of my building was so thick. I had to wander around for much longer than I’d intended. I felt threatened, frustrated and angry.
And then, in the early '90s, they started selling whistles and the shrill, ear-piercing noise carried on long after the music stopped. It was even worse than before. It was impossible to sleep at all during that weekend.
Over the years, some residents of Notting Hill Gate have asked the Council to specify definite starting and finishing times for the partying, but it’s impossible to try and impose anything on the organisers because they instantly accuse everyone of racism. It's not even possible to reason with them.
So I’m slapping the Notting Hill Carnival for being a nuisance, and only fun for tourists and people from other areas of London, who don’t have to endure that racket and can walk away when they've had enough of the revelry.
My blood ran cold today when I heard that distant booming music. I hated the Carnival. And so did everyone else around me.
Before I moved into that particular building, in a cul-de-sac, I lived, for five years, in one of those small ice-cream-coloured houses in a side street, not on the main Carnival route. It was loud, but bearable and I had no idea what a nightmare it would become for me later.
Those who had lots of money and/or second residences in the country used to pack a bag and leave for the duration – although the risk of being burgled was very high. Those who, like me, had nowhere else to go felt trapped in our infernal homes, surrounded by unimaginably loud music. It was like living in the middle of discotheque for two whole days.
My cat used to be terrified and refuse to come out from under the duvet. I couldn’t do any work since I couldn’t hear myself think (and August has always been my busiest time). I couldn’t watch TV or listen to the radio. All I could do was listen to music I did not want to hear. Once I tried to go out and take part in the fun; I thought, “If you can’t beat them, join them,” but I couldn’t get back in: the swaying throng outside the gates of my building was so thick. I had to wander around for much longer than I’d intended. I felt threatened, frustrated and angry.
And then, in the early '90s, they started selling whistles and the shrill, ear-piercing noise carried on long after the music stopped. It was even worse than before. It was impossible to sleep at all during that weekend.
Over the years, some residents of Notting Hill Gate have asked the Council to specify definite starting and finishing times for the partying, but it’s impossible to try and impose anything on the organisers because they instantly accuse everyone of racism. It's not even possible to reason with them.
So I’m slapping the Notting Hill Carnival for being a nuisance, and only fun for tourists and people from other areas of London, who don’t have to endure that racket and can walk away when they've had enough of the revelry.
Saturday, 27 August 2005
Silence is golden
I was going to write about something else today, but it'll keep and can join the list of stuff I want to gripe about in the near future.
I have a need – born of frustration – that is more pressing.
I need to slap people who rush to comment on what other people have said or written – in real life and on the Web – without making sure they have the back story first. They have a skewed view of the situation and therefore, contrary to what they think, cannot have anything relevant to contribute. And if you have nothing relevant to contribute you should shut up. That’s what I was told when I was a child, anyway. It would save everyone time and energy: one wouldn’t have to tell them where they went wrong, and explain the whys and the wherefores…. And, after they’ve acquired the correct information and been able to look at the whole picture, do they change their minds? Very often they don’t because the harm’s been done: what remains in their heads is what they thought in the first place, however wrong that was.
Think back…. Yes, that time, when so and so…. Exactly! They should have kept quiet instead of shooting their mouths off!
I have a need – born of frustration – that is more pressing.
I need to slap people who rush to comment on what other people have said or written – in real life and on the Web – without making sure they have the back story first. They have a skewed view of the situation and therefore, contrary to what they think, cannot have anything relevant to contribute. And if you have nothing relevant to contribute you should shut up. That’s what I was told when I was a child, anyway. It would save everyone time and energy: one wouldn’t have to tell them where they went wrong, and explain the whys and the wherefores…. And, after they’ve acquired the correct information and been able to look at the whole picture, do they change their minds? Very often they don’t because the harm’s been done: what remains in their heads is what they thought in the first place, however wrong that was.
Think back…. Yes, that time, when so and so…. Exactly! They should have kept quiet instead of shooting their mouths off!
Thursday, 25 August 2005
Puzzle of the Day
I’ve just spent nearly two hours trying to book theatre tickets for the forthcoming Royal Shakespeare Company London season. The National Theatre priority booking forms are always a bit tricky and counter-intuitive, but you need a degree in something (but what?) to fill in the RSC ones.
There was no proper schedule of performances – a calendar with plays clearly marked, just separate blocks of dates for each play (and there were seven of those I wanted to see) so you couldn’t see the “big picture” and there was a risk of booking two plays for the same date.
Then there was the odd weird instruction and you had to rack your brain to try and fathom what on earth they might mean.
Why do they think anyone has the time for this? I suppose the subscription and seats are so expensive that they reckon only wealthy retired people can afford to book anyway. I adore the RSC – they are the reason why I moved to the UK (long story), but when the mailing from them lands on my mat my heart sinks and I get panicky.
And don’t get me started on the fact that they lied to me – and to Dame Judi Dench, which is much worse – when they promised to find a home in London that wouldn’t be a West-End type theatre. So what do they choose as their London base: the Strand Theatre (they can't fool us by renaming it the Novello Theatre? Ha!). Liar, liar, pants on fire!
Slap!
There was no proper schedule of performances – a calendar with plays clearly marked, just separate blocks of dates for each play (and there were seven of those I wanted to see) so you couldn’t see the “big picture” and there was a risk of booking two plays for the same date.
Then there was the odd weird instruction and you had to rack your brain to try and fathom what on earth they might mean.
Why do they think anyone has the time for this? I suppose the subscription and seats are so expensive that they reckon only wealthy retired people can afford to book anyway. I adore the RSC – they are the reason why I moved to the UK (long story), but when the mailing from them lands on my mat my heart sinks and I get panicky.
And don’t get me started on the fact that they lied to me – and to Dame Judi Dench, which is much worse – when they promised to find a home in London that wouldn’t be a West-End type theatre. So what do they choose as their London base: the Strand Theatre (they can't fool us by renaming it the Novello Theatre? Ha!). Liar, liar, pants on fire!
Slap!
Wednesday, 24 August 2005
Hypocrites!
A UK guinea pig farm is closing down in a few months. The owner has had to give in to years of constant and very violent intimidation from animal rights extremists. He and his family were stalked; their premises were broken into and trashed several times; they received death threats, etc. By announcing the closure of their farm, he’s hoping that the body of his mother-in-law will be returned: it was stolen from the local churchyard.
Who uses that kind of tactics to blackmail someone? Who are the criminals here?
I love animals, but I’m not a vegetarian and I cannot be against animal experimentation [addendum: strictly for medical reasons]. A few years ago, I had cancer and my life was saved by proton therapy, which, I’m sure, was tested on animals first. I take thyroxine every day. It’s synthetic and must have been tested on animals. Without it, I couldn’t function properly. I am grateful to the scientists who developed those treatments and to the animals that suffered and lost their lives in the process.
I would never deliberately hurt an animal but faced with a choice between saving an animal or a human being, I know what I would do.
Loving animals doesn’t automatically make you a better person. Hitler was a vegetarian and apparently adored animals. I wonder how many of the mob that made the lives of the farm owners a misery abuse their children in some way. I wonder how many of them would refuse life-saving treatment if they or their nearest and dearest developed a serious illness.
Slap!
Who uses that kind of tactics to blackmail someone? Who are the criminals here?
I love animals, but I’m not a vegetarian and I cannot be against animal experimentation [addendum: strictly for medical reasons]. A few years ago, I had cancer and my life was saved by proton therapy, which, I’m sure, was tested on animals first. I take thyroxine every day. It’s synthetic and must have been tested on animals. Without it, I couldn’t function properly. I am grateful to the scientists who developed those treatments and to the animals that suffered and lost their lives in the process.
I would never deliberately hurt an animal but faced with a choice between saving an animal or a human being, I know what I would do.
Loving animals doesn’t automatically make you a better person. Hitler was a vegetarian and apparently adored animals. I wonder how many of the mob that made the lives of the farm owners a misery abuse their children in some way. I wonder how many of them would refuse life-saving treatment if they or their nearest and dearest developed a serious illness.
Slap!
Monday, 22 August 2005
Just for the fun of it
Who are those people who take pleasure in destroying other people’s property? Who are those people who are, thread by thread, removing the woolly wall covering of the lift in our building? Who are those people who scribbled graffiti on the walls of the prehistoric caves in Lascaux and on the standing stones at Stonehenge so they had to be closed to the public?
Who are those people who slashed my partner’s tyres today? They didn't even stick around to see our reaction. Where's the fun in that?
Who are those people?
They are disgusting, irresponsible vandals. And I'm slapping them all.
Btw. "tyre" is the English English spelling (pneu in French, from the word pneumatique - you may thank me for telling you this one day): I don't want another "nauseous" vs "nauseated" argument. LOL!
Who are those people who slashed my partner’s tyres today? They didn't even stick around to see our reaction. Where's the fun in that?
Who are those people?
They are disgusting, irresponsible vandals. And I'm slapping them all.
Btw. "tyre" is the English English spelling (pneu in French, from the word pneumatique - you may thank me for telling you this one day): I don't want another "nauseous" vs "nauseated" argument. LOL!
Friday, 19 August 2005
It's not fair
I came to Sex and the City late (I came to sex late, but that’s another story). I began watching right at the end, when they started the countdown, because I thought I might have missed something, some kind of TV landmark. I don’t like missing landmarks. I’ve seen lots of them: the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth; the Hungarian uprising; the ’68 Revolution in Paris – I was there for part of it; the First Man on the Moon, etc. etc. Although, SATC can’t possibly be compared to those momentous events, it seemed a shame to miss it completely. So I watched the end, got hooked and then watched all the repeats, which ended the other day.
Most of the time I couldn’t identify with any of those four young women – even if one forgets about the age difference, none of them was like me, but there were things about life that I could easily understand and sympathize with, none more so than in the episode about the shoes.
I know, I know, lots of episodes featured shoes in a prominent role; I mean the one where Carrie goes to a party at a newly-pregnant friend’s – a baby shower. She’s bringing a beautiful present; she’s wearing a very expensive pair of Manolos and she’s asked to leave them at the door. When she wants to go home, she discovers someone else has made off with them and the hostess refuses to give her the money because she says paying that much for a pair of shoes is preposterous. She makes it sound like it’s some kind of crime.
There ensues an interesting reflection on lifestyle choices. Carrie says she’s not married so she hasn’t been the recipient of millions of pressies on the occasion of her wedding; she hasn’t had a child yet so … same thing, yet she’s expected to buy presents for her friends every single time. The only way she manages to get the money for her stolen shoes is by registering at Manolo Blahnik’s, announcing her “marriage to herself” and sending the details of the one present she wants to her friend, who finally gets the message.
I’m not married; I don’t have any children; I don’t have the money to buy Manolos, but over the years, like Carrie, I’ve been expected to furnish other people’s kitchens and supply their kids with toys. The daughter of the woman, for whom I worked full-time for 15 years but who sends me work now only once a year and doesn’t speak to me at all in the interval, is pregnant. Her other daughter has had two kids already and, of course, I bought presents for both babies. Now I’m expected to fork out for the other one. Has Mummy ever given me anything, except stress? Nope!
It’s not the money; it’s the principle of the thing. Oh, and what about mothers who get time off in the workplace? I don’t resent them having it; I resent the fact that women who are not mothers can’t have the same time off for other reasons. As if there was still only one acknowledged role for a woman.
Who’s responsible? Who should I slap?
Most of the time I couldn’t identify with any of those four young women – even if one forgets about the age difference, none of them was like me, but there were things about life that I could easily understand and sympathize with, none more so than in the episode about the shoes.
I know, I know, lots of episodes featured shoes in a prominent role; I mean the one where Carrie goes to a party at a newly-pregnant friend’s – a baby shower. She’s bringing a beautiful present; she’s wearing a very expensive pair of Manolos and she’s asked to leave them at the door. When she wants to go home, she discovers someone else has made off with them and the hostess refuses to give her the money because she says paying that much for a pair of shoes is preposterous. She makes it sound like it’s some kind of crime.
There ensues an interesting reflection on lifestyle choices. Carrie says she’s not married so she hasn’t been the recipient of millions of pressies on the occasion of her wedding; she hasn’t had a child yet so … same thing, yet she’s expected to buy presents for her friends every single time. The only way she manages to get the money for her stolen shoes is by registering at Manolo Blahnik’s, announcing her “marriage to herself” and sending the details of the one present she wants to her friend, who finally gets the message.
I’m not married; I don’t have any children; I don’t have the money to buy Manolos, but over the years, like Carrie, I’ve been expected to furnish other people’s kitchens and supply their kids with toys. The daughter of the woman, for whom I worked full-time for 15 years but who sends me work now only once a year and doesn’t speak to me at all in the interval, is pregnant. Her other daughter has had two kids already and, of course, I bought presents for both babies. Now I’m expected to fork out for the other one. Has Mummy ever given me anything, except stress? Nope!
It’s not the money; it’s the principle of the thing. Oh, and what about mothers who get time off in the workplace? I don’t resent them having it; I resent the fact that women who are not mothers can’t have the same time off for other reasons. As if there was still only one acknowledged role for a woman.
Who’s responsible? Who should I slap?
Wednesday, 17 August 2005
The new invaders
So England is not what it used to be – possibly because, as the old joke goes, the Continent is not “isolated” any more.
France is changing too.
Now that they’ve lost their huge Empire, the Brits have undertaken to colonize huge swathes of the French countryside. They buy dilapidated farmhouses and try to recreate a corner of Britain in the middle of the Dordogne or Normandy. There are areas where ninety per cent of the population is English. Local mayors have to hire interpreters to communicate with townsfolk. Local grocers stock traditional English foodstuff – things like Marmite, Bird’s Custard, Heinz baked beans – as well as French products because the new inhabitants wish to “feel at home”.
The British have always settled down abroad (they invaded Tuscany years ago), but the sort of people who moved countries then were doing so because they wanted a different way of life: they loved the climate, the food, the lifestyle of their countries of choice. Nowadays, it’s different: egged on by endless TV programmes promising a better life somewhere else, people who have only been abroad maybe once in their life, and that on package tours; who cannot speak a word of French and have no intention of learning; who don’t really “like” the French, their culture or their food, up sticks and move to towns and villages, which soon lose their charm and their character.
It’s a preposterous and sad situation. Those people very often have to go back to the UK, their tail between their legs, because they haven’t been able to find work and can’t adjust to a different way of life. Even the ones who manage to stay – what’s going to happen when they get older? Will they want to end their lives in a foreign country, away from their extended family? What about their children? Will they want to remain in France or will they feel resentful towards their parents for uprooting them from their homeland when there was no need?
I think they deserve to be slapped for not doing their homework, for thinking they can just move in and not try to fit in.
I also want to slap my partner, who edits guidebooks with titles like Working and Living in France and therefore encourages more and more Brits to act like colonizers. And myself for checking the French in those same books.
France is changing too.
Now that they’ve lost their huge Empire, the Brits have undertaken to colonize huge swathes of the French countryside. They buy dilapidated farmhouses and try to recreate a corner of Britain in the middle of the Dordogne or Normandy. There are areas where ninety per cent of the population is English. Local mayors have to hire interpreters to communicate with townsfolk. Local grocers stock traditional English foodstuff – things like Marmite, Bird’s Custard, Heinz baked beans – as well as French products because the new inhabitants wish to “feel at home”.
The British have always settled down abroad (they invaded Tuscany years ago), but the sort of people who moved countries then were doing so because they wanted a different way of life: they loved the climate, the food, the lifestyle of their countries of choice. Nowadays, it’s different: egged on by endless TV programmes promising a better life somewhere else, people who have only been abroad maybe once in their life, and that on package tours; who cannot speak a word of French and have no intention of learning; who don’t really “like” the French, their culture or their food, up sticks and move to towns and villages, which soon lose their charm and their character.
It’s a preposterous and sad situation. Those people very often have to go back to the UK, their tail between their legs, because they haven’t been able to find work and can’t adjust to a different way of life. Even the ones who manage to stay – what’s going to happen when they get older? Will they want to end their lives in a foreign country, away from their extended family? What about their children? Will they want to remain in France or will they feel resentful towards their parents for uprooting them from their homeland when there was no need?
I think they deserve to be slapped for not doing their homework, for thinking they can just move in and not try to fit in.
I also want to slap my partner, who edits guidebooks with titles like Working and Living in France and therefore encourages more and more Brits to act like colonizers. And myself for checking the French in those same books.
Tuesday, 16 August 2005
To slap and to un-slap
Some un-slapping is in order: Hammersmith and Fulham Council must have had second thoughts, or someone must have pointed out to them how moronic they'd been when they'd decided to turn off the lovely fountain in King Street (see Fiat aqua! for the whole story), because the fountain is back on again. I can hardly believe it: for once common sense has prevailed. Hooray!
I saw it earlier today; I went close to it and once again felt the benefit of its negative ions. It was late so no little kiddies splashing about, but no doubt they will have fun with it again, and dogs will again try to catch and bite it. It's very simple and beautiful, and it makes me - and everyone else - happy.
I saw it earlier today; I went close to it and once again felt the benefit of its negative ions. It was late so no little kiddies splashing about, but no doubt they will have fun with it again, and dogs will again try to catch and bite it. It's very simple and beautiful, and it makes me - and everyone else - happy.
Sunday, 14 August 2005
A remnant of the past
This afternoon I listened to a BBC Radio 4 programme called “Gardeners’ Question Time”. I don’t have a garden – I’ve never had a garden; I don’t even have a pot plant at the moment, but I love that programme. I started listening to it in 1969, when I first came to this country (I worked as a French Assistante in a school that year) and I’ve never really stopped. The panel of gardeners has changed over the years, but the ambience is still the same: that of a well-mannered meeting in a church hall 40 years ago. The audience ask polite questions about flowers and plants and insects and strange diseases; they are answered politely and with humour; they applaud politely. And so it goes on for half an hour and, at the end of it, I always feel like everything’s all right with the world. For a few minutes, at least.
Yes, it is middle-class. Yes, it is old-fashioned. But England was like that, even in 1979, when I moved here for good, and it was a great place to live. People were more relaxed than in France; you didn’t have to conform like in Paris; the pace was slower; politeness and consideration for others ruled. And now? Now, it’s like everywhere else. It’s rapidly losing its special charm; the thing that made it so different. It’s got tough, coarse, impatient, selfish, heartless somehow. I don’t recognize it and there’s no doubt I wouldn’t have left France if England had been the way it is now in 1979.
Perhaps it’s partly the fault of the Eurostar. I never thought a tunnel would be built under the Channel in my lifetime. I was over the moon when it was finished – I get seasick on boats and I hate flying – but maybe it has accelerated the demise of the England I knew.
So I’m slapping whatever it is that changed England beyond recognition.
Yes, it is middle-class. Yes, it is old-fashioned. But England was like that, even in 1979, when I moved here for good, and it was a great place to live. People were more relaxed than in France; you didn’t have to conform like in Paris; the pace was slower; politeness and consideration for others ruled. And now? Now, it’s like everywhere else. It’s rapidly losing its special charm; the thing that made it so different. It’s got tough, coarse, impatient, selfish, heartless somehow. I don’t recognize it and there’s no doubt I wouldn’t have left France if England had been the way it is now in 1979.
Perhaps it’s partly the fault of the Eurostar. I never thought a tunnel would be built under the Channel in my lifetime. I was over the moon when it was finished – I get seasick on boats and I hate flying – but maybe it has accelerated the demise of the England I knew.
So I’m slapping whatever it is that changed England beyond recognition.
Friday, 12 August 2005
That's it! We're outta here!
I’m dying to slap someone, but I can’t, so, I’m afraid, a lot of other people are going to get slapped in her place.
Three hundred thousand people have been affected by wildcat strikes at the height of the summer holiday rush. British Airways staff have come out in support of sacked in-flight catering staff, egged on by the unions, of course.
Now, the unions have their uses and I remember defending them to my father (who, as a small employer, had had a brush with them), years ago, when I was an idealistic teenager, but they can also be incredibly pig-headed and devoid of common sense. I’ve had experience of it.
In February 1986, I was on tour in Paris. I was working as a technical interpreter on a National Theatre show at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. I was interpreting for the French and British lighting crews and things were not going very well. The main NT man was a woman hater (you should have seen his face when he realized he’d be working with me) and the French guy was an impatient boor. I was caught in the middle and had to resist translating the curses that those two men (who couldn’t have been more different and had taken an instant dislike to each other) were uttering under their breath while I was speaking. Still, the set was being built and the play wouldn’t be played in the dark.
And then, late one night, the day before the technical rehearsal, it all came to a head: a few minutes before midnight the French oaf said something; I translated it; the NT chauvinist pig then answered and I’d just started to translate when the French union representative stepped forward and ordered me to stop. Stunned, I uttered one more word…. and the French lighting crew walked out. Nothing anyone said could make them resume work: it was past midnight; they wanted to be paid overtime, but had been told earlier that they wouldn’t be. I hadn’t been warned – I would have told the British crew and advised them not to go beyond midnight – and they used me as an excuse to strike. I’d never been in that position. It was horrible.
Time was of the essence, as always on such tours – there’s never enough time to do everything and one has to work all hours (we worked 40 hours non-stop once) – and the union rep used it to blackmail the theatre administration. The way he did it was shameful.
The following day, they had a meeting, which lasted most of the morning and afternoon thereby reducing the possibility of getting things right even more, and they resumed work grudgingly in the evening. By some miracle the lighting was fine on the night and, as far as the critics and audience were concerned, the tour was a success.
By the way, the actors, one of whom was Ian McKellen, remained totally unaware of what had happened.
A slap to the unions and their flagrant disregard of common sense and of people’s needs, except those of their members.
Three hundred thousand people have been affected by wildcat strikes at the height of the summer holiday rush. British Airways staff have come out in support of sacked in-flight catering staff, egged on by the unions, of course.
Now, the unions have their uses and I remember defending them to my father (who, as a small employer, had had a brush with them), years ago, when I was an idealistic teenager, but they can also be incredibly pig-headed and devoid of common sense. I’ve had experience of it.
In February 1986, I was on tour in Paris. I was working as a technical interpreter on a National Theatre show at the Théâtre de l’Odéon. I was interpreting for the French and British lighting crews and things were not going very well. The main NT man was a woman hater (you should have seen his face when he realized he’d be working with me) and the French guy was an impatient boor. I was caught in the middle and had to resist translating the curses that those two men (who couldn’t have been more different and had taken an instant dislike to each other) were uttering under their breath while I was speaking. Still, the set was being built and the play wouldn’t be played in the dark.
And then, late one night, the day before the technical rehearsal, it all came to a head: a few minutes before midnight the French oaf said something; I translated it; the NT chauvinist pig then answered and I’d just started to translate when the French union representative stepped forward and ordered me to stop. Stunned, I uttered one more word…. and the French lighting crew walked out. Nothing anyone said could make them resume work: it was past midnight; they wanted to be paid overtime, but had been told earlier that they wouldn’t be. I hadn’t been warned – I would have told the British crew and advised them not to go beyond midnight – and they used me as an excuse to strike. I’d never been in that position. It was horrible.
Time was of the essence, as always on such tours – there’s never enough time to do everything and one has to work all hours (we worked 40 hours non-stop once) – and the union rep used it to blackmail the theatre administration. The way he did it was shameful.
The following day, they had a meeting, which lasted most of the morning and afternoon thereby reducing the possibility of getting things right even more, and they resumed work grudgingly in the evening. By some miracle the lighting was fine on the night and, as far as the critics and audience were concerned, the tour was a success.
By the way, the actors, one of whom was Ian McKellen, remained totally unaware of what had happened.
A slap to the unions and their flagrant disregard of common sense and of people’s needs, except those of their members.
Things should be more considerate
I live in a minute flat.
It’s a studio and the main room is 13 feet and a bit by 11 feet and a bit. I have a bed and a chest of drawers, a large table that serves as a desk, with a large computer, a printer, two great big dictionaries, pens and papers, a filing tray, a clock, and stuff. I also have masses of books and smaller chest of drawers full of documents. And paintings and pictures, although I’ve kept one of the walls completely bare: I read somewhere, years ago, that it made a room look larger. Hmm… I don’t know, but it’s quite possible the room would feel even smaller if all four walls were somehow defined by pictures.
I also have a kitchen the size of a… kitchen cabinet; a bathroom that’s too big in comparison with everything else, and a narrow corridor that I couldn’t do without, since it contains half of my books, some of my clothes, boxes of stuff I shouldn’t be keeping, the cat’s litter tray, and a folding bicycle that’s never folded.
I was never meant to end up in that studio: it used to belong to my partner, but I sold the small flat I had in Notting Hill Gate just before they started shooting that film and then the big flat I bought in Shepherd’s Bush turned out to be … actually, you don’t want to know. It’s a really boring story.
Today, I would like to slap my flat. For being so tiny. For not being expandable (I don’t see why not). For not being up to the job of accommodating me, the cat and my belongings. I'm always very nice to my flat, but it's not that nice to me, and I resent it.
It’s a studio and the main room is 13 feet and a bit by 11 feet and a bit. I have a bed and a chest of drawers, a large table that serves as a desk, with a large computer, a printer, two great big dictionaries, pens and papers, a filing tray, a clock, and stuff. I also have masses of books and smaller chest of drawers full of documents. And paintings and pictures, although I’ve kept one of the walls completely bare: I read somewhere, years ago, that it made a room look larger. Hmm… I don’t know, but it’s quite possible the room would feel even smaller if all four walls were somehow defined by pictures.
I also have a kitchen the size of a… kitchen cabinet; a bathroom that’s too big in comparison with everything else, and a narrow corridor that I couldn’t do without, since it contains half of my books, some of my clothes, boxes of stuff I shouldn’t be keeping, the cat’s litter tray, and a folding bicycle that’s never folded.
I was never meant to end up in that studio: it used to belong to my partner, but I sold the small flat I had in Notting Hill Gate just before they started shooting that film and then the big flat I bought in Shepherd’s Bush turned out to be … actually, you don’t want to know. It’s a really boring story.
Today, I would like to slap my flat. For being so tiny. For not being expandable (I don’t see why not). For not being up to the job of accommodating me, the cat and my belongings. I'm always very nice to my flat, but it's not that nice to me, and I resent it.
Tuesday, 9 August 2005
I don't need to know anything
Location: a shopping precinct in the North of England. Time: afternoon, on a weekday. A woman and a child are approached by two people with clipboards.
Q. Are you this child's mother?
A. Yes.
Q. Why isn't he at school?
A. He needs a pair of shoes.
Q. Can't you go and buy him shoes at the weekend?
A. I've got four kids.
Q. Do you not go out with them at weekends?
A. No.
Asked why she lets her son play truant on Fridays, another mother answers, "He's not missing much. It's only one day, ain't it?"
I watched this programme called Bunking Off, on the TV, last night. It was full of parents who didn't care whether their children got an education or not. They couldn't see any problem with letting their children play truant. They didn't see any need for them to acquire any knowledge whatsoever. There doesn't seem to be any stigma attached to being an ignoramus. Of course, the Brits have always despised intellectuals, but we're not talking higher education here.
I come from a family (and a race) that values education above everything else and I just do not understand that kind of attitude. I also don't understand it when my partner's mother, when asked whether she'd like maybe to do a course in some subject she's interested in, you know, just to pass the time with like-minded people, answers, "I'm old now: I don't need to learn anything any more."
A slap to anyone who sees learning as optional.
Q. Are you this child's mother?
A. Yes.
Q. Why isn't he at school?
A. He needs a pair of shoes.
Q. Can't you go and buy him shoes at the weekend?
A. I've got four kids.
Q. Do you not go out with them at weekends?
A. No.
Asked why she lets her son play truant on Fridays, another mother answers, "He's not missing much. It's only one day, ain't it?"
I watched this programme called Bunking Off, on the TV, last night. It was full of parents who didn't care whether their children got an education or not. They couldn't see any problem with letting their children play truant. They didn't see any need for them to acquire any knowledge whatsoever. There doesn't seem to be any stigma attached to being an ignoramus. Of course, the Brits have always despised intellectuals, but we're not talking higher education here.
I come from a family (and a race) that values education above everything else and I just do not understand that kind of attitude. I also don't understand it when my partner's mother, when asked whether she'd like maybe to do a course in some subject she's interested in, you know, just to pass the time with like-minded people, answers, "I'm old now: I don't need to learn anything any more."
A slap to anyone who sees learning as optional.
Sunday, 7 August 2005
Behind the cyber-mask
A couple of friends I met over the www wondered recently about identity on their interesting blogs: they were so in tune with each other that they even unwittingly gave the same heading to their posts. This has exercised my mind as well for a while.
It’s bothering us because we are genuine, trusting people, who tend to open up readily and reveal fairly intimate details of our lives, and we are worried that others may be taking advantage of our candour.
The Internet has been a boon for those who like to play mind games; who amuse themselves with creating multiple personae with which to mystify others. They claim it’s just a bit of fun and does no harm to anyone. I don’t agree. I like my relationships to be based on truth and trust. Just like in real life, if I’ve been talking to someone for a while, I don’t want them to suddenly slip away and become someone else, and to thumb their nose at me while they’re doing it. I don’t want to be wondering who is hiding behind this or that username, and whether they belong to the same person.
There seems to be a certain type of person who derives pleasure in concealing their true identity.
Today I’m slapping all of their sly and lying faces.
It’s bothering us because we are genuine, trusting people, who tend to open up readily and reveal fairly intimate details of our lives, and we are worried that others may be taking advantage of our candour.
The Internet has been a boon for those who like to play mind games; who amuse themselves with creating multiple personae with which to mystify others. They claim it’s just a bit of fun and does no harm to anyone. I don’t agree. I like my relationships to be based on truth and trust. Just like in real life, if I’ve been talking to someone for a while, I don’t want them to suddenly slip away and become someone else, and to thumb their nose at me while they’re doing it. I don’t want to be wondering who is hiding behind this or that username, and whether they belong to the same person.
There seems to be a certain type of person who derives pleasure in concealing their true identity.
Today I’m slapping all of their sly and lying faces.
Friday, 5 August 2005
Murder is Murder
How do you know when you’re angry? Me, it’s when I start SHOUTING at the radio.
This morning I heard that Tony Blair had unveiled new laws to fight terrorism: foreign fanatics who preach violence in Britain will be kicked out and some radical Islamic groups will be banned. Not before time, I say. Everyone in the Western world is wondering why those people have been allowed to spout such offensive stuff for so long. All in the name of so-called tolerance and multi-culturalism. Problem is, in the UK, that’s synonymous with ignorance and apathy.
Of course, the lawyers are up in arms. “… let’s kill all the lawyers!”, as one of Shakespeare’s characters advocates. I should be concerned about the fate of people who tell me to my face that they want to kill me.Yeah, right!
Anyway, what made me mad as hell was this: a moderate Muslim official was asked his opinion on the new measures. He approved of them, he said, because, as a British-born Muslim, he didn’t want anyone threatening his fellow citizens with suicide bombings. However, he added, he was really worried that it would mean preachers couldn’t support suicide bombers in Israel.
My throat is still sore from shouting. I hardly have the energy to slap him and all who think like him.
This morning I heard that Tony Blair had unveiled new laws to fight terrorism: foreign fanatics who preach violence in Britain will be kicked out and some radical Islamic groups will be banned. Not before time, I say. Everyone in the Western world is wondering why those people have been allowed to spout such offensive stuff for so long. All in the name of so-called tolerance and multi-culturalism. Problem is, in the UK, that’s synonymous with ignorance and apathy.
Of course, the lawyers are up in arms. “… let’s kill all the lawyers!”, as one of Shakespeare’s characters advocates. I should be concerned about the fate of people who tell me to my face that they want to kill me.Yeah, right!
Anyway, what made me mad as hell was this: a moderate Muslim official was asked his opinion on the new measures. He approved of them, he said, because, as a British-born Muslim, he didn’t want anyone threatening his fellow citizens with suicide bombings. However, he added, he was really worried that it would mean preachers couldn’t support suicide bombers in Israel.
My throat is still sore from shouting. I hardly have the energy to slap him and all who think like him.
Wednesday, 3 August 2005
Let us entertain you!
A plane skids on the landing strip and bursts into flames, but, by some miracle, the passengers come out unscathed; thousands of people and animals are dying in Africa; war and strife is going on in several corners of the world… the news is as intense and compulsive as ever, but not enough, it seems, for BBC Radio 4.
It has recently started to trail the news after practically every programme (and some of them are only 30 minutes long). If that wasn’t moronic enough, it's also trying to “hook” us with entertaining pieces of triviality, “… also on PM, find out why the pussycat didn’t come down from the tree…” I’m only slightly exaggerating. And those trailers pop up in the middle of the actual bulletin too, in case, after hearing one piece of bad news too many, we drift away, I suppose.
Have we all become so desensitized that we need to be told, “Don’t worry it’s not all gloom and doom and the usual death and destruction, about which you couldn’t care less any more, there will also be fun stuff, so please listen to our news programme.”?
PM, at 5 p.m. on Radio 4, used to be one of the best, in-depth news programmes anywhere, but it’s slowly turning into fluff.
A slap to the BBC for giving in to the demands of people with an ever-shortening attention span and a slap to us for becoming so insensitive and letting them.
Update (4 Aug): Today they went one step further: they trailed another programme altogether in the middle of the news!
It has recently started to trail the news after practically every programme (and some of them are only 30 minutes long). If that wasn’t moronic enough, it's also trying to “hook” us with entertaining pieces of triviality, “… also on PM, find out why the pussycat didn’t come down from the tree…” I’m only slightly exaggerating. And those trailers pop up in the middle of the actual bulletin too, in case, after hearing one piece of bad news too many, we drift away, I suppose.
Have we all become so desensitized that we need to be told, “Don’t worry it’s not all gloom and doom and the usual death and destruction, about which you couldn’t care less any more, there will also be fun stuff, so please listen to our news programme.”?
PM, at 5 p.m. on Radio 4, used to be one of the best, in-depth news programmes anywhere, but it’s slowly turning into fluff.
A slap to the BBC for giving in to the demands of people with an ever-shortening attention span and a slap to us for becoming so insensitive and letting them.
Update (4 Aug): Today they went one step further: they trailed another programme altogether in the middle of the news!
Monday, 1 August 2005
I despair
There are, I’m told, 400 million porn sites on the Net.
I haven’t got time to write any more because I want to start slapping them all now and that should take a while.
I haven’t got time to write any more because I want to start slapping them all now and that should take a while.
Saturday, 30 July 2005
Oh, not again!
Apparently they’ve now come up with a scented tampon. What a good idea! What we, women, want is to have more chemicals on (or, in this case, in) our bodies. What we also want is for PR companies to make us feel even less confident about said bodies. No wrinkles, no cellulite, no hair, no smell. Back to the little girl thing again. If we look like young girls we have no power and we can be told what to do.
For goodness’ sake, I thought this “intimate deodorant” nonsense had been eradicated 30 years ago. We fought against it and won. It's all part of the anti-feminist backlash. I had already noticed the reappearance on the shelves of Boots and Superdrug of sprays, powders and “towelettes” (MS Word is telling me that’s not a word and is suggesting “omelettes”, “novelettes” and “tweezers” as replacements – thought I should let you know) to be used down there and had bemoaned the fact to myself, but scented tampons! That takes the biscuit! What about toxic shock? Who’s going to sniff those tampons? I don’t want to be crude, but once inserted that’s it, isn’t it? There are already scented panty liners – they’re not as soft as the unscented kind because, just like dye stops towels being soft and absorbent, perfume takes up space in the fibres and makes the material more cardboard-y.
Anyway, apart from underarm deodorant, which is really an essential item if you’re over 13 (I hope the male sales assistants at my local TK Maxx are reading this), there is no need for anything else, and telling women they would feel better (or be more lovable, as I expect the implied message is) if they used scented products of that kind is undermining their confidence and shouldn’t be countenanced.
A slap to whomever (and I’m not even sure it’s a man) decided to tell women again that they “smell”.
For goodness’ sake, I thought this “intimate deodorant” nonsense had been eradicated 30 years ago. We fought against it and won. It's all part of the anti-feminist backlash. I had already noticed the reappearance on the shelves of Boots and Superdrug of sprays, powders and “towelettes” (MS Word is telling me that’s not a word and is suggesting “omelettes”, “novelettes” and “tweezers” as replacements – thought I should let you know) to be used down there and had bemoaned the fact to myself, but scented tampons! That takes the biscuit! What about toxic shock? Who’s going to sniff those tampons? I don’t want to be crude, but once inserted that’s it, isn’t it? There are already scented panty liners – they’re not as soft as the unscented kind because, just like dye stops towels being soft and absorbent, perfume takes up space in the fibres and makes the material more cardboard-y.
Anyway, apart from underarm deodorant, which is really an essential item if you’re over 13 (I hope the male sales assistants at my local TK Maxx are reading this), there is no need for anything else, and telling women they would feel better (or be more lovable, as I expect the implied message is) if they used scented products of that kind is undermining their confidence and shouldn’t be countenanced.
A slap to whomever (and I’m not even sure it’s a man) decided to tell women again that they “smell”.
Thursday, 28 July 2005
Sod's Law and Its Corollary
The first corollary of Sod's Law says: "Anything that is to go wrong will do so at the worst possible moment."
There is nothing truer.
My computer started playing up today, of all days! This is my busiest period of the year and I have a deadline on Monday and then another few thousand words to translate for later. I'd been hibernating for the past three days in order to meet that deadline and today I was going to work as much as I could.
So, of course, I couldn't, because my computer suddenly refused to work properly and threatened to just die, and I had to go to the store and buy a laptop, in a hurry (I will need to buy a new PC a bit later, when mine stops working altogether, which shouldn't be long now, but I will then have the laptop and won't panic so much, well, that's the idea anyway).
I brought the new machine (another b***** machine!) home and had to spend hours setting it up; installing the software I need, creating an Internet connection and what not, and now I'm too mentally drained to do one jot of work.
I've lost an entire day. If I'm lucky I might be able to resume working tomorrow, several hundred pounds sterling lighter. The things one has to do to just stand still! I remember a time- not so long ago really - when I used to write my first drafts in longhand; now when that machine collapses my entire life does too.
A slap to my PC, which couldn't wait another few weeks before scaring me like that. I thought it was my "fwiend".
There is nothing truer.
My computer started playing up today, of all days! This is my busiest period of the year and I have a deadline on Monday and then another few thousand words to translate for later. I'd been hibernating for the past three days in order to meet that deadline and today I was going to work as much as I could.
So, of course, I couldn't, because my computer suddenly refused to work properly and threatened to just die, and I had to go to the store and buy a laptop, in a hurry (I will need to buy a new PC a bit later, when mine stops working altogether, which shouldn't be long now, but I will then have the laptop and won't panic so much, well, that's the idea anyway).
I brought the new machine (another b***** machine!) home and had to spend hours setting it up; installing the software I need, creating an Internet connection and what not, and now I'm too mentally drained to do one jot of work.
I've lost an entire day. If I'm lucky I might be able to resume working tomorrow, several hundred pounds sterling lighter. The things one has to do to just stand still! I remember a time- not so long ago really - when I used to write my first drafts in longhand; now when that machine collapses my entire life does too.
A slap to my PC, which couldn't wait another few weeks before scaring me like that. I thought it was my "fwiend".
Wednesday, 27 July 2005
Sorry, I'm off.
Your country is on the highest terrorist alert ever; you are the Home Secretary; what do you do? Why, you go away on holiday, of course!
I haven’t been on holiday for three years and I’m not even in charge of my country’s security. I once worked for 40 hours running – the people employing me needed the work to be done, I did it. Charles Clarke put off his trip to the States for one day. I’m sure he feels the weight of responsibility; I’m sure he’s very stressed, but, come on, we're going through a very difficult time and we need our leaders here, with us.
It reminds me of what happened in May 1968, when General de Gaulle disappeared for several days in the middle of the crisis. It turned out he’d gone to Germany to visit the French troops based there. Did he go and ask for military support against the striking students and workers? No one really knows. Anyway, he wasn't there on holiday.
I doubt Charles Clarke has gone to ask for military support against the terrorists. He’s just relaxing somewhere.
I’m slapping him for leaving us in our hour of need.
I haven’t been on holiday for three years and I’m not even in charge of my country’s security. I once worked for 40 hours running – the people employing me needed the work to be done, I did it. Charles Clarke put off his trip to the States for one day. I’m sure he feels the weight of responsibility; I’m sure he’s very stressed, but, come on, we're going through a very difficult time and we need our leaders here, with us.
It reminds me of what happened in May 1968, when General de Gaulle disappeared for several days in the middle of the crisis. It turned out he’d gone to Germany to visit the French troops based there. Did he go and ask for military support against the striking students and workers? No one really knows. Anyway, he wasn't there on holiday.
I doubt Charles Clarke has gone to ask for military support against the terrorists. He’s just relaxing somewhere.
I’m slapping him for leaving us in our hour of need.
Monday, 25 July 2005
Don’t call me; I’ll call you!
I was just settling down to do a bit of work. I’d put my phone back on because I thought if I stayed connected to the Net I wouldn’t be able to resist looking at what was out there. So I was just opening the document I wanted to work on when the phone rang. Thinking it was most probably about work, I picked up the receiver. “Hullo!” Silence at the other end. Not a sound. Not a breath, heavy or otherwise. “Hullooooo!” I’m losing patience here. And then a click and a very loud (recorded) voice assaults my ear, “You are the lucky winner of a cruise on the…” I’ll never know where that cruise was going to take me because I slammed the receiver down.
At other times, I get a very remote voice, usually with an accent you could slice with a knife (translation of un accent à couper au couteau; you might as well learn a bit of French while you’re here), asking me whether I’m me. Yes, I am. And whether I want a new kitchen (mine is the size of a shoe box in a flat as big as a cupboard) or change my gas suppliers (I don’t have gas).
I’m on a list somewhere: it says at the top “The following are people you can disturb at any time of the day and offer them stuff”. Probably the electoral roll is such a list, but you can’t not be on it because if you’re not you can’t get a credit card or get a loan or anything. If you’re not on the electoral roll, you’re not a good citizen and no one would want to be that. I don’t see why I should get so much aggravation from it, though.
A slap to those cold callers. There must be other ways to earn a living. I wouldn’t want to have people hang up on me like that all the time. I’d feel crushed after a while. Oh, drat, I’m starting to feel sorry for them now. Quick ... slap!
At other times, I get a very remote voice, usually with an accent you could slice with a knife (translation of un accent à couper au couteau; you might as well learn a bit of French while you’re here), asking me whether I’m me. Yes, I am. And whether I want a new kitchen (mine is the size of a shoe box in a flat as big as a cupboard) or change my gas suppliers (I don’t have gas).
I’m on a list somewhere: it says at the top “The following are people you can disturb at any time of the day and offer them stuff”. Probably the electoral roll is such a list, but you can’t not be on it because if you’re not you can’t get a credit card or get a loan or anything. If you’re not on the electoral roll, you’re not a good citizen and no one would want to be that. I don’t see why I should get so much aggravation from it, though.
A slap to those cold callers. There must be other ways to earn a living. I wouldn’t want to have people hang up on me like that all the time. I’d feel crushed after a while. Oh, drat, I’m starting to feel sorry for them now. Quick ... slap!
Sunday, 24 July 2005
Once again, the onus is on the women
Africa is the continent most affected by HIV/AIDS. Let’s not bother with statistics: the figures are huge. Some of the leaders are in denial: they assert there is no problem in their country. Some of them even deny that the HIV virus causes AIDS. Some of them condone (by not speaking up against them) utterly revolting practices, like that of having sex with an infant (we’re talking a few months old) in order to get cured. Witch doctors are obeyed because they clear the men of all responsibility in the matter.
So, since it’s practically impossible to persuade an African man to have safe sex and use a condom (it’s beneath them, isn’t it?), and it can't be done by force, other strategies have to be employed. In Uganda, for instance, they’re currently giving money to young girls not to have sex. They’re promoting abstinence for women. It might work. One question, though, who are the men going to have sex with, then? And how are they going to be cured of AIDS, since the most favoured remedy is sleeping with a virgin?
Should I slap the ignorant, arrogant, stubborn men? The leaders? What about all of them?
So, since it’s practically impossible to persuade an African man to have safe sex and use a condom (it’s beneath them, isn’t it?), and it can't be done by force, other strategies have to be employed. In Uganda, for instance, they’re currently giving money to young girls not to have sex. They’re promoting abstinence for women. It might work. One question, though, who are the men going to have sex with, then? And how are they going to be cured of AIDS, since the most favoured remedy is sleeping with a virgin?
Should I slap the ignorant, arrogant, stubborn men? The leaders? What about all of them?
Friday, 22 July 2005
Fiat aqua!
It took 18 months to install, at a cost of G-d knows how much, and now it’s going to be switched off for good.
What's that?
A lovely fountain in the piazza facing the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith. Until now that area has been left to its own devices: in the past few years, it was a venue for a French cheese maker and his wonderfully smelly products for a while, until he realized he’d get a better class of customers in Whiteleys, in Bayswater; there was also a German Christmas market two years running, but it poofed off for some reason. So most of the time, it was a vacant space with no soul, and you couldn’t even rollerskate around it. And then, a couple of months ago, a fountain suddenly sprouted out of the ground and the whole place came to life.
It’s a clever design: nothing indicates it's a fountain; water comes out directly through several neatly arranged rows of holes in the ground. What makes it particularly fun is that it’s unpredictable: water shoots out here, there, everywhere or nowhere at all for a few long seconds, and then whoosh!, and you can’t tell where it’s going to be next. During those very hot days we had recently, it’s been a joy to sit at the theatre café terrace and watch little kids and dogs play in and with the fountain. Kids stand there and get drenched and squeal with delight. Dogs frolic all over the place in an attempt to catch the water and bite it. It’s relaxing and fun for onlookers, and you get a feeling of well-being thanks to those negative ions floating about the place.
So why is it going to be turned off? Someone complained that it was dangerous; that kids could get injured if they slipped on the wet ground. Duh! It’s the Diana memorial fountain fiasco all over again. Couldn’t someone foresee this earlier? Children, water, slippery wet ground... what does it conjure up to you? Yes, falls, children crying, angry parents, mayhem!
And yet, why shouldn’t we, adults, oh, and dogs, have the right to enjoy the spectacle of that mini Versailles? The nanny state, they call it. Can’t parents take responsibility for their children and what they do? Why should we all be penalized?
A slap to the Council (I assume it’s the Council that didn’t do its homework properly) and to those parents who need to be told not to let their children play where they might get hurt.
What's that?
A lovely fountain in the piazza facing the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith. Until now that area has been left to its own devices: in the past few years, it was a venue for a French cheese maker and his wonderfully smelly products for a while, until he realized he’d get a better class of customers in Whiteleys, in Bayswater; there was also a German Christmas market two years running, but it poofed off for some reason. So most of the time, it was a vacant space with no soul, and you couldn’t even rollerskate around it. And then, a couple of months ago, a fountain suddenly sprouted out of the ground and the whole place came to life.
It’s a clever design: nothing indicates it's a fountain; water comes out directly through several neatly arranged rows of holes in the ground. What makes it particularly fun is that it’s unpredictable: water shoots out here, there, everywhere or nowhere at all for a few long seconds, and then whoosh!, and you can’t tell where it’s going to be next. During those very hot days we had recently, it’s been a joy to sit at the theatre café terrace and watch little kids and dogs play in and with the fountain. Kids stand there and get drenched and squeal with delight. Dogs frolic all over the place in an attempt to catch the water and bite it. It’s relaxing and fun for onlookers, and you get a feeling of well-being thanks to those negative ions floating about the place.
So why is it going to be turned off? Someone complained that it was dangerous; that kids could get injured if they slipped on the wet ground. Duh! It’s the Diana memorial fountain fiasco all over again. Couldn’t someone foresee this earlier? Children, water, slippery wet ground... what does it conjure up to you? Yes, falls, children crying, angry parents, mayhem!
And yet, why shouldn’t we, adults, oh, and dogs, have the right to enjoy the spectacle of that mini Versailles? The nanny state, they call it. Can’t parents take responsibility for their children and what they do? Why should we all be penalized?
A slap to the Council (I assume it’s the Council that didn’t do its homework properly) and to those parents who need to be told not to let their children play where they might get hurt.
Thursday, 21 July 2005
And still they will not win
It's difficult to be aggravated about anything else today, so I'm slapping those people who tried to scare us again. They too will be cursed to the 12th generation.
Tuesday, 19 July 2005
“Because I’m worth it!” – who says?
I’ve just used a particular shampoo to wash my hair “because I’m worth it” and later I’m going to moisturise my face with a particular cream, again “because I’m worth it”. Actually, I think I’m worth one of those wonderful Klorane shampoos and some Crème de la Mer, but I can’t afford those products, so I’m only worth a certain level of luxury.
“Because I’m worth it!” – who on earth came up with that slogan? Some kid who was born the day Thatcher came to power and who’s grown up to become one of those selfish, inconsiderate people who wouldn’t dream of giving up their seats to an older person or a pregnant woman on the underground? It's the thin end of the wedge. Start thinking like that and nothing is too good for you and everyone else can go to hell.
“Because I’m worth it!” is also something one shouldn’t say about oneself, like “intelligent”, “beautiful”, “kind”, “sensitive”, “elegant”, etc. etc. One of those things that only other people can apply to us. Let someone else say whether I’m worth it.
Who knows what we’re worth or what we deserve? Shakespeare says, in Hamlet, “Use every man after his desert and who shall scape whipping?” Maybe we deserve to be slapped.
In the meantime, let me slap the creators of that mindless, dangerous slogan. They're definitely worth it.
“Because I’m worth it!” – who on earth came up with that slogan? Some kid who was born the day Thatcher came to power and who’s grown up to become one of those selfish, inconsiderate people who wouldn’t dream of giving up their seats to an older person or a pregnant woman on the underground? It's the thin end of the wedge. Start thinking like that and nothing is too good for you and everyone else can go to hell.
“Because I’m worth it!” is also something one shouldn’t say about oneself, like “intelligent”, “beautiful”, “kind”, “sensitive”, “elegant”, etc. etc. One of those things that only other people can apply to us. Let someone else say whether I’m worth it.
Who knows what we’re worth or what we deserve? Shakespeare says, in Hamlet, “Use every man after his desert and who shall scape whipping?” Maybe we deserve to be slapped.
In the meantime, let me slap the creators of that mindless, dangerous slogan. They're definitely worth it.
Monday, 18 July 2005
It's not just the Post Office
I have long railed against the incompetence of our postal service, but when a letter or package fails to reach its destination it usually doesn't have lethal consequences. Not so when a country's intelligence service proves lamentably incompetent.
Today it's MI5's turn to be slapped.
This was revealed in The Sunday Times earlier:
Now, a humorous email exchange about the bombings. It's allowed: I live here and we're all in danger, and the other person is a cousin of mine who lives in a country where they've lost count how many suicide bombers have blown themselves up on buses. It goes like this:
Him: Take care, London is a dangerous place.
Me: Yes, London is becoming a dangerous place again. I was here when the IRA were putting bombs everywhere. It wasn't fun.
Him: Bombs… ohh no!!! The streets of London are dangerous because when you cross the street you should look first to the right. Bombs… we're used to them. LOL!
Today it's MI5's turn to be slapped.
This was revealed in The Sunday Times earlier:
One of the four suicide terrorists behind the London bomb attacks was scrutinised by MI5 last year, but was judged not to be a threat to national security, a senior government official said yesterday. As a result, MI5 failed to put him under surveillance and his plans to become a suicide bomber remained undetected.It speaks for itself, doesn't it? And it's sickening.
Now, a humorous email exchange about the bombings. It's allowed: I live here and we're all in danger, and the other person is a cousin of mine who lives in a country where they've lost count how many suicide bombers have blown themselves up on buses. It goes like this:
Him: Take care, London is a dangerous place.
Me: Yes, London is becoming a dangerous place again. I was here when the IRA were putting bombs everywhere. It wasn't fun.
Him: Bombs… ohh no!!! The streets of London are dangerous because when you cross the street you should look first to the right. Bombs… we're used to them. LOL!
Saturday, 16 July 2005
A la mode at all costs
I’m in the wrong mood today… for this blog. It’s sunny and I’m all mellow.
Oh, hang on: I am still upset about something: perfume reformulations! A few weeks ago, the whole of the fragrance board I belong to was up in arms because Luca Turin had announced Guerlain were reformulating all their scents, even though they weren’t being forced to by some regulation. We’re right to be angry about it: perfume may not be essential to our lives (although it is to a lot of us), but it’s like art, and, just like works of art, fragrances can acquire the status of “classics” and shouldn’t be tampered with.
I never mind it when some modern theatre director decides to set a Shakespeare play, say, in another period or another location; it doesn’t matter; it does no harm to Shakespeare – he’s “bigger” than that. The original play is still there to be made a hash of by the next avant-garde director.
But those Guerlain classics will soon disappear for ever: perfume has a limited lifespan. It is a scandal and an outrage. And the same goes for all the other perfumes that have already been tweaked beyond recognition. There are too many to mention. Nearly every perfume house has one or more on its conscience. So I’ll just slapped Guerlain for now.
What about “reformulating” some of those works of classical music that are not so popular these days with the younger generation? I’m sure some of Mozart's pieces could do with a bit of a revamp. There are still “too many notes”, aren’t there?
Oh, hang on: I am still upset about something: perfume reformulations! A few weeks ago, the whole of the fragrance board I belong to was up in arms because Luca Turin had announced Guerlain were reformulating all their scents, even though they weren’t being forced to by some regulation. We’re right to be angry about it: perfume may not be essential to our lives (although it is to a lot of us), but it’s like art, and, just like works of art, fragrances can acquire the status of “classics” and shouldn’t be tampered with.
I never mind it when some modern theatre director decides to set a Shakespeare play, say, in another period or another location; it doesn’t matter; it does no harm to Shakespeare – he’s “bigger” than that. The original play is still there to be made a hash of by the next avant-garde director.
But those Guerlain classics will soon disappear for ever: perfume has a limited lifespan. It is a scandal and an outrage. And the same goes for all the other perfumes that have already been tweaked beyond recognition. There are too many to mention. Nearly every perfume house has one or more on its conscience. So I’ll just slapped Guerlain for now.
What about “reformulating” some of those works of classical music that are not so popular these days with the younger generation? I’m sure some of Mozart's pieces could do with a bit of a revamp. There are still “too many notes”, aren’t there?
Thursday, 14 July 2005
Remember the Storming of the Bastille?

Today, 14 July 2005, I would like to slap anyone and everyone who has ever betrayed the ideals of the French Revolution and its beautiful motto:
LIBERTÉ ÉGALITÉ FRATERNITÉ
That's an awful lot of people...
Wednesday, 13 July 2005
Oscar deprivation revisited
So here you are: sitting in front of the telly.
You’ve been looking forward to this for an entire week. You’ve zoomed through the supermarket and done all your shopping in a record time. You’ve rushed home, afraid you might be late for this amazing treat. You’ve bought yourself a cute lollipop to suck on when the suspense gets too intense. Your SO is sitting next to you and neither of you can wait one minute longer.
The “treat” is the finale of the current season’s CSI, filmed by Quentin Tarantino. It promises to be amazing. CSI is one of your favourite TV shows anyway. Are there more interesting characters than gruesome Grissom, aka Teddy Bear, with his “moue”; Catherine, who, you suspect, has had collagen injected into her lips between the first and second season; Sara, whose make-up has become more and more sophisticated and unbelievable; Nick, who used to look like he was carved out of stone and then blew up for a while (cortisone treatment?), and pretty green-eyed Warrick. Oh, and Greg, who’s always in danger of being upstaged by his spiky hair.
(Well, there’s Detective Goren in Law and Order: Criminal Intent, with the weird and fascinating body language, and Horatio (CSI: Miami) with his stranger than strange inflexions, but one thing at a time. )
You couldn’t be more ready for it. And then… “We apologize… blah… blah… shown next week.”
WTF! Apparently, something that was said yesterday by the police about last week’s bombings made it impossible for Channel Five to show the last two episodes of CSI last night. Like what? The police have done a marvellous job and now know who the perpetrators are. What has that got to do with anything?
Today I’m slapping Channel Five. Last night I wanted to strangle them. The disappointment is very slowly wearing off.
You’ve been looking forward to this for an entire week. You’ve zoomed through the supermarket and done all your shopping in a record time. You’ve rushed home, afraid you might be late for this amazing treat. You’ve bought yourself a cute lollipop to suck on when the suspense gets too intense. Your SO is sitting next to you and neither of you can wait one minute longer.
The “treat” is the finale of the current season’s CSI, filmed by Quentin Tarantino. It promises to be amazing. CSI is one of your favourite TV shows anyway. Are there more interesting characters than gruesome Grissom, aka Teddy Bear, with his “moue”; Catherine, who, you suspect, has had collagen injected into her lips between the first and second season; Sara, whose make-up has become more and more sophisticated and unbelievable; Nick, who used to look like he was carved out of stone and then blew up for a while (cortisone treatment?), and pretty green-eyed Warrick. Oh, and Greg, who’s always in danger of being upstaged by his spiky hair.
(Well, there’s Detective Goren in Law and Order: Criminal Intent, with the weird and fascinating body language, and Horatio (CSI: Miami) with his stranger than strange inflexions, but one thing at a time. )
You couldn’t be more ready for it. And then… “We apologize… blah… blah… shown next week.”
WTF! Apparently, something that was said yesterday by the police about last week’s bombings made it impossible for Channel Five to show the last two episodes of CSI last night. Like what? The police have done a marvellous job and now know who the perpetrators are. What has that got to do with anything?
Today I’m slapping Channel Five. Last night I wanted to strangle them. The disappointment is very slowly wearing off.
Update (20/07/05): Those episodes have now been shown. There was no great excitement; I didn't have a lollipop; the feeling was more, “Get on with it, then!” And now I have to apologize to Channel Five. They were right to pull the programme out of the schedule that night: it contained a shocking scene that would have distressed us, so soon after those bombings. They couldn't explain why they'd decided to do it because it would have been a spoiler. I'm sorry, Channel Five. (The finale was very good, by the way. )
Tuesday, 12 July 2005
A blast from the past
There are people you never want to hear from – ever. There are toxic people who spoilt your life once and who have the power to do it again, given half a chance. There are people who come back to haunt you and disrupt whatever peace of mind you managed to get back after they vanished from your life, a very long time ago.
Those are the people I want to slap tonight. We all know some. May they rot in hell!
Those are the people I want to slap tonight. We all know some. May they rot in hell!
Sunday, 10 July 2005
Tête à claques I

I’ve got the TV on. There’s this film called Firelight, with the wonderful Stephen Dillane and Lia Williams. Why, oh, why, is the heroine played by that dummy Sophie Marceau?
She’s a tête à claques (that’s French for someone you’d love to slap again and again and again until your hand burns) and she's my target today because there are numerous actresses who could have played that part so beautifully.
She looks sulky (I hate that) and she can’t act. She was dreadful in Braveheart; she’s dreadful in this too. Since I’ve never seen her in a French film I can’t tell whether her lack of acting talent in the films I mentioned stems from her speaking English: having to play a part in a foreign language (even if you’ve rehearsed it thoroughly) means that a big chunk of your brain is busy trying to control your tongue and you’ve got none left for the emoting, etc. I’m prepared to bet that she’s just as ghastly when she's using her mother tongue. At the time of Braveheart, she also spouted pretentious inanities in the UK newspapers – some real gems.
Oooh, just read on the Net that she was born Sophie Maupu. Maupu! Horrible sound. Blech!
Slap slap slap slap slap…..!
Saturday, 9 July 2005
We know what you're doing
Ok, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted (btw, the perpetrators of those atrocities have not only been slapped by millions but cursed to the 12th generation)?
Oh, yes! Once upon a time, back in the early 80s, if you were a member of the mailing list of the National Theatre (thank goodness it’s dropped Royal from its name: what’s the RNT when it’s at home?) you paid your £4 for the year and you were entitled to priority booking, i.e. you got the booklet listing all the forthcoming productions earlier than the hoi polloi, and could book for plays in advance of them. Yes, it was elitist, but if you were a theatre freak like me you couldn’t do without it, and anyway it worked very well. In those days, £4 was quite a lot of money for the service, but not beyond the means of you or me. Over the years the price went up steadily but moderately: it was £10 in 2000, for instance, until we (my partner and I) realized that fifty percent of the time we weren’t getting the seats we wanted any longer, or even getting any seats for our chosen dates. Somehow, the priority system wasn’t working any more. The National Theatre must have realized that as well because, lo and behold!, they soon started a 3-tier system: a priority-priority-priority thing, which entitles you to priority-priority-priority booking – in advance of everybody else and which costs £350 per annum; a priority-priority thing, which entitles you to priority-priority booking – after the moneyed people have made their choices; that costs £60 per annum; and finally a priority booking thing, which costs £10 and which entitles you to, as I said above, not much at all.
We pay £60 (because we’re made of money, LOL!) and these days we do get what we want most of the time, although forget about getting tickets for every press night, as one used to: entire auditoria are now block-booked for those performances, you know, for “personalities”. However, I expect we will have to join the upper tier in the future because no doubt we will start not to get what we want at some point.
Also, there are different prices for different performances. That’s always been the case: previews have cost less than later shows. But, in the past, press nights, which come at the end of a run of previews, used to count as previews. Then they decided that one should pay more for the privilege of sitting next to a critic scribbling all through the play or fiddling with his programme when he can’t remember who plays what. Fine, ok, I don’t mind paying a bit more to be able to spot the odd celebrity. But the latest booking form (which, btw, arrived one day after the opening of the priority-priority booking period!) revealed that previews are now split into early and later ones. The first two, when the actors can’t remember their lines and the director hasn’t quite made up his mind about lots of stuff and the lighting is less than perfect, are cheap-ish; and the rest are even more expensive. Outrageous!
Then there’s chicken. Once upon a time, if you bought a chicken, you could be more or less assured you were getting nice, lean meat (perhaps not as much as turkey, but less chewy and a bit more tasty). Now we’re told that ordinary chicken is just as fat as fast food, so to get the same good-for-you food you need to buy “organic” chicken, i.e. fork out a lot more money!
See a pattern here? There’s a constant erosion of goods and services and it’s happening everywhere. How do we stop it? No idea.
A slap to all those sly providers of said goods and services who are playing with us and think we’re not aware of it!
Oh, yes! Once upon a time, back in the early 80s, if you were a member of the mailing list of the National Theatre (thank goodness it’s dropped Royal from its name: what’s the RNT when it’s at home?) you paid your £4 for the year and you were entitled to priority booking, i.e. you got the booklet listing all the forthcoming productions earlier than the hoi polloi, and could book for plays in advance of them. Yes, it was elitist, but if you were a theatre freak like me you couldn’t do without it, and anyway it worked very well. In those days, £4 was quite a lot of money for the service, but not beyond the means of you or me. Over the years the price went up steadily but moderately: it was £10 in 2000, for instance, until we (my partner and I) realized that fifty percent of the time we weren’t getting the seats we wanted any longer, or even getting any seats for our chosen dates. Somehow, the priority system wasn’t working any more. The National Theatre must have realized that as well because, lo and behold!, they soon started a 3-tier system: a priority-priority-priority thing, which entitles you to priority-priority-priority booking – in advance of everybody else and which costs £350 per annum; a priority-priority thing, which entitles you to priority-priority booking – after the moneyed people have made their choices; that costs £60 per annum; and finally a priority booking thing, which costs £10 and which entitles you to, as I said above, not much at all.
We pay £60 (because we’re made of money, LOL!) and these days we do get what we want most of the time, although forget about getting tickets for every press night, as one used to: entire auditoria are now block-booked for those performances, you know, for “personalities”. However, I expect we will have to join the upper tier in the future because no doubt we will start not to get what we want at some point.
Also, there are different prices for different performances. That’s always been the case: previews have cost less than later shows. But, in the past, press nights, which come at the end of a run of previews, used to count as previews. Then they decided that one should pay more for the privilege of sitting next to a critic scribbling all through the play or fiddling with his programme when he can’t remember who plays what. Fine, ok, I don’t mind paying a bit more to be able to spot the odd celebrity. But the latest booking form (which, btw, arrived one day after the opening of the priority-priority booking period!) revealed that previews are now split into early and later ones. The first two, when the actors can’t remember their lines and the director hasn’t quite made up his mind about lots of stuff and the lighting is less than perfect, are cheap-ish; and the rest are even more expensive. Outrageous!
Then there’s chicken. Once upon a time, if you bought a chicken, you could be more or less assured you were getting nice, lean meat (perhaps not as much as turkey, but less chewy and a bit more tasty). Now we’re told that ordinary chicken is just as fat as fast food, so to get the same good-for-you food you need to buy “organic” chicken, i.e. fork out a lot more money!
See a pattern here? There’s a constant erosion of goods and services and it’s happening everywhere. How do we stop it? No idea.
A slap to all those sly providers of said goods and services who are playing with us and think we’re not aware of it!
Thursday, 7 July 2005
They will not win!
Today I can't be facetious. It isn't possible for me to try and find the funny side of things. Because there isn't one.
I remember watching the events of 9/11 unfold live on the television and I remember what I felt then. Today I was asleep when the explosions happened, but I am again watching the television and hearing about fatalities and ordinary, innocent people caught up in the horror. Today it was our turn.
We'd been expecting it for a long while. And we are used to it. In the past it was the IRA; today the terrorists are... who knows?
The response will be the same - we will never give in. We will make sure those who are trying to scare us into submission never ever win.
My only weapon against the perpetrators is a mere slap, but there are millions of us...
I remember watching the events of 9/11 unfold live on the television and I remember what I felt then. Today I was asleep when the explosions happened, but I am again watching the television and hearing about fatalities and ordinary, innocent people caught up in the horror. Today it was our turn.
We'd been expecting it for a long while. And we are used to it. In the past it was the IRA; today the terrorists are... who knows?
The response will be the same - we will never give in. We will make sure those who are trying to scare us into submission never ever win.
My only weapon against the perpetrators is a mere slap, but there are millions of us...
Wednesday, 6 July 2005
Commiserate with me – I won.
I can’t believe it! I couldn’t believe my ears when I switched on the radio earlier. I’d missed the official announcement, so I was trying to piece things together: they were talking about the Olympics and someone was saying how London had been fourth in line at some point and they then talked about commiseration… and I thought, “Great!”, and then they mentioned the party in Trafalgar Square. A party!!!! Not even the Brits would have a party after losing, would they?
What on earth were those people thinking about? Not us, that’s for sure. Us – who live here and who are going to have to pay for this prestige fest. One hundred and twenty pounds over the next ten years. That’s £1 a month for the next ten years. And that’s the current estimate. Stadiums and such like have a way of costing more – always. So we will end up paying through the nose. For what? Nothing that’s of any benefit to us. Don’t tell me about the influx of tourists and extra revenue, etc.; we're already overrun with them. And, in 2013, after the big event and after we've collected all that money, will we be getting a refund of that £120? I shouldn't think so.
London public transport is appalling and it cannot get that much better by 2012. I love the Brits, but they have a long history of making a botch of grands projets. Think Dome! ‘nuff said. Paris would have done it with such style! They wanted it so much too. They won't be left with more stupid white elephants, will they? Lucky them!
What on earth were those people thinking about? Not us, that’s for sure. Us – who live here and who are going to have to pay for this prestige fest. One hundred and twenty pounds over the next ten years. That’s £1 a month for the next ten years. And that’s the current estimate. Stadiums and such like have a way of costing more – always. So we will end up paying through the nose. For what? Nothing that’s of any benefit to us. Don’t tell me about the influx of tourists and extra revenue, etc.; we're already overrun with them. And, in 2013, after the big event and after we've collected all that money, will we be getting a refund of that £120? I shouldn't think so.
London public transport is appalling and it cannot get that much better by 2012. I love the Brits, but they have a long history of making a botch of grands projets. Think Dome! ‘nuff said. Paris would have done it with such style! They wanted it so much too. They won't be left with more stupid white elephants, will they? Lucky them!
A vigorous slap to each member of the Olympic Committee!
By the way, can the Dome be used for something during the Olympics? No, thought not.
Monday, 4 July 2005
Sorry, it's been discontinued...
A little while ago, I bought a cute fluffy thing on a collapsible handle: it makes dusting a pleasure, well, maybe not a pleasure, but not such a seemingly pointless chore. Today, I wanted to buy some refills for the contraption. Could I get any? Of course not! Those particular refills are not stocked by my local supermarkets any longer – none of them had it. So now I’m left with a beautiful red plastic handle and no fluffy dusters to attach to it. I’m going to have to buy a completely new device. I didn't want any of the others; I took quite a long time deciding which one I should have. I made the wrong choice. Another £5.00 down the drain.
A slap to stores that don’t stock refills for the products they normally sell!
PS. Any ideas what I can do with that handle?
A slap to stores that don’t stock refills for the products they normally sell!
PS. Any ideas what I can do with that handle?
Sunday, 3 July 2005
Those frogs at the BBC
The other day, a dear friend gave me the address of a blog written by a French woman, a freelance translator like me, who, like me, lives in the UK. I logged on to it and found it an interesting read. I then looked at some of the comments and, to my horror, noticed a name I never wanted to see or hear again in my entire life.
Back in the 80s, before computers and even electric typewriters, I worked at the BBC French Service for a few months as a part-time translator and reader of news bulletins. When that man and I worked together (we usually worked in pairs), he would take one look at my translation and instantly crumple the piece of paper up and chuck it in the bin. All the while, puffing on cigarette after cigarette and making me cough. He’d been there for years so was supposed to supervise me. There was nothing wrong with my translations, by the way; he was just an arrogant misogynist and a bully. What we call a goujat, in French.
But, then, the whole culture of the French Service encouraged that type of behaviour: the newsroom was a noisy, smoky, stuffy place, which tried very hard to be reminiscent of old-fashioned newspaper offices, except that it was peopled with bitter losers – French would-be journalists who couldn’t make it in France. Some of them had been there since the war. Most of the time, the ones who had talent left after a few months, after they had acquired enough experience, and ended up working for prestigious radio or TV stations. Some of the others, well, they’re still there and I’d rather not be reminded of them.
So, I’d like to slap XK for making my life a misery and for setting a bad example to others who might have behaved a little better without him. Or maybe not.
Back in the 80s, before computers and even electric typewriters, I worked at the BBC French Service for a few months as a part-time translator and reader of news bulletins. When that man and I worked together (we usually worked in pairs), he would take one look at my translation and instantly crumple the piece of paper up and chuck it in the bin. All the while, puffing on cigarette after cigarette and making me cough. He’d been there for years so was supposed to supervise me. There was nothing wrong with my translations, by the way; he was just an arrogant misogynist and a bully. What we call a goujat, in French.
But, then, the whole culture of the French Service encouraged that type of behaviour: the newsroom was a noisy, smoky, stuffy place, which tried very hard to be reminiscent of old-fashioned newspaper offices, except that it was peopled with bitter losers – French would-be journalists who couldn’t make it in France. Some of them had been there since the war. Most of the time, the ones who had talent left after a few months, after they had acquired enough experience, and ended up working for prestigious radio or TV stations. Some of the others, well, they’re still there and I’d rather not be reminded of them.
So, I’d like to slap XK for making my life a misery and for setting a bad example to others who might have behaved a little better without him. Or maybe not.
Saturday, 2 July 2005
Help! I’ve been infected!
Today, the cheeks of all those nasty spotty adolescents who take pleasure in creating viruses in order to drive us nuts will be smarting.
Last night, I switched on my PC, logged on to the Net and prepared to read the millions of emails that invariably drop into my Inbox. One of those emails attracted my attention. It read, “Dear user, your account has been used to send a large amount of unsolicited e-mail messages during the recent week. We suspect that your computer was compromised and now runs a trojan proxy server. We recommend you to follow instruction in order to keep your computer safe. Best regards, your ISP technical support team.”
There had been an attachment, but it had been removed, presumably by my antivirus software. I panicked a little because I’ve had viruses and Trojan horses before and they’re pests to eradicate, then logged on to the Symantec site to see if they mentioned some new Trojan. Yep, there was one that sent emails all over the place. Drat! Still, it had to be dealt with. I updated my antivirus definitions and started a full scan. And waited. And waited. And, lo and behold!, there was a file infected by a Trojan, but Norton didn’t tell me whether it was that particular one. Assuming that it was, I deleted the file, then got ready to edit the registry (I am totally fearless when it comes to computers, LOL!). But I couldn’t find any of the files Norton said the Trojan would have put in it.
So, what happened was this: the email was a vicious spoof. A double bluff. If I’d opened the attachment that came with this solicitous email warning me I had a Trojan , I would then have got it. The attachment was the trigger.
The infected file, by the way, was whatever got through when I received the email itself, and not very dangerous on its own. There was a note on my ISP’s site mentioning these spoof emails and saying they never send emails with attachments (which is how it should be, since everyone is warned against opening them). On the one hand, I wish I’d seen the note before wasting all that time and effort; on the other hand, had I chucked out the email and done nothing I wouldn’t have found the one file that needed to be removed.
Make sure your antivirus and firewall are up-to-date.
Last night, I switched on my PC, logged on to the Net and prepared to read the millions of emails that invariably drop into my Inbox. One of those emails attracted my attention. It read, “Dear user, your account has been used to send a large amount of unsolicited e-mail messages during the recent week. We suspect that your computer was compromised and now runs a trojan proxy server. We recommend you to follow instruction in order to keep your computer safe. Best regards, your ISP technical support team.”
There had been an attachment, but it had been removed, presumably by my antivirus software. I panicked a little because I’ve had viruses and Trojan horses before and they’re pests to eradicate, then logged on to the Symantec site to see if they mentioned some new Trojan. Yep, there was one that sent emails all over the place. Drat! Still, it had to be dealt with. I updated my antivirus definitions and started a full scan. And waited. And waited. And, lo and behold!, there was a file infected by a Trojan, but Norton didn’t tell me whether it was that particular one. Assuming that it was, I deleted the file, then got ready to edit the registry (I am totally fearless when it comes to computers, LOL!). But I couldn’t find any of the files Norton said the Trojan would have put in it.
So, what happened was this: the email was a vicious spoof. A double bluff. If I’d opened the attachment that came with this solicitous email warning me I had a Trojan , I would then have got it. The attachment was the trigger.
The infected file, by the way, was whatever got through when I received the email itself, and not very dangerous on its own. There was a note on my ISP’s site mentioning these spoof emails and saying they never send emails with attachments (which is how it should be, since everyone is warned against opening them). On the one hand, I wish I’d seen the note before wasting all that time and effort; on the other hand, had I chucked out the email and done nothing I wouldn’t have found the one file that needed to be removed.
Make sure your antivirus and firewall are up-to-date.
Friday, 1 July 2005
Do you want my money - yes or no?
Two months ago, I tried to open a new savings account with a bank I've been with for over 15 years. I have already slapped the employee and the manager of the branch I went to, but I have to do it again today, because they managed to mislay the file in the meantime.
I went back there earlier and shouted at them both. They had just closed the doors and we were standing in the middle of the lobby. I know how to shout and be heard. I told them that I wouldn't budge until they opened the account there and then. They tried to say they needed to see proofs of domicile and identity again. Are you kidding me? I won't show you any more bits of paper, nor will I fill in any more forms. I will, however, take out all my savings if you don't do what I want now, this instant.
And... they did open that account for me. It took a whole hour. The clerk who had interviewed me originally proved even more incompetent than I thought: she couldn't use the computer and had to ask for help from someone, who, thank goodness, knew what she was doing.
When I asked for the account to be backdated I was told it could be done, but wasn't really necessary, was it? My money is already in a savings account so I haven't lost any interest. Er, yes, I have: the new account pays more than the other one and the interest is tax-free. Does this kind of answer work on some people?
What qualifications do you need to work in a bank?
I went back there earlier and shouted at them both. They had just closed the doors and we were standing in the middle of the lobby. I know how to shout and be heard. I told them that I wouldn't budge until they opened the account there and then. They tried to say they needed to see proofs of domicile and identity again. Are you kidding me? I won't show you any more bits of paper, nor will I fill in any more forms. I will, however, take out all my savings if you don't do what I want now, this instant.
And... they did open that account for me. It took a whole hour. The clerk who had interviewed me originally proved even more incompetent than I thought: she couldn't use the computer and had to ask for help from someone, who, thank goodness, knew what she was doing.
When I asked for the account to be backdated I was told it could be done, but wasn't really necessary, was it? My money is already in a savings account so I haven't lost any interest. Er, yes, I have: the new account pays more than the other one and the interest is tax-free. Does this kind of answer work on some people?
What qualifications do you need to work in a bank?
Wednesday, 29 June 2005
Please, no, not another blog!
This started, last year, as Slap of the Week, on the American message board I belong to. Other members join me and nominate anyone/anything that has aggravated them in the previous week. However, I'm told it promotes negativity – G-d forbid one shouldn’t be happy and grateful all the time – so I’ve decided to move it outside the board and make it more or less a daily gripe.
Please feel free to vent about what incenses you – I’ll sympathize.
If you're interested you can read some of my previous slaps and see what got my goat in the past few months.
Please feel free to vent about what incenses you – I’ll sympathize.
If you're interested you can read some of my previous slaps and see what got my goat in the past few months.
Tuesday, 28 June 2005
Oh, to be a freelancer!
I am fuming! So what else is new?
No, no, this time I am really angry.
I got a telephone message yesterday (didn't hear it until earlier today – no one phones me these days so I very often forget to check) from the translation agency I've been working for since 1987. Until three years ago I worked full-time for them, translating classical music CD notes and tourist brochures (for the British Tourist Authority); because of health problems and because of the stress caused by having deadlines every two or three days, I gave it all up, except one brochure – the Scotland guide, which usually keeps me chained to my PC all summer, well, the whole of July, i.e. all summer, and then here and there until the end of October, since I have to proofread the stuff and it comes in dribs and drabs. This year, I was due to receive copy around July 15th. Anyway, this phone call: it said that the BTA was going to be three or four weeks late. Three or four weeks late! Oh, ok, it might clash with the work I usually do for the BBC later in the summer, but, never mind, it probably would be ok. Not to worry. It means that I can enjoy the good weather this year, maybe, with a bit of luck.
I phone the woman earlier today and she tells me that the BTA's deadline cannot be moved, because of... whatever. So, hang on, let me get this right, they will be three or four weeks late on a job that normally takes four weeks to do and the deadline has to remain the same. When do I get to do the work? Erm, well, don't know, really. And, on top of that, the English copy will be supplied in batches, not all in one go, so I will be kept dangling for... how long? No one knows.
I'm in the kitchen and I start flinging some pots and pans around, I'm so angry and frustrated. The woman goes, "If you think you can't do it..." "I can't afford not to do it. I have to say 'yes'." "Oh, J! I can't hold you hostage." "I have to say 'yes'. If I don't do it, you'll give it to some little French girl, just off the Eurostar, and I'll never get it back and it might turn out to be ok and I could have done it. I have to say 'yes'." I start hyperventilating.
We go on like that for a while. She tells me it's a problem for her too, and for the editor, who's just had an operation, etc. Yeah, right! My heart bleeds for you both. I'm the one who does the work. Hello?!
Every year it's something else. Last year, she called me in May to let me know that we might not be getting the Scotland brochure to do because the BTA might refuse to pay for proofreading. Since 1987, I've done the proofreading for no more money, and suddenly, in 2004, she decides that it's not acceptable and all work should be paid for. Fantastic! Except that the BTA might say, "Don't even think of it! We'll go and get someone else, thanks." What about me? I'd rather do the brochure with unpaid proofreading than no brochure at all. In despair, I phoned the Translators' Association: they told me I would be within my rights to get in touch with the BTA and offer my services direct, since I had no written contract with the agency. In the end, I didn't have to: the BTA agreed to everything. Do I need this stress – every year? Well, find me something else to do in the summer and I'll chuck it all out in a heartbeat.
Slaps to the BTA and to the agency for giving me such grief!
No, no, this time I am really angry.
I got a telephone message yesterday (didn't hear it until earlier today – no one phones me these days so I very often forget to check) from the translation agency I've been working for since 1987. Until three years ago I worked full-time for them, translating classical music CD notes and tourist brochures (for the British Tourist Authority); because of health problems and because of the stress caused by having deadlines every two or three days, I gave it all up, except one brochure – the Scotland guide, which usually keeps me chained to my PC all summer, well, the whole of July, i.e. all summer, and then here and there until the end of October, since I have to proofread the stuff and it comes in dribs and drabs. This year, I was due to receive copy around July 15th. Anyway, this phone call: it said that the BTA was going to be three or four weeks late. Three or four weeks late! Oh, ok, it might clash with the work I usually do for the BBC later in the summer, but, never mind, it probably would be ok. Not to worry. It means that I can enjoy the good weather this year, maybe, with a bit of luck.
I phone the woman earlier today and she tells me that the BTA's deadline cannot be moved, because of... whatever. So, hang on, let me get this right, they will be three or four weeks late on a job that normally takes four weeks to do and the deadline has to remain the same. When do I get to do the work? Erm, well, don't know, really. And, on top of that, the English copy will be supplied in batches, not all in one go, so I will be kept dangling for... how long? No one knows.
I'm in the kitchen and I start flinging some pots and pans around, I'm so angry and frustrated. The woman goes, "If you think you can't do it..." "I can't afford not to do it. I have to say 'yes'." "Oh, J! I can't hold you hostage." "I have to say 'yes'. If I don't do it, you'll give it to some little French girl, just off the Eurostar, and I'll never get it back and it might turn out to be ok and I could have done it. I have to say 'yes'." I start hyperventilating.
We go on like that for a while. She tells me it's a problem for her too, and for the editor, who's just had an operation, etc. Yeah, right! My heart bleeds for you both. I'm the one who does the work. Hello?!
Every year it's something else. Last year, she called me in May to let me know that we might not be getting the Scotland brochure to do because the BTA might refuse to pay for proofreading. Since 1987, I've done the proofreading for no more money, and suddenly, in 2004, she decides that it's not acceptable and all work should be paid for. Fantastic! Except that the BTA might say, "Don't even think of it! We'll go and get someone else, thanks." What about me? I'd rather do the brochure with unpaid proofreading than no brochure at all. In despair, I phoned the Translators' Association: they told me I would be within my rights to get in touch with the BTA and offer my services direct, since I had no written contract with the agency. In the end, I didn't have to: the BTA agreed to everything. Do I need this stress – every year? Well, find me something else to do in the summer and I'll chuck it all out in a heartbeat.
Slaps to the BTA and to the agency for giving me such grief!
Sunday, 26 June 2005
That's not allowed
This week, I would like to nominate the managing agents of the block of flats my partner and I live in. It's a huge 1930s building, that looks wonderful from the front, with a typical Art Deco façade and lobby, but like a council block inside. Some flats have balconies, which, according to our quirky leases, don't belong to the owners of the flats they're attached to. Don't ask.
Anyway, some of the lucky people who have balconies also have lovely flowers and plants on those balconies. As I said above, since the residents don't own those balconies they are not allowed to keep *anything* on them; however, common sense has usually prevailed and cheerful flowers have always brightened the building to some extent. Until now. We’ve had new managing agents for a few months. They seem much more efficient than the former ones, but yesterday we all received a circular reminding us of our obligations (re. noise, rubbish disposal, etc.) and that those flowers and plants are not supposed to be there and will have to be removed. WTF, I say. Old bikes, broken chairs, clapped out mattresses, I understand, but FLOWERS?!!!
Anyway, some of the lucky people who have balconies also have lovely flowers and plants on those balconies. As I said above, since the residents don't own those balconies they are not allowed to keep *anything* on them; however, common sense has usually prevailed and cheerful flowers have always brightened the building to some extent. Until now. We’ve had new managing agents for a few months. They seem much more efficient than the former ones, but yesterday we all received a circular reminding us of our obligations (re. noise, rubbish disposal, etc.) and that those flowers and plants are not supposed to be there and will have to be removed. WTF, I say. Old bikes, broken chairs, clapped out mattresses, I understand, but FLOWERS?!!!
Sunday, 12 June 2005
Bela in the land of nonsense
We, in England, now live in a country dreamed up by Lewis Carroll. There is no rhyme nor reason for anything anyone does.
I was expecting an important letter this morning. It was sent to me yesterday, by Special Delivery, which means that the Post Office *had* to deliver the item by 1pm today.
As usual, I was working last night until the wee hours and only got up 45 minutes ago, at 1.15pm. I had been expecting to be woken up by the postman, but nothing. What did I find when I went to pick up my mail from my letter box? A Post Office notice saying:
"Sorry, you were out. We tried to deliver the item at 10.25am."
After letting out a very long scream, I read that:
1) the item can only be collected from the Delivery Office, which is miles away, Mon-Fri 7am-1pm, Sat 7am-12.30pm
2) the item can only be collected after 48 HOURS. Which means that these letters, etc. that are sent at extra cost because they are usually URGENT do not get delivered and cannot be collected for TWO WHOLE DAYS after the postman has not done his/her job!
I need that letter NOW. I cannot get to it.
I was expecting an important letter this morning. It was sent to me yesterday, by Special Delivery, which means that the Post Office *had* to deliver the item by 1pm today.
As usual, I was working last night until the wee hours and only got up 45 minutes ago, at 1.15pm. I had been expecting to be woken up by the postman, but nothing. What did I find when I went to pick up my mail from my letter box? A Post Office notice saying:
"Sorry, you were out. We tried to deliver the item at 10.25am."
After letting out a very long scream, I read that:
1) the item can only be collected from the Delivery Office, which is miles away, Mon-Fri 7am-1pm, Sat 7am-12.30pm
2) the item can only be collected after 48 HOURS. Which means that these letters, etc. that are sent at extra cost because they are usually URGENT do not get delivered and cannot be collected for TWO WHOLE DAYS after the postman has not done his/her job!
I need that letter NOW. I cannot get to it.
Sunday, 5 June 2005
Toys for little boys
There is this ad on TV about how a particular electronics company is trying to make technology more user-friendly. It shows a series of little kids handling some devices. Until yesterday I hadn’t realized all the kids were boys. What sort of subliminal message are they trying to convey? That girls can’t be as technologically savvy than boys? That there’s no point for them to try? What? They’re confirming women/girls watching the ad in their idea they’re right not to want to learn about computers and digital cameras and scanners, or whatever, that’s it for boys, and that it is ok, when something goes wrong with their machines, to go, “My boyfriend/husband/father/brother, who knows a lot about xxxx (usually not that much anyway), says…” Sorry, it isn’t ok and it isn't charming. We complain about men not wanting to learn how to load the washing machine. It’s the same thing. Slapping X around their dumb corporate face for keeping girls out of their ad.
Sunday, 29 May 2005
Drip drip drip...
My toilet is leaking so I'd like to nominate it as deserving to be slapped. Luckily, so far, there's an overflow that leads outside (nice puddle on the ground floor from me on the 2nd). Probably something wrong with the ballcock washer. My partner noticed the pipe dripping from the opposite side of the communal garden and banged on my door earlier to let me know. Kill the messenger I say! LOL! On top of that I can't turn the water off because the stopcock is rusty and the whole thing will crumble if touched. Obviously it's Sunday and tomorrow is a Bank Holiday. We called a plumber who might or might not come on Tuesday. In the meantime watching water level in cistern like a hawk. I also have a deadline on Tuesday and need a clear head to do my work. Yeah, fat chance of that! So slapping my toilet for its wonderful timing.
Sunday, 15 May 2005
I'm menopausal; I must be a moron too
I couldn't think of anyone to slap this week (lucky me!) until about an hour ago, when I heard on the wireless (such a lovely retro word) that a UK publishing company had just launched a special series of novels for "women over 45"!!!
There are no words to describe how patronizing I think that is. I'm 57 and I haven't read half of all the books I want to read in my lifetime. I do not need books written especially for me and I don't believe other middle-aged women do either. What about all the Tolstoïs and Balzacs and Victor Hugos and EM Forsters and Edith Whartons and.... one hasn't read yet? One lifetime is not enough anyway. I've always hated genre fiction, especially the one aimed at women (detective stories, etc. have a place) and five years working at Mills & Boon/Harlequin didn't make me change my mind. Now there's a new genre - "menopausal fiction". Yuck!
There are no words to describe how patronizing I think that is. I'm 57 and I haven't read half of all the books I want to read in my lifetime. I do not need books written especially for me and I don't believe other middle-aged women do either. What about all the Tolstoïs and Balzacs and Victor Hugos and EM Forsters and Edith Whartons and.... one hasn't read yet? One lifetime is not enough anyway. I've always hated genre fiction, especially the one aimed at women (detective stories, etc. have a place) and five years working at Mills & Boon/Harlequin didn't make me change my mind. Now there's a new genre - "menopausal fiction". Yuck!
Sunday, 8 May 2005
Beauty at any cost?
I'd like to slap all the clever manufacturers who exploit women's insecurities and sell them products they don't need or stuff that doesn't work - from intimate deodorants to caffeine-infused tights to overpriced lotions and potions.
Monday, 4 April 2005
The bank that likes to say... stupid things
This week, guess what!, I want to slap the same person I slapped last week: the clerk at the Abbey National bank who told me that I couldn't use the title Ms because I wasn't divorced (yes, I know, preposterous and ignorant) AND her manager.
Not content with wasting my time with stupid and unnecessary questions during our interview, the clerk called me during the week and asked me to come back so I could show her the debit card that goes with bank account details I gave as proof of identity. It wasn't mentioned on the list of documents that I might have to produce, so I refused to talk to that person and asked to see the manager. This 25-year-old little girl, who, I suspect, is the one who told the clerk about the uses of the title Ms, finally acknowledged that the debit card was mentioned in *their* literature not in the one given to customers (therefore the latter cannot tell they might have to produce it). Had I been asked to show the card I would have shown it to the clerk during the first interview (I had everything that could possibly be shown with me) - except that this particular clerk was *not* aware of that requirement. I showed the card and with a bit of luck the savings account I want will be opened for me, but I'm not holding my breath. I also got an apology for all the aggro, but just just...
Not content with wasting my time with stupid and unnecessary questions during our interview, the clerk called me during the week and asked me to come back so I could show her the debit card that goes with bank account details I gave as proof of identity. It wasn't mentioned on the list of documents that I might have to produce, so I refused to talk to that person and asked to see the manager. This 25-year-old little girl, who, I suspect, is the one who told the clerk about the uses of the title Ms, finally acknowledged that the debit card was mentioned in *their* literature not in the one given to customers (therefore the latter cannot tell they might have to produce it). Had I been asked to show the card I would have shown it to the clerk during the first interview (I had everything that could possibly be shown with me) - except that this particular clerk was *not* aware of that requirement. I showed the card and with a bit of luck the savings account I want will be opened for me, but I'm not holding my breath. I also got an apology for all the aggro, but just just...
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