Thursday, February 09, 2006

fire alarms, fluffy thongs and divers alarums.

as seems to be par for the course these days, i must begin by apologising for my lack of my posting. fear not, unlike artegall i have not renounced blogging for higher things (like making celebrities wait to use the loo) but have been working on Macs. Yes, they don't like blogger - and because I work on computers eight hours a day, I refuse point blank to use them in my free time unless absolutely necessary.

Another thing is that I've been working evenings, effectively killing my social life and depriving me of tasty morsels of gossip and discussion to toss into the bear pit of this blog. The one night I did try to go out - last Saturday - I rather unwisely over-indulged and ended up in the alleged VIP area of an electronica club in Shoreditch. It was, I may say, exactly what I expected an electronica club in Shoreditch to be like. The management had eschewed interior decoration and gender division of the toilets - neither of them wise decisions. Still I had a good night, right up until I was manhandled into a taxi at 4am. Then karma came and bit my in the ass at work the next day. Oh yes, Sunday is Fire Alarm Testing Day. As the sixth 15-second burst rang out across the office, I could have sworn I was going to be sick.

On Friday I went to see A Cock And Bull Story, Michael 'High Class Porn' Winterbottom's retelling of Tristram Shandy. I'm very glad I've seen it; as previously discussed, my crippling attention deficit disorder means I will never read the original book. It was very funny - laugh out loud stuff - but, as with so many other clever-clever postmodern things, it seemed to lack soul. I suppose that's the point, though: we've got so used to neat little narratives in film and books, that anything which attempts to portray the randomness and untidiness of real life (as both Tristram Shandy and the film do) seems bizarrely artificial. I'm a bit disturbed by my clear unconscious need for everything to have 'resolution': in fact I think it's a force for bad in my real life as well. It means I assume that if there is a denouement, and everybody knows everything, it will all work out in the end. Of course, it doesn't, and I look like the interfering gossip I am, rather than the winsome Puck-like figure I imagine myself to be.

Tomorrow hopefully brings the long-delayed trip to the British Library, where I intend to do some... wait for it... homework! Yes, I have given up my search for copies of BS Johnson's The Unfortunates and Travelling People, and am forced to seek them out in the library. Somehow, I knew that Rotherhithe and Peckham libraries, while possessing a Jack Clancy selection which cannot be faulted, were not the place for forgotten modernist authors.

Then it's off to the cinema to see Michael Haneke's thriller Hidden, about which I have heard great things. Unfortunately, as well as having no attention span, I am half-blind and in denial (and penury, hence no glasses) so I'm not sure how I'm going to get on with a fast-paced subtitled film. Oh well, I'm always saying I need to improve my French.

And on that note, I shall leave you with my plans for Valentine's Day: a piss up. Yes, I have forsworn the tempting options of a suicide pact or shotgun rampage, and plan to sit at home with my friends, muttering darkly about how it's all commercial bollocks anyway, and who wants a 'romantic' pink furry thong or similar branded wank, before sobbing quietly into my White Russian about how I'm going to die alone.

To be fair, Valentine's has not been kind to me of late. I usually wouldn't kiss and tell, but last year I received a book on the Rwandan genocide, and the year before that I was given some tea. From China. When a friend confronted the unfortunate gift-giver with his obvious tightarsedness, his only reply was: "It cost £3! That's a week's wages for a Chinese!" Although that's better than my first boyfriend, who turned up with two red roses, claimed he got two because they were on sale. When I murmured something appreciative, he turned on me and went, "Don't be stupid - red roses on sale on Valentine's Day? You must have been born yesterday!" Which took the shine off the evening somewhat, as did the fact he was too cheap to take me out so I cooked him dinner at my parents' house.

Still, he did make up for it by sending me a love letter (one of only two received by Galatea to date) with a thoughtfully attached picture of Carol Vorderman and Jimmy Tarbuck, captioned: "They look happy together, and so do we..." Don't believe me? I'll show it to you. Although I would like to point out that when he mentions me picking my nose and eating it, that was just a disgusting teenage habit which I don't do any more.

And on that mucus-based bombshell, I shall leave you.


Anonymous kevin_o_malley said...

Another terrific post Galatea. I had nearly given up on you- really pleased that you're back on the blog.

2/10/2006 8:39 am  
Anonymous lb said...

I can confirm that the whole no-gender-division-in-toilet thing is pretty much bog-standard (ahah!) in Shoreditch and parts of Hoxton. I don't know whether they feel this makes the whole experience more 'edgy', though it does provide the added amusement value of being able to watch some incredibly hamfisted chat-up attempts.

2/10/2006 10:29 am  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Those love letters sound pretty strange... is his family totally normal?

2/11/2006 8:43 pm  

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