Re-worked soundtracks!

My post below has got my brain ticking, for why settle for the original when you can strip all the mystery away and instead produce an instantly out-of-date soundtrack designed to be bought, forgotten and finally sold on e-bay.

Let's start with the Modern Greats

How much more FUN would JAWS be if the fat toothy shark was summed up by the trilling melodies of Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn'?

It brings a new level of truth to the line, 'there's nothing where he used to lie...'

Picture it with me for just one moment. Fun, yes, but more accurate also. Disregarding John Williams' iconic piano warning altogether (unless Moby could hash it into a remix?)

Song Lyrics as great human truths? (Discuss)

During my student days I once drew an interesting comparison between Madame Bovary and the subject of 'Disillusion', Badly Drawn Boy's first hit in the UK. My point, although deliciously simple at the time and now rather laboured, referenced his innate understanding of the doomed wench's emotional state, despite the considerable void between the two of gender, age and actual existence.

Now, never one to avoid the utterly crass, I thought it might be fun to imagine a soundtrack for a modern take on this classic, ideally set in the Valley. Of particular interest to me is the opportunity to be very literal.

For example, our chesty young lovely shilly shallying through the provincial malls after her romp with Rodolphe, wouldn't this scene be embellished if Ne-yo's 'Sexy Love' accompanied her? Straight to the point. Why waste key minutes in exposition when we have the music to labour it?

Gone West

This is an experimental post, as I sit in Pacific Grove, CA, watching locals go about their business.
Of course, confronted with the fading colours of the sea and shore, the almost agressive beauty of this area, I am inspired to think freely and deeply. Life on the West coast is markedly different, behold my findings!

1) Nights are deliciously chilly, meaning my beloved layers are for once a necessity and not an affectation.

2) Monterey is the pits

3) I cannot pull off directional nail polish. Current shade of aqua green is faintly ridiculous. I look like some 90s Tank Girl wannabe.

Chanel: Autumn/Winter 2009

Naturally, as it's 90 degrees outside I'm fixated on the imminent arrival of Autumn and all that comes with it: temperate climate, layers, colours, boots and coats. Perhaps a pleasing hat for good measure. The magazines are obviously a few steps ahead of me and the next batch of adverts for this coming season are upon us. It's hardly novel but I love the atmosphere created by these grainy black and white shots from Chanel. Yes the girls romping through the fields look a bit like witches coming to get you, yes they are probably trying to suck out your soul however, they are at least attempting all of this in style. Who would begrudge them when they have ruffs and buckles in their arsenal? It's possible that they might even give up their beautifully-trussed jackets in exchange for your mortal soul.



See http://www.chanel.com/fashion/8#8 for some hypnotic luuuuuuuuuuxe styling.

Mother's Advice

Now, my Mum was not prone to soundbite pop culture characters to demonstrate a point, truly, but when we watched 'Gone with the Wind' together, one drizzly Sunday when I was about ten she decided to share a little theory with me, her gullible lone daughter.

Based on characters in the film (you know it? It was le big hit you know) she proclaimed that there were two types of women. Only two mind, things were simpler then, none of this five people you meet in heaven complication, no, just two. Those two types were either

Scarlet O'Hara, namely a manipulative shrew who you somehow can't help rooting for.





OR

Melanie Hamilton, AKA " Miss Mellie" The sweet and lovely southern belle who gets the man ultimately (and what other goal could she possibly have?)



I remember being a bit shocked that the many layers that make up a personality, all those diverse cultural influences, the effect of time and location, even genetic predispositions, all of this could be reduced to the two choices that fall to women.

If of course you are looking to simplify your life and put yourself in a box but you are unsure whether you are a Scarlett or a Melanie, the eyebrows are key. Apparently tweezed, slanty ones mean wickedly charming or just wicked but the Miss Mellies of the world have infinitely softer, more yielding examples.

I wonder if this insight will make gauging folks any easier? I might try it today.

A nostalgic activity

Is there anything more engrossing than making a mix-tape/play list for someone? Especially when you are handing over music you think they may not know. It was quite the teenage wooing technique back in my hood.. it demonstrated just how cool you thought you were. I used to go all out: mix-tape, complete with a highly-bespoke track list. The more I liked the person, the more effort I put in: frankly if it wasn't covered with stars and stickers it was a slap in the face. Obviously I moved with the times and upgraded to CDs, the now obsolete mini-disc and of course now it's all on itunes. I wonder if any of my friends or loves past still have them somewhere? Stashed under their bed or locked in a vault somewhere? I might put word out.

Of course, on the other side of making the mix-tape, there was the delight of receiving a mix-tape from a like-minded soul, be it new friend or love.

I think the mix-tape unites us all.

Two mysteries and a suit made of meat.

Today is a nice, lazy day however I am thinking. I have been treading the same ground intellectually for some time so I now throw it the floor:

new career choice.

I'm not sure how I ended up in an industry (commercial art) without prospects despite working really rather hard for more than five years but it would seem that this is the case. Mystery no. 1! Now, rather than bemoan this, I simply have to find out how to transition into something else. What that something else might be is Mystery no. 2!

I should point out that I am qualified for nothing and have no discernible talents.

I'm looking for a good fit, a fit like a second skin, a suit made of meat.

Anyone.

Quick thought...

Why is the word 'neckerchief' so funny?

For it is, I think possibly because it's archaic sounding compared to current vernacular.

That's all I have.

Thursday: a day of extremes

Today, in the post I received the following:

1) My fancy-pants, long-overdue triathlon shorts. Complete with genteel padding, sufficient to cushion and yet not wreck my silhouette.

2) My package from Papyrus featuring a bulk order of birthday and wedding cards. I hate the choice in Duane Reade (my friends deserve better) and yet seem to be buying one or the other every week, so a bulk order was timely.

3) THE most beautiful box of teeny, tiny cards from a beloved fashion girl in London. The gorgeousness of the box makes me feel giddy, the cards are perfectly exquisite. I will document and display.

I also saw and walked along with Alexa Chung and her boyfriend at the corner of Lafayette and Spring. She too, like my dreamy cards, is teeny tiny and has a beautiful face. She is less scary in real life than on TV, where she seems wonderfully cool but rather arch.

In the Catskills...

I MET A CHILD CALLED DIESEL.

That is all I can say on this subject. He was running amok in a car park and his mother was howling at him.

In other news, I am taking part in the New York triathlon this weekend. I fear both sharks and jellyfish during the swim, perhaps one group could sting the other? I'm also a little apprehensive about swimming the Hudson river, hardly a beauty spot. I may perish. Had to share.

But back even with these considerable trials weighing me down, I am forever grateful that I was, nor ever will be, named Diesel. I am also pleased that I am not a Tatiana.

Possibly the most romantic proposition ever...

Driving upstate a few weekends back, I was listening to a local station, one that favoured jangly guitars and light rhythms with the balladeurs singing of how their man done them wrong. One song in particular stood out:


Every time you take a sip
In this smoky atmosphere
You press that bottle to your lips
And I wish I was your beer
In the small there of your back
Your jeans are playing peekaboo
I'd like to see the other half of your butterfly tattoo.

Hey that gives me an idea
Let's get out of this bar
Drive out into the country
And find a place to park.

'Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

I know the perfect little path
Out in these woods I used to hunt
Don't worry babe I've got your back
And I've also got your front
I'd hate to waste a night like this

I'll keep you safe you wait and see
The only thing allowed to crawl all over you when we get there is me.

You know every guy in here tonight
Would like to take you home
But I've got way more class than them
Babe that ain't what I want.

'Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

You never know where one might be
There's lots of places that are hard to reach
I gotcha.

I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you baby way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

I'd sure like to check you for ticks...

_________________________________________

You tube: LIVE PERFORMANCE (of the song, not the act of checking for ticks..)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KvHB4zpNX4&feature=fvst

Thank Brad Paisely for the music and the images and, well, for the romance.

Here's to Brad and his ticks.

Sights in the city

Riddle me this...

Three girls of indeterminate age board the subway. They are clearly travelling as a trio and share a similar sartorial sensibility, jersey dresses, flip-flops and wafty appendages draped over them in an artful manner. They are not dressed for business yet nor are they tourists. I decided that they must be visiting students for a summer program.

But this is not the quandry, for each of these girls, grouped together and chatting about the day gone by, each one of these girls was brandishing a coffee cup, here's the clincher, from a different shop. One had a Starbucks cup, another the classic 'have a nice day' cup of popular legend and the third clutched a cup from Pret a Manger.

How did that happen?

Is this what freedom feels like?

Source: Gallerycrawl.

Holiday Weekend

“Life is nothing but high school … you get into real life and that turns out to be high school again—class officers, cheerleaders, and all.” Kurt Vonnegut


So, going with this idea that everything comes down to high school, I am tickled to witness collective excitement growing in this here city about the upcoming holiday weekend. Yes, everyone has end-of-term fever, work attire is looking increasingly beachy, the subway is emptier as the week progresses. By tomorrow I shall be the only soul left.

Given that the 4th of July is a celebration of independence from the tea-pushing, slave-pedalling Brits, Manflesh and I are heading out of town to avoid a dunk in the Hudson. Keeping to the educational theme of this post, we are staying in the Catskills, in a small former school room where guests are known as pupils and quadrupeds abound. I have been promised horses and goats but also bears. Two of those three I shall endeavour to stroke.

West Village idealism versus The Winter of our Discontent?

What's this? They gave peace a chance but then let it die? Or perhaps the harshest Winter ever seen took it's toll on the plants?

Inevitable Michael Jackson post

It's hardly novel, but I feel quietly crushed by this news. Another felled icon of American pop culture. The New York Times has a touching article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/26/arts/music/26jackson.html?_r=1&hp


For all of the weirdness, this is the man who gave us the moonwalk, Thriller, black patent shoes and plasters as fashion accessory. He also had good views on tree-climbing, suggesting everyone should do it everyday. He was right.

So, borrowing from the Tristram Shandy school of mourning...

For those moments when words are not enough.

Because today is Tuesday and tomorrow is Wednesday and sometimes that is the only reason I need.

Rules to live by

How to consolidate your friends and identify your potential enemies in any social function.

It's easy, just ask the following three questions:

1) Does the thought of pop tarts make you smile?

2) Do you remember the Skee-Lo track 'I wish'?

3) Would you ever refer to a dog as a 'little guy'?

Response 1) If said person looks distant and doesn't know what to say, run for the hills. Foodies are limited! Embrace the e-numbers, but remember to brush your teeth.

Response 2) Yes or no. Open shut case. If you can't see the logic in this I can't help you.

Response 3) Quadrupeds rock and lower your stress levels by 30%. No further explanation required.

Let me tell you a story...

One stolen day, I made tracks to the decidedly fancy Hamptons, not to wear white and laugh at the great unwashed, but instead to explore East Hampton as a friend was stationed there for a work-thing. (My beauty is in the details). It was just at the tail end of the summer, when there would be moments of fleeting warmth but wool and tights were essential before giving in to the tyranny of a Winter coat.

I arrived in East Hampton and the scene was perfect, the summer season had more or less trailed out the week before so the holiday town, for once, had the air of a normal town, aside from the bombastic Gucci and Tiffany shops that replaced the conventional newsagent and pub.


After a day of pottering, going into the marginally more accessible shops we headed to the beach. I had some left over champagne from the wedding and sharing a toast with the sea seemed like the perfect way to finish it.

We grabbed rugs and blankets from B's house and headed to the water. The beach was empty. I could see for hours and miles in either direction. We sat down, uncorked the ludicrous champagne and watched. It was overcast, however the sun was strong enough behind the cloud banks to illuminate everything, making the clouds glow at the edges. The colours were all muted, soft, as if they had been rained on. The sea was a slate grey colour. The sand itself was a creamy colour. Suddenly this was more than just a lovely day out: it was unbearably beautiful.

We were now huddled under blankets as the wind coming off the sea was brisk and watched the sun progress west.

We had time to take one quick photo, above and then I realised I was late for the bus back. After a scramble we got to the bus stop, only in time for me to decide that I needed a wee... and thus diving into someone's front lawn and making tactical use of some convenient shrubs.

Do you like my lamp? OR Dumpster-diving is the new black

Rule: always live in the nicest area you can possibly afford.

Why so wise sage?

Because the recycling opportunities are endless, much like the sea (well, a bit).

One day, earlier on in the NYR (New York Romance) I was running down the stairs, in an effort to avoid a painful stop-and-chat in the lift and look what I found on the 6th floor, in the recycling stairwell. Look!

The curves! The elegance!

O happy day! the merry little guy works too, all we had to was replace the bulb.




The moral of this particular story is that richer folks than you may throw out things you might like, thus it pays to stay vigilant.

Dumpster-diving is the new black.

Poem on the underground

What kin is my father to yours?
Who is your mother anyway?
How did you and I meet, but in love?

Our hearts have mingled like red earth and falling rain.

Sadly, I didn't come up with this. It was one of the featured poems on the London Underground a while back, I think around 2000, the summer of love #1, and I looked up and read it, as I was impatiently counting down the stops. It was hot, scorchingly hot, and my mind and eyes were full of everything. It was the summer everyone was reading Captain Corelli's Mandolin and it became customary to peer over the reader's shoulder to see where they were up to. So whilst my mind was darting on every which subject, I saw this poem and have never forgotten it. I know there is a trend for middle-aged, corny humour in this series of poems at the moment but this one made me float for the entire summer.

First warm evening of scent!

Does everyone do this? After the longest, hardest winters, my OBF (Official Best Friend, or 'Whim' as she is also known) and I made a habit of celebrating that magical first evening when the temperature rises above 50 degrees and it is just possible to smell the air. Suddenly it is possible to smell pine and water and drains and food floating out of any nearby restaurants. It's such an enlivening experience and yet, every year, it happens, and every year we respond to it and each other in the same way. It always makes me grateful for scent and the fact that even the longest, bleakest winters do eventually fade into something altogether more palatable. Of course, the only downer in all of this voyage of discovery is that this night is regularly a false dawn and whilst you know spring and warmer times are coming, there may well be a fair few frosts before you can venture outside in just one simply city dress and maybe a jumper or something. (I'm from Norfolk remember)

Bucking the trend, last Thursday had some magic!

Last Thursday went pretty much to type: intense, rather long and undoubtedly complicated at work. So far, so standard. However upon returning home and checking the answerphone, I discovered that two friends who had been engaged for a while had decided to 'elope' within their very own city, New York and had got married! It was all top secret and they simply called everyone afterwards. They sounded so euphoric and liberated but also quietly thrilled with their delicious secret. It was a good day.

Haiku.

Is any form o'
poetry more maligned
but still diffic?



(Quite possibly)

New York Magazne - simply the best

For witty, irreverent yet never mean editorial look no further. This magazine is not just in love with the city, it's subject, the magazine is in a long-term healthy relationship with the complete package: core (Manhattan) bad moods (The Bronx) pretensions (Brooklyn) roots (Staten Island) and nutty inlaws (Queens).

The first issue I ever read gave me 200 hundred reasons to love the city, especially at the moment, as capitalism crumbles.

This is one of my favourite reasons:

http://nymag.com/news/articles/reasonstoloveny/2008/52970/

Thursdays are grim but Fridays are magic!

Friday! Friday! It never gets old!

I'm enjoying the quiet half hour before work when I can do what I like and right now, in between tapping on this battered la'to', that means gazing out the window as the city wakes up. New York is a late riser, no question and aside from the sounds of construction (proof that the recession is over?) it is quiet. Well, almost quiet: the bright red alarm bird who warbles as soon as the sun comes up is singing his tiny heart out. Is he looking for a mate? He really is bright red by the way, curiously exotic given his concrete surroundings.



Incidentally, I don't hold opinions on every day of the week, this theme has played itself out. On to the next...

Thursday, day of woe.

Thursday, Thursday, most hated of days! Why are Thursdays so tricky? Is it because it's just one more day between you and the weekend? I don't begrudge the working week, particularly, but by Thursday I'm tired and simply waiting for the magic of Friday. Is it because historically crappy things happen on Thursday (freak rain storms, broken shoes, losing travel card, arguments and the big one, death) or, is is an irrational prejudice, like any other?

No

Thursdays ming! Thursdays may even suck.

It started when I was 15, late for school, it was drizzling of course, I believe it was that thankless part of Winter after Christmas. It was bleak and cold and even looking up to the sky requires considerable resilience. I had survived, I had made it to school, in the snot-coloured uniform. I was working away during CDT, Craft, Design Technolgy, a subject so grandiose it could only fail to disappoint, for we learnt next to nothing about craft or design and technology wasn't even mentioned. Anyway, dutifully carving up pieces of wood for no good reason, I was demonstrating a keen eye for turns on the ban saw. Quietly going about my business. When I looked down and saw the ring finger of my left hand ON the blade. There was blood.

The purity of my wood had been compromised.

Without wanting to turn anyone's stomach, it was a mere superficial wound and certainly looked worse than it was. That said, blood on the floor is never a good sign in a room full of metal so I turned to a classmate and sighing flashed the bleeding limb-ette. She took over, grabbed the teacher and I was made to sit down for the rest of the class, elevating the luckless finger to let the bleeding abate.

I was more annoyed than hurt as I realised with a stab of spite that this simply would not have happened on any other day.

I still have a small scar and whenever something merdique happens on a Thursday I contemplate the white line of vindication and feel somewhat reassured: It's not me. It's Thursday.

To facebook?

A large part of my being is anti facespace, mybook, linked-in etc, it smacks of self-obsession and if there's anything this generation doesn't need, it's a new avenue for self-expression. We seem to be so busy emoting about our lot that we don't actually do much living. Call me old-fashioned but surely it's better to have too much to relay rather than a detailed rendering of your life, minute-by-minute? This, although never vocalized, has always been my opinion.

Then I moved away from the homeland and the online photo albums became less token and more vital as I watch the lives of my friends evolve. I liked it. It helped me to cope with the distance and although no-one knows this, I'm secretly nice and like to see when people procreate and/or meet new loves. It's sweet to see how happy people are.

Naturally, with any shift of opinion there is always that moment when the backlash begins. And so it was with facebook or whatever platform it is you are using. But now, today, as the fuss has died down and the online networking phenomenon is a routine part of life and no longer a headline, it becomes clear: Facebook is simply the modern equivalent of the phone book, back when the phone book was largely accurate because people stayed put. I remember reading American plays and thinking how easy it was to track someone down back then, all you needed was a name. Men sourced dates, parents introduced each other when their own offspring were too inept to do it and 12 year-olds started talking about school after school. It was simple.

In the 80s and 90s the world went a bit urban, or so it felt and everything seemed to speed up. In speeding up, and moving up, out, on, through, details were lost and one of those details was the concept of using a phonebook. It became infinitely more difficult to find someone, there was still Directory Enquiries but in order for that to work you would have to know some part of your intended's address. Men presumably did not scour the phonebook for dates and parents stopped making smalltalk. The twelve-year olds may have made it work though.

So it was and as my peers and I came of age, phone numbers achieved this hazy holy grail of friendship and wooing, for to have the phone number meant to have access to your intended. Success was gauged by the simple possession, or not, of the phone number. You didn't even have to kiss, you simply had to leave with the number scribbled on a bit of paper to prove that it was on. It makes me feel nostalgic just to remember it.

Now things are different again, now it is more like the days of the phonebook because by knowing someone's name you can, once again, find them. It's nice and simple and honest, because no-one forgets a name. But because everyone on these sites is so accessible, it is also much more difficult to read the signals, especially if you're trying to go out with someone. E-mailing on facebook is almost meaningless, conversely, befriending someone online usually means you stop making any effort to e-mail them at all, because you don't have to, because you have access to them for as long as they use facebook.

Weird. Progress begets it's own problems it would seem.

Tibidabo, Barcelona

and I shall give to you... said to be named after the temptation of Christ...



This is one of the most poignant places I have ever visited. I couldn't pinpoint what makes it so compelling but like most magical places, it is more than the sum of it's parts. If however I did try to break it up into parts I'd have to start with the timing.

I've been to Barcelona a fair few times however it was always after exams when summer evenings open out before you, full of opportunity. So my feelings towards Barcelona have always been one of liberation and freedom but there is more.

Another less specific consideration is the sheer commitment involved in getting there. Walk to one end of La Rambla, board the subway. At the other end, pay two euros (approx $ 147 at current conversion rates) to board a fenicular railway. Yes, a tram that is pulled up claustrophobically-tight turns by one single, fraying rope. Those of an anxious disposition should look away!

After winding up the hill, you will be confronted with a retro, pleasing theme park to your right, with decaying rides and sugary goodness in the form of churros. It has a niche appeal all of it's own but to stop here is to miss the main event.

The church.

I'm not joking, for in the church is the lift, the lift takes you up to the top of the church where you will find a narrow flight of stairs. Climb, climb, climb. The stairs open up to a large stone walled platform, once here you can walk around the entire frame of the church, marveling at the view. On one side there is the ochre confusion of Barcelona city, all noise and buildings. On the other side are the milky mountains of Barcelona, all hazy and undulating and luscious, a bit like a Henry Moore sculpture from the 40s.



This large stone vista is dotted with stone apostles, undeniably handsome, bearded men, looking out over the same views with an ingrained (get it?) sense of wisdom and acceptance. They appear to be diplomatically ignoring the rather transient tourists. They have seen it all before. It is one of the few examples I have even seen of a statuary having presence.

It is customary to spend a considerable amount of time with the apostles, seeing what they see. It stops the monkey-mind and slows you down, completing the transition from bustling working life to this altogether more considered, poignant phase.

But there is still more to see, up there on the ledge, of the church, on a hill, way up high. If you can bear to tear yourself away you must enter the central body of the building and start climbing an increasingly-steep series of ladders. Up, up, up, incidentally, this is not a time to wear a skirt above the knee.

Once you have run out of stairs and ladders, you will climb through a trap door. You can then walk out in to a tight, walled circle. Directly above and behind you is a statue of Jesus so large it literally frightens you. You are now at the very pinnacle and the views outward are hazier still, the world beneath you appears to be shimmering or breathing. You can see the rhythm. Far below you can hear distant screams of people on the fairground rides and you can smile at the thought of all that life so far below.

Wistful and compelling as this is, it is the company you keep that makes each visit to the very top so peculiarly affecting. The first time there was a collection of nuns, singing in one lilting voice to the statue of their Christ. On another occasion attractive school children were there with a teacher and part of their experience was to write one feeling or state on a piece of coloured-rice paper and throw it out into the world. Due to unexpected air thermals several of these paper birds came back to us, I caught 'Pax' (Peace) and Kate caught 'Amor' (Love).

Is it any surprise that I love it so ? I wonder that we managed to leave, but we do each time.

License plates of New York #4

The original and perhaps the best:

License plates of New York #3

Carly Simon's biggest fan or a nod to self-deprecation? Or maybe Carly Simon herself?

License plates of New York #2

Someone with a sense of humour?

License plates of New York

I found the following on my wanders through the city.




Do we think this car belongs to a graphic designer?

Creative experiment!

Has anyone noticed the rather wistful profile picture (right hand side bar)? Sadly, the girl in the picture is not me but I found it by googling lyrics from my favorite song. Cheered by my success, below are some more of my findings.

It is lovely to see how other people have responded to them.

The first one was found after searching 'and I need you more than want you'




This is another one, found by searching 'lilac wine, I feel unsteady'. The comma makes all the difference...

Barney #2

So, my Mum was on the train on the way into London, this was itself fairly unusual as normally she worked in Bletchley. Something had come up so she was being sent to the head office for one day, which meant the early train into London Kings Cross (pre 1988 so it still had those archaic and ultimately lethal wooden escalators). Mum settled in her seat with no thoughts eitherway about the journey, she had found a seat which was a bonus and was thinking about opening her book when she noticed that those in the formerly silent carriage started fidgeting and straining to look out of the windows of the train, eager to catch a glimpse of something just out of view. As they were just pulling out of her station my Mum remembers being surprised, was the train running late? Were they checking the progress of the journey? No, 7.02: for perhaps the first time in the history of the UK rail network, the train was on time. Was it perhaps a jaded response? Collective disbelief at this unexpected punctuality? No, that wasn't it either, as a nation we were not yet that cynical. What was everyone looking at? Other than moderately pleasing hills coupled with a smattering of garage blocks the scene was bare, except for those nasty early 60s garages, and as my Mum's eyes wandered over these aberrations on the landscape she saw it: a small blob on top of one particular row of garages. Was it a child hiding so he wouldn't have to go to school? A freakishly large bird of prey? As the train charged onward so her eye keened on the blob... it was big and sandy in color and it was moving. Thanks to her astute rendering of local geography my Mum realized with a start that those garages were the very ones that were set back from our home. They were very close and despite the buffer of one sallow field and a 6ft fence she had to look at the grey concrete every time she looked out of the kitchen window. Oh yes, she knew those garages well and then it hit her, apparently she was not the only family member to know those garages intimately: that sandy, moving blob was Barney! Clearly he could jump over the 6ft fence but even in the seconds it took for this to sink in, a second revelation crowded in: the commuters around her not only looked for Barney but they recognized him too. He was what they had been looking for out of the dingy windows.

'Do you see him often?' asked my Mum, somewhat nervous of the answer, 'oh yes, virtually every day, he usually....'

but before he could finish his answer my Mum gasped loudly, for as they were more or less level with Barney and the stretch of garage roofs, Barney started running, in full afghan gallop, along with the train, as if he was trying to beat it. (What can I say? He really was silly) The passengers all started laughing and cheering, this was a ritual apparently, my Mum continued to enjoy that poignant mix of delight, fear and surprise. Barney meanwhile was thundering along the garages, pretty soon their length would be finished, would he know to stop? Mum asked the question, dreading the answer but apparently yes, he had learnt to recognize the end of the line. One chancer even suggested that he witnessed this learning curve one morning a few months ago as Barney had taken a tumble but this was largely viewed as apocryphal. Paws thundering, tongue flapping, ears streaming out behind him, Barney ran on, gradually but imperceptibly slowing his pace until the giddy gallop became a lollop and finally the graceful trot of legend. There was applause. The commuters were chuckling quietly, people were talking and smiling (remember this is Britain) and Mum felt a smidge of gratitude for the bounding fool on the garages. Despite the obvious danger element she was pleased that Barney had in his own way gained some notoriety and brought joy to a large group of people.
However the next day she did put up an 8ft fence.

Barney, the afghan hound

To set the scene, Barney was my Mum's beloved giant afghan hound who left his mark on the suburbs circa 1975 - 1983. Now anyone who knows anything about the afghan breed knows that for starters these animals are as stupid as they are beautiful. I cannot overstate this, to make up for their intellectual shortcomings they move with the utmost grace, trotting as if in water. This afghan in particular looked a little bit like a 1990s Sheryl Crow, not wanting to be unduly mean, this is purely an observation on hair/ear/face proportions:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDZNX4IM_Nk


Anyway, Barney, or Paws, with his beautiful long gleaming coat and high maintenance bath and blow-drying schedule was a joy to my Mum, if something of a liability. He swallowed the door key once, I even had a clear image of the X-Ray, with a comcially clear generic keyshape in the little guy's stomach. There is a chance that this is embellishment post-fact (for how would we have the X-Ray? I'm not sure Vets just hand them out) but the truth remains: our door keys, Barney's gullet. This is one of those scenarios that simply does not seem true and if it were to appear in a movie viewers would scoff at the implausibility of it all but happen it did.

Summer evening, England

I thought I would share this image as I think it is sublime. For me it captures that simply exquisite moment of a summer evening. The light is fading and there is a wonderful feeling that something is going to happen...

Best of Craig's List #1

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This is a serious ad from Craig's List a few weeks ago:

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Females aged 20-30 (Chelsea)

Reply to: job-1045797074@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]


Prominent art gallery owner seeks a motivated girl with the ability to handle a vast range of tasks and duties that can maintain his personal life. You must love dogs, be able to clean well, likes to shop, and have a flair for interior design. Someone who is positive, intelligent, reliable, and has a VERY flexible schedule.
Please reply with a description of yourself, picture, and a short message as to why you would be the ideal condidate for the position.
Position available immediately.

Perfect for college students/recent grads.

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A college-educated, dog-loving, endlessly available cleaner?
Aren't we all?

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Date: 2009-02-22, 3:55PM EST


Looking for beautiful girl aged 20-30 to sit at reception desk in Chelsea art gallery. Part-time, days during month of March. No prior gallery experience necessary. No answering phones etc necessary, only job requirement is to be there.
Please send current photo and days available for work.


Compensation: $15 per hour
This is a part-time job.
Principals only. Recruiters, please don't contact this job poster.
Please, no phone calls about this job!
Please do not contact job poster about other services, products or commercial interests.
PostingID: 1045797074

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Is it even legal?