Picos Gemeos

In honour of the approaching NaNoWriMo, I'm going to start writing one hour a day. I don't mean necessarily write for one hour, but have that time and space dedicated to it. I may just stare at a screen or a paper journal for 60mins.

What I want is routine. I already have one with exercise, and even with my little cafe excursions on Monday mornings before work, so why can't I have an hour a day for writing? And for days when I absolutely can't get an hour to myself, I could add it to the weekend so - say - on a Sunday when I'm at home, I can write for three hours and catch up on the hours I owe (though that sounds like a cop out already, doesn't it?)

So I'm here, sitting in the living room listening to Jarvis Cocker's show on BBC Radio 6 (<3), the wind rattling the windows (bring it on Super Storm of the Decade About to Hit Britain), only a few minutes gone by in my allocated hour.

Can I write on LJ during my allocated hour? Yes I can. Can I write on Twitter or Facebook? No, I can't - those networks don't count.

I wish we had a cat. It would nestle against me when I was focused, then sprint away when I tried to pet it.

My mouth tastes faintly of chai tea. And a little bit of the cheese and onion Ruffle crisps I had for lunch with a salmon and cream cheese bagel, on a bench in Victoria Park.

I went to the gym first thing this morning - it's always empty on Sundays, which I love. I took a bath in the afternoon, with a candle for company (a scented one that one of the Sissies gave me for my birthday.) I listened to songs from my iPhone while I soaked - 100 randomly selected songs from my iTunes.

I have a brasilian friend in town who I met for drinks and a play at Soho Theatre last night. (A very good feminist play that was a hit at the Edinburgh Fringe - highly recommend you see it you have a chance: Bryony Kimmings: Credible Likeable Superstar Role Model.) We were meant to go to Columbia Road's flower market today... I'm still waiting for their phone call.

Last Tuesday my boyfriend and I marked 15 years together. Fifteen years ago we went on a date in Montreal, to see Bride of Chucky. I gave him David Sedaris' latest book, which I bought at Gay's the Word (one of London's best bookshops). He gave me a collection of short stories written by bloggers, edited by Dennis Cooper.

He's now in his cupboard office, going through his bills. We just watched the final episode of The Killing III. I'd been under the impression that it was the last series ever, but the ending has left a door open and a return more than likely. This makes me happy even though the Scandinavia portrayed in the series is as bleak as fuck.

A few weeks ago I toyed with the idea of doing a fanfiction NaNoWriMo - a thriller based on One Direction. Here's my pitch: girls from all over the world adore the boys and want to meet them at all costs. But little do they know that... One Direction have a bloodlust for their fans! They enjoy hunting and killing them for sport. (There's some subplot about One Directioners disappearing and a cop who wears ugly knitted sweaters investigating these cases.) The opening scene is a One Direction bus pulling out of the stadium, with blacked windows - girls screaming their heads off around it and begging the boys to come out. Little do they know that inside its soundproof walls, Harry Styles is wielding a chainsaw and advancing on a terrified Directioner... and so on. My heroine in this fanfiction comes from Nottingham and survives a night in One Direction's hotel after her friend is killed. She turns into prey as the band hunt for her, even going so far to track down her family's home (they announce to the world that they are bringing their arena tour to - surprise surprise - Nottingham!)

I may have Moussaka for dinner tonight. I bought some at M&S during the week and put it in the freezer. Oh, I forgot to mention: we didn't have Pancake Saturday yesterday! I don't know if the boyfriend has been reading my journal but it suddenly became French Toast Saturday and I was in charge. (I make some mean french toasts I'll have you know.) I'm determined to have Pancake Saturday return next weekend.

09
Everytime I go to my local community garden, I buy a Lotto ticket at the WH Smith inside Stratford Shopping Centre. I have more chance of shagging David Beckham while Posh Spice looks on with a grin on her face but still I persist.

12
Our Garden Club leader is on holiday in the West Counties, so there was only weeding and watering to be done today. I learnt to "dead head" flowers and that people who use our garden during the week (it's open to the public) have no qualms about leaving behind their cigarette butts and energy drinks. Fuckers.

14
Rails have been set up across Mile End Road as you approach Grove Road. This is to stop drunk young ones from running into traffic when they stumble drunk/high out of Lovebox this weekend. Girls in hot pants, boys in black wife beaters. A lot of dodgy tattoos. Up on the double-decker bus I feel more than ever exiled from the land of youth.

21
Descale the shower head and get into lukewarm water. A cool breeze runs through the apartment. Plug my laptop, turn off the lights and watch trailers for upcoming films. Boyfriend returns home from his solitary studio.

30
iTunes on shuffle plays my brother's favourite song when he was a pre-teen, Simply Red's "Holding Back the Years". It's his birthday today.

49
These are not my lucky numbers.

I wrote this huge post this morning about Leigh Bowery, Romo music in the 90s, the band Minty, going to see Boy George's musical "Taboo" last night with naturalbornkaos, getting inside a party with him for the launch of Grand Marnier's brand experience The Bubble and much more... then bloody Flickr ate my post! I lost everything.

Don't know if I can be bothered to write it again. Here's a photo of Grand Marnier's Bubble on the roof of the Brixton Clubhouse (which also houses "Taboo".) The sun is about to set and naturalbornkaos and I are inside it with bloggers and party hostesses, being filmed and getting tipsy on free cocktail drinks:



I don't like musicals and "Taboo" didn't really change my mind. It was nice to see Boy George so close (he introduced it and explained that it was just a dress rehearsal and things might go wrong) and spot the 80s references on stage (no wonder the musical bombed in the US - it's so English-centric.)

The guy who played Leigh Bowery stole the show. Was surprised to learn later that it's a contestant from The Voice UK!

Plans to visit Hampstead's Ponds today have been scuppered. Might do it Monday or Tuesday if weather allows. Latest plan is to visit Edvard Munch's exhibition at the Tate and do the whole shebang: full price entry, electronic guided tour, cappuccino in the bar.

Further to my post about the gig at Brixton Academy last night, I wanted to throw out to you the question: how long until venues provide more restrooms for women than for men? 

I'm guessing that the Brixton Academy has six toilets, three for men and three for women.  At any given point of the night you'd see long lines into all the girls while the boys had no line ups.  It got to the point where girls went into the boys with their boyfriends/mates, bravely putting up with the urinal banter all around them as they waited in line. (But that got quickly nipped in the bud by security when they realised what was happening.)

Girls kept coming up to me and asking if I knew of a toilet out of the way they could use, that none of the other girls knew about.  So I told them that if they snuck past/tricked security standing by the boys, they'd have little waiting to do inside. This enormously excited them.

It's the same problem in every gig venue, club and what not in this city. It's as if these places are designed by men who don't think at all about the women that might use them.

I think I'm gonna have to give up NaNoWriMo: the good ol' RSI in both hands has returned. I need them hands. I need them for applying to jobs and recruitment agencies.

A few months ago I bought a ticket to see Hurts at the Brixton Academy. I was really looking forward to this gig and even penciled the date into my iCalendar. Except that I put down yesterday instead of Friday, the correct date. I found out my mistake yesterday morning.

In the afternoon, I took the No.8 bus downtown to meet loveinsuburbia for a coffee. The bus now detours around St Paul's Cathedral, giving you a privileged view of the Occupy London campsite. It looks realy well organised and put together, with information and university tents, posters with info on all pillars and small groups of people having conversations every few feet. It also has a lot of tourists snapping pictures and the feel of a prominent tourist attraction if it stays there longer than a year. I'm keen to drop by soon and visit.

This is the time of year when everyone in London starts looking pale and horrible, pulling their dark clothes out of the wardrobe. I'm still in denial that it's winter time: you can find me walking around London with my hands in my light summer jacket's pockets, shivering. During my wander with loveinsuburbia, we came across the #OLSX crowd again, this time marching down Tottenham Court Road; one of them was my upstairs neighbour, the one who sometimes stands outside Mile End Station handing out socialist flyers. She gave me a searing look because we were walking in the opposite direction.

Came back home and watched the frankly dreadful X Factor then an episode of The Wire season 4. During the night, I dreamt that Anne Wintour walked down a hallway - probably the most bizarre and pointless dream of my life.

I need to find a job soon, before this boredom and lack of money consumes me.

Arnold Wesker, Chicken Soup with Barley, 1956
I found out yesterday that 90% of the people in council housing in Kensington and Chelsea will lose enough of their benefits to make it impossible for them to live in the borough.  The person who told me this compared it to what happened to Paris and New York - these beautiful, expensive cities where only the wealthy can live in, all the immigrants and poor (i.e. the interesting people) pushed out.  It will be such a shame if this happens in RBKC or the entire city - what sets it apart from other global cities is its unique mixture of people and the way rich and poor still live side by side.

This was further brought home to me in the evening when I saw an ode/lament to Socialism which just opened at the Royal Court.  It starts in the 30s, when the Jewish families in the EastEnd rose up in unions and demonstrated against the spread of Fascism.  The years go by and the comrades slowly get co-opted by Capitalism, their ideals disintegrating in a post-war world, except for Sarah, the mother of the family who still clings to Socialism as if it were a faith and who fights to hold her family together through hard work and honesty.

The play reminded me of Two Thousand Years by Mike Leigh, shown some years ago at the National Theatre, which also looked at a Jewish family (this time in North London) and their politics (Zionism).  Families sitting around to eat, getting passionate about their political views, then the long silences in between.  Both plays have a slow burning pace that pays off with big ideas laid on stage for contemplation.

I accidentally ended up in a party last night with Jodie Marsh.  She is tiny.  She was wearing an all black, tight outfit, high heels and long dark extensions. It's a sin to see someone so young wearing so much make-up.  There were other famous people there, like that blond woman who's always on TV shows about music, and that older guy with long hair and a moustache, and those young people who are probably in Skins or something.  And I think I spotted the actress who used to play Ian Beale's wife and died falling down the stairs.

It was the press night for The Most Incredible Thing at Saddler's Wells - a dance piece collaboration between the Pet Shop Boys and coreographer Javier De Frutos.  Purely accidental - the £10 tickets we had were arranged by our friends Vini Bambini and Bia months ago and nobody warned me to dress to the nines.  Suburbia was absent.  Everyone's life there was on show, flamboyant clothes below those so hard smiles.  Every actor needs an audience; every action is... a performance. West End girls mingling with Dalston boys.  Two kisses on the cheek.  Very thick quiffs.  Expensive midriffs.  Sugar and daddies.  Buckets of champagne everywhere and me with my large glass of white wine.  A few people from my past: that woman from the NT who is so nice; that girl who assisted the directors (now busily working the cord that separated the riff raff from the VIPs.)  Avoided them both.

Sadler's Wells gets hot when it's full. I thought of fj and how he should be there with us. We sat near the roof, our view the beginning of a roller coaster's descent.  The show started well, with robotic domino dancing to a disco beat swelled by the orchestra.  Then tedium set in: uninteresting fairy-tale, lame jokes about reality shows, gaps that were far too long, clichéd choreography (apparently, full of references to famous classical ballet, but who cares?) and a limp climax.  What have I done to deserve this?

Outside, we met Bia's uncle and his friends - an older generation that loved the piece. It massaged their brains with all the classical references it threw on the stage.  But to us, with our ignorant gut reactions, it didn't say a thing beyond "is it Christmas?"  Left to my own devices, I'd have taken the show's music to a smoky nightclub. The sun would welcome me from the club's gloom to where the streets have no name. I'd end up home and dry.

wink_martindale and I went for the first time to Secret Cinema on Friday.

( This is what happened (contains spoilers) )

verybadhorse and three other girls recently visited and did some work in the cafe. They always seemed to be laughing together and helping the hours of work go by easy. It was then with surprise that I saw a black & white photo of them on Pavement's new CD cover: their heads side by side, some smiling, some looking away, one of their cheekbones angular like a Cubist painting. I asked them about it and they had no idea the photo had been taken. Pavement had not asked their permission to use it.

Morrissey's most recent gig was at a small nearby venue. Hardly any lighting, hardly any punters. We stood at the back feeling sorry for him that nobody had shown up. Suddenly he disappeared from the stage and next thing I knew he was standing by my side, whispering a question: which song would I like him to sing next? He was so close I could smell his cologne.

I was lost for words. I needed to choose quick, the few people standing about were getting annoyed with his disappearance. Soon he'd have nobody to sing to. 'Choose the song that means the most to you,' I finally said.

Next day, all the newspapers carried on their front pages a photo of our kiss.