Involuntary Voyeurism

It’s been five days in the new place. So far so good. Anyway, you know how they say each house has its own night time sounds? Usually, its things like creaking floorboards or dripping taps or trees scraping against a window. In this new place however, it’s not so much the sounds as the sights that are proving to be a startling experience.

The other day, America and I were having a glass of wine and a chat in the kitchen. When I looked up, I found that I had a clear long view into the kitchen across the street. I think there is an unwritten rule that blinds aren’t allowed on kitchen windows on our street or something. So anyway, you can imagine how shocked I was to find that the man in the kitchen across the street, was standing there cooking in his altogether. Yes, he was cooking…naked. Heaven help us! For modesty’s sake (ours not his) we picked up our glasses and went into the living room where thankfully, the blinds were drawn.

Similarly, the day after that, another guy in another window in another flat decided to do his washing up in a stripey blue apron, and nothing else underneath. Of course, we only found out there was nothing underneath, when he turned round to open his fridge and his clenched bare rump glared back at us from across the street. Have we unknowingly moved into nudist territory? Is stripping down to basics some sort of weekend therapy for overworked yuppy alpha males? Why must they be naked in the only blind-less room in their house, the kitchen, for crying out loud? Is there some male perspective to this that I don’t get? Surely they know they can be seen…Thank goodness for the wholesome view of the park on the other side of the house – at least we have other viewing options when these men decide to expose themselves.

My mum is hilarious. The only comment she made concerning these exhibitionists when I complained to her, was that they should be very careful, lest they sit down to tuck into a fry up one Sunday morning, and discover they have extra protein, as it were, on their plate. She has since gone catatonic on the subject, and America and I are trying to master the art of averting our gaze…

Moving House

Forgive me, blog, for I have sinned and fallen short. I have abandoned thee.



Now that’s over with…



I moved house last weekend. Bloody nightmare, you say? Yes, I know. I swore I was going to make this painless – pack way in advance, move things gradually, and all that jazz. Of course, no such thing happened. I was up until 6 am on Saturday night, shoving things into boxes, and alternating between shame and pride. It took two massive daddy cartons to pack my shoes. I spent half the time loving every single pair as I packed, and the other half cussing myself for being such a cliché – the girl with lots of shoes – how boring! It didn’t help that by the time I got to packing laundry, I had run out of boxes, and I had to stuff my grubby clothes into black garbage bags. Somehow, I’m sure they’ll never forgive me for the indignity of it.



So…the movers turned up on my doorstep at 7am as planned, one blonde Johnny Depp and his Bald Friend with large calves and hairy legs. It was the most random experience ever, driving round London on a quiet Sunday morning, sandwiched between two Polish guys in the front seat of their Luton truck, listening to them slagging off their manager, and wondering what the Carrot & Strawberry juice they were drinking tasted like. I really must have ‘Agony Aunt’ emblazoned on my forehead. On one hour’s sleep, my good manners were facing some measure of challenge. It was all I could do not to say, ‘Do I look like I care about your manager?’ I stuck my sunglasses on and tried to smile. They were alright, I was just really tired and emotional. You know, leaving behind my old familiar space and going to inhabit a new one…



They carried my stuff up the three flights of stairs in the new place, while I lounged in the sofa and told them where to put stuff. Seeing the new place again cheered me up. My new flatmate (let’s call her America) and I decided we’d give them something to eat and drink as they’d done a brilliant job. While I warmed the patties and poured the juice, she headed off to the bathroom where she had been changing the toilet seat when I arrived – God forbid that we should sit on a seat that some unknown couple had warmed before us.



Just as she took the old seat off and began to screw the new one on, blonde Johnny decided he had to use the toilet. He was in there for ages, and we felt like revoking our offers of goodwill. He was obviously making doo-doo. In our toilet. Some random stranger with manky dreads and spittle in the corner of his mouth was doo-dooing in our toilet. It might be no big deal to you, but bear in mind that we are a pair of obsessive compulsives – completely anal about cleaning and germs and dirt. We were there from 6pm on Friday night when we got the keys, till nearly 3am on Saturday morning, wiping down every conceivable surface with anti-bacterial potions and scrubbing. So what if the estate agents had it professionally cleaned? If you want something really clean, clean it yourself – bleach is a rhema word.



Luckily, America hadn’t screwed on our new seat when blonde Johnny’s bowels broke loose, so when he was done, she went back in (surgically gloved) to continue her seat replacement mission.



Meanwhile, upstairs, I sat down with them to do the figures and give them their cheque. After they thanked me profusely for the tip, blonde Johnny proffered his hand to say thank you. I shook his hand, because I couldn’t not, even though I hate shaking hands, and all I wondered was whether he’d washed his hands after his doo-doo. It sounds terrible, now that I’m reading what I’ve written, but I really do hate shaking hands. Refer to Terror on Tuesday Morning if you’re looking for an example of why…



Turns out he did wash them. I consulted with America later, and she confirmed that when she entered the bathroom after his stint there, she sniffed the air to see whether she’d catch a whiff of lingering handwash, and she did. Phew. Oh no, we sound terrible but we’re really friendly, promise!



Anyway, I’ve nearly finished unpacking, and I’ve decided on a bedroom décor theme. Yaay! How does Sound of Music meets Brick Lane sound? Brilliant, in my estimation – a perfect marriage between old school splendour and new school edge. Let’s see if I have the dedication to follow it through…


Any moving dramas you'd like to share, anyone?


P. S. I fear for the day my sister reads this. She already thinks I need cognitive behavioural therapy.

Happy Birthday to Me

I was sitting at my desk minding my own business when reception called to say I had a package. Turned out to be a massive bunch of flowers, those lovely long necked lillies, no less, which I happen to love. They always make the room smell so good! You naughty people that sent em, you know who you are, thank you, thank you, thank you. You really what-did-you-doed-me (inside joke, never mind if you don't get it...). I forgive you for the embarassment of staggering all the way from reception with flowers eclipsing my face and all the curious stares.


And then, an email went round, announcing that I've been upgraded from intern to actual employee. Am I happy or what? I guess it doesn't suck so much to have to work on your birthday when good stuff just keeps pouring in. Now I really have something to celebrate this weekend. Woo hoo!

Story, story? Story! Once upon a time? Time, time!

Self Deception, from Google Images




For years, there have been debates over the writing of fiction, given the dictionary definition of the word. Is it possible for a story to be completely fictional, can stories directly inspired by an author’s experiences also constitute fiction, if the work is saturated with the author’s experience but portrayed in made-up circumstances, does it become fiction with breadth or thinly veiled autobigraphy?

The debate goes on…

Meanwhile, in Poland, author Krystian Bala has been jailed for 25 years after police found that his novel, published a few years ago, is actually an account of a murder he committed.

In a random internet discussion, a police officer found that the book being talked about bore striking resemblance to an unsolved case back at headquarters, put two and two together, launched an investigation, and boom, case solved! The novelist was the murderer…thank God this particular po-po happened to be a book geek, huh? The original news story is here if you’d like to read it.

In the light of this, skeptics of the ‘purity of fiction’ appear to have been proven right – ain’t no story like a true story. And it makes me wonder about writers and this whole writing business, whether it be poetry, prose, drama or songs: who are we kidding? We’re not making things up, we’re yanking things out of the core of our beings, reaching out from internal discomforts, and begging, pathetically, to be listened to. The reason we insist it’s all made up, is that in our glittering mental images of ourselves, there’s no room to acknowledge the neediness and insecurity that’s mirrored back to us on paper.

Apparently, Krystian Bala killed Dariusz Janiszewski because he suspected the ad agency exec was having an affair with his ex-wife. Now picture Mr Bala at his book launch, being interviewed (hypothetically of course!)

Interviewer: Mr Bala, what inspired your new book? How did you come up with the concept?

It would be bullshit if he said anything other than…

Mr Bala: This dude was messing with my wife, and I got insanely jealous so I popped him off and chucked him in the river. This book was the only way I could deal with it and face the pain.

You and I know though, that this soul-baring scenario could never happen. He denies all charges of murder as we speak, just as the rest of us gloat at our character’s failings, and rejoice in their not being our own.

On the flipside, I could just be giving him the benefit of the doubt with all this romanticised nonsense. What if he's just a twisted sicko who found a way to get his vengeance on his wife's alleged lover, and make some cash to boot? I guess we'll never know.

Hmm.

Testing 1, 2...

I'm trying to get the hang of this link thing...omg omg i think it's worked!!

Dumb Ventures Promote Dumb Lectures

...dumb is the new smart...

There was an article in The Independent on Tuesday 28th August 2007 called 'The Comic-Book Bard'. Here's how the first paragraph reads: 'Depending on your point of view, these pictures either mark a bold attempt to bring Shakespeare to the masses, or the latest sad example of dumbing down in the British education system.'


'These pictures' refers to the atrocious sketches of the three witches in Macbeth which Classical Comics publishing in early 2008. As you've probably guessed, I agree with the latter part of the introductory paragraph. This move to turn great pieces of literature into comics is sad, very sad, and I'll tell you why.

It's the idea behind the publisher's comics that dooms the venture from the start. What they are trying to do, is make famous works of literature available to the masses, which is fair enough, but the way in which they're going about it is questionable. They're actually re-writing books like Frankenstein, Jane Eyre and Great Expectation in 'bite-size chunks of quick text'. This is not just abridging, but completely minimising, changing the format, turning into cartoons (and not even sophisticated ones like The Simpsons!)

Somehow, the publishers seem to think that 'Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, and disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage: Then lend the eye a terrible aspect...' is translatable into 'Get a fierce look in your eyes.' BUT IT'S NOT.

Call me whatever name you like, but learning is supposed to be aspirational. Not to say it needs always to be difficult, but the reason for education is to attain something higher than we currently posses. If everything is constantly brought down to basic levels, then it makes mockery of mental discipline, intellectual curiousity, creative enquiry. How are people ever going to learn new ways of expression or thought if even their prescribed reading is handed to them all perfectly pureéd? It's perfectly stupid. It's sacrilege.

For me, one of the attractions of reading the old literary classics is the language. I mean, take the quote above: 'lend the eye a terrible aspect' - it's beautiful, and so gallant. Because English has evolved so much since the time Macbeth (for example) was written, we get the pleasure of engaging with familiar words in unfamiliar usage. The language in which the old classics were written is also a massive key to understanding the dominant modes of thought at the time, from which the work itself is likely to have sprung. Take that away, and you rob the work of its context. What depth/meaning/importance does artistic or literary work have, without context?

That said, I'm glad it's a pokey little press, and not one of the larger publishing houses that has decided to desecrate literature - that gives me a little hope. But next time a kid tells me they got an A in literature in this country, I'll just smirk. If all it takes to pass exams is flick through comics, then...

People can't keep complaining that the education system is suffering, and then endorse ventures like this. Microwaved Macbeth, greatly reduced Great Expectations, and barely there Jane Eyre are adding to the problem of people who've been through school and still don't know a damn thing.

In my first week of university, my literature prof gave me a D on my first paper, a literary appreciation of Caedmon's Hymn. Her reason was that she 'couldn't believe that a child born and bred in Africa could write this well, and demonstrate such a strong understanding of literary techniques.' She concluded that I must have plagiarised, and threatened to report me to the disciplinary board. According to her, 'even the kids in her class who went through the Canadian school system, had never come up with such promising stuff in a first assignment, so how could someone from Africa possibly do it?' She said that if she weren't so sure I had plagiarised, she would have given me an A*. She also found it hard to believe that I had heard of Chaucer and and enjoyed Metaphysical poetry so much that I had commited a couple to memory. Did you notice I was quoting? This is all true and I won't waste time telling you that I didn't plagiarise, because I'm sure you know that already.

But I'd like to answer her question now - the reason 'a child born and bred in Africa' could excel at her homework is because we still hold education in the highest regard. You may look at satellite pictures of the world, and find that Africa's still the dark continent because we have energy issues. You may judge us by our politicians. You may judge us for the state of our economies. But at the end of the day, through everything, we would never compromise the integrity of works that we learn from or en masse, discredit handed down wisdom. I don't anticipate the day when the works of Wole Soyinka, Ngugi wa Thiongo, Leopold Senghor, Lenrie Peters, J. P. Clark, Kwesi Brew, Lesley Lokko, Alan Paton, Camara Laye, Beverly Naidoo, Chinua Achebe, Buchi Emecheta, and others would be mutilated into comicery. It's because we still recognise that knowledge is power, and superior knowledge is superior power.

While we commit verse after verse of tedious text to memory, in another part of the world, the authorities are pre-chewing the very same text and feeding it to kids through a rubber teet. Is it any surprise then, that when I came out tops in a class execrise, I got insulted for it?

The National Association for the Teaching of English, who is backing this trivialisation project, could learn a few things or two from our perspective of learning. Making it incredibly easy doesn't guarantee that the masses will latch on. In fact, their minds may yet wonder because it holds nothing solid enough to intrigue them...

Wow, I didn't mean to get all venty, that just came out at the end, but it is what it is. As usual, comments and contributions are very welcome, whether you happen to agree or disagree. xx