The More Things Change

I got back from France last night.  I took The Lish and The Silverback to meet an old friend and mentor who lives in a tiny village just outside of Perpignan, very close to the Spanish border and extremely close to my heart.  It had been 11 years since I'd last seen her and 19 years since I was a teaching assistant at the French Lycee in Andorra where she is the Head of English.  The car ride from the airport felt like a bleep of a heart monitor as I enthusiastically asked about everyone I knew and voraciously imbibed the resulting information.  The rest of our admittedly short stay however, soon became a continuous loop of sedate continental mornings, refreshing dips in the nearby lake seeping into effervescent evening strolls in the shadow of the Catalan Pyrenees.  Here is its crowning glory - le Canigou:

Though time has passed for us both in linear terms and 'stuff' has happened, nothing else has changed.  She remains a fragile and generous soul and I'm still that little girl in a big wide world (with a serious case of the mashuganahs) who arrived in 1992 in her Doc Martin boots, torn leggings and hennaed hair convinced that the local 'tabac' in a village of maybe 800 people (some of whom could still clearly remember the fascism of WWII)  would sell New Musical Express (NME) or Rolling Stone.  The village has doubled in size, the tabac still exists and continues to eschew english language music rags.  

While for me the trip has been a tonic, The Silverback got into all manner of clandestine talks with my friend about 'La Resistance' and the noble Maquis of the south, having long been into the politics of war. 

Meanwhile, I got into the politics of gender having spotted the autobiography of Baroness Shirley Williams, leader of the Social Democrat Party in the 80s (that later became the Liberal Democrat Party) on the bookshelves of the bedroom we were using.  And likewise I'm now on a mission to read Mrs William's mother's books on pacifism and gender.  I love it when I stumble on stuff like this.  I had no idea.

The Lish meanwhile discovered 'la baguette' and has 3 kilos around her midriff to show for it.  It's back on the scooter for her. 

Take your time summer, the job market sucks and Portugal signals.

Ctrl+ Alt + Del

Here's a first for me. Today I turned up for a networking chat with a very well known recruiter only to find out the consultant in question wasn't there.  Despite an e-mail trail of too-ing and fro-ing on times and dates -it appeared I wasn't even on 'the system' as if 'the system' had a mind of its own and was therefore beyond blame. 

Never before has an optimistic and positive outlook been more crucial and important.  I don't mind admitting, my resolve today cracked slightly to allow a tiny lump of emotion (ego) escape from my throat.  I drew the line at actually crying because I know this is just one of those things and I also know how much fun I will have showing my press relations skills with this little gem of an anecdote to the trade magazines that can take your credibility away as fast as they attribute it.  What were you thinking lady?  Did you forget I work in PR?

I mean, so what? A frankly bad recruitment consultant proved my theory about recruiters - it could be so much worse.  So why do I suddenly feeling so despondent? I know I can't be alone because, aside from me there were 4 other people in the waiting room looking as frustrated as I felt; the difference being that I don't have time to waste and walked out pretty much immediately.  Maybe I don't need the work as badly;  Maybe I'm too highly strung, but actually as a person whose role for a long time has been about building cultures aligned to company/brand promises - I know an organisation in trouble when I see one.  So, and I mean this sincerely: good luck to them because maybe not now, but soon - they will wish they hadn't been quite so cavalier with talent.

Ok - that's enough of feeling sorry for myself.  I've got so much more to be grateful for.  And so I am off to validate the good in life with a bag of Reversy Percies and The Lish.  It's all for her in the end.

So folks - the thought for today is to try not to forget how lucky you are especially when the chips are down.   Alternatively you can just release a string of expletives while beating the pavement with a tree branch.  The effect is pretty much the same and the latter also helps burn stubborn calories.

The Crazy World of B-Movies

Went to the BFI (British Film Institute) last night to watch The Corpse Grinders – sold to me as follows; "Look – it’s only an hour long. Beats the pub."


You know it’s going to be all or nothing when you get this kind of offer and it could go either way. I decided not to sweat it. It’s been a week of experimentation. For instance, I’ve just also finished reading Ozzy Osbourne’s AUTObiography no less. It’s at once laugh out loud funny and incredibly inspirational – in an early learning sort of way. Ozzy deserves his fame, though he might have behaved a little better along the way...perhaps? No, scratch that. It wouldn’t have been the same if he’d gone all Jon Bon Jovi on us.

Anyway, back to last night. Let me introduce you to Ted V. Mikels. Campy, outrageous and beyond eccentric independent Z-grade film maker – here are a few movies attributed to him besides The Corpse Grinders. There’s also The Doll Squad, 10 Violent Women and Blood Orgy of the She-Devils. Oh and here is a picture of the man himself:

Here he is in his hey day:

He claims Hollywood stole the idea for Charlie’s Angels off him, referring to the Doll Squad for proof. You be the judge:

The Corpse Grinders  takes place in a cat food factory that uses human flesh as its main ingredient. The owners, a pair of shady characters out of Colombo employ a man clearly suffering from Aspergers to dig up bodies for them to keep the production line going. The grinder in question cost $17 and it shows. The acting is so bad it’s good. I laughed my arse off at the editing. One minute there’s a knock at the door, jump cut to a cat attacking a buxom beauty, bit more jerking of the camera – she’s being fed into the corpse grinder.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Under normal circumstances, you’d dismiss this as utter dross. But then there is an interview with Ted Mikel’s the director, writer, producer, medieval dark lord of his castle and realise he’s being totally sincere and you can’t help yourself; you actually start to rate this crap. I left wanting for more - though I will need just a little time to recover.

You know sometimes you just have to go with the flow, arrive with an open mind.  You  never ever know...    Happy weekend everyone.

La Belle Epoque

The fog lifts on another balmy and barmy day chez my disturbed mind.  I'm back to my usual fighting fit self I'm pleased to report having, it seems bagged another interview for a stellar organisation.  See, I think this whole job hunting malarkey is a test on endurance not skills.  I am confident in those...it's the waiting around that is fuelling the clot in my aorta.  I should know better than to doubt the power of the universe.  It will provide - it always has.  So I shall leave that whole agenda in the capable laps of the gods.

Jeez, I'll tell ya, it's amazing what a bar of chocolate and three bags of strawberry shoelaces can do to settle the mind and body.

I'm alone again.  The silverback is in Hamburg and I've been left to my own devices.  First on the 'to do' was to book a trip to Perpignan.  I was 21 last time I was there and the trip will be a very emotional one for me.  It was the last year my mum spent on this mortal coil; I was there, she was here and when I came home after a year of Cyrano de Bergerac country and picturesque spaces filled with belle epoque experiences where I was teaching English as part of my degree, it was to be the last 2 months of her life.  It was a sudden and unexpected death and as the16th year anniversary creeps ever closer - never a day I like to dwell on - it seems appropriate that this year I come full circle. 

My teaching friends and staff at the Lycee who had taken me under their wing - I was known as La Petite Lectrice to everyone, even the local boulanger - were devastated for me and united in their show of solidarity.  It is a kindness I will never forget.  After many attempts to return, as crazy as it sounds, I simply didn't find the time to visit.  I lie, I did go back once 7 years later and that was pretty intense, but I return now as a mother myself and wife.  I've come a long way since La Petite Lectrice made students fill in the gaps to the lyrics of Nirvana's Lithium.  I remember that being an immensely popular lesson.

I will get to see my mentor again who is to retire from a lifetime of giving - she is the Head of English at the French Lycee in Andorra (though I doubt she will ever really stop giving) and her mother who is 100 years old!!! 

I hope to catch up with all the eccentrics of the village:  The french literature teacher with an unhealthy obsession for Le Canigou  - the local mountain.  He talks about it as if it were a person, related to him.  Then there is the son of the school administrator whom I gave private English lessons to with one condition; everything we talked about had to revolve around the films of Kevin Costner.

There are also those I have no wish to see again: the sports teacher who it was widely believed made porn films on the side or the economics teacher with an aversion to soap and deodorant...

I think however, the thing I'm almost most looking forward to is seeing how my husband deals with the lingo - especially down south:

- Pernod? Avec de l'eau?

- Victor Who?

- Wiz water?

- PLEASE!!

Into the White

So I'm thinking that my current negativity is blocking all these cosmic orders I've been placing.  Nothing has gone my way recently.  Oh woe is me. I live in Maida Vale, am in no danger of starving (if only - yes I know this is not politically correct  - it's this black mood - I can't control it), I have a pretty freaking amazing family and yet I'm feeling sorry for myself.  I should be ashamed.  I am.  Still, what kind of a Londoner would I be if I didn't have a little moan every now and again.  


Once again, I find myself looking for work at the worse time of year: Summer.  This should be a happy time, a time to take advantage of the fact that pretty much bar the odd writing job here and there, I've got loads of free time.  It's the stuff of dreams. But no, I want to work more and very few recruiters can be arsed right now.  It's not all grim, I'm a natural networker so something will give - it always does but instead of going with the flow, I'm fretting.  I have this vision of hitting an age where Summer, Spring or Winter, I'd be lucky to get a job selling hotdogs on the street.  I worry about my old age even though I know of course I won't make it past 65.  I am aware of the irony.  I'm also a fatalist but at least I'm not a hypochondriac...there is that.  Can you imagine?


And by the same token, so what if I do make it past the age of 65 with not a penny to my name having spent it on trips to France and lattes? - I'm in London!  This is the town that encourages under achievement.  Achievers get nothing from London.  They get to pay taxes and to be put on waiting lists.  And don't start with the 'but what are you doing for London?' bollocks:  I pay taxes and wait patiently on lists.  I give free Yoga classes to people that don't want them; I write to local Councillors to complain about the state of primary school education.  Secretly, I love every minute of it.  It beats the void of Burbsville, Ontario.  


I am drawing a line under today.  It's for the best.

What a world, what a world...

It's  been a helluva week folks. I've been rejected left, right and centre; struck down by some weirdoid flu-type thing - maybe malaria...no, lung cancer, at least and get this: I can't even (it seems) GIVE yoga away - that's how much of a reject I've become.

So first, I spend ages researching an industry sector for an interview which comes to nothing.  I blame the Bakerloo line.  I was all suited and booted, rehearsed and researched with more 'aptitude' than a cheerleader in heat only to get to the station platform to be told that I wasn't going anywhere that morning.  The Bakerloo line had been suspended.  In for a penny in for five pounds worth of bus rides and a gallop up Oxford St. - I make the interview but now not only am I shaken, I'm stirred and my lips are clinging to my teeth.  It's not easy speaking when your teeth have a cement-like grip on your lips.  It's impossible to enunciate.  I sound like I have motor neuron disease.  It make me so nervous well, I end up ballsing it.  Hey ho.  Two other roles didn't want me either. One had the good grace to tell me.  At least I can relax now for the rest of the weekend.

Next.  Free yoga anyone?

No.

I guess I will have to charge the next time as I think Londoners are too cynical to accept anything for free.  They probably thought I was trying to recruit them into some naturist satanical cult.  I lie - two people came.  I knew one of them.  The other one was an old man trying to shake pneumonia.  Just what I need. 

I won't go into the schooling fiasco for the nipper.  I just won't, it's too depressing.  What this country has done with the education system is the street equivalent of setting fire to your own hair when all you need is a trim.  We've had to go private.  So it's Lady Lish to you all now.

Then my laptop packs up.  You know, I don't ask for much in life.  Not really and when I do, it is with careful consideration but now I can't even get online without having to sit in a stinking internet cafe surrounded by 'gamers', where the seats are so low I can feel Carpal Tunnel marching down my neck towards my wrists.

On a good point...and I tread with caution here because the way things are going I feel a crucifiction coming - I made it 5 years as wifey to the Silverback Gorilla.  So there's one thing I didn't cock up this week - mind you, it's only 3pm - there is time for a total FUBAR.

That's me done and done but hey y'all come back now.

The Living is Easy

Ok, so I didn't do any better at all this week in terms of blogging but it's 32 degrees in London.  This is the weather of everyone's youth. I can't stay indoors blogging!!

It's a lovely dry heat.  Perfect for pub patios which is incidentally where I've been 'working' from since the beginning of July.  I've been snacking on sunshine, proper grazing because I'm beginning to look like a Mulberry bag.  I also have 2 weeks coming up in Portugal; going to my oldest friend's wedding.  We've known eachother since we were babies.  I'm very much looking forward to this - I love a good party, but also to spending 2 weeks in retro holiday mode consisting of  sunbathing, sunbathing and more sunbathing.  It takes me back to my teen years going to Alicante with my mum where she had a summer house.   It was made of egg shells.  You could hear the neighbour zipping his flies up, the walls were that thin.  But OH the fun we all had.  I had to sell it eventually after my mum passed.  I held onto it for 7 years afterwards, but the holidays there were never the same.

Memories of holidays with my mum - the original sun worshipper - become fuzzier as years pass.  It goes without saying that I miss those times.  I want Portugal to be for The Lish, what I used to have with my mummy.  We'd spend days at the beach toasting.  Nights out on the roof patio - our house a veritable Private Members Club for select neighbours who would dribble in and out all evening bringing food, wine and anecdotes.  I would duck out after a bit and disappear into the night with my gang to do stuff kids don't discuss with parents - nothing sordid...just under age sex and drinking...not really 'Breakfast Club' stuff - I've always been a massive prude.  And now I'm just a massive prune.  I'm brown as a berry! and I'm not alone.

Two looks sweeping the nation at the moment are: The Californian raisin and the polished pink snooker ball.

I leave you with a couple of pictures of 'my beach' in The Costa Blanca.  Witness to many rites of passage. You have to trek through thick fragrant pine scrub to get to the sand.  Ah, Happy Days.

PLAYA LAS DUNAS - GUARDAMAR SEGURA, ALICANTE