Not Fade Away

I'm watching with autistic-like focus, the BBC documentary with 'Keef' Richards on his newly published autobiography 'Life'.  A bland title, even by the standards of the most toothless simpleton but in the case of Keith - life and the fact that he is still alive is an achievement of gravity defying proportions, so in that sense: well said K-dog. 

It's evident as the line of questioning becomes ever more convoluted that he is indeed a man of few succinct and slightly disjointed words; a man who appears to embody the meaning of 'less is more' in every aspect of his approach to life with the exception of music, drugs and women. In that order.

The most revelatory comment of all is when Keith describes 'Satisfaction' as a sketch he didn't get enough time to make into an oil-painting due to the pressure of touring in the early to mid 60s and the record company's insatiable appetite for singles - ready or not.  I can't imagine that song being any better than it is.  It's a mind blowing discovery.

Asked whether he realised the part he played in changing the consciousness of a generation (from the way he played guitar to his way of dressing) - he self-effacingly explains that all he was doing was trying to forget the war. 

So this mangled old hellraiser with his knobbly, deformed phalanges and curt, humble responses casts a long shadow in the world of music and pop culture; one from under which no contemporary artist will ever out-cast.

Baudelaire once said: "Anybody, providing he know how to be amusing has the right to talk about himself."  In the case of Keith - he doesn't even have to be funny.  Though he is, endearingly and alluringly so. 

It must be Sunday

This whole blog post owes its inspiration to condensation. Yes, the dew that forms on windows when hot air meets cold. Alarmingly the condensation on one window I'm looking at is on the OUTSIDE - which gives you an indication as to the quality of insulation in this flat - gorgeous as it it.

It's a sunshine flat that's for sure. Wonderful things happen to sunlight in this flat. I have to say though, that I do also love it when the winter nights start to draw in. It reminds me of being a kid, getting home from school at 4pm and it already being pitch black outside. Wil o' the Wisp cartoon would come on; set in a forest where the main character was a little ghost, there was no better programme to watch while outside the night grew darker, cold and clammy. Or watching a black & white movie with my mum - those are great to watch on bleak winter evenings.

On those nights there was always condensation on the windows (on the inside). I would sometimes stand at my bedroom window just before getting into bed, and draw pictures in the condensation while wistfully wishing on a star. I wasn't unhappy, I was just a kid who watched too much TV.   Or not.  I mean TV is often the one saving grace on dark, cold nights.

Reading too is another cosy activity, but I prefer doing that in a toasty bed with soft lighting.  Any minute now Bing Crosby will appear in his slippers, puffing on a pipe with a big book of fairytales. Don't worry, if he does I'll kick him in the brick.  Anyway, the point is that cold, seemingly boring nights - especially Sundays can also offer opportunities to get cosy and content with very little.

To wit - on the rare occasions the Silverback is not foraging for food, chest beating or practicing knuckle-walking he sometimes likes to ask blue sky questions like:
 - It's Sunday night, The Lish is in bed, it's 5 to 9 - you've slipped into your Jim Jams, have a bottle of room temperature water (sensitive teeth) to sip and flicked the TV on - what are you watching?

In other words, if you could watch any film tonight, which would it be?  My response is always the same:
- A psychological or suspense thriller.

One day I will surprise him and say:
- NHL Hockey, preferably a Leafs game. 

Of course I'd sooner stick needles in my eyes than watch hockey, but I might just say it, just to see the look on his banana eating face.

Can you tell it's Sunday?

Rules of Engagement

I went to our storage unit this week - a necessity given we brought Canada with us in the move here and there isn't enough room in the flat for it - to get my 'winter wardrobe'.
 
With the Silverback in Philly again, it was up to me to manage the manoeuvre with military precision as I was also taking The Lish and she has a boredom threshold of an L.A celebrity's kid.  So the night before, I made sure to charge up her portable DVD and packed four of her favourite films (are you getting the enormity of the operation?) 

Feeling very much like I do the night before an early flight, I tossed and turned in bed and woke up feeling like a pig had made itself at home in my head.  Having ripped the second largest piece of luggage out of the bottom of the wardrobe - an operation that resembled lambing season in New Zealand - we set off on the one and a half hour journey to East Finchley.  One long-assed tube ride later, we made it to bus stop A on the High Road for the last leg of the journey that would take us up to North Finchley.  A bunch of stops later - I was measuring the distance by eye (bit like my cooking), we made it to C.I.A headquarters. 

I had memorised the two sets of codes that would get us into the building and my locker.  Feeling like Jason Bourne punching in the number of his Swiss bank account I managed not to make any mistakes that would cause bars to fall from the ceiling and trap us like ferrets in a mink farm.  I was feeling proud as Punch (if only I were as good looking at that time in the morning).  I'd even managed to zone out the sound of The Lish whinging about how bored she was.  We hadn't even STARTED yet.

I approached the locker with dread.  The inside is like the storage area of an IKEA store without the labelling.  I had to find boots and coats in all of that to last me all winter (or until we buy a house - which may be soon - saw some cracking flats yesterday, but that's for another time).

Opening the door to the sound of an air vacuum sucking oxygen in from the outside and Lishy still whining - I decided to take out my first weapon of mass destruction - the DVD player - guaranteed to silence the witteriest of fish wives, only to find I'd left it charging at home.  I sank to my knees in prostrated frustration.  Instead I pulled out a packet of Wotsits and hoped it would take her an hour to eat.  Wishful thinking.

If having to unstack boxes that weighed as much as I did the day before going into labour wasn't enough, the lights in this place are on a timer, which required me to run up and down the corridors every 20 minutes in order to get the sods to turn on again (motion detector system).  Not fun at the best of times, less if you are stuck between a book shelf and a bedstead with your hands stuffed into the lurky depths of an unlabelled box.  Suffice to say, I don't plan on going back until it's actually time to move the boxes into a permanent home.

After that little escapade, I looked a right nonce pulling an overstuffed suitcase to bus stop A for the return journey home. I could have taken a cab, but that would have defeated the point since the whole exercise was to save money by not re-buying clothes and boots I already owned, I figured I'd stay true to that sentiment and rough it on public transport. Ridiculous really, I SO deserved a cab home.

After my tour of duty up in North London, I pretty much slept-walked through the rest of the week. Sorry about that. I did however try out the red velvet cupcake recipe I was blithering about in the last blogpost, to my credit, as it involved buying ingredients I've never even seen in real life, like food colouring, vanilla essence and butter (I'm a margarine girl).  And look! - but I preface the image below with the following caveat: I don't cook.

So there you have it. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm told however that taste-wise - it's the business. Story of my life. Nice legs shame about the face.

Do you know the muffin man?

I've been watching a little show on The Food Network called Cupcake Wars recently.  Actually watching would be too passive a description - truth be told, I've been devouring the show like I would a bucketful of cupcakes after a week in a health farm.

The competitiveness between the bakers is ferocious in a way only Americans can get over pastry.  Mind you, they are terribly creative.  New to my virtual kitchen i.e. the one that exists only in thought, are red velvet, lime-key pie, tres leches and churro flavoured cupcakes - if only I could cook - but since I can't cook for toffee, I live vicariously through these shows.

The workmanship, the quality...it's dazzling.  From the 5 foot high displays to the organic vegan ingredients - it's quite amazing the life force energy these chefs and business owners put into the humble cupcake.  Last night for example, the theme was Seaworld.  They were tasked with including sea salt and seaweed into the recipes.  Disgusting as it sounds, I didn't see any regurgitating by the judges - the greedy little ferrets. 

That's the other thing:  everyone looks like a Yoga goddess -  like they've never eaten a whole cupcake in their lives. 

I got to thinking what that show would be like if it were done by the British.  First off it would have to be called Muffin Wars, which already feels like something you should not be doing in the kitchen. 
Innovative flavours would include rhubarb, marmite and if we're being really exotic - cucumber and the most impressive muffin tops would be the ones exposed by the chefs as they bent over to put the baking trays in the oven.  Themes would include public transport and hoodies.

I've just checked quickly and tonight's theme for Cupcake Wars is Aphrodisiacs.  Flippin' eck!  That's one I'll have to slip into something much more comfortable for.  I'm imagining red velvet, chocolate, honey, pomegranate and gold leaf.  

The Brits would struggle with that theme wouldn't they?  Is powered egg too saucy?

Oh behave!

Outrage and a little dairy obsession

I'm insatiable.  I always have been and let me be honest here, not always in a good way.  Currently I'm either obsessing and behaving like a whirling dervish (great for multi-tasking in the home and office) or I'm so unwound you need a mop to interact with me (ask The Lish).

It could be borderline personality, manic depression, bi-polarism (I'm a contender for any of those) or utterly normal for a woman living in London, raising a kid and ferociously pursuing a raison d'etre. Yoga helps to keep me grounded, because god knows I'd be pounding my breast and ululating at the moon, naked, from the kitchen window otherwise.  'A' would love that.  He's back to writing me notes...he must know the Silverback is away.

Let's take the current Government's re-structuring of the benefits system in this country.  I agree that for too long it's been a joke.  When people are better off not working - you have a problem.  However (and I speak as a woman who has had the audacity to live her life, go travelling, get married, have a kid and still keep her skills fresh) reforming benefits that affect children, families and women makes me a little furious when there are so many much more undeserving recipients out there that could be targeted.

I refer to the K.I.S.S theory behind where and why cuts are going to be made.  Like police officers who stop cyclists for running red lights instead of tackling real criminals, the govt. has decided to pick on families by cutting child benefit in households where one or other adult's earnings are in the higher tax bracket.  The cut off is somewhere around the £44,000 mark.  It means if both parents are each earning £43,999 pa (so almost £90k household) they get to keep child benefit.  Conversely if you have a stay at home parent where the other parent say earns £44,001 - you're up the brown creek.  It's basically saying...we didn't ask you to have children...

The message is...get married and stay married (whether you like it or not), work like dogs, don't have kids and give us 50% of everything you make so we can fund things like trips to Mars, pay for baby boomer pensions and benefits for couch potatoes.
 
Way to encourage achievement and independence.  And this from a Government trying to sell us on the Big Society idea.  It's all beginning to sound a little like 'Care in the Community' which of course was so very successful...in letting the mentals loose on us.  Libertarianism gone mashugannah.

I see a huge U-turn in less than 12 months.  I sense a revolt of Poll Tax, horse trampling proportions.  And the Tories would deserve it.  Not 12 hours later, it's already happening with the proposed introduction of the married couples' tax transfer reform which involves basically giving back the child benefit through a tax break and will probably cost more than the money they intended to save by axing the benefit in the first place.  If you are finding this complicated and ridiculous...join the queue.

It's a shambles.  Now everyone is talking about reforming the voting system...in other words people have had time to see the mess baby-faced Cameron has managed to make in less than 3 months and they're thinking: How did he get in?  Meanwhile Cameron is rocking in a corner asking for 'bitty' and his nanny.

What is the point of spending £500,000 on a private education when you can't handle the sophistication of a fair tax and benefits system - instead preferring to introduce truly STOOPID measures like this one.  The childrens' minister deserves to be left in a Cambodian Jesuit School run by the worst batty boys the cloth can find.

Meanwhile, I've developed an unhealthy obsession for a certain fruit cornered yogurt.  I've been in denial until I saw this in my fridge:

and

this in my bin:

Think it's time for Yoga.

Over-achievers anonymous

I had a friend over for dinner last night.  We've known eachother since school and once upon a time, we were thick as thieves until I left the Roman Catholic girls' adventure playground that passed for an educational establishment, to pursue a more earnest and foolproof route into university. 

After my fifth year at this secondary school, I managed to get accepted into the closest thing I'd ever get (or want) to a private education - this time a Roman Catholic Boys' spanking club.  Only 50 girls made it into its sixth form every year.  It must have been a real imposition for the boys.  Hurtling groin-first towards peak time of their rampant trouser jiggling years, they were suddenly and hellishly faced with the morphing and untouchable bodies of pubescent lady-girls.  Plain cruel if you ask me - what were the school boards thinking? 

Mind you, we girls were no better off surrounded as we were by a bunch of sexually crimped baboons at a time when we would rather have our new lumps and bumps go unnoticed.  And man oh man could they be BRUTAL especially once the anaesthetic of familiarity took hold.  We were outnumbered and out-hormoned.   Some of us got it worse than others, it was the law of the jungle and very possibly the best preparation for life on offer.  That said, I still know quite a few of those animals today (lovely boys all shackled to strong women in twinsets and pearls...Ha Ha) and got myself a great education along the way not that I've set the world alight with it...so far. 

Which brings me to the revelations of last night's conversation.  For all our achievements and despite needing both hands to count how many people I know with First Class degrees, very few of us can really be said to have truly excelled in life .  I know it's hard to qualify what makes excellence -  so we used the media measuring stick...in other words how TV and newspapers depict success. 

We came to the following conclusions (possibly):

1.) The effort of achieving so much so early in life effectively drained them of the last bit of drive they had; drive that was supposed to last a lifetime. 

2.) Our parents are to blame.  OF COURSE!  They worked too hard, gave us too much and in an attempt to instill in us a hard working ethic  - they exhausted us before we even got started.  Yes, it's their fault.

Astonished by our collective findings and after a sloppy mental audit of what friends were and were not doing, I thought about The Lish and the pushy parent syndrome...and decided two further things: 

1.) Lishy will never be scaremongered into 'getting an education' for the sake of it though she will be encouraged to do something she loves

2.) I'm leaving everything I have to charity all £17.53p of it

2-bed or not 2-bed

Bright and spacious 2-bedroom with terrific views of surrounding countryside.  In need of some renovation.

Though I shouldn't be, I am truly amazed at what some people think can pass for a bedroom in London, in particular a second bedroom. I went to view a so-called 2-bedroom apartment today in the heart of Maida Vale - which is genuinely a lovely area of London- only to find myself standing in an overpriced (okay that's all London real estate) studio that had been not so cunningly converted into a monstrosity; an architectural and interior design abomination.

The so called master bedroom was master of all things miniscule. Only if you stood absolutely still could you be in there at all. Moving was an extra not included in the purchase price. It appeared you would have to leave the room in order to open the wardrobe (which I assume you did with a hook from the hallway). To actually dress you'd have to move the whole operation to the front room.

The second bedroom - and by this, it is generally understood that it will (as if it were a legal requirement) be somewhat smaller than the 'master' - was indeed smaller (unbelievable but true). That there could actually be a smaller bedroom than the one we had all just stood on eachother's shoulders to view, was hard to believe but there it almost was... smaller.

It felt like peering into a room in a dollhouse except this one was not one you could find for £12.99 in Toys R Us. No. I would have laughed out loud but there wasn't enough room.

I was therefore very intrigued to see the roof terrace since they had been so absurdly liberal with the description of the flat in the first place, the viewing had now taken a fairground attraction tinge. Well, let's see. If putting chairs on a precariously balanced thickish piece of overhanging tarpaulin suspended by threadbare rope-type thingys (in flagrant breach of all the safety and building laws of the land) so close to the neighbours BBQ it was a wonder they hadn't singed off years ago - then yes - this was indeed a kooky little roof terrace worthy of a feature in ‘House and Garden’. Sorry, did I say House and Garden? I meant Viz.

I pulled The Lish in fearful that the whole structure would collapse from the strain of all 15 kilos of her. I literally covered my eyes when The Silverback gingerly stepped onto it relieved only that his fall would be somewhat broken by the neighbour's BBQ.

Well, now I was intrigued. They hadn't actually mentioned a kitchen in the instruction. It was immediately apparent why. See, technically there was no kitchen. Sticking a hob and fridge in the corner of the front room does not a kitchen make. I wouldn't mind but the appliances looked like something that had been salvaged from a skip during The Blitz. No but I needed to really take this all in because they wanted ....please brace yourselves: £475,000 for it. The lease was shorter than my inside leg measurement and the ground rent, well, let's just say that if I could save that much a year, we’d be buying the place with cash.

Of course, we’re not buying the place. We did have fun though. And to celebrate we went to THE most delicious South East Asian restaurant located next door to Maida Vale tube, called Street Hawker.

Finger lickin' good and truly (unlike the flat we had just viewed) money well spent.