Countdown to Christmas: Switching on the Christmas lights

My sister is a student at St Andrews. And so this weekend I decided to brave the epic train journey, the freezing weather and the reenactment of student life, and go to visit.

When I arrived Lucy, knowing my soft spot for anything festive suggested we go and watch the St Andrews Christmas lights being switched on. Obviously I was very keen.

So we went outside her house (she lives on one of the three streets in St Andrews) where the rest of the population of the town had gathered. And there were stalls with roasted chestnuts and mulled wine, and those silly wind up light toy things, and carol singing and then there was a speech, followed by another speech.

And then we all counted down for the lights to be switched on. And by this point I am MEGA excited (seeing as every year I miss the London ones, and so finally I was involved with this festive occasion). And then they switch them on.....

Six trees have been adorned with fairy lights. White fairy lights. That have now been illuminated. I was on the verge of being incredibly disappointed.



When I realised - this is St Andrews. It is small. Everything is on a smaller scale. And suddenly it didn't matter that we had chanted and sung and waited out in the cold only to see six trees be lit up.

Rye

My step-mother, before she was in our family, lived in tiny cottage in Devon. Although it was really quite a beautiful place (it looked like a child's drawing of a house, and was in the middle of nowhere, literally - it was between the moors, and 30mins drive to a shop. That was open for about 2 hours a day) Lucy and I grew to dread going as we got older because of the complete lack of anything to do (thus the basis of its appeal for my parents).

So when we moved to London, and Devon became even further away they sold it. And instead bought a little house in Rye.

Rye is lovely. It is tiny. You can walk around the whole place, at my pace, in half an hour. It has about 8 shops, no supermarket (except for Budgens - an odd, yet popular little chain in the area) 3 art galleries, a church and an incredible number of very good pubs, restaurants and ye olde tea shoppes.

It is also under an hour and a half drive from the Boyfriend's house. And so last weekend we decided to pop down, only for a night, and relax in Rye.

We stopped off in Budgens for orange squash and beer. We got to the little house, turned up the heating, and made a nest. We squabbled over the TV (I wanted Children in Need, he wanted some very unpleasant programme about Burmese slavery). And then we went out for a yummy yummy dinner at a little Italian called The Tuscan Kitchen (although at first the Boyfriend was a little confused - it's an Italian and there's no PIZZA??) where we were defeated by the shear amount of meat in the anti-pasti and then had big steaming plates of pasta and sauce.

And then we went to The George. A cosy, comfy pub and had wine and read the paper and played dominoes (middle-aged I know, but that is what Rye does to you). And went home to bed. And then got up late and had all day breakfasts at one of said ye olde tea shoppes, and bought pick and mix (childish I know, but that's what Rye does to you) and then headed home back to London (not without leaving the fridge door open, and the heating on.... whoops).

And then we were back in the city. And although we both know that this is where we belong, and that anymore than 24hours in Rye and we would be going mad, 24hours itself is perfect. Do go. It is absolutely worth it. But only for 24hours.

One other thing - everytime we left the house it was blowing a complete gale. So back into the house we went and wrapped up even warmer. Only to then boil the minute we went the 3minute walk to the high street. We discovered why; watchbell street (where the house is) is exposed, and seems to be the only windy street in the whole of Rye - just a tip for if you ever venture there.

Ferret Dance

The other day the boyfriend was having a day off. And I was having the most stressful day EVER.

So he found me this. And it made me so happy.



Having passed on the beauty of this video to many others, it has not yet failed me. And so if you're having a bad day, I suggest you have a look.

Pop Life

The other day I was starting late at work (oh the joys of not waking up at 5am!) and the boyfriend had a day off. And instead of indulging the boy and spending the morning watching crappy TV, I persuaded him to come with me to the Tate.

The boyfriend is not the biggest fan of art. He thinks a lot of it is a waste of time, especially the pieces that he thinks he could do himself (ie. a white canvas with a blue line, etc). And at times I'm inclined to agree (although as I point out to him, he might be able to do it, but he wouldn't have thought of it in the first place).

Anyway. Off we toddled to Pop Life. It was £12.50 to get in. Fine. Not extortionate. And because it was mid-week, it was fairly quiet.




As an exhibition it is ok. The first half I found a little long. And although the exhibition features a lot of artists, there are almost too many, and you end up feeling that you haven't really got to grips with any of them.

Two things struck me as we went round.

1. The sex. Now, you are warned that some of the pieces are of an extremely sexual nature, but even so, seeing an 8ft tall picture of an ejaculating penis, or the larger than life sculpture of the artist Jeff Koons in extremely explicit sexual positions with his porn star wife was really a little overwhelming.

2. The idea of art, the artist, and the consumer.

There was one piece by Andrea Fraser. To create the piece she had spoken to a gallery, and they had found her a customer that wanted to purchase the piece she was about to create. But the piece would be created with this man. She filmed the two of the them having sex. And it was this film that was on display.

On paper this sounds a little like prostitution. But I think the idea was that in the moment of creating art, you inevitably sell a part of your being. Yes, it is a form of prostitution, but there is no way that you can create art without investing part of both your physical and emotional self. And I guess what she was trying to say was that your work is then sold to a stranger, and a stragner that will then own this incredibly personal part of you. In this film, she just made this parallel in the most basic way possible - using the literal image of sex.

It seemed that all the ideas demonstrated by the artists were that of how life and art intertwine. And how what you as the artisit see, is then recreated, along with your own emotional investment into said image, purely for the superficial enjoyment of others. Hence the prolific use of pornography, or elements of pornography throughout the exhibition.

Purely by chance, shortly after going I started to read Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray". This too totally focuses on the idea of art and life, and how the two are inextricably linked (albeit in a Gothic and more fantastical way). And the only conclusion that I've really come to, even if it is a little crude, is that all artists must pimp themselves out to the faceless public, because all of us (be it painters, sculptors, draftsmen, poets, authors, even bloggers) have to invest our own personal beliefs, emotions and intimacies, and lay them all naked before the eyes of strangers.

On a lighter note, I think my favourite piece was the silver steel bunny.

Masterchef

Those of you that know me will know that cooking has never been a strong point, or even much of an interest for me. In fact my culinary expertise stretches not much further than toast. But one of the perks at work is complimentary tickets, and for that reason myself and Wigan were venturing to that district line black-spot of Kensington Olympia, to attend Masterchef Live.

After fighting our way through the frenzied crowds of amateur cooks, we made it into the lofty space of Olympia.

Which is huge. And was totally jam-packed with stalls that were selling everything, from juice to sausages, from cheese graters to lager, from chocolate to curry. And you could try more or less all of it. We saw one of the finalists from this year's Masterchef demonstrating how to fillet a fish, and a range of TV chefs signing books and having photos.

We managed to try a seriously large amount of stuff - Kingfisher lager was a winner, as what the second of the toffee vodkas. St Germain elderflower liquer is a definite must have - it tastes like a garden in spring. Fat free and low calorie curry on the other hand tastes fat-free and low caloris - rubbish. Chocolate orange fudge is nice, as was lavender (surprisingly). The Wiganer nearly choked to death on a chilli jam, and out of the considerable range of chocolate brownies, the best was probably the gluten free one.

The only thing we actually bought was a wild boar sausage sandwich and a buffalo burger for lunch (mega-YUM) and a chocolate owl (for the boyfriend).

All in all, I would not have paid for this event (partly down to the fact that cooking will never be that high on my agenda) but it was definitely worth going as a freebie.

TV trials and tribulations

Watching TV is not something that really falls into my routine (and no, it's not because I am a do-gooder "I read books type" - my shifts at work change about as regularly as a set of traffic lights, and therefore any hope of following a series is lost).

Although obviously, I am now watching X-Factor. Quite obsessively. So obsessively in fact that I have even had to catch it up on ITV player when I've missed a couple. And it was while watching a catch up epsiode that I had my revelation.

My TV is shocking. I never really noticed it before. But there is no aeriel point in the flat and so we have to use one of those manual plug in ones (our one is from the 90s) and then one of us must stand there and wiggle it while the others to shout "Yes, Yes I can see Simon Cowell's face" or "no, still green". We only have four channels (yes, we cannot even get Channel 5, let alone any of the digital ones) and the other day one of the housemates managed to tune both BBC 1 and BBC 2 to the same channel on the TV (they are both found on number 5) so it really is pot-luck as to which one you get.

And it had never even registered, let alone bothered me until I downloaded an X-Factor episode. And hurrah, the people were not green and wibbly.

Remembrance Sunday and the great poppy debate

So, I was at work today. And it is Remembrance Sunday. And in the lead-up to this weekend we have had countless debates about the wearing of the poppy - people defacing poppy appeal posters and war memorials, a campaign for the contestants of Strictly Come Dancing to wear one during their performances, why is it still relevant today, how wearing one is a political statement, etc, etc.

And to be honest, by today, I was starting to feel a little tired of the whole sorry debate.

And then a colleague at work hit the nail on the head - I think that the reason for so much fuss over the poppy issue is because people no longer know or learn history. They no longer understand the deeper issue of Remembrance Sunday. For many, the concept of war dates no further back than our invasion into Iraq and Afghanistan. And while any loss of human life is tragic and awful, in Afghanistan so far 228 have died. On the first day of the Somme 20000 died.

And so making a fuss about a poppy for political reasons, social reasons, whatever reason really seems to be a bit self-indulgent. It is not a political statement, but a mark of respect, and to show that it doesn't matter how much or how little you had achieved in your life as a solider, to us you are still important enough to remember.

Imagination

One of the (many) things that the boyfriend and I disagree over in a big way is films. The boyfriend LOVES a horror, be it Hostel, Psycho, The Exorcist, Don't Look Now, Saw, the list goes on. And I absolutely HATE them. And although it has taken me nearly 24years to work out why, I think I have finally figured it out.

When my sister and I were little my mother insisted on making us a lot of toys. As she (rightfully) pointed out, if money was spent on them, we would only get bored as quickly as we would with ones that were hand-me-downs or handmade. Now, despite the truth in this, it was a source of severe embarassment to have a cooker, not made of plastic, but made from an old box, with felt tip rings drawn on. And yet, my sister and I were only ever embarassed of it in front of other people - with each other it worked as well as a plastic one, wooden one, even a real one.

Looking back on this, and the fact that Lucy and I used to drive my father mad with our imaginary games (the "Anna Game" being one - I couldn't even tell you what was involved, but we could play that game for days and days without a single prop) I have realised that the reason that Lucy and I were never really fussed by the real toy (what an oxymoron) or the homemade one was because really the toy was no more than an aide for our never exhausted imaginations.

And it is for that same reason that I cannot watch horror films, or even read horror books (Stephen King's "IT" scared me so much my long-suffering step-mother made me throw it in the wheelie bin outside) - I cannot help but put myself directly into the situation, however unrealistic. Even watching really dated, and unrealistic to the point of funny horror films, and after a few moments, I am terrified rigid (after watching Jaws aged 15 I was so terrified that I kept thinking my lamp was a shark). And the terror doesn't end there - many the night has my dad, and later on the boyfriend had to sit up with me, be woken up by me, had to talk me through how it is not, could not be real.

The upside to having an extremely overactive imagination is that I can be left unattended, without any props, distractions, or conversation for hours, and still not be bored.

Panda facts

A few weeks ago a book of 100 Facts about Pandas arrived on my desk (I say my desk - I share it with a few others). So each morning I've been having a quick flick through, learning a fact or two, sometimes sharing a fact with a presenter, guest or celebrity paper reviewer, or whoever is wandering around in the office.



The best thing about this book is the lovely pictures, illustrating each fact. For example, did you know that a panda hears with its nose and smells with its ears? Or that agressive pandas were responsible for the injuries of 8 cavers admitted to emergency rooms in China between 1995-2000? And that you are never more than four hours away from a panda?


I've always loved pandas, and so having this book really meant a lot to me. And I thanked whoever had put it on my desk. That was, until I shared another classic panda fact (did you know, a group of pandas is called a cupboard? And they only ever live in even numbers - should another panda join the group another must leave, or they need to find another one) with a colleague. Who burst out laughing. And informed me that the book had been deliberately planted on my desk, and that all these so-called "facts" were complete and utter rubbish.



The thing that upset me most was not the number of people with whom I had shared these facts (although, yes this was a little embarassing - there are definitely a few MPs who may be sharing incorrect panda facts at this very moment), but that there wasn't a little panda hospital, that in fact they do not weigh up to six times more when wet, and that you cannot comfort a baby panda with a fax machine.

St Boris's Hospital for sick Pandas

On second viewing, I am faintly embarrassed that I fell for the book for so long (in my defense, some of the facts are definitely feasible, nowhere on the book is there mention of it being humorous, and it is full of some very convincing photos). Perhaps the most ridiculous (although my personal favourite) fact was that due to a bureaucratic error, the panda is in fact classified not as a mammal, but as a nut.

Jedward

I must confess that on the X-Factor front I have been a little lax this year. I loved it last year (and was a Diana Vickers fan through and through), but it wasn't until the contestants went to the judges houses that I started to watch it this time round.

And straight away I felt an animousity towards John and Edward. They were cocky, rude and egotistical. And their hair really is ridiculous.

But after they butchered Britney, I have to confess that I came to love them. Yes they can't sing, can't really dance, and are still incredibly arrogant. But they are so entertaining, especially compared to other contestants (who I can only describe as nice - they are inoffensive, have nice voices, nice faces, nice personalities, but they are all just nice. With the possbile exception of Olly).

But Jedward are hilarious. And when they put on a show, yes they are out of tune and out of time (even with each other), but they are the only act that I really look forward to. And it seems that the rest of Joe public feel the same, as despite Jedward's poor comments from the judges, they have yet to be in the bottom two.

I know they seem like the John Sergeant of this year's competition, but in some ways I feel that their farcical entry not only mocks the competition itself, but also the entertainment and pop world - we no longer appreciate talent and talent alone. We always want the drama and the entertainment that comes with it.

Although, in the words of David Frost, television enables you to be entertained in your home, by people you would never have in your home. And when it comes to Jedward, I could not agree more

The power of context

I've recently discovered (and finished) an incredible series of books. They have been published posthumously by a Swedish author, Steig Larsson, and the first in the series is called "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo".

These books are incredibly good. They are intricate, thrilling, gory, and yet have a depth to them that can often be lacking in crime thrillers. Possibly the weakest part of the book is the title (in it's original language, the book was titled the far more apt "Men who hate women").

Throughout the trilogy there are many literary references that have spurred me on to try authors I had not yet read, or indeed in some cases, had not even heard of. A very rewarding one has been Sara Paretsky, a crime novelist who also favours a strong female loner for her main character.

On doing a little more research I discovered that there were plans for as many as 10 more books in the Lisbeth Salander series, and it seems that the loss of Larsson may well be a profound loss to the literary world (he was named the second best-selling author in the world in 2008)

I also discovered that Larsson never married his longterm partner, meaning that at the time of his (untimely) death, she was not named in his long-outdated will. And because they had never married, she was left with nothing. Yet they never married because (apparently) in Sweden, if you marry, you are obliged to publish your address, and due to the nature of Larsson's work, this was not a very good idea.

Both this fact, finding out the original title, and Larsson's sudden death have all combined to deepen the appeal of the Millenium trilogy. It struck me that by giving this additional context to the book, many aspects of the Sweden that is represented seem darker, and events of the novels all the more tragic.

It's funny what little things can do for the understanding of the whole.

Height isn't everything

I have a confession. After years of holding out, denying the benefits and refusing point blank to accept any positives about them, I have gone over to the dark side.

Yes. I am talking about Uggs. I remember when I first saw them. They looked like furry wellies. I thought they were hideous. As you may well know, I am a firm advocate of the heel. The higher the better. And yet, in the last few years my opinions have mellowed, and then, this winter, I finally took the plunge and am the proud owner of a pair of tall, black Uggs.

And they are AMAZING. They are like walking on carpet. Or on a cloud. They are like having paws. I can't take them off. I have even managed to reconcile myself to their appearance. And now, after the first true day of winter (cold, clear and crisp) they are about to become permanently fused to my feet.

The only down side has been the number of people that have said "Gosh, you're so small!"

Halloween

Halloween is a funny time of year. Essentially it involves dressing like an idiot, and then knocking on stranger's doors and asking for sweets.

This year halloween was combined with the lovely Dan's housewarming (he has been in the house 6 months, but who's counting?)

Bit of background on Dan. We lived with him during the undergraduate years at Warwick. In my house there were 7 of us - 5 girls, a camp and a gay (not very PC but a more than adequate description). And Dan was the camp. And also the only one able to save us from the hazards of bugs, electrical dilemmas, plumbing problems, TV tuning situations, and the scariness of living down a very dark alley.

So. Dan is having a house warming/halloween. I am going as a pink santa. Not scary I know, but cheap, reusable, and goes perfectly with lots of glitter. Dan was a scary clown. And given any other day, I would put this down as the scariest of scary outfits. But not this year.

Another friend turned up wearing a suit. And a black wig. Not very scary (unless he was going for the banker look - scary in some contexts I suppose). And then he pulled out the finishing touch. A BNP badge (made himself - for the record, no he is not a racist).

And after that, the scary clown was no longer the most feared person - he had been usurped by none other than Nick Griffin.

Now I say a lot of this tongue in cheek. He did not look like Nick Griffin. Not even a little bit. But the concept was definitely far scarier than any other at the party.

Because Nick Griffin, while held in low esteem, ridiculed, and openly hated by many (you only have to see the riots outside TVC before Question Time to agree) is the head of a legal political party. And it is a party that have got not just 1 but 2 MEPS. It is a party that seems to be enjoying better success than it has done in previous years (although, incidentally, not because it has more supporters, but because of the complacency of other voters. If anything BNP support has declined, but fewer people voted in the last election, hence the entrance of BNP members).

It seems to me that the only people who vote for the BNP are

1. Racist

2. Stupid

3. Seriously disillusioned.

I think that 3 is probably the most likely. At least, I hope so - I'd rather live in a Britain full of lost, and disillusioned souls, rather than racist idiots.

But regardless of the motivation for voting for this bigotted party of racists (and yes, there can be no other label for a party who only allow white, indigenous - whatever that means - Brits to become members. Sorry Ashley Cole, Lewis Hamilton, Amir Khan, Meera Syal, to name but a few prestigious and valued members of the British celeb culture - no, you may hold a British passport, be allowed to vote, be third generation British, whatever, but that is not enough for the BNP to see you as a Brit) the voting has been a success. And this is really frightening.

If indeed, they were voted in by people that feel lost and disenfranchised by the British political system (and sadly a lot of this comes down to those MPs that claimed for bath plugs, blue movies and duck islands) then what can we do? Surely there is an option that is less radical than voting in racist holocaust deniers?

Maybe we need to suspend opinion in our voting system. Maybe the only way, not only to banish the BNP, but also to restore faith in the entire political system is for us all to follow the example of a certain Tony in Norwood - a texter I came across this week, who suggested an inspired approach to voting. We should interrupt our usual voting policy by voting, not for the party and the policies that we believe in, but the people that we feel we trust. For the MPs that didn't swindle the public. For the MPs that truly seem to be in the job to make a difference, to look out for their constituency, to do their job not solely for financial gain, but also on an ethical level?

Although, the one loss for us if we were to lose Nick Griffin is that poor Pearse would have just been another guy in a black suit. And lets face it, compared to a scary clown, that is poor.