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.