I was just getting ready for bed last night when Harvey got a text to say that Michael Jackson had died. Neither of us believed it so we turned on Sky News and there it was.
I said to Harvey that it was another Princess Diana moment - it was he who woke me up that day to tell me she had died. He's a bit of a harbinger of death is my son.
Then, as now, we both watched the tv in disbelief.
My first thoughts were of the practicalities: the concerts at the O2 - what would happen? Would people get their money back? Who would have to refund them?
I thought back to Diana and the ridiculous public grieving that followed, I can imagine that there'll be similar scenes for Jackson - in L.A at least - weeping fans clutching flowers and tributes.
He seemed too young to die, but he was 50 and it's not uncommon for a man of that age to suffer from a cardiac arrest. That scared me, I'm not man but I will be 50 by the end of next year. I'm getting my cholesterol checked next week.
Working from home today (due to an errant prawn in Wednesday's salad lunch turning my stomach into a working model of Vesuvius), I'm listening to Radio 2 who are playing lots of his songs and I have to say that I felt quite choked when I heard 'Ben'. Despite his weird behaviour and fuck ups, there was something special about him.
His songs were the backing track to a lot of my life: his poster from Jackie magazine on my bedroom wall; miming to 'I Want You Back' when I got my first record player; dancing to 'Off The Wall' with the girls from Nat West Bank on a night out in Margate; watching the first showing of the 'Thriller' video in a bar on holiday in Kitzbuhel; seeing him live at Wembley stadium in '84; wearing a promo T-shirt on the day of the 'Dangerous' album release when I worked at HMV and lots more.
I guess you can forgive him the facial surgery, the skin lightening etc for the great music.
I remember the day Elvis died, I was only 17 and working with a lot of older women. They were all shocked and spent the day discussing him. At the time I couldn't see what all the fuss was about, now I do.
Michael Jackson was the Elvis of our generation. RIP
Friday, 26 June 2009
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Cats before kids?
Recently I decided that I'd like a cat. I checked with my landlord and he was ok with it. Rather than have a kitten I thought I'd give a home to a rescue or abandoned cat, some poor little creature that nobody wants. So I set to Googling 'rescue cats' to find some animal shelters to ring.
I imagined that I would call them up and say
'I'd like to give a home to an unwanted moggy.' To which they'd reply -
'What a wonderful, caring person you are. If only there were more people in the world like you, please come down and choose which one you'd like.'
But, oh no, it doesn't work like that.
First you have to fill in an appication form. Then you have to go for a face to face interview - with an animal worker, not a cat (that comes later). If that goes ok, arrangements are made to come and visit your home to check its suitability and to see if any adaptions need to be made in order to house a cat. Once that is completed, the shelter will decide which cats in their care they think would be happy living with you. Then, and only then, you can choose from the ones they have selected.
My God. Lack of eggs and offers aside, I could easily bring a child into the world without being vetted for my suitabiity as a parent. Indeed there are thousands of children in this country being brought up by parents who shouldn't even be in charge of a pot plant.
I can understand that animal lovers don't want rescue cats to come out of the frying pan straight into the fire but isn't it taking things a bit too far? Besides, it all seems a bit speciesist. I'm sure the same rigorous checks aren't carried out on behalf of guinea pigs or budgies. Don't they have the right do a decent life too?
I think I'll stick with my pet rock.
I imagined that I would call them up and say
'I'd like to give a home to an unwanted moggy.' To which they'd reply -
'What a wonderful, caring person you are. If only there were more people in the world like you, please come down and choose which one you'd like.'
But, oh no, it doesn't work like that.
First you have to fill in an appication form. Then you have to go for a face to face interview - with an animal worker, not a cat (that comes later). If that goes ok, arrangements are made to come and visit your home to check its suitability and to see if any adaptions need to be made in order to house a cat. Once that is completed, the shelter will decide which cats in their care they think would be happy living with you. Then, and only then, you can choose from the ones they have selected.
My God. Lack of eggs and offers aside, I could easily bring a child into the world without being vetted for my suitabiity as a parent. Indeed there are thousands of children in this country being brought up by parents who shouldn't even be in charge of a pot plant.
I can understand that animal lovers don't want rescue cats to come out of the frying pan straight into the fire but isn't it taking things a bit too far? Besides, it all seems a bit speciesist. I'm sure the same rigorous checks aren't carried out on behalf of guinea pigs or budgies. Don't they have the right do a decent life too?
I think I'll stick with my pet rock.
Saturday 20 June 2009
I've just got home from a one-day writing course. Like every course I've been on, from Stop Smoking to Salsa, the women far outnumbered the men - 17 to 4 in this case.
Women: if you're thinking of enroling on a course purely in order to meet a possible partner, don't - unless you're a lesbian, in which case you may have some luck.
Men: if you want an opportunity to meet lots of women, without minimal competition from other men, join 4 or 5 evening classes. You're chances of success are much greater than hanging about in bars - though don't expect a shag after the first class. Plus you never know, you might even learn something at the same time.
The course turned out not to be particularly inspiring. However, my fellow course-mates were an interesting bunch and two in particular caught my eye.
First, there was a tall, slim, grey-haired woman, in her early 50s at a guess. She was wearing jeans and a vest top. After looking at her for a while it struck me that she had no bust. I thought maybe she was bra-less (an unwise move for anyone over 30) so looked for them further down towards her waist. They weren't there either. She actually had no breasts. This meant she'd either had a double masectomy or been born without any. Whichever, it was obviously not a problem for her as far from trying to disguise the fact, she'd worn clothing more likely to draw attention to it.
Good for her, though my morbid curiosity kept wondering what had happened.
The second person to catch my attention was also a woman in her 50's. She looked like Elizabeth Taylor, but not in a good way. She was very short with wild, back-combed hair, dyed a dark brown. Bright blue eyeshadow, heavily-mascaraed false eyelashes and scarlet lips and nails fought for attention with her leopard print dress and patterned lace tights. She was American and when she spoke she had a gruff drawl not unlike Joan Rivers. She claimed to be a psychologist by profession but I wondered who in their right mind would go to her for treatment.
I might try a Human Behaviour couse next.
Women: if you're thinking of enroling on a course purely in order to meet a possible partner, don't - unless you're a lesbian, in which case you may have some luck.
Men: if you want an opportunity to meet lots of women, without minimal competition from other men, join 4 or 5 evening classes. You're chances of success are much greater than hanging about in bars - though don't expect a shag after the first class. Plus you never know, you might even learn something at the same time.
The course turned out not to be particularly inspiring. However, my fellow course-mates were an interesting bunch and two in particular caught my eye.
First, there was a tall, slim, grey-haired woman, in her early 50s at a guess. She was wearing jeans and a vest top. After looking at her for a while it struck me that she had no bust. I thought maybe she was bra-less (an unwise move for anyone over 30) so looked for them further down towards her waist. They weren't there either. She actually had no breasts. This meant she'd either had a double masectomy or been born without any. Whichever, it was obviously not a problem for her as far from trying to disguise the fact, she'd worn clothing more likely to draw attention to it.
Good for her, though my morbid curiosity kept wondering what had happened.
The second person to catch my attention was also a woman in her 50's. She looked like Elizabeth Taylor, but not in a good way. She was very short with wild, back-combed hair, dyed a dark brown. Bright blue eyeshadow, heavily-mascaraed false eyelashes and scarlet lips and nails fought for attention with her leopard print dress and patterned lace tights. She was American and when she spoke she had a gruff drawl not unlike Joan Rivers. She claimed to be a psychologist by profession but I wondered who in their right mind would go to her for treatment.
I might try a Human Behaviour couse next.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Salzbolg photos
Hope this works. There should be pics of salzburg, including the view from my hotel room balcony. Fingers crossed ....
4 Days in Salzburg - Tues 9 to Sat 13 June 2009
My journey began on the Monday evening when I caught at Terravision coach from Liverpool St to Stanstead. It was a normal coach so I'm not sure why it needed three members of staff to check the handful of passengers on board. There was the driver, a ticket issuer and a short, ruddy-faced, gap-toothed man who would have looked more at home on a cargo ship and seemed to serve no other purpose than to leer at the young girls as they boarded the coach (I managed to escape his gaze)and discuss their virtues in an unfamiliar language with the other two.
There were no more than a dozen of us on the coach, mostly young backpackers with too tight a budget for the Stanstead Express, plus one or two of us older travellers, who were just too tight.
The coach smelt vaguely of stale beer so I decided to hold off eating my homemade brie and tomoato sandwich until I checked into my hotel room, in the hope that it would be more fragrant.
En route we drove past the site of the 2012 Olympic village, it looked like they might need to get a bit of a move on with it. One other unusual sight was a sign on the sliproad to the M11 prohibiting pony and traps. It made me wonder how many people in that area used that form of transport for it to warrant a warning sign. Is there a large gypsy encampment nearby perhaps?
Off of the Terravision bus at Stanstead and straight onto the Holiday Inn shuttle bus to the hotel. At £66 for the night it was more than double my return flights to Salzburg, but how else was I to be at the airport for a 6.30am flight?
Was surprised at how effecient and modern the hotel was. I was checked-in and in my room in less than 5 minutes. The room itelf was up to date, clean and spacious and well sound proofed. Finally I was able to eat my brie and tomato roll, then settled down in bed to watch the final episode of Ashes to Ashes - and I was very happy with the ending, a perfect set-up for another series. Lights out at 10.30 ready for an early start.
Tuesday 9 June
Up at 4.30 and on the 5.20 shuttle bus to the airport. Got through security and to the gate in perfect time. The flight was only an hour and forty minutes, just time for a coffee and a snooze (apologies to the young German lad I kept falling against).
I left a grey and wet London but landed in a warm and sunny Salzburg. A taxi took me to my hotel , the Bloberger Hof - a truly delightful, traditional chalet-style, family run hotel. It was set in a suburban, rural area - surrounded by arable fields with mountains in the background.
It was too early to check-in, so I dropped off my bag and armed with a town map and directions from Inge, the hotel owner, I set off to catch the bus into town. 15 minutes and 2 euros later I was in the heart of Salzburg.
Pictures and more to follow in next blog - if I can figure out how to do it...
Labels: Holiday
My journey began on the Monday evening when I caught at Terravision coach from Liverpool St to Stanstead. It was a normal coach so I'm not sure why it needed three members of staff to check the handful of passengers on board. There was the driver, a ticket issuer and a short, ruddy-faced, gap-toothed man who would have looked more at home on a cargo ship and seemed to serve no other purpose than to leer at the young girls as they boarded the coach (I managed to escape his gaze)and discuss their virtues in an unfamiliar language with the other two.
There were no more than a dozen of us on the coach, mostly young backpackers with too tight a budget for the Stanstead Express, plus one or two of us older travellers, who were just too tight.
The coach smelt vaguely of stale beer so I decided to hold off eating my homemade brie and tomoato sandwich until I checked into my hotel room, in the hope that it would be more fragrant.
En route we drove past the site of the 2012 Olympic village, it looked like they might need to get a bit of a move on with it. One other unusual sight was a sign on the sliproad to the M11 prohibiting pony and traps. It made me wonder how many people in that area used that form of transport for it to warrant a warning sign. Is there a large gypsy encampment nearby perhaps?
Off of the Terravision bus at Stanstead and straight onto the Holiday Inn shuttle bus to the hotel. At £66 for the night it was more than double my return flights to Salzburg, but how else was I to be at the airport for a 6.30am flight?
Was surprised at how effecient and modern the hotel was. I was checked-in and in my room in less than 5 minutes. The room itelf was up to date, clean and spacious and well sound proofed. Finally I was able to eat my brie and tomato roll, then settled down in bed to watch the final episode of Ashes to Ashes - and I was very happy with the ending, a perfect set-up for another series. Lights out at 10.30 ready for an early start.
Tuesday 9 June
Up at 4.30 and on the 5.20 shuttle bus to the airport. Got through security and to the gate in perfect time. The flight was only an hour and forty minutes, just time for a coffee and a snooze (apologies to the young German lad I kept falling against).
I left a grey and wet London but landed in a warm and sunny Salzburg. A taxi took me to my hotel , the Bloberger Hof - a truly delightful, traditional chalet-style, family run hotel. It was set in a suburban, rural area - surrounded by arable fields with mountains in the background.
It was too early to check-in, so I dropped off my bag and armed with a town map and directions from Inge, the hotel owner, I set off to catch the bus into town. 15 minutes and 2 euros later I was in the heart of Salzburg.
Pictures and more to follow in next blog - if I can figure out how to do it...
Labels: Holiday
Monday, 8 June 2009
I knew I was right
I spent last weekend in my home town, visiting my mother. Walking down the High Street on Saturday afternoon, I saw a girl on the other side of the road who went to the same school as me.
She didn't spot me, for which I was glad as we were never friends. Truth be told, I was rather horrible to her at school. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say I bullied her - I never threatened, or physically attacked her - but it would be fair to say that I made her life uncomfortable. Barging into her if we passed in the corridor, sneering, calling her names - that was the sort of thing that I did. It worried her enough that she reported me to the headmistress.
Why? It's difficult to say as there wasn't a specific incident or reason that caused me to dislike her so much, I just did. If pushed I'd have to say it was the way she walked and carried herself. Lookswise she was verging on pretty but there was something about her demeanour that implied she thought that she was much more than that. She loved herself and I hated her for it. I guess mine was a fairly typical reaction for a self-conscious, overweight 14 year old. It was mean-spirited of me and said more about me than it did about her though and for years I felt ashamed of my behaviour.
But when I saw her on Saturday, walking up the hill dressed in summer white and turquoise designed to show off her tan (real or otherwise), her sunglasses atop skillfully highlighted hair; watched her climb into a gigantic 4x4 and drive off with the roof down and music blaring - then I knew I was right all along.
She did love herself and I still hated her for it.
She didn't spot me, for which I was glad as we were never friends. Truth be told, I was rather horrible to her at school. I'm not sure I'd go so far as to say I bullied her - I never threatened, or physically attacked her - but it would be fair to say that I made her life uncomfortable. Barging into her if we passed in the corridor, sneering, calling her names - that was the sort of thing that I did. It worried her enough that she reported me to the headmistress.
Why? It's difficult to say as there wasn't a specific incident or reason that caused me to dislike her so much, I just did. If pushed I'd have to say it was the way she walked and carried herself. Lookswise she was verging on pretty but there was something about her demeanour that implied she thought that she was much more than that. She loved herself and I hated her for it. I guess mine was a fairly typical reaction for a self-conscious, overweight 14 year old. It was mean-spirited of me and said more about me than it did about her though and for years I felt ashamed of my behaviour.
But when I saw her on Saturday, walking up the hill dressed in summer white and turquoise designed to show off her tan (real or otherwise), her sunglasses atop skillfully highlighted hair; watched her climb into a gigantic 4x4 and drive off with the roof down and music blaring - then I knew I was right all along.
She did love herself and I still hated her for it.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Namesake
June 2 2009
After dinner tonight I was craving some chocolate (those hormones again). Unable to persuade my son to go for me; cajoling, commanding, crying - none of them work with him, I pulled on a long cardigan to cover up my scruffy tracksuit bottoms and headed to the shop.
My flat is about 50 meters from the end of the road which is a cul de sac, separated from the main road by a concreted area with raised beds of municipal bushes. On one side is the OK launderette and the Wizard tatoo parlour on the other. You might have gathered that I live in one of the less sought after areas of Wimbledon.
As I got to the end of the road, I saw a body lying on the ground. I thought at first it was a man, it was dressed in grey trousers and top but when I got closer I saw the small prone figure was wearing dangling, gold-hooped earrings. It was a woman. She was breathing and her eyes were open but she looked in some distress. I asked her if she was ok, luckily she was in no mood to dispense sarcasm. She was very bedraggled, her long, dirty nails were stained with nicotine, her hair greasy and tied back in a messy ponytail. I couldn't tell if she was drunk or drugged but it was difficult to make out what she was saying - her lack of teeth didn't help.
I decided to call an ambulance, even if she was just drunk she was too vulnerable to be left there. I stayed with her until it arrived, less than five minutes I was impressed. While we were waiting I asked her name - Christine, the same as mine. I don't meet many other Christines and I never assumed I'd meet one lying incapable at the end of my road.
The ambulance arrived, the medics got out. As soon as they saw the woman, one of them said ' Come on Christine, up you get.' Obviously a regular. I left them to it and went to buy my Milky Way. I couldn't get her out of my head all evening though, wondering what had happened to her along the way for her to end up half-dead in a dead end.
After dinner tonight I was craving some chocolate (those hormones again). Unable to persuade my son to go for me; cajoling, commanding, crying - none of them work with him, I pulled on a long cardigan to cover up my scruffy tracksuit bottoms and headed to the shop.
My flat is about 50 meters from the end of the road which is a cul de sac, separated from the main road by a concreted area with raised beds of municipal bushes. On one side is the OK launderette and the Wizard tatoo parlour on the other. You might have gathered that I live in one of the less sought after areas of Wimbledon.
As I got to the end of the road, I saw a body lying on the ground. I thought at first it was a man, it was dressed in grey trousers and top but when I got closer I saw the small prone figure was wearing dangling, gold-hooped earrings. It was a woman. She was breathing and her eyes were open but she looked in some distress. I asked her if she was ok, luckily she was in no mood to dispense sarcasm. She was very bedraggled, her long, dirty nails were stained with nicotine, her hair greasy and tied back in a messy ponytail. I couldn't tell if she was drunk or drugged but it was difficult to make out what she was saying - her lack of teeth didn't help.
I decided to call an ambulance, even if she was just drunk she was too vulnerable to be left there. I stayed with her until it arrived, less than five minutes I was impressed. While we were waiting I asked her name - Christine, the same as mine. I don't meet many other Christines and I never assumed I'd meet one lying incapable at the end of my road.
The ambulance arrived, the medics got out. As soon as they saw the woman, one of them said ' Come on Christine, up you get.' Obviously a regular. I left them to it and went to buy my Milky Way. I couldn't get her out of my head all evening though, wondering what had happened to her along the way for her to end up half-dead in a dead end.
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