One of those days for which the word languid was invented.

Hot, dry, almost windless. Suddenly, the weather has taken one of it's acute turns, from frigid dampness, to searing desert heat. The sky is a widly improbable blue and the scent of laundry detergent and cut grass broiling in plastic bin-bags floats on the wisp of a breeze. People nap on corners and on the grass, and others, who have places to go and things to do, or they'd also be napping, move slowly, as the heat and sunshine renders us all a little less intelligent, like trolls in a Pratchett novel, brains liquefying like a Cornetto. A Timbaland song plays on repeat in my head.

The grass by the pond is coated with a blanket of shed feathers, but the seagulls aren't bothered: they're dipping in the water. Fat pigeons waddle and goo and plonk themselves on the heads of statues. A toddler girl with cheeks like chocolate cupcakes dances and sings to a tune of her own invention while her mother gossips at a security guard. I'm thinking of everything, but nothing in particular. Fresh, creamy-yellow waterlilies waggle their fingers at me. I've never eaten artichokes, I realise.

The smells, the unrelenting heat, the breeze, the tourists trying to find their way into the Art Gallery... signs and signals, saying "sumer... summer... summer". And for an hour, at least, all is right with the world.

**keep voting on the poll... will blog the winner next week.**

Smiling Confidence, I hear you ask.

Yesterday, I hit Woolies' for a Caramel Millionaire's Shortbread and lemony sparkling mineral water. I needed a sugary pick-me up, see, because I was feeling particularly grey and iffy*. I attribute this to the mussels I ate the night before, which were, coincidentally, the first mussels I've had since I returned from Japan. I dawdled along to the till, my iPod blaring (if I remember correctly) something by White Rose Movement. Oh, also, my hair was doing the thing whereby it expands into my personal space and risks being Punished**.

So, I hand over my money, half in another world***, noting vaguely that the teller has called me sweetie about three times. Resolve not to take it personally. Then she busts out with:"oh, such smiling confidence! Sweetie."

Wha-ha? Was my approximate reaction. "really? I was smiling?"
"yes! and with such confidence!", she replied, intimating vaguely that this was not necessarily a good thing, "Sweetie".
"oh, okay. Because I don't feel confident..."
"Well, it was a really big smile. You seemed so proud. Sweetie."

So, I walked out, gnawing on my Caramel Millionaire's Shortbread, which is never as good as you think it's going to be, right? And I was more than a little disturbed. Is this how it is? Am I not the person I thought I was? have I been exuding charm, confidence and friendliness, the whole time I thought was an established curmudgeon? This would, of course, explain all the random strangers, homeless people and crazies who strike up conversations with me when I'm (supposedly) doing Unapproachable Bitch.

This unconscious charm offensive, and external mantle of confidence would, you see, mean I'm turning into my mother****. Oh, god, do I bat my eyelashes and twinkle at people?

------

I would also like this opportunity to mock an advert which names Skip***** as an "international washing powder" OOOOH! Fancy! it's an international washing powder! That's almost like being a designer label!

* oh, crap, the half I didn't eat is still in my pocket. Note to self: do not wash jacket with chocolate still contained therein.
**not a typo.
*** actually, make it three-quarters.
**** hey, it works for her, but she likes not being a cranky little sod.
***** or Surf, or whatev, it's a washing powder, it makes bubbles, it smells okay.

A Horribly Traumatic Experience

Last night it rained, and this morning, it was damp. It was quite nice actually, there I was in my cute beret and chunky scarf, feeling very cosmopolitan and vaguely French*. The birds were all: "Hey tweet y'all" and the autumn leaves were falling, albeit damply. And I wasn't running late for work, which was a nice change. I was listening to the new NIN. I was finding it quite cheerful.**My morning walk through the Company gardens looked to be a pleasant one. Crazy-dog lady*** passed me by.

And then I looked down.

There it was, glistening pinkly, oozing itself across the pathway. An earthworm. They do this, you know, after the rains... Some bizarre instinct tells them to flee the muddy soil and head for the safety of...tarmac and concrete. Right. Not known for their intellectual capacity, they.

So, having narrowly missed mashing one long pink wormy with my right shoe, I became somewhat paralysed. Because there's never only one. I became obsessed with the idea that the path would be strewn with dozens upon dozens of earthworms, a veritable minefield of squoosh and subsequent guilt. it didn't help that entire sections of pathway were obscured by sticks and leaves, which can look very much like earthworms if you're having a bit of a Nutjob Moment.

So, it took me almost twice as long to traverse the distance to work. I almost had a panic attack. I felt very close to ralphing publicly.

I stood on an earthworm barefoot once. It wasn't very nice.

*in a Paris Fashion Week ; rather than an arrogant un-deodorised; sense.
**I find Year Zero quite poppy, for NIN.
***the dog is crazy, not the lady. His legs are too short for his body, his eyes are all googly and his fur is tufty. It's adorable.

Portnoy's Complaint, Humpty Dumpty and Anchovy Toast*

I've missed my calling. I'm convinced of this. I've been giving it a great deal of thought, and I think, nay, I know that I was meant for greater things.

I was meant to be... a freakin' ROCK STAR!!!!

Think about it: I am not only a music snob, and have a passable alto singing voice, and can just about carry a tune**, but I have the requisite quirky dress sense, the capacity to drink large amounts of beer without spewing (or losing the ability to dance on a bar with a bartender dressed as a swan), am bolshy, demanding and swear like a trouper. Not to mention that I can trash a hotel room in under fifteen minutes. Just ask the good folk at the Tokyo Keio Plaza.

So...yeah, okay, It might be a bit late in life to start thinking about this but I hear 30 is the new 20, so that means I'm turning 20 real soon! Also, I kind of don't have a band, which could prove problematic, although not necessarily so: really I'm all about the Interview Magazine articles, tabloid exposés and blag. Mmm. I'm not sure where I stand on groupies*** though. I'll have to see how that goes.

* what we talked about during the staff breakfast this morning.
** good thing musical ability isn't a requirement of the job, eh?
*** I mean, they;re generally assumed to be pretty skanky, right? and desperate. Or are male groupies different? What if they're all, like, teenagers? I'm not convinced about this part, really.

unnecessary coverage

You know, there are some cool cover songs out there in the world. Mostly, they're the ones that explore the song from a new slant... ferinstance, Cat Power's take on Wonderwall, Hounds of Love by The Futureheads, Easy done by Faith No More and so on.

And there are some truly woeful covers that have become classics by dint of their tackiness, their surrealism, or their blatant bad taste. The best "bad" cover version I have ever heard is William Shatner mercilessly interpreting Mr Tambourine Man by channeling some nutjob stalker. The man is quite obviously insane, in the best possible way. It's actually better than the original, because it's funnier, and somehow more endearing*.

However there are a lot of mediocre covers of mediocre or bad songs. Or good songs that were fine as they are. And they border on offensive. Ronan Keating covering the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris was playing this morning as I got to work. How malign a piece of work is that? Like a photocopy of a photocopy, he managed to suck what little soul and emotion lurked in that song in the first place. As bland as white rice. Unsalted!

A special (read: dark and oozy) place in my heart is reserved for the likes of I love Rock 'n Roll as molested by Britney (you love rock 'n roll? then why are you hurting it so much?), American Pie trashed by Madonna (no no no no). Atomic Kitten doing The Tide is High made me want to drown myself, Mandy by Westlife made me want to drown Westlife, and Uptown Girl by... yes, Westlife, just about made me ready to commit my life to destroying Billy Joel, since he was ultimately responsible.

Let's not talk about Light My Fire as ruined by Will Young. Because Will is adorable** and I want him to be my GBF, and we couldn't ever do that after my harsh, harsh words relating to that atrocity.

* I've just discovered Boston Legal. It is Fantastic.
**although I've seen disturbing evidence recently of premature baldness. That makes me sad. say it ain't so!!!

Britney, please save yourself.

Saradia and I gmail chatted this morning. The thing I love about sararara is that she shares my insatiable and not-all-that-secret love for all things celebrity. dissecting celebrity news for me is like...brain masturbation. wait, suddenly I've somehow linked Sara to masturbation, and that's hella weird. new paragraph.

anyway, I love me some gossip. and I really get involved in it. The whole Britney Spears thing is just sad though... It's akin to one of those accidents that you see by the side of the road, and ghoulishly find yourself straining for a glimpse of severed head or detached foot*. anyway, we decided on a plan of action, so that Britters can regain her pop princess crown**

1. STAY IN REHAB!!!! (this one is kind of important)
2. stop with the wigs. embrace the baldness, until it grows out a bit. then adopt a pixie cut, in lightest ash blonde.
3. go on a health retreat...disappear from public view for six months or so, and emerge slim, toned, and glowing.
4. adopt an icy, glittery Grace Kelly/ southern belle image. elocution and deportment lessons should have been a part of the health retreat. perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier? anyway, shock the world by radiating calm, charm and grace.
5. move to France. (no cheese though! let's maintain the slim tonedness, shall we?)
6. work with Goldfrapp-types and craft an album (You May Call Me Mistress Spears) of perfect slivers of icy, glittery fabulous pop. Duet with Kylie. remix by Scissor Sisters.
   
7. REMAIN SINGLE! this is probably safest, until Trousersnake realises his destiny, and comes running back to the new, fantasticacious Brit.
   

...et voila! the balance of things will be restored. And also, I will not have to look at any more flabby shaved coochie, or nasty white-trash outfits, or nasty weaves. and that, my friends, is that.

* or perhaps that is just me.
** there are some Britney songs on my Ipod. you have a problem with that? I'll play you some probot and then you can SUCKIT! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!

Interpol! Interpol! Interpol!

I once had this disagreement with Stephen. it wasn't a particularly heated one, mostly because it wasn't him doing his "Amanda is from South America" thing, which got annoying about 6 months in. We were talking in the car (road trip!) about music, because we're both kind of geeky about music (so far he's the only person I know I've been able to discuss my disappointment about the second Mars Volta CD with who doesn't glaze over or get all confused), and we're also both music snobs.

anyway, Stephen doesn't like Interpol. And I love Interpol. According to him, the singles were okay but the CD's were too gothy and too much like Joy Division. Now, for me this is their selling point: sounds Joy Divisionesque, but danceable and with fashion sense. Perfect for feeling more meaningful than your fellow man (or woman), in a bounce around the room kinda way. Also useful for breakups, PMS, black outfits (music as accessory, so chic!) and so on.

I tend to get obsessive about Interpol, and listen to every song repeatedly for about a month. and then I need a break for a bit. I don't think I could sustain that level of cool indefinitely. It gets me into trouble though. I'm a bit of an automatic dancer, and I got some funny looks at the supermarket the other day. It was say hello to the Angels. I at least have that in my defence. People are so conservative here though. Dance for five minutes in the Biscuit Aisle and it's like you pooped on their cupcake or something. I will not be constrained. I will not be reduced to mere head-bobbing or (shudder) toe-tapping.

Also, I must wear more black.

***When I'm feeling lazy, it's probably because/ I'm saving all my energy to pick up /when you Move into my airspace***

the female DJs: they annoy me.

so, I don't listen to the radio anymore. Partly because the music they playlist is total and utter commercial crap ("aaaaaaaaargh! it hurts my ears! more Indie! more Indie!"), but mostly because the DJs make me want to scrape out my eardroms with a spoon. Or, maybe their eardrums. I'm no masochist (another reason I avoid the radio). Gareth Cliff is the King of the arseholes, aims for controversial, and misses wildly, often landing squarely in middle-aged-ladyland (which is not the same as electric ladyland, okay?).

However, my dislike of the male DJ's that blight the airwaves pales in comparison to my utter loathing for the girlyDJ's these days. I mean, they're all right as long as you don't expect a) intelligence b) informed opinions c) musical knowledge or d) the ability to coherently string two thoughts together and have them come out of their mouth in an interesting and engaging manner.

okay, Jeannie D was an exception, but Top Billing have her in their clutches now and she'll soon be lost to us. But so many of them seem to be hired, not even on the basis of their looks, or big boobs or something, but because they have nice shoes, or are really enthusiastic.

I admit, Maybe there's some lovely MetroFm DJ out there who is soulful, sultry and has the brain of a ninja robot (that's a good thing , see). But the Female "Radio personalities" I have had the good luck to experience...have made me long for the good old days of inequality.