Went to the doctors. Now on drugs that I have distressingly discovered are one part of the cocktail my mother has to have every day. Hopefully they will do something to help sort me out. I feel a bit sick. Spent most of the appointment marvelling what a lovely, intelligent sounding person my doctor is. He got into the profession that suits him perfectly. It takes a very avuncular chap to explain suicidal side-effects in an acceptable way. Bluntness is not in his vocabulary.

Exams in two weeks and judging by my vague attempts at revision philosophy and ethics is going to be a royal, royal disaster. I have no interest in it any more. Not religious language, at least. Need to build up some motivation to do revision and not writing, but reviewing things I already vaguely know is exceptionally dull, when I could be producing and thinking about new things.

Big, long, illuminating conversation at the pub the other night. Very odd.

Not sure where I stand on very much. Trying my best to avoid caring. Tschuss!

This evening...

has been quite honestly one of the most hilarious of my life thus-far. Death by choking on laughter nearly occurred. That is how amused I was. I am giggling at the mere memory of it.  Anna came over for a delayed Pub Therapy Sans Pub, and we had a great time being silly. Here are some quotes to illustrate:

"Milo is the son of Gelamen's sex-mayor."
*
"I am in shock, look I have a boner - I MEAN BLANKET."
*
"Ezra's voice gives me weird hand cramp..."
*
"Saving your Boo."
"If I was ghetto, I would say get off my woman."
"But we're not ghetto, we're fucking ETON."
*
"WHY WON'T IT LOAD?"
"OHHHH GOOOOOOD, I'M AAAAAAAAAAGING."
*
"Roland! You bastard! Stop putting your cock in that socket, my friend. You are in some serious trouble."

That is not half of it.

Londres, Mon Amour.

Went to London with the Padre yesterday; it was one of the best days I can remember. Bobbling along roads, sharing decent tunes, being harassed by Chinese Food Saleswomen at Camden Lock, winding up in a Cyber-age sex shop...


But let me explain. We were planning to go to the Tate Modern to see the Gauguin exhibition before it closes (which is next week, I believe), but the first time we could get in was 19:00. What better excuse could there be to make a day of it?

If you don't know Gauguin, he's a French post-impressionist artist from the late 19th Century and here is one of my favourites of his...

Now, we originally planned to hit The Globe and have a bit of a Shakespeare sesh, but inevitably the pull of Camden's beautiful markets got the better of us and what was meant to be a brief rummage turned into a Journey-To-The-Centre-Of-The-Earth Style foray into the bowels of the Locks and different markets around there. My favourite of these had to be the Horse Tunnel Market which was like something from Lord of the Rings crossed with Dickens. Here I found a rather dashing RAF rain-jacket and shamelessly broke my jacket embargo, and the Padre showed off his masterful haggling skills.



I also bought another hat (don't look like that, this one is spectacular!) I have wanted a cloche for ages, and I found the perfect one, so am vaaaaairy chuffed. HP bought some badminton shorts, too!

There were lots of stalls with people very eager to give us free food, and after a spot of mulled wine we were very grateful until they tried to force us to buy a whole pot of peppered chicken right after we'd had lunch. Not being hungry is, apparently, not an excuse. Our excuse earned us some abuse (rhyme intended).

Eventually it got dark, and as we wandered hither and thither (which Fry's English Delight tells me is the oldest cliché and was coined in 702) the atmosphere bloomed. Pretty lights, shadows and neon signs everywhere. There was also one of the most amazing and mind blowing shops in the world, which had a queue to get in and out called CyberDog; this was basically a giant, imposing, music-pumping cyber-fashion shop.

At first it looks (and sounds) like a club - but at 5pm this wasn't really likely. You go in and there are robotic bodies lining the walls and some shelves offering things like Astronaut Food and Stuffed Toy Microbes (Black Death was my favourite, but not worth £15). There are also people dancing like robots on balconies.


Then you descend into the abyss down an escalator into the main shop which is awash with neon and science-fiction inspired awesomeness, including bags made of floppy-disks, skin-tight clothes and cyborg shutter shades. People are also paid to walk around in various cyber gear looking like they are androids.


Naturally, we were having a great time, and ambled around, down some more steps, only to be confronted with BONDAGE TAPE! and a pole dancer and various electronic sexy things. Did NOT see that coming. Quite amusing though. Haha! (And thus, an anecdote was born.)


After this, we pottered about for a bit before deciding we ought to get a wiggle on and didn't want any more pepper chicken (until our later SFC on the way home) and we needed to traverse London to the good old Tate (or rather the good Modern Tate...) So we hopped back on the tube to Waterloo.

At this point (it being night and all) my sense of direction let us down and we went for a mile or so in the wrong direction down the Thames! We did, however, get some spectacular touristly views (see above.) This meant that, at 5 to 7 we had to make a mad dash of it to get to the gallery. Then commenced a conversation about Ai Wei Wei's Sunflower Seeds :


Me: Look over there - we discussed those at school.


Dee: It just looks like grit.


Me: Hey, it's conceptual. *ramble about society*


Dee: -also, the artists name is I wee-wee. Hehehe.


Me: *sigh*




The Gauguin exhibition was pretty good. I wasn't much of a fan of the work of his I had seen before, but it has always been Herr Padre's favourite, so it couldn't be missed. However, I found a lot of the stuff there useful and interesting, especially the sketchoodles which he would no doubt have abhorred anybody but himself seeing. Poor chap, died of syphillis.




Slightly let down that they had moved Bacon's Tryptich for the Base of a Crucifixion (above, one of my all-time Tate Modern faves) as that was one I was really looking forward to seeing again. They did, however, have a few others there instead, including the tryptich he did for his lover chap who committed suicide. Properly sad and emotive and excellent, his work is. And also proof that my taste in art is really morbid compared to Padre's enjoyment of quaint French villagers and rolling hills and Tahitian lounging women...



Finally, the bastards closed the gift shop before I could spend the remainder of my worldly cash. Being told no by an aristocratic sounding woman not good for your cultural street cred (especially when she is in 6-inch stillettos to your flat-heeled Dr Martens). Left brusquely in a bristling bustle of cloche, swishy coat and frilly brolly.



Being ostentatiously cultural this way is a real drain to one's alcohol reserves - and after this, what could possibly be more cultural than a visit to an excellent pub? Nothing, I hear you cry, with joy and apprehension as to whether we did or didn't manage this at about 11pm in Waterloo. (We did.)
We went to THIS charming little alery, The Hole In The Wall. The story goes that when my father and his school chums used to go on trips to London in Sixth Form, their teachers brought them to this very watering hole for a post-play pint; naturally, it was an unavoidable pilgrimmage. Situated as it is in a hole in the wall under a railway bridge, the bar was barrel-shaped, wood pannelled and rumbled occasionally with the noise of trains going over. They also served TEA BEER. Beer brewed with tea. It was gorgeous. Here is some modelled by a paternal relation of mine.

Overall the trip was astronomically good in all manner of ways, despite us arriving home at about 2am (dirty stop-outs) and my having to be up at an unearthly hour of the morning for a First Aid course. Jolly gosh darned spiffing and dashed good, it was!

Victory, skid-marks and mint-making...

This is a photo of the first recorded snow I could find in Milton - it's also very nearly the view from my house. (1962) Yes, I'm going to do that terribly English thing, where I make a great deal out of clouds bursting - tally ho!

***

So it's been tremendously snowy the past day or so and anyone who knows my feelings about weather properly know that snow is my favourite, followed by rain and then fog and then sunshine. It makes the world all shiny and light even at nighttime. Anyhow, I do have a point to make with this - this isn't simply small talk.

Yesterday, with a lovely blizzard outside, I decided to accompany my padre to the Moreton Pinkney auction to pick up the spoils of the day. This quickly turned into an adventure of epic proportions, with the snow-level gradually rising as we drove (that area had a lot the previous day, aussi) and hilarity (and DANGER!) around every corner.

Getting there was the easy part - ambling along listening to various good tunes and discussing my increasing level of hunger - but coming back took the biscuit.

One thing you should know about the Northampton area is that there are an absurd number of canal and railway bridges compressed into a relatively small place, with a number of little 'island' typed areas where you are, quite literally, trapped between bridges. Therein lies the problem. These canal bridges seem to pride themselves on being as tall and steep and twisty as possible, and even in a rather chunky car, if you throw in the added hazard of arctic conditions, things start to get crazy.

We arrived at this canal bridge near the Marina to find the debris from some earlier collision; bits of wall, tyre marks that made no sense to a linear journey, and the perfect image of a disaster waiting to happen. But we braved it, and skidded around and about for ages with all the vigour and vanity of a mouse trying to climb up the side of its glass vivarium. Eventually we gave up and tried (in a rather beautiful ARC of skidditude) to turn around and go the other way.

Eventually we went across to another, more passable bridge, but then quickly found ourselves trapped on one of these islands, between a bridge with an impassable one behind it, or a bloody ridiculous rail bridge. However, there was an incentive! Beyond this bridge, was a pub!

Alors, in order to get to the Walnut Tree for a pint, we braved the rail bridge for the best part of a rather hilarious half-hour going forwards, backwards, sideways, diagonal-wise etc and being looked at as though we were dicks by some cocky truck and 4x4 drivers with their smug-arse four-wheel drive. They didn't have the fun that we did.

After many millennia we escaped the island and trundled over to the Walnut Tree (whose steps I had shamefully redecorated with stomach fluid a full week before) and dived in for a quick one. Christmas beer, cider and 'sizzling prawn' crisps that were wank, considering.

From there things were easier and we returned to find our house had experienced a deluge of fallen clouds. What an adventure! :D

***

Incidentally, I've just managed to sell my Kindle (which I bought for £109 when it came out) for almost double its price - the joys of e-bay, Christmas, and people's failure to read websites that say that only the upgraded version is sold out. :) HURRAH!