McElderry vs Rage: A Practical Discussion

There's been a lot of tomfoolery, humdiggery and fopcockery going on over the last couple of weeks, significantly to do with Christmas, and the shinbobberies of those sail in her. (I think I only made one of the words above, but I can't be sure).

Christmas is a time of beautiful tradition. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire (which doesn't exist, because everyone just has Heinz microwave-a-chestnuts now), velvet scarves, looking at the Christmas tree whilst you put baubles on thinking "wow that's a lot of pine needles that just fell off. For no reason. Like a lot. A really lot though. Should I sweep them up? I should probably sweep them up. Do we even own a broom though? Could use the hoover. But then what if the pine needles block the hoover and mum gets all angry again even though i was just bloody trying to help and its CHRISTMAS for fuck's sake and BOLLOCKS to this, jesus, sometimes you can't do anything right, forget it I'm just going to set the thing on fire."

I've slightly forgotten what I was talking about, but the point is, Christmas presents are great. And also, that the Christmas Number One debate is one that we celebrate like clockwork every year. Remember when 'Mad World' won it? And everyone was all "yeah. fuck YEAH man! Cos like, everything is all shitted up and a bit of shiny fucking tinsel and Simpson's Cluedo doesn't change that you capitalist wankers." Though actually everyone was really just thinking "God its a bit dull, isn't it?" What a year.

So this time around, the debate is raging (hahahahaha yes I know brilliant) between Rage Against The Machine and X-factor winner Joe McElderry. In the pop-tastic, Jonathan Ross and M&S mince pies section of the world, the argument goes that Joe deserves it because he's got a lovely face, he's sung over 7 songs to a live audience and well.. because he just bloody does alright? In the FUCK YOU AMERICA, 'I'm using black tinsel this year' Rage section, the battle cry is more "DEATH TO SIMON COWELL, the revolution is nigh! Grab him by his very world-decision-making tongue and string him to a plastic violin that screeches out 'Bleeding Love' using his very INNARDS until he is ACTUALLY BLEEDING and HOW WE WILL LAUGH THEN"

Both compelling arguments, I'm sure we all agree.

But, in my humble, brilliant opinion, I think everyone is rather missing the point. There's only one way to judge this epic, never-to-be-forgotten (until christmas eve or so) battle. And that is by looking at the songs themselves. Strip away the ragged clothing of context, and gaze upon the shivering, supple product in all its nakedness. One of these songs is a more appropriate Christmas song than the other. Simple as that. One of them brings to the forefront of all of us the true meanings behind Christmas. And it is our job to find out which it is.

So. Lets have a proper bloody look, shall we?

Joe McElderry: The Climb

I can almost see it
That dream I am dreaming- so he's asleep to begin with, which isn't really a good start.
But there's a voice inside my head saying
"You'll never reach it" - a rather depressing message for children around the world at this time, don't you think, Joe?

Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking - Oh dear oh dear, blasphemy eh? Did our Lord Jesus complain his symmetrical face off when he was NAILED TO A PIECE OF WOOD?If so, the bible dealt with that entire situation with great subtlety. You're just walking down a road, Joe. Keep it together.

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move- Joe is in fact here saying that he himself wishes to become our God, our Lord on high, and as the bible states "If you worship anyone else, I will fucking rail you"
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb- Joe's love of mountaineering is admirable, but not particuarly fitting with the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps more a comic relief song? He could climb one of these mountains he loves so bloody much for some kids dying of death?

The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down
But no, I'm not breaking

I may not know it
But these are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most, yeah
Just gotta keep going

And I, I got to be strong
Just keep pushing on I would rather delicately suggest here that Joe's song is almost entirely about his own personal troubles, an attitude that, at Christmas, is extrememly inappropriate.

'Cause there's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb, yeah! I can't help but feel bored and rather insulted at Joe's continuing insistence in telling us about his extreme hobbies. He is perhaps directing this song at his parents? As a way to suggest possible hill-related Christmas presents?

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Somebody's gonna have to lose- slightly sinister?
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side- Damning heaven?
It's the climb, yeah!

Keep on moving, keep climbing
Keep the faith, baby now indoctrinating youngsters to join his hiking, half-awake brainwashing, christianity bashing cult, with HIM at the centre like a grinning, crooning, boot wearing golden idol?
It's all about, it's all about the climb
Keep the faith, keep your faith, whoa.


A frightening look there, into the world of X-factor future.

Now. To the competition.

Rage Against The Machine: Killing In The Name Of

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. - instantly the song hooks us n with a delightful and very relevent comparison between our daily lives, and the sufferings Jesus McChrist went through on the cross.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- Helpful to have it repeated, in case you didn't hear it quite right.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- And again, perhaps with the knowledge that many who will listen to the xmas number one will be the over 70s, whose hearing may in fact be impaired.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!- A harrowing but extremely potent reminder of the Easter result of all this Christmas frivolity. Jesus may have been born. But lets never forget...
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya- their dedication to the hard of hearing is admirable at a time of year when often, the less able among us can be forgotten
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge- a lovely little reference to the decorations of the seasons,
they're the chosen whites- as in 'a white christmas'
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. It's also nice to see that they haven't forgotten those who may suffer from memory loss.

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of! - the rousing chorus!

And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya!!! - A celebration of the traditions that bind us all together at this time of year! Passed down through the generations to create one consciousness, one mind, one very thought at this magical time!

Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Come on!

(Guitar Solo)
Uggh!

Yeah! Come on! Uggh!

(Get louder until 9th by which time shouting)
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me. An ironic wink towards the young kiddies on this festive day, the tantrums, the brandy shared between a family row, a cautious but cheeky nod towards the rambunctiousness of Christmas
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.- all together now!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!

MOTHERFUCKER!!!! Ugh!!- the row descends into a final, happy sigh. An acknowledgement that at the end of the day, no matter what our differences, this is a time of sharing and loving.

I think it's clear that we have our winner. Now go forth, and spread the word.

Bless us, everyone, and remember, "fuck you, I won't do what you tell me".

Merry Christmas.

The battle of the compass

In a few days, I bid farewell to the hills and valleys of Northernville, wave off the four of us who live in Warrington (mum, dad, brother-dad and aunty Gran) and journey beyond the city centre rabbits nests to where the streets shine with gold made of pixels and itune downloads. Londontown is to be my new residence for the next three months. Hurrah for me? Hurrah for me. Indeed.

Everyone has been very kind about this, partly because the people I know are mostly actors and are very skilled at doing 'kind' if they have to. But mostly- i fear- because they view being in the Northern parts of England as some kind of terrible witch's curse, only to be broken by obtaining the employment amulet of AccentPMG. Perhaps I am being overly sensitive to this. Except I'm not. Of course, I have always been a victim of prejudice because of this fact. I don't need to bring up again my first night of University, when a gang of Southey southey sat me in a chair and played the song 'Northern Birds' to me, in order to establish firmly from the off my place in their society. Again, in the Big Apple, ask anyone; the only place in England is in fact London. (to be fair, I also met a man who thought Scotland was in England, so lets not make too much of their geographical knowhow)

I am not saying that London is not a place filled with wonders, jammy centres and so much culture you have to order it on the side to make sure it doesnt fling itself all over your burger. It certainly is that, and much more (probably). All I am saying is that the pitying look in the eyes when I say the words 'I am from Warrington' does not go unnoticed. Its a look that says, 'oh you. Imagine what could have been eh? Imagine had you not been inflicted with such a terrible disability'. Yes, true, Warrington doesn't have what you Southy folk would call 'museums', or 'shops' or 'oxygen', but dammit, Kerry Katona was born here. Kerry. Katona. Think on.

The thing is, the way I see it is that in the big old chat with God that the North and the South had, the conversations went like this

God- So, little South of England, I see on your form that you have requested lots of Cafe Neros, thousands of people saying the word 'consumer' and flashing neon lights in every Early Learning Centre'
The South- 'Thats right big daddy, ohh yeah, hit me with that shit.'
God-'Hold on hold on I'm getting to it. Now you realise that with all these 'statue and flags' credits you have none left to spend on 'kindness to your fellow man'?
The South- Come on man, dont get me down, can we wrap this up? I got a party to go to, yeah yeahhhh'
God- 'Oh, alright then. I'll throw in lots of scarves and sunglasses as well, seeing as you've done such a good job of convincing America that we are their sidekick'
The South- 'nice one papa. Check you dogs later'
God-' Right, The North.'
The North- 'Hi God. Everything Ok with you today?'
God- 'Ohh, you know. Its alright. My feet are a bit painful, but'
The North- 'Didn't you create feet? Can't you erase your own pain, and indeed your feet for that matter?'
God- 'Shut up, you're ruining this analogy completely'
The North- 'Sorry God. I made you this cake.'
God- 'Oh great! Are the ingredients Marks and Spencer's?'
The North- 'erm.... no. Asda.'
God- 'oh.. oh.. well great, just put it on that table. Now, I see you've asked for 'excellent pasties', 'patience and empathy with those who don't quite know where they are going' and 'lower drinks prices to the MAX'
The North- 'Yes please'
God- 'I see you haven't checked the 'global significance' box
The North- 'Oh no, no thanks. I have a feeling that people will appreciate the fact that our residents are just as intelligent and savy as people from anywhere else, and wont judge them simply because they say 'bath' instead of 'barth.'
God- 'hmmm. well. We'll see shall we?'

And thus it was.

I spent last week in London, and was on a bus when I heard the following exchange between the bus driver and a girl who clearly had only just come to the big city and was in need of help.
girl- 'a single to teddington please'

driver- *judging silence*
girl- *clears throat and waving money* 'a single, please, to teddington?'
Driver- 'Don't accept that'
Girl *looks down at money, wondering for a second if we had in fact just given in and changed to the dollar* sorry?
driver- 'DOn't accept that'
Girl- 'Erm, I just want a single'
Driver- 'You have to use your card'
Girl- 'my card? I can't use cash?'
Driver- 'CAN'T PAY FOR JOURNEY ON THE BUS.'
Girl- *utterly confused* 'what?'
Driver- 'machine outside. Get ticket there'
Girl- 'I can't just, I can't get it from you? But you're about to leave, aren't you?'
Driver- 'yes. can't get it on the bus. Have to go to machine. Get ticket.'
Girl- 'But won't you have gone?'
Driver- *silence*
Girl looks around for help, and finding none, she exits the bus.

The worst thing was that I didn't say anything. mainly becasue I had no idea what she was doing wrong, but still, even if I hadn't, I wasn't even sure that I could have been any help. London is that kid that is beating up someone else, and you don't say anything so that he wont beat you up instead. If we have been oop North, the exchange would have gone thusly

Girl- 'A single to the barn please'
Driver- 'aye, come on in love, ye money's no good here. Would you like to drive? Here's a pot o tea fer yer troubles.Have my coat, yers look cold. No no, you keep it, my lady will just knit me another.'

fact.

Ok, ok, I admit, I am being hugely unfair. But I cannot help but think that considering everyone wants to move to London, everyone there looks instantly unhappy upon arrival. But who am I to talk? I am doing the same thing. I crave the cavernous underground, the shops open until joke o clock, the culture, the people saying things like 'yes but compaing it to his early work, he really has developed a sense of *vaguely french words*'. So we shall see eh? Only time will tell. It could be that I happily become a London human, stocking up on my spare 'r's for words that have no business having them in in the first place. It could be that like beloved old Kerry, I find the big bad world too much and end up back in Iceland, weeping over frozen sausage rolls. Still. It is rarthar exciting, I carn't argue with thart.

Cut and Paste

So I had my hair cut this week (don't worry, this is scene-setting happening here, I promise not to linger on this, there really is nothing worse than people talking about haircuts. I mean there is, obviously, but on a domestic level its up there with stealing your last bag of wotsits, or someone explaining the back story of a TV cop drama that you're obviously never going to watch again, and frankly, are only watching in the first place this time because THEY chose what was going on the tv EVEN THOUGH they KNOW you've never seen the damn thing before and will never again, but you're far too polite to say 'actually, the inbetweeners is on channel 4, sure its an old series but hey, you never get tired of laughing, right?' and now you're stuck valiently asking things like 'so he was the one who's drug ring got taken down by the prostitute spy?' whilst secretly thinking 'GOD why dont they all just DIE')

So I had my haircut this week. Always the same hair dresser, always the same place. Joanne. and My House. She is the Chicken Korma of hairdressers. Never let me down yet. I mean sure, you have to wash your hair in the downstairs sink before she arrives, and sweep up all the old bits of hair after she's gone, but hey, for a cut and colour for 35 quid, who's compaining? Not I. The thing is, with Joanne, talking to her isnt an absolute hideous nightmare, as I find it is with almost every hairdresser in the world. Oh sure, stick me in a bar with some murderers, I'll chat away like a drunken fig, but put me in a chair with someone holding a brush in one hand, and the gesture that comes with the question 'so have you been watching Big Brother?' in the other, and its like I'm Bond under torturing. Nice try darling, but you'll have to rope ma goolies a LOT harder than that I'm afraid.

So yes, with Joanne its much more like a vague aunt has come to visit, and, loose as they are, the threads of conversation from the last visit are still there to be sewn into the deep tapestry of Mutual Banal Conversation. And it happens in the kitchen, so there's the off chance of a cup of tea if my dad somehow tears himself away from the excitements of the pond.

The point is, however, that Joanne was telling me about her daughter, Libby, who is 13, in her 2nd year of high school and currently studying for her whatevers (She was chopping rather vigorously at that point and my concentration slipped somewhat as I saw what appeared to be most of my scalp falling onto my own knees) Libby was doing English, and had been given Dracula to read. Now this made me look away from the knee-bound back of my head rather suddenly.
'Hold on, she's studying Dracula?'
'Oh yes, all about vampires isn't it? Was a bit worried for her really.'
'Yes, vampires, yes they are.. rather scary...'
I'd be rather worried too, i thought, as I'm pretty sure from studying it at A level and then in my degree that actually its more about gang-rape than anything. I mean, obviously they're not going to tell the 13 year old kids that Bram Stoker was in fact a mentalist sexist woman-phobe who wrote a book basically to live out his own fantasies of literally sexing them all to death. but still.... I mean.. We did Skellig when I was 13. It was about an angel. I'll give you a small extract from the book just to illustrate what I mean:

'Lucy rose up in her casket, looking pretty much like a massive slut. What a whore. I mean really though, her lips looked like they could take a truck covered in hog grease. Van Helsing grabbed a nearby stake in order to stab that fucking bitch right in the HEART, and then one of the other men, brian or carl or someone said 'my main man Van, is it just me or is this metaphor too complicated?' Helsing cried 'you know what, you're right! This is all getting a bit subtle for my liking! its time to fuck this bitch UP, Renfield style!' Then he threw away the massive stick and they all did her. And it was awesome.' (page 324)

So yeah. You see what I mean? Trying not to put too fine a point on it, I mentioned to Joanne that the book might not be.. well... savoury, for a young impressionable mind. She furrowed her brow, and said that so far they'd only done the first few pages, and that it seemed alright. I shrugged and thought it best to say nothing more. Partially because it didn't seem right to interfere in her child's education, but mainly because all this brow furrowing business was playing havoc with her depth perception. I nearly lost an ear. I tried to remember the first few pages of Dracula, and whether it had hinted at any of the crapness to come. I found a copy post-sweeping (a very soothing experience, its as if you're cleaning away your old, significantly less awesome self) and had a look at the first page. The first line of Dracula is as follows-

'Jonathan Harker's Journal
3 May. Bistritz. __Left Munich at 8:35 P. M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.

Jesus Christ. Doesn't exactly set you up, does it? By the sound of this, you're settling down for a 14 hour conversation with the world's most boring dinnerguest. The teacher probably read the first 3 pages, knew there'd been a 'twilight' craze amount the young and nimble and thought bosh. Done.

Dangerous stuff, these first impressions.

Got me thinking though, we're not allowed to judge books by their covers- fair play, there are a LOT of pretentious graphic designers out there who will do anything to get gothic-y typewriter fonts onto front pages everywhere. But, can we judge them by their first lines? Surely, an author's first line is basically the most carefully thought out introduction you can ever have. Imagine the brilliance of crafting word for word the things to say to people upon first meeting them, without fear of vommitting, violent angry laughter or accidently asking them if they'd raped your grandma. That is what a first line is. Sure, thats a lot of pressure, but at the same time- there's a lot of books out there. If any of them lines should count, the first one is the one to go for.

With this in mind, I had a little poke around some of my favourite books, and snooped away at their first lines to test the theory. I print some for you below. If you like the sound of any of them, I'll give you the title. And please add your own. I love a good mystery line and it sounds like Joanne might need a few suggestions for Libby's 3rd year- 'Crack Pimps Uncovered', anyone?

This is by no means a comprehensive collection, but rather lovely old friends I happened to have around me at the time of writing. Enjoy-

'It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news'

'It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imgine, they still think he or she is wonderful'

'The snow in the mountains was melting, and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation'

'Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy'

'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.'

'Mrs Rodice perched herslef on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips.'

'In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me sine advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticising anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in the world haven't had the advantages that you've had'

'On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.'

'My desert island, all-time, top-five most memorable breakups, in chronological order, are as follows: Alison Ashmore; Penny Hardwick; Jackie Alden; Charlie Nicholson; and Sarah Kendrew. Those were the ones that really hurt. Can you see your name on that list, Laura?'

and finally

'These very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket. Their names are Grandpa Joe, and Grandma Josephine.

No amount of TV Cop backstory can destroy how these unimaginably wonderful objects make me feel. The Inbetweeners can wait. And besides. There's always Channel 4 +1.

The Hidden World of the Optician.

I, unfortunately, would never survive in the wild.

Yes, this is partly because I am generally terrible at being outdoors. Really. I'm not even ashamed of it. I am rubbish at nature. I give a big thumbs up to the old 'from trees to cave' category we picked as a species way back when we gave that glitzy ol' evolutionary wheel a spin.

Its also slightly because I don't feel I'm prepared enough in the ways of knots- it seems so vital to be an excellent knot do-er in the wild, though I do remain unsure why. Perhaps you can knot yourself a meal. Or knot a sword in times of battle. I'm not judging the world of knots, to be sure, but there are very few times when i REALLY NEED something to attach to a rope. But not just need, but need TO THE MAX. To the point where the knot that everyone does (under over squeezy squeezy until its bigger than your fist) is no longer sufficient.

But I'm getting off the point. Knot my best opening. ahaha well done me and all is forgotten. Anyway, my point.
My point is, I cannot see.
Not even a bit.
My talent for seeing is slim to none. Its not on my CV and I dont boast about it to my friends and colleagues.
I find this very frustrating, as personally, I really enjoy seeing. I bloody love it. And I cant do it. Embarrassingly, I need eye crutches. And I've never been happy about this.

So you can imagine, upon entering an opticians at any time, I'm a little on edge. I always feel a bit like I'm about to enter an exam, and I didn't revise nearly enough. No, its not even that, I feel like I'm about to enter an exam, and I know that they're going to give me a towel to write with. Its the injustice of it all. But there's no getting around the damn thing, I need an update on how supremely crap my eyes are, and they are the only ones who can give it to me. In I go.

Now, my Mum, who is sympathetic about the failure of my eyes, as she too has suffered a similar fate, is generally very good about getting me to and from the opticians. However, she does make me go to Asda opticians so she can get a shop in at the same, and considering she GAVE me the damaged optical goods in the first place, you think we could splash out on specsavers. I don't know what it is, but sometimes I just really, really feel as if I should have gone there. Who knows why.

But anyway, I'm only so grouchy about it because I hate the opticians so much, and to be honest, the prospect of an off the cuff kinder bueno post eye raping is enough to keep the forced smile on my face at any time. The problem is, and the reason I write this to you today, considering what a horrendous ordeal going to the opticians is (and it is, lets not get all spoonful of sugar about this) the women who worked there genuinely seemed to believe they had not only the most wonderful, but bizarrely, the most hilarous jobs in the world.

It began with an attendant type (eye nurse? who even cares) making me sit in a chair and among other things, have a machine blow air suddenly and violently into my eye. Over and over again. As it made a shooty, foamy noise. I know machines can't be rude. But this one really, really did try. I felt someone had instructed a rogue young thug of an extractor fan to spit in my face repeately. 'It might be a little startling!' the young nurse (?) said with a grin. Startling. I'll say. I never thought I'd feel like I was being taunted by a piece of optical equipment. Every time it spat I jumped, and the nurse would giggle away, as if she'd just told a really amusing joke, and the punchline was me getting spat in the face. Excellent.

Thankfully though, it couldnt last forever, and I was able to stand up, my eyes feeling like the underside of a desert vole. I was taken into the sanctuary of the appointment room where the friendly optician lady took my chart, looked at it, paused for a minute as I sat in the waggly feet chair and looked up.
'did you do this test with your lenses in?'
I replied in the affirmative, as I'd told them I had them in when I arrived, and no one told me to do otherwise.'
She burst out laughing.
'AHAHAHA HAHAA oh dear oh dear, yes! You see, it says here that your eyesight is perfect! And that, well, that doesn't happen a lot does it? HAHAHA'
'ha. yes, i suppose that.. that would be classed as some sort of jesus mirac-
'JUNE! JUNE COME IN HERE. Did you do her test?'
June nodded with bated breath.
'she's got her CONTACTS in!'
HAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHA
HAHAHA
I laughed away too (it seemed only polite, no one wants to be the only non-laugher in a room of hilarity, its like turning up to a great fancy dress party wearing jeans and a satirical name tag) but couldnt shake what this would actually mean.
'HAHAH, oh dear.. oh dear. well, back out you go! We'll have to do all the tests again!' She grinned. June grinned. That bastard smug little extractor fan drop out grinned. And we did it again. Only this time I didn't even have my eye armour on.

Post this, I had the fun of actually doing the 'now read the bottom line.. the bottom line, I said. Oh sorry, that is genuinely what you thought it was? oh. oh, oh dear...' and being told with glee that i had indeed slipped further down the eye ladder, and was now approaching the kind of vision a bowl would reject as useless.

Still, I had glasses to choose, and my Mum had turned up, meaning I had exactly 3 minutes to choose which ones I wanted before she started breathing in the way that meant if I took any longer, I wouldnt need them anyway as I wouldn't have a head. So picking two up (it was one for 60 pounds, or two for 70 pounds- and you know you dont need two pairs of glasses and yet... 10 pounds... I could never have lived with myself). Now the fun really began.
June looked devestated. 'I'm so sorry. But these are on different deals. This one here' she waggled a pair I'd given her 'are only 40 pounds. And you want the 60 pound deal'.
I was getting the warning mum breaths on my neck.
'Oh its fine' I said hurridly, 'I'll just pay the extra anyway, I don't mind.'
I was met with silence. Another attendant rushed up as if Gondor had just called for aid.
'I'm afraid-' started June
'You can't override the deal' said the New Attendant in a hushed tone.
'Oh, ' I said, 'but.. but I dont mind paying extra. These are only forty pounds, yes? And I'm willing to pay as if they were sixty. So. So its better, yes? For everyone?'
June and New Girl looked at each other. They looked back at me.
'But thats not the deal', said June. 'They are part of a seperate deal.'
I really wished I had my dealing with ridiculous situations knot to hand.
'But I'll be paying more' I said. 'More. By twenty pounds'. I almost added, 'surely Mr Philip Asda would bloody love a hand-out?', but I didn't think now was the time for fictional characters based on acronyms.
June and N.A looked at each other again. And suddenly, a strange smile dawned on NA's face. It was a curious mix of glee, exhilaration and fear. 'You know what,' she said
'what?' asked June breathlessly
'Those glasses' she pointed at the offending 40 pound lepers, 'were made for a customer. and he never picked them up. We could', she swallowed, 'we could just put them through as sixty pounds, as the register wouldn't know where they came from, as they were specially made for a customer!'
June about shat herself.
'Yes! Yes we could! We could do it!' They both turned to me, where I proceeded to thank them excessively for letting me pay them extra money.
As she was putting the order through, June turned to the other girl and said grinning wildly 'I tell you what, we'll never work at SpecSavers, will we?'
The other girl hooted and replied with relish 'Ohhh no, they'd never let us!'
I suddenly caught a wonderful glimpse of an underworld I'd never imagined before. An opticians mafia, opposing gangs in a west side story type setting, where administractive hitmen got tattoos of their chosen branch on their cornias and bombarded their optical opponants with midnight lens raids. Bi-focal bomb shelters and suicide pact saline nightmares. Specsavers vs Asda. Other name of an opticians vs a different other name of an opticians. Marvellous.
Drifting into this dream as I walked out with my Mum, whose breathing was now back on track, I barely even realised that I'd forgotten to buy my celebratory kinder bueno. Ah well. On the mean streets of the optician underbelly, there was no such thing as chocolatey treats. Just monacle maniacs, untrustworthy red and green circles and eye tests with such tiny letters that any man trying to work them out goes instantly mad. Cripes. No one ever had this kind of trouble in a tent. Forget my past, nature, I'll tie you my best forgiveness knot and lets start this again.

How To Protect Yourself (Or Your House) From Ninjas (Or Similar)

When I was a young girl, at the wee age of an age where you have no idea what your age is, I woke up to the sound of my parents being attacked by ninjas in the garden.

Now this, as you can imagine, was fairly upsetting. The noise was coming from outside, and was the kind of high pitch 'hiiiiiYAH YAH HIIIII' sound you'd expect from any respectable ninja. Like in the films. The ninja films. With ninja noises ACTUALLY in. There could be no other explanation. Too frightened to look out of the window in case I was spotted by a laser ninja eye, I decided that my parents needed to be called into action. A fairly ridiculous idea, now I think about it, as I'm pretty sure my dad's samuri experience was passable at best, and Mum's never even been a whizz with a fork, never mind anything else. But hey, I was.. however old I was, and at that time, most of life problem's were resolved by asking my parents for help, (rather than now, where all of my problems are solved by asking them for money.) So, foolishly confident in their Eastern combat abilities, I tiptoed quickly to their door (you cant RUN when there's ninjas around, they'll HEAR you), and popped my head through the door.
'Mum,' I said, quite calmly I thought, considering the grave situation the family was in, 'I think there's some ninjas in the garden.'
I waited for a sleepy response along the comforting lines of 'alright poppet I'll get my death rifle', but none came. There was silence. I stretched my wee (but even then already quite powerful and attractive) arm up and turned on the light. To my surprise, the bed was empty. No parents, no death rifle to be seen, and no chance of me going back to sleep. I was surprisingly calm as I stared at the bed, I think because actually, this situation made a lot more sense. Why would ninjas be crying out in a fighting and angry manner if they had no one to fight with? A ridiculous notion, to be sure! Obviously, my parents were outside, and fighting with their fighting skills! In many ways, the logic of the situation was quite reassuring. I only hope mum wasn't grappling with a fork.

So, with the sitatuon at least comfortingly clear in my mind, I did what any child does when she is awaiting the results of her parents death match with subburban garden ninjas, I sat on the stairs and contemplated my future life as a ninja child. I considered waking my brother, sleeping soundly in the next room, then contemptuously dismissed the idea- after all, if anyone in this house was going to be a a ninja child- it was me, and bloody Joe wasn't going to take that away from me like he took away the sippy sippy cup with the clown on it JUST BECAUSE he was younger and 'needed' it more than me. So I sat with my head in my hands, listening to the 'HIIIIYAA! YA YA YAA! HUP HAHA YAYAYA' from in the garden, twinned with the growing noise of my parents shouting a bit and muttering angrily to each other. As I recall it, I sat on those stairs for 7 hours. However, memory is a tricky thing. It may only have been 6. Anyway, eventually, after an unspecified amount of time, the front door suddenly swung open, and I gasped, my heart pounding. A ninja! In a white Cloak! And a Samuri white belt! Unfortunately, he then stepped into the light and what was a dazzling ninja ensemble became rather disappointingly similar to my father's dressing gown.
"DAD!" I yelled, suddenly flooded with relief that he had won the arduous battle against worthy foes, and had claimed me as his prize. I rushed down the stairs and flung myself into his arms, the daughter of a ninja slayer. He gathered me up proudly and placed me firmly back into bed, telling me that everything was OK now, I was safe, and by golly, did I sleep soundly and proudly that night.

Unfortunately it turned out that actually, some of our chickens had gotten out of the coup at about 1am, and mum and dad had chased them round the garden for about an hour and a half in their pyjamas, trying to get them to shut up by yelling at them quite loudly. Still. An eventful night, nevertheless.

The reason I tell this life-altering story (coyrighted, in case you're thinking of turning it into a film), is because tonight I sit alone in a large house, ready to hunker down and brave out the night. There's something about being in your old family home alone that takes you back to a time when ninjas lurked behind every chicken, and for some reason, I can't shake the feeling that if ever there was a night for me to hone my fork skills, this is that night.

Of course, I am well aware that it is ridiculous. And yet I feel compelled to make sure that that sound that I just heard that sounded rather like a dog drinking some water in the kitchen wasn't in fact a man breaking in through the roof with a saw. It also isn't really my fault, as my parents haven't really fostered much faith in the world around me. Any woman who keeps a baseball bat under her mattress under the pretence of 'you'll never know when you might fancy a game' isn't to be trusted, in my opinion. I have in fact woken up to the sound of my mother shouted 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING' storming down our drive, wielding a bat in one hand and a dog in the other whilst some young ruffians attempted to scale our gate. Needless to say, they scarpered. I'm pretty sure the dog was trying to do the same, but it did come off as menacing rather than terrified, so thats the main thing.

Anyway, the point is, no matter how unlikely and ridiculous it seems, you just don't know when ninjas might descend. How can you? So, with this in mind, I decided to write up a quick, efficient and easy to use guide entitled
'How To Protect Yourself (Or your House) from Ninjas (Or Similar)'
I think brackets in titles are really going to catch on.

So, for the safety and well being of you, your family, and those you know who aren't ninjas, I give you my advice. Use it well.

If you suspect a ninja (or similar) is entering your house, make sure you immediately do the following-

1. Make your bed- I know it would seem like tidying up should be the last thing on your mind at a time like this, but trust me, a proud housewife is a significantly alive housewife. A scrambled bedsheet is the mark of a panicked inhabitant. If you make your bed- you're as good as not home. There's no looking for you. And you also seem like a person who cares about cleanliness, and ninjas appreciate that. They wear all black dont forget- so stains wont show up.

2. Hide in a wardrobe- BUT (and this is the vital part) DON'T CLOSE IT COMPLETELY. Like most University educated people, i learnt almost everything I know from films about pirates. Closed wardrobes is the first place they check. If you leave it a bit open, with some clothes kind of sprawly, its casual-open-chic, cool man, your room is practically having a cigarette its so chilled out.

3. Take your glasses- damn. that probably should have been number one. Don't go back and get your glasses now if you're already in the wardrobe, but if you have them on you things will be a lot easier. I once groped my way downstairs (not in the fun way) whilst checking out a strange door banging noise, and my lack of sight made things such as walls and carpets look rather more like murderers then I would have liked.

4. Phone your mum- as we've discovered with last week's post, phoning the authorities is not always the way. Often, your mum will supply you with a button or a lever that will fix everything. Don't ask me how it works, but they do it.

5. If the lever is out of reach inside the wardrobe, have a quick search for narnia. You just never know, and it does always seem to turn up at the most bloody useful times.

6. The ninja will be, by now, inside the room, searching for golden dabloons, his long lost father and the peace of mind that means he can go back to his village and carve that chair he's always wanted to carve. Its unlikely that these things will be in your room. Best to keep as silent as you can. If you have difficulty doing this, try to imagine that someone has just said to you 'yeah, but don't you think creationism just sort of makes sense?' And do the silence you would do after that.

7. Its nearly over now. The ninja, having spotted the cunningly made bed, will assume he is alone, and will therefore be off his guard. At this point, you CHARGE the ninja, bursting out of the wardrobe with your bat and dog screaming 'WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?'

8. Oh, and plant a bat and dog inside the wardrobe first. Unless you can source them quickly from Narnia at the time.

9. Chase out ninja with a triumphant battle cry, safe in the knowledge that you have defended your home, your livelihood, and actually did a bit of tidying up for once.

10. and finally, tighten up the wires on your chicken coup. There's no need for two night's battle in a row.

Yakmonster x

This post might save your life

I'd just like to take a second today, to have a little talk about fire alarms.

Now. Like many, my first introduction to the fire alarm was when an alarmingly wide bear came to talk to us in primary school about fire and the alarms thereof. Not a real bear. Sadly. If a bear really came to talk to us, I have a feeling the topic of conversation wouldn't actually be paramount to our entertainment. Anyway, for some reason, this bear (Tony The Fire Bear, or similar) was really, really interested in our being good at investigating kitchens, standing on chairs and pressing buttons. Which was funny, because almost every other adult at the time was telling us quite firmly not to do any of these things.

My second introduction was later on in primary school where, apparently having abandoned the fool-proof bear method, the school instead instructed us to crawl through a tent that had been filled with smoke, and get to the exit. Outside. A massive smoke filled tent. When you're ten. Like a ninja. Instead of doing maths. Now I dont know about anyone else in that class, but I spent most of the next couple of weeks looking hopefully at the stove whenever my dad cooked bacon.

My third introduction was some time after this, when I was about 15, I cooked some sausages on my grill (hold on, it gets even better). Why you ask? Because I wanted some sausages. Oh sorry, you didn't- I thought you asked, never mind. Anyway, I was making these sausages, turned away to look fleetingly at a flower perhaps, or a soft and lovely napkin, and when I moved my eyes back the oven was on fire. I stood looking at it for a moment, stangely sober, and then tried quite hard to remember which type of fire it was that made the girl on the advert have her face all burned off when she poured water on it. Chip pan fire, right. I wasn't making chips. But wait- does that advert mean just chips? Or things in pans? or.. or.. a specific type of oil? Oh God. Oh God I dont know. And it turns out there's nothing quite like having an oven casually on fire in the background to make your thoughts less than laser precise.I got the phone, and hesitated for a moment. The fire waited patiently. Did I call 999, or my Mum? Who would consider themselves the expert on things of this matter?
'Hello, Kay Ralph?'
'Hi Mum,'
'Hi Tash. '
'Hi. Erm.-'
'You're up are you? Finally? Have you fed the dog?'
'Well- yes. Yes, but Mum'
'Dont give him the cheese thats on the side.'
I looked at the side. The cheese had melted and was turning a blackened grey.
'No I won't. Mum. Mum- the oven's on fire.'
'What?'
'The oven's on fire.'
'The oven's on fire?'
I suddenly got a strange urge to turn this into a song and launch into a chorus of 'ohhh the oven's on fire and what can ya dooo'. Luckily, I resisted.
'Oh my God. OK. Get out of the house. Get Barney. Get Barney and get out of the house.
I looked at the oven. It looked happily back at me.
'It doesn't seem to be spreading, Mum.'
'It, it doesn't, oh god. Ok, Ok, listen to me.'

She then proceeded to guide me through a process I now cannot quite recall (probably due to some horrible mind trauma repression) which ended in me pressing a button and the fire going out- if only I'd listened to Tony back then, maybe I wouldn't even have needed help. Damn ninja replacement system.

Anyway, my point is, though you've probably already guessed it, fire alarms are fun. Which is why when, last night in Claycroft (a halls of residence at my Uni) when the fire alarm went off, I happily donned some boots, grabbed my keys and jaunted off to the exit. The fact that it also meant interuppting my watching of 'Bedtime Stories'- the worst Adam Sandler film since the last Adam Sandler film (think Nights at the Museum with slightly less money), was another reason for the spring in my step.
Me and my friends Katherine and Annalisa stood outside the building and breathed in the cooling night air. This, apparently, was the worst possible thing we could have done. The Offical Fire Woman of the building, who had mysteriously been yelling at a tree for the previous five minutes, stormed up to us and yelled 'what are you doing here? hmmm? this isn't the regulated fire spot!' She sounded very official, and her face was full of angry officialness. Unfortunatly, she was wearing a baby pink dressing gown with a floral design, some hairy slippers and very little else. Maybe she thought if she shouted loud enough, she's shout some clothes on.
'I have no idea where that is.' I said, very truthfully.
Her face turned red enough to almost be its own hat (almost).
'It's ROUND THE CORNER!' she yelled.
Now I don't do very well with people who are very rude for no reason.
'Ok, well THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP!' I shouted back and smiling at her hat-face off we skipped to the area where fire couldnt penetrate. Unlike where we were standing originally, which was by a large lake.

So, arriving at the Designated Fire Area, which stood proudly in its captial letters, we made casual friends with others who were victims of the fire. I thought about saying how I bet this was the kind of sitation that made people in concentration camps make friends. But then I didn't. Instead I stood making narky comments that amused me and me alone, and waited for my friend in the pink to show up. She did. It turned out, shockingly, that not everything on the world was on fire, and we could go back in. As we started to heave back, an official man in a glowly coat asked loudly 'who is in room 30, block A?'. A sinister silence fell. Slowly, as we all watched with judging eyes, a girl in a beige coat and confused and shocked expression lifted a hand shakingly. The perpetrator. Being as angry as we could be for a group of people who weren't saying or doing anything, we began to drift off. And the girl was taken away, presumably to be punished by Fire Woman opening her robe in front of her.

This story has a point, and it is this. On the way back to the building, I found 20p on the ground. I picked it up, and put it in my pocket. I might put it towards a bag of crisps. See what good come of fire alarms? Oh and also, on the day I burnt the oven down, mum got us another puppy to calm us all down. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.

YakAttack

Thank Goodness, eh?

Welcome, you glittery little handbag you,

Its what you've all been waiting for. The Return of Natasha Yak.

Whilst I trekked the crazy town that was noo york city, with nothing but a dodgy accent, a see through dress and a song in my hair, I never imagined I'd have such an impact on the world. Tens, literally tens of you joined me on my quest, and I like to believe, bonded not only with me, but with each other, along the way. Relationships were kindled, my mum nearly had several heart attacks, I still have a few tender answermachine messages from Abdahl- there's talk of a motion picture, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.

So, after 6 weeks of Manhatten Madness, what could possibly tempt a sprightly young reader such as yourself to delve back into the reccesses of my mind? Well. Sure you've had the secrets of New York displayed like a naked sandwich, but what about the secrets of... Warrington? And possibly even Wigan- (Mum might need me to go with her to the vets later- my dog Barney is getting seriously skilled at weeing on antiques). Yeah? YEAH!

Ok I'll be honest. I'm bored. I'm dangerously bored. And I have a dissertation due in less than a month. The only thing that makes any sense is to start a blog. And anyway, I have a few bones to pick with this so called planet 'earth' (if that is its real name), that I'd like opinions on. So consider this my page of me talking about things that probably don't really matter, but DO actually matter in a massive way. And if I somehow end up near Astley or Bootle, so much the better. (Those reading from the South- dont worry. These places you've never heard of can't come and get you.)

So. I'd like to raise a question.

There's been a lot of films lately focussing on the 'bromance'- I'm talking the Judd Apattow films, the Knocked Up, Superbad, The Hangover. We've all seen them, we've all laughed, cried, all wondered at how a cinema can physically charge £5.80 for a box of 7 nachos and some cheese sauce and not consider itself a criminal establishment. My question is, and I know it seems obvious but I dont care, where are the girls? really? A Judd Apatow film (not including Funny People, which i've not seen) seems to go thusly-

A weird looking but hilarious guy + Another fatter weird looking but hilarious guy + A slightly disapproving but unbelievably attractive girl + an adventure she has no part in= Lots of male bonding, drunken frolicking and the happy conclusion of sex to come.

Is this an unfair judgement? I realise the 'point' of these films isn't 'wahey, all the genders ROCK! Every one of them!' But I do wonder why these film-makers don't seem to have any friends who are girls. It is because they are 'geeks but awesome in their own way'? Cos I gotta say, I have a lot of geekish but awesome in their own way boy friends, who I love and honour dearly not only as a human, but qutie literally as a girl. Is this a strange and freakish occurance, or have I been deluding myself all these years? When I walk out of a room to get beer or crisps, or a pen, or any number of the small objections that can fit inside my tiny girlish hands, do people turn and ask 'ok sure she exists, there's no doubt about that, but seriously, why is she here?'

The only reason I ask this question is because I had a conversation with some male friends whilst we were getting ready to go out to manchestaaa, where we were discussing the film 'The Hangover'. I merely stated that I didn't think the film was hilarious, more a jazzed up version of 'Dude, where's my car?' - a claim that I dont think is massively unfair. Come on. It wasn't that good. The bit with the tiger was pretty cool. And thats about it. And I was shot down like a mis-directed sparrow-hawk being attacked by a squid. The criticism was that 'you're a girl, so you don't really understand nights out like that.' Admittedly, the person who said these words is a complete moron. But it did get me thinking (NOT like Carrie Twat. NOT EVER LIKE HER)

I'm not questioning whether girls have the capacity to act like complete dicks, be freakin hilarious, drink, vomit, bond and looking like complete arseholes in front of the people they are attempting to seduce. I know this to be true. I painfully, shamefully, scars-on-my-legs-and-arms-and-more-importantly-in-my-soul know this to be horrifyingly true. My question is, why doesn't the world? Are these films just not getting written, do you reckon? Genuinely?

Personally, I have a theory:
that men and women will never be equal until boys believe, and i mean really, properly believe, in their minds and brains, that women poo. Simple as that. Until that toilet pedestal gets knocked down, the women of show bizzz and the women in boy's hearts will be the ones with the shiny teeth, the hair of spun gold and no history of bowel movements. Yeah sure, you can make pay the same, you can fight for women's sports, you can do all of these things that I can't think of another example for. But I'm telling you now. Until boys relinquish the poo-secret, we ladies aint got nothin.

Perhaps next time I shall have a tale to tell of Birchwood Asda and its hidden fascist depths, or the truth behind the Gregg's sausage and bean pasty, but until then, its just an angry rant about the lack of my people on the big screen. Carrie Twat and Co Do Not Count. Any takers?

Yakky x

so, its come to the end

So. Here we are. Weird, isn't it? Feels a bit like when you have to do a big massive family goodbye after a heavy christmas, but kind of when you know the car isn't quite packed yet, you might bump into Aunty Pam in the hall 5 minutes after doing the big 'goodbye and thanks for the comb' thing with her, and so you keep it all quite short and jovial just in case, even though you might very well never ever see them again. Until next Christmas. Thats how I'm feeling about doing my final NY post.

And yes I finally did it. I promised I would, so I did- yesterday a pyschic came up to me and Lyds on the street and insisted that there was something about my past she just had to know more about. And by 'know more about', she of course meant 'let you pay for me to know more about'. It was 5 dollars, she said. Funnily enough I had a 5 dollar bill in my hand. Fate? God? L.Ron Hubbard? who knows. But you blog munchers demanded it, and so I could do nothing except obey.
So. Whats in my future? Who bloody knows. What a jip. Why do I keep letting strangers tell me how much is wrong with my personality? Last week or whatever it was my graph mirror that was getting me down in team Scientology, this week its my aura. Oh yeah, my aura is pretty bad. It should be gold, and apparently mine is grey. GREY. But, I was to discover, there was at least a logical reason for this.
'When you were concieved, somebody put a curse on your parents. A curse!'
Oh right.
'Its because of this curse that you live your life under this terrible negativity. You can feel it right? Right under your ribs?'
I could feel something. But I'm pretty sure it was a sinking feeling of wondering how much icecream i could have eaten for my five dollars worth. But still, stick it out eh?
'so my parents were... were cursed?'
She nodded seriously, staring at my palm.
'Oh dear.. thats.. thats rubbish. Erm. who cursed them?'
She peered at my hand. I did the same. Unless the culprits were called creasy mcfinger nail and Thumbs Wristington, I didn't think I would be able to see a name. Apparently she felt the same.
'I cant see right now. The negativity blocking it is too strong. You need.. you need. You need salt. From the seven seas. And a crystal. Only then, when I help you, will you be rid of this curse.'
I had a feeling this wasn't an offer for a charity cleansing.
'How much money do you have to start this journey?'
I was right. I smiled quite firmly, and said 'Oh, none. I'm afraid. None at all.'
'I can see in your face you are about to come into come money!'
Oh well thats very convienient.
'Yes, well, even so, I think I'll just live.. as I am.. for now. Thank you though. For the offer.'
'You dont want to find them? Find the ones who put the curse upon you? Caused your aura such pain?'
'n....no. Not. Not right now. I'm flying home in a couple of days so.. so that'll... you know, take up quite a lot of my time. Thanks again.'
OH though. She did tell me something else. Something MUCH better and really relieved a lot of worries that had been building up in my head. She told me that the person I'm in a relationship with now is the person i'm going to marry, and we're going to have two children. What a load off my mind. Anyone whose been wondering how it's all going to end with me and Jack- worry no more. Its all sorted. Though sadly, Jack didn't seem quite as excited as I'd hoped when I explained all this to him on skype later. When I told proudly how we were scientifically destined to marry and have two children, he replied with
'yeah, I probably don't even have swimmers.'
Which rather put a dampner on things. What the hell kind of celebration is that? Oh well. If she's as good a psychic as I think she is, we'll see who's laughing in the end.

Since I've come to the end of my 6 week jaunt into the loud unknown, I feel that now is a good time to reflect upon what has passed, and perhaps try and draw up some useful things I have discovered for the future. God. Can't believe its been 6 weeks since Abdahl offered me that Tuna wrap. This is pure and utter madess. Here we go then, lets see what happens here.

1. If you need a chat, head for a park and try and do something very much on your own- Company will find you.
2. Violins are a very bad impulse buy- especially for the surrounding customers.
3. Friends can come from unlikely places, including inside walls.
4. Piles of wood are sacred in some cultures.
5. Fish are brilliant.
6. Engrams are terrible
7. You can pay to watch penguins swim about in poo- other penguins' poo.
8. There are disadvantages to not having a full length mirror- Naked based disadvantages
9. There are advantages to not having a full length mirror- potentially lucrative naked advantages.
10. The smell of franchised joy can make you do anything
11. Yellow shoes should be given to those only with the power to control them.
12. Line drawings of girls on ponies can be the most disturbing thing you've ever seen- in the correct massive eye context.
13. Lydia King knows how to do New York properly.
14. I simply know how to find the mentals.
15. The King of the Jews is alive and well and awaiting a court hearing.
16. There is so much loud in New York that the sound of a weeping lesbian becomes more background humming than anything.
17. Never begin a conversation with a stranger with the words 'were you the one who raped...'
18. In theory- I care about cricket.
19. Massive pants can be strangely liberating.
20. Buying a cell phone can sometimes be classed as unwanted therapy.
and finally, of course
21. Never accept a tuna wrap from a stranger. Who knows what else you might be accepting.

Thank you, those who are reading, to have cared enough about my exploits to have come with me to the bitter end. For those who didnt read every post, you are a bastard. And you probably should.

Who knows, I might continue it on, though I'd imagine its a lot trickier blogging about the people you spent time with, when they are the people that read it. Hmmm.

For the last time then, this is Natasha Yak, fledgling scientologist, amateur nude model and head journalist at Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich, signing off. I'll see you on the other side.

xxx

The King Has Arrived

Living on my own for so long, I often forget about girl things. I think I do try a bit harder when back in the real world, as society, decorum and the rules of not catching the plague so wilfully demand. By this I don't mean to go on some sort of mad feminist 'BURN IT ALL' type rant, I simply mean that when left to my own devices, I do prefer to inch towards the feral way of living. I simply just cannot be bothered with it. This is something I forgot to mention to Lydia, a girl that not only understands how the counters at MAC makeup work, but strides in confidently, ordering more lip..blast..shade 79.8 to complement the latest face.. sheen with the laserology complex and GET ME A LATTE GODDAMMIT, I'M DUE TO MEET GEORGIO IN 10. -except not in a bastard way, just in a 'this chick knows too much, dont try and screw her over' kind of way. You get my drift.

I met her from the train station with the happiness of one who is very very much looking forward to seeing her friend, and who also gets to show off their knowledge of New York. It was both gratifying and a bit more gratifying to see Lydia, being a seasoned London underground user, clinging to me on our first subway trip whispering in panic, 'never leave me.' Of course this morning she text me telling me its all well easy, but still. I'll always have that moment. We finally got her to my apartment, I proudly showed her the sink, a chair and many other items also under my command. She nodded, made appropriate noises and we sank into my room. She declared that showering was in order. I stated happily that yes, indeed, we have one of those as well. She then asked me if I had straighteners.
I've used straighteners maybe 5 times in my life. They confuse me a bit with their light saber physique and their heat that is made to hurt precious precious ears. I shook my head slowly. She asked me where my hair dryer was. I didn't actually bring one, I explained because.. because.. becuase I didn't actually bring one. We shared quite a slow look. Luckily, she told me, she already knew all of this about me, and had brought her own. Tragedy number 1 smartly sidestepped.
Now, she asked, was she OK to use my Shampoo and Conditioner, showergel and makeup remover. Ah. Shampoo and Conditioner, I fell over myself to say, yes! All yours! Enjoy with the power of someone who has control over how clean their hair is. Now.. as for shower gel and makeup remover..
Well, the thing is, quite early on in the trip, I left a bag of various liquids in a taxi, never got them back and as I still had some good ol' fashioned soap- soap, the item whose soul desire is to clean, I figured to be honest, whats the real difference? Body, face, they all need cleaning, and SOAP is the man for the job! Hurrah! Free! Hurrah!
Apparently this was not a time for celebration. It is difficult to describe the look on Lydia's face when I explained the soapy situation. But it was a bit like I'd calmly explained that there was a dead African boy in the bath that she'd have to step over to reach the shampoo. But hey, she's not going to complain, she's a lovely girl, she's in NY, she's happy! So, with only slight mutters of 'moisturising glove', 'exfoliating..powder' (may be paraphrasing here) she hopped shower bound, and left me to wonder whether my life is a very correct one. She emerged looking a little traumatised, her MAC makeup still clinging stubbornly to her eyes- I helpfully remarked that if she bought really cheap and crap makeup like I do, it would basically fall off her face as soon as she looked in the mirror. God bless you Collection 2000.

But still, she was here, I was here, and New York was looking cheekily in through the window. There was no time for a soap debate! With a final 'we'll buy some makeup remover today Tash, Ok?' we were OFF to experience NOO YORK CITY like it was the first time, and I was very very genuinely ridiculously happy. We decided to go to central park, it was all parky and wonderful, so wonderful and free of the crazies in fact that in a moment of delerium we decided to go to the Central Park zoo. Admittedly, looking back, this was a bit of an error. A small zoo, filled with 'a polar bear' oh that bear, is only ever going to inspire grief at the best of times. But hey, there was a SNOW LEOPARD on the front of the zoo map! They're pretty exciting, so exciting that you might forget how horribly small the zoo enclosures actually are. WE wandered first to the Tropic Zone, but discovered it was shut. A bit put out, we headed off to the Panda... Party (or whatever) to cheer us up a bit. Didn't really succeed, as it turned out it was shut. The polar bear looked as pissed off as we did. Only the sight of a leopard saved us - and it was the picture of the one on the map, as we realised fairly quickly that the leopard enclosure was shut. We agreed that we'd rather see the happy little fellow on the photo running wild and free than seeing a sad chain smoking cat looking up at us with the distain a prostitute gives to her ugliest punter. Going into the Penguin/Puffin Zone (they quite liked the work 'Zone'- and so did I, made me feel a bit like we were on the Crystal Maze), and walked in to instantly see a penguin pooing into the water, and another penguin swimming happily into it. Oh the glories of nature. I couldn't help overhearing a couple next to us, with the woman saying fervently 'oh look! its just like Happy Feet! Did you see Happy Feet?'
the man was silent for a second, and then said without looking at her, 'Yep. Couldn't stand it.'
By this point we were fairly soul-destroyed by the zoo, and felt we needed to go to a place where the exhibits on display were a bit happier, prettier and less expensive. Oh did we find it. Did we ever find it. Sure you could go to the MET, the MOMA and all those other 'art' places for your aesthetic overload, but we discovered somewhere far, far superior. Superior to the point of death. Lydia slowly guided me into a side of New York I had never seen, as my view had been blocked the crazies wielding broken computers. She showed me the world of...Abercrombie and Fitch. Oh. Dear. Lord.
Upon entering, the most beautiful girl I had ever seen bounded up to us and smiled, 'hi! Would you like a photo?' Before I could ask what she meant, the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life came into view, shirtless, smiling, and waiting to pose. Myself and Lyds were so gosmacked by the beauty in the nearby vicinity we could do nothing but grin like mad fools as a polaroid was taken of us with beautiful man, and then, both of them grinning and waving, we were taken into what I can only describe as the happiest place in the world. The air vents were pumping out a scent called 'Fierce' that was a mixture between pure rugged joy and a really clean and brilliant wolf. Everyone in the shop was happy, dancing and so bloody beautiful you wanted to tear out your eyes and let them eat them. And the music. Oh the music. Some drug had been fazed into the music somehow, as all I could do was turn to Lyds and say 'Lydia.. this music... it makes me feel like.. like.. like I can do ANYTHING.' I looked into her eyes and saw the same hypnotised madness I felt in my own soul. Nothing good could come of this.
But the people though, you dont understand, they were SO happy, and dancey and chatty and BEAUTIFUL. I felt like I needed to savour every moment, because never ever again would such beautiful people look at me directly in the eyes and not slightly to the side for fear of catching something I had. It was amazing. So amazing that we both stumbled out about 7 hours later, dazed, half asleep and clutching bits of expensive material. We held them to our faces, breathed in slowly and whispered 'it smells.. it smells like them.'
Jesus. Thank you Lydia. Thank you for this gift you have shown me. There's no way I would have done this on my own. I probably would have bypassed the shop for an interesting looking 3 legged dog in a hat that limped down a nearby alley.

The final thing I have to mention in this post of hugeness, is that we went to the theatre in the evening, to see a production of Our Town, a play I'd never read, knew nothing about, but a play so famous in america that nowhere on the programme was there any information about the show. Apparently it would be a bit like writing on a Romeo and Juliet programme 'A play by Mr William Shakespeare (English)- who is dead good, about these two people who fall in love and that- not gonna give away the ending but it gets a bit nasty.' We went to the show partially because I'd heard really good things about, and mainly because Jenn Markowitz said she would hurt me if we didn't, and I just don't think she's a woman to make these claims lightly. She knew someone in it, a man called Jeff, who was to meet us for a drink after. All of this, you can imagine, made us very bloody worried we wouldn't like the show, we've have to sneak off at the interval, quit facebook and become children of the rivers- (not a life that would suit lydia). Fotunately, it was bloody brilliant. Thank God. The acting was subtle and lovely, the ensemble was ridiculously strong, the staging was just genius and there was a bit with a curtain that suddenly made you realise the sheer power of curtains. It was wonderful and thoughtful and made you, for want of a better way of putting it, really really glad you were alive. How ridiculous, I know, but its true. So well done everyone. It was good. Quite enough of that I think. We ended up in a bar with a few of the cast and crew, -it turned out we'd crashed Jeff's date, but at least made him buy us a drink to make up for it. After a great chat and lovely beer (mmm the taste of free), Jeff left to get a bus, leaving us a little awkwardly with all the people we didn't know. The only option at this stage was to arm wrestle the producer. That done, we skipped out into the rainy night and danced home- and howww nice it was to have someone else to discuss it all with other than my own brain (sorry brain, you're very nice too).
So yes. Wow. Sorry I've gone on and on. Waiting for the exterminator to come and free us of mice (I'll tell him to avoid Adrain) so I really have nothing to do until he breaks upon us. Oh and we've got bedbugs too. Lydia, I forgot to tell you that bit. If you're reading this now, we have. If you've got a bite, its a bedbug one. So don't worry that its plague. Cos its not. Its bedbugs. Hope thats ok. NEEWWWW YOOOORRKKKKKKKK!

Conversation ii

There's a very big difference between trouble happening to you, and you happening to some trouble. Today, I discovered this for myself. And you all (and especially Katherine,) shall hear it.

I think, up till now I can say with an-admittedly small-degree of confidence that any madness that occurred to me, was mostly stumbled across, rather than sought out (with the exception of the Engrams, fair enough.) Today however, I heard the faint call of madness, and rather than turning up my sanity ipod, I ripped off my headphones and wandered happily towards the source. Why? well, why not eh?

So today it was lovely and sunny, and as I'd done weekendy worky things again, I had the day off and I decided that I wanted to go to the park to work on my tan. (Ha. By 'work on my tan', i obviously mean 'get ever more freckled.' If any member of my immediate family accidently step out of the shadows for 15 seconds, they turn the colour of a freshly baked fairy cake. If I lie in the sun for 9 hours, with no suncream and holding up a magnifying glass, all that happens is that my follicle freckle guards call for reinforcements. Major reinforcements. I end up looks like a child's puzzle. Very sad.)

Anyway, there I was, Central Park, soaking up that skyline. Central Park is massive, by the way. Really though. It just goes on and on. I thought to myself, before I leave, I really want to find the fountain that all the 'Friends' do all their happy frolicking in. Standing with these thoughts in the middle of a busy fieldy type bit, I hear a voice behind me, 'looking for somewhere to go?'
I look round, and a man of about perhaps 45, of Indian/puertorican origin (fact- he told me himself, so I'm not even le racist.) with long long silver hair all piled up on his head, one very wonky eye, carrying what looked like a broken computer monitor on a string in his arms. Clearly, this was the person I was meant to meet here.
I laughed, and said 'oh no, I'm just.. waiting, for my friend.'
A cunning and foolproof opening gambit, I'm sure you'll agree.
'Ah. Where is your friend? I shall show you the best parts of central park! Where are you from eh?'
I told him. Seemed like the sensible road to take.
'England! ahh I showed a girl from dublin around the other day! Lovely girl! Come, I can show you the water, the boats are beautiful! I shall show you!'
'But... my friend, erm...'
'Is this a male friend?'
I decided that he was. And I also decided that he was the kind of friend that would be really annoyed if I was late for a meeting. Bit annoying like that, very anal about things, but a good soul. Oh and freaking massive. He's built like a shed, I decided.
'Do you have a phone? You call him! Tell him you will be back in 10 minutes! I will just show you the boats! The fountain!'
Ok, ok. ok. I know what you're thinking (dad), you would be mad to go off with blah blah blah, probably actually a lion blah blah. But this was 2pm on a sunny monday afternoon. Central park was HEAVING with people. There was nowhere to hide anything. He had a gimpy eye. All of these things weighed in my favour in the 'but will he try and murder me' stakes that we invariably play with strangers. I had no plans. I wanted to see the fountain. but EVEN so, I was still leaning towards the 'no thanks, my massive mate will bloody do you if you try anything' type option. And then I noticed something that made me change my mind. On the broken computer monitor he was carrying, I noticed that on the back was a weird pencil sketching of a cartoon goth man. I pointed at it, and made noises
'Ahh yes. I found this! I found it, and i loved the way the lines were so strong, so strict. I decided to draw on it, mirror the lines with the man's strong face. I am an artist, you see.' The man had drawn on a broken computer monitor. In pencil. And then attached it to a bit of string and carried it round. I was sold. 'Ok sure, 10 minutes wont hurt eh?' I said brightly, and off we went, with me staying very much in the bright sunshine, and making lots of eyecontact with passing strangers, just in case.
'So, where abouts in England are you from?'
'Near Manchester, in the North.'
His face broke in a grin, 'ahhhh Manchester! You guys are my friends!'
Slightly confused by intrigued nevertheless, i waited for a reason. None came. In the end I couldnt take it, 'why are we your friends?'
He looked at me (sort of). 'I will teach you something now! Something I bet you didn't know! The people from Manchester, back in the 1600's, they smuggled in machetes for the people of puertorico! Against the wishes of the government! The people of Manchester gave weapons to the public, and gave them back their power! You see that is why they are called MACH-etes. After 'MANCH-ester!' eh?'
Now. I haven't look up the origin of the machete, I'll admit. maybe someone can set me right, but I always thought it had an Eastern birth. The idea that a 1600 Manquinian mobster had handed a bent sword over to the spanish on the down low hadn't really occured to me. So much had never occured to me that I had absolutely nothing to say. I thought for a bit. and then, after a while I said,
'Sorry, machetes.. invented in... in Manchester?'
He grinned and nodded.
'Manchester. The northern town in England?'
He breathed in the clean air and strode on. I suppose so.
So we continued to walk onwards, and soon reached the lovely fountainy rowing boat area, and I happily took touristy pictures, insisted that I got one of him, and waved away his offer to take one of me, a bit worried that he might grab it, shout 'oh! A camera! Invented in Skegness, 2006 by Kate Thornton!' and run away laughing.
This was going very well, I thought. I mean sure, he's obviously a bit of a mad, but he seems harmless enough, and hey, who am I to assume his historical knowledge isn't what really happened after all! Go Manchester! Saviour of the spanish people!
Sadly, all of a sudden, it had to go a bit wrong.
'You see, usually, down there, is where I do my Yoga.' He pointed towards a foresty grove with a sign outside it that read 'murderers cavern'.
'I'll show you? Show you the forest part?' He looked at me hopefully.
Suddenly my pissed off massive friend started to ring me. Silently. But he was ringing alright.
Oh the art of the 'fake phone conversation'. I have honed it over many years of not trusting taxi drivers when riding alone.
'Hi Mum, just on the way back now.. will be about 20 minutes..... yep. the registration plate? What do you want that number for?.. oh mum I'm sure it'll be fine.. mum come on... well.. alright if you insist... and the Taxi driver's name and licence number too? A physical description and any striking attributes? Oh you do worry mum don't you, you silly thing. But ok then...'
etc.
I got off the phone and informed my guide sadly that I really was due back at the grassy field. My date was very worried about me. His brow furrowed. 'No, wait, I just want to show you this area, its so beautiful, the light, really-'
'No, its just, I.. erm.. I really dont like heights.'
The foresty bit was on a slight incline. By all accounts, this was a fairly ridiculous thing to say.
'It... it isn't high.'
'yeahhhh but.. you know.. I get scared really easily, ahahaha, wont catch me up that empire state building, thats for sure hahahaha. hahaha.'
He looked at me sadly. The monitor drooped in a disappointed way.
'Ok, ok, I'll take you back. We'll go round.'
At this point I was thinking that everything really had gone wonderfully, and was congratulating myself on going with my computer art based instinct. Sadly, then things took a slight turn for the mad.
'You know, I am a lucky man!'
'Oh yes?'
'Last week, I came here, met a girl in the park, she ended up taking me to a fancy hotel bar, bought me champange! 4 glasses for 100 dollars! We ended up at a party, and only parted ways at 6 in the morning, it was wonderful.'
He looked sideways at me (obviously), and a bit hopefully. I kicked a leaf.
'Shannon, her name was. She was a lawyer!'
I suddenly wondered whether that lawyer was the same one the subway naked man had gotten to pose for him. It seems that 'having a lawyer' involved in some way is the benchmark by which you an call yourself not a mad. As I was musing back on the hilarity of the naked subwayer, my companion said
'You know, I am an artist, I often ask girls to model for me. But usually we go out to dinner first, as you know, they get, they worry about me, they think I am frightening.'
I nodded, hoping he'd take from that whatever he wanted.
'Do you think that you would like to-'
'WOW central park is huge isn't it!' I said VERY loudly, DETERMINED that I was not going to end up in another ridiculous subwayer situation. Even if he wasn't going to say that. Not worth the risk. Not the greatest observation, to be sure, but it was all I had on the spot.
We were nearing the field again now, and crunching through a bit of leafy-tree-y bit, he said huskily 'this area is, is very romantic, yes?'
I decided to have a brisk coughing fit.
We reached the opening of the field-y bit, and it suddenly occured to me that he might assume he was walking me TO me friend. my friend who, on the whole, didn't exist. Oh dear.
'What are you doing tomorrow?'
'oh erm.. I dont know.. my, my flatmate is organising something for us to.. do. I think, erm-'
'Do you have the internet?'
'Its just gone down actually.'
'Do you have an email address?'
Yes. Yes I did. NatashaYak@gmail.com was back to the rescue, despite her terrible personality problems.
'I will email you, we can meet up again! I'll show you the cove.'
I made some sort of noise, and tried to walk away in the most final, well, see you later then, way possible. He continued to step with me. Dismayed, I stopped, and wondered what the hell I was going to do. As my mind was full of fretting, he said
'I don't do abdominal work-out, you know.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Its all Yoga. You see my chest? Touch it.'
I politely declined.
'I don't do any crunches, anything like that. It's all just Yoga.'
I assured him that I could believe it. Shook his hand. And bid him farewall. I started to walk away, but did a little look round on the pretence of a final wave and he was STILL bloody watching me, looking a bit confused. 'Your friend?'
I nodded wildly, and then.. oh and then.. oh god.
I saw a man (yes) walking in the same direction as me (ie AWAY from Yoga) and without thinking (WHY without thinking???) caught him up, and apologised. Step one, always apologise to a stranger for no reason. That out of the way, I quickly explained that I needed him to pretend to be my friend for the next thirty seconds, so that a man who had sort of ish started following me a bit would leave me alone. Oh dear. Oh the shame.
The man, was ,not surprisingly, rather surprised. And I apologised again. Its what we Brits do best. Then I thanked him. We do that well too. I looked round one more time and Yoga was walking away. What a mess I am. Spencer- my best friend- asked me, interrupting my alternate thanks and apologies, when he started following me. And, well.. well he didn't, did he? It was all my fault. I made up some lie, as seems to be my custom these days about him talking to me at the fountain, left out the bit where I was entranced by a line drawing of a computer goth, and thanked him again. Bemusedly, he said it was fine, we turned a corner and went our seperate ways. 5 weeks in New York and I've finally done it. I've become a mad. Maybe Yoga came to this city as a fresh British girl set on a 6 week internship, but his fascination with the crazies landed him with long silvery hair, a funny eye and a penchant for expensive champagne. I just glimpsed my future, and its not looking good. Oh well. At least I'll have superior upper arm strength, and I'll never even need an abdominal workout.

Don't bother with this one

Surprisingly enough, over the last two days nothing untoward, bizarre or even naked has happened to me. The most mental it has gotten for me today is that I accidently left some green paper in a photocopier, later heard some girl bitching about the fact her pamphlets were printed all green-like, and secretly smirked to myself thinking, 'ahaaa! yet another victim of the GREEN BANDIT! BABABAABAAAAA!'. Perhaps I'm the only one, but I spend quite a lot of time when on my own imagining that the normal things that happen around me happen because I have special powers.
For example, in the elevator (thats 'lift' for those who are confused. You're welcome.) When the grating slides across and you start to climb those floors, I sometimes raise my hand up slowly as if I am the one controlling it. Anyone else? No? Only if I'm alone, obviously. Otherwise that would be weird, right? And then when the grate opens quickly I make a 'fuck off' sweeping motion with my hand as if the door is bending to my will. Is that weird? I literally don't even know anymore. Ha, I think the reason I can say all of this so willingly and freely is because I've been here a month now, and I'm pretty sure England, the Atlantic Ocean, and all of those who read my blog do not actually exist. Therefore no one will ever actually read this, its all in my mind anyway and I might as well be completely honest about the whole thing. So yes, 'every day action superhero'. Thats me. Like trying to guess when the kettle is going to click off when its boiled, and pointing at it at the moment when you think its going to, JUST IN CASE it coincides with the click. yes? I mean sure, it results in a lot of fruitless pointing, but still, when you do manage it, oh the joys to be had. yes indeed. Oh dear. even I begin to sense that I may be going too far.

It might be because I'm getting accidently slightly high. Seriously, the amount of pot being smoked in my apartment is almost silly. Those Lessogs KNOW how to smoke dope. I feel a bit like I'm having a good time against my will. You know those adverts with the child with the face made entirely of eyes, and in the background his mum is lighting up and beating a treasured pet with a golf club-which has the tag line 'I have a smokers cough... and I don't smoke.' I feel like there should be another one, just of me, looking a bit dazed with a grin on my face with the line 'I'm really weirdly relaxed and dispassionate about life.... and I don't do weed.' yeah man. yeaahhh.
People are funny aren't they? I came through the door bearing chicken and sneezing madly, and the two of them on the couch didn't even look up, didn't say a word, just carried on watching some 'football' game. (Incidently, it is NOT football. In no way do they use their feet. If anything it should be called Armball. Or Rugby For Pussies.) Whereas on the streets of Brooklyn I can literally stop for 3 seconds, look very slightly confused and have strangers falling over themselves trying to help me find my way. Very bizarre.
I really like Brooklyn, as an aside. I think it has something to do with its underdog status, and being from the North of England, I can identify with that. I will never forget my first night of University, where I had carefully and thoughtfully planned to worry about EVERYTHING, literally everything, from meeting people, to my face, to being sick inappropriately into some else's bag. The one thing I forgot to worry about was being from Warrington. Within about an hour, the cries of 'You're from WHERE?' were echoing around the Westwood halls, and I was subjected to listening, on repeat, a lovely ditty by the comedy geniuses who created the witty and damning 'London Underground Song' (jesus sarcasm is difficult to get across sans actual voice hearings), a song called 'Northern Birds'. To the tune of 'More than words.' yeah. Look it up if you're interested, but safe to say, I was slightly scarred. 'Northeerrrn birrds, are easy ugly whores who smell of burggers.' yeah. Just one of many lines that still haunt my Warringtonian soul.
What was I talking about? Ah yes, Brooklyn. I recognise the cheeky, a little down on its luck, slightly self-depreciating tone of the place, where the signs use words like 'wonderfulest', safe in the knowledge that they don't need to bend to the restricting laws of grammar, this isn't Manhattan damn it! Words roam wild and free here! And on a slightly less poetical note, its cheaper. Which is always good. I mean sure Manhattan is wonderful too, but I always feel a bit like I should be wearing more make up, or a less see through dress. Who needs that kind of pressure eh?

Anyway, I was going to say that I have nothing to report, and so wont be doing a post this evening. And yet I seem to have rambled anyway. God bless associate weed smoking, thats what I say. Yes. So anyway, I think I'll leave it there for today, I'm very sorry I've let you down, and at least I can leave you with the knowledge that there's a really great wall opposite me that I'm going to do some shadow puppets on for a while. Another pasttime of mine in the dark hours. I made a frankly brilliant 'french man whose toupee gets blown off unexpectedly' the other day. With the power of hands. No idea how to do it now of course, but that, my dear friends, is both the blessing and the curse of the ancient art of hand shadow puppeting. Ok. I definitely sense a 'you've gone to far with the inner workings of your sadness' beginning to brew. So off I go. Maybe make a cup of tea first. Dear me, its tough being a secret superhero.

The kindness (and strangeness) of strangers

What I love about being in New York is that people will just tell you exactly what they're thinking at any given moment in time. Strangers, hobos, and loved ones alike.
In Britain, we have evolved a brilliant strategy for saying nothing, most of the time. Its a system fondly known as 'small talk', and everyone hates it beyond hatred of most things (except the first Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film. Always except that.) But we all use it anyway. Which makes us hate it even more. The problem is that in Britain, we don't like to state our opinion too forcefully when first meeting someone. Having an opinion could mean having a different opinion to the person you're talking to. Having a different opinion basically means you hate them. No one needs that. So instead, we have wonderful system I like to call Conversation Jenga, where each topic is nudged carefully out, examined thoughtfully for any potential topples or wobbles in the person opposite them, and only when we get an assured go ahead signal do we continue to push on with any real force. Its a good system, and its one that has worked well for us for years. In New York however, give a shit! Say what you think brotha, say it loud and say it proud!

I, of course, can say this today, with the conviction of someone who knows they were definitely fully dressed, and therefore knew there could be no potentialy agonising horror upon a startling naked realisation. Indeed, I dressed with rather a lot of care today after the rather scarring tube incident, and put on a tshirt, then a dress, then some tights (i wasn't even going to wear the tights, it was really sunny today.. but then I thought I just shouldn't risk it), and shoes, and then finally a jacket. There was basically no part of me that was not covered in material in some way. Except my face. But I couldn't be bothered to wear my contacts today so technically my face was dressed in my glasses. How coy. Indeed.

So off I went, to explore the East Side a little better. I didnt need to work today, i was informed, as I'm going to be working all weekend, so go, go and enjoy your funsies! So I did. I decided to just choose a random stop on the subway, get off and explore what I found. Sounds good? Well, it sounded cheap, so by default, yes, yes it sounded good.

I found I had stumbled across a very cool thrifty storey market wheeley deally part of town, filled with impromptu tattoo parlours, skinny jeans, sunglasses for 2 dollars and people looking a bit worriedly at their impromptu tattoos. Happy and busy, I spent the next two hours thoughtfully buying a headband.

Satisfied and glowy with my new purchase- it really it a very jazzy headband, I'll put up a picture for mainly Franki Burke- I turned a corner, and a man bumped into me, and I swear before even reacting to the bump exclaimed
'LOVE that combo! LOVING that colour combo!'
and without looking back, strode on.

I should explain. I was wearing purple tights and yellow shoes. If only I could say that its because I am fashionista, I am at one with the future trends, and I have an innate sense of style that makes...erm... oh God I cant even think of a suitable person to weep over me. How embarrassing. Unfortunately, I was actually wearing that 'combo' because when I was 13 my art teacher had told us about complimetary colours. And purple and yellow were one set. Sadly I get most of my style ideas from GSCE Art, you should see this headband, think 'collage: madness of the wistful penguin'.
But still. He didn't know that. I could be an excellent fashioner for all he knows, and I strode on, thinking that that would never ever ever happen in England. Partially because most of the people I know are so freakin fabulous of the clothes that everything I wear instantly becomes an ethel austin sale item by comparison, but mostly because we keep our opinions so forcefully to ourselves. So, lost in these muses, I turned another corner, and, believe it or not, ANOTHER person called out to me 'hey, I love your style, its so you!' Helpfully dismissing the fact that he could have no idea whether its 'me' or not, I burst out laughing and said 'thanks', and ran swiftly away in an semi bemused, embarrassed/flattered way. I felt like I wanted to shout 'thank Mrs Fisher, she taught me all I know'.

This was all very weird, and I felt a bit exposed, and like the tights and shoes combo had overpowered me to the point where I no longer had control over them. I decided to leave, and try my luck elsewhere. So, I pulled out a subway map, and began to have a little look around, and suddenly I heard 'Are you lost, dear?' This is really common in NY, everyone is so freakin helpful, and as he hadn't yet mentioned my shoes I felt that this was a situation I could control.
I turned, and laughed and said 'Well, no, just not really that sure where I want to go!'
The man standing before me was probably in his mid sixties, wearing shorts, a sportsy top, and for some reason, refused to look me in the eye. He always looked a little to the side of me, as if I was a horse and he was trying to whisper me. 'Well, what kind of place are you looking for?'
I shrugged. 'I don't mind really, just somewhere thats interesting.'
He nodded, looking at the road, 'Someplace interesting? Ok. I'm gonna take you to 9th avenue.'
And he strode off. I, it seemed, had no real choice but to follow.
As we walked, something a little weird happened. He started a long monologue about the fact that he had just run a marathon, memorial day, moved swiftly onto talking about ground zero and new buildings, and in the middle of a sentence added 'and give me your hand.'
I looked round, a little surprised, and before I knew what was happening, without looking at me, this man grabbed my hand and started to,-i can only describe it as- search it. It was if he was checking my hand for cancer. My first, irrational thought was 'he's going to steal my ring!' but then i realised rather swiftly that we weren't in a Dickens novel, he wasn't a wee little tinker and if it came down to it, I could take him. The second these thoughts had stopped processing, he dropped my hand, and continued talking as if nothing had happened, still refusing to look at me.
I wondered if I'd just imagined it. He was still talking 'Now on 9th avenue, I'm going to show you the shops! They've got dresses, they've got shoes, they've got blouses...' I agreed that shops often stocked these items. He stopped. Suddenly. And began pointing to the directions to the left and right of us, showing me where abouts we were. That would all have been fine, and I did appreciate the trouble he was taking, but he'd stopped in the middle of the road. And cars were honking at us.
'Now thats the East, up there you'll find Lafayette and-'
HONK
'I think we should maybe move to-
'Now South, you're gonna hit the brooklyn bridge'
HONK HONNNK
'haha yes, but I really think-'
HONK HONK HONK

Looking at my ear, he began to stride on again. Relieved, I followed hurridly, like a wife who had manage to avoid an embarassing social scene with an abusive husband. 'Now these shops-I'm not gonna come in with you,'
I agreed quite firmly that he wasn't.
'I hate shopping. But they've got everything. They've got shoes, they've got blouses, and I have to say-' he looked nervously at my shoulder, 'those shoes you've got on, they stand out a mile'.
The damn shoes. These shoes are too much for me. A better woman than I should wield them. I felt a bit like I was carrying the one ring to Mordor, but in the very beginning Gandalf had accidently called in on Pippin instead of Frodo.
'Where, where did you get those shoes?'
'well, I got them years ago and-'
he BURST out laughing 'aahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAA!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!'
now, either my delivery of that line was devastating, or the man who set up his brain chamber hadn't read the instructions properly.
'yes,' I said, completely thrown, 'and I suppose with the purple tights, they..er.. they do stand out, I-'
'HAHAHAHAHHAA'
He roared with laughter. He began gasping, and shouting 'I wasn't going to say it! I wasn't! But yes! ohhhh aahahahahaha!'
I literally just had no idea what was going on. The best I could do was think that he thought it looked ridiculous, and I hoped thats what it was. Otherwise I was completely stumped, and he was a mad.
Flailing for word thoughts, I faded to silence, and he continued to giggle to himself.
Finally, finally, I saw a sign for 9th Ave.
'Now these shops!' He said again, 'They;'ve got dresses, they'e got shoes, they've got... things for your fingers! Things for your wrists!'
'Suitability for any body part eh?' I said a little nervously
He agreed fervently.
He stopped again very suddenly. I turned back on myself and waited.
'Now,' he said, staring firmly at my elbow, 'I hate shopping, I'm really sorry, I just hate it. But you see that coffee shop over there?' He pointed to an alley.
'Yep.'
'I'll be sitting there. And I would very much like to have a cocktail with you.'
I thanked him, said I'd think about it, and went in for a handshake. He grabbed my hand again, and kissed it, gave my neck one final stare and walked away.
Jeepers. What power clothing holds eh? I reckon if I strapped these tights and shoes to a passing cat, it could rule the world by Friday. I better not add the headband. There's such a thing as too much power.