Et In Arcadia Ego

One of the coolest things about Christmas isn't aquiring loads of stuff, it's looking at it all at the same time and thinking "yes, this is who I am - all my different interests represented in one place". This is possibly even worse, as it suggests things about being trapped in a consumer society where it is pleasurable to define myself through material items. I don't know.

It was also kinda satisfying to be getting this stuff while my sister was aquiring new make-up brushes, perfume, and the rest, and feeling all smug about getting the best set of presents, which is of course what tends to happens when people have picked things for you in particular.

For posterity, here is a map of my stash. Very indulgent of me. But only self-indulgent people keep blogs anyway...

The Gathering (Doctor Who audio play, woo, with Five and Tegan)

"Conspiracy Theories" (Jamie King) - A short paperback encyclopedia with all the famous theories broadly stroked in two short pages. Especially satisfying watching them dodge potential libel claims ("A certain Japanese animated children's show caused epileptic fits when a major animal character emitted electricity..."). Not thorough, but a nice interest-piquer that keeps tempting me towards the web for - snort - proper indepth research

An "Emily" car-style plate - I'm sure I'll find a use for it somewhere. For now, I'm mostly interested that both mine and Oceanic's are pink. One wonders, had we been named Dylan and Boris, whether they would have been blue...

The Indispensable Book of Practical Life Skills - oh hahahahahahhahaha. Ha. Ironically, the tips on getting heat stains out of wood have already mentally come in handy for the mess on the Acton dining room table. I also find the baby-care chapter encouraging: the models are both male and female. Incidentally, not to sound like a Livejournal polemic or anything, but the only public place I've ever found with baby-change facilities in the men's toilets is the V&A.

Origami to Astonish and Amuse - a.k.a. the book I haven't shut up about since borrowing last month. I'm loving my very own copy :)

A hat - not just any hat. A multicoloured neon rasta-hat. Oh yeah. You're all going to be begging me to appear in public with you with this hat.

A kinder-egg santa - who's actually still in his wrapping because he got a bit crushed in the sleigh.

Total Film - all worth it for two tiny promo-pictures that confirm yes, Holmes 2 is a go. Well, one tiny promo picture repeated twice. Sucker Punch is on the cover, and I once again have to wrestle with conflicting emotions about it. A young girl in the 50s is trying to escape an asylum before she is lobotomised, with the help of four friends, an overactive imagination and buckets of carnage. I love films about all those things, and particularly ones which trouble the fantasy/reality line. Unfortunately, the central cast look like this:...which makes me hope it won't be as potentially misogynistic as it looks. Director Zack Snyder, of Watchmen and 300, isn't known for his progressive gender relations. And my feminist objectivity is a bit complicated by the cast - Carla Gugino, Jena Malone and Emily Browning playing ("Babydoll"), hell, even Vanessa Hutchens...in short, skimpy objectification couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of actresses. I'll wait for the first reviews, I think.

By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept (Elizabeth Smart) - George Barker was married, he had an affair with Elizabeth Smart. It went horribly wrong, and they both wrote novels about it. Marvellous literary bitch-off! It's looking pretty pretentious, and is encouragingly short :)

Doctors 9, 10, 11 and the Master in metal miniature - I have all the Doctors for my game now! Charmingly, they also popped a drumstick lollypop into the box.

The Picture of Dorian Gray - in English, but from South Africa.

Classical Film Violence - A great, great book. I borrowed it from the Maughan, but I like having my own copy for reference. I have problems reading the spoilery sections, so I can go back to it as I watch through the films.

Woodwork Jet Fighter - punishment, I think, for trying to get the equipment to carve a dragon after reading a beginner's-guide. Looks awesome! The box claims that age 5-7 "I may need some help!" but 8-12 "I can do it!". I wonder what tips they have for 21?

Adam Adamant Lives! - Victorian Adventurer Revived Fights Crime In The 60s. Nuff said. Probably a disaster waiting to happen, as just so much of it is missing as 1960s television tends to be. It's like actually presenting your heart to be broken. But...he has a sword cane <3

As for the rest:

Grandma - slippers (Servalan style), scarf and hat + a contribution to the piano fund

Grandad - one of those electronic photo-frames. I've always wanted one, but never quite enough to get one so having the excuse is wonderful. I'm thinking of ripping some avant-garde and looping it, as it also plays music and film. Plus a Lord of the Rings, at long last my own copy, in lieu for my birthday.

Oceanic - a harmonica! She has expressed a worry that everyone else is going to hate her now, which could be correct - I love playing it, and have nowhere to practice. Unsurprisingly as even good harmonica players sound like noise. Even better: it's a C-major harmonica, which for the non-music-savvy, means it can't play anything sinister, sad or the Stella Artois theme tune i.e. anything with a bit of subtelty or tact. No, it's major songs only - pop goes the weasel, anything by Bob Dylan. Jaunty, chirpy, irritating noise. I love it! Can already play The Times They Are A Changing, Three Blind Mice, Blowin' in the Wind and, my fave, Dixie. Also a box of "tiddly dark choc reindeers", as she accurately mentioned I like dark chocolate, but only in very small doses.

Parents - a bum bag. Laugh all you like, but I've wanted one for ages. Shall be packing it with essentials - a London map, a spoon ("Make you look like a heroin addict," mum has commented). Plus a donation to the piano fund, which stands at:

50 (parents)
41 (aunts birthday)
60 (grandma birthday and xmas)
= 150, towards aquiring, moving and tuning a piano. I especially love the actual voucher itself -the silhouetted pianist looks just like me - swooping hair, and a natty jacket complete with huge ruffles.

Boif - a pack of lindor chocolates-with-chocolate. He provided the present of the day, probably, in a huge teddy for Oceanic.

Wonderful year!

Best Hamlet ever.

I mean, he's not "my Hamlet", not wholly. If I could act, and the stage was mine, then my Hamlet would be ruthlessly intelligent, incisive, cruel, a scholar out of his depth in events he couldn't rationalise, and always, the only person laughing at his own jokes. And also, a pretty, gangly indie-boy of some sort. I'm not sure Rory Kinnear would obviously tick any of those boxes - he doesn't even find his jokes funny - and perhaps that's indicative of the differences between how Hamlet is percieved as a character, and how he is on the page.

I've just been to the National Theatre, within spitting-distance of the stage, and am about to give a nauseatingly positive review. I'm also about to try and defend that statement above, which wasn't true until I started writing, and discovered it absolutley was.

Often in Hamlet, an individual scene will fail because it just doesn't gel with the actor's interpretation. They'll be subtle, upset, cold - the early scenes offer an almost unlimited range. Unfortunately, that's not true of the second act, so you'll get them suddenly ramping up to 200MPH because the script seems to demand anger - the nunnery, the closet, and the crocodile scenes particularly. It seems jarring and forced in comparison to what has come before.

The graveside most of all: Hamlet has just come back from England in disguise and stumbled on Ophelia's funeral. He abandons his secrecy to pick a fight with Laertes, her brother, because he's pissed off that Laertes is sad. It's inconsiderate - of course Laertes is unhappy that his sister is dead. It's unmotivated - who exactly is he angry at here? It doesn't necessarily tally with the information we've been given - like, no other evidence at all that he cares for Ophelia at all. It's unforgiveably rude - Hamlet has killed Laertes' father, and also been the two chief factors in Ophelia's death. Plus, it's a weird scene which involves the two leads leaping into a grave and playing tug-o-war over a body, with one of them claiming he could eat a crocodile like it's the biggest boast of manliness instead of just a bizzare mental image.

In short, it always makes Hamlet look like a shit and it always comes off as out of character and weird. And that's the problem with gangly indie-boys - unless that's already a note in their character, they seem out of it. Not Kinnear. He's just so unhappy and angry, pain and supressed rage all the way through, that for the first time ever, this scene hasn't seemed terrible in every way. Instead, Laertes just becomes a cathexis for his misdirected rage, just as Polonius, Ophelia and Gertrude have in those other awkward scenes. And they all work so well because those other, early scenes in which others have depicted him struggling to cope merely with despair, he was trying to find a way to bear his anger. Indeed, I'd go as far as to say that the soliloquies were for once the weak spots, compared to how wonderful the ensemble scenes were. Even "oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!", where it is textual fact that Hamlet flies into a rage at himself, and then is ashamed of his inability to control his emotions, too often comes off as the exception (I'm suddenly ANGRY! And now normal service has been resumed) instead of the rule (I'M ANGRY I'M ANGRY, AND SUDDENLY I'M SO ANGRY I CAN'T COPE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA CALM - I'M JUST ANGRY).

This doesn't make it in any way one-note, I mean this is a properly awesome and subtle rage that works alongside the character's melancholy, and intelligence, and humour, but that also works textually without having to jettison anything as part of a perfect character. And that makes the show as a whole more downbeat, because you are never in any doubt of just how much pain he is in. He has the most wonderful fake smile that's almost worse: the humour is properly humourless. A few people tried laughing at the gravediggers' scene, but only because they thought they should.

It's also the first time in some time I've seen a properly cracky Hamlet, and this also works. I like subtle Hamlets, but it's always too obvious that they are calculating and sane - the jokes too funny, the audience too in cahoots in comparison with the oblivious fellow characters. Many Hamlets are just too civilised to "go full retard"; and also, to be properly evil. I rarely believe it when he coldly sends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern off to their deaths, but this production in particular he's unreasonable enough that I understand why it would seem reasonable.

With all that seething anger, you'd wonder how he managed to stretch revenge out to 3-hours-30, so it's time to introduce this production's other ace: the design. Aaaah, beautiful - almost chronologically, I've seen more and more emphasis put on the paranoia of Elsinore, and this is the best I've ever seen. A band of suited security men haunt the stage; in the background during soliloquies, hanging about when Hamlet is trying to talk plans with friends. He is constantly being watched, guarded or followed, and the same is true of the Ophelia and everyone else. The stark sets were topped off with CCTV cameras. The oft-cut scene where Polonius engages Reynaldo to go to France and spy on his son seemed suddenly at home in this horrific context. It's clearly impossible for Hamlet to get anywhere near Claudius.

In fact, this production seems to have addressed my usual quibbles with an almost terrifying accuracy. In the second act, they pack Hamlet off stage for about eight scenes. He's such a driving force, and the scenes he's absent for are so...unspecial, that I never really enjoy Act II as much. Laertes returns and shouts, Ophelia spends two awful scenes going mad, Gertrude delivers an overly-famous speech which always seems forced, and then there's the crocodile scene.

It zipped by! That was helped by the most perfect, wonderful Laertes - a character who too often defaults to "prat", and is then an irritating companion the entire time our hero is out of the way. I can't put my finger on what was so special about this one. Perhaps because Hamlet was so angry, Laertes couldn't be, I don't know. He came across as very sincere, properly sympathetic - a nice, straightforward guy who's completely gullible. A perfect Laertes went some way towards diminishing my Act II boredom.

The same can almost be said of Ophelia, almost. She was one of the best I have ever seen - not sanctimonious, and realistically cowed into misery by the oppressive castle atmosphere. I am now entirely convinced, however, that Ophelia is unplayable and the weakest element of an otherwise watertight play. She has no development, she's very difficult for any sane feminist to approach and totally lacks psychological realism. The relationship between her and Hamlet is a textual black hole, and we have to believe she goes properly nuts just because all her male authority figures have been taken away.

One of the remarkeable things about Shakespeare is how sophisticated and universal his writing is. His dialogue actually contains psychological depth, centuries before the actor's method was invented. Ophelia is a big exception to this: the pathos of the virgin maid singing bawdy pastorals is a 16th century sort of understanding of the human brain. When Hamlet explains:

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me.

I'm sure we've all had days like that. And it struck me now, more than ever, how perfect so many of Hamlet's descriptions of despair are. I've never seen someone express mental illness through tragic, accusing folk tunes before - the scenes are awkward to play because they're awkwardly written, and Ophelia is treated like some sort of reverent, knowing symbol of something throughout. No, the sound of a sweet voice singing is not enough to bring me to tears. Or move me. Or anything. "Here, have a metaphor!"

Which is why I'm kinda glad they neutralised the stomach-turning description of the world's most beautiful suicide by having Ophelia secretly dragged off by security guards, and Gertrude aware that Claudius arranged to have her done away with. It was fun to see Claudius played as a downright villain again - I like him sympathetic, but this was a nice change. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern too where pretty nasty pieces of work - this too made sense in context. Gertrude was the modern performance you recognise of a frazzled career woman clutching a red wine - very good. I particularly enjoyed the closet scene - she becomes hysterical at the moment Polonius is killed and remains so for that reason because that's what murders to do people. It's so easy for the actors to forget the corpse...and I now think, in contrast with Ophelia, Polonius is impossible to play badly, perhaps because it's always the most experienced actor on stage taking on a pretty easy role. Downsides? Horatio. Wasn't special, and delivered the lines as if they were Sha-hakes-speah, but you can't win them all.

Onto the specifics: the ghost scenes are just splended! Very creepy - the actor sounded like he had reverb or something, but I knew he didn't. And spoke very quietly, but seemed to boom at the same time - most special. Hamlet's small shadow, as he slumped at the corner of the stage, dwarfed by his father's huge one. Hamlet just crying, as well you might, while the Ghost explained the circumstances of his death. And actually, every time the Ghost walked across stage, and you could see him there white against the darkness, before the lights acknowledged he was there: creepy! I've already mentioned Ophelia's unusual death; I also enjoyed the opening scene with her family, which got the level of tenderness just right - her laugh at Laertes' awkward chastity speech, Polonius pausing uncomfortably as he extols the virtues of truth. And I loved Hamlet discovering a mike hidden inside her book, and dictating to it. The closet scene featured Gertrude able to see the ghost, but lying about it: what a wonderful choice!

In fact, there's only one bad thing about this one, and that's a pretty crass attempt to sell T-shirts half way through. But let's not think about that.

Instead, let's focus on the fact that I may just have seen a perfect Hamlet. So many of my quibbles were addressed, and the tedium of the second half almost totally evaporated. Any criticism I could have left should be aimed at the play itself. Which I've fallen in love with, all over again, with a funny feeling that Mr Kinnear has just fundamentally altered the way I see it...

Dear all - a quick update on my life.

This is a long one, so digressions are marked in red, and the red becomes brighter the more irrelevant the digression becomes. If you're only interested in What Happened, stick to the black.

Yesterday, I art-ed all morning and posted my swaps. I suffered a fashion disaster, by attempting a high-up pony, and ended up looked uncomfortably like the 90s had come to stay. In retrospect, this was to be the tone of the day. We had lunch, and had plans to go out shopping in Central for a new card holder for my ATCs. But all the reasonable tube lines were down, so we decided to travel west instead – heading to Gunnersbury Park museum, a restored regency mansion. I left my pocketwatch at home.

We (that is, Calypso and I. Should probably start qualifying pronouns now in case they get wobbly) took a bus to Acton, and I bought a new rucksack at the museum. It was £5 reduced from £13, and really nice quality – lots of pockets. My old one was shedding plastic flakes every time I used it. From there, we walked down to Gunnersbury – where the sun god lives. It’s a walk I’ve done three times, and each time been shocked by the heat. The light beats down the only routes. Luckily, I’d come prepared with a hat and water, but it was still a relief to arrive at the park and crash under the trees.

I tried getting into a habit of going to the park across the road, but it is too unpleasant. Too many people using it for sports, and the moment you sit down you get covered in some of the nastiest insects I have ever seen. This had few insects, and satisfying shade. We watched clouds, complete with quirky Indie accents; then we did a cloud oracle. I'm interested in divination at present, and the way it reveals not so much the future as the subconscious. I saw instructions for making a "random oracle" - a bag of any old items, from which one is drawn and interpreted - and the idea amused me: it takes divination as reading meaning into nonsense to its natural conclusion. Earlier this week, we used a page of Stylist featuring This Season's 20 Must Have Products. After crashing for a time, we went into the museum – where a a pissed-off attendant told us they were soon closing. The front room was notable for a Auton-gentleman with a cravat, and a book on Edwardian Murders.

I ambled on to work out the extent of the museum, as we'd run out of time to explore it fully. Down a short corridor and to the left was the cart room - reminding me of the Folk Museum. But I was totally distracted by the windows, three of them down one wall, and the design of the door, and in general the room's shape and situation. Because it reminded me strongly of Mortimer's childhood - we can call it home. Although it never was, not really. That house had always had these characteristically tall, shuttered windows, and I'd been sure they were in period - but was too certain they were there to change them. I went into the next room, and this didn't feel so familiar, but with some trepidation I peered between the shutters and experienced the most horrible sensation - because I had known what the view must be like, because I've seen the view from that window before. I moved into the third room of the corridor. And this was unpleasant because, but for the orientation (this room was on the front of the house, not the back), it could have been his father's study - the original owner of my confusingly engraved pocket watch. Fireplace and all.

Now, every time I go to old houses I think about him, and maybe find the odd artifact of a design I like - but never anything like this. I felt like he was walking over my grave - or I over his.

If you haven't been keeping up, he was the roleplay character who never really went away. I don't want to focus on this too much, partly because I'll go on for hours, and partly because it gets into the Nature Of Creation. Nevertheless, because I "stayed in contact" with him, I've always been interested by what he is to me and vice versa.

How much of ourselves do we put into characters? Consciously, I wrote him as alien to myself. But now I wonder if my subconscious didn't write him with more care. Many of his defects and qualities, I can now identify with personally - and in some ways, my life has begun to mimick his history. What is this? Was it indeed the subconscious, and those qualities of mine I accidentally gave him have affected my life as it did his? There are some things about myself which I could not have known age 13 - an example would be our characteristic melancholia on consuming alchohol. Is it habit - I spent a lot of time "playing" him, something like three years at least. You can't spend that amount of time thinking in a certain manner without it brushing off. And maybe, then, things like his reaction to alchohol subconsciously informed mine. Is he the name I give to certain aspects of my personality, like a stage persona or a pen name - or a dark side, to disassociate my more unpleasant/unwanted characteristics by blaming them, or at least attributing them, to Someone Else. Or is he my ideal form? And certainly, at times I would like to be a gentleman (but is that habit, as mentioned above?)

Is it supernatural? Well, if we're going to be scientific about this, we should at least consider the silly options too. I do feel my brain and body shift, and my tone and mannerisms change - and this is no a conscious act. I'm not the only person to exhibit this sort of behavior: the Otherkin, for example, believe they are animals trapped in human form, and that they can feel, say, a tail and experience a shift between their human and "true" selves. There are even the Otakukin who, closer to what I am experiencing, believe they have the souls of certain Anime characters. Or people with past lives - I imagine, if you took me to a past life specialist this would be their explaination, and in my research on the topic they have used similar language to me. Certain groups might also suggest demonic posession.

I've more sympathy with the Otherkin than the past life folk, and I mention them because it's clear that a certain combo of imagination and (perhaps) discomfort with the real world regularly produces the effects I am describing. And because there is a fatal lack of rigour and scepticism in the New Age community, the phenomenon has never been properly studied. At present, I have got around to thinking that we are the same person, same starting stats, who have experienced different lives. In particular, he never had friends - while I have had marvellous ones in abundance; maybe also a caring, interested family. Perhaps because of all this, he has a fatal lack of empathy, whereas I have rather too much. But this conclusion will doubtless change again, as it always has.

This story, written predominantly when I was 13/14 and packed with youthful flaws, constantly amazes me with its accuracy - often when I least expect it. Some of the most vivid events of M's life are scattered and blurry, and often make no damn sense even though they are narratively the most important scenes to get straight. This was recently explained to me in a movie violence textbook, by a criminal psychologist talking about murder. Apparently, serial killers pre-plan in detail and keep souveneers because the sensation of killing doesn't last, and memory is instantly fallible afterwards. This explains a lot. And indeed, he very closely matches wikipedia's description of sociopath - he gets a 30/40 score (at least) on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist (He doesn't have a Grandiose Sense of Self Worth, and only appears to be Emotionally Shallow. I can't comment on his early life, and can't work out what Revocation of Conditional Release means.) The book on psychopathy offers a very familiar conclusion:

Cleckley describes the psychopathic person as outwardly a perfect mimic of a normally functioning person, able to mask or disguise the fundamental lack of internal personality structure, an internal chaos that results in repeatedly purposeful destructive behavior, often more self-destructive than destructive to others. Despite the seemingly sincere, intelligent, even charming external presentation, internally the psychopathic person does not have the ability to experience genuine emotions.

And I could go on; apparently, psychopaths have a particularly intense stare (and I have letters from the game attesting to this). Often, psychopaths are so convincing that solid evidence of their deceptions cannot convince others of anything but their innocence - he's actually experienced this on more than one occasion, and it's always been amusing. One of the most interesting things I have discovered is how far my experiences of his life are skewed by how he sees himself. At the time, I was playing him as a romantic hero. With perspective, I'm now realising how far he plays himself as a romantic hero. And sometimes, other people's behavior makes me think yes, the behavior of the minor characters is realistic. Add into that accidentally accurate details of London's layout, including the instinctive understanding that the south bank was scummy and warehouse-ridden; burning down Newgate Gaol and later discovering it had indeed been burned down historically, in almost the same year; knowing how to wield a regency gun before being instructed; little jolts like these make me think there is more to this than fancy.

Anyway, believe what you like. To my mind, there is not much separating something happening, and one's total belief that something is happening. It doesn't hurt anyone, so far as I can tell, and
perhaps it's even helping by keeping me keener to be good.

It's entirely possible I've picked all these things up by osmosis; but this was different, weird. Few films and books concentrate on the actual layout of houses in enough detail. Surely. It's also possible that once I noticed a few synchronicities, my mind was actively hunting for more - and obviously found them.

When the museum closed, I dragged Calypso around the house to have a closer look at that fateful view. Because climax of the tale occurs on the lawn at the back, so it was easy to find the right window. And there was arguably nothing more important than sitting uncomfortably in the long dining room at the back, glancing by chance through those windows – and catching sight of ghosts on the lawn – than dashing through the double shutters, walking over the stone terrace, down the grassy slope and finding the worst thing in the world at the bottom – because I've done this walk before, first in my imagination, and then again every time I've revised a script or story draft, I'm as familiar with it in my mind as the daily commute. So inevitably, I set off in the right direction and felt heavy and liberated all at once, queasy and released – like white sunlight would overwhelm my mind – and ran. I could have been anyone or anywhere: two parts of time which should never have touched.

And I’m not overreacting, I’m truly not, because I’ve been looking for this house most
of my life and never expected to find it. Nobody should be confronted with exploring their mental landscape in the flesh. This house should not have been real, and I’m half convinced that it wasn’t – or my memories of M’s house shifted to match it. But I still have those sketches, and to keep things in perspective, there are as many discrepancies as accuracies: six big rooms instead of four; different front, different lobby. And mercifully, the lake was not where it should have been (it was about 20 degrees to the left, slightly too far back and had been bricked in – but it would have been the right shape)

And I feel it will change to accomodate the things I’ve learnt. Because, like the instances above where my mind is a black hole because his is, I’ve never really been satisfied with his description of the house – like working out where the servant’s quarters are, because M never cared to be aware of them. Using the Gunnersbury layout, I can correct such mistakes. The back of the house looked correct in its length, even though from the inside there should only have been 8 windows instead of about 12 meaning there must be an extra room (and now I think of it, there was always a salon/parlour, the location of which I was never sure of because it wasn’t very important. I mean, I can think of six ground floor rooms – but apart from the two important ones, never worked out where the other four definitely fitted.)

After that, the day just became increasingly weird. Nostalgia came bubbling up, like the curse it is. We explored the rest of the park and found the boating lake, the temple, the fantastic orangery. We found a building from 1969, covered in carved graffiti from people with older names, like Ken and Dennis. And spray graffiti reading “Its going to start somewhere”, which seemed apt. We took two busses back, and I came home, buzzing to write – and then spent a long, long, long time on sociology websites. There’s only so much excitement I can take in a day.

We are going back. With cameras. Today is the 17th of June, close to the day it ended, and now I am itching to get to my old diaries and see how close we came.

Today has been horrible. I think this may be death: that's how rough I feel.

Woke up nice and early to finish my essay, then moved to the PC room to print it off - for want of a nail the shoe was lost - but my account refused to log in, and half the computers were broken. It was OK, once someone else left but then my files crashed at least three times - for want of a shoe the horse was lost - and then, when I tried to print, the printer sulked for ten whole minutes. Then I ran out of printer credits - for want of a horse the rider was lost - and after a kind donation by a friend, the printer ran out of paper - for want of a rider the battle was lost - and only then could I get on the road.

I hate the film studies department. Their room is five floors up, and hard to find - and they set their deadline at 12, not a minute later. I should have anticipated printing my essay and cover sheet would require some 45 minutes, leaving me only 20 minutes to get from Hampstead to the Strand. It can be done. Unfortunately, this work had left me no time for lunch and a very slight breakfast - so every time I launched into my Run Lola Run impression, my legs siezed up instantly due to having no energy. It was OK once I was on the road, as I couldn't control the speed of that except in the in-between bits, when I happily barged and trod on people to grasp back a few minutes.

I hit Charing Cross at 11:45. The plan was to run down the Strand, which again can be done, but not on a small glass of Honey Loops. So I hopped on a bus down the Strand, which for the first time EVER had a traffic jam - for want of a battle the kingdom was lost - so I hopped off before the stop, and staggered as fast as I could to the university. I wanted to die by this point: running was out of the question. I absent mindedly thought about Caves of Androzani, which I always do when something nasty happens or am required to do a stupid amount of running against a ticking clock, which happens tends to happen to me a lot. I can't explain how, why, anything now - got to get to the Classics department, not much time - save that it's an brilliantly cruel episode of Doctor Who, and in my brain, it's become a sort of subconscious litmus test of the last things in the world I want to do. You'll be amazed at the things which seem to me like a good idea in comparison. It occurs to me out of the blue at times such as this - "well, you're about to fail Film Studies - but hey! It could be worse! You could be rewatching Caves of Androzani..."

Mercifully, I didn't get lost in that maze of tunnels - by this point, running was out of the question - and made it to the film studies department - up those stupid four flights of stairs because the lift feels very dangerous and the emergency telephone is broken - and staggered back through the door, dropping my burdens to the floor in an exahusted slump, and then I checked my watch.

11:58. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

The Queen Bat who was overseeing the submissions gave me a very funny look. She said it was fine that I didn't have a word count, mercifully as I didn't have the time - or, indeed, strength - to go find it out.

Yes. I know. Never again.

It was comparatively relaxing getting my Classics essay in. I returned to print cover sheets at a leisurely pace, sweet mercy I ate something, which felt marvellous. I chatted to the nice receptionist who always takes in the essays.

And then I attempted to relax. Reason number 8 why I hate my University - nowhere to rest. London is tiring, and students keep unreal hours - yet it's unreasonable for me to go home between lectures for a nap. Yet in all that huge building, nowhere. I finally curled up in the Compass, on their lovely sofas, removed my shoes and attempted to recoup from the morning's stress. Sorry, no feet on the sofas. Fair enough. But I didn't appreciate being interrupted half an hour later, once I'd used my coat to cushon my feet. I wasn't dirtying it at that point, and furthermore, the Compass is meant to be a student support centre where people can go for quiet time. Sleeping should be within that, surely? There are plenty of other places to study. I got thrown out for some arbitary, stupid rule. So I asked - they are meant to be student advice - whether they knew anywhere I could rest, and they recommended Chapters. The cafe which throws you out if you don't buy their coffee every ten minutes. And they looked at me sympathetically, and I wanted to scream let me sleep here then!

Ultimately, I didn't get my rest. I stayed through to Latin, didn't pay attention due to exaustion and the niggling urge to watch Caves of Androzani (brilliantly cruel, but also brilliant full stop - you could watch it three times in a row and still be ready for more. If you hadn't topped yourself.)

The trip home was also pretty funny. The Tube carriage doors shut prematurely in our carriage. I'd just let a man with a bag go in front of me - he got trapped in them, struggled through and tried to hold them open for me and an older woman. No joy - but another group of men in the carriage, seeing what was going on, opened the doors between the carriages so we could move to one with open doors through those "DANGER OF DEATH" doors. We moved as quickly as we could, but didn't get through before they closed too. I thanked them. It reminded me a little of the doors shutting on Journey's End Donna: these things happen for a reason. So I assumed it was a sort of fate, as the doors worked perfectly well at the next station, from where I walked home via the library.



Last night my dad sent me an email entitled "if the flu panic takes off", then followed this "if" with a detailed 10-point email on how not to get it, which struck me as very strange. It was all sound advice, and thank you for it, but it struck me as weird considering he'd never thought of it before. Flus happen all the time, right? Until I typed "flu" into Google and discovered a

MASSIVE KILLER PANDEMIC AAARGH!!

about to conquer the Earth. I'm a bit out of the news loop here, and suddenly Richard Burton started rumbling through my brain:

"It seems totally incredible to me now that everyone spent that evening as
though it were just like any other. From the railway station came the sound
of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into melody by the
distance. It all seemed so safe and tranquil. Around me, the daily routine
of life, working eating, sleeping, was continuing serenely as it had for
countless years." (War of the Worlds, musical)

Suddenly, and I think it was point 6: try and come back to Eyam Guernsey as soon as possible, I anticipated waking up in the opening scenes of 28 Days Later. I've wondered before how it would be to live in impossible times, such as a world war. I'm not sure how anyone can comprehend Total War who hasn't been through it: the terrorist thing occasionally looked like turning that way, but I was always sure things would be fine. I'm pretty sure things will be fine this time around, but I'm following the list of paranoid instructions just in case. If things do get that bad, then I am guiltily looking forward to the fiction that will emerge from the experience (if I do, that is). The only noticeable difference in my daily activities is getting wrapped sandwiches instead of loose buns for lunch, and an urge to indulge in post-apocalyptic fiction. Anyone want to join me for a War of the Worlds-28 Days Later-12 Monkeys marathon and end-of-the-world party?

This includes 9: if you feel unwell, see a doctor immediately.

Now don't laugh. I wouldn't have dreamed of being so daft, if not for a chance encounter with Metro magazine this morning listing the symptoms of the beastie. Curiously, it turns out I've had almost all the symptoms of flu in the last week: I was hit out of the blue by a droopy, sleepy thing at my grandma's house, which at the time I put down to misery and stress, and then this weekend I lost my voice. Both of these were weird enough, because I get ill very rarely. The third symptom on the list was loss of appetite, which I do periodically get every few weeks, but I happen to be also having a spate now. I'm only missing fever.

So I did attend a Kings drop-in session about it, as I had three hours to kill. I was virtually positive that, had I a killer flu, I'd be feeling properly ropey, and she confirmed whan I already knew: it was just a nasty series of coincidences. And then she nagged me about whether or not I needed an MMR jab.

Tonight the, headline on Voice magazine read the End is Nigh...

...but fortunately, it was talking about the family unit. Phew. I think.

Incidentally, have you all heard the Jeff Wayne War of the Worlds? Narrated by Richard Burton's addictively velvet voice, it's HG's classic story - progged up. I'm reminded just how good it is on a relisten. "Forever Autumn" is the famous single, and NOTHING beats "The Eve of the War" and "Horsell Common". It does trickle in the second half, true, but "Spirit of Man" is also an awesome progballad to scream along to. There's a great album of remixes and dubs based on it too, thank you Spotify. Spielburg's adaptation chose, smartly I guess, to use very very little music. Unfortunately, the record is so iconic in my brain at least, that it kept playing over the images.

"No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century..."

The films are good, HG's a classic, and Welles deserves a prize for cheek. But this is the definitive version.

Dump-du-dump-dididi-dump-di-dump -UUUUUUUUUUUUUU-LAAAAAAAAAAAA!

Second thought for the day - what do you think I was doing at 7:45 last night when Doctor Who was on.

That's right. I was watching The Book of Ebenezer La Page performed by our local am-dram club.

It was like spending two hours with your least favourite relative, as they recite banal experiences from their life. Scratch that - at least that has the personal dimension. Two hours with someone else's least favourite relative. From birth, to death, he sits in the corner of the stage telling us we had the day he got told on by a classmate, the day he dressed up for a parade, lots of news about his two aunts, who were Clarice and Cora from Gormenghast. Tiny disconnected anecdotes, none of which were particularly interesting or eventful. These short, half-minute scenes were acted out by the company.

You could even have done the life of a man where nothing happens in an intelligent way - twas Forrest Gump with fishing nets - but no. It was painfully, deliberately parochial. I don't want to be snobby about my island home, because it wasn't trying to be highbrow. It grated - yet I fully appreciated what they were trying to do. The story spans from 1880 to 1970, and I understood it as a portrait of an island as much as a man. Crabs, tomatoes, tourists. Both wars, the Occupation. Cracks about Jersey. As such, everyone was using their best "Guernsey accents" - which for non-locals, sounds something like a cockney Welshman might, with a few "cor"s and "eh"s thrown in for good measure. Ebenezer himself was a fun no-nonsense character - he actually reminded me of the "mystical Negro" cliche, dispensing his home-grown down-to-earth sensibilities with a crooked smile. Moral of the story: these young'uns don't know how good they have it! Everything's changing, but not for the best! Just like spending time with the family.

Yes, it was for us, not you. The biggest laugh of the evening involved someone taking a short cut around Chouet, the subtlety of which'd be totally lost on anyone who didn't live here. And me, because I'm unobservant and have no idea where Chouet is. In fact, I'm not sure you non-locals wold have seen the point at all. Every character, scene, scenario was very firmly linked to a place. Not Horace, but Horace from the Pollet. Not Raymond, but Raymond from L'ancresse. And the audience was packed out by merry old dears - my sister noted that she and I halved the combined age-average - who cackled raucously like a laughter track, at anything even vaguely humourous. By my book, there were some five good jokes - the regularity of the audience's reaction would put it on par with Airplane!'s 1.6 jokes a minute.

It says something that the original novel's "I would rather be a black man than a Jerseyman, me" was amended to "I would rather be a monkey than a Jerseyman, me": that's the type of evening it was, in that it was about a cosy perfect Guernsey through the ages, not a genuine all-angles portrait of how life used to be, warts and all. Even the jerrybag moment was played for laughs (jerrybag: nasty local term for girls who were friendly with the German soldiers during the Occupation. It still carries a lot of power and bad blood.)

It also says a lot: the program had the words of "Sarnia Cherie" in it, so we could sing along at the end. "Sarnia Cherie" would be our national anthem, were we actually a nation. As it is, it's a nauseatingly screechy dirge from 1911, written at a pitch that can only be sung by the aforementioned merry old dears. Yet like all anthems, it's not meant to be great music - the point is the way it grabs you by the heartstrings and gives them a sharp tug. Which it does, for me. And it was all very Dunkirk-spirit, to hear it being sung by the entire audience, especially after two hours of "aw, how lovely is our little island." I half expected to hear the Blitz going on overhead. Here's the nicest version I could find. The lyrics are on Wikipedia. Unfortunately, no version with vocals, so you can't hear fifty old women trying to make "verdure" scan.

In today's issue: details of the transpeople workshop, review of Paris is Burning, a trip comic book hunting and today's unintentionally hilarious statement of the day.


Yesterday, Calypso invited Spirita and I to a workshop on Transpeople organised jointly by the feminists, LGBT soc and Kings Sexual Politics soc, for which they had invited the transpeople representative of the NUS. And I'm passing it on because it was excellent and that's what knowledge is there for, because it's important and because there's nothing else constructive I can think of doing for the community.

Last night we went to see Patrick Wolf play, wahey! Great excuse to wear my dress if nothing else. I had a nap, because last night's late night was very fun, but also (by definition) very late.

We tried to dump the spare ticket on virtually everyone, including one of the Light Side of the Kitchen who hadn't been able to get tickets. They're all going through a financial crisis over there, surviving on Basics range, and are therefore even more unwilling to accept charity than usual. Everyone's usually OK to borrow a bit of cheese, bit of sugar, except when it comes to the end of the month and the loans are running low when people will always refuse. Ah well. Luckily, Calypso's play ended early and Mr Wolf didn't come on till midnight. So we hung around the Halls of the Dude for a bit, and came up with another page of the Penatium mythology. What can I say, except that it's all getting very Heavenly Creatures, in the best possible use of that phrase? In the mean time, I had an OK smoothie - an apple, an orange, orange juice, grape juice and ice - although nothing terribly special. We finished off the pitta bread which yesterday I'd claimed would end up going to waste - Calypso and I had decided we needed to do Greek feast, so there were leftovers. Then we took some busses to get there and had a tense moment at the door because Vapilla didn't have any ID. The Security Guard was nice, though, on account of her being a Virgo, like him. She said she'll carry her passport in future, which is all well and good but if you're going to a nightclub, should they really be encouraging people to carry things like that? It's a bit like Camden itself - all of the stuff is really expensive, none of the shops take card, yet it's the last place in the world where you'd actually want to walk around with £100 in your pocket.

We came in a tiny bit late - we must have missed a song, maybe a song and a half. KOKO is a lovely, lovely venue - it's basically a converted Victorian theatre painted up in red, which means the views are actually excellent. We stood on the first tier stairs, and though I did worry that one of the myriad people coming up and down with drinks were going to soak my dress, all was well and we could see really well.

The first thing I should explain - Patrick Wolf is sex on legs, an undead Maxwell Demon, a Peter Pan made of electricity and strobe lighting. And I got the impression that I wasn't the only one - had he got much closer to the audience, they might have eaten him. In both senses of the word.


We discussed maybe kidnapping him, tying him up with silk ribbons and then the rest isn't work safe. What can I say, Patrick Wolf is maybe the only artist who brings out my inner-screaming-girlfan. And this was exacerbated by him spending the concert wearing nought but leather trousers and silver glitter-glue. I suppose it's more down to the bands I like - Genesis were fairly attractive, when they were young, but that was some time ago, and while all the members of the Guillemots are lovely, well...they're the Guillemots, and I'd feel strange doing anything beyond reading them a bedtime story and tucking them in with milk and a biscuit (oo-er!). But Mr Wolf is totally delectable, and especially in real life. I think it's something in the way he moves, perhaps.

Anyway, it was Bluebells first, then Accident and Emergency, and then Magic Position which got the biggest scream of the night for good reason - it's just so dancy-happy, and is also probably the most accessable of his songs:

Stylistically, I'd describe it as "crazy ghost gypsies who just discovered electricity", for which the technical term appears to be "folktronica". Broadly speaking, album 1 "Lycanthropy" is noises and scratching, and is absolutely terrifying (typified by Childcatcher, don't listen to it after dark), "Wind in the Wires" is cold and foggy (Ghost Song!), and "Magic Position" is a bit more relaxed and nature-based. The instruments attributed to him on the second album include Baritone and Soprano Ukuleles, Kantale, Mountain Dulcimer, Farfisa Transivox Electronic Accordion, and Reed Organ.

In terms of noise it was awesome - his voice is already an odd one, a bit like a counter-culture Rick Astley in it's unexpected depth. But they also had drums, a double bass, violin, keyboard and Moog on stage, and while the drums were too loud compared to the keyboard (sound balance wasn't phenomenal), the overall impression was ace. And there was much random-noise-making on stage, with a variety of electronic things. Most impressively, stretched on the stage curled up and crablike, as he strokes one such instrument to create the opening scream of Accident and Emergency. He really knows what to do with a stage.


After that, he left the stage for a long instrumental break - and then he returned, and until people start uploading their photos I can't really define the new costume, but it involved more glitter, more leather and a silver-glitter ram's head prop (I think this was the same outfit). That's what I love about him and his music - it's so instinctive, and he just wears what he likes on stage in the same way he plays what he likes, and I always love watching people content in themselves and he is nothing if not an Artist with capital A.

It would have been nice had they played Tristran, but it was only an hour long. I suppose it was a club night, and it was only £5 - but still, twas a shame. The good news is he's touring properly in a few months. Will we be going again? Oh yes we will!

You shouldn't feel guilty for good fortune, but I always do, and I wish Friend 2 could have been there. In any case it was disappointingly short so we hung around for a while afterwards to enjoy the atmosphere.


It was pleasantly friendly - we hung around in one of the royal boxes, and amazingly met loads of people we knew. Calypso bumped into a fellow feminist friend who she'd mentioned more than once early in the week, while I met Merula from Latin. Didn't exactly recognise her at first, except by this fantastic bird necklace she always wears and which I have been admiring for weeks. Apparently, there was at least one other Classicist there. She was accompanied by a nice young man introduced as Drake, who had the most perfect Number 6 blazer. Unfortunately, our conversation dried up entirely when he informed me he wasn't a Prisoner fan. Oh, I thought, and went back to watching the crowd bouncing non-committaly to some piece of nondescript noise.

I'm still not a fan of the party scene - I've mentioned before that I'm not a fan of late nights, and alcohol makes me sulky, and that leaves me too self-conscious to dance (not that the music is inspiring anyway). But after last night, I do at least get it. In Guernsey, the atmosphere's OK - everyone's trying to have a great time - but the floors are sticky with spilt beer and desperation, and there are never quite enough people. Like everything else in Guernsey, they're living in imitation of something which doesn't quite work in minature - another great example of that is our disaster-zone government, which is pretending to be democratic but can't disguise the fact the island is too small to produce sufficiently talented politicians, and the abundance of white, conservative, Christian middle-class people makes mockery of choice, as we live in a virtually one-party state. Although arguably, most of the people they represent come into that catagory too, so maybe it's not the worst thing in the world. When we move to the Moon, they'll build geo-bubbles so we can have sidewalks, window-boxes and zebra crossings, just as Victorian Adventuresses travelled India and Africa without ever exposing their ankles. Forgetting that in a new world, the rules of the old one just don't apply.

In any case, we got back around 3 and listened to some terrifying Nick Cave country-and-western which made Johnny Cash sound like a boy scout, before toddling to the land of nod.

Lots of people appeared to be filming/photographing, so I'll do an update in a few days when it's all online - I love the internet!! But I probably won't blog over the weekend, as Friend 2 has somehow managed to win(?!) Snow Patrol tickets for the O2(?!), and I've offered her the use of my floor. This coincided nicely with Friend 4's end of term, so we're going to be doing London tourist stuff.

It’s hard to deny that the alarmingly young cast had buckets of energy. I loved the music, the singing was wonderful – lots of complex harmonies, lots of swooping violin). I loved the staging too, and the comedy when it was there. The main cast of 10 bounced off each other wonderfully – everyone had their moment, everyone had some lines.



I just objected to the storyline in the strongest terms, and while I could cope with the first half, the second really made me sick.



Firstly, the period peeved me off. In the Q&A afterwards they claimed it had been deliberately modernised to be more relevant, as if we couldn’t handle it as a period piece. If the plot is relevant, it remains relevant. End of. And allow the audiences to draw their own inferences. I’m actually quite curious to read the original 1880s play now.



But most importantly, I didn’t sympathise with the characters. I just took exception to the misery. Why put yourself through it? I’m easily upset, and so sitting through two hours and twenty of death and despair – guess what – upsets me! Which is what it’s supposed to do, but I could have told you in advance that sad things were sad. I don’t feel I’ve learnt anything from the musical. Of course, you can say “but Unmutual, you hate happy endings too!” Which is true. I suppose I like surprising yet appropriate endings, and this musical just felt manipulative. Life is wonderful, and so is love, and so I almost find this wallowing in misery almost offensive. You’ve got a job convincing me that (fictional) suicides are sad, for example, instead of just stupid. Lord Henry puts it better than me:

"I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores, the better."

Of course, he’s talking in the context of poor people in Whitechapel – and life’s genuine sores are obviously important and shouldn’t be ignored. Yet they should be avoided in fiction unless you’re going to do something truly interesting with it. Finally, I’m sure the moral is that “sexual repression is bad” – although there’s an intriguing alternate moral in there about chastity being by far the best policy.



Overall analysis? It’s RENT – with plaits and homework. But the music is quite lovely, so if you can handle the misery (you might even enjoy it). And there’s a real sense of being at the centre of something exciting – this is The Big Musical right now, and with its transfer to the West End its sights are only rising.

More than this: I admire Rick Wakeman greatly, but his is a level I could never achieve, and though Tony Banks is my hero, I've never enjoyed playing what I call "the scale bits", where he repeats the same pattern of notes a semitone up, a semitone up, a semitone up etc. Exciting to hear, tricky to reproduce. But Ms Palmer's style is very, very similar to what I write (when I write, though obviously better) and what I enjoy playing. Loud, powerful, spiky and repetative. The chief difference being that where her voice is powerful, mine is whiny and scratchy - and not in an interesting Peter Gabriel way either. My love for Dido is based purely on the fact it is possible for a singer with an appalling dull, breathy voice to have a career. Witty lyrics too.

She has a fan for life now. Last night we saw her perform at the Electric Ballroom, and it was a very good concert.





Concert photos: http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=amanda+palmer&s=rec

Another review: http://rashbre2.blogspot.com/2009/02/amanda-palmer-electric-ballroom.html

I'll update this page in a few days after stuff gets on youtube.