Et In Arcadia Ego

I've been looking for - and found - some new series Doctor Who minatures for my game.

There are some fantastic stuff out there. In the barely legal category, I have found Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly figures. Plus random awesomeness: Jack Carter, Robbie the Robot, Pirates of the Caribbean. Cat people. One site I am sure is dedicated to Life on Mars figures.

I've found Federation troopers, but alas no crew. I might make that my challenge: they're basically simple enough designs, so hunting out things which are close could be fun. There's almost certainly a way to do it with customisation, as most of them are basically medieval clothes + 80s hair + sci fi gun. There's no point to missing an opportunity for copious praise: I must confess, loudly, how much I love the costume design, and indeed design in general. It's very consistent, both within the world as a whole and per character - they feel very much like real clothes, not costumes. And yes some of them are awful, but because of that consistency it comes across as a bad fasjoon day.

Unfortunately, it's easy to get distracted by cool things you'd never use. I really need the Harlem Avenger - and I'm sure once you've seen it, you'll need one too. I'm not sure my life is complete without a Jack the Ripper. This just made me feel homesick...

In todays issue: Shopping and Library trip; "Look to Windward" review; discussion of allegory; The Film Project Google Is Advertising Everywhere It Owns i.e. Everywhere; Update on B7 Updates

I - Shopping and Library trip

Went shopping this morning, and accidentally stumbled across a sale.

I should add I have been swamped with vanity all week. I've started doing victory rolls for my job; they require time and effort to both create and maintain. For the first time in my life, I've actually worried about my hair for more than ten minutes a day. It's a curious experience, and very irritating; but like all things, a nice place to visit, though you wouldn't want to live there.
I love my new hairstyle, and have been leaving the fringe roll in even while not at work.

Anyway, in a rare show of actually buying new clothes from a mainstream store, I got myself a brilliant white lace shirt, and am the happiest dandy in town; I'm amazed I hadn't done something like this sooner, considering the heavyweight of frilly gents in my memory. I also got a little knitted dress, which is close to my dream-dress as worn by Jo in The Three Doctors (sorry, no photos). Though now I think about it, and my penchant for adopting the style of whoever is most in my brain, and how plain and grey and 80s it is, and how ludicrously huge the sleeves are...

I wonder if I haven't just committed my first Avon-related fashion decision. I know I do this all the time for people I adore - this just seems especially low.

The highlight for me was the library. Going to the library fufils all the fun of shopping - the thrill of the chase, the joy of something new, the thrill of posession - with none of the burdens - i.e. spending, and wondering whether your house can handle the crap-tonneage. Consequently, I always max out my card allowance - which today was 12:

• "Appointment with Venus" (DVD) - interesting! All about the Occupation, filmed in Guernsey. David Niven stars - as does my grandfather, who was a College Cadet at the time and drafted in to play spare Nazis or something.
• "Stalag 17" (DVD) - POW movie, all about manly men, stoicism and betrayal. Slashy, so LJ tells me.
  
• "Solaris" (DVD) - the remake of this movie was one of the most incredible experiences. Technically interesting, haunting and emotional, thematically rich and hyperbole inducing. When I started frothing about it online, I was barraged by people saying - "oh, but that's nothing compared to the original!". If they're right, then I should be in for a favourites-list rearranging treat.
  
• The Brothers Karamasov (Fydor Dostoyevsky), England Made Me (Graham Greene), Mr Pye (Mervyn Peake). Going on holiday next week to a house in the south of France. It's in the middle of nowhere, and people keep assuring me it will be tedium inducing - hence me glomming up books. I'll probably take the first two - I've tried reading the last before, and it didn't stick. There's something nice and clear about old fashioned books that lends them well to the bittiness of holidays, which in their turn provide the sort of desperate atmosphere required to get to the end of any novel heavier than a chichiwawa. I read Crime and Punishment in a French caravan. Quite a mistake - that book is excellent and intense, and I remember feeling intensely queasy. Perhaps that's why the "holiday novel" is so appealing - they are deliberately bad, because reading good books are a distraction...
• Fifty Key Television Programmes - a media studies textbook of sorts, listing contexts and questions. I already have the impression that I'll already know everything it has to say about any show I'm a fan of (Doctor Who, The Prisoner, Queer as Folk, Brass Eye and Twin Peaks are among those listed). But maybe not, and it might give me some new ideas.
• Postmodernism - incredible. It's a little illustrated guide, and before it gets to postmodernism it's describing all the other art movements it is post-. I suddenly understand art of all kinds in a deeper way than I ever have. It's amazing how small a nudge I need to start thinking critically about painting. Vincent and the Doctor was enough to point out what Mr Gogh was trying to achieve; this book has done the same for every major art movement since 1900. Goodness knows why I picked it up, but I'm glad...
• The Indigo Children - oh yes! Because the longer I have it out, the longer other people can't. I'll update you with juicy extracts, just as I will for...
• How to Survive 2012: Tactics and Survival Places for the Coming Pole Shift. I'd ask "WHO ON EARTH FUNDS THESE NUTJOBS?", but it's clear the answer is: Guernsey Library. Case closed...
• And my new favourite book - A Hairdresser's Guide To Period Styles, with tutorials from Prehistory right up to 1990s-Rachel hair. My poor hair has had a pretty free ride so far; it's about to get the whole flush of teenage vanity in one or two frenetic weeks as I attempt a decade a day. I'm particularly excited about the French Aristocrat.
  

II -Look to Windward" review (spoiler-free)

I finished Look to Windward, but now I wonder (with my habit for forgetting blogs) if I ever told you about it in the first place? It's by Iain M. Banks, the man who wrote my once-favourite book Use of Weapons. I can't remember much about it, beside Staberinde, the chair, and enjoying it all very much. I never read one of his books since, because they are dense and I'm easily distracted. It was sheer force of will - and four days left to my own devices at work - which pulled me through.

Mr Banks is a sci-fi genius. He creates these technologically advanced worlds packed with ideas which are just part of the scenery. This one has behemothaus, which are kinda like starwhales with whole ecosystems living on their backs. Lesser authors would have written a book just about that. It makes his universe feel complete, and real; and I love the idea that for all these changes, human problems will stay the same - love, death. And his depiction of new social mores and expectations are just as thorough. His books are worth reading purely for the spaceship names, and, bless it, Wikipedia's got a list of the lot. Some favourites are Resistance is Character Forming, Very Little Gravitas Indeed and Nuisance Value.

I have some misgivings about the end, however. I read almost up to the climax, and I cared so darn intensely that I chose sleep over ending it. I had fantastic dreams in which I explored every possibility, watched it all go horribly wrong and then gave it a happy ending: I was that worried. It rather went pfut and fizzled when I read it again in the morning. Still, good up until the point I thought "...oh, that's it then?".

I'm still a little embarassed at my mind, however. The novel started in the first person, with a soldier in a battle trying to protect someone in a trench. On this basis, I assumed the narrator was male - including after the revelation that the second character was in fact the husband of the first. It was several chapters later, from the perspective of this wretched husband, that we established that actually our first narrator had been female - and I'd totally assumed it was a gay man.

I'm sure both parts of this suggest interest things about my priorities, prejudices and expectations.

Still, Banks will do that irritating modern novel thing of showing dialogue for ages but not clearly attributing it to any characters, so once you work out what's going on you have to go back and read it again with them in mind. Often, it's a deliberate point - and are there some convos in Windward which are never clearly attributed to anyone - but I hate it because then I get confused and make big, basic mistakes like the gender of key protagonists. And the worst thing is, I held it against Worosei for the rest of the darn novel.

Lesson of the day (facetious)
Never assume you know the gender of anyone real or imaginary unless clearly stated.

Lesson of the day (serious)
On the planet Chel, the name "Worosei" is feminine.

III- discussion of allegory

It also irked me during a big exposition chapter, where my mind glued what it was telling me about terrorism, vengeance and advanced cultures meddling with "underdeveloped" ones for their own good, to the dedication "For Gulf War Veterans". And I thought, "bastard - it's an Iraq allegory!"

Oh, how I loathe allegory, and hated getting trapped in one. I know its a sci fi staple, but I can't stand them. It's an position, not the position, and it lies in my specific literature uprbinging or whatever.

Deconstructing allegory was meant to be the whole point of this post; I've got kinda distracted, and now it's 12:30 in the morning. But in brief. If you approach both fiction and art from my perspective, then allegory has to be anathema.

My feelings on fiction are that it is real, or as good as real, if you are truly involved in it. This governs my attitudes towards how I consume it - I don't like eating while viewing, I don't like people talking, I'm not interested in continuity errors, blooper reels, or actors, I hate spoilers. And also governs my responses to it: it closely influences my real world views, and I tend to have emotional breakdowns when things inevitably get wrong, as they tend to do with a greater frequency in drama, because I'm always too darn involved. An interesting byproduct of this - I don't really enjoy parody, I can't help but take them deathly seriously. I'm like the bloody Thermians off Galaxy Quest.

As for art, well - Oscar Wilde got me young, and his philosophy I can't shake. Art for art's sake alone - not to push a point, not to describe life as it is but life as it should be - to be beautiful. I like my fiction wholly escapist - social realism is a dirty phrase. And while I'm interested in media representation, to be honest I'd rather oppression of minorities than oppression of artists. Yes, any or all of them; even the one(s) I count under. I rather wish I didn't; logically I don't. But in my heart, in response to say Disney's refusal to release Song of the South, I'm always with the product over the people. My justification is that these things are fascinating because of their offense value, and in context they are important historical documents. Maybe that's honest, I don't know. It's interesting that by undertaking a movement which believes morality has no place in art, you are taking perhaps the strongest moral stance of all.

You may disagree with both of these. Often, I do. Certainly I don't believe I'm "right" - although I am right for me. Allegory hampers enjoyment of both fiction and art for it's own sake. I love Animal Farm. It's my favourite book about farmyard creatures.

The irony of this whole thing is that Look to Windward was written a whole year before "our" Gulf War, before 9/11, before Afghanistan, the lot. Which isn't to say he couldn't have been inspired by similar activities in Gulf War One and Two, and creepy foreign policy pre-2001; but it did mean that the very specific meaning I saw in it was all in my own mind. I created the allegory. I think I hate it all the more for that.

IV - The Film Project Google Is Advertising Everywhere It Owns i.e. Everywhere

I meant to take part in this, and I feel less of a wannabie filmmaker for not having done so. The premise: film your day, upload it to the 'Tube and then real filmmakers will edit it together into a documentary of this day in history.

Call me pretentious, but I couldn't possibly think of portraying something in film until I've considered what it is I have to shoot. Cinema conveys what you see through indirect means. You see, say, two happy people - but the camera will be close to their smiles, the light will be bright. You can't make decisions like that on the fly.

And I've been thinking a lot about realism too - and the artifice of documentary. Did we have to prepare a special day, worth filming? What if I went overboard, and did something unusual - is that OK? Or overcompensated and made my day unusually dull? Is it possible to just film everything that happens - the camera's presence would itself make a difference to it's realism.
I know everyone feels their life is ordinary, but mine is not of itself worthy of cinema. I'm not struggling; I'm also not about to propose to my girlfriend, or give birth to my first child, or bungee jump for charity. Nothing outstanding, and easy to shoot. I feel my perception, my imaginative life, and my friends are the two things in my life which are truly extraordinary, and may be of interest to others; but that's not easy to convey on camera.

Now I've spent my day (but not recorded it), I know how I would have done so. I may still undertake it as a project, but it'd require a lot of patience from friends and family, more than I think any of them could give on an idea that may not ultimately work.

V - Update on B7 Updates

My Blake's 7 comments are itching towards spoiler territory. Or rather, anyone is who is interested enough to want to know how I feel about it, will not want me to talk about the things I need to say. Anyone who doesn't care still won't care. So I am saving them all in one post, which I will publish eventually, and then you can decide to read them or not as you will. Of course, when it's all over and done - and it will be, they all are eventually - with I'll be to embarassed by my old obsession to let them to the light of day. I'm keeping it with the sentence-long fic fragments, another two of which popped into existence today. It's such a bizzare unintended project. I wonder how long I've been having them for, and not noticing?

Or if I've ever had this before? This is the first time I've had my obsessive process under such close observation. I'm sure this will ultimately serve a purpose. I've got all the recogniseable stages down on paper. I wonder if I could force an obsession into existance? Or keep one going? Or make one die?

Modelling...
Yesterday me and my sister did some objectification in the woods in the rain. The results are now up on Facebook. Maybe I should be Britain's Next Top Model? I certainly enjoy modelling, although some of the finished products which come close to come-to-bed-eyes creep me out a bit. I think it's the fun of being able to morph and create new stories so quickly. In one afternoon I was a fairy, a warrior, a statue, an elf, Snow White, the Highwayman's woman, Red Riding Hood, a lost innocent, and innocence lost. No other art form lets you play with so many ideas with such freedom. Inevitably, we also did some dead photos. What is it about me and looking dead?

While I squalled in mud and got covered in resin, we chatted a bit about objectification and the male gaze and the rest. But the ultimate problem is, I'm an aesthete first and everything else second. So while I respect and understand, i.e., Socialogical Images for getting their pants in a twist about things like this, or this - if it's in the name of a good picture, then do I really care...?

Music...

For exercise, I'm hooping to Mike Oldfield. I do not think Mike Oldfield is, on the whole, a very good artist. While his music is impressive, his songs are way too long and repetitive, and sometimes are just noise. Having said that, when he gets down to it it's beautiful stuff:



That's the end of Side 2 of Incantations - which is 4 sides long - and it's worth sitting through the dross for it. Perhaps I should work it out? I'm learning to play his "Rio Grande".

Most of my piano efforts are focused on incidental geek music - incanon songs, performed as part of the narrative. Some Firefly, some Blake, some Who. And Sander Cohen's Masterpiece from Bioshock. The great thing is, it's all good music and quite unrecogniseable except to the initiated, so I like the injokey nature of it. I think there's a great evening to be had, though, performing that type of music - particularly all the ballady ones. There's no reason Dayna couldn't perform Gaeta's Lament, while Gaeta (in happier days) jammed to Hero of Canton - space ballads, like ballads from all places and races, are timeless in their themes.

And it keeps me off the Formby, to the relief of absolutely everyone.

What else? I went DVD shopping:

When big movies come out, little companies produce rip-off versions which capitalise on the zeitgeist. Presumably, enough must be sold to make it worthwhile. Empire did an article on a company who specialises in them; and I've been interested "Sherlock Holmes" ever since seeing it reviewed favourably-ish in the Empire Video Dungeon. This is the first time (as a film buff) I've got my hands on one. Firstly, the colour scheme matches that of the current movie. The quote on the front of the box reads "In an extraordinary league of its own", recalling to mind that other steampunk epic, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Although why you'd want to remind your audience of that is beyond me. The blurb reads:

Fearsome monsters are terrorising London. Holmes and his fathful companion Dr Watson must embark on their most dangerous case yet. The investigation will take our heroic duo on an incredible journey that will see them do battle with their arch nemesis; the mad mechanical genius Spring-Heeled Jack, who will sop at nothing to bring destruction to London. Can Holmes and Watson save Queen and country from annihilation?

Froth! Well I'm there. But the interesting part is this:

Featuring fantatic special effects of period England being ravaged by dragons, dinosaurs and cyber-men, Sherlock Holmes is a breathtaking adventure for the Doctor Who age!

This Sherlock Holmes stars Gareth David Lloyd of Ianto-from-Torchwood infamy. In fact, he recieves top billing over the chap playing the great detective. Note how the blurb subtly appeals to the Whoniverse fans who might have picked up the DVD case. "cyber-men", I imagine their legal bods have told them, cannot be sued by the Pedler estate - Kit Pedler being the man who invented the "Cybermen".

All very interesting; but I was sold at the Sherlock Holmes Fights Giant Dinosaurs point. Watching the trailer, frankly I don't see how I couldn't enjoy it.

Bad television
Which is more than can be said for Classic Battlestar Galactica. I always assumed I would like it more. New Galactica was undeniably excellent, but it did a lot of things that irritate me: the Jack Harkness Conflict Resolution Method, all gun-pointing-and-crying, most episodes; the need to be edgy and relevant and characters which to me seemed inconsistent. As discussed before, oldstyle production strategies just seem to appeal to my sense of drama more - I like 40s British cinema, and characters not talking about how they feel but we're able to infer it anyway, from their actions and eyes. It must also be said, I'm a fan of trashy special effects - when they're good, because I find them more exciting and beautiful than modern special effects. When they're bad, because they're terrible.

Shame; old Battlestar Galactica is very terrible indeed. As suspected, it's got this American solid po-facedness to it - none of the fun of B7's rubbish universe, where things break down all the time. Despite being the last humans in the galaxy, everything i svery shiney - from the consoles to the actor's teeth. The special effects are actually pretty cool, particularly the spaceship battles. But the characters were predictable, the dialogue was awful, and in all, it was a very non-controvertial experience. My sister later commented "I'm amazed they remade it like they did!" I'm not. When faced with a show containing not one, but two adorable little kids with ruffle-able hair, my first response would always be to read it as darkly as possible. Still, it's amazing they got something SO good out of something so very dodgy

And...
Letters project is rattling along nicely - 111 pages long, and the end is within sight! This week is proving to be a challenging one. I'm beginning to interview people about their memories, which has prompted several wannabie-breakdowns. I'm revisiting one of my deep, dark regrets for the sake of completeness - I might tell you how that goes.

And I've got the difficult letters to reason with. I was always sure I was leaving them because their canonicity was so dodgy. Now I revisit them, they're actually more consistent than I remembered - but there's another reason I discover. Its all heavy, heavy, uncomfortable, stuff, atque semper mea culpa.

Do you know how easy it is to read a letter addressed to you, pleading for help, for acnowledgment, begging from the point of death for anything at all, blaming you but still having no one but you to rely on? Alright. Do you know how many I have to type up? About 20, 25 of varying lengths and levels of despair. Mortimer had a lot of destitute exes to ignore. Oh yes, Ruby. You've had your revenge alright. Typing them up is extremely heavy going because of my total helplessness, and partial culpability. What Mortimer did was very much in character and consistant with his mood in that period - he wanted to shut the past out as much as possible. With hindsight, its pretty harrowing stuff. I just want to be back there, arguing my point, defending my position - then giving him a slap and doing the right thing which I can see so clearly now, but he couldn't at the time. It's sorrowful, sorrowful stuff.

In this issue: trip to a jumble sale; digression about cosplay; Mad Hatters Teaparty; good samaritans

I went on a quest to a jumble sale this morning. It was free, and somewhere to go: up in zone 3 in Tottenham. I've got rather bored of chain second hand shopping of late. Fair does to charities wanting to do the best for their causes, but if things are costing more than a pound, then it really takes the fun out of bargain hunting. Oxfam Books, I'm looking at you. In trying to appeal to a mainstream, most of the daft crap I'd treasure doesn't even reach the shelves.

The playground had been overtaken by about thirty car-boots and casual tables. Nothing seemed higher than a fiver, and it was like rifling through an attic. An electronic elephant graveyard, with boxes of broken DVD players; clothes, bizzare clothes; ugly jewellery; bad books; 8-track tapes. I loved it. Nothing was intrinsically valuable, but the enjoyment of shopping like that is the hunt: everything must have been the object of ardent desire to somebody, somewhere. Like the string of badly broken garden lights, tangled into knots with a mouse, a playstation and an old wire game. Bet no one ever thought that would be wanted by anyone.

It took me about 10 minutes to get the garden lights free, for one man's plastic tat is another's Liberator ray gun.

I've been building one for about a month now. I've got a really nice, cheap torch of the right proportions for a handle. I've a collection of five juice bottles in my room, all a little too big or small. I've been going down Asda corridors doing little Avon impressions to see if they "feel right"; I've even found the perfect shape in the Asda basics shampoo and conditioner, but alas those bottles are white, not see-thru.

I've no idea whether I should try and get the garden lamp bulb working with a switch, or dismantle it and slot the torch in, but I'm very happy with my purchase. At £2, it's actually cheaper than the Taste The Difference Lemonade experiment cost, and there are four lamps giving me three failed test runs. I also picked up a nice utility belt, and some curly black wire to attach it.

I still don't know where I'm going with all this. Cosplay being the inheritor of shamanistic ritual imitation, the vague plan is to have a bash at Blake. But he has an awful lot of things I don't have: not so much a gender-swap as Rugged Mega-Manly Man Masculinty; not so much size, as Serious Heroic Presence. I've a funny feeling the Robin Hood In Space aesthetic would translate to me as a thigh-slappin' pantomime pirate.

Calypso thinks it'll still work. Her theory is something like "If You Are More Attractive Than The Person You Are Cosplaying As, It Doesn't Matter". And I supposie that's why I make such a damn fine Sixth Doctor: because Colin Baker really didn't look good in his costume, whereas I rock it. When standing in a line of other Doctor cosplayers, they may be more accurate - but I'm still the hottest person in the room and the only one not going through a mid-life crisis. So I win.

That still leaves me in a bit of a spot, though. I'm easily more attractive than Colin Baker - but Gareth Thomas
is rather yummy in his own way, so here's a poll. If the internet thinks I'm hotter, than I will power ahead and buy tight trousers. If I lose my own poll on my own blog, then I'll go for one of the lady-characters (I don't know who this Soolin bird is - she hasn't turned up yet - but she would be instantly easier...)

So, there's the poll --------------> Vote! Vote now!

This may be academic, I don't know. I can't in good faith use a costume until I've got to the end, by which point I may no longer want to. And for now, I wouldn't pass up an opportunity to wear my fantastic coat.

As indeed I wasn't today, going to a Mad Hatter's Teaparty picnic purely as an excuse to legitimately wear all my outrageous gear at once. I took the bus back and established the route from Tottenham to London was one long retail strip with rubbish kebab shops on it. We had the angriest bus driver ever.

I stopped off at the Maughan library, for a little voluntary Latin and transform into my costume. Alas! No pictures, but I was wearing two different sorts of stripes (yellow and black + pink and white) plus the multicolour coat; a paisley cravat; the top hat complete with the Queen of Hearts, and I've developed a new style where I curl my hair over the brim of the hat and hold it there with the hatband. The result looks something between a mad powder wig and organic milinery. The tragic thing is, of course, that it didn't really feel like being in costume, as it's a combination I would have worn under most circumstances.

The picnic was in St James' Park, and consisted of caterpiller cake, cucumber sandwiches, mini mushrooms, and of course, tea marked "Drink Me". About 10 people ultimately attended - including Miss Liddell as Alice, Alzarius as the White Rabbit (he had pinched his mum's bathroom clock and attached it as a chain for a crazy huge pocket watch), and also Lady Gaga and the Black Corsair. Later, Ajax showed up. Time passed - from 4 until 9 - and for the whole time, the company kept up this appalling banter, somewhere between the language of the internet and Oscar Wilde dining room dialogue.

Perhaps it will turn out to be an expensive day after all? I got to play with the sonic screwdriver app on an iphone. It's a picture of a sonic screwdriver. You can make it move, and sounds work. That's about it - but it made me so very, very happy. It's a stupid reason to want one of the wretched things - especially because my poor mp3 player died earlier in the day, and my first thought was "Oh dear, that's a shame - but it has done three years good service, and one of those after being dunked in pineapple juice, so I can't complain". Not "I need an iphone as a replacement music player".

That would have been the end of the day's excitement, if not for some careless tourists and a little purple notebook at Westminster station. I like stationary, I like helping people, and I like being nosy - so I zeroed in on it very quickly and had a flick through. It contained very detailed plans of a holiday starting today in London, thenceforth to Paris, Frankfurt and Belsen - and had obviously just come from Korea because of the Korean hotel stationary, and had originated from Spain. Definitely an important notebook to return. For a moment, I thought their names might have been the two helpfully written in the back of the book. But I revised that estimate when I discovered a handy sheet of paper with the couple's full names, card numbers, expiry dates and security codes written on it. If not for that, I might have handed it into the station lost property box. But I always like returning things in person, as lost property boxes tend to be bottomless pits (especially if you're off in Central London and you can't remember where you dropped stuff), if there's enough information for me to do so - and I had enough information to bankrupt the pair of them then stalk them for the next month so yes, I had enough information. In a situation like that, you can only really trust yourself. I'm so glad it fell into the hands of someone absolutely morally unimpeachable...

...and I'm intrigued to discover how tricky being morally unimpeachable is when someone has handed their Mastercard, Visa and Paypal details to you. Even though I feel a sort of proxy fondness towards this pair, they are still pillocks.

Their hotel was on my route home - they had helpfully written down both the address of the apartment and the address of the check-in desk. I tried to make myself a little more presentable. By this point, I had long abandoned footware due to appalling blisters - because I made the mistake of buying ladyshoes and then trying to, y'know, walk in them. But I did my best to diminish the insanity of the Hatter costume, and arrived five minutes before the desk closed to discovered they had not yet arrived, so swapped details with the lady at the desk. I should really have left it with her, but that scrap of paper with the card information on really bothered me - besides, it was sort-of my responsibility by that point.

I worried for them a little bit on the way home - I mean, if you're on a journey that crazy you'd have lots of luggage, so why wouldn't they check in as soon as they arrived in London? I knew when that was as well...I wondered if their bizzare traveling was a once-in-a-lifetime megaholiday; or maybe they were rich folks on a run-of-the-mill jaunt, or perhaps international criminals?

I got a call from the hotel on exiting the Tube and arranged to drop it off the next day - she has a strange, hysterical voice. And quite a disappointing one too. I'm also a little crushed I won't be able to meet them; charity and voyeurism go hand in hand.

All in all, a busy, strange day.

Who would be a woman?

There are lots of reasons why my chance genetic arrangement is unfortunate. One of the most superficial (and therefore, most pressing) is that I can't successfully adopt the dress of male style icons, whether in cosplaying or borrowing touches I like for everyday life. Absurdly, this bothers me worst not when pinching things from hero-guys, but straight after camp movies. I adore the style, grace and OTT femininity of transvestites and effeminate chaps - but of course, you have to be male in the first place to pull it off...

...and of course, there are ceilings of glass and the rest. Important stuff. But today, we are going to talk about shoes.

WHY DOES NO ONE MAKE REAL SHOES FOR WOMEN?

I am aware of the school of thought that turns pain into pleasure, and I even sympathise with the mindset that "you are suffering for beauty" hence "more beautiful". But that's on a case by case basis, not as part of a virulent disease.

Is the cliche that women get through shoes like toilet paper, while men locate a single pair and expect them to last believed by shoe companies? Does this then explain why the majority of womyn-shoes are painful and cheap-feeling? I'd certainly never again buy from New Look: they don't make shoes, they make foot accessories.
My one concession to serious, feminine cobblery was a lovely pair of eggshell blue heels. Which I have never worn, because a pair of shoes I can't run away in is, to my mind, not a real pair of shoes. They have no grip! And yes, you need grip even when standing around in ballrooms.

You almost got this rant last week when I was just back from shoe shopping. For the third or fourth year now, I endured my sister's disapproval and bought myself a pair of boy's shoes. To her mind, this is weird; and it's true, I always like to take time to warp the gender binary. But the plain fact is:

• They are flat. I can climb trees, walls, flee muggers and booby traps.
• They have grip. When attempting to climb trees e.t.c., I'm not going to slip.
• They are hard wearing. I'm not going to escape the muggers only to discover my socks are soaking.
• They are comfortable. We'll come to that one in a minute....
  

And that is why I always wear men's shoes. For years now, I've yet to find women's shoes which fit these categories. Admittedly, this is on the Island.

Is this just preconceptions about women getting out of control? Do such shoes exist? Even the fact they're hard to find suggests we are being offered a vastly inferior product, and also that they get away with it.

I've just had to join the Idiot Female Fashion Victim Club, and don heel-plasters. It's between that and consigning the red slippers I've always wanted to an Oxfam bag. I've known various people across the years who have done this, and I always thought it was ridiculous. Because what's more bloody stupid than wearing shoes which are uncomfortable? What has never occured to me - because this too seems bloody stupid - is that they were comfortable in the shop, and they only cease to be comfortable after subjected to extreme circumstances. You know - walking in them, or something. I can only have walked in my new shoes for 15 minutes max, and the backs of my heels are totally bruised, raw and unpleasantly sticky.

Change, please, and soon. The problem is, ideas about female foot-habits - including the "oh! I suffer for beauty!" one and the "I spend more on my shoes than my children!" one - seem to directly impact how the product is created. And in general, female shoes seem to bear the same resemblance to real shoes as Asda own-brand bread does to bakery produce. If a shoe does not provide comfort and grip, it is basically a bad shoe. In an ideal world, it should also be durable, though of course I make exceptions for daft party shoes. Exceptions which do not make walking the next day a painful enterprise. I feel like I've been forcibly pressganged into the ranks of miserable womanhood as a punishment for defection. It's horrible...

Again with the pointlessly emotive projects.

I'm writing a novel, mostly as a writing exercise, based on something I bought in Camden. I found a card from 1944, inviting "R. A. C. Cooper" to the Royal Air Force Unit dance. The dance took place in the Garrison Theatre, 24th November 1944 at 7.30pm. The back of the card is written in Afrikaans, and copies the same information.

How irresistable! Time for some research.

Garrison Theatre, Diest

I start by sticking Diest into Wikipedia. Turns out it's not in Africa - damn, there goes my Oscar possibilites - but in Flanders, which means the back of the card is in Dutch. Makes sense - November 1944 is post-D-Day, so they could certainly be based in Europe.

R.A.C. Cooper

According to the IWM, the best database of fighting men is actually the Commonweath War Graves Commission. It's like walking over my grave. We visited the CWGC during the Canada debacle. It's reasonable, I thought, that Cooper might be dead - so with a bit of trepidation try their database:

http://www.cwgc.org/search/SearchResults.aspx?surname=cooper&initials=R+A&war=2&yearfrom=1900&yearto=2000&force=Air&nationality=6&send.x=48&send.y=15

I was relieved to note that this casualty report comes from an entire year before the dance. It also occured to me that R.A.C. wasn't necessarily initials - Royal Air Commander? Sounds a bit grand, but the alternative is that he has three initials and the Commanding Officer felt the need to use all three of them. The Roll of veterans that have died since have plenty of Coopers, so I need to do some narrowing down.

409 R.S.U.

The RAF website has a handy site for searching historic squadrons, but it doesn't look like they had the 400s. But Wikipedia turns up a Canadian Squadron which were formed in 1941, that were in France and Germany in 1944. That's more or less the right place. Oh my, if he's a Canadian it would be uncanny. The Canadian RAF site has information on them too - same with Lincolnshire. But the best site I found is this one, which confirms that not only were they in Europe, they were in Belgium - score!

Incidentally, this would be easier if I knew anything about WWII history, so please pitch in if you are a military expert.

If this is the one, then it is a night-fighting squadron - with a rather charming Latin motto "Media Nox Meridies Noster" and badge. Cooper would have been flying the Mosquito MkXIII at this point - Mosquitos are made of plywood, Did You Know - and between June 1944 and May 1945, was the top-scoring night-fighter unit in the RAF.

The card reads "The Commanding Officer of 490 R.S.U. requests...", and this website lists "commanders". If that's the same as Commanding Office - don't laugh, I'm muddying around in someone else's field - then the invite came from W/C J.D. Somerville. I can also scratch the databases of medals and awards from my search, as I'm sure this page would have listed it if he'd won something special. Having snooped around the In Memoram sections of that site, I am increasingly sure that my Cooper survived the war. But there is a "S.D. Cooper" listed in the roll of more recent deaths. I also found a photo of the squadron, although it's from 1956.

With all this in mind, I try the CWGC again - searching Canadians, instead of Brits. No results. No wait, I spelt Cooper wrong. Lots of results. I can rule out everyone who died before November 1944, and checking through the ones who died after none are in the right regiment. He made it! Sweet. I feel better already.

R.A.C. Cooper (II)

I've been bashing my head against a wall for a while now. Understandably, war records aren't on the web. The military are secretive and don't release full lists of who was where. And the archivists don't want to release service information for anyone still living. And until I can find either of those, there's no way I can discover Cooper's first name or service number, and thus get any further.

I have found a book on the squadron, but the only copy amazon has is $150. A military research site gives an address to write to:

RAF Disclosures, Room 221B, Trenchard Hall, RAF Cranwell, Sleaford, Lincs, NG34 8HB

And from wikipedia's page on the Canadian Air Force, it doesn't look like RAC is an abbreviation for a rank. My case disintigrates further as I realise that an invite to the 409 Squadron ball isn't the same as being a member of the squadron. In fact, doesn't suggest the opposite? At the same time, if they were inviting non-military folk I assume they would be quite posh or important, indicating a proper letter instead of a formal card; plus, it's been written on the English side not the Dutch one.

Until now, I'd been hunting around the Imperial War Museum website - but now it was time to hop over to the Musee Canadien de la Guerre. Another place I visited on the Trip That Shall Not Be Named. Totally useless, unless I'm able to physically go and root around in their libraries.

I finally approach our National Archives to see what can be done. They have a page all about what can be searched viz the Air Force. They keep saying, variations on nothing at all. They do have some ways of getting around, however - one is looking up Combat Reports. No luck there! They admit not all are online, but it might be worth visiting in person.

And that's all I can do for now! Any of my military-minded readers have anything to add?



That's not the only thing I picked up. I also have a certificate written to Miss Gladys Rees, thanking her for a year of war-service in the British Red Cross. It's lovelier than the dance card but, because I have deep-rooted misogyny I've yet to stamp out, it seems far less interesting. And the Red Cross won't release their records either.

Collecting ephemera is a nasty little hobby, and one I intend to plunge headfirst at. Like my other collections, it's giving things of no value at all a value. It's not expensive if you don't do it too seriously, and yet the amount of joy you can get from this household crap is considerable. "Ephemera" in collectors terms is anything too mundane to have genuine value - labels, telegrams, old cards, Victorian scraps, bookmarks - the turn-of-the-century equivalent of those ad-cards you get pockets stuffed with after a trip to Camden.

My obsession has been cemented by a local antiquarian book fair which Vapilla and I attended over the weekend. The books were a long way out of anyone's price range; and most of them looked better in context of shelves of gorgeous leather than they would have on my desk at home. But lots of the stalls were appended by ephemera boxes, and diving through them was great fun. I would put photos of my finds up, but I'm lazy. Of course, it wasn't all cheap. I would have got a vintage Tube map, if it had been reasonably priced. And I still rue a heavy packet of old love letters which I had to leave behind - I figured there were probably at least 50 more worthy uses of £50, but I'm regretful all the same.

In the end, I only spent a fiver - two beautiful Victorian Christmas cards, written inside. A very colourful label for a product I'm not sure of, with a Red Injun on a horse. And a postcard, which I'm keeping wrapped in paper and have filed under "questionable taste". I was diving through stacks of sheets when I found it, and exclaimed loudly enough that the bibliophiles around me frowned. Vapilla and I were the youngest there, and though we got talking with some sellers who thought it was cool, others glared at us. One man was very friendly - he specialised in childrens books with gorgeous covers, some of which were real gold leaf. He said that it would be too expensive to produce books of that level of beauty nowadays, and that no one would buy them. Probably true.

But back to the postcard. I think the volume of my cry was justified. It's a yellowing thing, with space for a stamp e.t.c. confirming what it is, but there are no words to date it, place it or -goodness knows - explain it. The front image is all in brown, and - I'm not sure how best to say this, so I'll just say it - it appears to be a genuine photo of a Holocaust victim staring at the camera, and I think trying to eat something. I've no idea where it's from - it's not necessarily from a Nazi camp, could be from any place where the inmates weren't clothed or fed for months on end - but it's bloody nasty. Legs shouldn't bend like that. And I just don't understand who would want to either send or recieve it, and in what context it was produced, and whoever thought it was a good idea - although I'm pretty sure I know what happened to the subject. For 50p, I had to buy it, just to assure myself that it had ever existed. And I don't regret that, although I confess I don't like having it around - even double-wrapped in paper bags at the bottom of one of my junk boxes it makes me a little uncomfortable every time I remember it.

So. Anyone who has ideas about who Cooper might have been, or for how I can come closer to finding him - or who can shed any light on what that thing in the bottom of my wardrobe is - please comment away.

The dream didn't really go away - it lingered painfully, stung everything with its colour. Irritating things. It juxtaposed two unfortunate recent events in my life, ones I had been taking rather well, in such a way that now both ache constantly.

Ironically, for a day I spent feeling so sore about cruel endings and dystopian futures, I stumbled across a copy of 1984 in a second hand store. My first ever favourite book! I remember when I picked it up, a heavy foggy day, and I also remember dropping it and screaming on reaching the final page. I never actually owned one, though. It's place got taken by Tolkien, then by Wilde. And I always held out a faint notion that I could steal the copy I had read at school.

OK. I am a moral individual, except when it comes to books, especially those I know I will love more than their owners. Something about that situation overwrites anything I ever learnt about theft.

And this was a battered old paperback which will one day be junked as it's falling to pieces, so I always intended to. At some point, though, I lost track of where it was in the school - probably thrown away. Cursed, cursed ethics. Apart from the sentimentality factor, the thing which really drew me to it was Goldstein's book. There's a point where our hero sits down to read a book, and the books content actually occupies about a chapter. This copy was in three pieces - the first half, the second half - and in the middle, Goldstien's book fell out like a pamphlet, exactly aligned with the section of copied text. It was like finding something hidden. Curses.

Rereading it on the bus home reminded me why I loved it, and rather calmed me down too though I don't know why. Possibly because I'm only three chapters in. Just at the right time, really. I was starting to cave on the "don't watch movies of favourite books" rule. This was the first book to which that rule ever applied, but how could I resist the movie adaptation made in 1984 itself. John Hurt as Winston. Richard Burton as O'Brien. Two actors I adore beyond adoring to begin with, not to mention that they are perfect for their parts. Burton in particular ("no one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that human affairs were being scrutinised from the timeless worlds of space") has a voice for which I would do anything.

In other news, I should be back tomorrow at around 4 o'clock. I say "should", because - well, you know. Rain of frogs, candyfloss hurricanes and coconut snow. I usually post my thoughts on passing over from one state of being to the other - I've thought long and hard this time, and actually the best I could do was this:

I don't need anyone taking this the wrong way, but I could, I think, handle about another week here. Never mind. See you all soon!

This morning Friend 4 and I went to a "tabletop sale" at a local church hall. It was 25 pence to get in, had teas and cakes in the back room, and a bliss of sorts.

My ostensible motive was looking for a cat badge for my Sixth Doctor Costume. This has been harder than I expected it to be. There was a gold lioness, nothing like the real thing, but a possibility in the absence of something better. As I was putting it back, the lady said "That's a lucky cat badge", at which point she had me by the neck. I flashbacked to Attack of the Cybermen and had to have it. It'll do for now, and I'm already very fond of it. It reminds me of Friend 1's cat Tigger, who a long time ago we decided was a lioness who had been turned into a cat by an evil wizard. I also got a gold Lorien leaf badge, with a green stone. Speaking of costumes, last night Team Traken watched neglected classic The Ribos Operation. Fantastic episode - the only Doctor Who story to ever have me in tears without killing off a major character. Castellanne - the artist formally known as Friend 3 - has decided she wants a Romana costume.

I found The Best of Beautiful South and Everything must Go by the Manic Street Preachers for 30p each. While there's something unhealthy in buying two CDs of friend's favourite bands, I still feel a sense of achievement. I do adore Everything Must Go in my own right as well though, since listening to it on Spotify. I also found a new wallet, 30p well spent. Though I love the Death Proof one, there's no room for change. This one is far better structurally, and has a steampunk Mickey Mouse on the front. Indulging my love of Disney without actually supporting the company. Friend 4 also picked up an Angela Carter book.

The real coup was Behind the Waterfall. I was delighted to discover this piece of adorable kiddy trash in the video box. I have a love for the adorably bad. The woman said "oooh, it's really good - they don't make films like that any more", at which point I had to have it. After buying it, she commented "I hope they enjoy it". "They" are presumably my children. I smiled at her nicely, but inside felt the terror of eternity and maternity all rolled into one. Behind the Waterfall was made by "Feature Films for Families". Their motto is "strengthening family values through entertainment", and if that's not damn sinister I don't know what is! Here is the delightfully saccharine trailer:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8208526180778616717

The plot is as follows: Tommy and Becky have lost their dad, and are sent to stay with their aunt in the country. After a wonderful journey, and meeting with a Mr Connors, they "discover the importance of faith an imagination, teaching them to believe in something greater than themselves". Alice has already commented that "Oh, so he touches them, then? In a very special way?" Oh joy of joys, the back of the box has a "Parents Guide for Family Discussion":

"4. Mr Connors told the kids to watch for fairies and listen in the wind. What was Mr Connors really trying to teach the kids to believe in? Is there anything you believe in that you can't see?"

Hmmm, one wonders what sort of family values this video advocates. It wouldn't be to do with God's family, now would it? The internet tells me "I highly endorse this product or event. If you don't have anything to do for a while either pray or watch this movie but either way this is as close to heaven as you can get." I can see Me and St Peter now.

St Peter: So, do you pray often?
Me: Ah, no sir - but I have seen Behind the Waterfall hundreds of times!
St Peter: Oh, that's OK then - come straight through!

An Amazon seller is also quick to point out: "Although this movie does intentionally go about the task of teaching moral values to children, it might do this in a manner that is too "Pagan" for members of the Christian-right." Continuing with the theme of "creepy old man makes friends with innocent young children under a rainbow", I also direct you towards question five:

"5. Loving and helping others helps us forget out own pain. How did learning to love and trust Mr Connors help Tommy and Becky to heal from the death of their father?"

Fner fner. Loving and trusting, eh? My sister has made me promise to answer these questions once I have seen it. The way I see it, this film could be hilarously awful - or it could be an unexpected gem. Either would make me happy. I'm sure there are some kids with delighful memories of these things - like how I feel about Through the Dragon's Eye and how mum feels about Escape to Witch Mountain - though I can't find a single dedicated fansite on the web.

After that, we ambled through the Guet - a local bit of woodland about which I have very mixed feelings, for obscure personal reasons. We tend to play capture-the-castle there. Someone had dug out all the German gun emplacements, which had been hidden under ivy, offering some great new hiding places. I was quickly exhausted, but I'm hoping it's from lack of sleep and not protein/iron deficiency. We enjoyed this view from the watchtower, and played snipers with unaware passers by. Then whiled away a few hours listening to "Cult TV theme tunes", and cooing about Blake's 7. I feel like I'm standing on the brink. I've only seen two episodes of it, so can't qualify as a fan. But it's only going to take a tiny push to send me roaring into a crazy obsession. And it's gonna be a big one, if anyone wants to join me. I've always known, ever since coming across it, that Friend 4 would adore Avon. And she does. Normally, knowing what happens at the end of a show really distracts me. But the sheer stunning beauty of the spoiler I know convinces me to keep watching till I see it, because it sums up everything that is brilliant about that show. In short: I am in love, and only require the arrival of the Season 1 boxed set to go into mad fangirl mode.

My pa picked me up mid-squee to hit the airport for the arrival of Grandmama, Grandpapa and my cousin Super Squirrel, aged 10. Rather guiltily, I'd rather be recieving a visit from Snella's cousin - yesterday, I discovered her cousin Mike is Mike Rutherford of Mike and the Mechanics, Mike Rutherford bassist-and-spare-guitarist for Genesis. Pretty darn cool. Rather guiltily, their departure will coincide with the family watching Torchwood: Children of Earth. It's not like I don't want to see them, but I do feel bad, because relatives never see me at my best. An influx of guests always brings out my most anti-social tendancies. I've been practically hugging the piano, Oceanic has been talking soley in geeky quotes - currently, I am blogging in proximity to them playing a board game. Or when I visit relatives, they only see me grumpy, homesick and missing my friends. In addition, Super Squirrel has got to the age with which I'm not sure what to do with her. Too old for running around, or to be charmed by origami. Too young for serious debate and cinematic indoctrination. She's fairly shy, so talking with her is a bit of a trial too - as I discovered when the adults of the family decided to spend 15 minutes yakking about death by swine flu. Now I'm more scared than I should be by the idea of swine flu, so I felt a duty to talk over their bracing discussion of percentage survival rates in the workplace. It's about as comforting as nuclear-warning leaflet Protect and Survive calmly suggesting:

"If anyone dies while you are kept in your fallout room, move the body to another room in the house. Label the body with name and address and cover it as tightly as possible in polythene, paper, sheets or blankets. Tie a second card to the covering. The radio will advise you what to do about taking the body away for burial. If however you have had a body in the house for more than five days, and if it is safe to go outside, then you should bury the body for the time being in a trench, or cover it with earth, and mark the spot of the burial. "

But I very quickly ran out of things to say, so chattered loudly about Doctor Who. It'll be an interesting week.

A-Team nightmares. That episode must have worried me more than I thought. Ugh...

Today I intended to do all those things I didn't do yesterday. But today, I'm going to go now to return books, and spend those extra hours between me and Spring Awakening in the Maughan, watching Querelle. I'm just awaiting the arrival of my Graze box. Maybe I'll hit Forbidden Planet, and Orbital comics, and amble on the Southbank a bit too to say bye.

I did some Greek over lunch, and listened to the radio. My mp3 headphones have gone missing, so my mobile radio is my only portable music source. But joy of joys! Classic FM were doing Chopin preludes, and indeed are doing Chopin at lunchtime for the rest of the week. Oh my, it was like drowning: that's how much I love those songs. It's one of my unfufilled dreams to go to an actual piano concert, and I'm keeping my eye out for a Chopinful one frankly because it would be like death and heaven afterwards. That distracted me from Greek, in favour of air-keying and ambling around the kitchen with a honeymoon expression.

Because the concert was still on, I took three busses to Russell Square. While waiting on the second bus stop the fanciest car I have ever seen passed, a real look-at-me-mobile. I was amused to note the numberplate was "DG 3". If Dorian Gray did achieve immortality with his bargain (as LXG theorises), then that's exactly how he'd be existing nowadays. The second bus took a long time to come. The Chopin went away in favour of tone-poems, a form I simply don't get. And then a second interesting sight passed - three police motorbikes escorting two black vehicles, one of them a van-thing, and both with subtle blue flashing lights also. I didn't spot anyone I recognised, but it was still an intriguing sight.

In any case, they'd moved onto some truly awful Shostakovitch by the time we reached Russell Square. I headed off to Senate house library. It was passing some academic building, an Institute or something, when I saw three police motorbikes parked outside with the three riders chatting, and two more guards on the door. It occured to me at once that it was the same group - there were two black cars on the pavement, although my observation wasn't great enough to prove they were definitely the same. Weird coincidence, and I continued to the wonderfully Gothamesque building for the returning of books.

I went to the Maughan by a long route. I couldn't tell you where I walked. I missed two comic shops and an Oxfam, that much is certain, so we can be thankful for small mercies. Popped into Forbidden Planet, more to say "hi" than to get anything. I went back via the Seven Dials "occult walk", a series of about six new age shops stuffed with crystals, candles and all such stuff. Still hunting for my perfect pack. I spent a long time in one of them, and made a decision - only to discover the pack was £25. Didn't really feel like spending that much, even if the energies were right...

I got back to Aldwych eventually, and had just crossed the road when a very loud police motorbike came past, whistling for the traffic to stop. It was almost before I'd understood what was happening when that same motorcade passed me for the third time in a day. Different configuration of people, I thought. Still, very very bizzare. I returned my books to the Maughan, and took out a stack of videos for the start of my Movie Marathon Week.

Which began in the Maughan itself, as one of the films I wanted to see most was a Short Loan. I do see the point of the Short Loan collection - if something is in high demand, tho' the films I need never seem to be covered by it. Or the DVDs to prevent them being loaned, copied and returned. It's still frustratingly random, especially when you want to watch something like Lagaan which is actually a little bit over three hours, and thus must be renewed halfway through viewing.

WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THERE WAS ANOTHER SHAKESPEARE PLAY AS GOOD AS HAMLET?

Dear reader, my relations with Shakespeare are tortuous and tricky. Were it a Facebook status, we'd both put "it's complicated". I still think he's overrated, some of his speech is aukward, some of my objections are merely personal, and I suppose most damningly, it sounds awful when studied on paper: it really has to be viewed. Hamlet is my one, my love, I think the first three acts are incomparable. I've problems with the ending, though, but ach who cares - it's just wonderful. I've always been fond of Macbeth. I probably should have had this Othello obsession two years back, when I went to see it at the Globe. But I felt very sick after the interval and the warden would not allow me to sit down, so I threw up on his shoes and spent the second act in the Globe toilets. That was a bad evening.

I'd not thought about it since then, mostly peeved off as I'd been enjoying it til then, and what's a fire risk compared to art? I ran across this version and was instantly struck by the cast: I have a serious soft spot for Kenneth Branagh, and his "eternity version" Hamlet which cuts not a single line is one of my favourite films I've yet to buy on DVD. How could I resist?

I'm in love.

Othello himself, for a Shakespeare hero, is suprisingly non-irritating. He's not quite up to Hamlet on the poetry, but makes up for it by being a pretty decent bloke (albeit with a huge tragic flaw).
I'd rather spend half an hour with Othello than Hamlet any day of the week. It certainly obeys those rules of Greek tragedy I was discussing last week: we feel pity for his situation, but also fear that such misfortune could overtake us. Lawrence Fishburne is actually very good, better than I expected, the poor creature simply disintigrates. He has that talent necessary for a truly great Shakesperian actor: looking damn great in swishy sleeves.

But seriously. It's hardly his fault he has to play second fiddle to the play's real protagonist, the man who gets all the best monologues and more lines by far. You can tell Shakes got a little too attached to Iago too. What a genius role. It is very hard not to love him, especially in this production. He is the only one who gets to break the fourth wall for monologues, or sometimes just to give the audience a cheeky glance, making you horribly complicit. The pay off is the moment all those slow-laid threads of story come together in a traincrash, and you realise that everything is about to go very nasty indeed. Hamlet does this too - Will gets to the last fifteen minutes, realises he needs to wrap up now, and does so by killing every named character left on stage, and some who are offstage for good measure. But it really works in Othello, or in any case this adaptation, holding back and raising tension then releasing it in one wicked blow. It's very exciting watching him weave his little web, very Mastery I think. He just stands there and takes him to pieces with a single scene. I don't know enough about the play to comment on whether Kenneth Branagh made a good Iago, but he's always worth watching.

And at the end, he's simply too cool to say anything. I think that's powerful. His motive is pleasantly obscure - sure, he's been passed over for promotion, but that's no good reason to destroy a man's whole existance. Nor does Othello personally seem the type of person to make someone that offended. Maybe it's a race thing, maybe it is pure envy - he's as much succeptable to the "green ey'd monster" as anyone else. I'm tempted to think there's a strong element of pure malice in what he does - I mean, he's evidently enjoying himself. There must be a better reason, however, to make that enormous risk worthwhile. I've seen Christopher Ecclestone play him as having a repressed and crazy love for Othello. While we don't want to demonise the gay community too far, it would fit well with the central themes of the play - everyone else is operating on pure lust, so why shouldn't he? This movie doesn't go that direction, but it is a theory I hold some sympathy for: he's taking the thwarted love he won't admit and is deeply ashamed out by ruining Othello's existance. Makes sense to me *potential dates and suitors cough and take a hasty departure*

I like Desdemona, she has some real spunk. People always try to reclaim Shakesperian heroines for a modern audience, and it rarely succeeds cos they were written as wallflowers. I wonder what the feminist reading of Othello actually is, with it's big "you must be punished!" message at the end, and with Emilia being the undoing at the end. Oh, I liked Emilia. Poor dear. And the guy they had to play Cassio was very nice to look at.

Other thoughts? Everyone was a little odd in the accent department, in that manner of costume dramas. I'd also comment that the direction was terribly ordinary: not bad, just unremarkable. I loved the music, and had forgotten how much I loved these lines:

"She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I lov'd her that she did pity them."

Not a great basis for lifelong marriage, but still beautiful. And Othello's last monologue is just lovely.

I do hate viewing in the Maughan though. The chairs are uncomfy, and you're surrounded by distractions, and the reflections off the screen are appalling. Which is particularly bad for something like Othello, which is basically sex sex sex, and thus suitably shot in deep blacks and sweaty reds, rendering it impossible to watch. True, you're meant to be studying films not enjoying them, but I argue the enjoyment of film is as valid a mode of study as the purely intellectual. If you're just surveying it as a dusty text then you've lost sight of what it was originally intended for. Your emotional reaction is as valid as an intellectual one. I particularly hate it because you're so exposed, and I'm a very physical viewer - I cry, shout at the screen, curl up when things get scary. As the body count mounted, I cared less and less about onlookers.
I'm gonna leave you with the quote from the back of the box, which made me chuckle:

"Promote someone else to the rank of liutenant? Over Iago's dead body! And more pointedly, over the dead bodies of nearly everyone ensnared in Iago's plot of revenge..."

The other films in my marathon are:

• Pat Garret and Billy the Kid (western + buddy movie + Bob Dylan)
• My Own Private Idaho (road movie + buddy movie + queer cinema)
• Maurice (just read the book + more queer cinema)
• Querelle (oh, Fassbinder! + stunning use of colour + even queerer cinema)
• The Third Man (a true favourite film I've been missing, and one not even remotely gay, honest, to balance it all out...)
  

Home again, home again. I meant to go via HMV, didn't, and ironically enough it turns out that Madness were playing there and I missed them. Oh well. I went to Sainsburies on the way back, to stock up on food and in particular cereal; bought everything but cereal, but at least the half-price cookies will be an excuse to eat up the vanilla ice cream.

And spent the evening doing eveninglike things, in particular a Chopinful couple of hours in the music room. I also burnt my finger.

I'm worrying that these two weeks are going to make my reintegration into normal life even tougher. Last time I returned home, I sulked for about four days because having to actually be polite to people and spend time with them was an art I'd lost in my wilderness existance. I actually suit this solitary life very well. I do get a little lonely, but that's the genius of the campus existance - I'm not living with people, but in proximity to people. There's always someone around for a chat, just to ensure you don't revert to rudimentry grunts and sign language. And there's "lonely" on one hand, contrasted with "the freedom to do whatever, go wherever" which cannot be beaten. It's nice to get away from the noise of other people too - you get a lot of thinking time,

So these two weeks are wonderful. I'm just a little concerned how I'm going to go cope when I go back to Real People. If my house was a Tarot card, it'd be the Five of Wands. There's nothing wrong, nothing major, but it's packed with mundane quarrels, petty disputes, arguments and anger for the stupidest and smallest reasons. The house has got in on the act too - you've heard me talk about places having personality before, and even though it sounds a bit nuts and new age, I do hold it to be true. I have never liked that house, and find it hard to sleep there. Usually, I'm off like a shot and am impossible to wake - it takes me ages at home, and I always wake up grouchy. I'm positive the bad atmosphere is getting grained into the walls and floorboards, swept under carpets, making the whole thing worse. Or maybe I'm imagining it.

"There's nothing purer and more unsullied, Madam, than the desire for revenge..." ~the Master

Every time I have a holiday with a friend, I don't have time to blog it, and lose the strength to afterwards. I am resolved to finish this one. I'm also sick of referring to everyone at home by number. It was fine for Cinecism, when I didn't need to mention them often, but now it's getting irritating. Plus, there are other people I need to abbreviate to numbers. In consequence, they're being renamed as Aventia, Caelia, Capitolina, Palatina, Quirinala and Viminala - and the first person to get the reference gets an imaginary cookie. No, I haven't attributed all the names yet, but today's story is about Palatina and Caelia.

Because this is a monster post, I'm actually going to use subject headings. It's worth reading.

Day 1

...began with me arriving an hour early at Waterloo to pick Caelia up. I got my times wrong, but it was nice in a way, because it was the first time off I'd had all week. I'd even brought my Iliad in case there was a place to work. There wasn't. I love the Southbank area, so I went for a walk. I had twin aims: I wanted to visit the BFI, just because as a film student, it's my spiritual home in a sense. I like to touch down there every few months, purely for supersticious, sentimental reasons. And I like ambling about there. My second aim was to buy an ice cream. No idea where that came from, but I wanted ice cream. So I ambled off, and was amused to find an ice cream van on my route. I hung around for a bit, as it was across a busy road, but decided my life wasn't worth it - and as I turned around, I spotted my salvation.

The Topolski Century, or, my first loving brush with splatty art

I was through the door almost before I'd read the words "free art gallery." Under one of the Southbank's many arches and bridges, they'd snuck in a huge art installation. It was love at first sight.

Feliks Topolski is one of those people you hear about and think "how do I have your life?" He was born in Warsaw around the turn of the century, and transformed himself into the journalist Forrest Gump. He was in Europe for World War 2, London for the Blitz, America for the race riots. He witnessed the Chinese Revolution, met the Black Panthers, and visited Bergen Belsen after the end of the war. And he drew. For much of his life, he hand-printed the "Topolski Chronicle" - a broadsheet of doodles from wherever he was or whatever he was doing at the time. A bit like me, in a way - except typically, Topolski was off meeting Evelyn Waugh, George Bernard Shaw, Ghandi or Martin Luther King. The George Bernard Shaw is one of my favourites, it's so darn cute.

Topolski's Century is the final product of this marvellous life. He's transformed his experience of the world's hugest events into one ongoing mural, 600ft high, winding it's way around two huge spaces. It's in that splatty, expressionist style I hate hate most of the time, but this is staggering stuff. I'm very, very close to voluenteering to man the door next term, because I think it's a cause worth hours of my time every week. I've found images on the web, but they don't do it justice - everyone who comes to visit me, from now onwards, will be my excuse to visit the Century again!

Among my favourites were "100 Hippies", which is what it sounds like, and the terrifying one of the Black Panthers. You had to pass a door from Newgate Gaol, which already had me creeped, and the mural itself was black and huge. But you kept picking out faces. I bought a postcard, I had to - true, it didn't convey being there, but the point of souveneirs is to remind you of good times, plus I want to support it. This is my postcard:

http://www.felikstopolski.com/chicago20.htm

It's of protests at Grant Park in the 60s, and I love the way the Riot Police form this unreal swarming wave over the picture.

Caelia arrives

The postcard did not leave me much for lunch. It's a travesty that you can't get a drink and a snack in central London for less than £5. I went to Cranberry, which is like pick'n'mix for adults/hippies/health-food-freaks/borgeosie, and was pestered by the girl behind the desk while I tried to assess the huge range of options. She finally ended up bullying me into getting a bag of honey-cashews, an act I only half resented - I'd intended to get something anyway, it was just the choice which had me stumped.

Caelia arrived about ten minutes later, and was quick to compliment my coat. Meeting people in public places is hard, so I tend to dress even more outlandishly than usual - and I'd promised to meet her dressed as Colin Baker's Doctor. We ambled across to catch a bus home - it's cheaper and nicer than the Tube, plus the 13 goes via Oxford Street, Baker Street, Trafalgar Square and Picadilly Circus. Caelia has never been to London, which resulted in me drowning her with my love for the city. Apparently, it's not like she expected - but she couldn't quite define what that was. More windey streets. Which struck me as so instinctively bizzare, because London is so much that gothic Victorian brickwork for it's underbelly, and that overwrought neo-classical Victorian architecture up top. We crossed Waterloo bridge, and I got excited for the both of us that we were passing Big Ben and the London Eye. Caelia was thoroughly absorbed by people-watching on the bus, and I can't blame her: it's one of the things I love best about the place. She later remarked that everyone seemed to be exaggerated types. She's right, but I wonder why? Is it because there are so many people that the real cliches stand out, or is it just this place?

Back with the Dude

Once we got home, I had to do the dishes then tidy my room. I'd been too busy working to do it before, and I'm ashamed to note both were in a state. Well, not that ashamed. Not ashamed at all. I had done my dishes, of course, before leaving Uni - but then we'd had an "end of term" party, which instantly undid my good work. Caelia looked through my drawings file while I did this, and then we played the Game.

This was, predictably, very funny, devious and overcomplicated. Tea was what could be scraped together - I produced Baileys, Peanut Butter, rice, dark chocolate, veggie sausages, smoothie, cereal bars, peas and egg fried rice, from which we made a nice dish. She was very enthusiastic about my new smoothie.


Watching a bit of Who
And then we trekked off to the TV room. Doctor Who is an infinite format, moving from space opera, via comedy, to gothic opera or pure science fiction. Four to Doomsday is the ultimate demonstration of this - it's completely and utterly nuts. It features repeated scenes of Chinese Dragon-dances and Aboriginal customs, on a spaceship orbiting Earth, ruled over by an incompetant space-frog named Monarch who thinks he is God - and whose master plan, by the way, is to travel faster than light so he can go back in time to the beginning of the universe, believing he will meet himself there. And there are robots. If you can handle all that - and it's easier than you think, as it's very well done on marvellously convincing sets - then this is a genius episode.

And it's got very good characterisation for three of the shows most misunderstood companions, which is why we watched it - Caelia loves Adric, and he's great in it. After that, we watched the Trial of a Timelord deleted scenes. Those for the awfully convoluted Terror of the Vervoids were particularly amusing, as taken out of context they made no sense at all. You could even have reinserted them at random, without making the plot any more clear - or any more confusing. I've always kidded that you could skip the third episode without losing anything from that episode. The whole Trial is 14 parts long. Vervoids part 3 is Trial episode 11, and by that point you really do want to get on with it. The idea of the episode 15 minutes longer causes me pain.

Two in particular, both Valeyard related ones, did not deserve to be cut. In those cut pieces, it appears one of his eyes is blue and the other brown. Not that there's a problem with that disability, but in context I found it very creepy. I do draw Valeyards, mossy with ink and shading - but when I got back to my room, I tried my best to draw him again: insane, with mismatched eyes, and totally Topolskified. Didn't wholly work, as my style is neat, precice and detailed - I can't bear to risk ruining a perfect work enough to ever be an impressionist. Even though at that moment, a portrait in thick black brush was exactly what I wanted to draw. I might practice this when I get home, because Topolski is my new hero.

We left after that, as poor Caelia had been travelling all day. We talked weddings, for a long time: dresses, bridesmaids dresses. Even though I'd rather not have a flashy wedding, I do know how I would have one. I don't like the cost, and I don't like the responsibility, and in all honesty, I'm not sure I could ever stand up and be that romantic in public. If I do marry, I want to know about an hour in advance. You're all invited to the party afterwards.

But it was fun to discuss colours and cloths for a bit, and Caelia explained her design for a subtle Dalek-inspired bridesmaid's dress. This blossomed into us trying to convert every Doctor Who villain into a wearable outfit, and some of the sketches will be on Deviant Art, once exams are over.

Day 2

SHOPPING SPREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We started on the Strand Stamp Centre, and Caelia thought I was joking when I said I had a local Doctor Who shop, but if you've been there you'll know it's heaven, more or less. I'd decided to buy, at long last, the 1986 Annual. I've looked at it longingly for several months now, and I was out of Colin Baker signables too. I'll discuss this more later, but it's not just about having an autograph - it does matter what gets signed, and I correctly decided the annual would be worth treasuring. I later saw the same annual for £10 cheaper at the convention, but didn't feel too bad about it. A shop wholly dedicated to Doctor Who can't be making that much, so a bit like buying at your local coffee shop instead of Starbucks, I feel duty bound to buy from there if anywhere. I always check there before Forbidden Planet, because I do want to support it: it feels like family. And the guy at the desk said hi, as always, and asked how I'd enjoyed the Easter special. I asked about the next signing, which I won't be going to, and he asked if I had a new hat. Hell, the shop is between my bus stop and my university - so if I get into London early, I always go in for a browse. It's a sort of home.

From there we moved up and onwards to Covent Garden. I've loved it ever since reading The Adventuress of Henrietta Street, a regency novel set there. It was part of my Jack the Ripper phase, and gave me a real sense of the age and history of the place. We watched the usual string quartet play Mozart, Purcell and the like, and then witnessed an appalling magic trick. We found a perfect 6th Doctor waistcoat for my costume, in multi-colour checks - but in £60 pure silk, so we passed by.

By that point I was feeling quite ill: I had the misfortune that the Dread Monthly Misfortune struck on two days in which I had to do a lot of walking. By the time we reached FCUK, I was feeling really queasy and had to sit down. Caelia had spotted from the bus that the brand had a tie in with the new Wolverine film, and she's a huge Wolverine fan, so we were there to look at their T-shirts. Wow - there was about 6 or 7 very nice designs indeed, the only problem being that they were naturally only men's styles. But she found a few she liked - helped, she says, by a very nice male shop assistant who assumed she was buying it for someone else - and with a little encouragement, tried them on.

I am staggered by how good it looks. I'm still staggered - it was a nice design, but you wouldn't see it and think "thats a men's tee" in the way one usually does with the nicest cult t-shirts. Plus, they were giving away free Wolverine dog-tags with them. Result = one very happy Caelia.

We then went next door, which had gorgeous dresses in a fantastic sale - one of the times I was glad I don't buy clothes unless I absolutely have to. I also kept an eye out for my green trainers I intend to buy, but saw nothing totally suitable.

From there onwards to Forbidden Planet! I'll never tire of that shop. Having Caelia there made me feel like I was on holiday, so I did indulge. In retrospect, I probably should have talked myself out of buying two packs of Watchmen armbands. I hated the little rubber band fashion, hated the hypocracy. Sure it was a great way to donate to charity, but once it was a fashion item I had six months of people proudly wearing their good deeds on their arms. Then the big brands noticed, made fashion variations without the charity element, and - oh, thank goodness that's gone.

But I want to wear a band reading "Rorschach is my hero" on my wrist, because he is, I love him to bits and want the world to know. Unfortunately, there were about 10 designs, but in pre-packaged packs, so you couldn't mix and match. A pity, as I'd still have bought 4 - but 4 I really wanted. I picked up a second pack, because there was one reading "I trust in Ozymandeus", and I simply couldn't resist it. They will probably end up in the sale, ultimately, in which case I'll hope that the third one I really wanted - "R.I.P. Edward Morgan Blake", with his dates - is still there.

I was also sorely tempted by the Rorshach steel lunchbox. Think of the versitility! By day, you can store your sandwiches and snacks - by night, perfect for transporting hacksaws, thumbscrews and other toys for punishing wrongdoers with! But I resisted.

In any case, Caelia also managed to find two of the Doctor Who Telos Novellas which had been mega reduced. The damn things are about £20, hardback and mega-exclusive, so I've never bought one, but she somehow managed to find two reduced to £6 which had been under my nose for months - both signed by the author, the editor, the artist and Sylvester McCoy. I find it hard to say no to Doctor Who books as it is, but the potential value of the thing in 20 years - the Telos books all had a limited run of 2000 - was a lovely excuse. Mine is number 1335.

Caelia spent more than I did. At this point, it's still within my memory to calculate how much that was by the end of the day - but I don't really want to do that, so I'm going to let myself forget. The only other moment of comedy was passing an item I've intended to get her for her birthday for over 8 months now, and managing to stand in front of it before she spotted it.

We broke for lunch at this point, at a lovely Indian restaurant which mugged Caelia with it's gorgeous smells as we walked past. I had a salad, she had a mini-curry, and the entire serving staff were apparently very amused that we'd both asked for tap water: on top of my salad were two green chillies. As if to say, if you're going to ask for water, we'll give you a reason to need it. Not in a nasty way - they made fun of me every time they passed, and I did give one of them three or four experimental nibbles. No way could I eat the lot! We shared ice creams for dessert.

Caelia decided she wanted a TARDIS key from the first shop, but I planned a roundabout route back. So we went through Chinatown, Leicester Square, Soho - my good work at persuading her that the area was fine, and I'd never seen an instant's trouble walking through there was spoilt for actually seeing trouble and feeling slightly endangered there for the first time in my life. Down via the joys of Berwick street, where Caelia picked up a Marvel heroes bag. I discovered that the corset I'd fallen in love with was still in the shop, and at a bargain price of £60. I may still return for it. The problem is my propensity for fainting - I'm not sure if I could ever wear it in public for a long space of time and be sure of being fine. Yet it does such wonders for posture...!

I need either Calypso to come with me and talk me into it, or my mum to come to London and give it the OK.

Back down Oxford Street, in and out of Dorothy Perkins, Marks and Spencers, all the way to Hamleys. Mainly because I wanted to show her the Narnia staircase. We also found a nice young man doing some brilliant magic tricks there. Outside we got ambushed by a fantastically cheery young woman, promoting Victoria Jackson products. She's the consultant on America's Next Top Model - possibly my favourite reality show, by the way - about to set up shop in London, and was doing some market research - which involved a truly awesome make-up deal. The fact her little bag of goodies was reduced all the way to £25 was not as shocking as the fact it would be £260 in stores once they opened. But apparently, according to Caelia, £25 for that amount of make-up full stop was a bargain. Let's put it this way: the girl told us the deal was £25 instead of £30 because they'd lost the gift bags. Caelia did go for it, although she later told me she'd never ever buy from the shop once it got going. For a store which marks it's prices up by £5 for a bag - well, I'm inclined to agree!

It was that that threw my schedule off - I was sure we'd make it back to the Strand in time, but that fifteen minutes were the deal breaker. It doesn't seem far to me, in my mind - but it is, and it was shut by the time we'd route-marched back. From there, we got the bus home - via the supermarket, where Caelia put herself in charge of tea (thank goodness) and we later made a cheap chillie. My part of the cooking was producing two Oreo shakes, and we discovered by chance that the perfect way to stop the biscuit settling at the top was to give it a stir with a Pocky stick.

Vapilla had returned by this point, so she joined us for three Games - one of which she won, the other two went to Caelia. We called it a night pretty early - both had to shower, I had to plait my hair, and we had to plan our bags for the Convention tomorrow.

Did we sleep, for excitement? Did we hell...

Full post on that coming shortly!