Love of the Day: Looking Up

'Lift up your eyes upon

The day breaking for you.'

Maya Angelou

London may not be full of the natural, untamed beauty that raises you out of yourself, lifts up your heart and refreshes you, that settles over you like a soft green veil - but it is full of man-made beauty along with the urban grit.  So much graceful architecture and history, creativity and interesting design around, it’s impossible not to marvel at it. And, every now and again, look up past it. 

Wherever you are in the world, whatever is going on in your life, you can always look up. The wide, wild sky is always there, with its changing colours and clouds. Its population of birds wheeling and living their fierce, free lives, independent of you or your human concerns. The tiny, high-up aeroplanes with their trails, escaping to somewhere far away and unknown.   It’s something I find oddly pleasing to remember. That there's one thing that you can do anywhere, as long as you are out of doors, to get a bit of different perspective on things.

You can look up in the countryside of course, but it’s particularly good if you’re ensconced in a city, with all its busy-ness and built-up streets - it can be so easy to get caught up with all the stuff going on at ground level. With a million signs, window displays, interesting places and people, traffic, adverts and lights everywhere, there’s a whole lot of distraction always there to suck you in.  (That’s not even counting the ever-present internal monologue that can take over from reality at any time, making the actuality of your environment all but invisible). 

Apart from the sky though, I love looking up at the funny little things to be found stuck on the tops of buildings. Weathervanes and decorations, domes and spires and little turrets. Interesting pieces of art or graffitti, tiles, signs and window-boxes. Sometimes there are whole gardens up there, or roof-top bars strung with fairy lights that you would never normally notice.  Sometimes there are people who have climbed out of a random window, just hanging out on a ledge above everyone's heads.  And there's also something to be said for just the loveliness of the outlines of buildings and trees against the sky. If I'm feeling particularly vague and floaty, I like just noticing the shapes that they make and pretending that I'll try and draw them one day (I never do).

Occasionally in the morning I get lucky and nab myself a seat at the front of the top deck on the bus (to any readers of the last post - my commute has now changed!) and then I get to have the unadulterated pleasure of being swung through the streets, with my music in my ears and all the good stuff spooling out before me, just looking up.

Bug of the Day: Commuting Into Central London During Rush Hour

Photo by DAVID ILIFF. License: CC-BY-SA 3.0

I've recently started working in Central London, which means I have no choice but to travel in to the depths of Dante's Inferno during rush hour. Uurrrrrgggggggh. I kind of knew doing this was gonna be a bit hectic and tiring, but HOLY CRAP, I have never experienced anything like it. An hour and a quarter of unadulterated misery, twice a day, day in and day out.  How do people - so very, very many people, in fact - do this??!

I now start my mornings with an invigorating sprint to the local train station, ram myself into a train packed to the rafters with puffy-faced office workers  (there's no hope of a seat. Ever. Not even if you get up at 6am), and proceed to take part in a game of uncomfortable Commuter Twister: balanced on one leg, an arm behind my back hanging onto the nearest pole, face squashed against someone's pinstriped arm, I sway along with the sleepy crowd down the tracks to Waterloo.  Spat out into a maelstrom of humanity, faces looming into mine, people striding in every conceivable permutation of a direction, clashing, tutting and huffing, tripping over each others heels, clipping sides with newspapers, umbrellas, bags, ducking, dodging, sidestepping... I arrive at work every day reeling, exhausted and with the knowledge that the same in reverse awaits me at the end of the day sitting on my shoulders, like a wretched crow.

The first day that I did this I arrived home with actual bruises from the journey, having been trodden on by a crocodile of French teenagers near Covent Garden and then smacked into by a woman running headlong for her connection at Waterloo (lady, you cannot run at Waterloo at 6pm, you are literally just beating people up with your front).

In short, Central London at rush hour makes me feel like a sheep - one of a million poor, stupid creatures being herded along, up stairs and through stiles, bumping into each other, clashing hooves and climbing over each other's backs - an angry, angry, trampled sheep.  BAAAAAAAA!!!!

Bug of the Day, oh yes indeedy.  Bug of the Day every single blimmin' weekday stretching into eternity, UGH. Good job I like my new work, that's all I can say!

Love of the Day: The Yarn Section of John Lewis

You may have noticed that knitting has had something of a revival in recent years, along with other 'granny chic' things like old-lady clothes, dyed white/grey hair (I will never understand that one) and chintzy decor.  I don't suppose knitting's popularity will last forever, but will eventually fade back to its traditional place as a hobby for those who are drawn to the homemade and crafty, the older lady, or...  those who have become ADDICTED! Like my flatmate, who has recently discovered it and become completely hooked almost overnight.  There will probably be quite a few people in this category - if you've never tried it, I think you'd be surprised at just how addictive knitting is. Once you start it is genuinely very difficult to stop, the productive nature of the growing rows of stitches in itself leading you on.  'One more line' becomes ten, and then twenty and then before you know it it's 1am, you've gone blind and have a serious case of RSI, plus a scarf longer than anyone could ever realistically wear. Yes, it's the least glamorous addiction ever, but none the less compulsive!

Personally I dabbled with knitting both as a child and a few years ago as a member of a slightly alcoholic, late-twenties craft group a la Stich n Bitch, but it's never really taken.  Something about the needles and their sinister association with botched abortions maybe? In any case, I find crochet more manageable and, what with the knitting-crazed flatmate and the coming on of the colder weather, I have recently taken up with it again. It's addictive nature (and elderly lady-ness) is basically the same as knitting and I am currently suffering from 'crochet claw' and a feverish need to make THE BIGGEST CIRCLE/BLANKET YOU HAVE EVER SEEN.  Luckily it can be done whilst chatting, eating, drinking and watching Netflix so the effects on my lifestyle have been minimal.  

I'll let you in on a little secret though, the main reason for my rediscovered love of crochet is this:

Pic borrowed from hooksandbakes.blogspot

What you are looking at there, my friends, is the Knitting Yarn section of John Lewis.  This place is like a wonderful, colourful, fluffy, neatly organised version of heaven.  The hushed feeling of gluttonous wonder I get when I enter it is something akin to what I believe some feel in stationery and art supply shops, but trust me, this is better. Because you can touch the colours! And they feel good! They are soft and fuzzy and squidgy and if only you were allowed to pull all of the balls off the shelves you could make them into a giant woolly ball pool and roll around in them! Obviously I would never do such a thing, but you know, if you were allowed.

The best thing about the whole experience for me though, is that it doesn't feel stressful and slightly guilt-ridden like shopping for things like clothes does, but actually constructive and creative. Rather than just consuming (although of course it is still nasty consumerist feeding of the capitalist machine etc. - it's shopping in John Lewis after all, not owning your own alpaca and spinning the wool off its back), you are obtaining the materials for a project to make something - hopefully - beautiful and useful. As you wander round putting your sticky fingers all over the merchandise, you are colour combining and imagining and envisioning and getting inspired. It's the perfect storm of greed, appreciation and creativity and I want to live in it forever! 

For those who feel the same as I do about all this, here's a little something to finish off with, a little yarn porn if you will:

Pic borrowed from cobblehillpuzzles.com

Mmmmmmmmmmmm, come to Mama's crochet claws my pretties!

Love of the Day: Great Waves by Dirty Three

Okay, so after last weeks' incredibly wordy post (seriously, all of those adverbs! What was I thinking?! At least 70% of those are coming out before that goes in my imaginary writing portfolio), today I bring you a lazy song post, almost completely free of babble.  Well, it is a bank holiday weekend after all.

I discovered this track a few years ago when I was feasting upon anything I could find with violins in it (Dirty Three definitely have violins), and subsequently forgot about it completely.  But I happened to watch a trapeze video on YouTube today which had this song as a soundtrack and remembered how lovely it is. Cat Power/Chan Marshall's voice is deliciously hypnotic, perfect for a drifty, zoned-out Sunday afternoon.  Or anytime really, let's face it.  Anyway, I'll shut up and let you listen - enjoy!

Love of the Day: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt*

I've never written anything approaching a book review before. Or, come to think of it, even talked very much about the contents of anything I've read - which is kind of strange for a self-confessed book nerd who tends towards the opinionated! 

I have of course deeply loved books I've read - and deeply hated others.  I've laughed at books, been moved by them, disgusted by them, inspired by them and wept over them (many times). I've consumed them in tiny sections at a time to make the pleasure last as long as possible,  deserted them halfway through, felt bereft when they were over, as if I had lost a friend, and thought about them whilst doing other things.  I've read them over breakfast, coffee, lunch and dinner, taken them to work with me, brought them to the beach and on picnics.  I've used books as pillows, furniture, decoration, shields against unwanted conversation, distraction, consolation, comfort, escape, even as a way to judge another's character (pretentious I know), but I've never really discussed their contents. I've never been a member of a book club, never posted my opinions up on Amazon or Goodreads, and I dropped English A-Level like a hot potato after getting my first and last 'N' grade for an essay about Hamlet *shudder*.  I have by and large just kept books in my head after reading, filed away on little shelves labeled 'Yes' and 'No', and been quite content with that.

But actually, I think it's high time I have a go at getting further than 'OMG this book is AMAZING, I loved it!' and try to express exactly why I liked a particular book so much.  And since it is definitely my Love of the Day, if not the Year, the honoured tome (lol) on which I have decided to bestow my feeble first attempt is The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.

OMG this book is AMAZING, I loved it!! 

Just kidding.

Without wanting to do the spoiler thing, in a nutshell The Goldfinch is the story of Theodore Decker, a boy whose mother is killed in a bomb blast at an art gallery in New York and the myriad ways that his life is changed by the repercussions of this event. Not my usual cup of tea to be honest, but I was looking for something long enough to keep me going for a while, so I checked out the sample of it on my e-reader and got drawn in immediately. 

It may sound strange, but reading this book felt, to me, like waking up in my own bed at home. Not any adult bed in any current / recent home, but that bed in the eternal nostalgic home of childhood that you sometimes imagine you are still in for a split second upon waking.  The bedroom where everything felt safe and comforting and looked-after. The bed that was yours when the world was still a mysterious, amazing, exciting place, full of potential and out there waiting to be discovered - but, reassuringly, you didn't have to actually do it just yet.  I started reading The Goldfinch during a pretty shifting-sands, turbulent few weeks in my life and it was a total balm for my soul.  It reminded me, somehow - even though I have little in common with the characters and the story-line is completely remote from my existence - of who I am and what I want, what I enjoy of the world. 

Tartt manages to convey both the inner and the outer worlds of her protagonist, all the way from pre-teen boy through to mid-twenties adult man, using the notoriously tricky first-person and it's absolutely convincing.  You never question the authenticity of his voice for one second and that's quite a feat, considering that the subject matter includes: love at first sight, homosexual experimentation, drug and alcohol consumption, post-traumatic stress disorder, theft, being fostered, and several bereavements.  There's nothing trite, patronising, or try-hard about it.  Tartt isn't trying to be 'down with the kids', or edgy, or use the story to get a moral message across.  It just feels real.  You are Theo; you understand him.  The very internal-ness of the writing allows it to speak directly to the readers own interior, creating an intimate, dream-like connection.  

The novel consistently navigates difficult waters delicately and elegantly, always acheiving grace and substance, evading any hint of tackiness or cliche.  The portrayal of Boris, for example - Russian by way of Poland, Australia and Las Vegas, Boris speaks an eccentric, slightly broken English, drinks heavily, leads Theo astray, and eventually becomes some kind of international gangster - could so easily have descended into spoofish ridicule, but Tartt's perfectly pitched rendering of him results instead in an endearing, intelligent and rounded character. Similarly, one of the most significant elements of the story, Theo's first encounters with Pippa when they are both still very young, is related so beautifully that this small hook is strong enough, credible enough, to hang the obsession of his later years on.  These pivotal yet brief meetings between what are, essentially, two children could so easily have been indulgently saccharine, or even worse - the opposite - precociously and inappropriately adult.  But in Tartt's skilled hands it is innocent, simple and dignified.  

The jewels in this author's crown, though, are her rich, glimmering descriptive passages. They are so evocative and atmospheric, I basically want to wallow in them forever. From noir-ish hotel rooms in Amsterdam, to upper-class, antique-strewn apartments in New York, to soulless, barren Las Vegas suburbia, its all just... beautiful. There's no other word for it.

Everything about this book is utterly addictive, nuanced, satisfyingly profound and aesthetically comforting.  I am no English Lit student - as I'm sure is abundantly clear from this pile of steaming waffle - and I have no real idea where to begin with technical analysis or critique, but I do know that this book is a damn fine creation.  It's stunning. I delayed finishing it by over a month just so that it wouldn't be over and now it is I feel sad and desperate for more.  I would literally kill to be able to write like her.

Apparently Ms Tartt only publishes one book every ten years and I guess it's worth the wait when they're this good. Luckily for me though there are two previous novels and I, for one, will be devouring them over breakfast, coffee, lunch and dinner for the next few months.  

You probably should too, you know - I mean, I don't like to be pushy, her work might not be for everyone. But go on, READ SOME TARTT.

*Have I written this whole post purely for an excuse to repeat the surname 'Tartt', which I find highly amusing, over and over again? Possibly... I couldn't look you in the eye and deny it...

Love AND bug of the Day: Being Approachable

I don't know what it is about me, whether I look particularly sweet and innocent, safe, kind (ha!) or what, but I seem to be endlessly approachable.  If there is someone on any given street that I happen to be walking down who needs directions, the time, or advice on how to use something (twice now I've given lessons on how to top up your Oyster card!), they will definitely ask me.  The other day a man on a bike even accosted me as I was crossing the road to ask "Where is this place?" Bless him.

Apparently this face says 'Hi, I'm super nice!. Ask me anything and I'll do my best to help!'. GRR.

The whole thing is pretty hilarious as I'm actually a very grumpy, hostile person when approached in the street by strangers. Plus I'm seriously bad at giving directions. The expression on the face of the directions-requester usually turns from hope to bewilderment, followed by embarrassment and finally regret, whilst I'm there going 'Oh.. yeah, I know where that is! Or do I?... I think if you go straight down here, then turn right at the lights... no wait that's somewhere else.  Just a second...'  Telling the time I can usually do, I'll admit.  And I'm a total expert on how to top up your Oyster card now I've been in London for ALL OF THREE SECONDS people - Jeez, LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

Anyway, I am including this as a 'Love' because actually it's quite nice to think that I look pleasant and friendly as I go about my business (maybe) and also because occasionally the approacher is a dashing young man... ehem... But I'm also including it as a 'Bug' because a) nine times out of ten the approacher is the odorous trampy type, is somewhat creepy and/or has a general aura of psychosis floating around them and b) just - Jeez, LEAVE ME ALONE!!! Bah!

Bug of the Day: The Lone Magpie

Pic borrowed from chesterfieldpagans.org

As a highly superstitious country bumpkin, it tends to darken my day a shade when I spot a lone magpie (one = sorrow, two = joy, in case you weren't aware). It's even worse if this Bird of Unluck appears when I'm in a crowded urban area, since the usual techniques of protection (doffing my invisible cap in its general direction and crying 'Morning magpie! How's your wife?') are rendered more than a little embarrassing/likely to mark me out as a lunatic.  What if all the other people around don't KNOW about the necessary defense techniques against the sorrow just one magpie on its own is certain to bring??!

Its not exactly a large Bug this one, I know, merely a little greenfly in the grand scheme of things.  But it does make me very uncomfortable when such an event occurs, as it did today.  I was just standing there innocently on a busy train platform when I spotted the dratted thing fluttering around on the other side of the tracks - prompting a good five minutes of teeth-clenching while my right hand twitched at my side, aching to reach up for that non-existent cap.  In the end I had to settle for silently mouthing the required magical phrase and praying that it would piss off.

Begone O Portent of Dooooom!

(Yes, I also try to avoid breaking mirrors, spilling salt and walking over drains/under ladders AND I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK OF ME! Unless you're standing next to me in a public place obvs).

Love of the Day - How Many of 'Them Foreign Types' There Are in London

You may have noticed that I heartlessly abandoned this blog and went off with a whole other more topical one about Taiwan, in the manner of a fickle friend. Well, as such capricious folks are wont to do, I have returned to take up my seat at this table again, smiling broadly, as if I had never been away. Hello Love/Bug! How the devil are you? It's been too long!

Photo borrowed from theprisma.co.uk

I read the other day that one in three people living in London is an immigrant. Apparently for some Brits this is a cause for concern - the media obsession with this topic means we've all been exposed to the bleating about some people taking other people's jobs, loss of 'British'ness in certain areas and the other ignorant, close-minded crap that is spouted by UKIP types - and, well, obviously everyone is entitled to an opinion, but I personally couldn't disagree more. I LOVE how many foreigners there are in London. It is in fact, the only reason I am here, both literally, in that a close 'foreign' friend is currently letting me stay with them, and because the multiculturalism of the capital is one of the few aspects I find attractive about it over other British cities. London is, after all, also overwhelming, crime-ridden, insanely overpriced... all that unpleasant stuff.

I'm not saying I'm any kind of virtuous, inclusive, pro-integration-working paragon or anything, my reasons for enjoying London's mix of nationalities are entirely selfish: first and foremost, I just love walking around and seeing a giant variety of humans. It's interesting. The more different people look from each other, the more diversely they are dressed, the more fun watching them is (in the least creepy way possible). And, being a bit of a linguaphile, I also very much like the fact that I can go shopping in Kingston - hardly even the most diverse of London's neighbourhoods - and hear Polish, Spanish, French, Chinese, and other languages I don't know enough to identify, spoken around me. It's cool! How is that not cool?!

Photo borrowed from orugallo.net

Even if you don't think it's as great as I do, you surely have to agree about the access to different cuisines. You can literally eat dishes from anywhere you care to in London. Iraqi maqluba? No problem. Taiwanese gua bao? Yup. SomalI cambuulo? Sure. And if you want Chinese, Japanese or Indian food that actually tastes something vaguely like the dishes found in those countries - you can get it here!! (I mean, apparently. I'm personally living on gruel in the hope of saving up the king's ransom you need to rent a room around here *sigh*). You could probably also find someone to teach you to cook any national dish you can think of, any musical instrument, any language, any style of dance, or song, art technique - anything!

I guess, really, all of the reasons I like the amount of foreign-ness going on in London so much can be encapsulated as follows: it's like being able to live in a dozen countries at once, with access to all those different cultures, but without the tiresome nuisance of culture shock, without needing to learn each of the dozen languages (unless you want to, like me. FEED ME NEW LANGUAGES, FEEED MEEE...), a fraction of the travel costs and all the comforts of home.

What's not to love about that? All of the lazy and all of the fun, at the same time!

Unless of course you have no interest in any of the above, are scared of difference, have no sense of adventure and enjoy your world a soothing shade of beige, in which case - yes, I am judging you. I think you should go and live somewhere more boring. And I'm entitled to that opinion.

Love of the Day - Pinterest

Ah, Pinterest; the shiny repository of the (not-at-all-) secret hopes and aesthetically pleasing dreams of so many.

I have to confess that when I first heard of Pinterest I was furious.  Furious and somewhat sniffy, since, back in 2006 when I was just getting to grips with the brave new world of MySpace/Facebook, I came up with a fabulous idea.  What if there was some kind of site where people could have a page where they display all the stuff they liked? Pictures of things, and lists, and music thingys - all that? 'It could be called TasteMaker!!' I excitedly pitched to my completely disinterested boyfriend of the time.  Alas, however, for I knew nothing about website creation and was distracted by a passing danish pastry so the idea slipped back into the nothingness that was my brain back then (also now).

Perhaps understandable then, that I was slightly annoyed when I discovered a bunch of people had quite clearly stolen my idea and named it 'Pinterest', PFF! and proceeded to deny them the gift of my patronage for ages after it became obvious that I would love it?  In March last year, however, I decided to switch off my Facebook account and find some other 'more creative, inspirational' form of social networking/wasting my life away staring at the internet.  And oh the wonders that I discovered there.  The lovely pictures, the pretty pretty pictures of loveliness! The beautiful scenery, amazing artwork, ingenious craft, the sumptuous dishes, the cosy homes, the exquisite-looking humans! All suffused with light and joy and the promise of better things to come...

Here I am, squatting in a stranger's house, masquerading as some kind of waitressing cat-slave, in the suburbs of February-sodden Glasgow and it's fine, IT'S ALL FINE! Because I have Pinterest.  In particular my 'Beat the Winter Blues' pinboard, filled with pictures of bright, happy things, sunny places and orange:

Armed with Pinterest, I will make it through - make it through until the warmer weather comes, make it through until I find out I HAVE got PhD funding and make it through until I suddenly discover I am able to cook elaborate and delicious foods, sew complicated quilt designs and achieve insane amounts of yoga/trapeze flexibility, all with no effort whatsoever.

Yes.

Love of the Day: I Break Horses

Oops, bit of a gap since the last post, sorry! I have had a brain full of bland, grey mizzle for the last week and haven't really felt any love for, or been bugged by, anything much (unless you count painfully falling over a cat and down the stairs, incurring a giant purple bruise on my ass.  That did bug me a little.  In case you're wondering, the cat escaped unharmed the little bastard).

Anyhow, I've been listening to a few tracks by I Break Horses and one of them has sent a thin ray of sunshine through the brain-clouds so I thought I would share it:



It's been perfect for walking around Glasgow to - just uplifting enough to stop me throwing myself under a passing bus, but not so ridiculously cheerful that it clashes inappropriately with the nasty dank weather and bleak surroundings, hurrah!

I Break Horses are Scandinavian (Swedish), just like everything else I've been enjoying recently it seems.  I dream of going there someday soon.... in the summer when it gets lighter and stuff.  Scotland is enough for now!!

Love of the Day - Lindt Pistachio Delight Chocolate*

Being something of an experimental glutton when it comes to chocolate, I have a shamefully extensive knowledge of the 'slightly expensive and large' chocolate bar section of the supermarket.  You name it, I've tried it. I've had 'em all, like some kind of chocolate whore (except obviously I was  the one paying).

It all began in Edinburgh, summer of 2004, when I happened to buy a bar of Green & Black's dark chocolate with cherries.  We had a whirlwind romance, the two of us, lasting for that whole magical summer, but it all came to an abrupt end when my head was turned by the same brand's Maya Gold.  I was faithful to Maya for a few years but it got stale; I grew bored. In Ritter Sport's Marzipan, I thought I'd found my perfect match, but eventually my love for that faded too.  I moved on, lost in a series of brief dalliances, Lindt's Mint Intense, Coconut Intense, the edgy cool of Montezuma's Sea Dog... but now, now all that's about to change.

I've found The Chocolate One.

The perfect amount of dark chocolate, silkily coating the nutty filling - a hint of marzipanishness from the almond pieces, the creamy pistachio... stuff.. leaving your palate Turkish Delight-ed (see what I did there?). Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm *Homer Simpson-esque drooling noises*

Try it, I DARE YOU. Come, share my new and terrible addiction to this overpriced sugary crap!!!


*Please note that I am in no way affiliated with / sponsored by Lindt Sprungli. But I would very much like to be.  

Love of the Day - The Sochi Winter Olympics Opening Ceremony Sun

(AP Photo/David J. Phillip)

 

 

Second in brilliance only to the ACTUAL sun (this one is more stylised, but the actual sun is responsible for all life on earth, so I guess it wins). 

Bug of the Day - February

(Okay so this should be, by definition, 'Bug of the Month', but I'm trying to establish my format here so let's just ignore that).

Before I start today's mega-whinge, I would like to state that I am pro-winter.  I love the opportunities it gives me to break out the scarves and gloves, layer on clothes, cosy up to the radiator and eat mounds of stodgy food.  What can I say? I'm British! I greet November every year with gleeful anticipation of the stews, hotpots, potatoes, pies, mulled wine, mini stollen bites, eggnog, snowballs and mince pies to come. And Bonfire Night - what's not to love about Bonfire Night?! December brings birthdays, Christmas and NYE (something to at least focus on through the short days even if you're not the biggest fan of those occasions).  January is full of good intentions and resolutions, the distraction of belt-tightening and optimistic exercise.

But February? February is an odious toad of a month - nothing but unmitigated, grinding drabness.  The weather is at best grey and freezing, at worst blizzardy or flood-ridden.  By the time February arrives all of the New Year's resolutions have been broken, everyone is confronting their own weakness in the face of temptation and we have all just HAD ENOUGH of winter. But there's still at least a month or two before the weather starts to warm up, plants start to stir or the sun rises for long enough for anyone to actually notice. 

As if all that wasn't enough, February also contains the most abhorrent holiday of all the fake greeting-card company created celebrations: Valentines Day.  It's not just that I'm a bitter spinster who is filled with jealousy at all those who are in love/yoked to another human being, I hate Valentines Day when I'm in a relationship too.  The pink, the hearts, the cheesy obligatory gifts of flowers, stuffed toys and chocolate, the forced coupleyness, ugh ugh UGH it's just vile!

So, February, frankly you suck.  In the more financially affluent years that I'm sure are just around the corner for me, I will definitely be taking some kind of sunshine-filled beach holiday in order to escape you.  In the meantime I am reduced to using Home and Away as my only source of Vitamin D.

Love of the Day - The Great Interior Design Challenge

Picture: BBC/Studio Lambert/Nicky Brewin

I am completely addicted to this programme. If you've not seen it, it is basically the perfect combination of Changing Rooms and the Culture Show (what with Tom Dyckhoff and everything), interspersing scenes of paint-spattered amateur interior designers - all huge-eyed with caffeine and desperation to win on the back of their beautiful, yet also hasty and slapdash, living room revamps - at work, with charming vignettes of cheeky Tom telling us about things like Brutalist architecture.  I suspect I'm developing a weird little crush on Tom, but I think he's probably gay.  Is he gay?  If not, it could be so lovely, the two of us punting down a summer river in Oxford while he waxes lyrical about the history of... something or other... this daydream almost entirely stems from the fact that he wears a lot of stripy t-shirts and blazers, obviously.

Anyhow, EHEM, back to The Great Interior Design Challenge.  It's made me think about Interior Design, for the first time since 1998! It makes me imagine, for at least ten minutes every evening, that I would quite like to be an interior designer myself. That is, until I remember that I think that particular job is frivolous and vacuous and meaningless.  But is it though?  Isn't it important what kind of spaces we live in, what we are surrounded by in our daily lives?  Alain de Botton certainly thinks so, and I'm inclined to agree.  So if having a beautiful lounge improves our mental health, lifts our mood and inspires us, surely that means 'Interior Designer' is a worthwhile career to have? Then again, if people are really that bothered about the appearance of the inside of their homes, can't they just make it look nice themselves? Hmmm.

I don't know.  My most recent life aspiration has been to subsistence-farm out of a backwoods cabin home in which I have made everything myself from rough-hewn logs and homespun hemp, anything else being a disgusting waste of money, resources and carbon.  But maybe that's actually not what I want at all, maybe what I really want is to have a directional haircut and wave fabric swatches around convincing people to pay me to have someone paint their walls apricot and duck-egg blue. I did find myself thumbing through an 'artistic spaces' book in the library the other day, what does this mean? Oh TGIDC, you have me bewitched and bewildered!

Anyhow, it's great and the final is on TV tonight.  I'll be watching and, afterwards, weeping a little as I face the rest of the year/life (I don't know, will they do another series?) with a gaping, empty hour from 7pm to 8pm every weeknight.