Saturday, November 14, 2009

The Psychic Dutchman


Yesterday, Veronica, Suzan and I embarked on a quest to unlock the mysteries of the universe, with a psychic reading. Obviously this required a pre- and post-psychic pint where we could compare notes.

My opinion on psychics is hopelessly contradictory. On the one hand I realise a lot of amateur psychology is involved. I mean, what woman in her early 30s isn't probably struggling with career and/or romance if they have chosen to talk to a psychic? You're hardly going to go in there and say "actually everything's fine, I just felt like paying 35 quid for you to tell me all my concerns are completely unfounded" are you?

On the other hand, I have always been somehow convinced that there is more to life than what we can see, even if it's quantum physics or biology.

So, when Veronica and I met up this week to share our woes over a vodka cranberry, we decided now was the time.

When I went in to see my psychic, the first thing I thought was the rather unspiritual, "haha, I think he's Dutch". Considering my experiences in Holland were less than brilliant and much of last weekend was spent with my ex-boyfriend constructing a "GERMAN BORDER POLICE DUTCH IDENTIFICATION PROGRAM", this was funny in itself, and seemed oddly like some sort of sign.

But I've come out of there even more confused than when I went in. The kindly Dutchman tried, but I suspect he sugar-coated what looked like a pretty painful set of tarot-cards. It looks to me like I am destined for a bunch of pain and heartache, not as bad as I had before though, but will meet my soulmate within the next two years (who is most likely someone new, or could be at least a new situation with someone I already know - but in any case it will definitely be a new start.) Even then though there will be struggle, and I will have to stand up for myself and fight for it. He said in the next two years I'll transform my life. He also said there could be something there with an ex but asked if I wanted to pursue it.

Now if we apply a bit of BBC-standard journalistic analysis to this, it seems to me that that is pretty much standard advice that could apply to absolutely any situation, anyone and their ex, and anyone and their future. In fact Veronica, Suzan and I all got pretty similar advice really, when you get down to it (although only Veronica's going to be raking in the cash. And at least I wasn't told that my ex-boyfriend is evil, unlike someone who shall remain nameless!)

So in short, I'm not sure what the hell to do next. This kind of thing is also dangerously addictive - "just one more reading then I'll believe that one..." It's taken a lot of willpower to not whip out the (banned) credit card and send off for an online reading from a random woman in Australia.

I think rather than trust in psychics, I'm going to apply the advice of Dr Emmett Brown in Back To The Future III, when Marty says, "But what does it MEAN, Doc?" And good old Dr Brown replies: "Your future hasn't been written yet, no-one's has - your future is whatever you make it!" Sorry Psychic Dutchman, I'm sure there was a lot of truth in what you said, but there is also a lot of truth in the words of a fictional scientist with an awesome DeLorean.

Sunday, November 01, 2009

Budget.


I have come to the conclusion that there is no-one in the world worse at budgeting than me. Puzzlingly, budgeting is part of my job. When I'm at work, it all seems to go fine (probably because it's someone else's money, so I can remove myself from the emotional turmoil and don't get heart palpitations when I go to open spreadsheets).

But at home, it's another story.

No matter how many well-meaning spreadsheets I create, iPhone apps I download, meal-planner supermarket shops I painstakingly devise or credit cards I hide from myself, I have come to accept that I am terminally, utterly hopeless. I know people who earn a lot less than me who seem to flit endlessly around the planet without a care in the world: which means it's all my fault.

It's very depressing. I think I need a husband to manage my salary and only give me an allowance every month.

The current potential solutions are:

1 - Become a millionaire
This would be, on the face of it, the ideal solution. I'd rather not rely on someone else, so having my own million in the bank would work. Obviously, the question is how to bring about this state of affairs, unless the million is referring to rupees or monopoly money.

2 - Marry a millionaire
While not as satisfying as being a millionaire in my own right, still an acceptable solution. Probably more likely to actually maintain the millionaire status as well.

3 - Marry an accountant
This would possibly help me to remain solvent, if not quite a millionaire. However, no offence to accountants, but I suspect it wouldn't exactly be an exciting marriage defined by unbridled passion and a common love for adventure. So it probably wouldn't last very long, and would leave me back at square 1.

4 - Turn our dog into a cashcow
This has been an idea kicking around for a while. Our dog, Chad, manages to incite people to pull faces in the street, and consider starting their own charities or robbing their grandmothers to secure the cash to buy an identical dog. We have even been asked to breed or clone him, something along the lines of a "dog factory" (sadly, since the canine in question can't reproduce, this isn't an option). So far however, Chad has failed to provide for us, other than procuring some free chicken bones from the security guard downstairs.

5 - Reject the actual concept of money-based value
Since all previous options have failed, perhaps a life as a hippy on the streets of Delhi or as a monk in Tibet may hold the answer. But since a nomadic hippy lifestyle probably doesn't include a new Macbook Pro, satisfying career prospects or regular visits to my beloved friends in Stockholm, I'm not sure it's a realistic answer. Plus a girl needs new shoes every now and then.

I think constantly failing at this aspect of life also causes me to fail at others - for instance marrying anyone, let alone a millionaire. So perhaps defining myself by anything to do with money is a fatal mistake. Money can't buy everything after all.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Three Days of David Lynch

I am not sure what effect three days inhabiting the Lynchian universe can do to one's brain, but I'm about to find out. As soon as the opening credits of Blue Velvet popped and crackled, slightly out of focus, onto the tiny screen at the Tate Modern, it all came rushing back: for you see, David Lynch changed my life.

When I was about 16, I discovered Mr Lynch. I worked my way from Eraserhead (taped on worn VHS cassettes from late night showings on Australia's excellent public broadcasters) through Elephant Man and eventually to Twin Peaks, via a lot of academic textbooks on Lynchian symbolism and a hearty crush on Kyle MacLachlan circa 1986 (a crush which, after this evening's viewing, I wholeheartedly endorse). Unfortunately for me, I discovered Twin Peaks just as I was about to graduate from high school. Not only did this seriously threaten the likelihood that I would actually graduate, it meant that while most of our contemporaries spent their post-graduation vacation recovering from horrendous hangovers -- (Schoolies Week, it's euphemistically called in Australia, basically a two week cycle of binge drinking and sunbathing) -- my friends and I spent ours recovering from horrendous hangovers, while watching cassette tape after cassette tape of Twin Peaks. This was of course washed down with coffee - black as midnight on a moonless night, no less; doughnuts and cherry pie (my friend Amy even managed to learn how to tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue, a la Audrey Horne, earning the respect of many a drunken university student who attempted to gatecrash our parties).

I am not sure what this did to our impressionable young minds, plied as they were with whatever horrendous cocktails we had managed to invent from stockpiled cheap sparkling wine and Malibu, but for me it sparked a lifelong devotion to film and photography and appreciating when accidents spark something interesting and looking for the mystery in everything. (It also set me up pretty well for getting through the next four years of university). One friend even used to declare his religion as "Lynchian" and bought me a Dennis Hopper tshirt for my 18th birthday. It said something like "Don't you fuckin' look at me" on it. Mum wasn't impressed.

Sadly, I am going to this three day Lynchfest at the Tate Modern alone. My cherry-pie eating friends are far flung, and I miss them more than ever today. Tomorrow I will spend an entire day surrounded by academics discussing the symbolism of ears and eyes and undulating velvet curtains. Maybe a dubious enterprise. But my friend Kat in New York assures me, "If anyone is qualified to deal with the possibly disastrous fallout from such a venture it's you".

Saturday, August 15, 2009

In Defence of the Library

Lately I've been struggling with my health. After a holiday in Sweden in which I was mysteriously fine, I have been struck down yet again with some kind of flu. The attack occurred just minutes after I had my first contact with the Piccadilly line in several months. Coincidence, or allergy to London? You decide.

Anyway, this bout of flu has got me so exhausted that I have been couch-bound. Unfortunately this caused me to have to report to a guy I've been dating today that I have been "making garlic soup and joining the library", quite possibly the most unattractive sentence that I could have concocted and which made me cringe as it came out of my mouth. He probably thinks I'm making it up in a passive-agressive rejection tactic. (To his credit, he didn't immediately hang up and block my number.) Him being the sporty type, I didn't dare go into further details - not that he asked - but secretly, joining the library has actually cheered me up immensely. Let me explain.

Today I ran out of books and DVDs and, prompted by my flatmate, reluctantly joined the local library. The building is not the most architecturally fascinating in the world - a dark, standard council block which despite bright banners looks condemned for demolition (which it may very well be). I imagined it would be a dusty, dismal place for those sheltering from the demands of normal society... which ok it sort of was, but I also had to apply the sickeningly appropriate maxim "don't judge a book by it's cover".

Someone who runs the Hackney libraries actually has pretty good taste. In the DVD selection I was surprised to see they even have the director's cut of Evil Dead, The Office Christmas Specials and some obscure Japanese mafia movies, although the guy in the queue behind me was disappointed to discover they were copy protected. ("Bastards at the BFI," he whispered conspiratorially). The library *is* a refuge for some strange people who hide away worryingly in the crime section or shuffle about talking to themselves behind the large print aisle, but they are relatively harmless (and probably being filmed by at least 10 CCTV cameras at any given time.)

Delighted at finding this local gem, I enthusiastically stocked up on bleak Swedish mystery novels and strange Japanese fantasies before heading to Sainsburys to procure enough garlic and broccoli to neutralise this flu... and hopefully not the potential date.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Old before my time

Right. The bladder control ads are the final straw. Since when has 30 been considered so damn old?

This morning as I watched a decidedly young person's tv show while cooking a fry up to counteract a decidedly young person's hangover, an ad came on with the following voiceover "Now that I'm in my 30s, I need a little extra help. But with TENA control pads, I don't need to worry about bladder control" or something like that - all over the top of 50 year old women sitting in a sunny field and (presumably) reminiscing nostalgically for the good old days. This has confirmed two suspicions of mine: 1. That in Britain, 30 is seen as nigh on over the hill, and 2. That advertisers are disturbingly out of touch with how 30-somethings live these days.

On point 1, I have noticed a trend in magazines to dismiss 30 somethings as "old", going so far as to describe various Botox and liposuction procedures available for the 'older woman', and helpfully suggest a migration towards more conservative apparel. Even, in a magazine I recently decided NOT to buy, that women in their 30s should without exception prioritise love over career. I guess if you haven't hit the big time by the ripe old age of 30 you'd better pop out a few kids while you still have the chance right? All that career stuff was just to fill the gap while we waited for Prince Charming, after all. Might as well admit it now we're over the hill. Bear in mind that said magazines consist mostly of double page ads for Dolce & Gabbana, Chanel and Aquascutum - hardly what a post credit crunch graduate who is "young" enough to feel validated by the magazine is going to be spending their cash on.

On point 2, I don't know why advertisers are increasingly trying to sell things like bladder control pads and speak to 30 somethings like they are ready to retire. Most 30 somethings I know (in my highly unscientific sample) are single, or at least not married, work in high-tech time consuming jobs, live in rented apartments, don't have kids if they are married, wear skinny jeans and heels and not pastel suits with sensible rubber soled shoes (unless they are Converse) - many of us live pretty similiarly to how we did in our twenties, thank you very much. (Maybe it's because I'm now in East London.) This may or not be a good thing, but it is a fact. Maybe it's the internet, maybe it's being the first generation to grow up with Nintendo and MTV as a given, but I don't think we are ready to feel sidelined the way the media here seems to suppose. Or maybe it's just England, with it's desperate need to be able to categorise you properly on the right form with the right tickbox. But the day they invent a youth marketing division for walking frames, I'm outta here.

Monday, April 06, 2009

Simon Le Bon, harbinger of destiny

So it's time for our kitten, Simon Le Bon, to be neutered. Clare can't remember which vet he's at and rings up our local one. The conversation went something like this...
"Hello, I need to book in our cat but not sure this is the right vet. The name's Le Bon, Simon Le Bon".
"Oh yes, that's right - but we're not supposed to tell people he goes here".
"What?"
"What's the cat's name?"
"Simon Le Bon."
"No, the cat's name."
"Simon. Le. Bon."
This exchange, according to Clare, proceeded for quite a while.
"OH - the CAT is called Simon Le Bon?"
And suddenly, Clare realised the glorious truth. Our little Simon Le Bon goes to the very same vet that the real Mr Le Bon (or presumably his feline companion) goes to. The odds of this, by my unscientific calculations, are about 2 million to 1. This news caused considerable excitement in our house. "I'm sure this means something!" said Veronica, "I'm just not sure what.... "

We concluded that Simon Le Bon is some kind of omen for us, but can't quite yet decipher the complex puzzle fate is weaving for us and a small cat. But considering that Spandau Ballet has recently reformed, who knows what the future holds??

Sunday, March 15, 2009

The Comfort of Horror

Ok, so maybe this is coming from a somewhat depressed place, as I've felt homesick for Sweden all day and can't understand why I don't live back in my comfy Stockholm life. So, as I was about to drown my sorrows in my usual manner - watching something tense and unsettling on tv - I realised a fundamental truth.

While I would love nothing better than settling in for an entire Sunday evening of CSI (Crime Scene Investigation - but strictly Las Vegas or New York, no Miami please), my flatmate would much rather waste a good two hours of her life watching Gwyneth Paltrow or worse, "Made of Honour", or in fact any 'romantic' comedy - absolutely guaranteed to leave her disappointed with real life when she emerges half a box of tissues later. I just don't understand why people are under the illusion that romantic comedies or light-hearted drama make you feel better about anything. What you actually need is a good dose of horror- preferably from the 60s or 70s, or else involving teenagers far too beautiful to survive.

In these gloomy economic times, I'm perplexed at what Hollywood has to offer - glancing at the film listings for London right now, you could be forgiven for thinking that everything is hunky dory. "He's Just Not That Into You", "Marley & Me", "Confessions of a Shopaholic" - saccharine, lighthearted crap which, let's face it, is not going to make us feel better about our own mundane lives - particularly Shopaholic, which in my case, may even serve as a horror movie in its own right, and not in a good way.

Where's the all-night Stephen King marathon, the depressing (both on and off-screen) Roman Polanski sagas, Poltergeist, Amityville...I'd even go so far as Alien or Jaws... basically, I need to forget my own petty life problems and concern myself with the pressing perils of witchcraft, merciless beasts or ancient evil for a good couple of hours. Or something like Halloween, where I can substitute my own faceless horror for the masked face of Michael Myers, and feel jubilant as he is slayed - at least until the sequel. I am convinced there are far more relevant life lessons to be learned at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac than anything Renee Zellweger or Hugh Grant have ever uttered.

There's just something undeniably comforting about watching other people face unspeakable horror, something that makes your credit card bill and shattered dreams seem practically pleasant by comparison.

Give me Satan's child over yet another grinding commute on the District Line any day.

Lessons from a kitten

Today we let little Simon Le Bon outside for the first time (Simon the kitten, that is. Not the guy from Duran Duran, as obviously we haven't tied him up in our apartment or anything...honest).

Anyway, little Simon was overwhelmed by the new world he found himself in. He stepped tentatively across the grass as if it was snow, reluctantly chewed some flowers, and followed a mysterious cat through the undergrowth as if he'd just discovered that he wasn't the only one of his species on earth. Which I guess he had.

His reaction gave rise to a weird and scary thought ... what if we also live in our own little apartment worlds, and unbeknownst to us, there's a whole different dimension outside. I mean, it's not beyond the realms of scientific possibility that there are things we don't understand. We don't even really understand quantum physics. Some people still don't believe in evolution for chrissakes. I think the current state of the environment goes to show that, as a species, our understanding of the natural world is pretty pathetic.

So, while I have no idea what this other world might be, it just made me think, that maybe we shouldn't take everything for granted. Scary, but kind of comforting. And that's what I learnt from a small cat.

Saturday, March 14, 2009

The Case of the Disappearing Man

I am starting to suspect I have a latent super power. It is one I believe I share with Kylie Minogue, I don't care what she says about this new Spanish model boyfriend. I have the ability to make people - well, male people - completely disappear from my life. I am afraid that my full power has yet to be unleashed, as no-one has died yet, and so far, I have managed to sustain a surprising number of male friends. The monster is only awoken when I try to *date* the man in question (or, in one case, actually fall in love with them).

I am considering offering myself to the Japanese mafia. If there was some thug bothering them, all I'd have to do is start dating him and he would instantly vanish without the need for any dirty money to change hands, or anything requiring pesky forensic investigation. The Yakuza could then hand their hitherto dodgy casino profits to me, in exchange for me painlessly dispatching their enemies to a mysterious place where - according to experience - they cannot possibly email, phone or text message. Win-win. Except.... that I would be in Tokyo, in close proximity to a former disapearee. Which means the universe could implode or something if we happened to cross paths. But I suppose we could cross that bridge when we came to it, no?

I have considered the possibility that there is some subconscious thing, some Kryptonite I am not aware of, which initiates the Disappearing Effect. I have also considered the possibility that it is something inherent in the type of guys I choose to date (I apologise for the Americanism but in matters of romantic vocabulary, I think they have the market cornered). I fail to see how this can be the case - in the recentish past, I have disposed of a terminally single British bank employee who admittedly it would never, ever have worked out with and I have no idea what I was thinking, a recently divorced Swedish paramedic who my close (male) friend said was worth moving back to Sweden for, and a British designer - also vouched for by a male friend, making the advice of said friends slightly suspect .

None of these made it past the third date, although the Swedish encounter did include an invite for me to stay at his Stockholm apartment for an entire weekend, which I politely declined - but not before I noted we shared the same taste in films (someone else DOES love Rosemary's Baby!), politics, travel destinations and local bars.

So what gives? All of these men had baggage, I guess - but who in their late 20s/early 30s doesn't? So back to the kyrptonite theory. There must be something about me, something I do or say or unconsciously reveal, that produces this result. But within three dates how do they know this? Are we that quick to judge each other? Oh for the days of long and uncomfortable British courtships, those Victorians were onto something.

I am starting to wonder if they get an inkling of the fate that awaits them, the fate of a twilight world where there is no email or means of contact, and where they must stay until they suddenly decide to get married to someone and, three years later, email from some faraway land to tell me this (true story!). Until further scientific discoveries prove otherwise, I will tell myself it is my power to banish them to this place that scares them away. Either that or my Japanese mafia connections, of course.