Rosamicula

Let's celebrate! My blog is 19 years old

rosamicula — Tue, 27 Dec 2022 10:49:43 GMT

Ottomania

rosamicula — Sat, 21 Mar 2015 10:46:49 GMT

wardytron and I went to Cappadokia on an insanely cheap trip advertised with my RSPB membership. It was just £190 each for flights, four and five star hotels and a round trip tour that ended up being nearly 2000km, and another £175 quid each for lunches, dinners and entrances to all the museums etc.

It's a heavily subsidised way of getting people into the colder parts of the country in the low season. As it turned out, it was much, much colder than anticipated. It was supposed to be rather like April in England during the day and Jan in Scotland at night. But it was much colder than that, minus ten or more (less?) most days and minus 20 at night.

It was spectacularly good. The tour guide was a boring pain in the arse, and a few of our travelling companions were dreary, ossified, sheep-like 'old people', made to seem drearier still by comparison with the lively and cheerful folk of the same age. Despite the coach party aspect, this felt like the first proper travelling I have done since Sri Lanka. It was immensely interesting and inspiring.

We started in Antalya on the Med, in an eerily quiet but comfortable resort hotel where we had the first of many delicious buffet dinners, with glorious salads and surprisingly good bread and bowls of fresh herbs, and hardly any olives at dinner and loads of them for breakfast. The fact that they cater mostly for Germans in the summer months was plain. Dishes were labelled in German, which I would sometimes maliciously mis-translate as 'liver' for fussy, whingeing Brits. There were also a lot of curious non-pork, sausage-like products that were vaguely Soylent Greeny.

This was the view of the cold, sparkling Med from my bed on the first morning.

We didn't get a double bed that night (sometimes we got two giant doubles) and we didn't have the heating on that night or any other. Andrew was very cold that night because he is too stupid to operate a bed, and climbed under the thin quilt and on top of the luxuriously thick duvet. He's a potential Darwin award candidate, really.

Our first jaunt was to the Roman ampitheatre, viaduct and reconstructed bridge at Aspendos, a Greco-Roman city in what the Romans would have called Pamphyria. This is part of what remains of one of the gateways of the aqueduct.

And this is another part of it. I was horribly touristy and gawped at the lady pulling up her trouser leg, as I realised that the traditional criss-cross, baggy trousers with gathered ankles have no inside leg seam. I thought this might be draughty, but grasped how practical they are when I realised most of the toilets in rural places are squat jobs. That was also when it occurred to me they'd be much handier for a tuppenny upright than a skirt or sari.

It was coldish, but the sky was as glorious as it looks, and even the leafless trees were brilliantly full of birds. Over lunch - deliciously grilled trout - we saw a kingfisher. He was longer-bodied, and a much more pastelly orange and turquoise than his British counterpart, but had a less ostentatious hat.

The scenery was glorious. There were orange and lemon trees everywhere, and we even picked some oranges here, which I made into marmalade when we got back. This is the view over the orange groves to the Taurus mountains.

We drove up into those mountains the next day, following the increasingly snowy Silk Route, and were supposed go through to the highest, narrowest mountain pass, which is over 1800km above sea level. But were turned back by the miltary police at 1200km, due to the raging blizzard above us. This meant we had to retrace our route back down to the Med, drive 40km along it and go through another pass. This was an additional eight hour journey, when we had been not much more than an hour away from our final destination. It was the only grotty bit of the trip, because we spent the whole day on the coach, really, apart from a drab lunch.

Eventually we made it across the frozen, light pollution-free Anatolian plain, and to a ludicrously luxurious high rise hotel, the only high building in the town of Konya. It was a hair-raising drive for our poor driver and those who, like me, were awake and looking out of the window and could see the very few cars on the road skidding around us, but thankfully all the coffin-dodger types were snoring.

This is a pic I took driving on the same route the next day, when we were pretty much the only vehicle on the road, apart from a crashed coach, deep in a snow, that we passed en route.

It was bleak but beatiful, and there were thousands of birds, especially flocks and flocks of sparrows and finches and other assorted little brown and green and red jobs, and giant bruisers of corvids and at least three different raptors (there may have been four; I banged my head hard on the coach window trying to establish that).

For miles the only sign of human control was the power cables, though I was strangely touched to see a long track of straight, steady human footprints next to the road, and beside them the wildly far-looping prints of a clearly very excited dog. It was almost as though his gleeful barks were still echoing in the air above. There were other prints, too, of wild cats and wolves. There were massive stretches with no sign of human habitation, then little vineyards where the wintry vines were reduced to black, gnarled stumps like the twisted skeletons of burned and dwarvish witches, and lacy apple trees adorned with glistening balls where the mistletoe held the snow, precariously.

We spent two nights and two days in Goreme, the centre of a huge UNESCO World Heritage site, travelling about and marvelling at the unearthly gorgeousness of the landscape. I hate to mention it, but know it will impress those of you in the cheap seats to know that some of Star Wars was flimed here.

At most of the places we stopped there were women with rough market stalls or little squares of fabric on the ground selling local crafts and pomegranate juice and lovely mulled wine, and men touting from proper shops and covered stalls. I haggled vigorously with all the men I bought stuff from, but Wardy and I both overpaid the women.

Everywhere (outside Antalya) there were far more men than women out of doors and all the women wore headscarves. There is no requirement or expectation or even mild insinuation that tourists (unlike local Coptic/ Orthodox Christian women) should do so. I did have an odd experience when we stopped for a rest break, and a busload of men poured into the cafe. One pushed past me and then stepped back, looked me up and down, and up again, and scowled contemptuously at the clearly offensive scruffy bun my hair was twisted into. I walked back to where Andrew was standing, and when the man came back past, he looked at the two of us, made a blessing-like gesture with his hands, and a bow of evident apology that looked keenly-felt. I think he had assumed from my colouring that I was a loose and scandalous Turkish woman, and then realised I was an apparently perfectly acceptable tourist. When I was on my own some of the male shopkeepers etc managed to be both horribly obsequious and horribly sleazy at the same time. I'm inured to the latter but find the former really difficult to deal with. One of the things I loved about Sri Lanka was the courtesy and dignity in social and commercial transactions; sellers sold hard, but only beggars actually bent and pleaded.

Some of these 'fairy chimneys' are still used as homes. We saw a whole undergound village, used by its inhabitants to escape invasion and worse; ancient underground Christian churches (St George is a local boy), and all sorts of peculiar natural glories. The modernish houses in villages nearby, with their snow-covered steeply angled rooves and satellite dishes looked very Western, reminscent of ones I've seen in Germany and Northern France, especially when you drive towards a village from the north, and can't see the solar panels and water heaters on them. Then, they look very European and 19th century, and the minarets look oddly space-age in their midst. When you get closer you can see these houses stand next to mud brick, square-roofed huts with layers of lean-tos built on like an extended,precarious house of cards, with no evidence of modern conveniences:

These houses, constantly being shored up, are built in exactly the same way as stone age ones excavated nearby. There is a strong and frequent sense, in Cappadokia, of previous ages pressing through to the present; the past is no mere ghost here. There were also some gloriously foreign and unlikely everyday objects that I liked almost as much as the proper sights. Just look at this Ottoman Aga / hostess trolley hybrid:

The Goreme valley is the idea climate for hot air ballooning, and we were gifted this spectacle with our unfeasibly early breakfast on the last morning there:

The delays to our itinerary meant I didn't go up in one; I couldn't face the 4.15 start, the cost and my trepidation. But they look lovely. I made up for it by having two magnificent massages.

This is Andrew, looking a bit Beatle-ish in the snow. You can play 'spot the ball' with the snowball he threw (it missed!). We had great fun fooling about in it. The snow sparkles magically, partly reflecting the blueness of the sky, partly because there is so little pollution in the water. It is hard to mould into snowmen because it is so cold it becomes solid ice if you squash it (the miss was deliberate).

I learnt quite a bit from our tiresome guide - or at least could weave his witterings into my existing knowledge - about the Hittites and early Christians and Selchuks and Ottomans. What I knew knothing much about were the Sufis, and visiting a Dervish centre was a bit of a revelation. I will definitely incorporate them into something I do at school to demonstrate the liberal, contemplative and joyful face of Islam; the celebration of music and body and love and even wine. I will probably give them some poems by Rumi and see if they can guess the culture and age of them. I bet they won't; he's like a lovely mixture of Donne, Catullus and Emily Dickinson. We went to his shrine at the mosque in Konya and were royally pissed off that we got less than an hour there, but three hours in the carpet cooperative (where I did buy a tiny cotton carpet with flying room for only one large-bottomed passenger). It was the first time I had been inside a mosque:

It was not quite what I was expecting, really. I feel quite at home in Anglican cathedrals that used to be Catholic, but the Catholic ones feel very foreign to me; when I go into them in Italy or France I suddenly feel less European and more English, even as I am marvelling at their beauty. This felt less alien, which was surprising, and the lack of images and icons makes it seem contemporary-er, somehow. We had to wear thin disposable plastic galoshes, rather than take our shoes off, and the sussuration of all those lumbering tourist feet on the flagstones sounded like sinister, whispered prayers.

On the journey back we realised just how hair-raising that narrow mountain pass - with less than a yard's clearance on either side of the coach, and one side a sheer drop and the other a dense forest - would have been in a blinding blizzard. It reminded me of a sort of frontier town version of Switzerland:

I took that pic at about 1600km above sea level. The 1800km section we'd passed through just before was all snow and shadows and being inside cotton-wool clouds, and I was too busy being thrilled by it to attempt a photo. Only 200m lower, everything was softer and damper and a bit like Scotland:

A couple of hours later we were back by the Med and another resort hotel complex; confusingly modern when we arrived in the dark and bewildering tropical in the morning light:

We skipped the early start and the tour on the last full day, and bunked off with the sweet young London-dwelling Columbian couple we made friends with, and bimbled gently around lovely rainy Antalya. It was a bit of a culture shock to be somewhere so modern-feeling, with girls swarming about in clingy leggings, swishing their loose hair, and coffee bars and bars and fancy restaurants and proper shops and a lovely pub. It's a very pretty place:

We also had the only hotel room that had elements of Turkishness in its decor, with traditionally-patterned fabric and tiles. The others were all comnfortable, even luxurious, but the one in Antalya was very pretty. It was depressing to have to leave it for an early flight. The journey home was a bit more cramped and cloudy and tiring than the one there. On the way over where we swooped over the Alps in clear blue light, and I took this photo, which I love and is now my screen-saver:

We did have reservations about the organisation of the trip; I'd have preferred some slightly later starts, and more scope for independent bimbling, but the price was amazing. I shall definitely do another of their trips, perhaps next year, and explore the other end of the Mediterranean coast and inland from Troy.

Help!

rosamicula — Tue, 02 Sep 2014 20:01:28 GMT

I normally read LJ by clicking on my friendslist and then scrolling backwards by repeatedly clicking the 'previous ten entries' button. That button has vanished!

What should I do to rectify this, lovely LJ people?

The King of Hearts Didn't Make Tarts

rosamicula — Tue, 28 Jan 2014 11:30:17 GMT

revonrut asked why we call it the United KINGdom when we have a queen.

We do it because the words 'king' and 'queen' had very different meanings and still have different values. 'King' comes from the Anglo-Saxon cyninge which originally meant supreme (elected) military leader with an implied sacral element. Her or His Britannic Majesty is still the titular head of the armed forces, to whom military personnel swear allegiance and Defender of the Faith. 'Queen' comes from Old English cwean (and/or Scots Gaelic wheen?) both of which meant litle more than 'wife'.

Eventually using the word 'queen' only for the wife of a King is pretty typical of English, where two words which were synonymous in their root languages are subsequently endowed with different meanings and values, and are consequently useful to unpick for their implications about culture, politics and gender. An obvious one is the way we use Anglo-Saxon words for animals, and Norman French ones for meat: cow/beef, sheep/mutton. I have read - in an A level English Language textbook no less - that this was a reflection of the superior culinary standards the Normans introduced. That's both a simplification and a cliche. The people shovelling the animals's shit in the barn were more likely to be the invaded, and the people scoffing the meat in the hall were more likely to be the invaders. The two mingled of course, but the fact that French became the language of the fine dining and Old English the language of the farmyard is reflected in the language we speak now.

The problematic nature of having a Queen as King, when the words are still laden with different values and implications, is why the term 'Prince Consort' was invented for Victoria's Albert. It ws too risky to call him a King, even a King Consort. It was one of the reasons why ELizabeth I never risked diluting her precarious authority and status by taking one of the many husbands who was mooted for her. HRH The Duchess of Cambridge - Princess Kate - will, in due course, will be called Queen, despite being a commoner, if Young Baldy Big Ears becomes King. It's already been publically stated that the calm, competent and well-adjusted Duchess of Cornwall will never bear that title if Old Baldy Big Ears becomes King. She's never sought the title of Queen (of Hearts or anything else), and there is a depressing assumption that residual public sentimentality about the dead, kitten-faced, neurotic, cripple-hugger would make it very difficult for her to do so.

It would be better - well, less problematic - to suggest calling Lizzy Two 'King', rather than calling it a 'Queendom' while she's Head of State. Which she is, as the elected PM still has to go through the ceremony of asking her permission to form a government, and she opens Parliament each Autumn. It is not an entirely ceremonial role, and could, in extreme circumstances, be a much more interesting one.

Ther cultural assumptions around gendered titles for royalty can be seen in any pound shop, with the amount of pink, sparkly tat retailed at and for little 'princesses'. Even the least politically aware father is unlikely to call his son his 'little prince', and there aren't blue, sparkly outfits for boys in the shops. 'Prince' still retains a veneer of power. 'Princess' is either a term of endearment (harmlessly affectionate or problematically patronising, according to one's poloitical outlook) or actively pejorative, as in 'Jewess Princess'.

drink Red Bull before you go, and save your popcorn for the end

rosamicula — Mon, 06 Jan 2014 14:15:48 GMT

Well, the shocking news is that Hobbit 2: Desperation of Smeg is much, much better than Hobbit 1:Some Short Fat Ugly People get Chased About by Some Tall fat Ugly People. It took me a whole ninety minutes before I got bored, and the remaining three hundred and fifty minutes were still nowhere near as dull as the last film.

This may have been because I saw it in 3D, which meant the fight scenes were more interesting, and the giant spiders were properly exciting, and when bugger all was happening there was still the chance that a wasp might appear to fly out of the screen and liven things up a bit. The fight scenes in this one were often outside, in lovely bits of New Zealand, with personable elves wielding swords balletically, which is a huge improvement on the first one.

There was a female character in this one too, who did a lot of fighting and shouting, which was good. Unfortunately, she also did a bit of mumsy healing and a lot of falling in love with the least-munting of the dwarves when she should have been killing orcs. 'You can be hairy, smelly and ill-shaped but if you talk some syrup about your mum and are mildly amusing, high-achieving hot chicks will fall for you' is not a helpful message for this film's target audience, really.

You can't help but wonder why, if there was a big enough budget for three whole films and a load of glitzy tech and location shooting, no one thought to send the lump of ham-in-custard playing FlangeDrool, King of the Elves (is he 'Ducky Elf', eremite?) for some acting lessons. Or was his tendency to say everything slowly and portentously while moving awkwardly just a sop to the LARPers in the audience? The script is no help, though, any more than it is for Boring CroakinDild, King of the Dwarves, who is the other dud who gets far too much screentime. Perhaps I am being unjust because he just reminds me of every self-important, whingeing bloke with dirty dreadlocks and dirtier nails I've ever met in a goth/rock club.

Stephen Fry is good value, though, playing the Doge of a sort of Dickensian Jaywick-on-Sea as a pantomimic cross between David Cameron and Jimmy Saville. He is one of the many poor unfortunates in the cast with a cheap, ill-fitting, ginger wig, though these are perhaps less distracting in 2D. The first five minutes of Smeg the Dragon are brilliant to look at, but he soon palls, and this is where the film really starts to drag. You'd have to be prepared to have your credibility stretched to breaking point or be really into Shirlock (the modern one, who spends a lot of his time flouncing his curls and swirling his skirts in the manner of Miss Temple, hence the disambiguative spelling)/ Watson fanfic to enjoy the waste of two good actors and a huge budget. Save your popcorn for that bit, which is probably excruciating if you are watching in 2D.

They missed a trick with the music for the credits. Gold by Spandau Ballet would have been appropriate, amusing and woken the audience up, but instead there's some abysmal folk. I think this will probably be my favourite of the three films, as I suspect the last, like the first, will feature interminable scenes of dwarves eating and singing. If they could have been broken down into a TV series, I think these film would have been really excellent. I liked the book a great deal when I read it as a kid, though not enough to reread it as many of my friends did, and I abandoned my only attempt to read Lord of the Rings shortly after. It is a children's book, and a TV series with this kind of budget and lavish attention to detail would mirror, for children, the involvement of the experience of reading it. Alternatively, one good long film could have the captured the excitement of the plot and the worlds it creates, but three great long, floundering epics do not justice to it, really, both overwhelming and undervaluing it.

Where have all the (lovely, boozy, reckless) flowers gone?

rosamicula — Wed, 18 Dec 2013 13:40:21 GMT

Peter O'Toole was my first, possibly my only proper crush. I am immune to fannishness, generally; I've just been shrieking in dismay at the telly because wardytron and were about to watch Friday's episode of Mastermind and realised it was a bloody Dr Who-themed one. I thought the Beeb's self-promoting tosspottery about that anniversary was finally over. But I was - am - a fan of Peter O'Toole. I actually thought about him, daydreamed about him when he wasn't on a screen in front of me, read books about him and followed his career.

It is odd, given my predilection for men with blue eyes, that I developed my giant crush on him watching black and white telly. I remember him in the series Rogue Male when I was little and really, really, rooting for him. And I was bewitched by him when Lawrence of Arabia was first shown on TV. It wasn't just his beauty, it was the nervous, dangerous energy that dripped off the screen whenever he was on it. He was thrillingly alive, even when his roles were poor and his performance overblown. To me, he is the opposite of Robert Redford, whose youthful beauty was so static and lifeless it atrophied, grotesquely, in early middle age. And he is different from the equally beautiful Paul Newman, who holds his power in reserve, and uses it in performance, in precise doses. Redford is completely devoid of that magic energy, Newman is completely in control of it, and O'Toole leaked it as casually, as pungently, as sweat.

I met his first wife, Sian Phillips, when I lived in Wales. I had a friend who was close to her, and knew her throughout her marriage to him. There is a large body of Welsh luvvies who are convinced that she could have been the female Richard Burton - in terms of celebrity and wealth - if she had wanted to, and if she hadn't played second fiddle to O'Toole. In person, she has phenomenal presence, but it's glacial, inscrutable, with sudden flashes of vivid, sensual fire. I was too young and self-absorbed when I met her to know what to make of her; to discern whether she wasn't aware of quite how compelling she was or simply chose not to trade explicitly upon her beauty. Perhaps it simply went too far under the radar of those who could have made her famous. Female beauty and charisma are so essentially performative that when they are not actively displayed, they go unremarked, even in an actress. I'm thinking now of the story about Marilyn Monroe, at the start of her fame, walking down the street with an old friend, quietly being Norma Jean and saying 'Shall I be her, now? Shall I be Marilyn?' and turning up the wattage and affecting the wiggle and slipping into that role. Possibly the only men whose masculine charisma was so forcible assumed were those in the same sorry position as Rock Hudson.

I met Peter O' Toole once, in Cardiff. 'Met' is something of an exaggeration. He was in Wales filming Rebecca's Daughters and we had both just got off the London train. I discovered him standing behind me in the taxi queue outside the station. I turned round and there he was, swaying slightly like a poplar in his Crombie(?) coat, lazily emitting a force field of thrilling magnetism, with those eyes boyishly sparkling over a yawn like a ancient lion's. I couldn't speak but I kept opening and shutting my mouth and some syllables must have fallen out. 'How do you do?', he said, and he took my hand and shook it. My lucky, lucky hand. And then he said - projected - as if I were hard of hearing or foreign - 'I'm Peter O'Toole. I'm in Wales making a film called Rebecca's Daughters'. He said ' in Wales' as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. Then he swept past me, into my taxi, and disappeared, leaving only a faint odour of cologne, wet dog and magnificence behind him. Even old, and way past his heyday, he had that quality - in spades - that all stratospherically sexy people have, that renders one unable to take them in one, or a dozen, or a hundred glances. You just have to keep on looking, and wanting. That's why they are so compelling on the screen, because the camera is never sated.

I can't think of any 21st century men who are nearly as exciting as him. My female friends all seem to have the hots for David Tennant or Benzedrine Crumpetsnatch. Perhaps I am just old, but Tennant just seems too eager and twitchy and side-kickable to be a sex symbol. Besides looking a spaniel carved out of scone dough, Cumberbatch always seems a bit dreary. If you snogged him he'd probably taste of bile disguised with toothpaste, not fags and whisky and wickedness. The internet as I know it creamed its collective jeans over him when he held up a hand-written sign telling the paparazzi to stop taking pictures of him, and go and take some in Syria. That seemed to me, at best, the self-important posturing of a sixth-former and, at worst, as pompous as a man who pays to get into Spearmint Rhino and them berates his lap dancer for not performing Swan Lake. Tool, not O'Toole.

National Poetry Day

rosamicula — Thu, 03 Oct 2013 09:28:54 GMT

I like this simple, lovely poem. I think it needs a wider audience.

For the Child Who Became Christopher

May you come safe
and flawless

May they gaze in awe
at your small creased wrists
and marvel
at your perfect breath
and ordinariness

May they gurgle at you
and drool gratitude

May your gaze and grip
reassure them

May your limbs
be proper and deft
your crawl furious
your falls neat

May your most frightening dark
be in stories
the deepest thunder
over the hills yonder

May no one fence you round
with their own hopes
or shawl you in their dreams

May your teachers learn
from your crazes
and amazements

May your friends
be a bridge to cross over
in any weather

May you have without too much wanting
and want without too much need

May there be sacred places
for you to return to

May stones fall short
and only low branches break
and swings miss you
on the way back

Roger Hull

Stuff For Sale - go on, fund my summer debauchery for me!

rosamicula — Mon, 15 Jul 2013 12:44:51 GMT

Loads of size 12 - 22 stuff for sale, including lots of BNWT poshish stuff and some fetish wear. Most of it has never been worn (and if it has, it hasn't been sweated on because I can't). Some things look a bit squashed from being stored, but all has been stored smoke-free and with lavender bags and cedarwood balls, and everything has been aired in the sun over the weekend. Pay by Paypal or bank transfer, open to offers, postage not included but negotiable and you can collect from Liverpool St, High St Ken or Northolt. Everything will be despatched very promptly as I am moving next week.

Dereta London - circa 1972? - tomato red mix fully lined skirt. I inherited this from my half sister's pal and wore it to a Xmas party in 1980. It's so old it doesn't say what it is made of, but I am guessing wool /rayon mix for the skirt and polyester or rayon for the lining. It's a pre vanity sizing/obesity epidemic size 16 so is actually about 2cm smaller around the waist as the pink M&S silk skirt below. £20 quid.

Marion Donaldson (like a Scottish Biba sort of, and used to supply Liberty and F&M, stopped trading in the 90s) size 12 - circa 1989 - black velvet gathered mid-calf skirt. Cotton 73% and viscose velvet with polyester lining. velvet is very rich and thick, gathered in soft pleats and the waist is quite deep. Hangs beautifully and looks expensive on. £20.

St Laurent Rive Gauche - circa 1972 - long and wide (but not that heavy, oddly) 100% wool cloak. Because I am an IDIOT and was a goth, I chucked away the fancy gold chain doodad that links the silk frogging on either side of the collar, and fastened it by tying a black velvet ribbon round them. Fabric is in perfect condition, but label slightly frayed after an unfortunate incident with a necklace clasp. One size fits all, as long is all is at least 5' 8'' or wearing heels.. Beautiful, but I am too broad-shouldered to suit it. £60.

Lilacy pink 100 silk, fully lined size 12 M&S skirt. Very light weight. Never worn, because I bought in a sale in a hurry and thought it was more flared than it was, so it's never fit me. £12

Monsoon Twilight size 16 3/4 length coat dress type thing. Black lining with a midnight blue much brighter than it looks in the second picture lace beaded lace outer. Worn once £12 quid.

BNWT 100 size XL (16 - 20) silk chiffon dark (halfway between tomato and brick) red jacket with haematite colored beading and sequin detail. £15

BNWT Joe Browne size 14 two tone satin 100 nylon lined bodice cocktaily dress. No idea where I acquired this as it is not my thing at all. £8.

Jaeger Size L Viscose/Rayon/metal soft pink lurex fine knit top. The lurex is quite subtle, so you could wear it to work and tart it up in the evening. Worn once and washed. £10.

BNWT Mint Velvet (that's the brand name - sold in John Lewis/Liberty/House of Fraser) size 18 very full, fully lined soft minty green maxi dress. I bought it to wear to a wedding reception, but stupidly didn't try it on first and didn't keep the receipt. Sizing came up much more generous than the size 18 tunic I've got by the same brand so it would fit size 20, possibly 22. The bust is more vavavvoom than it looks, so you need a plunge/quarter cup bra with it. Original price 79 quid, yours for £25. Gone!

BNWT Size 18 Monsoon bright pink sequinned frilled cardigan type thing. £12.

BNWT Malene Birger rayon open knit jacket which looks crap on the hanger but is actually quite flattering. Suit someone at least 5' 6'' or taller, but not a short in the body 5' 6''like me, because that button needs to sit at your waist to be flattering. Shame I didn't realise that till after I'd bought it and lost the receipt. I paid 40 quid in a sale, and want £20 for it.

Tommy Hilfiger Hand Knit Size XL (14 or 16 unencumbered by bingo wings, I reckon) black string vesty black top. Very soft. Never worn (see comment above re bingo wings) £10.

15 quid each.

BNWT Designer at Debenhams Jasper Conran Size 14 100 silk print tunic with gathered sleeves and three button cuffs. Original price 79 quid, selling for £20.

White Stuff size 16 100 cotton velvet trimmed vesty fabric top. Never worn. £7

Boden Size L dusty pink, velvet and frill trimmed 100% cotton top. Concealed placket with hook and eye fastenings. £10.

Laura Ashley size 14 rayon/lycra multi-coloured spots on french navy drapey neck top. Never worn, because it never went with anything else. £8.

BNWT Deisel size L coral cotton 65%/nylon/polyester- brighter than it looks in the pic - satin jacket. I think it would fit a size 12/14 or petite 16 but not a 16. £20.

BNWT East Size 14 grey check winter weight wool mix half-lined trousers. Incredibly soft and a bit Rupert Bear. Why did I buy these? They will never fit me. £15.

East Size M bright pink crinkle (but not that really annoying crinkle you are supposed to dry all twisted up or it collapses - you can just shove this in the washing machine) rayon top. I bought this because I thought the crinkly non-iron top would travel well. I'd taken off the tags and got it all the way to Zante before I realised I'd picked up the wrong bloody size. Never worn, but washed once with my holiday laundry. £8.

Talbots US 14 (UK 18) Petite Fit Irish linen, fully lined fitted dress ALSO AVAILABLE IN BOTH NAVY AND BLACK. I had a gorgeous black and white dress identical to this which was one of the most flattering, compliment-attracting things I have ever owned. So when Talbots in Kingston shut down I bought the dress in all three available colours, all half price - 40 quid each. Some time later I realised they were, unlike the one I owned, petite fit. Never worn. £18

Nylon Lace tailored tie fastening coat Size M/L (but will fit up to a fat armed 20/22) I stupidly paid 90 quid for this in Fairy Gothmother in 2003 - before I realised what a rip-off they were - because I needed a thing to wear to TG that night. Worn four ? times (and washes very easily) so yours for 15 quid. Gone!

Honour Size 16 PVC top. Worn once over a white blouse. Ten quid.

Honour Size 22 allegedly but closer to 16/18, I reckon, unless looking like a black pudding in danger of explosion is your thing. Never worn. 10 quid.

~~Snobs 26 waist red PVC overbust fully lined corset. Worn three times, £15.~~ Gone!

~~Chiffon tiered net Just above /on the knee skirt. £6.~~ Gone.

CYP = HTT*

rosamicula — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 20:21:10 GMT

Excellent post by pw201

Originally posted by pw201 at Yep, it’s still there

A friend on Facebook linked to Louise Mensch vs Laurie Penny on the “check your privilege” thing. He went on to say he hadn’t come across that phrase, and wondered if it’s anything more than thinly veiled argumentum ad hominem. I done a comment, which seemed long enough to blog:

It’s jargon from the Internet social justice warrior subculture, as far as I can tell, so if you haven’t heard it, hang out on Tumblr, LiveJournal or bits of the feminist blogsphere (or, you know, don’t). It’s becoming more mainstream, if those articles are anything to go by.

The injunction to “check your privilege” means different things at different times. Sometimes it means “you are not in a position to know that”. For example, if I claimed “there is no homophobia in Cambridge”, someone could rightly point out that I’m not that likely to be a victim of homophobia. Saying that continues the argument by undercutting my claim.

Sometimes it does seem to act as what Suber calls “logical rudeness“, that is, saying “CYP!” insulates a theory from argument by attributing some fault to those who do not believe it, stopping the argument about the theory by switching it to an argument about the unbeliever. As Suber says, though, it’s not clear that there’s a general duty to respond to would-be debunkers of theories we hold, and claiming that, say, feminism is nonsense because so many feminists are fans of privilege checking is itself rude. However, Suber doesn’t seem to address the point that, if we’re interested in having accurate beliefs, we should debate those with the strongest counter-arguments: our rudeness should not allow the opposition to conclude we are mistaken, but it should worry us.

Using “CYP!” a single line response (on Twitter, or in a comment box, say) is just blowing off steam or cheering for your team, as far as I can tell. It doesn’t actually mean anything other than “yay for us and boo for you!”

Originally posted at Name and Nature. You can comment there. There are currently comments.

*Holier Than Thou

I tried. Really I did.

rosamicula — Mon, 20 May 2013 18:29:10 GMT

Almost half a decade ago, when I turned 40, vin_petrol gave me a gift at the last of my three birthday parties.

It was a book. A book called THE BOOK OF THE NEW SUN Volume 1 Shadow and Claw by Gene Wolfe, in the Fantasy Masterworks series. You can, if you have ever met me (or probably even if you haven't), imagine how delighted I was to receive this item. Vin knew what my reaction would be, but said I shouldn't judge a book by the lumbering role player in a cloak and oddly-shaped codpiece on its cover, because it was his favourite book, and if I only gave it a chance, I would appreciate it as great literature, despite its genre.

When everyone was banging on about Game of Thrones (which just sounds like a spam email euphemism for coprophilia to me), and saying how good the telly series was, I wondered if the book Vin gave me was the book it was based on. So I dug it out and read it.

As soon as I mentioned on FB that I was reading it, Vin and steer started arguing over whether it was a fantasy novel or a sci fi novel. I think genre is irrelevent; it's just a terribly bad novel.

It is fantasy, not sci fi. It was written in the seventies and set a million years in the future, in a dystopian world that is loosely like the dark ages. Great sci fi is fascinating for what it reveals about the present in the way it depicts the future, but the future in this novel is just a tired mishmash of the past. This means the writer can use all sorts of ideas and features of the past and indulge himself in some terrible schoolboy Latin, but without any of the coherence or accuracy of a half decent historical novel.

Vin and Steer both claim it is beautifully written. It is very heavily influenced by Lord of The Rings, with the same strangulated, portentous leadenness of language. It has the same sort of 'can you guess where this came from, ooh aren't I well-read and isn't this book really, properly, intellectually serious' preoccupation with nomenclature. There is no sense of pace or urgency even in the bits that are supposed to be pacy and urgent. They are just as turgid and long-winded as the rest. It claims to be Volume 1, but it is actually two books. I'm afraid only made it through the first.

Gene Wolfe's - I bet that wasn't the name his parents gave him, by the way, I bet he was called Brian Evadne Spengler III - hero is an orphan, a torturer, has a sort of gothwish cloak of near invisibility and considerable sexual appeal and stamina. Most of the women he meets are remarkable for their near total lack of clothes and huge norks, described variously as 'two halved melons topped with cherries' or 'creamy amplitude'- I kid you not. He writes about women as if he has never spoken to one, let alone seen one naked (the blurb said he studied mechanical engineering at university).

I worked out it was't the Sport of Lavatories book pretty quickly, when I recognised the name of the author of that on the back of Book of the New etc attached to the quote 'One of the greatest science fantasy epics of all time'. It's put me right off reading anything by him, so I think my foray into 'science fantasy' is over. Unless, of course, anyone can recommend me anything of the calibre of Gormenghast.

rosamicula — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 00:28:49 GMT

Updating this from my sexiest seven using the speech recognition do dad.

tweetering on the edge

rosamicula — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 20:58:21 GMT

Today Twitter asked me if I'd like to say something to 'people I might know' on Twitter.

Generally all I have to say to such people is "Naff off, you asinine twunt" or "Who the chuffbiscuit are you?" or "I am about as interested in your shop/business/website as I am in eating bat faeces." I know lots of you lovely people are on Twitter and find it entertaining and even useful, and I was, naturally, fascinated by it when my riots doodad was being retweeted all over the place, but I just don't have the attention span required to scroll through all the half-conversations and inanities you have to sift to get to a few crumbs of interest. I don't have any heroes, at least not any who'd be likely to have Twitter accounts, so don't like the 'celeb' angle, either. The ubiquity resulting from it has put me off people I used to quiet like, such as Stephen Fry.

FB has its uses, but I still really like Livejournal. I've never got in to reading any other blogs or websites, either, though I suspect I would if I had an office job.

When I said, in my last post, that I thought nostalgia was the last refuge of the mediocre, I wasn't talk about retro tastes or the desire to study the past. Had I meant the latter I wouldn't have been so fascinated by Leigh Fermor's travel writing in the first place. I meant the tendency to wallow in and romanticise the past, especially one's own past. and especially if that involves droning on about how good music was in the eighties. Unless it's the eighteen eighties, of course.

we cannot cage the minute within its nets of gold; when all is told we cannot beg for pardon.

rosamicula — Thu, 03 Jan 2013 21:35:48 GMT

I got rid of all the Christmas paraphernalia today and sorted out my artstuffs and paperwork. New year and all that, you know. To brighten up the place I bought a bunch of daffs from the Co-op (oh how I love having a Co-op at the end of the road - more on this later). I thought it was a bit early for daffs, but at least they are labelled 'winter daffodils'. They are just beginning to open on the living room table. Poor premature things. They are small and slender and faintly startled-looking, peering out over the top of the vase as if anxious someone will open it like a gate and make them venture out.

wardytron bought me Artemis Cooper's biography of Patrick Leigh Fermor for Christmas. He's a fascinating man (Leigh Fermor, not Wardytron, though the latter has his moments). He was expelled from school, escaped unscathed from considerable contact with the Bloomsbury set, walked from Zeebrugge to Constantinople before he was 21, kidnapped a German general in occupied Crete, wrote two amazing books about that continental walk thirty years later, spoke five languages, swam the Hellespont when he was 69 and seems to have been liked, valued (and corresponded with) all his ex-lovers. I've read snippets of his writing before. My first encounter was a small chunk I had to translate into French for an A Level test, actually. The only sustained bit of his writing that I'd read before this holiday was his correspondence with Deborah Devonshire (nee Mitford - and in many ways the best of them). Reading the biography made me buy the books about the walk and his novel. Finishing it made me cry in the bath.

I'm halfway through A Time of Gifts which charts his youthful journey from London to the Middle Danube. It's strange and startling; perilously close to overwritten in places and seething with knowledge and the joy of learning and his endless fascination with language and time, with art and architecture, with music and folklore. There's always a subtle dual perspective at work, that of the teenage 'student' walking through a vanished Europe and absorbing sensations and sights with the zest and intensity of a young gundog and that of the older man, who knows that Europe has vanished and so many of the people whose hospitality he enjoyed died in that vanishing, yet who manages to avoid writing an elegy.

I'm increasingly inclined to the idea that nostalgia is the first refuge of the mediocre, or at least of those who have failed to learn how to live.

Speaking of dual perspectives, I am loving the album I bought Andrew for Christmas, too, and have it playing on Spotify now. It's The Jazz Age by The Bryan Ferry Orchestra and is twenties instrumentals of Roxy Music tracks. It's a lovely, cheeky and strangely moving bit of anachronism; musical time travel.

holiday snaps from the holiday dragon

rosamicula — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 09:01:18 GMT

wardytron and I have been back from Zakynthos/Zante a week now. Sigh. The holiday was brilliant and fantastically relaxing and just what we both needed. It was deliciously hot and far away from all the gloomy things. I found us an all-inclusive late deal at a posh-ish hotel near a shallow, gentle bit of the coast. All-inclusiveness made it easier for us to budget for it; it's not something I'd normally do, especially in Greece. The hotel was pretty good, and I'd specifically chosen one that was mainly frequented by Germans, Poles and Italians (with a few Frenchies as well). On cheap sun holidays, hell is other British people. You could really see the difference at meal times, where the non-Brits collated structured meals from the hot and cold buffets, and many of the Brits just ate massive piles of meat and potatoes. I wish I could have photographed the look on the face of a Dutch woman, who had collected a plate of pork chops to put at the centre of the table for her whole family, and she passed an English bloke with a similar plate just for himself. All of his table were salad dodgers. All the really obese people were British and they were the only ones who let their children select a plate of chips and ketchup as dinner. They also wasted far more food than anyone else. At mealtimes it was vaguely embarrassing to be British. I didn't stint on food myself, I scoffed huge mountains of lovely island-grown salad drenched in tsatziki, loads of lamb and pork, and all the watermelon I could cram in my ravening maw.

I don't swim, really, I mainly bob about a bit, so selected Alykanas because the sea is gentle and shallow for a very long way out. I didn't want big scary waves and surfers. Big waves terrify me and I don't like surfers; they're usually insufferable twuntish hippies. The only bad thing about using a mooncup doodad is that I no longer get to flush away a really jammy tampon with the hope it'd somehow end up smacking some smug surfer in the gob.

The only problem with the trip is that my primeval ancestors were obviously scaly-skinned stalwarts that basked on rocks and that Wardy's primeval ancestors were slimy, pallid weaklings that lived under rocks. He really doesn't thrive in 35 degree heat. He doesn't tan either, he just gets red, sweaty and flustered. I tan marvellously, don't sweat and stride about in the heat without a care. A decent tan knocks years off my face and conceals the varicose veins in my legs. I was bimbling about in the hotel room, post refreshing lie-down, with freshly washed hair and a sheet wrapped round me and Ward told me I looked like Aphrodite, apparently:

A day later he was festering about the room groaning and sunburned, pathetically declining a refreshing lie down because it was too darned hot, apparently, and I told him he looked like a boiled sheep's head. I was too ~~ashamed~~ kind to take a photo of him in that state, but took one of him later, enjoying some of the delicious local elixir:

We spent a lot of time on the beach. Andrew made a sandcastle (check out that unwholesome pallor):

The hotel was surrounded by a vineyard and various goats, and we had to pass lovely old olive groves on our walk to the beach about a kilometre away. How my dodgy joints loved bimbling about in that heat.

I deliberately picked a less developed area, and a lot of the development was shut, half-empty or decorated with big 'To let' signs. Gloomy indeed for the Greeks, but great if you want a quieter holiday.

The Ionian islands are much greener than the rest of Greece, and the Italians called it the island of flowers. This pretty fellow and about a dozen of his chums were fluttering about one afternoon when I bimbled back to the beach while Andrew had a snooze.

We didn't do much touristing, because there isn't really all that much to see in the way of history in Zante. Pretty much every building on it was destroyed in the earthquake in 1953. It's got lots of natural beauty and would be a brilliant - though terrifying - place to explore by car. Andrew hadn't swum in the sea for over a decade, and loved it, so we booked a boat trip with the opportunity to do some deep water swimming. The only problem was that you had to jump off the boat to do it, and he was a bit too alarmed by this prospect (I wouldn't have done it at gunpoint). This meant we spent three and a half hours on the hottest day we were there on a boat, roasting. I loved it, but the poor boy fried. Happy Jane:

One of the sad things about Zakynthos is that this crappy rusted tanker is its biggest tourist draw. It was run aground deliberately, apparently. I just couldn't see the appeal. The beach is lovely, but there was a traffic jam of boats dropping tourists off and it was all a bit ghastly, really.

I can't help thinking that having 'magic world' emblazoned on your arse is false advertising.

These are the lovely Blue Caves. That luscious rich turquoise is due to reflections from the white walls of the caves and through the sea on some interesting bug action below. If we'd had more dosh, we would have hired a tiny boat to take us closer into them, instead of being stuck on a big one.

Poor Andrew was boiled by the time we got back to land, and flaked out in a lovely bar. Then I sent him to do the 2km round trip back to the hotel in the afternoon sun to fetch my swimming costume so I could have a cooling swim.

The only other vaguely cultural thing we did was to take the early morning bus to Zakynthos town. There were lots and lots of empty restaurants and cafes, and even more businesses with 'to let' signs on them than in our little resort. Greece at the moment is very cheap, but not very cheerful. We ambled round the Museum of Post-Byzantine Art, which was very small. Andrew was exasperated by just how long it took me to take this picture.

I like this saint. He's got a big black crow.

I convinced Andrew to amble up the huge steep hill behind the harbour so we could look round the ruins of the Venetian fort. At midday, in 36 degree heat, with some of it 1/3 gradients, this was perhaps somewhat ambitious. I managed it comfortably despite - probably because of - the heat, but poor A scuttled desperately from patch of shade to patch of shade, like Gollum in search of his Precious.

I like this campanile. Foreign churches have funny, tinny-sounding bells, don't they?

The view from the top of the hill was lovely, and worth the stroll. As were the lemonade and beer we groaned in delight over at the cafe where I took this pic.

I shall, I promise, explain more about the Sri Lanka offer etc, soonishly.

Alien vs. The Simpsons (quite spoilerific)

rosamicula — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 21:28:38 GMT

I had a sudden urge to go the cinema on Saturday afternoon; well, actually what I had was a sudden urge to sit on a comfy seat in the dark and be entertained whilst having a valid excuse for ignoring my phone. Anyway, I went to see Prometheus.

It was very pretty to look at, but deviates hugely from canon. For a start, Mr Burns is nowhere near as evil as he is in The Simpsons and Smithers appears to be be bisexual, not gay, and is very, very sexy and an android. He's a lot like the Rutger Hauer character in Blader Runner with better hair and worse lines. Part of the reason he looks so sexy is that his character models himself on Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. This is a very smart move on the part of the director, as left-leaning American viewers will think: Ooh, look he wants to be the one on the side of the Arabs - he must be pretty cool and right-on, and right-leaning ones will think: Ooh, look he wants to be the one on the side of the Arabs - he must be the Bad Guy. These positions are both tenable as he is the only remotely complex, interesting or sympathetic character.

Lisa Simpson is Dr West, an archeologist with a penchant for God-bothering who has read too much Eric von Daniken. Bart is her cute, plucky but tactless boyfriend. Dr West is no Ripley, but in a regal handwave in the direction of feminism, the boyfriend - who is so insentisitive he forgets her eggs have dried up - dies handsomely, and she sails off into the sunset with the android, whose batteries, it seems, will never run out. Despite being barren, she has a DIY abortion which further distances her from the aliens, who are very, very pro-life indeed.

Willy the Janitor is transmuted into a foul-mouthed, unfriendly Scottish geologist, and given some of Sideshow Bob's hair. Ned Flanders is tries to be his friend, but they and all the other supporting characters are so uninteresting I can't remember what happens to them, other than that they all die in the end. Charlize Theron is a cross between The Wicked Witch of The West, Margaret Thatcher and Luke Skywalker but this is nowhere near as interesting as it sounds, and the best bit is when the chimney lands on her.

It does all look gorgeous, though, especially the humanoid aliens, who look they were designed by someone who studied Praxiteles and William Blake. The script, alas, sounds like it was written by someone who studied Star Trek and Dr Seuss and failed to inject the campery of the former or the warmth of the latter. The opening scene, which is unexplained, is brilliant, with one of the super-foxy aliens stripping down to his DNA and chucking himself inot some sort of bleak glacial cauldron. This is presumably how life on Earth started, with time making the dodgy reptilian DNA into lizards, bugs and slugs and terrorists, and the handsome chappy DNA leaidng to monkeys and bambis and Americans. The credits roll to the haunting sound of Darwin spinning in his grave.

Problems, problems

rosamicula — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 09:35:35 GMT

SO long-awaited you'd probably forgotten all about it. Here's Part 1, at least:

_{Dear Auntie Oxidant
I am considering becoming poly, as I have accidentally started dating a really lovely poly chap. You have been rather scathing of polyamory in the past, so I was actually a bit wary of telling you about this. Is it really so bad? Polly Private}

It is true that my heart sinks whenever I see the word 'tertiary' followed not by 'college' or 'syphilis', but 'partner', but it's a particular sort of poly that I am so negative about. It's the 'look we've disinvented jealousy, and evolved a new way of living, and we're never going to stop going on about it' Brigade. Poly relationships are just like any others; some of them are crap and some of them are brilliant, depending on the calibre of the people involved. And people have been making their own special arrangements for sexual and romatic liasons for years, in ways that have involved concurrent multiple partners, without needing to identify as some sort of Special Snowflake Subculture. It's isn't special, it's just sex, or in an awful lot of cases, it isn't even sex; for half the pollies I know it's about having a number of dead or atrophying relationships that you never have to actually develop the backbone to end or the commitment to maintain properly. In the London poly scene a lot of the men seem to be sleazy douchebags who'll sleep with anything, and my most scathing comments about that scene were after watching a very young, very vulnerable woman get passed around and exploited in a way that would have had the alleged feminists who stood by and watched/colluded up in arms if 'chav' blokes on a housing estate had behaved in the same way. And a lot of the women seem to be desperately unhappy, and trying to construct a kind of Frankenstein boyfriend out of a bunch of rancid spare parts, whilst competing with some other poor bint for quality time. This is why I mentioned 'tertiary'; the first two women only seem to get on together when they can gang up on the perceived threat of the third one. It always seems to be the women who take responsibilty for organising the relationships, as well. If your new chap is lovely and you are having a good time, then hurray for you. You are a secure, sensible, unselfish person, so you'll treat him well, and have the self-esteem to bail on him if he doesn't treat you well, which is the recipe for any decent relationship, whatever label you put on it.

_{My ex is living in a house that I need to sell before my beloved and I can go off and be hippies in a smelly field. How do I get rid of house and ex and make lots of £££? Anon Imuss}

Oh exes are endlessly vexatious, aren't they? Why can't they all just tactfully die of a broken heart or join the Foreign Legion? Is the ex such a minging, malodorous muntbag that s/he is actively lowering the tone of the property? Or does s/he want to stay there because moving out will mean downshifting? Hmmm. I suspect what you should do is fake a number of vampiric happenings in your local area (disturb recent burials, leave trails of bloody footprints, show up at a goth event in suit that fits, that kind of thing). Then kill the ex by draining all the blood from her body and staking her out like a vampire's victim, at the property you wish to be rid of. The resulting notoriety will ensure the house sells at an inflated price to some drooling psycho/twilight fan/whatever. Even if it doesn't sell, you can rent it out to the producers of that terrible show with the Scouse charlatan and no light bulb budget.

_{Should I cure my self of my increasingly unhealthy addiction to Gossip Girl (I've even started reading the books) and plough on with a Tale of Two Cities (I've been referred to as Madame Defarge and so need to find out exactly how bad she was) or should I just revel in its glorious first world shallowness and carry on with worrying whether or not Blair will end up with Chuck and leave Louis the improbable foreign prince at the altar? ;-) ms_siobhan}

Dickens was the populist drivel of his day, my lovely lady, and A Tale of Two Cities is full of unlikely foreigners. Never be ashamed of your tastes, nor feel the need to defend them. Are you reading on a Kindle? If so no one's going to know what you are reading, anyway. I find this one of the more tiresome aspects of their proliferation, actually, as I can no longer alleviate the tedium of crowded tube journeys by stamping on the feet of people reading Dan Brown.

_{Dear Auntie Bellum,

I seem to have gone sweet on one of those Lefties. He has a sense of humour, no, really, but if I pursue him, the sex will be inevitably incompetent and possibly offensive (not in a good way) - what is a Centrist to do? Equivocate or spread 'em?

Yours,

Amorous}

Oh dear. I must have told you about the Guardian journalist I unwisely took to my bed, who had a fit of the screaming abdabs when he discovered a pile of old Telegraphs and a copy of the Spectator next to my bed? Anyway, it IS possible to shag The Wrong out of someone, but seldom worth the effort. There's a possibility he might be alright in bed, but not if he's one of those middle-class Islington organic hemp lefties, in which case he'll probably be too busy examining his privilege to locate your clitoris, AND need Viagra for his upper lip, let alone elsewhere. Spread 'em and blog about it?

_{Dear Auntie Oxidant,

I am newly, and happily, married. My husband is mostly splendid, but like many of his kind, he finds nothing wrong with leaving his pants on the bathroom floor. We have a very small bathroom and thus this quickly leads to a large pile of scants. Polite requests do little more than address the immediate issue, and an unfortunate incident where the pants were stacked up so high that the cat whisked a pair into her litter tray (which also exists in the bathroom) did not change anything, though it was hysterically entertaining (to me, though the cat was nonplussed).

My question, then, is: can you recommend any particularly colourful or interesting male underwear, so that I can at least be marginally entertained?

Yours with no belief that I will ever change my man (but I love him anyway),
Not-So-Young Bride}

I think you have two options, really. Either get a crafty friend to run you up a load of pants made out of cotton chenille / camberwick, so they look like little bath mats when your beloved lazy oik scatters them about the place, or coat all his clean pants with Acme Itching Powder, so he becomes a little more pants-aware.

_{Is it ok to have a hip flask of gin in one's anorak pocket whilst doing playground duty in the cold & rain?}

It is not remotely 'okay'. It is bloody well compulsory.

_{Dear Auntie,

I want to remain anonymous because this is a serious question. You know my circumstances, and that I have been in a very unhappy relationship for a very long while. What do you think I should do? You don't have to pull your punches, because I want you to say what you exactly what you think, not what you think I need to hear.}

Your partner is a selfish, narcissistic, weak, lazy bully. Like all bullies, underneath his bombastic exterior he is a coward and, because he is a coward, he will never leave you, despite his pathetic threats. You have made his life too easy, and your own way too hard. You have mentioned recently how you fear he is undermining your children in the same way he has undermined you. Leave him. You think you are weak and valueless but the very fact of leaving him will show you how strong you are. You will become the person who had the strength to leave the mediocrity who was making her family miserable. Your daughter will absorb the message that a woman should walk away from a man like her father, who has been given every chance - emotional and practical - to improve his behaviour and has squandered every one. Your son will absorb the message that men who bully and denigrate women and children get abandoned. I can't begin to imagine how hard leaving will be, but there are people (and organisations) who will help you. You should also know that the person you mentioned in the post you made and took down almost straightaway at Christmas feels the same way you do. He's just even more unassuming than you are. Cheating isn't wrong, necessarily, you know; sometimes it's the fraught but lovely means to a necessary and liberating end. You don't realise how many people are fond of you, respect you and will help you. It doesn't matter how long you have been with your husband, the rest of your life will be longer. You deserve it to be happier.

I have said what I think here, but it is also what I think you need to hear. I suspect the reason you are not hearing this from your two closest female friends is that they are both heavily invested in their own troubled marriages, and that supporting you to remain in your unhappy position helps to validate their present decision to remain in theirs.

_{Dear Auntie Oxidant,

There seems to be an increasing trend amongst my friends to organise a weekend abroad or something similarly expensive for their birthdays. Much as I love them, I do not have enough weekends or enough money. Why can't they have a night in the pub? And where will this attempt to outdo each others birthdays end?

Yours,
Broke of Borsetshire}

Are they all having the same Significant Birthday over the same couple of years? I find the easiest way is to reply to excessive invitation with "That's a brilliant plan! I can't wait! And it is just SO GENEROUS of you to pay for all of us, knowing how skint we all are. You're great", which usually nips the matter in the bud. You could also expand your social circle to include some poor people, too. Or simply say "No, much as I love you that's just way too expensive, and I can't spare a whole weekend, but can I organise a pub meet for a lovely night nearer home so that more people can share the celebrations".

_{Dear Auntie Oxidant

I am fortunate to be dating two lovely gents. My problem is that one of them is hung like a carthorse and the other, well, very much isn't. How can I enjoy Wee Willie while retaining the ability to accommodate Horseboy? I await your expertise!}

Hmm. I am slightly perplexed by your question. Is your vagina not constructed out of a superior sort of Memory Foam, so it can happily accommodate both? Alternately, I mean, not side-by-side, obviously. You aren't being impeded in your appreciation of one by recent concupiscence with the other, are you? I'd stick to engaging in specific acts with each of them. Peperami-cock is probably aware of his shortcomings and may be a bit of an animal in other areas, one hopes, and you can probably accommodate him comfortably in alternative points of entry, while sticking to Catering Saveloy for your basic hot, thrusting action.

_{Dear Auntie Oxident

I recently married my darling man in a small church ceremony. This was done with the assistance of family and in front of close friends. I am now concerned that as every detail of my wedding was not arranged, advised and approved by a committee of over 2000 women, that I may not be properly married at all!

Yours}

What you mean you just got married, in a church, in a big white frock? Was your vicar - God forbid - male and heterosexual? You didn't write your own vows recite them in Klingon? You didn't have a chorus of groomsmaids and bridesmen sitting in wheelchairs toasting you with vegan mead in mooncups? Or make your friends all stick to some arbitrary and tiresome dress code or theme? Good on you. This means your descendants will look at your wedding pictures and marvel at seeing a Proper Normal wedding entirely free of self-indulgent wankery at which none of the old rellies are pulling affronted Wodehouse aunt faces because they havn't a clue what hand-fasting is. Your wedding, your rules, you're wonderful.

_{Dear Auntie Oxidant,

I have appallingly low self esteem and find it difficult to approach women. Do you have any tips that don't involve heavy drinking? I've got that one covered.

Yours onanistically,

Noam Deplume}

Women are much easier to approach than you think, actually. And the best ones prefer a shy, slightly gauche approach from a decent, modest human being, to a slick assault from a smooth-talking player. It does depend, of course, on the calibre of the women. Do you like gothchicks? I think vaguely alternative women might be more appreciative of your charms, if you could be bothered to stalk them in clubs where the music is awful. And smile at the girl before you approach her. If she smiles back, go and talk to her. Imagine she's a bloke and talk to her the way you would a mate. Or try online dating - you are very witty engaging in writing and women are easily wooed by wit. Do let me vet your profile, though.

Is it possible to get through an entire day without wanting to punch somebody?

rosamicula — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 07:45:28 GMT

I know, I KNOW I haven't caught up with comments and things. I have been variously sleepy, grumpy, dopey and that missing dwarf, busy. I am still reading, though, and WILL catch up.

I also know that it isn't big or clever to make personal remarks about people, but on Tuesday I was very rude to a man queueing in front of me in Primark. His slightly plump wife was complaining that they didn't have the shorts she wanted in her size (14), they only had 18s and 20s left. He launched into a rant about why size 18 or 20 women would want to wear shorts and expose their flab, 'and what did they think they looked like' etc, etc. He alos pointed out to his wife that as she was 'small up top' she shouldn't draw attention to her bum. Now you might think from this degree of judgmentalism that he was a lithe, slim fit, dapper-dressed Adonis. Nope. He was seemingly muscle-free, enormously fat - 19 to 20 stone I'd guess - and wearing a teeshirt stretched uneasily over his substantial moobs and belly. And shorts.

The young girls standing behind me and I just rolled our eyes at each other. Then he started making an enormous fuss because their little boy had picked up a little rucksacky bag that was dusty pink and had a swirly design on it and asked if he could have it. The man made a HUGE FUSS about this being a girl's bag and how the child was a boy and couldn't have a girl's bag. He did this in a churlish, loud, angry way that garnered him a few more disapproving looks. To dissipate them a bit he looked around at the queue and said loudly, and more pleasantly, to the kid, 'Girls and boys are different. We don't want you getting confused, eh?"

I couldn't resist. I said, teacher-voicily, "Well, you could see how he MIGHT get confused, given his dad's boobs are SO much bigger than his mum's". His wife sniggered briefly, and he went very, very red and very, very quiet.

Writer's Block: National Pi Day

rosamicula — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 16:29:28 GMT

None. I have minions for that sort of thing.

Writer's Block: Taste the Rainbow

rosamicula — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 21:28:50 GMT

Turquoise would taste like fresh sweat between the shoulders of a tall, lithe man with very blue eyes and tawny browny blonde hair.

Auntie Oxidant's Problem Page 2

rosamicula — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 11:20:40 GMT

Do you have problems? Do your friends have problems? Are your friends problems? Whatever your concern or dilemma, ask and it shall be answered! And feel free to link.

Anonymous comments are allowed. All comments are screened for privacy and will remain screened, unless you specifically state you are happy with unscreening, so you can comment whilst logged on and I will not out you as the originator of whatever scandalous thing you have asked. Unless I'm bribed with a very great deal of gin, that is.

Go on, you know you want to.

The responses to the previous page are here

neither a borrower nor a lenter be

rosamicula — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 14:06:59 GMT

I am not giving anything up for Lent, but I am going to take up something I meant to do as a New Year's Resolution. I am going to learn how to hack the internet so that every time someone prefaces a statement, whinge or question with "I know it's only a first world problem, but..." fifty quid automatically disappears from their bank account and appears in the coffers of Oxfam.

I can't see how making this statement can convey anything but a combination of self-righteousness and false modesty. It vaguely reminds me of my mother insisting I should finish my dinner because 'there are children starving in Africa'. At least my mother was trying to get me to eat well; the only point of this pronouncement is to make the speaker look good, surely? Or do the people saying genuinely believe that saying this shows some sort of solidarity with the occupants of the world's sweatshops and refugee camps?

Auntie Oxidant

rosamicula — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 15:56:36 GMT

So, should I do another problem page thingy? You know, in a bit of an effort to ~~commentwhore~~ revive the LJ?

The last one is here.

Writer's Block: Doppelganger Week

rosamicula — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:44:13 GMT

I've been told I look like Gina Lollabrigida. I have also been told I look like Craig Charles.

January's Books

rosamicula — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 20:09:20 GMT

I am sure I read another novel but I have no idea what it was. I read most of this lot before I started working full time.

The Time of the Angels, Iris Murdoch JJJJ A weird little novel about the sinisterly eccentric vicar of a non-existent City church (it was destroyed in the war). The setting is foggy and claustrophobic and the seven characters loom in and out of it. I enjoyed this less than the others.

A Fairly Honourable Defeat, Iris Murdoch JJJJJOoh this is a scinitllatingly nasty novel about a cynical academic showing how easy it is to make the complacent ruin their cosy lives, mostly through the self-importance conferred by the opportunity for drama and intrigue. Possibly my favourite Murdoch so far.

A Word Child, Iris Murdoch JJJJJ I love the way her books are clearly parables, and thus implausible, but still utterly convincing. I want to live in Murdoch's London. The hero of this novel is a damaged civil servant with a tragic past that comes back, spectacularly to haunt him. The details of the meals and living circumstances of the down-at-heel are beautifully observed.

An Accidental Man, Iris Murdoch JJJJJ Another book full of appalling but fascinating people, again set in London. She's very good on the way women perceive themselves, and are attuned to other's perceptions of them. The man at the centre of the novel is brilliantly sketched. I'd love to have her write a novel about the Sisters of Sanctimony or the Tiresome Polyglomerates and skewer, with forensic clarity but never without compassion, all their petty vanities and hypocrisies.

the Philosopher's Pupil, Iris Murdoch JJJJJ I really couldn't put this down. Definitely my favourite one so far, despite what I said above about the other one. This is set in a fictional spa town I wish I lived in and is full of fascinating and vile people. The philosopher at the centre is a sort of monster, like all her academics, it seems.

Cocaine Nights, J G Ballard JJ I read this so I could teach it. Dystopia lalala, middleclass delinquency lalala, you don't get art without criminality lalala, in the future everyone will live in a gated community and video their wife-swapping lalala. It's about as truly prophetic as Mystic Meg. I can see why ponceyarsey critics like it; because it's about men who read like ponceyarsey critics doing a bit of highly stylised, intellectualised rape and murder. If M&S did rape and murder... He writes about sex as if he had never had it. At one point the main bit of female totty says, mid-shag, "Don't forget my anus". Almost as over-rated as Sebastian Faulks.

Jerusalem, Jez Butterworth JJJJJ This script is a bloody marvel and I really wish I'd made it to the play. It's fascinating state-of-England play that has a rural setting and isn't entirely pessimistic. This is lyrical, absurd, tragic and hilarious all at once. It is a fine rebuke to Blair's Britain. I might stage a bit of it with my pupils if I get the job I am applying for. Another one I had to read for work, as my pupil is writing an essay comparing it to Cocaine Nights.

Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare JJJJJ As close as Shakespeare gets to chick lit, really. I am annoyed I am teaching this as it just isn't as juicy as e.g. The Tempest or Twelfth Night. Also I have to use the Kenneth Branagh video, a.k.a Posho Luvvy takes all his luvvy mates on holiday. I think I've just got a downer on it because I use it in the uber-tiring evening class.

chewing gum for the eyes

rosamicula — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 12:04:26 GMT

Clive James used to front a TV programme in the eighties that was all about how peculiar and inferior foreign TV was at the time. Those crazy Japs, allowing themselves to be tortured with scorpions and publically humiliated to win a tiny prize! Those racy Scandiwegians, getting their knobs out in adverts for margarine!

I pretty much stopped watching TV in 2000. Coming back to it last year, three quarters of the channels were like watching that Clive James prog on a loop; he worst of the rest were the Prick or Chick or Sociopath channels, where you can watch Top Gear, Friends or Hitler 24 hours a day. If you are in the tiny minority of viewers that is over forty, vaguely literate, and prefers thinkywanks to porn, telly these days seems to be beamed from another planet, not just another country.

And if you spend a decade listening to Radio 4, when you return to TV, everyone on the mainstream channels seems to be twenty and pretty with wonderful teeth, terrible diction and a mediocre vocabulary. Whenever I see someone ordinary-looking and articulate presenting a TV programme now, I just assume they must be one of the ones who got there through nepotism, rather than the casting couch.

This bland, glossy-toothed uniformity extends to politicians. If the party leaders were mugggers, and you happened to be mugged by one of them in one of the six remaining remaining square feet of the UK that's not covered by CCTV, and they mocked up a photo fit from your desription, how on earth would you tell which one it was? This is why radio is better, it's eay to tell them apart when you are forced to listen to their voices and delivery: Braying and no brains? Cameron. Whining and no backbone? Clegg. No points and no balls? Milliband. At least in the eighties, you could tell the political satire from the news, because the political satire was the one with puppets in. These days, after only a moderate quantity of gin, you'd be hard pressed to tell the difference between Newsnight and In the Thick of It.

Children's TV is a bit better but meant it when I said recently that The Gruffalo was much more sophisticated than Dr Who In fact it was infinitely better on all counts. Why should I care? I am not a Who fan, and both are only children's programmes, after all. But, arguably they are important precisely because they were made for children; because they were about the only two original, made for TV, drama specials for children/whole family viewing, because they were made by the BBC which we pay for and which doesn't have to woo the advertisers and can afford, literally, to be a bit good. The Gruffalo wasn't just charming; it was inventive, thoughtful, clever. The mouse is a much better hero than Dr Who, because he relies on his wits. He also to face the genuine threat of being eaten, others creatures do get snaffled by predators, so unlike Who, all the bad stuff isn't simply diffused with a sonic screwdriver and a dose of nauseating sentiment, usually related to the importance of families and love. I pity those thousands of unfortunate children watching it in search of an imaginative escape from their own unpleasant families.