weekend news digest

Home sales gridlocked - The property supply is at a 10-year low, fuelling higher prices. Between 80 and 100 buyers are pursuing every property for sale. The average house price is now rising by £122 a day - Daily Telegraph. Ooh, sorry, hard for me not to be obnoxiously smug here . . .

Rocky Mountain High by John Denver, once nearly banned by the US for its alleged glorification of drug use, has become the Colorado state anthem - The Guardian

Sculpture that cost £132,000 crushed to dust - “A sculpture by Anish Kapoor, entrusted to a specialist fine art storage firm, was probably mistaken for builders’ rubble, dumped in a skip and destroyed by a waste crusher, a high court judge concluded yesterday” – The Guardian. The picture shows Anish Kapoor in happier times with his amazing installation Marsyas in Tate Modern’s turbine hall.

Police raid on theatre saves a lobster from certain death. “Avant-garde theatre is under attack in Italy for pushing the boat out too far after police raided a Milan playhouse to save a lobster from being bludgeoned to death and eaten on stage.
Following complaints from animal rights groups, the first-night performance of Incident: Kill to Eat by Argentinian playwright Rodrigo Garcia was broken up by three plainclothes officers who spared the lobster from an all-too-real death scene.” - The Guardian. Apparently, theatre is now more popular in Italy, with 13 million theatre tickets being sold last year, against 9 million football tickets.

£25 fridge gadget that could slash greenhouse emissions - The Guardian. This brilliant device (the e-cube) converts fridge thermostats to measure food temperature rather than air temperature, and thus saves huge amounts of energy. Fridges account for around 20% of domestic energy use, and fitting one of these to every fridge in Britain would reduce carbon dioxide emissions by more than 2 million tonnes a year, as well as saving on energy bills. A totally common-sense idea - hooray!

Exodus – villages empty as 3m flee in search of hope abroad. Zimbabwe today – average life expectancy – 37 (as opposed to 60 in 1990); infant mortality rate up to 81 per 1,000; national income per person is $340 against South Africa’s $4,960; 5.5m Zimbabweans live with HIV; 1.1m Aids orphans; 6 out of every 100 have a phone (47 in South Africa); 56% of the population live on less than $1 a day - The Guardian. This is all mainly thanks to the ineptitude and corruption of Robert Mugabe and his cohorts in Zanu-PF. I was born in Zimbabwe, and it is tragic to see how that wonderful country has failed.

End of the line for HP sauce - ‘The last bottle of HP sauce to be made in Britain rolled off the production line yesterday. The final batch of the iconic brown condiment was made at the company’s factory in Aston, Birmingham, at 6am.
Heinz, the parent company, is moving production to the Netherlands with the loss of 120 jobs. A spokesman for the Transport and General Workers’ Union said last night: “The plant has been a landmark for 108 years – you could smell it from miles away.”’ – The Telegraph

Britpop goes rocking back into the US: Amy Winehouse and the Fratellis spearhead British music’s new transatlantic chart assault - “A new wave of British bands is taking the Unirted States by storm – and being credited with ‘saving pop music’ in America. ‘British empire strikes back’ yelled the the USA Today newspaper, adding ‘The British are humming’ as it feted at least half a dozen UK artists poised to make it big across the Atlantic.” – The Sunday Times

Right – let’s talk rhubarb protection - “Food from Britain, the government-backed marketing organization, has launched an appeal to producers of local ‘signature foods’ to apply for European Union protection.” To date, 35 British foods have been awarded this status, against 161 French foods and 155 Italian foods. Surprise, surprise, listing means enhanced access to Euro-funding.
“Among the British foods now bidding for protected status is Yorkshire rhubarb, which is grown in an area around Leeds, Bradford and Wakefield known as the ‘rhubarb triangle’.
The application for EU recognition states the rhubarb is grown indoors, benefits from the cold, heavy Yorkshire soil and has a ‘superior’ flavour to its rivals.” - The Sunday Times

Big Brovaz wuz robbed!!

A fantastic, original song, a theatrical performance blasting energy - a vote-winner with the European observers present - so of course we didn't pick them. Doh!

Instead, Scooch won. Hyped as being 'a return to pop' (circa 1974, I'd say), this is a pitch-perfect example of its genre: the British Eurovision Song. It honestly would not exist without the Eurovision Song Contest. A teeny tiny part of me thinks its aggressive campery may just do it for us - however, the larger part thinks this will sink without trace. Deservedly so.

Justin Hawkins, ex-frontman of Darkness, and Beverlei Brown were the bookies' favourites. An absolutely inspired pairing with stupendous costumes. Sad the song was par-for-the-course Hawkins stuff, and for Eurovision greater attention should have been given to the choreography. This was never going to win; the package didn't live up to the ingredients.

Liz McClarnon's effort (Don't It Make You) Happy! was my second choice. I think she was let down slightly by off-production and opening-act nerves (although in spectacular voice) - the backing dancers appeared at least to this unschooled observer to be under-rehearsed.

Least said the better about Brian Harvey's ballad. I was pleased to see him fighting back from the verge of personal tragedy, etc etc etc.

Fern Cotton's dress was fantastic in the first half of the programme. But she reverted to that wide and deep v-cut neck-line in the second half WHICH DOES ABSOLUTELY NOTHING FOR HER! ~ note to stylist. It was amusing to watch her manage dear old Terry Wogan. His gaga old buffer act is reaching a fairly critical stage - is it actually, in fact, not an act at all??!! - He announced as the winner Cyndi's Celine Dion-esque effort, and had to be corrected by Fern. That this was the runner-up was a second reason for despair.

However, the ominously threatened Morrisey entry did not transpire, and for this all Smiths fans must be forever grateful.

This year's Eurovision Song Contest will take place in Helsinki on 12 May.

Meet the UK's Eurovision hopefuls
Gaffe mars Scooch Eurovision win

Leon Kossof at the National Gallery

After my lunch in Notting Hill I meandered my way back southwards via the National Gallery to have a quick peek. The free national collections are a major bonus to living in London - it's a pleasure to suddenly get the urge to say hello to the Titians and just pop in for 15 minutes or so.

Leon Kossof first visited the National Gallery on his own at the age of 10 in 1936. He made his way from his home in Hackney. Later, he said that for him, all roads in London led to the National Gallery. Wow.

A reproduction of his painting Spitalfields in one of the papers prompted me to have a look at the original. It has a wonderfully robust, almost sculptural presence of its own. Layers of oil paint are heaped up on the board and swirl luxuriantly across the surface. It's a mountainous landscape of gloopy impasto, especially visible at the edges of the painting from which, as it is unframed, the gallery lights project extraordinary shadows on the walls.

But this muscular abstractionism is delicately balanced by the representation of Christ Church Spitalfields. It is just there, in all its precipitous perspective. The creamy greys, blues and greens do correspond - almost tangentally - to the reality of architecture, trees and sky. The painting asks us to take it as an object, then conjures up a representation of something else.

The stream of ambiguity is deepened by Kossof's preferred Baroque sources in this exhibition - Poussin, Rubens and Hawksmoor. In his etchings Kossof renders the classical Poussinesque compositions clearly but within an expressive flickering framework of abstract marks. And it is notable how ambiguous these Baroque artists themselves all are - they all hover daringly on the border between classicism and outright expressiveness. Hawksmoor's towering pile is more expressive than a full-blown Gothic Cathedral; Poussin is surreptitiously partial to stretching figures and playing games with light for effect.

Leon Kossof: Drawing from Painting
14th March - 1 July 2007
Sunley Room
National Gallery
Trafalgar Square

www.nationalgallery.org.uk

Electric jolts

The last 18 months have taught me that your life can change in a moment. One Friday, you can be called up to your manager’s office for a lunchtime meeting to find yourself out on the pavement five minutes later, sans keys, credit card and job. You can then spend the next few weeks becoming an expert in employment law, briefing the best employment lawyer you can find, and generally fighting tooth-and-nail for a decent settlement. In the middle of all this, your father may suffer a stroke, fall and break his neck, and spend the next 3 months in hospital on the other side of the world in critical care with a variety of hospital superbugs.

Distracted, worried and depressed, it may take a while to find a new job. The mortgage is ticking away, taking with it your life savings. Options appear to be closing down. But one day, you get a call; an invitation to lunch.

Because no matter how bad or how good your day is, and in whichever sudden new direction the wheel of fortune has decided to throw you, there will always be food.

I can’t remember what I ate the evening I was fired. But my upswing started with lunch at the Electric Brasserie in Notting Hill. Time Out suggests one be persistent, and one “will eventually secure a booking at what is one of the most fashionable restaurants in Notting Hill” – sort of like my career path, really.

We industry gossiped and discussed job specs over a delicious salad of avocado, broad beans, radish, frisee and delicate slivers of Italian cheese – tossed in a fresh light dressing which did not overpower the tender vegetables. For my main I had a spinach and gorgonzola tart – the intensely flavoured cheese melted over wilted spinach in a super light pastry case, all working together coherently as a team. I was pretty much over the moon with this choice, as I had my doubts when ordering – so much could have gone wrong.

The dining room is loud (acoustics are of the echo-ey kind – a dropped glass sounded like a bomb going off), and we were seated next to a tableful of Notting Hillbillies, who brayed full bore while chasing lettuce around their plates with forks. So be prepared to shout.

Service was attentive, discreet and friendly, and the cappuchinos just so. My one quibble apart from the noise was the bread offering – the slices were open textured but drying out, and the butter provided was rock-hard. Apart from that, the kitchen really had it together. I would happily go back, anyway. Especially if life takes another upturn!

Electric Brasserie
191 Portobello Road
W11 2ED
020 7908 9696
www.the-electric.co.uk

Thursday pic - Spring is coming

sainsbury daffodils, originally uploaded by hedgiecc.

Sainsbury's special offer - 20 daffs for 90p :-)

[EDIT]

"I wandered lonely as a cloud
To Sainsbury's deli for my lunch
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of daffs at 90p a bunch"

- Barbara Rich, 2007

The lovely Barbara left this beautiful poem as a comment on my flickr stream - I like it so much I'm posting it here too!

Atonement

I saw on Jonathan Ross's Film 2007 that Working Title is going to release an adaptation of Ian McKewan's novel Atonement later this year, starring Keira Knightley and James McAvoy. I'm excited. Atonement is one of my favourite novels, and it certainly offers filmakers lots of scope for epic image making - a tragic love affair played out against a backdrop of glamorous 30's country house parties; the retreat to Dunkirk, and the London Blitz, with wild plot reversals all the way through.

The visuals Jonathan showed looked promising. The film is produced and directed by the same team that did the well-received recent Pride and Prejudice. It will be interesting to see what they do with the novel - despite the spectacular melodrama it will be a bit tricky to film. McKewan plays remarkable literary games in the novel which will not translate easily.

Weekend news digest

I found a Winterson manuscript on the tube – The manuscript of celebrated English novelist Jeanette Winterson's forthcoming novel The Stone Gods was found abandoned on a bench at Balham Station. Oops! - Evening Standard

Amazing grace – The dowager Duchess of Devonshire adapts to her life after Chatsworth by opening a pub in her home village – the Swan Inn at Swinbrook in the Cotswolds. Apparently, she once took tea with Hitler (“he didn’t make a great impression”). I once took tea with Her Grace at Chatsworth, so yikes! – I’ve had tea with the woman who had tea with Hitler. Six degrees of separation and all that. (ES Magazine)

Saturday 10th March – Osama bin Laden’s 50th birthday. Which makes him a caring, spiritual Pisces. Yeesh!

Let’s see what his horoscope says: “Living under the magnifying glass of the media may feel grossly uncomfortable for you. When it comes down to it, no amount of fame or fortune can bring the satisfaction that total freedom does. Since you learn through experience, you may achieve success, fame, and all the trappings before you realize how limiting it can be. You will always stand out as a refined rebel.”Hmm. Not bad so far. “Your ability to influence others is really quite remarkable . . . You have a seductive glamour that flows naturally and effortlessly . . . You are skilled at distilling raw emotion into something provocative and hypnotic”.

Angry crowds hunt Bush as protests mark start of Latin American tour – “Massive corruption scandals involving Brazilian politicians rarely elicit this kind of reaction. Even top-flight Brazilian football teams sometimes struggle to draw such crowds”- The Guardian

Gingrich admits having affair at time of Clinton scandal – The Guardian. The sleaze of politicians knows no depth or end.

Europe sets benchmark for tackling climate change – “millions of homes across Europe face losing filament lightbulbs after the EU agreed to draw up rules by 2009”. - The Guardian. Good show, terrific, etc, BUT how does this affect downlighters? - My flat has 19 of them. And I don’t want those spirally environment-friendly bulbs snaking out of my sockets and spoiling the ceiling plane. Also, the light they emit is awfully cold. I don't like it. As I find myself already planning on importing illicit supplies of lightbulbs from the third world, this is clearly going to be a test of my green credentials.

Sacred Roman settlement found next to Neolithic ‘devil’s hill’- Evidence of a Roman sacred site has been discovered at the foot of a man-made hill created thousands of years before the Romans arrived in Britain, it was announced...English Heritage called the uncovering of the settlement a “startling discovery”, and all the more so because it lies next to 5,000-year-old Silbury Hill, which at 130ft is Europe’s largest man-made prehistoric monument.”- The Telegraph

Daleks are good!

Dalek cake, originally uploaded by tiny_tear.

I was admiring this wonderful homemade dalek cake posted on flickr when my telephone rang - a job offer for me! Whee! Life can change in an instant. This time, thank heavens, for the better.

Daleks terrified me when I was small - they were totally evil, and their metallic voices very fearsome. My parents' often repeated reminders that Daleks couldn't climb stairs made no difference. Eventually, I was banned from watching Dr Who but somehow I would still be drawn to the TV, hiding behind the sofa where my parents were sitting watching. My presence was always revealed whenever things got too scary. Dad would then pick me up and return me to my bed, where the cycle would begin again.

Anyway, all that is behind us as clearly Daleks have a beneficial effect nowadays!

Later on on friday I spotted this chocolate Dalek easter egg from Marks & Spencer. A triumph of packaging - really, the box IS more interesting than the chocolate inside (which is just an ordinary egg. Well, it's chocolate, so no complaints from me, but how fabulous would a real chocolate Dalek be?)

The best part of the box is that it has a speaking chip which screams "Exterminate! Exterminate!" in true Dalek fashion. So I left it to patrol the kitchen while I ate the egg in front of the TV (yes, bad boy, a bit previous to Easter but what the hell, I was celebrating my new job offer) - watching Ugly Betty (hilarious), Gosford Park (genius), and The House of Mirth (depressing). The egg didn't last that long though.

Tower Bridge

London without Tower Bridge would be like Paris without the Eiffel Tower or New York without the Chrysler Building. They all transcend considerations of architectural taste or value to become symbols: totems drawing the tourists inexorably - for once you have seen them, been there, taken the photo and got the t-shirt, you can truly say you have visited the great city; inbibed its essence.

Tower Bridge is great because it's so naff. That Gothic revivalism - surely even in its time it was meant with a sense of fun?

It's a sympathetic partner for its neighbour, the Tower of London, but also references the most spectacular Gothic bridge of all - the medieval London Bridge, destroyed in the Georgian Enlightenment, and a ghost which still haunts this stretch of the river. Not for nothing is Tower Bridge still frequently mistaken for "London" Bridge.



But the cod-medievalism doesn't just cloak the robust Victorian engineering. Form does follow function - in an allusive sense. For what are those massive bascules if not oversized, paired drawbidges? Seeing them raised is a perfectly satisfying visual joke, and far more entertaining than a strictly functionalist version of the bridge would have allowed.

Opened in 1894, Tower Bridge is a good 11 years younger than Brooklyn Bridge in New York, another bridge with Gothic detailing allied with stupendous engineering achievement.



Tower Bridge Official website
Bridge lifting/opening dates and times

Orange alert

I am feeling so inadequate. I like being up-to-date with technology but am more than usually useless with trying to understand it.

Last year, Orange upgraded me to a Nokia 6280. Now, from my previous 'phone, a Nokia 6610i, I could quite happily email phone pics to my computer. Suddenly I couldn't. I recently travelled up to Birmingham and was able to shoot the iconic new Selfridges, and wanted the save the photos. Argh!!!!!!!

I have been through complete 'phone support hell trying to get it sorted so I could email the pics off the 'phone. Two very lengthy sessions with support people - today's chap had to refer to his supervisor who said (I could hear him in the background) that I hadn't 'registered' the 'phone and therefore that was why I couldn't email. End of session. Me left facing a faceless internet page.

Well, sorry, but if there was a checklist for techno-illiterates to follow, or even clear instructions on the website, that might be slightly helpful. As it is, I feel I have about 17 pass codes, email codes, security codes, etc etc etc, without the vaguest clue why I need them or what they are for. After hours of fruitless rootling around I finally got to a page where I could 'register' the 'phone (it's fairly well hidden).

It asked me for all my codes. Yikes. Filled them in in and pressed the button. Watched paint dry. Gave up.

So I took the extraordinary step of referring to my phone's handbook and eventually managed to connect it up to my laptop via bluetooth, whatever that is. Hooray! Thank the Lord for Apple! Now I can just bluetooth the pics across. And I can forget about email until it becomes impossible to ignore.

Have to say, I'm not a fan of the 6280. I prefer my old 6610i.

Weekend news roundup

Eclipse - On Saturday evening clear skies meant Londoners saw the first total lunar eclipse since 2001. The eclipse began at 8.18pm and was complete between 10.44pm and 11.58pm. The red shade is caused by sunlight scattering through the earth's atmosphere being reduced to mainly red wavelengths before being reflected off the moon's surface.

I missed the whole thing as I crashed at around 8pm! - Just too exhausted and couldn't take the pace.

BBC gives up appeal against injunction - The cash for honours affair gets even more interesting, and the politicians seem to be in even hotter water. "Although the precise allegations still cannot be disclosed for legal reasons, they are understood to relate to the 'heart of the investigation'.
. . . the BBC reported that the injunction related to an 'internal email' circulated in Dowing Street." - The Observer

Love is a more accurate indicator of life expectancy than smoking - Happiness s good for you! How to be happier: (a) - move nearer to the office. Commuting is bad for your mental health!; (b) - Get married - except children cause a strain on your happiness until they move out; (c) - Earn at least £25,700 a year: below that is bad, and above that not that much better - way above can actually be bad too; (d) - Get into gardening - 'flow' activities where your brain can switch off are excellent for your health; (e) Get out more - socialise, socialise, socialise! - The Observer

London - " . . . London is the clearing house of Europe, the Nineveh and Babylon of modern times, the wealthiest city on record.
. . . the Square Mile continues to boom. London has become the number one financial centre with the most foreign banks, 70 per cent of the world's secondary bond market and half the derivatives market. The City's 325,000 employees lapped up an estimated £9bn in New year bonuses." - Tristram Hunt, The Observer

The northern lights have the strangest side effects - Abisko in northern Sweden is a popular honeymoon spot with Japanese couples - "they believe babies conceived under the northern lights will become intellectuals. Hotel rooms with glass viewing roofs are popular, and every local seems to know about the collision 120 miles away in Gallivare, when a snowmobile hit an amorous couple displaying remarkable determination - not to mention blood flow - in a sleeping bag." - Ian Belcher, The Sunday Times

Centenary

Wystan Hugh Auden
(21 February 1907, York – 29 September 1973, Vienna)

My favourite 20th-Century poet, and an early hero. I loved The Shield of Achilles from my first reading of it probably around 1973. Later, his homosexuality intrigued me, but I remember reading the biography by Humphrey Carpenter at university depressed me for weeks. It all seemed so tragically sad.

He was felt to have abandoned England when he left for America in 1939; and perhaps his quite admirable political engagement up to that point made his departure especially difficult to fathom for both friends and critics. But it seems it was anxieties around his gayness which inspired the move and kept him from explaining why.

It is pretty remarkable he spent the 1930s visiting some of the low dishonest decade’s most troublesome flash-points – Germany; Spain; China.

His politics seem appropriate once again in the age of globalization and renewed colonial wars. Especially now, which has a most distinct feel of clever hopes once again expiring.

I love his struggle to keep his abundant lyricism checked; his tendency to undercut rhetorical beauty with the commonalities of modern idiom or reference. Very much the organizing principal of The Shield of Achilles, in fact.

The Fall of Rome
[For Cyril Connolly]

The piers are pummeled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extoll the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar’s double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-inflected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.
January 1947

SNOW! (2)

Yeah yeah yeah - snowed again and this time I caught it.

Except I haven't got 'round to posting until now. Lazy blogger! Must try harder.

Weekend News Roundup

A slice of Queen Victoria's wedding cake (dating from February 10th 1840) has been discovered at Windsor Castle library. That's a library that could do with more frequent cleaning.

Orange snow in Siberia. Trippy.

The Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez has called George Bush "more dangerous than a monkey with a razor blade". Heh heh. Can't argue with that.

The news about warming is worse than we thought. and it's probably even worse than that: The Bush administration will have tried its best to weaken the message. Chavez wasn't joking.

Snow!

Yeah it snowed briefly last week - and I mised getting a photograph! Oh well - maybe next time. However, it has warmed up a bit and all the Spring flowers are bursting out all over. Holy Trinity Churchyard is awash with crocus.

Surge!

Global Warming watch: the price of a loaf of bread

“The price of a loaf of bread is set to break through the £1 barrier because of the soaring cost of wheat. . .

. . . Poor wheat harvests in major producing countries such as the United States, Australia, Argentina and Ukraine, and increasing demand, helped push the price of wheat up 35 per cent in 2006 to its highest level for a decade.

Some commodity traders call wheat ‘the new gold’. They believe a combination of the failed production, global population growth and a growing demand for wheat to created bioethanol as an almost pollution-free fuel for cars and trucks mean its price is set to go on rising.”

The article doesn’t speculate as to why there is a worldwide collapse of the wheat harvest. Global warming, anyone? ~ if so, this ironically would neatly limit the scope of the bioethanol industry in future years.

Tudor bastards!

The Holbein exhibition inspired several debates about the Tudors.

J regarded Henry VIII as a mediocre king, but C and I argued his impact on English infrastructure and culture was immense – and obviously pretty malign mostly. The Idi Amin of renaissance Europe.

The Monasteries of the time would have been largely responsible for education, agriculture, and medical services – all of which would have ceased upon Dissolution, with all the money grabbed going to pay for Henry’s luxurious lifestyle and the military instead. His selfish, expedient and hypocritical conversion of the state religion to Protestantism would cause centuries of problems for the country.

But strangely enough it goes even further – according to the Observer, Henry’s Preservation of Grain Act (1532) made it compulsory for every man, woman and child across the kingdom to kill as many creatures as possible that appeared on an official list of ‘vermin’. Quotas for each village were enforced and fines levied against those who did not perform.

Many of the ‘vermin’ were classed as such because of medieval superstition. Hedgehogs were driven to near-extinction because it was believed they sucked milk from the teats of recumbent cows at night. The bounty on hedgehogs was 4p, a huge sum in those days. Hundreds of thousands of the little things were murdered. Also persecuted were woodpeckers and kingfishers.

Interestingly, the wildlife persecution was so successful (the laws remained in place for about 200 years) that many of the animal populations have still not recovered and are threatened with extinction today. So the malign Tudor influence lives on.

Entitled

Names and titles sometimes are so evocative. I randomly collect them; my favourite title so far is “Keeper of the Imperial Inkpot” – apparently the title of a high-ranking functionary at the court of the Byzantine Emperors.

Holbein’s sitters’ titles are less glamorous, partly because a lot of them are current (the United Kingdom is the last European country still in the ancien régime phase of political development).

These caught my eye:

“Clerk of the King’s Signet”
“Page of the Chamber”

However nothing in Henry’s time can match “Silver Stick in Waiting”, a title held in Eizabeth II’s court today.

Tudor names can be glorious:

Cyriacus Hale
Cecily Heron
Lady Meutas
William Parr (younger brother of Queen Catherine Parr)

Ok, the last name is nothing really special. I was just touched by the drawing of the young dude – very much a young dude; I would imagine him as a skater-type boy today. He had a long life for the time, so he definitely survived his sister’s beheading.

Holbein

Holbein at Tate Britain. Pile-up of the usual Tudor worthies – the Cheneys and Precotts, Bushes and Blairs of their day.

And crowded before them in a crushing last-day scrum, last-minute Londoners and visitors from across the world. Credit to the Tate’s staff who kept the whole thing running efficiently.

My preference is for the Italian renaissance artists – somehow they seem to pull all elements of painting together into a (self-consciously) stylish whole; the Northerns seem to have a weirdly ‘detail-up’ approach in which a painting becomes an aggregate of individual elements which don't cohere in a satisfying way. It’s a different way of seeing, and it certainly can be impressive in the hands of talents like Van Eyck or Holbein (to name just two); and certainly the Italians themselves were blown away by the oil technique; but I don’t appreciate the Northern lack of stylistic fluency. This lack was ultimately remedied by Rubens (extensively schooled in Italian art), and thereafter the somewhat additive Northern manner dies out.

Holbein loves the human face and captures completely convincingly unposed and fleeting expressions – without being able to work from photographs, so really very impressive indeed. His preference for the human subject is proven by the drawings, in all of which the faces are the parts most developed. The luxurious paraphernalia of dress and jewellery is developed in the finished paintings, not the drawings.

Resolutions

I resolve never to attend temporary exhibitions on their closing weekends.

Especially not with relatives from out-of-town who (a) separate into two parties upon arrival in London; (b) collectively have no idea about time or long it may take to get (for example) from the Science Museum to the Tate; and (c) have an aversion to answering their mobile ‘phones or (d) don’t ‘phone you when they get involved in spontaneous and exciting good Samaritan missions to aid completely random little old ladies from Pimlico with their weekly shopping.

On the plus side, I can report that the Computer Games exhibition at the Science Museum is apparently totally engrossing.

I resolve never to attend exhibitions on their closing weekends on rainy afternoons when the cloakroom queue at the Tate is 5 miles long.

Whiskers

According to Joe.My.God. and Evilganome, beards are in and they are hot. Woof! I’m cresting on this trend, as I seem to have given up shaving since Boxing Day. Hairy Hedgie, that’s me.

Never before in my adult life have I ever grown any facial fuzz (so inhibited was I by parental prohibition) so I feel weirdly rebellious. Striking a blow for freedom for facial follicles.

Alas, yet to achieve the sort of recognition that Joe and Evilganome report, but I can attest that ladies of a certain age seem to find me irresistible. My neighbour squealed with delight when she saw me (she says she likes beards – and come to think about it her husband is fully bearded), and on my way to the Tate in the rain I was picked up by a lost and discombobulated Mittel-European in a fur coat and plastic hairdo-protector who requested my assistance in breaking into the arts college next door. She was under the impression that that was the Tate and was puzzled that it seemed to be locked.

And yes, ok, a handsome young man inside the Tate gave me a lingering look. Woof!

Saturday in London

I like winter when it gets extreme – really cold, so one can be cosy inside; or really snowy, so we can enjoy silly city snow fun and bond over all the urban transport disconnects; or when it really rains like it did on Saturday.

I love the weak grey light mixed with the warm and blinking city lights, the drifts of sparkling raindrops, the towering skeletal trees. Everyone bundled up; umbrellas floating through the dusky half-light.

And then into the tube where we bake and steam.

January market forces

New Year in Sainsbury's - Hedgie takes his place amongst the assembled hordes standing in front of the chilled soups section, all looking hopelessly at the near-empty shelves.

Jeez. I'm not on diet! I just feel like soup at this time of year.

However - over in the snacks section: Pringles half price! Yay!

So it's Pringles for dinner :-)

Washed down with copious quantities of G&T.

Bottled water causes global warming

The backlash starts here. The Londonist makes a strong case:

"London tap water is essentially free, has zero carbon footprint, does not add to landfill, is supposedly better regulated than most bottled varieties and tastes better than other regional tap waters. So why aren't the eco-warriors getting their teeth into the issue in a big way?

Selfridges have just upped the ante by selling a half litre of water for a ridiculous £2.79. And it's flown or shipped in all the way from the Catskills in New York State. This is stupid. And anyone who buys a bottle is a crazy, irresponsible foo'."

Desperate Housewives

OMG! Most classic Bree line ever ~

"I don't do that! I'm a Republican!"

It's back! Yay Yay Yay Yay Yay Yay Yay!

Pan's Labyrinth

I saw the trailer and was entranced with the visuals – but then Mark Kermode’s Five Live podcast (around 9:50 in the stream) really motivated me to go. I was half listening, but vaguely gathered Mr Kermode’s extreme enthusiasm for this movie – in the same league as ‘Citizen Kane’blah blah blah.

I actually tend to agree. The genius of the film is its extreme ambiguity: we never really know for sure if the fantasy is ‘real’ or just a child’s fantasy – and even within the fantasy Pan is a deeply dubious moral figure. The fantasy can be read as the child’s psychological attempt to cope with the reality of her situation: but the movie shows, over and over again, all the adult characters telling, believing, living their lives by stories – ultimately, Fascism itself is a kind of story being imposed on Spanish reality. Reality keeps biting back, for all the characters, creating narrative challenges which are then incorporated in yet more narrative. Narrative is a force of nature for us – we can’t do without it, and yet what we believe leads us to destruction.

Right at the beginning the heroine Ofelia’s weak and sickly pregnant mother derides the child’s continuing belief in fairytales yet tries to force a new story on the girl – asking her to call the Captain ‘father’ – “it’s just a word” she says. Big error.

The evil stepfather Captain totally identifies with his own father’s ‘hero’ story and one sees his skill in manipulating narrative – in the torture scene in particular, where he excrutiatingly plays on the victim’s and viewers' imaginations, making the scene virtually unwatchable, even though the actual violence is far less graphic than elsewhere in the film. The most vital thing in the Captain's life is that his own story will be passed safely on to his son - even at the expense of the baby's mother's health.

The movie is about narrative and humanity’s slavery to narrative; about our use of narrative to control or explain or justify our moral choices. Guillermo del Toro shows narrative to be a powerful yet amoral fact of human existence. What moral salvation there can be for us is predicated on an attempt to escape the rote demands of following the narrative; by questioning the narrative that imprisons us.

Criticism that the film does not adequately integrate the two narrative streams does not recognise the major thematic links between the two halves, or the extent to which the film is a meta-narrative, unaligned to either genre but instead utilising both. And to be absolutely fair, the editing links between reality and fantasy are amongst the most bravura and extraordinary I have ever seen.

Christmas in Carnaby Street

Christmas Joy: Freezing Fog

Will Duguid in today's Guardian:

"Freezing fog: what's not to like? I like to think I'm a caring kind of guy, even where arrogant sociopaths who pollute the skies are concerned, but - respect to all you air passengers huddled in your blankets out there - don't you think this might be the planet trying to tell you something?

And if, like me, you're lucky enough to be snug as a bug in a well-insulated home, doesn't this have to be one of the best environmental stories of the year? Don't you love Nature herself finally taking over, to ground the planes that helped make this the hottest year in history, forcing everyone on to trains and coaches instead? Sorry, but ever since this fog thing started, I haven't been able to wipe the smile off my face."

Solstice

Clapham Common

I've started a group on flickr for Clapham Common photographs - asserting a south London presence on the interweb!

We've gone over 30 members and 100 photos in the first week, so I'm pretty pleased.

Poor 'ol Clapham Common is probably not as photogenic as Hampstead Heath - however, we do have a lot of events and activities going on which I hope people will post photos of in future. And in the meantime, the group has certainly picked up some absolutely stunning images - ones that make you think "Wow! That was taken here?!"

So, join up, take photos, post!

From Russia with . . . ?

Boz first alerted us to the genius that is the M&S Christmas ad.

Now Londonist is campaigning for the divine Bassey to be the Chrstmas Number 1.

And in a desperate atempt to find a new angle on the story, The Grauniad has a rant about the evils of drugs. This is amusing enough to quote at some length:

"Still, perhaps we should acknowledge the drug reference and salute a perfect portrait of the mixed-up, shaken-and-stirred mores of Britain circa late 2006: a 69-year-old grandmother - dressed, say M&S, in a £150 "Magicwear" hold-it-all-in dress - doing a Bond-themed gig in Superman's house and singing about being on E. Fingerfood and sensibly priced partywear all round!"

Works for me.

Meanwhile, over at You Tube (4 stars, 59,213 views, 31 comments and 136 times favourited as I write) the big debate seems to be why didn't Pink get the gig? Some people have no poety in their souls.

BUT - a sudden thought chills me - as we are all aware, real-life Russian ex-spies are suddenly all over our news broadcasts, especially ones dying in James Bondian bizarreness. Is M&S going to suffer blow back from the polonium 210 issue?

While I deplore the callous murder of innocent Russian ex-spies living in our midst, I have to say the British police are giving good investigation. While Vladimir vehemently denies all responsibility, PC Plod keeps on the trail of that polonium 210 and its 130 day half-life. Now, didn't I tell you this whole operation was FUBAR? How brilliant is it that the poison actually leaves traces everywhere it's been, and it appears to have come from Russia? No doubt Vladimir will soon feel the long arm of Britsh law fingering his collar. Or at least testing it for polonium.

Although, I'm also finding it just a tad convenient from the PR angle that one of BA's planes was held at Moscow airport. Almost as if physically making a point. Come on, given airline turnaround times surely all three could have been caught in London?

[update] - from Wipipedia: "A cube of pure polonium-210 about the size of a written period (0.35 mm wide, or 400 micrograms) would still be 3400 times the lethal dose."

Oh - and also:

Deadly Polonium-210 only $69!

Ta Dah - Marie Antoinette

Late reviews - but what the hell -

Marie Antoinette by Sofia Coppola is more enjoyable than is reasonable for such a self-indulgent film; the cinematography and soundtrack, as well as Ms Dunst, are ravishing.

The movie it reminded me of most is Bertolucci's The Last Emperor - both films convincingly depict the effects on the captives of their gilded cages, and both are somewhat tableau-esque in construction. Bertolucci's story is aided by the extreme stylistic changes operating in his history - Imperial China to Art Deco to Mao. Alas, although Sofia does track the development of fashion at Versailles in the period from the stiff and formal panniered dresses of Marie's arrival in France, through the towering wig phase, and onwards to the deceptively simple 'natural' yet equally ruinously expensive flowing muslin gowns of the pre-revolutionary years, this transition is I fear too subtle for a modern audience to comprehend and certainly not enough to carry the plot.

Copolla's triumph is her exquisite, intimate perceptions of a life enmeshed in public royal ritual. I think her choice of near-contemporary music enhances this dimension.

Of course, if she wanted to be truly contemporary, she would have chosen tracks off Scissor Sisters latest CD, Ta-Dah. I think the most flattering thing I can say about it is that I bought it; I must have been the only person in the UK disappointed by their debut. Although some tracks were promising, and Jake Shears's voice was amazing, for me nothing reached the heights of their cover of Comfortably Numb.

I bought Ta-Dah after listening the thing on the band's Myspace page. It's really rather superb - a massive jump up from no.1 and also shows signs their musical development is just beginning. The first track, I don't feel like dancin' has justifiably been hailed as a dance classic, but I think Ooh is even better - in fact everything on the second half is just marvellous.

polonium 210

The unfortunate Mr Litvenenko has now passed away, after a dramatic deathbed accusation of Putin. The British authorities have announced radioactive polonium 210 was found in his urine, at Itsu and the bar of the Mayfair Millennium Hotel - the places he visited on the 1st November.

At this point, poor 'ol Itsu is probably so over. Legend has it there's no such thing as bad publicity, but hell, radioactivity in a fast food joint? I don't think so. Also please note this radioactivity has lasted in the place for a full 3 weeks.

I have to say the media are being very blase about this. The Guardian leader comment seems to imply this is absolutely nomal and only to be expected for spies. Harsh.

There appears to be a backlash against the idea that the Russians did it. The rationale is that the Russians would have been far more discreet and clever than to murder someone in such a painfully public manner. Well, this could be a Russian FUBAR project. FUBAR projects can happen to anyone - ask Tony and W.

We have to expect that we are not being told everything the authorities know, and also that this clearly impacts on Anglo-Russian dilpomatic relations, so the whole thing is going to be managed. I think it is very interesting the Russian ambassador was called into the foreign office for what was described as a "routine meeting" yesterday.

Anyway, a gruesome murder mystery in central London. Can't decide whether it's more like an Agatha Christie or an Ian Fleming novel.

Sushi - Yikes!

I'm going to have to rethink my attachment to sushi.

I can distinctly remember my wonderment when at the age of around 5 I first heard the Japanese ate raw fish. At that stage in my development, the formidable Catholic nuns at my nursery school had extreme difficulty getting me to eat cooked fish on Fridays.

However, time and taste marches on and certainly by the time of the Japan festival in the early 90s I was keen to try the stuff. And rapidly became hooked.

But now - oops. Firstly, a knowledgeable friend absolutely hated my choice of Japanese restaurant (a quite highly rated one, according to all the reviewers, here in South London).

And secondly, my most favourite snack joint is now the notorious scene of an (allegedly) KGB poisoning. Alexander Litvinenko, a Russian dissident, exile and strong critic of Putin's goverment fell ill - of thallium poisoning - after lunch at Itsu in Picadilly.

I love the sushi at Itsu. Yes, its mass-market but the sushi is prepared on the premises and they don't overchill the rice. It's actually really nice and I love going there after a cultural session at the Royal Academy. I liked it so much I wrote a fan letter to Julian Metcalfe, its owner. (He sent a very sweet reply.)

But this is the sort of incident a restaurant can't live down. Sort of like Boris Becker bonking in a broom cupboad at Nobu, only much much much more negative. Much. It's one thing if the food makes you so frisky you can't keep zipped up. Quite another if you are poisoned. Yikes!

You know you're spending too much time on the internet when . . .

You first see the new M&S Christmas ad on someone else's blog.



Thanks, Boz.

Truly fantabulous advert - makes me want to rush to M&S (even though I only buy their food). Oh - and also - the new James Bond is out! Yippee!

The Wisdom of Yorkies

I really like Yorkshire Terriers. The first I met and came to love was my Aunt's - Ozzie.

He looked very ratty compared to our Jack Russell, but was a total charmer to live with: complete terrier mischief and fun but with an 'off-switch', unlike the Jack Russells who just never stop. And also Yorkies do have a sense of their own safety, unlike the Jacks.

His coat used to get filthy every time we went outside, so bathing him became an almost daily event. I trained him to like the blow drier - he thought it was a wonderful game.

Ozzie was named for the rock star and was a pedigree bought at Harrod's. My aunt went in one Chistmas to buy a sewing machine and came out with a dog, of course much to my cousins' delight.

I once gave Oz his evening constitutional along the sea front in Hastings. There was a massive storm that night - the waves reared up out of the darkness and hit the sea wall with awesome force, shaking the walkway and sending foam 20-30 ft into he air. It was a fantastic sight, and being outside and so close to it was exhilarating.

Suddenly I looked down and there was no dog on the leash. He had slipped it. I freaked. I just knew the animal was in the water, and spent minutes tryng to spot the unfortunate creature out there in the savage inky blackness before another monster wave could crush him against the wall.

Nothing. Other late-night dog walkers hadn't seen him either. I ran up and down, calling his name; dreading having to go back to my aunt empty-handed.

And then above the roar of the sea I heard the howling. Behind me and above. I ran up the steps to see Oz cowered in the middle of the road, head between paws, howling his heart out. He barked at me reproachfully when I put his leash back on. As if to say: "You flipping idiot. What are you thinking??!"

And then he dragged me back home as fast his legs would carry him.

Result!

Hooray for elections! Quite a positive result in the US mid-term elections. Due to the President’s rather scary approach to international relations, the rest of the world has taken far more of an interest in these elections than usual, and possibly more so in the UK than elsewhere.

Therefore I found it fascinating that an article on ‘International Reactions’ on the US edition of the CNN website covered France and Germany but did not so much as mention the UK.

Hello? People? – We’re meant to be your biggest allies? Remember us? ~ we’re the ones stuck with you in the quagmire in Iraq.

And we’ll be stuck there until the Americans decide to cut and run, or whatever they end up calling it.

In fact, it was suggested on the BBC’s Newsnight last night that the UK government (as distinct from our military or the public) might be the only body left arguing for “staying the course” if the Democrats manage to change US policy.

So so humiliating.

It was the 50th anniversary of the Suez Crisis this year. For a storm in a teacup it had powerful consequences – apparently, the Europeans started the European Union partly as a result (the French and Germans wanting to create a body that could counterbalance America), and the French kept the UK out for as long as possible (we were seen as too close to the USA).

The UK went through a period of introspection and avoided any military action at all until the Falklands. Since then, we’ve been pretty gung-ho again, BUT always with American approval or partnership.

And now we come to this. I wonder how the end-game in Iraq will affect the ‘Special Relationship’? At the very least, we won’t be so quick to jump on board each and every American project, no matter how mad and ill-prepared, as a matter of course. But will we finally commit to Europe? Oh, the identity issues of a small island!

Fireworks over Clapham

The Council did a good job of the fireworks this year - although they sarted half-an-hour later than advertised. A crisp, clear, and chilly evening. Huge crowds dispersed after a great display off the Common to Clapham South or North: the Common tube was closed by order of the police, presumably to the delight of the many bars and restaurants lining Clapham High Street on the way to Clapham North station.

Trick or Treat?

From Hell

London today – a loud, proud, boastful city high on energy and rolling
in cash. The financial power of the City is flooding like a tsunami
over the old East End – Spitalfields is poised in a fragile and no
doubt brief balance between bland, concretized and glazed, assimilating
corporate glamour and the creative anarchy of bohemia and
multi-cultural Britain.

But duck down any of the side streets leading off Bishopsgate and in
two minutes you end up in an alleyway like this. An alley not much
changed from the days when Jack the Ripper stalked his victims in these
very streets. An alley where over a hundred years on, his presence and
the evil he did is still palpable. Sound drains into the dark. You’re
on your own here. Or are you?

Damien Rice's new fan

One tastes do change - I've noticed mine are moving on. Don't quite know what to ascribe the process to: partly of course I now maintain a single household and can do exactly as I choose, without anyone to influence me or to consider; also, the very many life-altering events of the past twelve months must affect me too.

The iPod on shuffle mode threw up "The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice from his CD "o". I bought this back in 2003 when it came out. I hadn't heard of Mr Rice at the time but I acted under the influence of ecstatic reviews.

I played a song or two. I hated it. Felt the first songs monotonous and dull and Mr Rice's delivery mannered and irritating.

Ivan laughed because he considered my musical enthusiasms strictly fashion-victim. Anyway, the CD was kept and eventually must have been dowloaded onto the iPod.

I didn't even recognise the artist when it played, but it totally swept me away. I listened to the album for the first time properly and adored it; not a weak moment on it. I've played it all day today; been in a lovely mellow mood.

He's got a new album out on the 6th November - have pre-ordered it from Amazon already.

A Happy Ending for Battersea?

Parkview International deserves thanks for opening Battersea Power Station to the public (for the first time ever).

It is currently hosting the “China Power Station: Part 1”(until 5 November).

Go see it at all costs. It may be a last chance.

The artworks are completely overshadowed by the grandeur and pathos of the building itself. A vast and austere Art Deco concoction, it is clearly in very bad shape indeed, far far worse than one would anticipate from the usual long-distance views. Being inside is like being inside some fabulous wreck (the Titanic springs to mind): rusting riveted girders dimly emerge through the dripping gloom; imaginations can run riot on the crackled antique paint textures and ancient, cryptic signs in ancient fonts. This whole place is on the cusp of history: an anachronistic, discredited technology housed in a huge, stricken and seemingly hopeless brick and steel temple. Can one imagine Angkor Wat being redeveloped for contemporary use? Pompeii?


The very beauty of the building, designed by Giles Gilbert Scott in 1929, was inspired by public concern the new station would be an eyesore. Now that its function is lost, the beauty remains as a poison chalice. So seductive and demanding, yet it has already finished one developer. And now Parkview International is drinking – or appears to be drinking – deep.

Battersea Power Station is as important to London as the Chrysler Building or Brooklyn Bridge is to New York, the Colisseum to Rome or the Eiffel tower to Paris. And yet Battersea is more vulnerable than all of these, as apart from vacant urban symbolism its fabric is compromised and it has yet to find a new reason to be.

It is shocking indeed that given this vulnerability, Wandsworth Council and English Heritage have foolishly, rashly given Parkview permission to demolish and rebuild the four chimneys, despite an engineering report saying they are repairable. Parkview is headquartered in Hong Kong and registered in the British Virgin Islands – pretty much impossible legally to make them rebuild four useless chimneys if they decide they can’t afford it. And without the chimneys the station is one step closer to total demolition. The empty site would be worth many, many, many millions.



Go see it before 5th November.

For more, check out the Wikipedia article.

Do I know you?

To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the
artist now.
- Samuel Beckett

We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
- Samuel Beckett

Detail of a street mural in Notting Hill celebrating the centenerary of Samuel Beckett's birth this year.

The artist's name is Alex Martinez.

Swings and Roundabouts

Strange how things work out. In the 80s, the most famous ex-power station in London was the Battersea Power Station. An architectural icon visible across swathes of south west London, situated on the approaches to Victoria Station, and featured on the cover of a famous rock album, it was a building greatly loved by Londoners.

In the late 80s an attempt was made to transform it into a theme park. This failed - Battersea is the largest brick building in Europe, and the property crash destroyed the developer.

I’m sure I was not the only Londoner disappointed the Tate chose another, little-known power station off to the east to transform into Tate Modern. But in retrospect Nicholas Serota’s instincts were spot on: his station was a workable size in an area on the brink of massive revival and with good transport links.

The funny thing about Battersea is despite its central location it's actually quite tricky to get to.

Now another developer is having a go at Battersea. Everyone wishes him well; noone wants to see Battersea be demolished and it has been standing as a partial ruin for 20 years now.

But it is amusing how these things pan out. Tate Modern is a victim of its own success – a prisoner of its footfall and the massive and very difficult turbine hall. Each exhibit there has to surpass the last in spectacle and popularity – an increasingly difficult trick to pull off.

One can view Carsten Höller’s slides installation as a final capitulation : come on, Art? – or Theme Park? You decide.

And just at this juncture, the gods of irony have disposed the Battersea Power Station to open to the public briefly with a high-minded exhibition organized by the Serpentine Art Gallery of contemporary Chinese Art.

It seems most visitors are attracted by the building itself (never before opened to the public). But still – Battersea finally does “Art” while Tate Modern becomes the “theme park”. Too amusing.

I have not yet been to Battersea, but hope to this week. Also, building up courage for those slides at the Tate. Will report on any aesthetic experience.

Tea

I have been following the doctor's advice regards my insomnia problem, so far with success. He says to avoid caffeine from midday onwards - a bit of a challenge for me, as I enjoy a cuppa tea. I have compromised by slowing down after lunch, and stopping completely at 6pm. Thereafter, it's camomile all the way.

Still, I have developed a taste for camomile, so that's good!

Have managed to avoid hitting the sleeping pills too hard - they still work when I take just a quarter - and no more mood issues to report.

A Very British Coup

Around the world this autumn, the military seems to be rocking the boat. First of all, we had the traditional military coup in Thailand - which seems to have had some popular support - and now we are having a very British version here.

It's mind-blowing - completely unprecedented in the modern history of Britain - for the army to disparage so publicly and so fundamentally the foreign policy set by the elected government. And superbly done, say I - General Sir Richard Dannatt, Chief of the General Staff, has publicly called for the removal of British troops from Iraq 'soon', and has stated we are doing harm to the country by being there. In my view, he is acting in the best British traditions of speaking truth to power and with luck he will get away with it.

Hopefully this will be the catalyst which will bring the Labour Party to the boil and finally goad them into doing what they should have done years ago.

I have some sympathy with Tony Blair. He is possibly the best politician around in the UK, and has taken a fair few good and hard decisions. However, his decision to take the country to war in Iraq - and it seems to have been virtually decided by him single-handedly under the influence of George Bush - was catastrophically misjudged; so serious he can't recover from it.

The fall-out has been so bad. The endless cycle of the milirary quagmire in Iraq; the destabilisation of the Middle East; the increased rush to go nuclear by Iran; the increased risk of terrorism at home; the growing social isolationism of Muslims in the UK (and the rise of violent Islamophobia): all are pretty depressing developments. And then we've had the alleged suicide of a government scientist for trying to tell the truth; the BBC trashed by a judicial whitewash for telling the truth; cabinet miniters' careers ruined for telling the truth. And now we have the army being bolshy - great and amusing in context, but still, a step out of their necessary constitutional role and in some small way another destabilisation of the fragile and unwritten British Constitution. But initiated by Thatcher and developed by Blair, the office of the PM has been ever-increasingly Imperial, in itself causing stress to the healthy functioning of democracy.

The Downing Street memos demostrate that T. Blair had excellent FO advice before the war that the Americans had neglected to plan for the occupation of Iraq. And there were many warnings of the obvious dangers of invading at the time - all of which have proved accurate, so it's really impossible for Tony to say he could not have foreseen the disaster.

And yet, he clings desperately to power. We are sacrificing young soldiers' lives, the good name of our country, and the possibility of peacefully ending the clash of civilisations, on the altar of one man's ego and vanity. Tony, in this case History has spoken already. Another six months won't really change anything.

The Devil Wears Prada

The title is stupendous, and of course the story’s provenance is intriguing (based on Lauren Weisberger’s lightly fictionalised experience as Anna Wintour’s assistant). I have been looking forward to this film all year, and it did not disappoint – superbly crafted entertainment and one of the sharpest films about fashion ever, because it focuses so intently on the financial power of the industry, and understands the mechanics and the redundancy of consumer desire. Unlike Altman’s Prêt-à-Porter, for example, The Devil Wears Prada ignores designer eccentricities in favour of cold, hard brutal economics and its effects on the characters.

Meryl Streep’s performance as Miranda Priestly, the editor of Runway magazine, completely makes the film and I reckon will become legendary. On one level just a ‘character’ role – she’s the devil boss – Streep’s subtlety and laser sharp comic timing, allied with a brilliant script by Aline Brosh McKenna, transcends genre. Streep channels both the evil and the insidious seductiveness of the devil (say, Milton’s devil), conjuring up our admiration and even our sympathy. Priestly understands power inside-out: barely raising her voice above a whisper, she instils complete terror in her staff of glossy lovelies. And the film ruthlessly shows how they have to be lovely, just as a basic requirement of survival in this jungle.

Anne Hathaway plays Andy, the high-minded journalism graduate who lands the job millions would kill for and decides she wants to stick out a year for her CV’s sake. In this urban fairy tale, she’s a Cinderella who learns the fashion game: we watch her progress from goof to glamazon, but slowly and unwittingly become corrupted by her ambition. Her performance is a great foil for Streep's: a wide-eyed ingenue, and yet clever, committed, and emotionally true.

As with Sex and the City, part of the joy of this film is the level of intelligence and skill which have been invested in something so basically entertaining. Director David Frankel has worked excellently on both; costume designer Patricia Field has as well. Her work in this movie is very notable – gone are the endearing quirk and fashion-forwardness of Sex in the City; here all is high-taste, high-glamour, high-powered.

My Drugs Hell

Hedgie is an exceptionally clean-living boy. No, really. I’m Saffie from Absolutely Fabulous (except for the gay part), which is not to say my parents were interesting 60’s bohemians, more like uptight 50’s soaks, single-handedly puffing their way through the output of a medium-sized cigarette factory every year. The end result is that my siblings and I avoid tobacco entirely and are very moderate drinkers.

My only real vices are sugar and caffeine.

I do enjoy the occasional drink. I am allergic to beer. Truth be told, I enjoy the mythology, ritual and snobbery of wine more than the actual stuff. I do like vodka and gin – especially in fruity cocktails. I once had a martini – in New York (I decided it was a good place to start). I was late at the bar, and my order came long after the others’. Seconds after I absorbed the shock of the goldfish bowl sized glass containing at least a pint of martini placed before me by the waiter my boss told me to ‘drink up’. A pint+ of martini chugged down on top of jetlag and an empty stomach and before a night out in New York with a party-animal boss is not a good idea.

But I digress. My mother unfortunately was a child of the 50s also in her battle with prescription drugs. This has left me wary of chemicals.

I occasionally (2-3 times a year) may take an aspirin or a paracetemol – that’s it. Ivan’s Catholic mother says that ‘pain is good for the soul’ and I generally go along with that.

But I have not been sleeping for months now: my first ever bout of sustained insomnia. I eventually went to the doctor last week and he prescribed sleeping pills.

I sliced the tablets in two and decided to take only one half each night. I’ve finished two pills so far: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights. Apart from Tuesday I’ve tried not to take them and have only done so after the church bell struck 2am.

They work like a charm. The trouble is my mood has been wildly affected during the day - I feel really strangely down. Today I was irrationally tearful and found myself contemplating a midnight stroll on Hungerford Bridge. This mood did clear up after I had a ham and tomato sandwich. But it doesn’t make sense as my career situation has improved – I’m starting next week on a freelance project which will net me a fist full of grands for 8 day’s work, so not bad. So why so depressed? I blame the pills. Looks like my choice is no sleep, exhaustion but a relatively clear head or sleep and feel like topping myself the next day.

Maybe I should chop the pills into quarters.

I won’t throw them away, but clearly they can’t be used every night. I’ll avoid them for the weekend, even if I don’t sleep, and see how things pan out.

[Update] – managed without last night; passed a restless night but at least chemical-free.

London Structures: High Victorian Taj Mahal

Hyde Park is crowded with deeply flawed Royal Monuments – the Diana Fountain is just the latest. This example is the High Victorian answer to the Taj Mahal; and certainly its grief-stricken genesis is as poignant. It is the future Empress of India’s memorial to her departed consort. The Victorians lavished the finest materials and most expensive talents of their day on its decoration. Unfortunately, they were less concerned about its engineering and we recently had to pay £17m for its renovation.

Ironically, this overgrown Gothic casket stands on the location of Great Britain’s supreme contribution to the history of modern architecture, the Crystal Palace, and commemorates the forward-thinking man who commissioned that vanished edifice.

Victoria’s grief was purest gold – she gilded Albert’s statue from head to foot. Her descendants, embarrassed by her faux pas, had it painted black to prevent German zeppelins navigating over London by the moonbeams glinting off Albert’s head (that’s what their press release said at the time). It remained black for the remainder of the 20th century.

The best thing English Heritage ever did was to regild the statue in direct defiance of the present Royal family’s objections. Tasteless but true to Victoria’s intentions: triumphantly making this what it needs so desperately to be – so bad it’s good.

Osanpo camera

Someone asked me if I was a fan of Osanpo technique. I hadn’t heard of it, but was inspired and rushed out to try it. After looking at the Osanpo Group on flickr however I realized firstly I had misunderstood, and secondly I had been doing classical Osanpo already:

"osanpo" mean is ...

osanpo = お散歩 (o-san-po)
お散歩 = 散歩 (san-po)
散 (san) = free
歩 (po) = walking
So.... osanpo = free walking.
and expanded "osanpo" meaning = "free walking, free riding, free driving"
So... osanpo camera = osanpo with your camera.”

Osanpo is taking your camera around wherever you go and shooting freely, whatever opportunity presents itself. Therefore, I suppose it’s true to say your work can be as ‘finished’ or as ‘rough’ as you like, as long as you are finding the opps on your travels.

Well, I liked it rough. After my chat, I went out and shot as randomly as it is possible to do – click, click, click – didn’t even check the viewfinder.

I learned a few things:

~ cameras can compose on their own
~ their compositions can be wildly original, shattering your ingrained preconceptions: your default settings. It can teach you to see freshly
~ nothing fails. It’s all good. If it’s not good, it’s funny
~ basically, it’s all fun
~ don’t sweat it.

Motto

"I always have secret enemies and more or less expect it. The reason my enemies are secret is because it's well known that my personal motto, tattooed to the inside of my heart, with the blood of the ones I've defeated, is

It's not revenge if they know."

Beautifully written, Alexnder Chee: words which resonate thrillingly with me tonight.

In unrelated news, I have been given an exciting freelance gig! whooo - yay me.

Conversations with a Moron

ring-ring! ring-ring! ring-ring!

Hedgie: Hello, this is Hedgie speaking.

Moron: Can I please speak to your deputy head teacher?

Hedgie: I’m sorry. I imagine you are trying to call G*** M***** Primary School. I’m afraid their number has changed and BT has given me their old number. This is now a private phone number. I actually think G*** M***** Primary School has closed down, as I have been unable to find their new number. Directory enquiries does not have it, although the old number is all over the internet.

Moron: Thank you.

~click~

3 seconds later –

ring-ring! ring-ring! ring-ring!

Hedgie: Hello, Hedgie speaking.

Moron: Is this G*** M***** Primary School?

Hedgie: No. This is a private number.

Moron: ok.

~click~

**%$*!!!?

Contemplating the universe and everything

Crunch time Zippy! The next few months are going to be very exciting.

The Search Goes On

It looks as though my little blog is being picked up by the great God Google, according to my stat counter thingy. Analysis shows my blog is a food blog - just about every search was food related. Incredible - I don't think I write about food that much. The funniest/strangest request was:

"mango puree made by shamans"

Hmmm. Interesting.

And Macaron, it's definitely time to get your own website! Although I don't mind advertising as I think you're great.

Quote London

"We are city boys . . . we always believe that excessive love of nature leads to totalitarianism."

- Gilbert and George

Bread

Baked goods. I really like the textures and colours in this: reminds me of an abstract painting.

The bread is not from Macaron this time - it's from Esca on
Clapham High Street, a deli/cafe/bakery which kick-started the posh
bread movement in these parts. Now we have Esca, Macaron, and a
restaurant on the High Street has a stall with artisanal breads which
spills out onto the pavement at weekends. The Lighthouse Bakery on
Northcote Rd is not too far away. So Claphamites are certainly going to be eating bread, as well as cake, for the foreseeable future.

I usually get Esca's organic white but they had sold out, so I tried
the farmhouse white. It's quite delicious toasted and smeared with my yoga teacher's blackcurrant jam. Yum!

The Queen

Laudatory reviews in the weekend papers; Helen Mirren is a National Treasure; and she won Best Actress at the Venice Film Festival: so therefore, a Must See.

Not.

The film has been wildly overpraised. It’s not bad; it’s just that it’s not very good. I think an interesting opportunity has been missed.

Mirren’s performance is a curate’s egg – I didn’t appreciate some of the more over-emphasised physical mannerisms (the walk), but she does deserve credit for imbuing the character with some interior life and complexity, despite the script. Her supporting cast of royals are a bunch of gurning gargoyles: hideous caricatures, the lot of them. Poor Charles fares especially badly.

The script rehearses the well-known events between Diana’s death and her funeral. Nothing new is revealed, it’s just imaginatively dressed up and dramatised.

The high point is the use of television footage intercut with the fictional recreation. In particular, the flashbacks of Diana are stunningly well integrated. Despite being almost a decade dead, her presence completely electrifies the screen whenever she appears. I think this angle could have been pursued more deeply: the mythological scale of her fame; the media hysteria; the New Labour spin machine attempting to engage with Royal presentational traditions. If the film attempted a more serious examination of these themes instead of focussing on the pedestrian televisual dramatisation of events, I think it could have done something quite interesting and profound.

Aspects of what could have been can be seen in Frears’ direction of the car crash sequence, intercut as it is with episodes from Diana’s career as a paparazzi target – totally brilliant – and also the funeral service, skilfully interwoven with the real Earl Spencer’s speech. I also very much enjoyed the sequence where the Queen takes Tony’s call in her Balmoral kitchens (crowds and crowds and crowds of startled flunkeys hastily try to accommodate her) as well as her return to Buckingham Palace to confront the hostile public and their venomous messages on the floral offerings. Totally bathetic is a sequence with the Queen confronting a stag on her Estate. Exactly what was not needed. But I suppose the decision had been taken that this was a Mirren vehicle.

Growth

I'm taking more and more photos. I get out of bed and shoot a few before breakfast, and then at odd moments in the day. I keep a notebook and I jot down ideas. I walk the city; that inspires ideas too. As does looking at other people's work and communicating with others.

If I'm out and I don't have my camera, I see things and kick myself.

Met two photographers recently: one in person and one via email; both conjured up out of the magic of cyberspace. This proved a powerful experience. Suddenly I realized: my camera is not a machine any more - it is beginning to be an instrument.

Confessions of a Famous Photographer

Ok - the headline is premature. And please forgive my boasting, but I am high on recognition as I type.

Less than 3 months on flickr, and one of my photos (above) has been picked up by Londonist. How absolutely cool is that? Huzaar!

Oh yes - it's a photo of a new mural in Southwark Street by Ian Davenport entitled Poured Lines. It had been hidden behind a teasing temporary cover until its official unveiling (due tomorrow 6th September). Turned out, too much of a tease as passing Londoners started ripping the cover off. The rips in the cover interested me, and I headed down to Southwark on Monday evening to photograph it before it finally disappeared forever.

I arrived to find the Council's officials busy removing the cover early, so I shot some snaps.

They told me the mural was being recovered today, so the 'temp' cover would look spiffy and fresh for the official unveiling. This is quite a task - apparently, this mural is longer than the Sistine Chapel Ceiling.

More Chemistry

I am starting to regret my previous belief in our new security regimen.

Mixing up a bomb while on board a plane is not as easy as mixing a Sea Breeze (as we have been carefully led to believe) - it requires time (hours and hours), skill, temperature control (lots of ice), ventilation (noxious fumes): if someone was constructing a 7/7-type bomb in the airplane loos it is likely someone would notice something odd. More hair-raising details for the paranoid here.

Although my sister (a Science graduate) told me this evening it is theoretically possible to make an effective explosive out of a bag of flour and a cigarette lighter.

Anyway, apart from the security beaurocrats (let's face it - the government is never going to turn down an opportunity to grab greater power) - commerce also benefits, as Carol Sarler in today's Observer writes:

"The absurdity that is 'tightened security' at airports is making fortunes for some. Dutifully, we leave our perfume and mascara behind, slither naked through check-in, then gallop to Boots in departures to buy replacements, while Mr Boot and his landlord, BAA, laugh all the way to the bank. The French, mind, must be laughing louder. In their departures lounge at Nice last week, one woman flogged you 50ml of No 5 and then, only yards away at the boarding gate, another confiscated it. The plane home carried such a rich scent of fury and indignation, with an agreeable top-note of xenophobia, that you could have bottled that, instead."