Breasts Aplenty

Since mentioning last time about bizarrely boob-centric search terms leading stray pervs to this blog, it has been brought to my attention that this is the number one site listed under blogs in Google for the search term “breasts aplenty.”

Number one!

I am strangely moved by this.  I have never been number one at anything. I remember bemoaning this fact to my friend Jo in the pub one night, that even the things I am quite good at, such as sitting down or being messy, I’m not anywhere near the best at them.

Now I have hit this pinnacle, I am overwhelmed by both power and the fear of losing it.  I’m starting to empathise with Mubarak and Gadaffi.

So, I am faced with no other choice but to start inserting random breast-related imagery into posts, in order to maintain my number one status.  There can be no better way to get this ball rolling (or pendulous orb swinging), than with this excellent video, linked to me a couple of weeks ago by my friend Yuri.

Never will you be able to hear a “whoop” noise again without it triggering some…happy thoughts.

I dearly hope all of Japan is recovering ok from their recent and ongoing disasters.

On a final note, if anyone even contemplates making their own breasts aplenty blog to topple this, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND CUT YOUR FACE.

Last month, or I’d give this a more interesting title if it was deserved

So I tried to make a case to someone last month that February was a worthwhile month, that it had redeeming features, that it wasn’t just another 4 weeks of winter tribulations to be endured instead of lived.

And I meant it, I really did.  Sometimes you are describing things to people, things like how this is a great company to work for or how these vegetables are good for you or how yes, everything in my life of privilege and plenty is going swimmingly.  And you mean it but you don’t feel it; it’s the truth but not your truth.

So for the most part the month passed drearily and with so little incident it probably created an incident vortex and will suck the life out of March too.  Really, when people start complaining at the end of Autumn about how quickly the year’s gone and how soon Christmas is coming, you should turn round and scream at them well that’s what happens when you waste the first 60 days of the year doing fuck all.

Anyway, now I will attempt to dredge the sewerage of the mundane for traces of gems, or at the very least some cubic zirconium that fell off an Elizabeth Duke necklace.

BAD THINGS

- Spent probably over 50% of the month in bed, in order to avoid doing anything. Sometimes I wish I had a viable reason for being in bed so much.

I used to think the song that best described my attitude to life was Waking Up by Elastica.  It mentions cups of tea and playing records and has the line if I can’t be a star I won’t get out of bed. Which sounds perfect, as I was mentioning only last time about the allure of horizantally-based employment.

But now I am wondering: what if I really did make a living working in bed (salaciously or otherwise)?  Then it would stop being the refuge of inactivity that it currently is, and I’d have to do stuff, and it would lose its lethargic allure.  I don’t really know what else to say about this, other than if I ever have to turn to sex work, it would have to be lap-dancing only (although I am way underskilled for that).

NEUTRAL THINGS

- I just noticed that someone found this blog using the search term “breasts aplenty.”  I don’t think I have written those words anywhere, so I am now concerned that GOOGLE CAN READ MY MIND.

GOOD THINGS

- Went to performance of Ravel’s Mother Goose suite courtesy of Robert (thank you my sassy man).

- Discovered, via my father’s boundless handyman skills, that the cause of my washing machine woes was a tiny allen key, of the sort I use at work for rank-mounting machines.  I wonder if maybe there is a voodoo doll of me somewhere, that someone is poking millions of those allen keys into.  Also I hope that by using the words “rack-mounted” I attract some more boob-loving pervs.

ROMANCE MONTH

Last time, I promised unoriginality, and in declaring February ROMANCE MONTH, I aim to deliver a thoroughly uninspired range of musings and anecdotes about all things love-related.

I’m not sure if my appreciation of the romantic genre has crossed the line yet from sarcastic fun-poking to honest indulgence, in the way that my passion for Eurovision has. I doubt the word “romantic” would feature in a list of top ten adjectives to describe me, as written by anyone that claims to know me, however I would argue that I very much am, then probably lose.

The first rom-dram I remember seeing on telly was Barbara Cartland’s A Hazard of Hearts, a TV movie that was truly incredible. Incredibly dire that is, so even a ten-year-old could relish its deliciously overwraught mawkishness with the precocious, ironic taste that all Brits are born with. I was obsessed with this film, for reasons I can’t quite comprehend; perhaps this was my root for taking so much pleasure in rubbish things, like a kind of entertainment-specific schadenfraude.

Some very persuasive producer had bagged the talents of no less than Diana Rigg, Edward Fox and Helena Bonham-Carter, in the lead role of Serena. HBC was very young then, so we can forgive her, though I particularly like how one IMDB reviewer chose to praise her performance:

“her eyebrows are more active here than anywhere else.”

THOSE EYEBROWS LOOK ACTIVELY LESBIAN TO ME

Repeatedly, I would watch this taped-off-the-telly treat, savouring its sub-Austen tropes and Regency clichés. Also, I am sure that the mansion it was set in had a secret passageway that was at the crux of literally several plot twists, and I love a good secret passage, in a totally non-euphemistic way.

I subsequently learned all about Barbara Cartland, and viewed her eccentricities and riches as very aspirational. Reclining on a chaise-longue while dictating your next write-by-numbers masterpiece to a dowdy typist with whom you probably have all sorts of sexual tension sounds like the perfect occupation to me, and certainly a lot safer than other horizontally-based employment.

For many years I have harboured a not-so-secret, yearning desire to write a Mills & Boon, for reasons I can’t quite fathom, much in the same way I can’t fathom why I delighted in A Hazard of Hearts so much. I don’t know if its a perverse pleasure in writing in such a stereotypically heterosexual genre (although obviously there are a great many dire lesbian romance novels out there, none of them have the recognition and cachet of M&B), or the challenge in working within such a delineated structure.

However, despite having a rough plot and even a first line, I have never progressed with the book, because I just cannot settle on names for The Girl and The Boy (or at least that’s my excuse).  And things will sound very different coming from the mouth of a Troy compared to a Hawk compared to a Rock, don’t you think? (M&B hero names should typically be mono-syllabic embodiments of pure alpha-manliness, it seems)

So until I resolve this issue, so many bosoms will remain un-heaved, so many members un-throbbed, so much love so un-un-requited that it double-negatively cancels itself in, and everyone realises who they’re meant to be with with no fuss at all.

And that wouldn’t be very romantic, would it?

Last month, or success, failure and f*cking Mozart.

Sometimes, I think there is a large gap between one’s intentions and the outcome of one’s actions.

Sometimes, there is no gap at all, but more often than not, there’s a gaping chasm filled with forgetfulness, apathy, distraction and ineptitude.

Sometimes, the pavement is so cracked with widening fractures of expectations and intentions that I think being an adult is about learning the triple jump, to hop and skip over them all.

I think January has been just one of those months.

BAD THINGS

-  My bold ambition to write something on here twice a week was a resounding failure, however, I admitted up front that it would never happen, so maybe it’s better that I got it over and done with quickly

- Radio 3 decided to spend the first fortnight of January playing nothing but Mozart.  At first, you might think, “oh that’s cool, why not celebrate one of the most prodigious musical talents in history by playing some of his stuff.”

Then you realise that Mo-Z wrote over 600 bits of music and R3 want to play every single one of them, sometimes more than once.  Then you realise that even the most prodigious of musical talents can have off days, and if you work the percentages, you know that among those 600 bits of music there’s going to be a few duff ones.

But that doesn’t stop Radio 3, oh no, who were intent on playing every last note, like a boyband-obsessive that listens repeatedly to all the album tracks despite the fact that that music was never intended for human consumption.

There was no let up between the music either, with every conversation dominated by Mo-talk.  This is where Mozart went on holiday, these are the letters he sent to other composers, these are the leeches the doctors prescribed to Mama Mo on her deathbed.  YES, THEY REALLY DISCUSSED THAT.

It was the leech thing that was the final straw for me I think, as I had already discovered that Mo-Z is seriously lacking tunes, and every morning I would wake up to the strains (and it was a strain) of more painful plinkety-plonking and silently convulse in aural agony, berating myself for forgetting to re-tune the radio back to Radio 1.  I blame Mozart for me failing to get up on time once throughout January.

I’m sure he has redeeming features, I’m sure someone that properly knows about music will be able to regale me with reasons why Mo-Z is great and convince me he really does have some good tunes, but right now this overexposure leaves me no choice other than to think he’s shit.  But at least he’s got nice balls.

IF ONLY ALL MEN'S BALLS WERE MADE OF MARZIPAN

GOOD THINGS

- Despite the failure of one resolution, things are looking up for the other two.  I have a form with the words “LEAVE OF ABSENCE REQUEST” scarily emblazoned across the top, which I will fill in just as soon as I pluck up the courage.

- Quite by accident, I managed to do some exercise.  These things creep up on you when you’re least expecting them, and I could not have imagined that one of my highlights of the start of the year would be hula-hooping atop the Brutalist concrete terraces of London’s Southbank.

I’ve decided to implement a THEME for February.  It’s an obvious one, but hopefully will encourage me to rant more frequently.  More on this soon.  Maybe even before the end of the month.

Resolutions

I have some New Year’s resolutions.

Despite naturally having no resolve, I have never been able to resist the allure of resolution season, much in the same way that the tone deaf and mildly psychotic cannot resist the allure of X-Factor auditions.  We all have dreams.

Typically, my #1 resolution is to stop biting my fingernails.  This only happened once, while I was at university, because I think that was the only time in my life when I wasn’t bored.  Others will vary: last year’s primary goal was to be mess neutral, which obviously was doomed to failure.  One year I had a list of approx. 35 resolutions, including learning to break-dance, because Robert and I had spent New Year’s Eve spinning on our backs on wooden floors, listening to musical soundtracks.  I’m not entirely sure musicals and break-dancing go together, but if the dance phenomenon of Mu-Hop ever broke out, I’d like to be in the vanguard.  Or at least I would if I’d kept the resolution.

This year, I’m keeping it simple.

Resolution #1: To post on blog twice a week

Chance of happening: 0%

It’s quite some time since I posted anything at all, and now to declare I will do something that would amount to a total of 100 posts over a single year sounds rather unlikely doesn’t it?  Yes, I agree.  However, there is something that niggles at me that it’s useful to have a drivel outlet, and anyway, I will endeavour to cheat as much as possible.  Expect a vast array of bi-weekly single-line entries such as “My Favourite Palindrome” and “Good Lesbian Films.”

 

Resolution #2: To do some exercise.  Like, maybe once.

Chance of happening: 50%

Somewhere between the sluggish, blubbery masses and the maniacal, hardcore gym evangelists, there is a golden sub-section of the population with a healthy glow, that partakes in wholesome physical activities, possibly in white vests and shorts akin to a wartime keep-fit film.  Possibly a Nazi one.  Anyway, there is vigorous frolicking aplenty going on in this country, to which I am not party.

These people talk about how their bizarre physical activities make them feel good and give them energy, which obviously makes me highly suspicious.  However, I am curious, and the potential benefits seem good enough that I really should try to exercise at least once this year, to remind myself what it feels like.

 

 

Resolution #3: Abandon comfortable yet tedious middle-class lifestyle and blow savings travelling round America for 6-12 months.

Chance of happening: 100%

Compared to the previous two, this one looks rather ambitious, doesn’t it?  It’s rather less ambition and more necessity.  I shall talk about this more another time.

 

That was the week that broke

A short list of things I have almost written about on blog recently, but didn’t quite, for various reasons:

* marriage

* lesbian playing cards

* Stockholm

* ADHD

* hair

* eggs

I know that saying “to write on a blog” is typically contracted to the verb “to blog” these days, but I find the casual verbification of words unsettling. It’s not that I’m particularly inflexible about language and its change, quite the opposite: I will often greedily hoover up most new words, but only after I’ve taken a moment or twenty to consider whether a new discovery is a delicate, exotic morsel to be savoured, or merely processed fodder to be perfunctorily consumed.

You see, in these modern, newfangled days that we spend talking to people that we’re not actually talking to because we’re emailing them, or texting them, or IMing them, or lopping their arm off with a pixellated halberd or whatever, our words are our first impression.  When I encounter someone spewing out the regular internet contractions and acronyms indiscriminately, it’s like meeting someone clad head-to-toe in chav-wear from Primark.  In person, I’m never likely to wear Chanel or Dior, but I can try and throw together a few sentences of sophistication, and aspire to some kind of lyrical elegance.  In reality, I think I probably come off more Laura Ashley: hideously florid and old before my time.

So to blog, to scrapbook, to headquarter (yeah, people really use that as a verb), these are words have an almost caffeinated buzz to them, the slow and organic sprouting of a sentence bulldozed for an Americanised fast-food rush.

I don’t mean to cite Americanisation as a bad thing. Indeed, I have a very high opinion of Americans and, to be honest, of most nationalities. This probably just means I am generally positive toward the abstract notion of “people,” as long as those people don’t smell bad, make noise, or sit anywhere near me. I once attempted to racially profile any ethnicities I felt irrationally prone to dislike, and determined this to be only Australian men who play professional Test cricket.

Now, all this blether isn’t any purposeful introduction to a greater topic, or sleight of hand to divert your attention away from some stonking revelation. Rather that, in light of my previous attempts – as listed above – to write a structured, disciplined commentary on a sensible topic, I decided to abandon all pretences of ever penning something worthwhile and just go for freeform ramble.  I was going to roughly riff on the subject of broken things, because this week, a lot of things have broken, including my laptop, boiler, washing machine and toilet.  However, that would be quite dull, so I am going to go out and eat curry instead.

Last week; or clafoutis and coping with fame

Things that happened this week:

BAD

- Not a lot, really. Though I did spend the start of the week moping around in an unprompted fit of-navel gazing. Actually, it was more like nipple-gazing, because if I were to stare down towards my navel, I’d get distracted by the intervening breasts. Not in an auto-erotic way, just an exclamatory “oh, boobs!” kind of way.

NEUTRAL

- On Friday I had the word clafoutis stuck in my head all day. It is common for people to have songs stuck in their head, I am as susceptible to this as anyone. But occasionally I’ll get just a word bouncing of the walls of the brain, even a whole sentence.

And so it came to pass that clafoutis was this word, clafoutis being, in my humble opinion, one of those desserts that’s nicer in name than it is in reality. However, it did strike me, while consumed by the silent clafoutis clafoutis clafoutis mantra whirring round my mind, that it’s high time we had another euphemistic name for a lady’s private parts and, you know, I think that clafoutis might be just the ticket. Also, it would provide a handy rhyming partner for “booty” when those rapscallion hip-hopperers are penning verses praising the female form.

Let’s try it on for size, in this Mills & Boon-esque sentence:
Outwardly, José affected a cold aloofness with Marjorie; secretly, he yearned for the sweetness of her soft, velvet clafoutis.

I think it works! Feedback welcome.

GOOD

- had v nice and posh meal in London to celebrate my sister’s return to the capital. I turned up at sister’s abode in typically casual attire and was forced into insta-makeover to achieve suitable levels or presentability. NOTE TO KATEY IF YOU ARE READING: please notify me beforehand on the scale of swank beforehand. Let’s face it, I’m never going to get beyond a 5.5 on such a scale, but pre-briefing will give me more time to perfect fabrication of stories about having bunions, to excuse wearing trainers if confronted with supercilious maitres d’.

- prior to v nice and posh meal, had beyond-nice cocktail at equally posh cocktail bar. It was an Earl Grey “Marteani”, and without doubt the nicest-tasting cocktail I’ve had since my last visit to Popolo in Newcastle many years ago. I could soliloquise at length about the perfect balance of its condiments and bergamot-infused botanical gin, the smooth and not-at-all offputting egg-white foam steeped in clean citrus flavours but, ultimately, IT WAS LIKE A REALLY NICE CUP OF TEA BUT MADE OF ALCOHOL. Even people that wouldn’t list both tea and alcohol in a vague and un-numerated personal “list of things I quite like” can surely appreciate the wonder of this.

 

Now, time for an important announcement.

It has come to my attention that there may be people that have read this blog. Obviously, there have been friends/family that I have encouraged/bullied to visit, but now there could be more unbidden, but never unwelcome, readers. Not just one more, but possibly two.

When I began this, a whole 5 posts ago, I could count the number of readers on one hand. Now I can count the number of readers on one of Anne Boleyn’s hands.*

I admit to being a little flustered by the attentions of this burgeoning international fanbase. I wasn’t anticipating becoming globally famous until I won the Eurovision Song Contest with my novelty pop hit Help! Help! Help! I Think My Boyfriend’s Gay, but seeing as I still haven’t thought up the second verse, I was starting to suspect it might never really happen.

Rest assured that I am grounded enough in my own world of tedium that I shall not let this superstardom go to my head, such that I start doing crazed, rock ‘n roll things, for example drinking fruit teas or herbal infusions. Remember kids: if you can’t put milk and sugar in it, it’s not tea.

 

 

 

 

(*the right hand, allegedly. However, when checking the veracity of her six-fingeredness on Wikipedia, they claimed that “historians know that this is false.” How can they really know? Did they hop in a time-machine and get fingered by her? Anyway, what’s almost as alarming is that wiki-p doesn’t have a category for six-fingered people, although there is a handy (ho ho) list on the Polydactyly page)

Want

I have never been very good at wanting things.

When my sister was a baby, her first words were “what’s that?”   According to family legend, after a few months poking her infant fingers at every object she could see and enquiring what it was, the question was followed up with: “I want it.”

Wanting things, in a consumerist fashion, is becoming increasingly frowned upon these days.  However, I think we shouldn’t underestimate how much the desire for stuff drives us into action.  I posit that this is why my sister actually does things, while I merely sit and think about doing them, over a nice cup of tea.

The most infamous scenes of wanting usually took place in Toy & Hobby in Stockport, a now sadly-demised toy shop, whose interior I remember vividly, particularly the green dimpled lino, which was rather like an expansive indoor sheet of Lego grass.

Lego was something I always wanted, but it was an accepted, constant ebb of desire.  I wanted it because it would be inconceivable not to want it.  Like cake.  If someone were to ask you now if you wanted some cake, you’d probably say yes, because who wouldn’t want cake*?

PLEASE INFORM ANY YOUNG GIRL FOUND WEARING THIS THAT SHE WILL GROW UP TO BE A LESBIAN GEEK.

The first thing I can remember really wanting was a Casio calculator watch, which I had spotted in H Samuel’s, circa age 8.  Look at this thing.  This is not the wrist attire of a normal girl.  How were alarm bells not ringing in my parents’ head?  Maybe something had twigged with them, because I recall it being quite some time between the start of the coveting and eventually claiming my prize.  More likely I’d begun my watch lust in that interminable period between birthdays and Christmases where it seemed like an age until you were next eligible for grand treats.

One of the simultaneously best/worst things about being an adult is that presents become somewhat defunct, because, on the whole, when you think of something you want, you can just go out and get it (when you’re a middle-class westerner, that is).  To me, instant gratification is something of an oxymoron, because if something is so easy to get that it can be had immediately, how gratifying can it really be?
I am not wishing to sound like an anti-consumerism moral arbiter, really this is just an excuse for being crap at shopping and having no materialistic imagination.

HOWEVER

I have found something I want.

Not just a mild “ooh, isn’t that nice,” casually tossed at a slightly diverting bit of bijoutry.  No, these are great, big, hungry, racking sobs of yearning.  Sort of.

And what could prompt this?  What mere bit of stuff could provoke these rarely-felt pangs?

Why, nothing short of a palace:

“Is that a very expensive-looking dinner service comprising plates and bowls that stack together to form models of Italian Renaissance buildings?” you ask, with a knowing wink.  Why yes, that is exactly what it is.

And I think it’s beautiful.

It would be the most extravagant purchase I have ever made, yet redeemed by its (dubious) practicality.

It would make me eat better, healthier food because I would feel guilty eating crap off its perfect surfaces.

It would turn me into a congenial hostess and chef, for I would have to invite the world round to experience its majesty.

It would revolutionise my life.

If I could get hold of it.

You see the only places that seem to stock it are in the centre of London, and I am somewhat flummoxed by how one transports bulky, yet delicate things from the heart of one of the world’s greatest writhing masses of ignorant toe-stepper-onners to, well, anywhere (assuming that places don’t deliver.  Does that still happen these days?).   I am guessing that the people that usually buy these sorts of things have slaves to carry everything.

I’m sure it won’t be too tricky a mission to locate and purchase it, but I’m starting to suspect that I want it to be difficult, because I just want to enjoy the wanting.

 

 

 

(*probably me, actually.  Cake is amazing, but I prefer it within the bounds of an accepted meal hierarchy, such as for dessert, or as part of afternoon tea.  Freestyle caking just cheapens the whole affair.)

Work avoidance (part 853)

Sample of things I have done to avoid work this weekend:

- oversleeping

- buying novelty sunglasses

- smoking.  Well, one cigarette, and it was just to make space to be able to put the lighter in packet.  I should point out I smoke exceedingly rarely.  Although I spent one fortnight at uni binging on Malboro menthols with Emma so we could get a “free” lighter.  The cigarretes, in conjunction with the novelty sunglasses, will be put into action when I go out in London on Monday night.

THIS WAS LIKE ME EXCEPT I WAS MORE VIOLENT.

- going to a wedding.  I guess that was pre-planned avoidance so possibly doesn’t count, even though I was half-considering skipping it because I’m so far behind with work.  However, I did go, and who caught the motherfuckin’ bouquet, bitches?  Yes, me.  Civil partnership gogo, currently accepting applicants to fill other bridal position.

- napping.  This is distinct from the sleeping, as anyone that is a connaisseur of the unconscious knows well.

- write this.  Although I’m letting myself off on this one, seeing as I’m waiting for something to boot up.

- watch football.  Again, permitted, due to national interest, although had demoralising effect.  Might possibly use this as excuse for why work is not completed if I am still up in the early hours of Monday morning without success.

MILLY, GET OUT OF THE BATH OF DEPRESSION.

- have bath.  This is one of the things I like doing that sounds as though it is engaging in an activity, but is really just lying down in a slightly different environment than bed.  However, I do get apprehensive if I start to indulge in excessive bath-taking.  I blame this on the excellent mid-90s BBC drama This Life where Milly takes more and more baths as a form of escapism as her and Egg’s relationship disintegrates.  However, as I am sans relationship until the bouquet effect starts rubbing off, I think I am safe.

I think this is a reasonable amount of avoidance considering it’s not even Sunday yet, however, I am sure there is yet more creative procrastination to come.

Death and tea

Apropos of nothing, I was thinking of death this morning.  It has been somewhat close to my thoughts recently, owing to the premature death of my uncle a couple of months ago.

It’s not a case of emo navel-gazing, any fear of an afterlife I know won’t happen, or the prospect of the extinguishing of my own flickering and inconsequential flame.  No, it’s the practicalities that are impinging on the fretful lobes of my brain, specifically funerals.

I was mildly incensed at my uncle’s funeral about how this bloke who was delivering a very lively eulogy kept trying to make tenuous assertions regarding my uncle’s spirituality.  Although slightly amused by how one might prove a soul’s worthiness to enter the kingdom of heaven through bassoon-playing, it was all rather baffling considering my uncle, to the best of my knowledge, believed in neither heaven, hell or god itself.  None of that side of the family do, to the extent that it verges on the anti-religious (or in my father’s case, far beyond).

I briefly discussed this with my sister afterwards, who was as similarly confused and put-out as I, and we agreed that we should protect each other’s remembrance should we have to, ensuring any funereal proceedings should be as secular as we are.

So, this morning, probably down to the combination of passing a hearse on the way into work, and feeling an increasing affinity for my own mortality as I attempt to cram two months of work into four days, I was considering what I would like said at my own funeral.  Initially there was lots of swearing, but I realised that should my mum survive me, she wouldn’t really like that, so I’d have to stay relatively tasteful.

So here’s a poem instead that I came up with while debugging code:

Remember me, with every tea,
Two sugars in with skimmed, PG,
And though I’m partial to earl grey
I’ll not be eulogised that way

For bergamot, so light, refined,
A character most unlike mine,
A fresh and sweet and strong ceylon
Is more how I’d be mused upon

I’d like to be a girthsome brew,
To settle then repeat on you,
Each gulp some wistful memory,
Remember me, with every tea.