Ode to Beard Hair

It feels funny when I put my contact lenses
in
and there is something in my eye but
I can't work out what it is
so
I take out my contact lens and realise that it is
beard hair.
And not my own.

ICF

Writing Prospects, Cajun Squirrel, Tropical Fish

This term I'm taking a writing course for university. It's supposed to funnel me into a mindset from which I can write mind-bogglingly fantastic, original, witty and yet audience-friendly screenplays, radio plays and short stories. Of course I shall send them to the Beeb and have them commissioned, produced and broadcast (on BBC4 don't you know), become brilliantly well known, and be able to pick and choose ace stuff for the rest of my writing career.

Only I won't, because our tutor recently brought my (small - there are only seven of us) writing group's attention to the rough statistics over in the Commissions office at the BBC. Apparently, of every 100 projects that get commissioned - i.e., the writers have already got through that first rat race of having their scripts read and chosen - ONE gets made.

This makes me want to crawl into a hole somewhere. I wish I'd been good at science. Or pursued a career in maths. I have to admit it doesn't really help matters to constantly be reminded of The Crunch being felt by jobless graduates nationwide, manifested particularly in this depressing article in the Guardian warning that although it might be bad now, things are only going to 'get worse for the classes of 2009 and 2010'. According to the advice that article gives, rather than setting my sights on a mid-range graduate entry job when I finish next year, I should think myself lucky if I manage to find a job stacking shelves at Aldi. Super! That's just what I imagined doing when I signed up for a £30k debt-inducing education.

Anyway. The writing class. As part of some research I'm doing for my piece, me, John, Jeffrey and Li found ourselves walking down Great Portland Street searching for London's Best Aquarium and Tropical Fish Shop whilst munching on two of Walkers' 'they're mental!' new crisps flavours. (Chilli and chocolate was a unanimous disappointment, especially after looking at the ingredients list and finding that there was more garlic and paprika in the flavouring than chilli or chocolate; but Cajun Squirrel - which contains NO squirrel (!?) was a bit tastier.)

The shop was like walking into a parallel universe, so it wasn't hard for the others to humour me and stay there for half an hour while I had a good look. It turns out fish-sellers' rules are surprisingly stringent. I overheard lots of funny conversations, including one between a couple and a shop assistant who was solemnly instructing them to bring in a water sample from their (empty) tank so that he could check it was suitable for aqua-habitation. There's also a million and one products ranging from bubble tanks and oxygenating filters to 'spider's web' rocks for the bottom and 'ceramic noodles' (no idea). The best product I saw was 'Feng Shui Pebbles'. To zen your fish out.

Upstairs was all trickling water and steamy windows with tanks lining the walls, full of tiny breeds of fish; but downstairs there were about a billion different species of sea-plant and coral, and some very bizarre sea creatures including the ugliest turtle I've ever seen.

All in all a good, if unusual, way to try and forget about the nightmare that is my fiscal future. Followed up with a more traditional Saturday-shopping pilgrimage to the behemoth that is the Shepherd's Bush Westfield mall. Which was mostly uneventful (except for a sale Tod Lynn tuxedo jacket and socks in rainbow shades to go with John's new saliva-inducing Grenson Stanleys) until we walked out past the ridiculously overpriced Reiss and delicious, entirely reasonably priced Cos. John and I get the pick of the sales since he grabs the L (S and M seem to go so quickly in men's sizes! No sadomasochistic pun intended) and I get the puny size sixes (there are two reasons my twitter profile describes me as a 'pancake prodigy', and only one of them is related to cooking) which nobody seems to want either. Needless to say, some excellent bargains were snapped up...I'm looking forward to the debut of John's desert boots and woolly jumpigan, and racking my brains trying to think of a posh-ish event to wear my new Reiss dress to.

On a side note, we think that Bamboo Basket is a better instant/inappropriately timed dim sum stop than Ping Pong, plus they do lychee and guava juice by the glass, even if the service at Westfield is a bit chaotic - but that's understandable really, since the food court there is pretty traumatic at the best of times.

The Birthday Party

On Wednesday (and kindly sponsored by my mother) John and I went to see Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party at the Lyric Hammersmith. Some of you may remember that this was the site of the play’s first London performance and subsequent damnation by the press - it closed after 8 performances - despite Harold Hobson’s belated review, which described Pinter as possessing “the most original, disturbing and arresting talent in theatrical London”.

Sitting in our (superb) seats waiting for the curtain to rise, I noticed two things: firstly the inordinate amount of over sixties who had turned up (this was, after all, a matinee) and secondly, that the stage, visible behind the dropped curtain, had been carpeted with pebbles. This excited me; an obvious clue that the set design could be a little peculiar, a little subversive – like the vast majority of Pinter’s works, after all.

I wasn’t disappointed. The curtain finally rose to reveal what was ostensibly an average suburban bed and breakfast-y front room complete with a back kitchen and some of those little doors that you can post food through. On closer inspection, however, the scrubby walls, which were a bizarre shade of what can only be called ‘salmony taupe’, were peeling at the edges; unadorned except for a ubiquitous set of flying ducks (lonely looking), a dirty mirror, sooty fireplace and fading, saggy armchair.

For me, this ties in with Meg’s nonsensical, inane pride: in the cornflakes (“are they nice?”); the solitary piece of fried bread (“it’s a surprise,”) and the house itself (“we’re on the list!”). Meg appears to live, childlike, in a bubble-fantasy in which she has a strange, mother-crush relationship with Stanley. She clings to facts that she considers certainties, like Stanley’s piano playing, but fails to grasp others, as we see in her garbled retelling of Stanley’s concert. I thought Sheila Hancock did a brilliant job of Meg, really acing the scenes with Petey and showing the character’s vulnerabilities as Goldberg’s ‘persuasive’ nature charms her into submission.

Alan Williams as Petey, however, was a bit of a disappointment. I always considered Meg and Petey’s relationship to be slightly more complex than that of a weary-husband-harping-wife scenario – for example, one wonders the reasons behind Petey’s staying with Meg in the first place, and putting up with her obvious infatuation with Stanley – and at the end of the play, when Petey decides not to tell Meg about Stanley’s leaving, it is suggested that this is due to a sense of protectiveness or duty. Likewise, Meg’s comment about Petey always complaining that Stan spends too much time in bed implies that his character plays a relatively important observational role in the mock family; an implication that was opposed by Williams’ monotonous, shouting delivery. In fact, I thought Williams was acting more like a robot on Xanax than anything. This really got to me, because it lead to Williams’ rendering of the all-important line “Stan, don’t let them tell you what to do!” almost completely pointless.

Justin Salinger did a great job of Stanley, portraying him not as a bedraggled artist type (as some productions do) but instead really emphasising the bitterness of the character’s poisonous personality and simultaneously managing to convey the inherent desperation that comes with it. It is this weakness in Stanley’s personality that's later exploited by the sinister Goldberg and McCann (Nicholas Woodeson and Lloyd Hutchinson respectively).

I have to say at this point that Lloyd Hutchinson really stole the show. His timing and delivery were so spot on, bringing much-needed comedic relief to the role and to the play itself. Despite coming across at first as merely the beef to Goldberg’s brains, McCann turns out to be the foil against which Woodeson’s Goldberg is able to appear wicked. And yet Hutchinson’s comedic lines themselves provide an excellent foil for his dark side: as Goldberg remarks, though McCann might dither about before doing something, when it comes to the crunch he acts the part. The menacing side of McCann’s personality seemed exacerbated by the literal dark created by switching off the lights – symbolically, an action he’s ordered to do by Goldberg – and there was a thrilled collective gasp from the audience when he savagely snapped Stan’s glasses in half. And yet in contrast, in the last scene of the play, he balefully tells Goldberg with visible discomfort that Stanley, in his now near-catatonic state, is trying to fit the lenses back onto his face.

In comparison, Woodeson’s Goldberg seemed more of a doddery dodgy dealer than dastardly prosecutor. His weird mockey-Ameri-Jew accent grated the wrong way, and his attempts at comedy came off as pantomimic. Goldberg’s repeated, but dubious, recollections of childhood family time were almost stripped of their significance when spoken by Woodeson.

However much I’ve moaned about Goldberg and Petey, though, I think the actors who played McCann, Meg and Stanley really excelled in this production, and this, teamed with a great set and seamless stage direction makes it a must-see. I’m definitely glad I went. And to Pinter, father of the pregnant pause, cheers for persisting with it, eh.

Image from Flickr

Telephone conversation with a robot

"What is the issue number of your credit or debit card?"
"Four."
"Please state the issue number of your credit or debit card now."
"Four."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please state the issue number of your credit or debit card now."
"Four."
"I'm sorry, there appears to be a problem. Please state the issue number of your credit or debit card now."
"Four."
"If you are having problems, you can choose Option One to speak to one of our advisers, Option Two to end the call, or Option Three to resume. Please say one, two or three."
"Three."
"What is the issue number of your credit or debit card?"
"Four."
"You said 'four'. To confirm, please say 'yes' or 'no'."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please say 'yes' or 'no'."

.....

Image from Flickr

Lucky Charms

I think I would seriously consider going to America just for the Lucky Charms. General Mills, I bow to thee, creator of such oaty kibble deliciousness and powdered sugar indulgence. Actually, to be honest, I'm not such a big fan of the oaty kibble - I eat that part first and save the charms 'til last - but I suppose that other people who don't possess such a die-hard sugar addiction need it for palatability reasons.

When I was younger I used to have quite a long running daydream where I had access to vast amounts of money, with which I could do as I pleased (like most people I think). Since 'forward planning' in my young and nubile mind stretched probably as far as Saturday (30p sweetie money and the Beano), it probably isn't surprising that my biggest dream was to either a) fill up an Olympic sized swimming pool with the confectionary of my choice, or b) go for the multi-choice option of filling various wooden barrels with said confectionary.

I should point out that back then, I wasn't really interested in the consumption of the sweets, or whatever it was, but more in the physical feeling of a) swimming in something other than water or b) plunging my whole arm into a barrel full of something. Mainly my swimming fantasies revolved around jelly beans, because I thought they would be relatively streamlined, and I think at one point I was intrigued by the idea of jumping into Hula Hoops because they had gaps in which might or might not enable me to breathe 'underwater' as it were.

Jelly was another swimming pool possibility. Bit sticky though. Anyway, what this brings me back to is that if I could get hold of barrels of things in the near future (let's face it, if I get rich and want to indulge myself, the barrels are a lot more accessible) there would definitely be a barrel of Charms on the list. Obviously I'd pay someone to pick all the oaty kibble out.

Image from Flickr

Ode Part Two

But

I get angry at John because

He has a shower and then

Folds up the towel and leaves it where it doesn't get dry but stays

Soggy

Also he makes the step

Wet.

Ode to Toilet Paper

John is angry
because
when I use up the toilet paper I unwrap
a new
Roll.
But I do not change the old cardboard tube and instead
I leave it on the holder.

ICF