Bella is a fool

Last night we went to see New Moon. Midnight showing. F-ing A.

The cinema sold us a bottle of wine, red for symbolism. Zut alors, are we in France? I was wearing a beret. And I had four Jack Daniels and Coke jiggling in my tummy before that, so I was a wee bitty tipsy.

But sober enough to know that Bella, Bella, Bella… is a fool.

Look. I have a lot of time for Edward, especially Edward played by Robert Pattinson. His hipbones are charming. It doesn’t matter that he does scary stalkerish things like breaking into Bella’s house to watch her sleep, or follow her around town without her knowledge, or that he doesn’t like her to have other friends. I can overlook his controlling and manipulative behaviour, even when he sits her on his lap and treats her like a baby.

Let’s just pretend he didn’t say sniffing her neck is like

enjoying the bouquet without tasting the wine.

In fact, let’s forget all his creepy old-man aphorisms.

And that Edward, well, sometimes Edward can be a pill.

Because if it was real life, Bella would probably outgrow her Edward fixation, get a restraining order, and develop a healthy, equal relationship with friendly, funny, sunny Jacob Black. Friendly, funny, sunny Jacob Black with the lovely, long, Timotei-soft hair.

But of course, it’s not real life. It’s pure fantasy. Outside of ads for fabric softener, there are no enchanted meadows. Typically, gorgeous God-like teenage boys don’t pledge eternal romance on the first date (in the enchanted meadow.) If it was real life, there’s a good chance Edward would sleep with Bella, blow her off, and then tell everyone about it. In that respect, it’s easy to see why a sexy and dangerous but safely chaste vampire appeals to thirteen year old girls. And why he might appeal to grown women (like me) too.

And yet… how much cheek-brushing and wrist-sniffing can a girl go for?

I read Eclipse recently and I was shocked to discover Edward is, well, the other v-word. My friend says I’ve misread it. Feel free to chip in. I always thought vampires were a metaphor for sex – so how can he be a 108 year old virgin? I can only conclude the man is a cold fish.

Meanwhile, climbing in Bella’s window is her best friend – an all-round great guy who adores her, treats her well and makes her happy. And, hey, I think he’s been working out! But best of all, he’s (mostly) human, he’s hot-blooded and he’s ready to go.

And who does she choose? The cold one. The sparkly dead great-grandfather. I mean it, that girl is retarded. Literally retarded – she wants to remain a teenager forever. I don’t know if I can bring myself to read Breaking Dawn.

Sigh. Maybe it just goes to show women make bad choices when it comes to men. (Some women. Some men. Don’t get on me about this.)

Anyway, I’m on Team Jacob. And Jacob, this one’s for you.

And as a postscript, Edward wears pyjamas. Top and bottoms. Even when he’s not in hospital. And when he goes to the vampire Vatican, he doesn’t even bother to change. Seemingly, he just wanders out into the street in his pjs and slippers, as if he has dementia (he is 108 after all.) And, really, that’s about on par with stepping into the sunlight and glittering for breach of the peace.

Who broke the lightbox?

This is a job for the boys in forensics.

Sublime Rush

It’s my pleasure to direct you to new alt arts zine Sublime Rush

Brainchild of Edinburgh-based deviant photographer Tanya Simpson, its battle cry is independent creative passion and the first issue comes jam-packed with interviews with kick-ass artists from across the board.

Check it on out.

No hearts for autumn

It seems everyone is happy to see the back of summer. Everyone that is except me.

They’re taking long walks in the country, breathing in lungfuls of crisp fresh air, playfully kicking piles of leaves with their attractive life partners and having lazy Sunday lunches in pubs with open fires.

Except they’re not, you know. They’re just doing the same old shit but now they’re doing it in the cold and the dark.

I suspect most people are just happy to be able to wear hats. And I’ll give them that – hats don’t just keep your head warm, they also cover bad hair. I like wearing mine. It’s a beret.

And coats, of course. No-one has to diet to fit into a coat.

Plus bad weather is a legitimate reason to stay indoors. You don’t feel obligated to play tennis or inadequate because you feel you ought to be playing tennis, even though you don’t have a partner or a racket or a clue how to play tennis. You can just sit in and watch telly. And the telly’s better, too.

But it’s COLD and DARK and getting COLDER and DARKER with each passing day. It never snows. It just gets soggy – soggy and gray and miserable. And at some point, usually in January, March will begin to feel impossibly far away and Finns will kill themselves and write bad poetry.

Everyday we lose four minutes and thirty seconds. How wasteful.

Piroshki take two

My second go at piroshki (or little Russian pasties.)

[use your imagination]

Turned out quite well, eh? See that lovely golden brown colour? Brushed egg.

I’m still not sure how to fold them – and some turned out better than others – but the fun is in finding new ways.

The dough came from Mollie Katzen’s Enchanted Broccoli Forest again, but this time I used a recipe I found on-line for the filling: mashed potato, onion and dill. To be honest, it was a little meh. I ended up adding mint, chilli flakes and parmesan to mix it up and it was still a little meh. Maybe if my friend had let me add toasted pine nuts…

Anyway, Mollie’s dilled cheese recipe was definitely much tastier.

I don’t usually make my own mash because M&S do it much better, so I’m not well-versed in the art. The recipe advised me to steam, not boil, the potatoes so I did (but I don’t know why) and to mash them by hand. Is there any other way? Could you do it in a blender or a food processor? Or did it mean mash them without a masher? Just make a fist and PUNCH THE FUCKERS! Cause, man, that’s really hardcore.

True Blood

When you came in, the air went out.

I’m looking forward to catching True Blood when it starts on Channel 4 on Wednesday.

True, I do have FX, but my Sky+ is buggered and I have trouble committing.

I also drunkenly got in a taxi to the other side of the city to watch it at a friend’s place, but she couldn’t find the right cable for her Macbook and then she ‘fell asleep.’ And in the morning I was too vomitous to focus.

In preparation for Wednesday, I’ve been listening to music tagged true blood on last.fm. It sounds so sexy and dirty and wrong.

I love it.

Must. stop. going. to Lidl.

I went in for bin bags.

I came out with chocolate coated barrels filled with advocaat and raspberry brandy.

[There would be a photo here, but my netbook isn't talking to my camera.]

They’ve got all their Chrismas biscuitry in, too. It’s going to be an expensive, and fattening, few months.

A very big thank you

to everyone who participated in the ‘home’ meme for Refugee Week.

I’m told it reached an estimated audience of 250,000 people!

Sodom and Begorrah, you’re all awesome.

Two go camping

I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an archaeologist.

I am a person who says yes to things without thinking them through.

That’s why when Kate asked me if I fancied tagging along to an archaeological dig in Aberdeenshire, sleeping out under the stars, I packed up my trowel in my old kit bag and hopped in the car. (Which was, incidentally, a Mercedes. You’ve got to love a girl who rents a Merc to go camping.)

I won’t name the exact location in case the organisers decide to go Googling themselves, but the site itself has been continually occupied from the Bronze Age to the present day and holds an interesting place in Scottish history. From an archaeological perspective, it offers a fascinating insight into a cross-section of humanity throughout the ages.

From my perspective, it was a chance to move dirt from one place to another. Slowly.

I lasted approximately half a morning before I left poor brave Kate in the trenches sopping up mud with a sponge while I went for a wander instead. (In my defense, it was very hot and I think I had a touch of sunstroke.)

The campsite (a field with three portaloos) was situated in a lovely spot, hemmed in by mature woodland and a stone’s throw from the Don. I spent a good part of the day avoiding the baking heat – and any hard work – stretched out on a lovely cool rock in a shady dell by the riverside.

I really am a bad person.

It was my first time camping and I loved it. The good weather was a boon, of course, and it probably helps that I never went camping with my family growing up, so there are no traumatic childhood memories associated with it.

In daily life, I find it almost impossible to function without a hot shower and a big cup of coffee, but once I got into the mindset of being stinky and half-asleep all the time I was fine. It was lovely being lulled to sleep by the gentle baas of the sheep in the next field, and lovely, too, waking up to the dawn of a clean fresh morning. (Although the bit in between would have been greatly improved by a pillow.)

It was also a good time to indulge in a diet of bread, fruit, cheese, and a wee bit of chocolate. And beer, of course, round the campfire. I’m in awe of anyone who can start a fire outside. No matter what modern devices they might use to get it going, my prehistoric genes still go oooh!

So in conclusion, I’ll definitely go camping again. Archaeology I’ll leave to Indiana Jones and Baldrick.

My favourite houseguest is back

Isn't he handsome?

His name is Jasper, he’s a five year old ragdoll-tonkinese, and unfortunately he belongs to the family of a little girl I used to tutor, not me. I’m just looking after him while they’re on holiday.

They should go away more often – or even emigrate – because I love having him here. He’s a delight.

A furwall may be blocking your internet access.

Mr Woo likes having him around, too. When they aren’t playing chase me, they’re cuddled up trying to out-lick one another. Click here for exclusive cat-washing action. It may look friendly, but if a tongue goes too far a play-fight breaks out and then the fluff really starts flying.

When Jasper’s owners come to collect him on Saturday, they might find the flat boarded up and us gone. Is it wrong to steal a child’s beloved pet? Of course. But in this case, entirely understandable.