I'm dreaming

I just had my very own white Christmas (well, white day-after-Boxing Day, anyway)...

I was walking back to my flat and as I walked through the underpass that goes through the Harlequin Centre, my feet suddenly crunched on a thin covering of snow and as I progressed, I saw flakes in the air fly around and settle on the ground and the trees.

As I carried on and got to the bright lights of the Harlequin, there was more and more snow in light drifts on the ground but something was wrong... surely it wasn't quite cold enough, and it seemed lighter than snow usually is.

As I came through the other side I could see lorries and men in hi-viz jackets and realised... they were dismantling and removing the Harlequin Christmas Grotto (boy those elves have done a good job over the last few weeks) and all the fake snow from it was dislodging and blowing down the street and giving me my own personal winter-wonderland moment.

Happy December.

way to go

Ooh it's a while since I've done one of these. I'm all out of practice and certain others have upped the ante in the meantime, making my little observations on telly and stuff seem a little trivial. I nearly wrote one on theatre a couple of weeks ago but I got a bit sidetracked with other stuff.

I'm watching Long Way Down, the Ewan McGregor and Other Chap programme about travelling through Africa on some motorbikes. I've been sort of watching it throughout the series in a vague, non-committal way, off and on, depending on the varying degrees of music kids, health issues and weather affecting my desire to leave the house/sofa on a Sunday evening after Top Gear.

Last week piqued my interest as they were riding through Rwanda, where as many of you know I visited last year (and returned a whole decade older… sort of). It was strangely moving to see the country again and watch people on the telly ride the same roads I had and even stay in the same guesthouses. It is very easy to see a place on the television and think you know what it looks like but unless you are there in person, breathing in the smells and tastes and textures, feeling the warmth of the sun or the cold of the mountains, riding through the darkness on the back of a motorbike driven by a one-legged man called Danger, sitting in a mud hut eating with the family who live there and being grateful for the lack of light so no-one can see the hot shameful tears falling out of your eyes when you realise just how little you know about the world, you don't really, you just know what it looks like on telly. I don't want to be a smug twat: I only saw a tiny part of a tiny country in the middle of a massive continent, but it was something I'll always carry with me. The second night (of mud hut fame) I thought I might have to go home; I didn't think I could take two weeks of it. In the end I decided to stay but I thought the trip was one that was going to be a feat of endurance rather than enjoyment. By the end the tears that were falling were due to reluctance to leave. It's a really beautiful place and everywhere we went, people asked us to tell everyone that Rwanda was not just about the genocide, it was a stunning place to visit (so I am telling you now). They have the gorillas of course, we went and saw those and yes, it was pretty special. But the memories that stay with me are from the small town we stayed in and the people we met there, and the outstanding beauty of the country, the lakes and mountains and patchwork-quilt landscape.

So yes, last Sunday night a pang was felt in Lady Mc's heart at these memories, marred only slightly by the Other Chap's gauche musings on the genocide. This week it was more of an interesting sociological study as Ewan McGregor's wife joined the party, of course changing the dynamic between him and the Other Chap. Oh alright, his name's Charlie (and he bears a strange resemblance to the bass player in the panto band, as well as the Laughing Cavalier). To be honest they never come across as being the best of mates anyway, Ewan always looks faintly embarrassed at whatever Charlie is saying (and rightly so) although I guess they must be to embark on such an endeavour (though best mates are not always the best travelling partners). Anyway Eve (pron. Ev)'s appearance suddenly provoked a comedy change in dynamic: Ewan becoming protective and slightly over-enthusiastic of her presence there, Charlie making "jokes" about being abandoned… They got through it though and finished the journey (and the series) in Cape Town, somewhere I'd quite like to visit in the next couple of years, not least because one of my closest friends is now living there.

I didn't feel when I was watching that it was the most inspirational or gripping of programmes but it must have got under my skin as it did make me want to go back to Africa and see more of it for myself. I quite fancy a bit of an adventure.

sacre bleu

Despite the obvious attractions of other programmes on offer this evening I have been once again captivated, nay gripped, by the genius that is The Restaurant.

Thus after a prolonged bloggage absence I bring you...

Reasons why The Restaurant is the best thing on television:

Raymond Blanc's voice. His unique intonation and strange emphases are an aural delight.

The spin-off show on BBC8 (or whatever) is called The Restaurant: You're Fried.

Did you hear that? You're Fried. Do you see what they did there.

The "plucky northerners" (aka Martin and Emma). Yes, I know they got knocked out last week. And they were really, really rubbish. He was a prison chef, she was from a bingo hall. They never quite got it together. But they had ambition and, yes, pluck and I admire that in a person.

Raymond Blanc calling said northerners, "two of the most wonderful people I have ever met" and seeming close to tears on closing their restaurant.

No, really. You're Fried. It'll never stop being funny.

The game of Divorce Roulette being played out. Which of the fragile couples will fail to make it to the end of the process without ripping each other's eyes out? Will it be the obvious dramatics of Sam and Jacqui (saved by being ejected early), the imbalance of talent between Lloyd and Adwoa (she a fabulous cook with wonderful instincts, he a bumbling fool) or the sub-dom undercurrent of Jeremy and Jane (what does she see in the cruel, arrogant but slightly hot man who makes her cry all the time?)?

Sorry, still giggling at You're Fried. As if the whole format were not already a blatant rip-off from Mr Sugar...

The completely unnecessary earpieces worn by the courtiers/lackeys/bodyguards who summon and escort each couple to their weekly audience with Mr Blanc (cf previous point).

The terrifying dynamic of the mother-son duo, Tom and Nicole. Surely there's something a bit wrong about that. Watching Tom have to tell his mum that her cooking wasn't good enough was worth a couple of licence fees though.

Raymond Blanc's inability to pronounce the word Households without it sounding like he is saying Arseholes. Snigger.

The fact that Mr Blanc would have put the emphasis on the first syllable of "pronounce" in the above sentence.

Jess and Laura, the utterly wonderful, tall, blonde, enchanting, posh twins (see, now you wish you'd been watching it) who will probably not win but deserve only nice things and have won my esteem and admiration week-on-week for their intelligence, humour and imagination. To me they are the nation's anti-Samanda.

You're Fried, though. Now there's funny.

Raymond Blanc saying "bloody".

Alex Jennings's baffling random-pause-filled... delivery of the narration. Lovely man, but the new Gielgud? What a load of cock. Gielgud wouldn't do this shit.

Raymond Blanc, though. You've got to love that man. I don't fancy him, before you start getting any ideas, but I kind of wish he were my dad. Or maybe a friend of my dad who I get to go and do work experience with.

Hmm, I might have thought that bit through a bit too much.

Did I mention the spin-off post-mortem show? Oh, I did. Did I tell you what it was called?

Er... Did I mention Raymond Blanc?

Well, it's bloody good anyway. You probably don't need to watch it now as I've kind of given you all the highlights but if you feel like adding some unnecessary drama and emotion to your evening, tune in for the last couple of weeks.

I have to confess that since I started writing this, a political programme (This Week) has started and is featuring as guests Peter Stringfellow and Brian Blessed. The former with some kind of tenuous "polls/poles" link and the latter to discuss whether appearances matter. Diane Abbott and Michael Portillo appear to be drunk and/or fighting some monstrous sexual tension. It is making for compelling viewing and is almost as painful and glorious as The Restaurant. But on balance I feel that, as with the Conservative Party, it will take more than a few gimmicks to win me over.

it's good to talk

I don't want to start being all, "is it just me or..." but really, are the BT couple not the most irritating people in the world?

They are the first advertising characters actively to make me wish to boycott a company's products and services since the AA couple ("oh well we'd better get our insurance online from the AA if your dad says so, if he wanted to shag me would you let him?" "Well that didn't stop you on our WEDDING NIGHT!" or however it went).

Why would people enduring a frankly dead-in-the-water relationship make me wish to buy into their lifestyle of bickering and resentment?

It started off so well. He likes kids, she has kids. There was something about a dog (I think). They both like the BT Home Hub (I'm still not sure what one of those is, is it just fancy wireless?). Then suddenly he's chatting up strange girls at parties and she's gone all food-intolerance and is mocking him for putting on weight, probably as a result of all the meals she's cooked him, the gender-stereotyped bitch.

I don't want that in my life! I have no choice, obviously, this blog is indeed brought to you via a BT phone line (although it's Tiscali broadband, pah to your Home Hub, wouldn't get it if I could afford it, probably) which I have no intention of changing. But the point remains. I still want to buy coffee because I believe that Anthony Head might one day turn up at my door (or was it the other way round?), and I don't even like coffee.

Make me aspire to your lifestyle indicators, advertising people! Don't depress me with your ability to make some pretty okay actors diminish and demean themselves before my very eyes.

I'm off to get a Barclaycard.

and they call it...

So…

Last week I went round to my mum's for lunch (post Argos-triumph) and on the way there received a text from my sister saying they had a surprise for me ("no, not babies or marriage").

After much speculating on what this surprise could be, I arrived at my mum's house to find that… my mum had accidentally adopted a puppy.

This was not just a puppy. This was the smallest, cutest, meekest, quietest eight-week-old Yorkshire Terrier with sad little eyes, no bigger than my foot (and my tootsies ain't giant sized), barely able to trot down the shallow steps to the garden.

The story that accompanied said puppy (Tuppence, since you ask, but I shall refer to her herein as The Puppy or The Dog) was that an Australian work colleague in my mum's office had unexpectedly had to move out of a pet-friendly flat into a pet-not-at-all-friendly flat a few weeks after getting the puppy, and came into work very distressed as she had been told the puppy had to leave that day or she would be evicted. My soft-hearted mum said she would take her (the puppy, not the Australian) on for a few weeks until a suitable permanent home could be found.

Now, I might be about to incite riot or at least some English disapproval, but my family aren't really "animal" people. If you can't eat it, I'm not really interested. My idea of a good pet is a goat. And after an altercation with an Alsation many many years ago, my sister and I are particularly wary of the canine variety of domestic companion. However, the surprise element and adorability factor suddenly caused my sister and I to turn into seven-year-olds: "PLEASE may we keep the puppy, mummy, PLEASE?"

"Mummy", as you may be aware, is about to emigrate. Not terribly far, but you know, not the best time to be adopting a puppy. Still, sister having recently moved back home, not impossible. So lots of fun last Sunday playing with puppy and discussing possible future arrangements.

Yesterday my mum held a farewell garden party so I turned up early to help set up, chop strawberries etc. On arriving I went into the living room and saw my brother and my father sitting on the sofa looking rather sombre. My brother turned to me and said: "Did you hear what happened to the puppy?". My very worst fears were immediately allayed by seeing the puppy lying on his lap, wrapped in a towel, looking dopey but awake. However, the story that then transpired has kept me in a state of slight distress for the last twenty-four hours.

It turns out that the following has happened: my father has trodden on the puppy.

As previously mentioned, the puppy was as small as my foot last week. She's grown a bit since then, but not enough to withstand the tread of a grown man. My father had only arrived at my mum's house the evening before in order to be there for the party. The details of the story still keep creeping back into my head and making me wince so I'll keep it brief.

He treads on the puppy, within a few minutes my mum and sister are on their way to the vet's with her, the puppy has blood coming out of its mouth, ears and nose, the vet says that the puppy will probably not live for more than a few hours but they put her on a drip and keep her in overnight. Sister distraught, mum similar. In the morning, the puppy is miraculously still alive and x-rays have revealed no broken bones. She also seems still to have her sight and hearing. There may be brain damage but she is too poorly to have any kind of operation. So the puppy comes home and, for the most part of the day, lies very still with people looking at her.

A few hours after I arrive, the puppy eats some food and is much more alert. She stays with a neighbour for the afternoon as my mum's party goes ahead and the house is filled with people. I can't say that this event has endeared me to my father any more than the previous 31 years but there is no point in blaming anyone and I even feel a little sorry for him as the story is told and retold over the course of the afternoon. The party is otherwise very nice and people come from every era of my mum's life, school, nursing, motherhood, studies, work, more studies, more work and say nice things to her and tell her children how amazing she is (we know).

Later in the day the dog seems to become very dozy and dopey again. We hope it is the drugs but she won't take any water and shows little sign of life apart from continuing to breathe. However on speaking to my mum this morning she seems to be a little better. I never thought I would be either interested or pleased to hear that a dog has had a poo, but it's a good sign that she is still functioning. I guess now we just have to let her rest and wait and see.

Anyway it's been a strange couple of days. I've never really understood why people get so upset about pets but now I guess I do a bit.

and they call it...

So…

Last week I went round to my mum's for lunch (post Argos-triumph) and on the way there received a text from my sister saying they had a surprise for me ("no, not babies or marriage").

After much speculating on what this surprise could be, I arrived at my mum's house to find that… my mum had accidentally adopted a puppy.

This was not just a puppy. This was the smallest, cutest, meekest, quietest eight-week-old Yorkshire Terrier with sad little eyes, no bigger than my foot (and my tootsies ain't giant sized), barely able to trot down the shallow steps to the garden.

The story that accompanied said puppy (Tuppence, since you ask, but I shall refer to her herein as The Puppy or The Dog) was that an Australian work colleague in my mum's office had unexpectedly had to move out of a pet-friendly flat into a pet-not-at-all-friendly flat a few weeks after getting the puppy, and came into work very distressed as she had been told the puppy had to leave that day or she would be evicted. My soft-hearted mum said she would take her (the puppy, not the Australian) on for a few weeks until a suitable permanent home could be found.

Now, I might be about to incite riot or at least some English disapproval, but my family aren't really "animal" people. If you can't eat it, I'm not really interested. My idea of a good pet is a goat. And after an altercation with an Alsation many many years ago, my sister and I are particularly wary of the canine variety of domestic companion. However, the surprise element and adorability factor suddenly caused my sister and I to turn into seven-year-olds: "PLEASE may we keep the puppy, mummy, PLEASE?"

"Mummy", as you may be aware, is about to emigrate. Not terribly far, but you know, not the best time to be adopting a puppy. Still, sister having recently moved back home, not impossible. So lots of fun last Sunday playing with puppy and discussing possible future arrangements.

Yesterday my mum held a farewell garden party so I turned up early to help set up, chop strawberries etc. On arriving I went into the living room and saw my brother and my father sitting on the sofa looking rather sombre. My brother turned to me and said: "Did you hear what happened to the puppy?". My very worst fears were immediately allayed by seeing the puppy lying on his lap, wrapped in a towel, looking dopey but awake. However, the story that then transpired has kept me in a state of slight distress for the last twenty-four hours.

It turns out that the following has happened: my father has trodden on the puppy.

As previously mentioned, the puppy was as small as my foot last week. She's grown a bit since then, but not enough to withstand the tread of a grown man. My father had only arrived at my mum's house the evening before in order to be there for the party. The details of the story still keep creeping back into my head and making me wince so I'll keep it brief.

He treads on the puppy, within a few minutes my mum and sister are on their way to the vet's with her, the puppy has blood coming out of its mouth, ears and nose, the vet says that the puppy will probably not live for more than a few hours but they put her on a drip and keep her in overnight. Sister distraught, mum similar. In the morning, the puppy is miraculously still alive and x-rays have revealed no broken bones. She also seems still to have her sight and hearing. There may be brain damage but she is too poorly to have any kind of operation. So the puppy comes home and, for the most part of the day, lies very still with people looking at her.

A few hours after I arrive, the puppy eats some food and is much more alert. She stays with a neighbour for the afternoon as my mum's party goes ahead and the house is filled with people. I can't say that this event has endeared me to my father any more than the previous 31 years but there is no point in blaming anyone and I even feel a little sorry for him as the story is told and retold over the course of the afternoon. The party is otherwise very nice and people come from every era of my mum's life, school, nursing, motherhood, studies, work, more studies, more work and say nice things to her and tell her children how amazing she is (we know).

Later in the day the dog seems to become very dozy and dopey again. We hope it is the drugs but she won't take any water and shows little sign of life apart from continuing to breathe. However on speaking to my mum this morning she seems to be a little better. I never thought I would be either interested or pleased to hear that a dog has had a poo, but it's a good sign that she is still functioning. I guess now we just have to let her rest and wait and see.

Anyway it's been a strange couple of days. I've never really understood why people get so upset about pets but now I guess I do a bit.