It's spring! Not officially, of course, but you can always tell. I never quite realise how thoughroughly fed up the winter has made me until I step outside one morning and am not instantly coated in a film of miserable grey drizzle, and I see that the flowers are out and am suddenly gripped by an urge to hurl myself at the spring grass and claw at the turf like a maniac.

In honour of this, I have decided that we should take the now-traditional springtime trip to West Midlands Safari Park to marvel at nature and beasts and the like. Dan is slightly less enthusiastic, after having been nibbled by an Eland last year, but I'm sure he will enjoy it really. Besides, the White Lions have had baaaabies!

In other news, I bought a three-hour-long arty French film off Amazon a couple of weeks ago when I was a drunk and forgot all about it until it arrived in the post on Saturday. I think this makes me awesome.

I should point out that I wasn't so drunk I didn't remember buying stuff from my wishlist, in case you think I am some kind of degenerate wastrel. I just couldn't quite recall which things. This is the sort of thing I might forget when sober, to be fair.

The film is called Celine and Julie Go Boating and I caught the last couple of hours of it on Film Four at about three in the morning over the Christmas Holidays and fell in love with it. I watched the whole film on Saturday evening, while I was making some earrings and there is still another disk full of special things for me to watch later on.

Briefly, the film is about two girls, who meet in an Alice-in-Wonderland-esque chase through Paris. They discover a strange old house and take it in turns to explore, emerging at the end of the day with no memory of what they have done and with a fruit bonbon in their mouths. Sucking on the bonbon enables them to 'see' what has happened in the house in out of sequence snippets. By making more visits and collecting more bonbons, they gradually piece together a period melodrama (which seems to be very loosely based on Henry James's :The Other House), in which the girls take it in turns to play the part of the child's nursemaid.

Those are just the bits that made sense. I can't claim to have understood it entirely, although I think there is something in there about childhood and mother figures and feminism and reality vs film, and, erm sitting about in your dressing gown and making magic potions from clover and giving some to your fish.

Hang on, someone has just crashed their car into the house.

ANYWAY, as I was TRYING to say before someone reversed into our hallway (they are all ok, by the way), the film is funny and surreal and charming and makes me want to go and live in 1970s Paris.

There is a large strip of metal with 'Peugeot' written on it propped up by the front door. God damn.

Books Meme

I've decided to do the '50 Books A Year' Meme (Citing ultra_lilac (2007); mgrasso (2007) as my sources). I'm going to write a bit about each book, too, partly because I haven't had much to say here lately and it will pad out the old journal a bit and partly because I still rather enjoy talking bollocks about books, even though I know I will probably never be given a job talking bollocks about books, thankyouverymuch People With Useful Degrees.

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All of my buttons have arrived within a day of each other: The ones from the U.S.A, the ones from Hong Kong and the ones from China. They will make awesome jewellery. I realise I have become a bit of a Button Bore of late, but I don't care. I am so excited I could vomit. Nice.

Just one more thing...

I have granted a rare interview to Boy Reporter keithlard, which can be read below, should you be interested in my views on TV detectives, blue things, and the like.

If you want to be interviewed by me, comment below and I will reply with five questions which you should post to your journal and the offer to interview other people!

1. Which TV cop would you most like to be, and why aren't you?
Well, this is quite difficult, because although it would be nice to have super-sleuth powers, the people who write these things seem to think that a proper detective should have wrist-slittingly miserable private life. My favourite TV detective is the Jeremy Brett version of Sherlock Holmes, but then being addicted to smack would probably be quite tedious.

American detectives tend to have a jollier time of it, I suppose - Quincy inexplicably lives a playboy life on a yacht full of ladies and Magnum P.I. can usually be found bodging about in a Ferrari and looking cool. On the flipside though, Quincy spends most of his working life elbow deep in somebody's corpse and his boss is a git. As for Magnum P.I., it would be quite difficult to reconcile myself to suddenly transforming from a twenty-something English girl into a mustachioed 1970s love god (apparently).

So I would choose to be Columbo. Hero to all who regularly wear mismatched socks to work and write important information on the backs of bus tickets.

The second part of your question presupposes that I am not, in fact, Lieutenant Columbo, which has not necesarily been proven to be the case. While you may have a point that I am neither male, a policeman, middle-aged, Italian-American or a cult icon of the late twentieth century, I am quite similar to Columbo in other ways. I am incredibly disorganised and usually a bit crumpled-looking, which often leads some of the business-types I come into contact with to look on me as a bit of an idiot. But I would have been helping them all with their algebra homework fifteen years ago, so they can bollocks. Also, I like cigars and dogs. So, you know, I might be Columbo.

2. Left or right?
Left. I am officially the only person in Britain who has never said "I don't care if Ben Elton has sold out, I thought he was a wanker anyway!"

I mean, I've said it now, but quoting other people doesn't count.

3. What are your three favourite blue things?
The sea, blues music, unfashionably pale jeans (although I think they are having an 80s revival at the moment, so perhaps I am in style again).

4. Do lies make Baby Jesus cry?
Probably I have said this before, but I think the Baby Jesus ought to cry, really. Otherwise how will Mary know when he wants his bottle? It would surely be more of a deterent to tell someone they made Grown-Up Jesus cry, because babies will cry at anything. Or maybe if you wanted to go for the guilt factor of having upset a little child, you could tell someone they made the ten-year-old Jesus cry. It is a flawed concept, I say.

5. How do you solve a problem like Maria?
The traditional way of dealing with problematic women is to pack them off to a convent, but that probably wouldn't be all that helpful in this case. Another way of dealing with her would be to engineer it so she falls in love with a Jewish guy and then tip off the Nazis. Those sneaky nuns.

Pirate Apple and Emo Skull!

I have made a new logo for my ebay shop, incorporating two little mascot dudes I made up just for the hell of it. Meet Pirate Apple and Emo Skull! I have dreamt up a little story in my head whereby they actually run the shop and design the jewellery. Pirate Apple is the loud one, who comes up with all the snazzy marketing ideas and Emo Skull is the shy one who does the accounts and calms Pirate Apple down when he wants to tell awkward customers to piss off.

For some reason, I also have a theme tune going through my head, which basically involves singing 'Pirate Apple and Emo Skull' to the tune of 'Me and You and a Dog Named Boo', like this:

Pirate Apple and Emo Skull,
Travellin' and a-livin' off the land.
Pirate Apple and Emo Skull,
How I love bein' a free man!

I am not going to include any of this in my item descriptions, however, as I suspect potential customers might think me odd and head for the hills.

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Happy things.

I have just booked myself and Dan in on an hour-long Owl Falconry lesson. When I called to give my details, the woman on the phone said "Hang on a minute, I've just got to put this bird down", which was rather thrilling. Also, I have bought an accordian off the internets and there is a small doggy sitting under my desk. All in all, not a bad day's work.


I just spent over a hundred pounds on buttons! I ought to make it back fairly quickly, but still! A hundred pounds, on buttons! God damn. Hong Kong Ebay is my cut-price plasticy friend.

In other news, this: Titter.


I was sitting at my desk yesterday when it suddenly stuck me that the office smelt exactly like Conway. Specifically, it smelt like the guest house we stayed in when I was eleven and my class went on a field trip to Conway. If you'd asked me beforehand what that place smelt like, I wouldn't have been able to tell you, but as soon as I smelt it, I knew it was exactly the same.

It's a very strange thing, smell.

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Have just called someone with THE loudest answerphone beep in the history of telecommunications. 'Beep' doesn't cover it at all, actually. It was more like a guinea pig being raped by a foghorn. The ear on the other side of my head is ringing.

In other news, today has seen me crawling arcoss the office on all fours going "I'm coming to get you!" and growling. But I was talking to my bosses' brother's dog, so that's alright.