Sunday, October 03, 2004

"Finally met a deadline" - epitaph for Taxloss in his Fantasy Funeral Questionnaire
I am charmed and morbidly tickled by the latest survey on The Beloved's blog and far too lazy to pick it up and adapt it here on mine, so I've cut and pasted it direct. Comments and contributions welcome, extra points for anyone who works in an excellent pun...

Taxloss:"Since I'm musing over the subject [of obituaries in the light of this], let's play the epitaph game. What would you like your epitaph/obit/final wishes/disposal of body to be? You can choose as many as you like, and remember this is an after-dinner game, so points go to clever or funny, not touching or sombre."

For me -

Epitaph: Exit, stage left (death date).

Funeral song: Je ne regrette rien, sung by an appropriately mascara-smeared aging chanteuse swigging from a half-empty bottle of gin. And I'd like half a dozen distraught floppy-haired schoolboys to attend, clutching their anguished, incoherent collections of poems about me as they burn with repressed and unrequited love for me (or one another, either way is fine).

Disposal of remains: cremated please, then I'd like my ashes to be kept at the back of the fridge in a neat little tupperware box. Because even in death, I still like to keep things microwave / dishwasher safe.

Friday, October 01, 2004

"Chassé, chassé, then first position... demi-plie, arms in second... and prepare...and...jette! Jette! Left, right, left! No! No! No! Stop! Hidoi! Osoroshii! Again, you go again..."
I've started dance classes again, still doing contemporary and still at intermediate level though it's been four months since I left the Laban centre and it really shows. I spent most of last night staggering around a very crowded studio in The Place, scared out of my wits by how much I had forgotten, and also by the tiny, scary, shouty Japanese teacher who was making us all work very hard, not only at our dance steps but also at our language skills. She has an extremely strong Japanese accent and refers to all the ballet moves in their original French which makes following her very difficult in all approaches. It was fun but now my bottom hurts. And my arms. And my legs. And my back. And... well, it could have been worse; the pilates I did over the summer mercifully minimised the pain and at least I can walk today, which I don't intend to do much of, actually.

I'm not at work today, and somehow ended up at Paddington Basin where I did a tour of the new bridges put up there. I was excitedly trying to convince my mother in my totally inappropriate and inaccurate Cantonese that the Heatherwick bridge could lift up and curl in on itself, when we realised there were lots of students gathered around it, all armed with cameras. Two men in suits and reflective jackets appeared and started to fiddle with a control box nearby - and suddenly, the thing started to rise and indeed, curl in on itself. A magnificent sight and truly beautiful, moving so quietly and gently, you can't be quite sure you're not imagining it.

The Paddington Basin development is wonderful - so central and so nice to have all that water and open space. I've decided that if Fizzwhizz is a Provincial Princess, I'm going to be an Urban Duchess. I don't want a castle or a Prince Charming on a white horse - I want a loft-style, open-plan riverside development apartment (with mezzanine level bedrooms) and a free-lance journalist husband who specialises in writing about our favourite city. Ahhh. And I want a kitten too. And some new shoes.

What else could I write here? Not a great deal to report on the domestic front and Taxloss, Sanctified Heresy and McReadie cover politics amply for all of us, Planet Halder and Prandial (see his Florentine doorbell Flicktion for more proof) are artistic and cultural enough for me to put my feet up and watch Eastenders and you know what? I've got the rest of the afternoon off and I'm going to take a nap.

Reading: Modern Fairy Tales (including the Coraline-inspiring The New Mother - "... sometimes a blinding flash comes through the window, and they know it is the light from the new mother's glass eyes, or they hear a strange muffled noise, and they know it is the sound of her wooden tail as she drags it along the floor."), The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency, Private Eye
Eating: full English breakfast at 10pm on a weeknight, the last quarter of the comedy marrow
Playing: Monopoly at the ICA. I completely and utterly won that game. I was kind enough to ask Taxloss to look away as I did my victory lap around the bar. I had Mayfair and Park Lane and ALL the railway stations within the first half hour. I think it's fair to say I won. I won, I won, I won, I won! Muahahahaahahahah!

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