The · Diva · Diaries

I've been invited to a friend's baby shower. Of course I'm delighted, but I'm a bit lost...it's going to be a pudding party, so we bring our favourite dessert. I don't know whether we're supposed to cook it or not. If the answer's yes, I'm doomed!

To make matters worse, pud or no pud, a baby shower's where you bring gifts for Mum and Baby right? So what's good? The only baby shower present I can recall is the nappy cake from Sex and the City. Expected baby is a girl. Mama-to-be is sophisticated, bold, successful and strongly opinionated about what her daughter should wear, so I fear with many a mighty palpitation all that pink for girls, blue for boys horror. Won't go near it - which seems to limit me a lot. Anyone have good ideas/know great websites for this kind of thing?

Thanks for any help you can give!

I have a week off. Brilliant. What can I do? nothing. I'm happily knackered...happily, because stuff at last appears to be budging, knackered...well, I really don't know what's wrong with me. My week is filling up with bits and pieces, and I'm not focusing properly. I am just not writing.
And that's truly absurd, I have a great theme. But still. Stuff that's in my mind...

I don't want to eat meat. I know it's ridiculous when I love meat, but I don't want it. Right now, I crave vegetable tempura, especially asparagus. A friend of mine was describing how a million horses were sent to France from here in WWI, and 60,000 came back. Some died in action, some were eaten... I nearly cried. I don't even care for horses that much. I don't know where this strange fragility has come from.

Not eating meat is impractical, first of all because larians does most of the cooking and I fall in because it tastes delicious, it's easy for me and I'm one of god's own chosen carnivores. But now, even fish (which I can devour at a rate of knots) seems heavy and thick. I was a veggie for five years, and pretty much lived on salad and tuna, until my body felt drained and worn out and I returned to meat. Right time, right diet. Now my body wants loads of veg again. It makes no sense, but as vehicles go, my body's pretty reliable and I should take notice. But I can't plan, prepare or cook, plus losing weight on veggie food is hard cos the protein staples of beans, pulses and cheese just add bulk and colonic percussion.

And another thing. Never mind work or writing, I want to go to the Pacific.

Its name is Eros and apparently it is 'shaped like a potato'.
( Read more... )

Does anyone know where I can buy an interesting, effective and not too expensive coffee grinder?

I personally like manual ones and bought one from John Lewis the day before yesterday. It broke. I'll take it back today, and see if I can get a refund - the damn thing looked pretty boring anyway. And the electric ones seem so dull!

We had a cute one with windmills all over it. Haven't been able to find that since the move, so any ideas welcome!

and the news about Michael Jackson.

I can never work out what happens with this stuff. Felt weird when Elvis died, couldn't believe it when Lennon was murdered, or when Diana hit the kerb, though I wasn't a fan of any of them really. This feels weird too. I was so small watching the Jackson 5, even the cartoon show...I remember this kid strutting around singing ABC...easy as 1,2,3... all smiles and twinkling eyes. There was something macabre about watching his later progress in plastic. But I still feel all soft and weeny when I hear One day in your life.

After sitting through my first ever oratorio last night at the Barbican, (Handel's Jephtha), I have reached two conclusions; the first is that there are few lives more dangerous than those of old testament offspring. Biblical Dad is often Bad Dad. If he's not trussing you up like a sheep for Yahweh's table (Thanks Abe) or offering your virginity to crowds for a gangbang so as not to mortify the houseguests (We owe you one, Lot) he's trying to burn you cos he made a vow (Cheers Jephtha) I don't get it. It's like ancient Greeks but with more angst. Why don't they stab themselves or offer themselves up to group buggery, or enter the fire themselves? Why's it always some kid that faces the flame? And why do peeps keep doing it when the Big Man insists he'd rather no-one got fried or raped?

My second conclusion is that despite some exquisite moments, 3 and a half hours of Handel without fireworks is quite enough for me.

A rocking friend from the pagan scene has just added a link to her facebook. It's now at the bottom of this entry. It's about witches, and I'm in it for a bit, but I don't expect you to watch it - it's in Dutch. I post it here to remember, not even recalling the flourishing fun of London's pagan scene in the 1990s from which it dates. This is something else.

The bit I'm in shows our eco group's protests against Shell's anti-environmental activities in the Niger Delta, the ruin of the Ogoni homeland, and the imprisonment of Ken Saro-wiwa and the Ogoni 9.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ken_Saro-Wiwa
Shell were having a major meeting at the Princess Elizabeth Building in Westminster and we were there.

I forgot. But I remember today.

I look at myself and laugh. 1994, an absurd little girl playing at witches, with my tiny overhang and my less tiny overbite and my over-earnest expression, my over-earnest everything. There I am, pointing the dstinctly bent index finger of my left hand accusingly at the Princess Elizabeth building in Westminster. 'Until you stop killing people!' I shriek, 'For money!' As if killing them as a freebie would be more acceptable. Now I wince and I laugh.

Silly silly little girl, 14 years ago. There is a goddess quote from somewhere which says, 'All of my children are parthenogenetic.' I love that. I smile a little cynicaly at this strange girl as though she was my daughter, when in fact, she's the real mother of me, innocent and half daft.

June 9th this year, Shell finally paid out millions in compensation to the families of the unjustly hanged. I recall rushing the lobby of the PE building, and getting in there, linking hands with others sitting down. I recall being grabbed out by two very burly policemen. They grabbed my arms, yoinked me out and pushed the limbs backwards until I could feel one beginning to crack at the join, ready to pop out. They stopped when they saw the photographer clicking away, they left me on the pavement, fainting. No, you won't see that on this footage. But I remember. I remember a beautiful older woman, a shareholder, in a cashmere style coat with a fur trim. How well groomed she was. I said to her, 'Don't you care?'

And I swear to you, the beautiful lady turned to me and said, 'No I don't. I really don't care.' Then I said, 'But you're old. One day, you'll be near death. You'll care then.' And she stared at me with her mouth open. I don't know whether she's living or dead. I only know she outlived Ken Sarowiwa.

Edited to add: a link that works!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzRcLmubd1Q

If you thought my 'horrible day' post was too much information, best you stay away from this. It's not as emotionally harrowing, but it has its own gruesome edge.

( You have been warned )

On our rack near the door I keep a demon and an angel. The demon isn't technically a demon - it's a villain from the Spawn superhero range of toys with the charming mokicker of 'The Tooth Fairy.' The angel was a long leggy knowing chick with white hair piled on top of her head, dark glasses and foxy evening gloves. I say was.

Yesterday I heard a sharp cracking sound from the rack. I turned to find she had no head and her wings fell off. I haven't found the cause of the decapitation. There were no cats around and the tooth fairy was lying face down among some shoes.

Hmmm....

She's small and black, carved in a round smooth shape that makes her eminently pleasant to hold. She has three heads and a big heart. One hand holds a snake, another a turtle, and on her back a little frog sits with a face above it. She is one of the gifts brought back from Bolivia for me by the ever generous colonel_maxim and I find her very intriguing.

He mentioned her as a mother goddess of the Aymara? Incas? I'm not sure. I learned all this at the barbecue amd can only blame ellefurtle's Pimms powers plus motorpickle's tropical cocktails for my lack of memory.

Wiccans would find the little statuette's three heads very familiar in concept, though I cannot say the faces have any sense of maiden+mother+crone. Looking at the beasties she's surrounded by, I would expect her to be a bringer of rain, but if she is mother goddess, her bolivian monicker appears to be Pachamama. I like it.

The homecoming of the colonel has not been my only recent connection to the South Americas. My brother just returned from Costa Rica and Nicaragua. My brother is not a natural traveller; for him to have taken a trip at all was a wonder, never mind leaving the comforts of Europe. Costa Rica enchanted him, and Nicaragua was his first introduction to the concept of absolute poverty. Never have I heard him talk about a place with such passion.

He brought back volcanic rocks and masks, tiny ardvark shaped ocaroons, macadamia nuts and colourful money that can't buy anything. The colonel brought back enchanted ancient pottery and of course, Pachamama. Here I am surrounded by fragments from far away lands to the west, while I struggle away in the little box of my head and the words don't come.

To celebrate me not being killed by a train larians suggested that we hold a barbeque. OK, that's the reason I like...the real reason may well have been that said barbeque cost 50 smackers and took an entire afternoon for even his practical aptitude to assemble, hence his determination to get mileage out of it. So you could say the whole day was dedicated to my man's complicated equipment, but perhaps better not...

Impromptu invitations were sent out, my apologies to chums I never reached. Painkillers enhanced my already very special powers of organisation, and I forgot lots of people. Chums at work targeted me yesterday telling them I had given them a)the wrong date or b) no date. Anyone would think the train had run over my head. I won't be so remiss again.

As to the day itself, my thanks go out to all our guests - you really made it a magical day for me. If we have time this summer, we hope to do it again, preferably avec paddling pool.

I would be delighted if you would consider (re)joining us. No, don't look round, I mean you:-) xxxx

Edited to add BTW I have just realised that I've been spelling barbecues wrong all my life.

I am up at godforsaken o clock because our cats are being very strange.

Why do animals react so oddly to some people? A friend came round and our little white cat, Mismatch, has been freaked ever since. Admittedly this friend is the same one who turned up with her toddler and freaked out Mismatch for 9 days, but no toddler this time, and the lady is as gentle as a lamb.

Now, little white cat is the smallest of them all, and is very good at finding hidey holes no-one else can reach. Currently her favourite is under the bath. Imagine a bath with all its underworkings hidden by wood panelling. Imagine one of the panels off. This is clearly some kind of cat narnia; she goes in to find warmth, darkness and an unassailable position among the pipes. She comes out smelling of rust and water with some kind of deposit on her fur that stains and won't come off for days. She loves it, and as we discovered, spent all day yesterday hiding there.

After my friend left, larians coaxed Mismatch out of her den, and like a crazy fool, put the wood panelling back. This morning she has yowled miserably, waking him four times until he took her down to the room where she and her sister traditionally sleep, and left the two in there together.

She carried on for a bit then calmed down, at which point, Ralik our older tom started giving it some. I thought he wanted out and let him go outside. I went back to bed only to hear scrabbling at the back. I let him in again, he went upstairs and started yowling. He's not hungry, he doesn't want out, ergo I'm baffled. I sat on the stairs with him, he was silent and calm. So that larians could get some semblance of sleep I have stayed up. On hearing my presence Little White Cat has started yowling again. I have let her out of the room. Now she is OK. Everything seems fine as long as one of us is with them. I haven't the slightest clue what the problem is.

And I'm feeling nauseous...

I am writing this because writing is my therapy, but I can imagine that many of my chums would find my details visceral and unpleasant, so be warned, it is intimately physical, very nasty and it happened to me today. Please don't feel you have to read it. I however, have to write it.

( Too Much Information By Far )

I just wrote a post fit for no-one. Best keep that under lock and key. Instead, here is a link I enjoy, for my friends who love smellies. Check out Free Perfume Friday - I won myself a choice of perfumes through this, and got larians a chunky bottle of delicious Armani Attitude for Crimbo! If you're looking for me, I'm pimentosugars.

http://www.fragrantica.com/

This is wonderful: http://www.oddee.com/item_96695.aspx

With thanks to chums who have sent me good wishes while I was feeling under par. I am better now thank you, though not quite myself. I guess this is a good point at which to update.

I'm constantly running on a low battery and I don't know why that is. Work is going well, I'm in the studio a lot. It's a double edged sword though, cos my writing is suffering. I would have time if I managed it better...but the energy level thing worries me a bit, cos I'm permanently tired, not just tired, knackered. I come home, I stop. No Flay and DeVille, no Maelstrom, not even TV. I just stop. I still dream, but that's it.

I probably need a holiday, quite a long one, but that's dreaming of course, cos there ain't the money this year, and pusscats can't be left long on their own. See, I'm not even talking about staying at home and watching this ramshackle garden with its growing population of hopelessly cat-toy resembling frogs. I'm talking about something else, for which perhaps a friends only post is appropriate. In the meantime, I'm falling asleep while my hands are still typing...

I like rain.

The bluebells are pretty much gone, along with the apple blossom, which has been replaced by scrubby little nuggets on the branches. Under the tree grows a wild briar rose which I nearly mistook for bramble; it's a white eglantine with a beautiful scent. Everything else is green, weedy and wet.

Are we still going to get bees? I don't know. I have to pull myself together and work on my next major project, but the truth is, time is an issue. I'm exhausted. Evening show tonight, helping a friend get home from hospital tomorrow, breakfast show the next day...

I need a chunk of time off to get this thing completed - hah! What am I saying? To get it started. A month say, like I did for the Spider's Bride. But I can't do it, cos I'm a freelancer. Without work I get neither pay nor benefit entitlement. No resentment here for paying off Mistah MP's second mortgage, or Miss Avvababy's fag allowance, god no! What do I work for if not to carry these people? It's a privelege, innit? I've got two pairs of glasses, both broken. I can't afford to replace them. Come on you system workers, have a flat, I'm paying. Don't worry, it's in the rules...

OK, that's unfair - I read it back and realise how drained and knackered I am. I've been a bit rubbish with my money, bit OTT. Can't regret it though. Now I am desperate to see this http://www.theatretickets.co.uk/7577/La-Bayadere-Irina-Kolesnikova.html but I'm being silly. My project must get done and I must at least attempt to organise my time without turning into a podperson.

Still raining. Still pretty.

I could get to like Sundays.

To lovely chum and Fairy Catmother extraordinaire, wondrous evilwillow!

May your day and your year be full of warmth and happiness xxxx