Flaming Zinc

This was a pretty good day up until an hour or so ago, when I discovered that my little brother had been dispatched back into singledom by his girlfriend, also a close friend of mine from uni, of two plus years.

It seems to have come as a shock, and hit him hard being the perennial nice guy that he is. I don’t know the ins and outs, and I am not sure that I want to. But, I hate to see my sibling upset – even though we ourselves fight like cat and dog when in the same time zone, and don’t agree on anything out of principle. Well, he did eat my black cherry yogurt in 1984, and I did cheat him out of his holiday savings in 1986, but I had to pay him back and I am still waiting for my yogurt!

So, I ask is there a “nice” way to get dumped? Should person A let down person B slowly, let them see that the “road close” sign is looming on the horizon??? Or is the quick method best? In situations like this I am reminded about a British comedy series Joking Apart – where the main character’s wife slowly moved her furniture out piece by piece and then starts freezing her husband lots of meals. In hindsight it was all so clear – but still a shock.

I am more upset by this than I thought I would be, in a strange kind of Princess Diana way. Oh, and the reason why it was a good day – I have a job interview tomorrow. Wish me luck.

I am in a bit of pain at the moment. An old sports injury is playing up and my right shoulder joint is creaking, aching and generally being a drag. I think I aggravated it hauling my luggage through London’s transport network on Wednesday. My book laden luggage I should clarify. I guess it is not that strange that I went novel buying crazy after my exams, since I had denied myself new reading matter for the last two months in order to catch up with my back log (which was a success).

I got some ace titles for Christmas from my furtherest and dearest – The Time Traveler’s Wife, Bonfire of the Vanities, Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events, Alexander McCall Smith’s von Igelfield trilogy, six individually wrapped Shakespeare plays (to be opened one per month) and Hillary Clinton’s autobiography to name a few. Of course I couldn’t resist picking up the new Rebus and a semi -fluffy selection of 3 for 2 from Waterstones (The Jane Austen Book Club, The Good Doctor and the new Helen Fielding).

It took me next to no time to get through von Igelfield and very funny they were too. I started Fleshmarket Close whilst I was in Edinburgh (v atmospheric) and Rankin is in top form. It’s a little spooky that Rebus’ side kick is now evolving into his double, but there is a nice Mulder/Scully sexual tension building. I am really not sure what to make of The Jane Austen Book Club, definite chick lit but I couldn’t really empathize with any of the characters. I am a huge Austen fan, so anything that uses her as a theme is okay by me but the mirroring of her plots with the lives of the Book Club’s character was a little clunky in places. A nice Sunday morning read, when you fancy a lie in and have a continuous supply of coffee and pastries by your side.

I better rest up as typing is rather painful. Unwisely, I spent the afternoon in the company of Mavis Beacon. I am sure if I wasn’t distracted by my shoulder and the goings on of Captain Wentworth my typing speed might have been a tad quicker. So, I shall retire to watch Tomb Raider 2 with a hot milky drink and feel just a little bit sorry for myself. (But even sorrier for Alex, who is stuck at work on a Sunday – now that does take the biscuit).

It is not uncommon for me to go a little green when wandering around Manhattan. Far too many bright young things with to die for wardrobes and accessories to match. This morning I passed a commuter who was wearing one item that I could have quite happily wrestler her to the ground for. Was it her Jackie O sunglasses, Kelly bag or Prada coat – nope – her balaclava! Only in New York, and Moscow, do the well heeled go equipped when it hits the serious negative numbers.

With more and more books resembling screen plays in waiting it is probably not that odd that this weeks Oscar nominations reflect a well stocked biography section. Right up there with flights of fantasy are tales of reluctant heroes, media icons, behavioral scientists, musicians, and an obsessive author.

With every year I seem to loose just a little bit more interest in award shows – I think there is a glut and a cull is called for. Perhaps they should resemble the Olympics and only occur every four years. Now that really would be a competition.

Enough of my grumbling, my thoughts – I am very happy with Don Cheadle, Thomas Haden Church, Clive Owen, Imelda Staunton, Sophie Okonedo, Natalie Portman and the writing nods for Sideways, Hotel Rwanda and Vera Drake.

But, why go for the sentimental with Best Picture and ignore the slightly disturbing but excellent HR, VD, Man on Fire and Closer. How can you ignore, in any category, the kooky Garden State, Good Bye Lenin or Wilbur Wants to Kill Himself or the simply divine The Merchant of Venice or Stage Beauty. Slightly perturbed by the absence of Stephen Fry’s witty adaptation of Vile Bodies, and Peter O’Toole’s moving turn in Troy.

But, hey ho – it is only a game show.

I feel like a thick fog is descending.

It is either the dreaded furies in the guise of jet lag or due to the zillion emails I have sent off to temping agencies. In reality I have probably only done the online registration with about a dozen or so agencies – but it is enough to remind me why I ended up working at the cafe last year.

So bloody tedious and now I get to play the waiting game. Will they call/email/send smoke signals??? Will I end up chasing them up next week – most definitely!

I think it is time to reward myself with a latte and ignore the fact that I blew out the newly installed safety circuit thing in the kitchen this morning. How was I to know that you shouldn’t iron, boil the kettle and make toast at the same time……

I have felt like a transplaced traveller for most of my life, but it was rather jolly to return to my own bed last night. As much as I enjoy staying at my mother’s and the familiarity of London surroundings it is rather exciting to be back and readying myself to join the dreaded temping agencies – my New Year can now truly start.

Much to blog about – places been, films seen and books read – but first I must try and order my jet lagged mind and trudge out to the get breakfast bagels in the snow.

After months of study, weeks of solid revision and waking at 5am for the past few days to cram I get stuck in the Blackwall tunnel on route to the blinking exam.

My chance to shine, to talk about economies of scale and division of labour, slipped away as I sat in gridlock cursing.

The euphoria of Friday has faded, and I am left with a dull resonance of dread in the pit of my belly.

What possessed me to contemplate that I was sensible enough to deal with economic theory???? My heart is just not in it. Not that I don’t love all the extra insight/depth that social sciences have given to my Radio 4 listening. But, all these theories and concepts regarding society make me a little sad. I feel that my free will has been drained out and I am but a number.

Of course this is all self indulgent rubbish and a bit of an economic slump (boom, boom).

I am celebrating sitting the final AS Sociology exam with a mug of coffee and a fondant fancy, just got Economics on Tuesday and then it’s "Hello, Virgil".

This weeks exam were not too bad – just common sense coupled with jargon.  I really need to expand my written vocab and improve essay writing skills though (know any good books?) – but these are all things that I can tackle in prep for the degree.  I didn’t really study as much as I should of for these ones, comparison to the summer, and if I get above a C then I’ll doubt the validity of AS Sociology! It really is a waffling subject.

or the trite.

Oliver Stone’s epic is all fur coat and no knickers. I got no sense of his greatness or the full extend of his achievements. There is an inverse relationship between the length of the film and number of battle scenes. When you get to the big battle it’s presented in a muddled fashion and Alexander comes off as no William Wallace. I would much less follow him into battle than to the corner shop. Since, I only read reviews post-cinematic experience I was thrown by the Irish accents. What was that all about? Colin Farrell is capable of doing the standard English BBC or a mid-Atlantic drawl. I thought it made a mockery of the Irish, particularly with the long drinking scenes – cultural stereotypes. Would Gladiator have been so wonderful if everyone had greeted each other with an antipodean "G’day, mate"?

I did not believe the Alexander/Hephaistion relationship and though a stronger pairing would have been more interesting – Ewan MacGregor/Jonathan Rhys-Meyers???

Anyway, Brad made a much better blond!