In which I ponder prettiness

Publishing, it’s a tough game. And consultants help in this game. While they’re useful and stuff it also helps if they’re decent to look at, a girl cannot live by red pens alone. So I’ve taken to pondering who the prettiest publishing consultant is.

Disclaimer: Yes, this seems random but will all make sense in time.

In which I relive a Christmassy trauma…

It’s December 8, you all know what to do (or, possibly, just the Irish folk). This is traditionally the day where Irish country people (of which I am one) beat a path to Dublin to get all provisions for Christmas. In our house today is Christmas tree putting up day. Always fake—so I don’t know what I’m missing by not having a real tree—and always a mish mash of ancient, beloved and sparkly new ornaments; not for us the carefully themed and colour coordinated tree…although if that’s what you like, go for it. Each to their own. Mam did go through a phase of trying to classy us up by buying porcelain ornaments, dainty bells and demure figurines. Somehow they always made their way to the back of the tree…by the way, I still don’t see why one should decorate the back, no one sees it! (Years of bitterness in that last one, every year my sib and I would get up at the crack, slam on the Christmas tunes (the realisation that George Michael is a man came as quite the shock, I never really got that from “Last Christmas”) and decorate hell for leather…only for mam to come in, shuggle the tree around and give out to us for forgetting the back (“just because it won’t be seen doesn’t mean it shouldn’t look as good as the rest”—some pre-pubescent grooming brainwashing there from Mother D).

My favourite ornaments were a felted (although obviously now balding), cute-faced Rudolph and a flat Santa slipper that adorned my mam’s Christmas tree when she was a kid. The jewel on the crown, the best thing about the sodding tree, was One Eyed Mary. I really wish I had a photo of her*, but I don’t because Mother D THREW HER AWAY. Like a thief in the night, a sneaking, conniving wench who takes her daughter’s favourite things and stomps on them. SECRETLY.

One Eyed Mary was the angel placed on top of the tree (every second year, my bro preferred the star. Meh). She had a silver, shiny dress, black hair, a wonky halo and, obviously, one eye (she did have two, but crappy bits of felt do have a tendency to fall off). I loved her without reason or reservation. Her inelegant demise was enacted after I returned to uni in January (shut it, am not ashamed) and the treachery not discovered until the following December. I don’t care who knows it, I howled. And, obviously, have not forgiven her. Nor shall I. Ever.

Anyway, where was I? Yeah, the last few Christmases have been different, with both of us living away from Ireland we always arrive home just before to a fully decorated house, which is nice in its own way. This year will be the most different of all, it’s been a strange year, stuff went down, there won’t be much decoration…but the tree will be up. So it can’t be too bad, right?

*See, however, the extremely accurate and also excellent drawing.

TBR pile round up…

So at the start of the year I counted the number of books in my TBR pile. They numbered (not including miscellaneous at work) 57. It’s coming up on December and I have the day off (the pathetic by-product of not going on a holiday this year and needing to use up holiday days, meh) so I decided to revisit the pile and see how many I’d gotten through.

Total number of books (physical, I’ll get back to this in a minute) is 50. A reduction! I won! I won!

Yeah. Anyway, sod it. I love books; you can’t stop me buying them, the very real and present danger of poverty can’t stop me buying them. It’s in the blood. I read everything I could lay my hands on as a kid—which leads to another thing I was thinking about this morning. I missed out, due to an unfortunate coincidence of age and possibly market forces, on the Lemony Snicket books as a kid. I was 15 when the first of the Unfortunate Events series was published and 15 was the age when I was allowed choose and read any book I wanted…until then books (not all, that would have been impossible given the sheer volume) had to be okayed by a parent for content. Purely for age appropriate reasons and I don’t begrudge it (although possibly the fight that resulted from my illicit purchase of Sleepers I could have done without). They would absolutely have approved of Lemony Snicket, but when the floodgates opened I went straight for Stephen King and John Grisham and oh, so many others. So yes, reading my first Lemony Snicket book at the tender age of 27, after a recommendation on Twitter last night.

See what I mean though (from the original blog post), someone recommends a book and I drop everything to check it out and, as often as not, buy it. So my TBR pile is destined to be massive forever. The thing that has affected the pile most, has, interestingly, or perhaps typically, been the entry of an iPad into my life. The number of books waiting to be read on that totals three. And there’s plenty of already reads on it. I’ve found that I like reading books on screen and the fact that where my iPad goes, I go means I always have a book on me. I say that though, but I always had a book in my bag anyway. So I’m not actually sure there’s a valid point there. It’s certainly easier to carry, so maybe that’s it. (Lets not go into my recent handbag downsizing trauma here, I haven’t quite adapted yet.)

So yes, there you go. In a year I’ve managed to reduce my TBR pile by seven. Which is in no way indicative of the amount of books I’ve read. Am doomed to poverty and possibly breaking my back carrying boxes of books the next time I move.

Pre-Fringe calm…

So festival season is upon us. Edinburgh’s population has exploded, it’s raining, muggy, you can’t get on a bus for tourists and, generally, insane. Woot!

The Fringe kicks off on with half price previews on Thursday and Friday…canny (read “utterly stupid”) money-saving booking has resulted me going to six shows in two days. The timing for this couldn’t be better, I mean it’s not as if work isn’t horrifically busy, or anything like that…oh.

Anyway, first up is “What Remains” with the Traverse, it’s run by Grid Iron who are experts at site-specific production. This one is on in Edinburgh Uni’s medical school so is bound to be eerie. Then a break for food, drinks, chat and Jason Byrne who is always knicker-wettingly funny.

Friday has been renamed “Four Show Friday”, or, “The Day Ciara Dies”. Kicking off with a picnic (although this will inevitably turn into a sandwich under rain-cover), then Simon Callow dragging up at Assembly Hall (best/most impressive venue of the Fringe, I think), then Ruby Wax, David O’Doherty and Late Night Gimp Fight (a sketch show, but they promise gimps).

If I survive, I’ll review over the weekend. Yay for August in Edinburgh!

In which I burlesque up…

Recently (yesterday), I went corset shopping. Not the sort of lingerie I normally buy, tbh (because you all wanted to know this), but it was becoming increasingly clear that a corset was a necessity.

I attend burlesque classes. It’s fun and feminine and yes, technically it is stripping, but a classier type of stripping, yes? We do a whole dance routine around it. During our first few classes (way back in September) our instructor impressed upon us the importance of taking on a character, a persona, a name (no, I’m not telling*) and that the removal of clothes within the story has “contextual relevance”. So, for example, when we danced to the Pink Panther music, the story was that we were women masquerading as a male detective…as the clothes came off it was revealed (fnarr) that we were, in fact, women…not just any women but jewel thieves! (Guess where the jewels came from? Ha!) See, it’s cheeky, not slutty, seductive, not aggressive. Anyway, all of this led to the corset.

Soon we are doing an old fashioned “glamour” burlesque routine. With a chair. (I’m 100% going to fall off/over/trip/get caught in it, but that’s beside the point.) Our instructor suggested the corset as part of the outfit. So I dondered through to Glasgow. It was a bit of a revelation.

Did you know you’re meant to hydrate before wearing a corset? You have to hydrate and eat. You should be calm and relaxed. When being laced into it you’re meant to chat away as normal. This should ensure that while the corset is tight, it’s not so restrictive as to make you faint. You chose the corset size by taking a waist measurement, minus four inches. (All of this information from a very fierce Glaswegian lady who has been wearing corsets for 30 years…) There were mortifying bits; including being felt up by the fierce Glaswegian, “ooh, squidgy” was the highlight…hm. And, man, was I nervous when I called my friend (amazing moral support) over to see the end result…I should have videoed her reaction, it was both hilarious (an actual leap backwards and a blur of words) and so good for my ego (“your BOOBS!”).

I’m still not sure what I think about the fact that I now own a corset, I felt very aware, beforehand, of the negative connotations of a garment so restrictive by its very nature, that literally tugs you into the shape meant to be most alluring to men, that women have worn so tight that they faint, for vanity…but honest to miscellaneous deity, I loved it. I couldn’t have predicted the change in my attitude. In the space of two hours I went from hiding in the dressing room to flootering around the shop, perusing the other merchandise (there was a rubber and section…boggled) and generally feeling pretty damn good about myself. I was fairly surprised to find that it wasn’t as restrictive (both physically or mentally) as I thought, although taking off shoes in a corset…not the easiest thing I’ve ever done. So yes, that was my day yesterday. We immediately went for dinner and a truly excellent pudding, this was possibly my subconscious way of rebelling against the restriction I’d just placed myself under? I think yes.

Buying the corset was the first step, dancing in it is going to be a whole new mission…

* Actually, if anyone wants to suggest a burlesque name for me, feel free in the comments.

Seven things…

It’s surprisingly difficult to think of seven things people don’t know about me that I don’t want them to know. I could list seven obvious things, like how I have a touch of the drama queen from time to time. Or that I like books. Or that my hair is black…although, actually that could be one. Since I have a starting point, here goes:

My hair is black. Out of a bottle now, of course, but when I was born, right up until the age of 10 my hair was jet black, raven black. Aged 10 genetics kicked in and I went grey—100 per cent. Which is a pain in the arse, but now that I’m out of my teens (barely, obv), I can see the joy in having rather nice, silvery grey hair (not that anyone is going to see it for at least another 15 years).

• I’m the mother of two adorable, yet utterly badly behaved children named Pubert and Pubertina.
• I once dislocated my shoulder in a hilarious pratfall during a job interview a few weeks after concussing myself in yet another sidesplitting incident.
• I do not have one tattoo, as I have previously stated. I, in fact, have two tattoos. The second (but chronologically first) happened in Boston after the Red Sox won the World Series. I refuse to disclose what it is, or where it is.

(This blog post, my first since January, is a result of being awarded a “versatile blogger” badge from @nettiewriter. Thanks Nettie! In thinking about this post aloud on Twitter, others felt the need to butt in (joking!) and tell me some things about myself…they are:

1.pernickety 2.eyeliner 3.stripper 3.irish 5.clever 6.loose 7.funny

1) Young 2) Pedantic 3) Irritating 4) Irritatingly young 5) Youthfully pedantic 6) Pedantically irritating 7) Irish (from @janetravers)

(Updated 7 things from @marzillk, she gets extra points for not being insulting!)

I know you have a tattoo, you love em-dashes, you do burlesque dancing, you can’t mambo & your flat overlooks a graveyard.

This is interesting, because Irish came up twice, which I wasn’t expecting! I was also delighted to see “stripper”, “irritating” and “loose” there. You know me so well…Feel free to add to the many insults listed above in the comments section.)

In which I make very difficult decision…

Just to let you know, everything about this post feels wrong. Wrong deep in my soul…

My To Be Read pile is fairly large, I like to think of it as epic but then I’m a drama queen. That’s not to say others don’t have bigger piles, or more impressive piles, or piles that are arranged nicer than mine…let’s not get competitive people!

I currently have 57 books on my bookshelf waiting to be read. This does not include the eight books at my desk in work that have been ordered, delivered and languish there because I’m too lazy to drag them home. To the pile. The epic pile. I love books, love them with a fierce, burning passion…I used to cry in the local library because there were so many books and I couldn’t read them all right now. I had two library cards and took out the full quota every week. (Yes, I was a massive loser, move on…) and when I see a book that sparks my interest mentioned online, by a friend, in a shop I tend to forget the epic pile and buy it! It’s a book, yay! Nothing wrong with it, in fact, I think impulsiveness in the face of a good book is one of my best qualities.

So. Here we are, a large pile of lovely books, one girl, two eyes, a full time job, various activities and (let’s face it, this is the most important reason) a bank account that’s so empty homeless people feel sorry for me. Actually, scratch that, the most important reason is the fact that I have purchased these amazing books that all caught my eye but are permanently being ignored in favour of the shiny new book that lands in front of me…

NO MORE. I will not purchase another book until the pile is significantly diminished. Significantly. Down to maybe five? That’s reasonable, right? The very idea makes my heart thump, to be honest. I made this decision yesterday and immediately fought the idea to slip a few new books in under the radar…I mean, I reaaaaaaalllly want to read “Reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets: A New Commentary”, ooh, and, well…everything. That’s the trouble. I want to read everything. (Still one of my best qualities.)

So that’s it. Operation Be Really Strict With Myself has begun. Who thinks I’m going to fail miserably?*

*Me, I am soooooo going to fail. I added two books to my Wish List today alone…doomed.

In which I meander…for the first time this year

Ah beloved blog. Bloggitybloggityblogblog…I knew I would soon tire of you. All of a sudden though, I woke up with an urge to communicate and who am I to ignore that? Well, exactly.

What have I been up to since I last graced these hallowed [web] pages with my verbose, systematically meandering prose? Well, something bad happened workwise (nothing I could help and it only involved me in an extraordinarily peripheral way *throws angry glance at UK Supreme Court* *mutters* but was still a pain in my ass). More importantly, I have been home for Christmas (Muddled 1, ridiculous snow 0), which was lovely. Really, surprisingly delightful. For the second year running we had no fights. As I type this I am sure of two things: (a) most of you hate me right now; and (b) next Christmas will be filled with familial carnage where a group of intelligent, extraordinarily sarcastic people penned in together for a week will utilize every tool in their arsenal to rip the other asunder. So a return to the Christmases of my youth, yay!

This Christmas was also more fragrant than expected…and not in the pleasant sense of the word. Six days of frozen water pipes. Imagine me in the shower (no, not like that!) on Christmas Eve pouring jugs of water over myself in order to fool myself into thinking it was a shower. It didn’t work. Grrr.

However, I did get over my utter steaming malevolence towards New Years Eve; I spent it in the company of some of my best friends drinking hot port and chatting. There was only some randomness: the DJ rang in the New Year three minutes early and seemed to only play Prince, and there was the small incident of the house fire (not actually a fire, everyone is ok, but it was scary).

Anyway, all this festive joy and the ensuing return to work (yay, work! No sarcasm) has made me consider my priorities for the year ahead…

I haven’t come up with anything meaningful.

In light of this, here are some random things I hope might happen.

1. Everyone will be happy and smiley and only have good things happen to them. (Yeah, yeah, I know. Likelihood zero.)
2. I will succeed in secret career plan. This shouldn’t be difficult, I rock. Also, start a fricking pension (so old, soooooo old *sobs*).
3. Book, pay for and travel to Australia to visit Travelling Bestie. Oh she thought she was getting away from me, ahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
4. Spread the good word of the em dash far and wide so people both understand it and USE IT. Similarly, I am willing to offer some form of sacrifice to the author gods so that lovely, wonderful writers stop using double spaces after full points. Yes, this is my constant bugbear.
5. Um. Other stuff.

See, aren’t you glad I decided to blog again? If nothing else it lives up to its name, miscellaneous, utterly muddled musings…you missed me, didn’t you?

Harry Potter and the High-Falutin’ Blog Post…

Harry Potter, first day on release, 22.45 (after adverts 23.15, sigh…). One of my best friends flew over from Ireland to watch the movie with me. We dined and drank and queued with hope in our hearts and a twinkle of fanatical mania in our eyes.

I did everything right…ish. I didn’t re-read the book immediately prior (the subject of feverish debate in the streams of Twitter) and reminded myself regularly that it would never, ever, ever live up my expectations. My excitement levels were beyond anything that was sustainable or realistic. I knew this.

However, I could not “obliviate” my freakishly good memory. Teeny tiny details from copious re-reading, compounded by the purchase of the audiobook (read incredibly well by Stephen Fry, definitely worth the moolah) are burned into my feverish brain. No movie could ever live up to that. Hence the almost title of this blog (ah, the road not taken…) “For what it is…”.

The positives:

Also: Here be spoilers!

I think this was the best HP movie yet. *I really do. It was dark and clever and had surprisingly good comedic moments. It was true enough to the book to leave my blood pressure at an acceptable rate (unlike Half Blood Prince…) and I certainly felt, and got wrapped up in, the tenseness of the movie. Particularly excellent scenes include the visit to Godric’s Hollow (Bathilda scared me witless) and the scene I am calling “Harry Potter and the Awkward Dad Dancing”. The whole cinema clenched as we, in one mind, went “ohnoohnonohno, don’t doooooooooo it”…there was a palpable sense of relief when what we all thought was going to happen didn’t. (Sorry for ambiguity, but I don’t want to spoil everything).

On a side note, I don’t think Daniel Radcliffe gets enough props for the funny bits, in Half Blood Prince my favourite scene is when he’s hyper/drunk from the Felix Felicis and, similarly, in Deathly Hallows he plays a blinder with the odd quick quip. Moody was phenomenal as always, best line (paraphrased)? “He’s gorgeous, now let’s all get inside before we get him killed”…doesn’t read like much but it’s all in the inflection. Of course, he snuffs it soon after. This leads me, rather swiftly, on to:

The negatives:

Moody dies, people! He’s dead. D.E.D. And how do they commemorate him? By looking sad. For three seconds (I timed it! Three seconds! Ok, I didn’t, but still. He deserved more, dammit!).

Also, I found a lot of the action sequences confusing…although confusing isn’t the right word. Slight-of-handy-y, maybe? Does that make sense? For example, in the first chase scene when Hagrid ferrying Harry away (on a sidenote, I haven’t seen a side car in a movie since Bedknobs and Broomsticks! Angela Lansbury 4evah!), Hagrid is somehow belted with a spell and slumps over. Harry has to take the wheel…I’ve seen the movie twice now and I still have no idea how Hagrid was incapacitated. Slight of hand, see? Or just a light touch with the details? I might stick with that description. This continues throughout the movie, I think, and makes it feel very “surface”. It is for this reason, and this reason only because I love the weirdo, that I didn’t cry at Dobby’s death. Also, Dobby dies, people! Ahem. Anyway, I cry at everything. The Notebook incapacitated me for 20 minutes, a particularly poignant Mastercard commercial reduced me to floods once. Yet with Dobby’s vicious murder, nothing. Definite lack of emotion depth (the movie, not me. I gots plenty of emotions. Most of them rage).

But back to The positives, or as I shall call it, Totty Count…apart from Voldemort himself (come on, own up, I know I’m not the only one, what woman doesn’t love a man with power, perfectly manicured nails, a cute snub nose and an extreeeeeeeemely large snake?) the winner has to be Yaxley. The man has fabulous hair, is obviously in the whole of his health (the Ministry seems v.large and he ran through it very swiftly) and has the Best Voice Ever. Husky, menacing, slightly Scottish…* thud *

So what I’m trying to say, poorly, I know, is that Deathly Hallows was enjoyable, definitely. For what it was. It will never, ever, ever, match the book; my logical side understands this, my heart, however, fights against this.  No doubt I shall await Pt 2 with the same stupid hope in my heart…chief amongst these hopes for the final movie in the series is my most fervent wish that Rupert Grint learns to breath with his mouth closed. Truly, it was reminiscent of emphysema and it made his dialogue disjointed. Ho hum…

* Feel free to chime in with your thoughts, do you think it was the best yet? Am I the only one who noticed the mouth-breathing? Is anyone else contemplating shaving Emma Watson’s eyebrows off to see if she can act without them?