" Madam Miaow Says: September 2007

Monday, 24 September 2007

Beach bum revolutionary


Twenty-five steps from front door to beach. Not so good in the event of a tsunami, but perfect for rolling out of bed and straight onto the sand with a mug of tea, gazing out to sea in the early(ish) morning light. This was my view for the past two weeks.

Just returned from St Ives, Cornwall, and settling back into the real world, or at least what we laughingly call real. If you ask me, the sensation of being in touch with one's self is a lot closer to real than dogs who do tricks at the crack of a whip which is how I feel as soon as I pass Reading coming back on the M4.

Listening to a live performance of Philip Glass's "Strung Out" violin solo by Peter Sheppard Skaevard in the huge acoustic soundbox of the Tate Gallery Rotunda, unforgettable noises which reach right into your belly and stir you around, while watching the sun go down over Porthmeor Beach and the Clodgy, fluorescing pinks blues and grey, with everything motionless except for wheeling seagulls and someone's washing rippling in the wind outside the old people's flats; contemplating the huge granite rock in the distance that marks Clodgy Point, unmoved, permanent, vibrating, in my consciousness, anyhow, at the same frequency as the woody, grainy notes of Neil Heyde's cello: that's what I call real.

Think that's middle-class? Well, while British revolutionaries take skiing holidays and get all gooey over opera while telling the rest of us how to be working-class, they might recall that's what socialists and humanitarians of all stripes have always struggled for - to ensure that everyone has access to soul food that restores the humanity stripped from us under capitalism, and maybe one day regard it as the norm, not a once-in-a-blue-moon treat. I assume that's why the Bolsheviks laid on talks about Shakespeare in vast stadia for illiterate peasantry in the fledgling soviet state before the bureaucrats took over.

I did a comedy set at the historic Arts Club for their Kulture Brake evening, possibly making me the first ever stand-up comic to grace their stage. I see I was billed as an "artiste" with an "e". Makes me think of someone who performs in sequins and tassels and pasties. Although, being St Ives, they'd have to be Cornish pasties. Driving the seagulls wild with lust and desire, I'd be St Ives's own Tippi Hedren. And be shat on a lot. So what's new, kittykat?

Beach bum revolutionary


Twenty-five steps from front door to beach. Not so good in the event of a tsunami, but perfect for rolling out of bed and straight onto the sand with a mug of tea, gazing out to sea in the early(ish) morning light. This was my view for the past two weeks.

Just returned from St Ives, Cornwall, and settling back into the real world, or at least what we laughingly call real. If you ask me, the sensation of being in touch with one's self is a lot closer to real than dogs who do tricks at the crack of a whip which is how I feel as soon as I pass Reading coming back on the M4.

Listening to a live performance of Philip Glass's "Strung Out" violin solo by Peter Sheppard Skaevard in the huge acoustic soundbox of the Tate Gallery Rotunda, unforgettable noises which reach right into your belly and stir you around, while watching the sun go down over Porthmeor Beach and the Clodgy, fluorescing pinks blues and grey, with everything motionless except for wheeling seagulls and someone's washing rippling in the wind outside the old people's flats; contemplating the huge granite rock in the distance that marks Clodgy Point, unmoved, permanent, vibrating, in my consciousness, anyhow, at the same frequency as the woody, grainy notes of Neil Heyde's cello: that's what I call real.

Think that's middle-class? Well, while British revolutionaries take skiing holidays and get all gooey over opera while telling the rest of us how to be working-class, they might recall that's what socialists and humanitarians of all stripes have always struggled for - to ensure that everyone has access to soul food that restores the humanity stripped from us under capitalism, and maybe one day regard it as the norm, not a once-in-a-blue-moon treat. I assume that's why the Bolsheviks laid on talks about Shakespeare in vast stadia for illiterate peasantry in the fledgling soviet state before the bureaucrats took over.

I did a comedy set at the historic Arts Club for their Kulture Brake evening, possibly making me the first ever stand-up comic to grace their stage. I see I was billed as an "artiste" with an "e". Makes me think of someone who performs in sequins and tassels and pasties. Although, being St Ives, they'd have to be Cornish pasties. Driving the seagulls wild with lust and desire, I'd be St Ives's own Tippi Hedren. And be shat on a lot. So what's new, kittykat?

Wednesday, 5 September 2007

Death by hooters


It's official. My tits are lethal.

Maybe it was a fit of marsupial envy which first led me to discover that I could stash my iPod in my bra. Handy for access without breaking stride, and for those stupidly short earbud cables.

Perhaps it was hubris that made me think I could increase my cleavage's handbag potential. Just one more small electrical appliance. Couldn't hurt - could it?

The iPod had the protection of a snazzy leather cover. The mobile phone was naked. The sun was shining. I was glowing. Plugged in to my music I didn't have to worry about hearing the phone ring when my mate called to announce her arrival for our regular skive dahn the Sarf Bank. I could feel it vibrate. And very nice, too.

I forgot about the phone.

Until, that is, several hours later when I remembered to call Babes and announce my imminent departure for home. To my horror, upon retrieval, I found the screen steamed up with perspiration and on the fritz, none of the buttons connecting to anything.

That night I turned it off, removed the battery and prayed for it to dry out and miraculously recover overnight.

It didn't.

This wouldn't have happened with a pen and pencil.

To add insult to injury, the mobile company won't send me another one until I'm due for my upgrade in December 'cause this counts as my fault and I would be stuck with the bill for repairs and I really don't want to argue this one in court. Or anywhere.

The decolletage of doom. The hooters from hell. Luddite breasts. That's me.

The horror. The horror.

Death by hooters


It's official. My tits are lethal.

Maybe it was a fit of marsupial envy which first led me to discover that I could stash my iPod in my bra. Handy for access without breaking stride, and for those stupidly short earbud cables.

Perhaps it was hubris that made me think I could increase my cleavage's handbag potential. Just one more small electrical appliance. Couldn't hurt - could it?

The iPod had the protection of a snazzy leather cover. The mobile phone was naked. The sun was shining. I was glowing. Plugged in to my music I didn't have to worry about hearing the phone ring when my mate called to announce her arrival for our regular skive dahn the Sarf Bank. I could feel it vibrate. And very nice, too.

I forgot about the phone.

Until, that is, several hours later when I remembered to call Babes and announce my imminent departure for home. To my horror, upon retrieval, I found the screen steamed up with perspiration and on the fritz, none of the buttons connecting to anything.

That night I turned it off, removed the battery and prayed for it to dry out and miraculously recover overnight.

It didn't.

This wouldn't have happened with a pen and pencil.

To add insult to injury, the mobile company won't send me another one until I'm due for my upgrade in December 'cause this counts as my fault and I would be stuck with the bill for repairs and I really don't want to argue this one in court. Or anywhere.

The decolletage of doom. The hooters from hell. Luddite breasts. That's me.

The horror. The horror.

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