Ems in London

The Best of Barking (2)

2010-01-25T19:23:00.003Z

Built in the 16th Century Eastbury Manor is our very own listed, National Trust property (and it's just a five minute walk from my flat). Things to love about it: the wonderful exterior, the oak turret stairs and the magnificent fireplaces. (You could roast a whole human let alone a pig in the fireplace in the tearoom).

Intriguingly, Daniel Defoe wrote in 1726 "a little beyond the town [Barking], on the road to Dagenham, stood a great house, ancient and now almost fallen down, where tradition says the Gunpowder Plot was at first contrived and that all the first consultations about it were held here". There's absolutely no evidence to support this and the idea is commonly attributed to local myth but I quite like it!

Links: London Borough of Barking and Dagenham

National Trust

The Best of Barking (1)

2010-01-25T19:00:00.005Z

Barking doesn't fare well in the national news. Nick Griffin, BNP, wants to be our MP; we have the fifth worst train station in the country, and just recently Sukhwinder Singh was murdered trying to stop muggers snatching a woman's bag.

Childhood memories of Barking are linked to Nanny Barking (to distinguish her from Nanny Romford). Technically she isn't my nan at all but my cousins'. We call her nanny all the same. She is an East African Indian who likes nothing better than to cook a (vegetarian, if not vegan) feast for as many visitors as possible despite her ageing years. We recently introduced her to Isabella; she was in her element cooking for one of her sons, two grandchildren, two honorary grandchildren (C and I) and a great granddaughter. We left with three of the biggest red eating apples I have ever seen. Giving fruit after a birth is apparently a tradition in Sikh cultures.

We've lived here, by accident rather than design, for the last six years and I've grown attached to the place. When our house purchase eventually goes through (five months and counting) we'll be moving a little to the west to Dagenham. I thought I'd share what Barking means to me.

This is my brand-spanking new allotment plot complete with shed, compost heap, water butt, bean canes and a cherry tree. I have been granted one month to clear it for planting. (It seems the weather isn't taken into account; no fairweather gardeners here). And how long did I have to wait for a vacant plot? Certainly not the average three years or Camden's forty (!) but three months.

Links: allotments in Barking and Dagenham

Sundays are good for...

2010-01-25T08:36:00.003Z

roast dinners in the pub (with your daughter balanced on one knee and an old boy downing pints of bitter minding your pram) and a walk by the sea. (Or estuary mud; the sea was nowhere to be seen).

A Week in Dinners

2010-01-13T11:20:00.002Z

Thursday: roast root veg with chicken thighs
Friday: lamb shanks with lemon and swede with mustard mash
Saturday: belly pork strips in barbecue sauce
Sunday: parsnips with sausage
Monday: swede and potato cake
Tuesday: pasta with tomato sauce and olives

I'm just trying to work out with this week's weather-hit assortment. What the hell do I do with radishes?!

Cabin Fever

2010-01-11T18:24:00.000Z

Snow + ice + pram doesn't make for a winning combination.

Let it snow!

2010-01-10T18:49:00.002Z

Today's blizzard as forecast by the Met Office did not materialise. I, for one, am quite happy.

I spent yesterday baking for my nephew's first birthday. Had we not made it to my sister's we'd have been eating quiche, cheese scones and cherry and almond traybake morning, noon and night for at least a week.

Sign of the times?

2010-01-04T19:16:00.002Z

The meat in the Ilford Marks and Spencers is security tagged.

What I've read this week

2010-01-03T20:06:00.004Z

All very different, all very good...

Overheard in Barking

2009-12-09T18:14:00.002Z

Two women blocking the path outside the Tesco Express. One has a toddler in a puschair.

"I said to 'er, I ain't 'aving my throat slit in front of my girl".

So, you would if your daughter weren't present?

Pink Stinks

2009-12-09T17:54:00.003Z

My mum and sister were excitedly showing me a pink wooden pram advertised in a woman's magazine. "Divine," they cooed.

I raised my eyebrows, wrinkled my nose and turned my mouth up at the corners.

"You're going to have a funny kind of girl," declared the little sis.

When pregnant the only thing putting me off having a girl was indeed the colour pink. It was the visit to Mothercare that did it. (About two weeks before I was due; I believe in leaving everything to the last minute). I felt physically sick. I stood in the middle of Oxford Street on the phone to C. hysterically voicing my concerns should we have a girl; I would not be able to cope with all things pink.

With the exception of a couple of far-flung great aunts the message, shouted loud and clear at every opportunity, seems to have filtered through. No-one who has been in actual contact with me since Isabella's birth has bought us anything pink. My brother went so far as to use a lack of choice as his excuse for visiting empty-handed and a friend kindly wrapped her present in blue paper.

"Pink stinks," giggled my my mum. "I said to your father 'I bet Emma's got something to do with this'". I had to admit I didn't know what she was talking about.

A quick look on the internet had me rejoicing (and only slightly sad that I wasn't behind it): Pink officially stinks here.

Discoveries

2009-11-27T08:42:00.002Z

Since I had my beautiful little red headed pumpkin I've discovered another world - from my hatred of people who park on pavements and expect me to walk in the road, the virtual inaccessibility of the London Underground system to all the new shop assistant friends we've made in (the much maligned) Barking. There are many more but Isabella is stirring so I shall leave you with this thought: she is definitely in control.

Variations on a Theme

2009-10-26T18:54:00.004Z

The postman brought a bundle of cards made by some of my pupils today. They're all aged thirteen and fall into the disaffected/disruptive label dished out by schools and I until I left I taught them along the primary model - all of us in the room together with me doing my best with every subject under the sun. And a great time we had. I thought their basic literacy had improved but their spelling needs some work:

Essebella
Iserbell
Issebella
Issabell

My favourite comments are Yes, you was pregnant and you did it! You had a nice girl! and You must love her very much because you love us and we're not yours.

Autumn in Barking

2009-10-10T15:20:00.002Z

One of the (very few) benefits of the garage having had your car for three weeks (yes, that does read three weeks) is walking through the church and abbey ruins to the supermarket.

Whilst this fella is a little shy about helping himself to the nuts, his mate has no such qualms.

Smelly Pear Core

2009-09-23T19:55:00.001Z

I wish it did do what it said on the tin

2009-09-21T07:02:00.003Z

Whether or not you've ever used Ronseal, I'm guessing most people haven't, you're probably familiar with their slogan, and like me, try to apply it to everything. Including Mothercare maternity bras like this one:

The tin declares it to be a "fashion support bra".

Please do believe me when I point out it is neither fashionable nor supportive.

I'm back...and 35 weeks pregnant

2009-09-20T16:59:00.003Z

(Yes, I did scan it a little on the wonky side).

I decided I wanted to create page borders.

I've been reading Nigel Slater's latest offering Tender which is full of vegetables.

I can draw leeks (just).

I put the two together.

A Fear of Big Brother

2008-12-29T21:15:00.002Z

Old Street

Sun Street

My cup of coffee

2008-12-28T11:38:00.004Z

We considered a spot of cycling but the weather is against us. I have visions of me skidding along on my elbows in the opposite direction to the bike.

I considered going to the Tate but couldn't be bothered to get dressed.

I decide, after two years of them gathering dust, to arrange the statue photos into order and stick them in a book. After various exclamations and questions beginning "Where the fuck...?" the seemingly innocuous "I seem to have lost Queen Victoria in Kensington Gardens, seated, " tips C. over the edge. I can only guess he is seeking sanctuary in the bookies. (He isn't gone long; too early on a Sunday to be open). Perhaps I should point out, in his defence, that his sofa is in front of my bookshelves and I do make him (and the sofa) move so I can find a blank book, then the photos, then E.V. Lucas himself... I feel I may have been forgiven, when unprompted, he brings me a box of photo corners. I don't point out that they are the one thing I laid my hands straight on thanks to my desk. Third drawer down on the right.

It is strange though. I'm also at a loss to find the Duke of York "of discreditable memory on his column in Waterloo Place, doing all he can by his sheer existence to depreciate the value of the national tribute to Nelson close by", Queen Anne by "her beautiful gate" and Wellington at Hyde Park Corner.

I need a new project now. I keep taking Macauley and Browne's The Night Side of London (1902) from the shelf but I'm not a night person; I'd never stay awake. I've yet to come across London Mornings which would clearly be much more my cup of coffee.

A notebook is something to be loved

2008-12-27T19:40:00.004Z

I am enlivened by 'Bennett's Dissection' in the LRB. 'Around 1964 I took to carrying around a notebook in my pocket in which I used to jot down scraps of overheard conversation, ideas for plays, sketches and (very seldom) thoughts on life'. Hurrah! There's hope for me I scribble in the margin before reading the notebooks became 'a reproach, a cache of unused and probably unusable material'.

Oh well! I soldier on. The current notebook (orange, on top of the pile) is nearly three-quarters full. I detoured from my last minute shopping on Christmas Eve to Liberty to choose the next one. Unless, like me, you are obsessed with clean pages and the smell of leather as you read and write, you won't understand the anticipation and the excitement this provokes. A notebook is something to be loved, cherished and fondled.

I love a layer of frost - particularly when I can simply gaze out the window onto it. I call these crunchy mornings. They make me happy inside. Today, however, is different. The problem with deciding to leave your car somewhere (to have a drink) is having to go back for it. Romford beckons (before the parking restrictions kick in out side my parent's house at 8.30am).

I wrap up new socks, new top, new jumper and new cashmere mittens on a string. (I do remember to put on my old jeans, old trainers and old coat too in case you're wondering). I walk briskly through Upney, a slight incline you only notice on foot or bike, towards the no. 5 bus, and eye a stretch of pristine frost-encrusted grass. The noise I want is precise: a crisp, clear crunch. I check over my shoulder before pulling my arms back and propelling myself forwards and up. My two-footed landing is met with a disappointing damp sloosh.

I must have heard the news of Harold Pinter's death on the radio. The television has been unplugged and removed to make way for the Christmas tree. With the exception of my sister's partner we all thought this perfectly normal behaviour on my mother's part.

E: That's sad.

E: I saw the Caretaker when I was in Swansea at uni.
W: Was it good?
E: I don't think I understood it.

A colleague recently explained to me something about teachers and stress. Apparently, it takes a zillion days of consecutive holiday for the stress levels of a teacher to decrease to those of the average person. (You may be able to tell I was paying really close attention to these facts; anything to do with the Union currently leaves me cold - another reason, no doubt, to back up Pat's theory that one day I will be a Conservative MP). I spend all term somewhere on the spectrum between very stressed and breaking point. I leave all this behind on holiday. Very quickly.

Holidays are for luxuriating in your pyjamas on the sofa. All you need for company are a few good books, a pen and a notebook. A window with a view of trees, birds and squirrels , for staring at intermittently and ordering your thoughts, is helpful but not obligatory. Combine these days with those spent tramping the streets of London with a camera (and a notebook) and the odd trip to the Tate or a museum and you have a happy, relaxed teacher.

Admittedly, I don't manage to sit on the sofa all day. It may be conjecture (one of the flaws of an otherwise enjoyable book) but I (possibly) find myself in good company:

While reading Wilde would have been in constant motion, lifting objects to this mouth, such as food, paper, pens, drinks and cigarettes. According to his friend, the author and caricaturist, Max Beerbohm, Wilde had 'the vitality of twenty men'. We can imagine him hastily hunting the pages of the volume in front of him and rapidly scribbling lines in his notebooks as he did so. And, when the tension and restlessness became acute, Wilde would have risen from his chair or divan and paced around his library. He must have frequently walked across to the bookshelves to check a reference, or over to the fire to dispose of a half-smoked cigarette.

Oscar's Books. Thomas Wright.

Fragments

2008-12-26T19:47:00.005Z

Holborn.

After two enjoyable (unintelligible) conversations with an inebriated Scotsman on the Kingsway (much was made of a foil carton of Capri Sun in his Sainsbury's carrier bag) we make for the Freemasons' Arms on Long Acre. Closed.

A right and a couple of lefts later we're at the Two Brewers on Monmouth Street. Calling time at 5pm.

I rage about big chains and head for the Montague Pike on Charing Cross Road.

"Justin Timberlake," comes C's weary response as my eyes seek out a video screen and my mouth starts to open. "I'm not answering that question every time the track changes, Em".

I decide he won't have to as I cannot bear the team manager's choice of tunes. I gulp my Guinness back and set forth for the Spice of Life. A sign on the wall reassures me we have at least a couple of hours before last orders (7.50pm).

We're in good company. A fisherman. An aged Graham Norton. A South Korean Elvis.

We debate who's from where. A new couple join the crowd. "Sign of a true foreigner - pint of water," mutters the boy from up North.

Romford.

The following day, post-dinner, laying on the living room floor, I show my brother a photo take on my phone in the pub's loos. "I know I probably shouldn't laugh but the language us so funny".

W. reads it out to the privileged slumped on chairs:

ROBBERY ALERT
'HUGGER MUGGERS'

Be vigilant, watch out for unsolicited
approaches from people you do not know.

Be careful when engaging with strangers
who wish to hug or dance with you.

Please help us by keeping your mobile
phones and other valuables safe.

Tottenham Court Road.

I give Barry some loose change as we wait for the 25. He says he ended up on the streets because of his ex-girlfriend. A Long Story. He offers us a can of Stella to share and tries to swap C's cap for a suede ear-flap hat someone had given him earlier in the day. He's plotting his journey to the Crisis shelter somewhere near Camberwell. There is one nearer but it's dry. We exchange kisses and handshakes as our bus arrives.

Whitechapel.

A last bastion against gentrifcation in the east End proper. (Tesco, Starbucks and Argos have all lais claim to the Aldgate East end but have yet to encroach on the main drag).

I have left the bus and am looking for a down-and-out. I've had a drink or three by now and have the idea in my head my money would make a nice Christmas present.

C. trots along behind me as I take purposeful strides towards the war memorial. "You've just passed one".

I look behind me and see no-one. The High Street is unusually deserted. A banana skids along the pavement. An offering from the entrance to the tube.

I turn on my heels and head in the fruit's direction. Just inside the doors is the kind of wide-eyed, wild-haired Whitechapel wino who can trace his lineage back through the generations. Fletcher. London. Booth.

I hand him the money and wish him a "Merry Christmas". He looks at me stupified. Silently, rooted to the spot, he pulls a shiny green apple from his pocket and pushs it towards me. I shake my head. "Don't lose it; spend it, " I advise over my shoulder.

The apple follows the banana out into the night.

Things you only get to do on holiday

2008-12-23T17:28:00.000Z

1. Read the LRB from cover to cover in one sitting.
2. Write, and re-write, a letter.
3. Cook things that take ages in the oven like lamb with flageolet beans and tonight's offering of goulash.

Only a mum knows where to buy...

2008-12-23T17:16:00.001Z

...drawer liners for my lovely desk.

They wear you down...

2008-12-15T19:18:00.002Z

...and then pick you up.

A Christmas card:

To...
The BEUTIFULL TEACHER MRS G
AND SAFERST TEACHER IN THE WORLD
WISHING YOU A VERY MERRY CHRIST-
MAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR AND
HOPING YOU WILL TAKE CARE OF
YOUR SELF.
AND
HAVE A BRILLIANT HOLIDAY.

Love M.!!!!!

YOU ARE KIND AND CARING AND
MAKE ALL YOUR LESSONS VERY
FUN AND INTERESTING AND HAVE A
LOVELY PERSONALITY.

2008-12-15T19:16:00.000Z

There was another silence. I felt, above all, tired. Tiredness: if there was a constant symptom of disease in our lives at this time, it was tiredness. At work we were unflagging, at home the smallest gesture of liveliness was beyond us.

Netherland. Joseph O'Neill.

2008-12-12T05:59:00.000Z

2008-12-11T06:37:00.000Z

2008-12-10T06:31:00.000Z

The Regency Tavern

2008-12-09T20:44:00.003Z

Nice-looking exterior. White with a touch of pale blue. The interior is crackingly-tacky.

The walls are decorated with wide two-tone green stripes. They are bedecked with plastic gilt mirrors, cherubs and candlesticks sporting electric bulbs.

Ponderous runners of plastic mistletoe dangle clusters of red baubles and red and white fairy lights between beams.

The unidentifiable battered bust behind us is wearing a red tinsel scarf and felt reindeer ears.

Giant, sparkly snowflakes hang behind the bar alongside a frosted pine garland displaying bluw twinkling lights.

My pint of spitfire doesn't taste of much.

A hen party slowly gathers numbers. Older rather than younger. Dressed mostly in black. ("Are you sure it's not a funeral?" asks C.). They acquire garlands of gold tinsel in a bid to match the Christmas decorations.

One of the younger women, certainly younger than me, has her boobs pushed up and out of her dress.

"Does that look attractive?".

"It might after ten pints".

The Bishops Finger tastes marginally better.

A glimpse of the entrance to the gents loos suggests something more in keeping with the alternative Brighton scene. The walls are covered in tiny mirrored tiles.

The ladies, on the other hand, are painted in red. The stage of the theatre confronts you as you enter; the side walls contain the boxes and their illustrious guests.

The Black Prince is the best pint of the evening.

Spot the Connection.

2008-12-09T20:42:00.000Z

Regency Tavern. Regency Hotel. Prince Regent Hotel. Regency Restaurant. Regency Square.

But where was I?

2008-12-09T20:38:00.002Z

Following a tractor on the A13 got me thinking...

Repeat to oneself...

2008-11-04T20:10:00.004Z

I am not in pain.

I am not in pain.

I am not in pain.

I am sat typing this with a bag of frozen peas strapped to the toes of my left foot with a tea towel (clean). I have only just about got over the embarrassment of the last major toe incident (circa late November/early December 2007) which involved me walking around school with no shoes for almost two weeks.

Want some background here goes....

C. text me to say: he'd found my (lost) pencil case in a fishy bag [that is a bag with fish on it; it doesn't smell]; my tax disk had arrived with a bright yellow letter and could I buy some milk on the way home.

I was ever so pleased about the pencil case - even the kids were worried about my multi-coloured Muji pens (not to mention the English coursework on my memory stick) and very excited about the yellow letter (the latter's me not the kids).

I played it cool when I eventually arrived home (if there's something wrong with the Blackwall Tunnel there's no getting off that damned Island; even though the two aren't directly linked). I called my parents about arrangements for mum's birthday meal tomorrow.

On asking for details (like where and when) my sister could only tell me she was going to the doctor's, my mum told me she can't drive and (thank the non-existent lord) my dad and I managed to agree a time and place convenient to ourselves.

I calmly cooked my dinner (simple tomato pasta with olives and manchego) and took the yellow letter and a glass of red wine excitedly into the front room...

...where I SMASHED my left foot into the bottom right hand corner of one of my recently acquired sofas (swapped with sister for a camera). Being something of an expert in the toe-injury field I'm beginning to think (an hour after the event) that the littlest one may be broken.

I will share two things with you from the envelope of my yellow letter (the third's my full name and address and you're not having that):

2008-11-01T21:31:00.005Z

I am waiting for friends in the Starbucks behind the Founders Arms (a Youngs pub on the river). I choose to sit in the window to watch the world go by but it's so bright in the coffee shop and so dark on the street outside all I can see is myself in my red-nosed reflected glory.

We eat opposite St Paul's. I like the fact I can look out at Brandy Nan as I sip my red wine (the others are still on coffees).

Before we leave, Pat lavishes us with gifts. I excitedly receive signed copies of:

On Brick Lane. Rachel Lichtenstein.

Phoenix. Leo Hollis.

Tate Modern

2008-10-29T08:58:00.003Z

Me and a thirteen year old at the Dominque Gonzalez Foerster TH.2058 exhibition at the Tate.

October 2058 - Tate Modern - London

It rains incessantly in London – not a day, not an hour without rain, a deluge that has now lasted for years and changed the way people travel, their clothes, leisure activities, imagination and desires. They dream about infinitely dry deserts.

This continual watering has had a strange effect on urban sculptures. As well as erosion and rust, they have started to grow like giant, thirsty tropical plants, to become even more monumental. In order to hold this organic growth in check, it has been decided to store them in the Turbine Hall, surrounded by hundreds of bunks that shelter – day and night – refugees from the rain.

- They let homeless people sleep on the bunkbeds?

- No. It's art and it's set in the future. 2058.

- But it says there about 'refugees from the rain'. That's homeless people isn't it? Why say it if you don't let people sleep here?"

- It's art. It's an idea.

- I don't understand it. Do you?

On the beds are books saved from the damp and treated to prevent the pages going mouldy and disintegrating. On every bunk there is at least one book, such as JG Ballard's The Drowned World, Jeff Noon's Vurt, Philip K Dick's The Man in the High Castle, but also Jorge Luis Borges's Ficciones and Roberto Bolaño's 2666.

- Emma, did it say upstairs the books were rescued from the damp?

- Yes.

- That's not true. These are new but someone's crunched up the corners to make them not look new.

- Is that a real man on that bunkbed?

- Yes. He's obviously taken them up on their offer of refuge.

- Are you sure he's real? Haven't you been trying to tell me this is art; an idea in the future...

2008-10-28T08:13:00.002Z

Advertising posters line the route in and out of most tube stations. Occasionally, you will see a piece of strategically-placed chewing gum (on someone's nose or such like) and at other times a small sticker protesting.

Ascending the escalators at Angel yesterday there were posters promoting cosmetic surgery at HarleyMedical which made me frown. That is until I saw one displaying a hand-written label: "self-esteem cannot be purchased". That made me smile.

Playing in Victoria Park

2008-10-28T08:11:00.003Z

Two young blond-haired boys are wrestling at the edge of the grass.

Their mother approaches shouting at them to stop; they shouldn't be fighting one another.

"We're not playing fighting. We're playing mummies and daddies".

Vingt-quatre heures

2008-10-19T20:11:00.002Z

Looking at myself in the rear view mirror stuck in traffic this afternoon I laughed as I remembered something I read trackside yesterday:

My sister, Mrs. Joe, with black hair and eyes, had such a prevailing redness of skin that I sometimes used to wonder whether is was possible she washed herself with a nutmeg-grater instead of soap.

I now find myself teaching something called academic support. Students take one less GCSE to access support for the others. So, I'm a jack of all trades. To help out with current coursework demands I'm on a crash course to read Great Expectations and Of Mice and Men for Tuesday. The quote above comes from the former novel. (Anyone brings maths to the lesson and the game's up).

I am bright red. The nutmeg-grater sprang to mind but I think we can blame the cold.

Last night, I slept in 3 pairs of socks, 2 pairs of leggings, jeans, 1 vest, 4 long-sleeved t-shirts, 2 hoodies, 1 scarf, 1 pair of thermal cycling gloves and 1 hot water bottle in a tent. It's mid-October and bloody cold.

On another note: how do big people fit in sleeping bags? Do they come in different sizes? I slept remarkably well in my borrowed tent but when I moved the sleeping bag moved with me. Trying to turn in the bag was pointless; I fitted it too well.

The boy completed his third 24 hour race in one year and one week. A personal best of 119 miles. He assures me this is the last....

I love this photo...

2008-10-19T20:02:00.002Z

Brother, sister and 7 of my 25 or so cousins.

The Anti-Colouring Book

2008-08-13T19:09:00.002Z

Design a postage stamp for the first letter mailed from Mars:

The beautiful in-between bits

2008-08-13T08:41:00.004Z

I have a new-found respect for the words "unremitting" and "unrelenting".

The most accurate description of anything, ever, has to now be "a swine of a climb up the B6278 to the Waskerley Way, aptly called Crawley Side".

Coast to Coast

2008-08-13T08:28:00.003Z

Whitehaven to Tynemouth traversing some of the most beautiful parts of Britain.

The start found us sheltering in a tunnel for Tesco's trolleys in a rather derelict Whitehaven (where the sea gulls like to party ALL night). The rain soon became a permanent feature of the holiday along with the wind, which, according to the C2C Bible, should be behind you. I can confirm this was not the case.

The finish found us sitting in the sun outside the Baltic sipping coffee and debating whether or not the newly-found sly cake was better than an Eccles.

Holiday reading...before the holiday

2008-08-13T07:52:00.002Z

The guidebook I borrowed from the library informs me that the essential holiday reading for Kefalonia is Captain Correlli's Mandolin and The Odyssey.

The former was read long ago and I have no desire to re-visit it. The latter scared me half to death. Without opening the book to even peek at the pages I'd decided this was something I'd never manage. I had visions of lists of names that meant nothing to me - like in the Bible: the sons of Obed Edom - Shemaiah, Jehozabad, Joah, Sachar, Nethanel, Ammiel, Issacher and Peullethai or Russian literature - hang on, who's Bosoi? Is that the same fella as Nikanor Ivanovich?

However, having despatched all reading materials back to London by Parcelforce from the Lake District (along with the tent, sleeping bags and superfluous items of clothing; the hills!) I was in need of something to read on the train journey back from Newcastle.

Blackwell's provided me with The Odyssey. I'm wondering if, deep-down somewhere, the argument was put forward that having just cycled 160 miles in five days through the lakes and over the Pennines, wind-whipped and rain-lashed, I can now do anything. Including reading The Odyssey.

And, you know what? I can and I did and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I'm amazed.

Learning to draw

2008-08-10T20:53:00.000Z

One of the things I thought I would never be able to do is draw.

On a whim I picked up an 'inspirational self-help' guide in the Tate (goodness ever knows why). Oh, what fun I have had!

It started off well when I drew a rounded bottom to my mug (Amnesty Women for freedom, freedom for women that I've had for about thirteen years). He (Danny Gregory) tells me "the test of whether they are really looking comes when they draw the bottom. Almost everyone will just draw a straight line across". And, I didn't.

I've realised I don't actually care how good my drawings are in the traditional sense. I'm enjoying myself immensely (and they can only get better!).

2008-08-10T17:47:00.001Z

A. I have been treading grapes.

B. My shoes got so wet at Ascot yesterday they dyed my feet.

London buses

2008-07-28T06:45:00.004Z

I like buses. Especially the top deck. You have the choice of checking out the odd bunch on board or the passing humanity down below; or a combination of both.

The downside to bus travel is attempting a new route or destination. How do you know where to get off?

There is an answer.

(As I discovered about thirteen years ago in Berlin). I've experienced my first talking London bus. The "2-0-5 to Mile End". The next stop is announced shortly before you arrive. Simple...but so useful.

Just a shame I knew where I was going.

Cameron and his bike

2008-07-28T06:38:00.002Z

I do consider myself a cyclist now (which is fortunate given I depart for the C2C tomorrow) so I do feel qualified to mention Cameron and his blessed bike.

C. has had two stolen over the past couple of years. I am lucky enough not to have suffered the same fate.

The Sunday Mirror recovered Cameron's bike and reunited it with its rightful owner.

There are, I believe, two lessons to be learned here:

1. you need to exercise a certain amount of common sense when deciding where to secure your bike (twat)

2. it still helps to be Somebody (even if that it is the leader of the Tories) than a Nobody (my bike would surely not be returned).

2008-07-17T19:53:00.002Z

Leake Street. Waterloo.

Street art allowed; tags and names not.

Three teenagers are approached by two police officers.

"Where's the spray can, lads?".

One of the boys stutters, "Our teacher's got it".

All eyes turn to me.

Finding out just how reslient you are

2008-07-17T19:48:00.003Z

Two funerals in ten days.

Fourteen year-old pupil. Police investigation on-going.

Father of four, mid-thirties. Completely avoidable.

"Miss, do you wonder sometimes if your heart is too big?".

Looking after the class pet

2008-05-23T15:32:00.002Z

When I asked C. if he minded me bringing home a pet from the school's animal club for the holiday he shrugged disinterestedly. I took that for a no and he guessed he'd be sharing the flat with a hamster or a gerbil.

Meet George.

A two-foot long water dragon.

Holiday Reading

2008-04-08T15:12:00.002Z

Breakfasts

2008-04-08T15:06:00.002Z

Saturday. Bar Italia. Frith Street.
2 large black coffees and 1 bacon and egg ciabatta.
Discussion: final plans for Cuba.

Sunday. Patisserie Valerie. Spitalfields.
1 large black coffee and 1 croque monsieur.
Discussion: snow, tourists and moustaches.

Monday. Burger King. Ilford.
1 black coffee, 1 fries and 1 whopper.
Discussion: none.

Tuesday. Debenhams Cafe. Oxford Street.
1 black coffee and 1 pain au raisin.
Discussion: when the Easter holidays should be.

A week in the sun

2008-02-24T20:09:00.001Z

Holiday company hierarchies

2008-02-24T20:06:00.000Z

Families with very small children.

Families with bigger children.

Families with teenagers.

Groups of three or more.

The hierarchy for boarding coaches from the airport to hotels last night. Thirteen hour delay.

“Well, we must be next,” I said to C. cheerfully. “They can't do much to pigeon-hole couples.”.

“Don't bet on it,” replied a voice from behind me. “Married. Living in sin. And then us. Sodomites.”.

Books Etc

2008-02-24T19:55:00.000Z

The shop assistant scanned the three books I had placed on the counter. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head from the till and fixed me a long hard stare.

“Heavy duty...”, he commented.

I smiled. “And?”

He hesitated.

“And male”.

I laughed. “Holiday reading”, I replied.

Conspiratorially, confidingly, he lent forward over the counter. “People at Canary Wharf buy trash to take on vacation”.

He withdrew, pulling himself up straight. Admiringly.

Nabakov. Chekov. Hamilton.

Things that have been said to me today

2008-02-14T20:11:00.002Z

1. Pupil: Don't you think you should have a baby soon? You are getting on a bit.

2. Work Dad (leaping off chair): Those stockings are too sexy for work. You can't interview in them. Are there any male candidates? You're putting them at a disadvantage. You need to think before you get dressed in the morning.

Lunch

2008-01-29T21:35:00.000Z

- Your lunch looks, well, too healthy. That pot of seed things looks like something my guinea pig would eat...And, what's that?

-Beetroot.

- Beetroot?

- Would you like to try some?

- NO!

- Do you know what happens if you eat too much beetroot? ... Your pee turns purple.

(and your poo, yells a colleague).

- You're not exactly selling it to me, miss.

I love London books

2008-01-28T21:08:00.000Z

It's good!

Should have gone to Specsavers

2008-01-20T20:29:00.000Z

We've all been there.

On the tube or train or bus. Intently looking at a woman's stomach trying to work out whether or not she's pregnant. You don't want to be impolite if she is; you don't want to offend if she isn't.

The man who offered me his seat Monday evening on the Central line clearly needs his eyes testing. After my uncontrolled laughter I doubt he'll ever ask another woman ever again if she wants a seat.

My waist is a rather small size eight.

Welcome to 2008

2008-01-02T17:59:00.000Z

Given the day started with the washing machine exploding (slight exaggeration but I did have to take my clothes to my parents to wash out the smell of burning rubber) and the Hoover breaking down (reasons enough for wanting to steer clear of both as I usually do) why I thought it would be a good idea to do a spot of overdue DIY I don't know.

The supercilious teenage twat in Homebase informed me that I could not find the “toilet flushers” as I was looking for the wrong product. I did in fact require a “cistern lever”. He was fortunate enough to escape unharmed as my brain was picturing him strangled with the chord of a power shower with a loo brush sticking out from where the sun don't shine.

Fitting the new toilet seat took far longer than anticipated due to the ridiculous length of the central metal spike, plastic wingnuts and the proximity of the bowl to the wall. I think the blue stripe is rather fetching. I'm guessing from C's face when he returned home he does not agree.

But, then, he may have been looking at the mess covering the bathroom floor. The old cistern lever may have been broken but could I remove the damn thing? No, anything that was supposed to come apart refused as it was melded together with limescale. I tried all kinds as evidenced by the array of tools, gadgets and implements littering the tiles. Helplessly, I appealed to the man for assistance. He couldn't budge it either but then he had a plan. Acrid smoke filled the flat for the second time today when he set fire to it and melted it to bits. I am still not convinced it was a good idea but as C pointed out it worked.

When was the last time...

2007-12-28T07:45:00.000Z

a book made you cry?

Small Pleasures

2007-12-19T18:35:00.000Z

Being ill, and bed-ridden, has afforded me some time to read.

Progress

2007-10-23T20:48:00.000Z

I attempted two and a half things on the list.

The car still doesn't work (Thursday).

I created pretty piles of matching items in the front room.

I haven't been taken up on the child minding offer (relief) so I took myself off to Tate Britain for the Millais exhibition.

Sublime.

I came out a different person.

Texts I received today

2007-10-23T20:45:00.001Z

"you are destined to be a tory"

Hurrah! Perhaps not.

2007-10-22T07:42:00.001Z

A week off to try and catch up with life. The Tates. Books. Walks in the autumn sunshine.

But then I think of all the things I really need to catch up with:

1. Getting the car fixed (it currently doesn't move).
2. Cleaning the kitchen (including the fridge and the oven).
3. De-cluttering the front room of papers, books and various assorted bits and pieces.
4. Sorting my clothes from a mountainous heap before C. gives them all away to the local charity
shop.
5. Offering to look after my friend's children for the week as his wife is in hospital.

Helmets off to Ken

2007-09-23T18:30:00.000Z

Since my summer cycling holiday I've become a bike enthusiast. I cycle at least twice a week to school (seven and a half miles each way) and to other places besides. So, it didn't take much to twist my arm to sign up for the first Hovis Freewheel.

Three of us set off in a group from the Vicky Park hub like excited kids in our bright red bibs ('Watch out the bikes are coming') entering the traffic-free route at London Bridge. Friends, entire families, people on their own – all joined together to demonstrate London at its best. Fun, friendly and full of life.

Bikes of all descriptions were on display. Unicycles. Tandems. Children pedalling hell for leather; legs whizzing round and round. Stabilisers. Little ones (and dogs) in trailers. Recumbent bikes of all varieties – including one with an amazing Kenwood sound system attached to the rear.

We thought we'd have to give the free sarnies a miss due to the huge crowd at the festival in St. James's. But, no. The organisation was superb and the queues short. Sandwich, apple and water for nought. And a demonstration of some even more bizarre bikes.

Early to rise

2007-09-22T15:11:00.001Z

I don't do lie-ins but even I usually draw the line at getting up 45 minutes earlier on a Saturday than I would do in the week. The Boy was running in Battersea Park. But, believe me, it was worth it.

Home for a day

2007-08-16T17:51:00.000Z

Austria, Slovakia and Hungary. An utterly amazing experience.

Cycling down the Danube

2007-08-06T06:33:00.000Z

The bike is in about six pieces. My belongings are scattered in little piles across the sitting room floor waiting to be crammed into two pannier bags. And I'm thinking why did this seem like a good idea at the time.

2007-08-01T12:54:00.000Z

I have very little patience with shopping. I know what I want and I buy it as quickly as possible.

On occasions I think I know what I want and I buy it as quickly as possible.

This is where the Internet becomes a dangerous place.

I could tell from the tone of his voice the delivery man was pissed off. (I couldn't tell much else as I can never understand a word anyone says over the Intercom. "I've come to murder you in your own home". "Ok!" I'd reply merrily before buzzing them up). Watching him to try to manoeuvre the half-landing I could see why.

My feeble "Oooh, I wasn't expecting something that big" followed by a burst of uncontrollable, hysterical, nervous laughter did not go down well.

After signing for the box, same height as me and wider, I dragged it inside in bewilderment (surely they'd sent me the wrong thing) before attacking the tape with a kitchen knife. Lo! The Rolls Royce of bike bags.

Will it ensure BA doesn't bend my bike to buggery? Yes.

Can I strap it to the back of my bike for a tour of the Danube? Can I f**k!

Return to bike company by courier. Small fortune.

Leave at left luggage in Vienna airport. Small fortune.

I needed to speak to someone. I almost called my dad but couldn't bear the 'didn't you read what you were buying' lecture; my friend G, is indisposed and C is going to kill me.

All Change

2007-08-01T12:31:00.001Z

I'm a skilled practitioner of overdoing it on the first day out after an illness.

A morning jaunt to Marylebone for the most beautiful bookshop in London - Daunt Books - and while I was there a couple of tarts from Patisserie Valérie.

Having been unable to do any training for my cycling trip we thought it best I get back on the bike. The afternoon saw us follow our familiar route down the A13 and up the Greenway and Lee Navigation. Except once you hit Stratford it's becoming less and less familiar faced with the march of progress - also known as the preparations for the 2012 Olympics.

I took this photo last year - you can just see the car yard on the right.

The cars have now gone. And the tell-tale blue hoarding has been erected.

Marshgate Lane would have vans, car and lorries moving about at all hours. Now it lies eerily empty but strangely so - there is a sense of purpose rather than decay.

The Summer Holidays - Week One

2007-08-01T12:23:00.000Z

Two thirds of the way into Joanna Blythman's Bad Food Britain I was feeling a little smug. I try to buy independently when I can – no small feat as I live in a working-class food desert – I cook from scratch almost every day and I rarely eat processed food. My body rebelled anyway. It refused to take anything on board and violently expelled any left overs from both ends. Fabulous. I'm not entirely sure what I'd planned for the first week of the holidays but five days in bed with sickness and diarrhoea hadn't been mooted as an option.

2007-07-11T18:27:00.003Z

Having notched up a considerable 124 hours at school over the last 10 working days I haven't done much other than work, eat and sleep.

I have tried to start reading this about 5 times:

but can never remember what I read on the previous page. (The guy in the shop did warn me against buying it "To sum up Dawkins - God doesn't exist, worship me".).

I have read this:

but only because I have to write the questions for book group next week; we didn't agree with one another.

2007-07-11T18:24:00.000Z

Before you go, J, I just want to say sorry for shouting at you. I...

Miss, miss. It's ok. You did tell me you were having a bad day and asked me to sit down nicely before I hit you on the head with the ping pong ball.

Turning London yellow for the day

2007-07-08T06:39:00.000Z

London did the start of the Tour de France proud yesterday. A superb day. With not a drop of rain in sight.From this to this...

...to this...

Who said teachers work 9 to 3?

2007-07-05T19:57:00.000Z

Monday 7am to 7.10pm
Tuesday 7am to 7.15pm
Wednesday 7am to 8.10pm

But then there are the little things that make it all worthwhile - like the three Jack Petchey nominations:

Ms X is very kind to me and always helps me to calm down and stay out of trouble. She is a teacher who really understands me.

Ms X has helped me throughout Year 9. She calms me down and is a great teacher to work with.

Ms X is always there for me when I feel upset.

I love them all!

Stoke Newington to Whitechapel

2007-05-20T11:08:00.000Z

Perfect Fried Chicken. Orhans Cafe.
Two men leaning over a car.
Baggy trousers, hoodies, bling.

She hadn't noticed him when she boarded the bus. She was reflecting on a pleasant evening. Good food. Good wine. Good conversation. A playful smile on her lips she was imagining what of the night she'd recount to the man who wasn't hers. (And pondering when).

Polish restaurant with no name. Taste of Cameroon.
Two teenagers sauntering along.
Fitted suits, shoes, yarmulkas.

She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes, peering at the man in the seat behind. Sorry?

He repeated his request insistently. Can I touch your hair, please?

Why do you want to touch my hair? She fired back. Abruptly. Startled.

I've never felt curly hair before.

The words ran through her mind. Mental health. Psycho. Harmless. Dangerous.

It's just like straight hair but a different shape. She cringed, annoyed, asking herself how stupid her answer had sounded as she started to wonder who else was looking and listening.

I would like to feel how the curl springs. He sounds like a child, she thought, wanting to know how the wheels on a bike go round or a caterpillar turns into a butterfly.

The okay just came out. Heart pounding, laughing too loudly, she added, be gentle!

She resisted the urge to screw up her eyes, grit her teeth and clench her fists to wait the unknown but watched as he, fascinated, carefully and methodically straightened one length of curls before letting go. Ping! His eyes shone and his body gave an involuntary jerk.

He marked the end of the exchange. Slowly, courteously and with a nod of the head he said thank you. He folded his hands in his lap and turned to look out the window.

Green Papaya. Dolphin pub.
Two men spilling kebabs on the pavement.
Ben Sherman shirts, jeans, trainers.

Saturday morning conversations

2007-05-20T09:52:00.001Z

One.

- I don't think I like you this morning.
- I watched Rambo when you went to bed last night.

Two.

- I am barring you from walking in that bookshop.
- In which case I won't give you your money.
- Okay. Only one book though and I'm not spending ages in there.

2007-05-12T07:02:00.000Z

Students + Staff + SATs = Stress. On a grand scale.

I feel I have done nothing other than work non-stop for a month. Just when I nearly lost it after the last exam yesterday a bunch of flowers popped up in front of me followed by a large box of Thorntons. "Thanks for all your help and support, Miss. You're the only one who thought I could do it. We proved the others wrong - I'm not just going to be another black statistic. Gonna miss you!"

I'm back up there on top of the world.

Little things add up to a beautiful day

2007-04-11T16:09:00.000Z

Sunshine. Children chattering. Birds singing. Flowers blooming. Lunch with a complete stranger.

Kensington to Westminster by way of Holland Park and Chelsea.

The Green and Wet Bits of London

2007-04-06T19:52:00.000Z

My hands, face and neck are burnt.

Tomorrow, I will be unable to walk, and, currently, it hurts to sit down.

Never one for doing things by halves I went for the first bike ride of the year. Cycle path on the A13, the Greenway, the Lee Navigation to Tottenham. By way of Hackney and Walthamstow Marshes.

26 mile round trip.

Superb.

But doing so on your mum's too-small, bone-shaker of a bike is not to be recommended.

Antal Szerb

2007-04-06T19:48:00.000Z

Very occasionally you stumble across an exquisite book that actually leaves you feeling bereft. What to read next? This is one such. Along with Nicholas Lezard, I urge you to read it.

Thoughts on a day spent wandering

2007-04-04T07:46:00.001Z

Despite the government's apparent desire to curb our freedoms and our ability to demonstrate I am warmed by two small displays of resistance. One against Monterrico Metals outside St. Paul's (much to the bewilderment of the assembled tourists) and the other outside the Royal Courts. The bus normally passes slowly and solemnly but today it speeds past allowing me just a glimpse of a blue banner with a white dove and the letters PEA...

2007-04-04T07:44:00.000Z

I'm drawn in by the colour and warmth of St. James's Park. This annoys me. I want to believe the gardens are too stage-managed with their immaculately manicured beds but they beckon. I leave with a spring in my step.

2007-04-04T07:36:00.000Z

When questioned about the Duke of York's Column dominating Waterloo Place by an African woman I realise I know next to nothing about him.

I sing her the 'Grand Old Duke of York'. We giggle and laugh. A bond is formed. (I find out later the rhyme has nothing to do with this Duke of York).

She's arrived from Manchester on the 6.30am coach and is trying to see what she can of London before her lunchtime appointment at the Foreign Office. I whisk her to Trafalgar Square for Landseer's lions and a coffee.

She thanks me for my kindness and hospitality. I try not to think about the outcome of her meeting.

2007-04-04T07:34:00.000Z

I feel like I've been invaded. I smile, shake my head and whisper 'No, thank you'. I want to shout. Hyde Park is about children on ponies, ducks and geese. It's about watching great-crested grebes go through their ritual courtships. Necks raised, heads turned deftly to alternate and opposite sides not unlike the stylised dances the Victorians so enjoyed if the current run of costume dramas are to be believed. It's not about old Chinese blokes trying to sell me dodgy DVDs. He's let the outside in.

Spring Clean

2007-04-02T07:51:00.000Z

I get a headache even contemplating the idea of cleaning. I hate it.

The newspapers and magazines scattered around the front room were in danger of becoming a fire hazard and C. was quite possibly on the verge of walking out. So I have dealt with them. With the exception of a few articles which I still need (I'm sure that point will be debated) the whole lot have been deposited in an orange recycling sack.

My problem now is housing the wobbly stack of books next to my chair. They simply won't fit on the shelves. Ruthlessness seemed the only option and I attacked the bookcases with energy and vigour. This resulted in twelve books being removed for the charity shop. Out of a possible three hundred and fifty or so.

And the front room still looks worse than when I started.

Discordant Shopping

2007-03-26T19:19:00.000Z

Things I remember about working in Woolworths:

cheese and celery sandwiches from Marks and Spencers
serving Frank Bruno Easter eggs for his children
Christmas cards; tonnes of
a girl called Vicki being arrested for stealing from staff lockers
smock-like tunics with buttons that always popped open displaying your knickers to all and sundry
resigning (at the age of 16) because I couldn't cope with taking orders from an airhead

Why the reminescences?

The Guardian's editorial In praise of discordant shopping

I was scarred for life working in Woolworths. The very first thing that pops into my head when Woolworths is mentioned is music. (Well, I'm lying slightly; it's the second. One day after work I just had to take my tights off and did so in the street after carefully looking around. Unfortunately, I didn't look up and was greeted by a number of cheers from builders on the roof of a house).

We were subjected to the same music on loop for weeks at a time. Lionel Ritchie. The Carpenters. It was torture. For this very reason I would support shop workers in saying no to Muzak which according to Mr Treasure could mean 10% more sales.

Long and often anti-social hours standing on your feet for not a lot of money is bad enough without being forced to listen to absolute drivel. Let the workers choose.

2007-03-19T20:20:00.000Z

It's difficult to tell why or how people cheer up and get the feeling they want to work.

'German Measles'. A Winter Book. Tove Jansson.

2007-03-19T20:17:00.000Z

Everyone must imagine his own snakes because no else's snakes can ever be as awful.

'The Dark'. A Winter Book. Tove Jansson.

2007-03-12T08:20:00.000Z

Things you don't expect to see walking to work...

A New Man

2007-03-11T18:51:00.000Z

I have a new man to add my collection.

My men cause much amusement at school. I was recently left a message by a colleague which said something along the lines of being from the man "fourth in line to your affections behind the gardener, the cleaner and the candlestick maker." (I am slightly concerned he forgot C.).

I'm on first name terms with the man who sells me my newspaper every morning and exchange a greeting with the security men on the door of one of the banks I pass (more than many of the people showing their ID seem to do; how rude). The conversation with the guy who hands out City AM newspapers (I've never taken one) has improved at the same time as his ability to speak English has increased.

Two weeks or so ago I decided to swap the third leg of my tube/DLR journey for a mile and a half walk (thereabouts). This has caused some consternation and comments - including from the aforementioned colleague. ("There's more fat on a single chip"). I love it. I only wish I'd thought of doing it sooner.

The last part involves a walk through the park which is where my new man comes in. He's an older Bengali man on his morning constitutional. We exchanged greetings as we passed going in opposite directions. Somehow our paths converged on Friday and I now have a new friend to be teased about.

2007-03-11T18:47:00.000Z

The first meal of 2007 eaten outside. Couscous, falafel, dips and vegetables eaten in the glorious sunshine on Whitstable beach. Things are definitely getting better.

2007-03-06T19:36:00.000Z

"Is it Soc Ed Day Thursday, Miss?"

"Yes".

"What we doing?"

"Sex".

"Oh, shit".

Thirty twelve/thirteen year olds. Five hours of sex education. Spare me a thought.

2007-03-04T20:49:00.000Z

Everything has been something of a struggle recently but a good weekend has gone some way to restoring the equilibrium.

Good food from Borough Saturday.

Ranunculus from Columbia Road Sunday. I haven't bought cut flowers for a long time -they're not exactly environmentally friendly - but a girl needs a treat every so often.

Precipitation

2007-02-15T09:19:00.000Z

You know how it is when you really hope that one act will precipitate another. The people at the bus stop who jokingly light up exclaiming "well, the bus'll definitely be along now." Going to brush your teeth because then the phone call you've been waiting for will come through just as your mouth fills with lathered up toothpaste.

In the same vein she really hoped that if she made the pastry the meat delivery man would arrive. Still wearing her (mis-matched) pyjamas, flour and butter covered hands. It had to work, didn't it?

No.

A rush of humanity...for 79p

2007-02-14T19:12:00.000Z

This caught my eye as I dropped off some clothes at a charity store. I can only echo the words of Jonathan Franzen in the introduction: "Read Munro! Read Munro!" Sublime.

The art of the chocolatier

2007-02-14T19:03:00.000Z

After nearly being roasted alive in the library, I had to run the gauntlet of salespeople in the, very small, shopping centre. Do I want to write a will? Buy a life insurance plan? Have I had an accident? (No, but if you get any closer to my face you will). Sky? Electricity? But then I was stopped in my tracks. Thorntons.

Barking really is coming up in the world. I rang my mum to ask when it appeared. Last week came the reply. "I've been in there three times already. Only decent shop the town's got. You have to support it". Quite.

Victim Support

2007-02-12T12:36:00.000Z

Emily was attacked on the tube in March last year. The assault obviously affected her but she coped reasonably well and got on with her life. She was upset when she knew the case was being closed but had soon put everything behind her.

The following February she was introduced to someone at a function by friends. By the end of the following day Emily was convinced this was the man who had attacked her. Confused and scared she did not know what to do. The following day she got up for work but spent most of the day sat on the kitchen floor crying and shaking. She was rescued by a phone call from the school's police officer who was suspicious about her absence and a comment she had made the previous day.

Emily and the police officer got the case reopened and Emily went back to work. Unfortunately, lots of people realised there was something wrong with Emily because she wasn't mixing and wasn't talking. (Two of the things she does best). Emily was restless, she couldn't concentrate and wanted to walk everywhere no matter how far because that was the only thing that made her feel better. She also felt permanently sick and was worried that she might burst into tears at any moment. The school's police officer suggested that going to talk to someone might make a difference.

With his help Emily made an appointment for Monday morning. She had her reservations due to an inbuilt squeamishness around anything vaguely classed as therapy but agreed if she didn't like it she didn't have to go again. Emily feels much better and now cannot stop laughing (hysterically).

Emily realises that what she'd needed all along was someone who she perceived to be intelligent to tell her what she was feeling was perfectly normal and would pass. She worked this out herself after feeling insulted and patronised by the person she saw. The 'session' has confirmed all her worst fears. Many counsellors are people who mean well and are trained to listen and to ask the right questions in the right order; not to think. Many also have a set idea of what a victim is and how they act. Emily was overjoyed to discover she didn't quite fit. She is the same person she has always been after all.

"A strutting, consequential little man"

2007-02-12T11:38:00.000Z

I need to reread all 709 pages of this:

before Sunday when I go to see this:

2007-02-08T08:06:00.000Z

I love snow.

Thursday night at the National

2007-02-04T09:27:00.000Z

Walk over the Waterloo Bridge.

Meal at Strada.

Writing paper from Foyles.

Music from the Julian Jackson Trio.

Photos by Nobby Clark.

Man of Mode directed by Nicholas Hytner.

Walk over the Hungerford Bridge.