couldn't

be bloggered.

sickened

by the spectacle of another suicide bombing.

you know, i don't mind if muslims want to kill themselves. in fact, i wish they all would. make the world a much nicer place. but i do object to them taking innocent people with them. so i have a helpful suggestion to make.

all those muslims desperate to die should proceed to that roomy, vacant region of saudi arabia known as "the empty quarter". don't mind the expense. we'll pay the cab fare. we'll even provide the nuclear device to send you off. free of charge.

and when you're quite comfortable on the burning sand, with your korans and your hearts full of hate, i'll be happy to officiate proceedings: with a valedictory wave, a toot-toot on the streamer, and a cheerful press on the plunger.

it's a very generous offer. no need to rsvp. don't pass it up. please.

where's

her tortoise? this is ridiculous. what's the hold-up?

there's a reason everyone hates postmen.

maybe in the next world?

something i'd very much like to see is international gender-behaviour swap day. one day a year where men have to behave like women, and women have to behave like men. and where only the clothes remain the same. a reversal of customary rôles just for the fun of it.

women could do most of the flirting, the leering, make the crass comments, remain supine on the couch with the remote, and eat whatever they wanted without concern for the calorific consequences. in the bedroom women could finish first. and leave immediately. and not call the next day. or ever. and completely ignore you in public. most of all, women could just enjoy the sheer freedom of not worrying about anything, at all. not their appearance, their wardrobe, their weight, their relationships, their diets, their age, or those toxic star-signs.

meanwhile men could turn this and way while looking searchingly in the mirror, and whisper vicious things about each other, and endlessly check their machine for messages, and go without food all day so that when they get home they can eat mounds of ice-cream while watching television, and enjoy saying things like "not unless you take me out to dinner first", and have the last word. and use sex as a reward for pliant behaviour. and after finding some man who is "perfect" try and change him anyway.

sorry to be a spoilsport, but there is one caveat. the bi craze will not be in effect. as much as it would amuse-or-excite some women to see it, it won't be happening. not on my watch anyway.

inseussciant

it's a bit freudian, i know. but as a little girl her parents wouldn't buy her the dr. seuss books she desperately wanted. it left a hole in her heart. a space large enough for sadness to steal in. and stay there. forever after.

love someone? then give them some suess. sometime. for whimsicality's sake. seuss isn't for the young. he's for the young at heart.

one reason i'm still here is "the king's stilts". it reminds us why it's important to be nice to kings. and cats. if we're to stay high. and dry. and to enjoy the eccentricities of others. like petite girls in tottering heels. or monarchs on stilts. and be glad.

a litte book. a lot of joie de vivre.

glued

in beatitude.

if i believe the advertising

everyone else has a better life than me.

stylish women

it has nothing to do with money, or designer clothes, or even educational attainments. but there's something about stylish women. a je ne sais quoi. a certain swankiness which the woman either possesses or does not. it's not something that can picked up off the counter, or casually slipped on over the wrist. but when it's there it makes all the difference.

she knows.

there are 3 kinds of people

those who don't have someone and are looking. we call these people lonely.

those who have someone (or sometimes two or more someones) and are still looking. we call these people greedy.

those who have someone, are satisfied, and aren't looking. we call these people names.

and then there's me.

they say

there are worse jobs than real estate and advertising. but i haven't seen any.

recondite repository

there is a place somewhere in the world which is big. very big. you can't miss it. it's where all my missing stuff is: books, cds, friendships, tennis balls, former loves, items of clothing, bags, toiletries, keys, restaurant bookings, a treasured coca-cola "super russell" yo-yo from the 1981 yo-yo season, lost innocence, pin numbers, phone numbers, hopes, dreams, ambitions, and money money money. they're all stowed away in there. unreclaimed. they must be. (they can't all have fallen down the back of the couch.)

so if you see this place one day as you're driving past—point it out, will you? i'd love to know its whereabouts.

espresso machines

erupting their black lava incessantly, unhurried loungers munching and talking and reading al fresco, not a woman anywhere without a fashionable pair of sunglasses, over-groomed men carrying small spoiled dogs, and everyone watching everyone else endlessly. just another sunday in the city.

must have

who says women don't invent cool things?

this alarm clock plays hide and seek. when the alarm sounds the wheels whirr into action and it rolls away and hides. so you have to get up and find it in order to turn it off. genius. the inventrix is gauri nanda. and like all women she probably hated getting out of bed in the morning. what woman doesn't? (they're so so lazy.) still, her grief is our gain, what?

my dog

ate my blog.

zoom

this is my nephew, zoom. (his initials are z.m.) he's one. and. is. utterly. adorable. everyone says so.

if there's one thing in life i've learned

it's that the world
get can by
perfectly well
without me.
and vise-versa.

francophonies

"francophone?" i asked. "francophonies," she replied. just like that. brilliant. and she even had a sore neck at the time. i love it when she stops by.

some old testament bore

once said man can't live on bread alone. and somehow this notion got wide currency. can't think why. for the last three weeks i've gotten by on just fruit-toast and grapefruit. and i can't see any ill effects. what have people got against bread/carbs anyway?

like everyone else

not especially sad. not desolate. but could be happier.

succumbing to senescence

Went through a shopping mall yesterday and saw all those bored, listless seniors flopping about, lost, and with absolutely nothing to do. One never knows what happiness the future has in store, but I can’t see myself doing that. If I was them I’d rather stop at home and plot revenge on the world.

my best ideas

come to me in the shower. unfortunately there are severe water restrictions in force at the moment. and, well, you can see the results.

drama in one act

scene: a couple, naked, are in bed.
he says: let's make love.
she says: i'll just put my shoes on, then.

after centuries of argument

cartographers have more or less decided the earth isn't flat. it's round. that suits most people. but what about stomachs? if round becomes the established fashion i've got so much cake to eat.

just

passing the time until i get my own sit-com.

as i was saying

people often say they enjoy sex with the right person. but then so many seem to enjoy sex with the wrong people too.

live, laugh, love

i jimmy choo choo choose you.

early morning, maudlin street

at the risk of sounding like d. h. lawrence, whenever i wander by the nighclub district i see sex out enjoying itself. meanwhile love pines away at home, passing the hours watching "desperate housewives". do you think we could get these two together on a blind date? because i suspect they'd make a lovely couple.

rachel hooked us up

i've been going to bed with shakespeare every night this week. and he's so good. the things he says. please don't tell his wife.

wishing

i was far away.

especially

from myself.

orgasms are like cookies

you forget about all the ones you've had before. the only one that holds your attention is the one you're about to have. and after the box is empty, when you have to go out for more.

guilty pleasures

ever watch a tv show, which you know is undeserving and a complete waste of your time, just because you have a crush on one of the cast? lately it's been amanda from "ugly betty". she's gorgeous. and nasty. and flirty. perfect!

my brother

was here before. he ate everything. i have nothing left. to offer you.

out there, beyond the footlights

foundfoundfound is a silly little enterprise begun in an idle moment. it's not profound. it's not a confessional. it's not saucy. there isn't even any fucking on it (blog authorities have warned me about this and told me to juice things up a bit). it has no intrinsic value at all. except insofar as it functions as a brasserie which serves honey, al fresco, for the passing bee trade. and what lovely bees call by.

and, so, i'd like to thank the buzziest members of the hive: that small, select group of women of impeccable taste who come here regularly whenever their schedules allow. by which i mean jaded angel, and rachel, and sam, and angel. there are others of course. i mention these women because they are generous tippers. the coin jar in my email box is almost too heavy to lift.

who knew that the very things i say which usually cause friends to quietly reach for their coats and briefcases (most can't depart soon enough), would in the blogosphere, be a source of some diversion? it's not much of a readership now. but i know women. they're a talkative bunch. four women today, a few phone calls later, and tomorrow the audience might be the size of china.

if my experience is anything to go by, blogging leaves blind dating for dead. every woman i've met has been a knockout.

assistance required

when you crash your car someone comes to tow it away to be repaired. or wrecked. when you crash your life who comes for you? and where do they take you? and what if you have no coverage?

i hate

that we live so far apart. and can't meet to say hi whenever we want. sigh. sigh. sigh.

the band would like to know

if music be the lees of love,
if sentimental songs are all that's left
after the infatuation fades,
do you have any requests?

my blog

ate my life.

i was minding my business

some of the best stories never make the front page. some of the best stuff on foundfoundfound nests out of sight in my email inbox. here is ordinary girl's über-smart riposte to my "apology for self" post.

some of us prefer
our love lives bleak,
our clothes chic,
and our blogs unique.

it's the perfect critique. don't you think?

it's nothing personal

but there are too many people in the world, and not enough jobs or parking spaces.

five english composers

handel is a scandal.
walton is revoltin'.
delius is tedious.
not smitten with britten.
byrd is better unheard.

taking the curtain call

kind thoughts to all who've hoovered up the "casting call" post. and for the praise a-plenty. très flattering. though i think it is a little on the soupy side. it's intended as a reply to phillip larkin's poem "talking in bed". itself a wonderful coda on the incongruity of physical closeness and emotional distance. and to the mush-loving women who come this way, catching their heels on the grate and spilling the contents of their bags all over my comments page, i'm just letting you know i'm giving this subject a rest for a little while. will a week do for you? i'm not an expert. believe me. so to avoid becoming the fabio of blogopolis i'm going to whine and opine about other things.

unlike wine

life does not improve with age.

casting call

there are lots of lovers:

avid lovers
reluctant their-heart's-not-in-it lovers
selfish my-pleasure-comes-first lovers
greedy you're-not-the-only-one-i-do-this-with lovers
demanding do-this-do-that lovers
sweet tender lovers
quiet you-wouldn't-know-what-they-felt lovers
noisy shrieking-overacting lovers
anything goes lovers
silly giggle-prone lovers (restored by reader's request)
temporary you'll-do-for-now lovers
relics-from-old-relationships lovers
perverse lovers
generous lovers
brooding lovers
dull unimaginative lovers
not-passionate-but-loving-and-dear lovers
shallow this-is-just-sex lovers.

the best lovers in the world aren't those who go go go all night and shake you awake in the morning wanting more. no.

the best lovers in the world are those who talk. talk about what's inside. and let us in. deep deep within. to a place rich and strange. to the secret centre of their hearts. and make us feel comfortable. and let us stay there. rent free. for as long as we like.

apology for self

because
some of us
prefer our talk wry
our martinis dry
and our culture high.

the blogosphere

i've discovered, is almost entirely comprised of pure oestrogen. i've never seen so many women in one place before. no wonder i never want to leave.

cell phones

should be disposable like cameras. so it doesn't matter if you leave them behind on a train, or in the cinema, or under someone's bed. ten dollars later you're back on the air. won't happen though.

alcohol

doesn't help.

eggs

are for beating. not women.

this night has opened my eyes

i like to entertain. and amuse. myself mostly. with the elegant arrangement of words. and say astringent things. about life. as if it were a suit i was trying on for size; not entirely convinced about the quality of the stitching, or whether it deserves a place in my wardrobe. yes, so arch.

but not now.

because someone has shown me something finer. than cleverness, or urbanity. something utterly beautiful. though she'd hate me to say so, or make a fuss. so, for today, no aperçus. just wonder. and appreciation. and rapture. which is appropriate. at easter.

love is

a bus which, when it finally arrives, is too full to admit any more passengers. so we stand at our stop, looking this way and that, hoping for the next one.

sex is

the line of inviting, cosy-looking taxis that slip teasingly past while we stand, shivering in the rain, waiting for the bus to come. it's only a matter of time before we give up and flag one down.

isn't it sad

how hard he tries to be clever?

that's gold, jerry!

it took me a while. thirty-something years, in fact. but i have just discovered what it means when a man asks "what's wrong?" and a woman says "nothing". it simply means she's not going to tell him. because she's saving her 'a' material - her whines, complaints, frustrations, grievances - for her blog. that's all.

golf apparel

should only be worn on halloween.

when

did it become de rigueur for women to be bi? how did i miss that announcement? was i in a meeting or something? i wonder how they got that one through parliament?

islam won't win

because women, bless them, love their hair far too much to stow it away under some stupid veil, where no one can delight in it. a veiled world: how utterly sad would that be? how would oscar night work if all the actresses turned up and all you could see were their eyes? that won't help the ratings. won't happen. this war will be won by women. and their love of grooming products. give up mosque-dwellers, you're outnumbered.

impulsively perhaps, this woman just tinted her hair. tell me the world isn't a better place for it. made me smile.

is it better

to fall asleep in someone's arms, or wake up in someone's arms? can anyone say for sure? what is keener: pleasure enjoyed or pleasure anticipated?

unless

she's talking about astrology, or dieting, or feminism, any woman is more interesting than watching a game of football.

my hero

is acid-tongued stewie griffin. that's right. i look up to a baby. what of it? he sings. he's snarky. he's superior. he doesn't get along with others. that will do nicely, thank you.

some things i've learnt

in the last two days while wandering around looking at other people's blogs: people who are just about sex are so so boring. shocking but true.

were

blogs invented so women could just say "fuck" a lot in public?

i wish

women would be more publicly expressive about what they like about men's bodies. saying "he's cute" or "he's hot" gets us nowhere.

islington

is over-rated.

selena

is trying to save the world one bedroom at a time.

the economy would collapse

if it wasn't for single people. let's face it. married or attached couples spend all their time enjoying (or not enjoying) each other's company. usually at home. that employs no one.

single people, however, have lots of spare time. they are forever taking evening classes, doing amateur theatricals, volunteering for stuff, participating in stuff, holidaying, grooming grooming grooming, glamorising their wardrobes, keeping internet dating agencies flush with cash, single-handedly sustaining the bar, club and restaurant industry, and doing a million other things to try and meet someone in an effort to stop being single. that's why there are more single people than ever now. living alone. it's a cruel necessity.

i told you the world wasn't organzied for our convenience or with the slightest regard for our feelings.

avuncular obligations

i have a nephew. he's twelve months old. today's his birthday. where do i fit in? what's the point of uncles anyway? comic relief? a source of occasional gifts? a warning to others? apart from making me feel old (well, 30s is old) it won't be so bad. he's too young to answer back, point out my faults, beat me at squash, or pull a face at the present i've got him. that's a relief.

and there's cake.

the gift in question is a form fitter. a kind of a box with holes which admit specifically-cut shapes. it's something to get the little squirt's neurons buzzing and his synapses surging. i remember don adams tried, and failed, to solve a similar puzzle on "get smart".

now i think about it, maybe nephew would have more fun with a book of rorschach tests. imagine how much fun doctors had in the 50s confining people away on the basis of these dodgy ink-blot tests. wouldn't we all like to exercise that privilege over work colleagues, former loves, people who don't return calls, and other motorists?

in case you were wondering, i'm sorry, you don't get to see nephew. his parents would be cross.

life is

so many small gestures. don't you think? it's hardly worth noticing.

try

closing your eyes and imagining this came from someone else, someone you like. i won't tell anybody.

i would never

inflict a novel on the world.

sydney

smells.

(i know. i'm stealing from katie. but these aperçus are habit-forming. forgive me?)

we both knew

you could do better.

plus ça change

i'm tall, athletic-looking, ridiculously well-read, and utterly unimpressed with any of that. i'm slowly losing my hair and i don't care. i have a skin cancer, which doubles in size every six months, and i'm not going to do anything about it. i live five minutes from the beach, in a nice area, and i don't make the most of it. i'd like to be fluent in french and move to manhattan, but know i won't. i like people who are nothing like me.

it's a woman's world

yesterday as i was traipsing through other people's blogs i realised the best ones, by far the most interesting ones, were all written by women. should i be surprised? after all, talking is what women like to do most. and complain. usually about men. and it's terrific. and touching. and confiding. and frequently funny in an eeyore-ish way.

the trouble with men is most of them (unlike our coffeesnob) only have four subjects they can talk readily and fluently about: work, sport, sex, and how marvellous they are. and nowadays who's happy with just four channels?

manifesto

it's been a slow day. so i've had the opportunity to idly look at other people's blogs and post the occasional otiose comment. (apologies to ami and selena and one or two others. you know who you are.) it occurred to me that anything they can do, i could do worse. i'm sure of it. so now i blog. therefore i am. boring.

for as long i can remember the world has been a shambles and a deep disappointment. but what to do about it? perhaps by pointing out it's inadequacies on this blogspace i might shame the world into improving itself. it's a tall order, i know. but that's my raison d'être. or as dickens' mrs gamp would say, "that's my comfort and i hope i knows it".

there are worse ways to waste one's time.

missing you

catchphrase: "you might think that, but i couldn't possibly comment".

so long sir ian richardson. we loved you as the high tory sir francis urquhart. so cold, calculating and heartless. the ideal politician. and so very far from the gushy softness of david cameron. bless.

at the moment sir ian mckellan is in oz with the royal shakespeare doing "king lear". one wonders how he's going to camp that production up. maybe he'll make cordelia, reagan, and goneril change genders? i'm sure he'll do something bent. and i'm sure it will go over big.

guantanamo bay

the military camp x-ray at guantanamo bay gets a lot of bad press. but all it needs is a new clientèle. if we could ship all the 'celebrities' and participants in reality tv shows there we'd see what a blessing it really is. and, of course, we could save the smallest, coldest, meanest cell for the person who voices "big brother". wouldn't it be loverly?

hollywood killing romance

had the misfortune to watch the so-called romantic comedy "must love dogs". what a waste of time. what a waste of diane lane's talent.

please f.c.c. get a restraining order preventing hollywood from making any more romantic comedies. these cloying, insipid productions do so much harm. how many people have given up on love after seeing "serendipity"?

thanks to meg ryan, sandra bullock, and a bunch of male leads too insignificant to mention, a generation of people have lost lost all interest in romantic love. and who could blame them?

unfortunately successes like "intolerable cruelty" only happen once a decade. i suppose we should be grateful for such small mercies.