Category: Archive

1. No “proper” blog post today. Every well of inspiration needs the odd refill.

2. And definitely no fifth consecutive mention of Anish Kapoor’s Sky Mirror. Even the most severely thrashed of equestrian corpses must fall apart some time.

3. In lieu of the above, here’s something I prepared earlier: a feature-length review of the third Hidden Cameras album, AWOO. (Synopsis: still way above average, but in danger of running out of ideas. Plus I miss all the rude gay sex stuff.)

4. Still not satisfied? OK, here’s something which I knocked up last night: a gig review of The Victorian English Gentlemens Club (their lack of apostrophisation, not mine) for t’local paper. (There were times last night, perched on my own at the back of The Social, when I wondered whether there weren’t better ways of spending an evening. On the other hand, I’m committed to getting as good as I can get at doing this sort of stuff, and even a dull night can still make decent copy.)

So. Deal? Or no deal?

It’s not often that I am moved to write letters of complaint. A crap holiday cottage in Scotland and aggressively rude service in a Nottingham bar spring to mind, but that’s about it. Until today that is, when an article on the BBC news site sufficiently inflamed my ire.

Under the heading “Sky Mirror unveiled in Manhattan“, some anonymous hand at the BBC saw fit to say the following about Anish Kapoor’s sculpture:

“Kapoor said there were some “good conversations in progress” as to where it would be appearing next.”

“It has previously been placed in Nottingham, where it caused concern over whether it could set people or birds alight.”

Now, as I explained at some length yesterday (in the post directly below this one), the New York mirror is nought but a cheap knock-off of our own fine (and extremely expensive) original, still standing proud and tall outside Nottingham Playhouse. So what got my goat about the BBC article was the implication that the New York mirror was somehow the Sky Mirror. It’s not. It’s a Sky Mirror. There is a big difference.

So busy was I, working myself up into a froth of righteous outrage over this attempt to air-brush the Nottingham mirror out of history, that I clean forgot to get equally outraged over the second inaccurate assertion. I mean, honestly. We might be provincial, but we’re not totally thick. Spontaneous combustion of innocent passers-by was never one of our fears.

True, there was an issue surrounding pigeons – but the “danger zone”, as laboriously calculated and triangulated by the astronomical experts, was way above the heads of even our tallest citizens. A simple protective screen, mounted on the roof of the theatre, was all it took for danger to be averted.

Off went my e-mail. Less than a couple of hours later, I checked the BBC article again. Lo and behold! The text had been altered to read as follows:

“[Kapoor] has created a number of Sky Mirrors, the first of which was unveiled in Nottingham.”

Much more like it, I purred to myself, in satisfaction with an act of public service successfully executed.

However, the outrages were not yet over. I’ve been wondering why Anish Kapoor chose to replicate his Nottingham sculpture, six years after the fact – and in this article from the New York Times (hidden behind a registration wall, so good luck), maybe I’ve found my answer:

“…as Mr. Kapoor puts it, “I don’t think I’m done with it yet,” he decided to revisit the Nottingham “Sky Mirror” in more monumental form in New York.

“Who ever goes to Nottingham?” he added mischievously, when asked whether he worried about repeating himself. “Who’s ever seen it?”

Well, Mister La-Di-Dah Famous Artist, I’m only sorry that we weren’t good enough for you. Off you jolly well trot, then. I’m sure they’ll all love you in New York – but never forget the Little People who helped put you where you are today, eh?

We didn’t pay for a mere prototype, you know. We thought we were getting something unique for our £900,000. Ah well, that’s show business.

I’m not sure whether my home city can take many more of these indignities.

I never expected to mention Anish Kapoor’s Sky Mirror in three consecutive posts – but then, I have only just discovered that a third version of the sculpture was unveiled today, this time on Fifth Avenue in New York.

For once in our lives, we humble Nottingham folk are way, way ahead of you NYC hipsters. We’ve had a Sky Mirror in Nottingham since April 2001 – and what’s more, ours was the original, so yah boo sucks.

I have to say that this sudden mushrooming of mirrors has caught me off-guard, as I had always had the original version down as something of a misfire. For starters, the project ended up running many months overdue, and coming in some way over its original estimated budget. As I recall, there had been various problems with the manufacturing of the sculpture, as tiny but significant imperfections demanded correction in a variety of far-flung locations. (“It’s gone to Finland for extra polishing” was one of the excuses that sticks in my mind.)

When the Mirror finally arrived, a few days ahead of its official unveiling, I remember my initial awe being tempered by a certain measure of disappointment. As as a great admirer of Kapoor’s work, this was a bitter pill to swallow – but the work lacked the dramatic presence of some of his other major pieces, and I particularly disliked the slight but inescapable distortions in the reflections on either side of the dish. I had expected these reflections to be perfectly smooth, not broken up by the faint concentric circles that could be made out on the surface. Furthermore, I didn’t feel that the images produced in the reflections were of any great note: an inverted church spire on the concave side, and an empty paved area on the convex side. Was this really Nottingham’s answer to Antony Gormley’s Angel Of The North: an iconic must-see, that would bring tourism to the region? Well, hardly.

My suspicions were amplified when Kapoor failed to show at the opening ceremony, his place being taken by that well-known patron of the arts, the ex-boxer and panto regular Frank Bruno. Nevertheless, Bruno worked the crowd effectively on the afternoon itself. He had only accepted the gig on condition that no big speech was to be expected of him; rather, he would “mingle” with the invited dignatories, whose ranks were somehow swollen to include K and myself.

Thus it was that K came to feel a tap on his shoulder from behind. Pausing in mid-sentence, he looked behind, and some distance upwards, to see Bruno smiling back down at him.

“I just wanted to say, that’s a great suit you’re wearing. Makes you look very regal, hur hur hur!”

Well, one takes one’s compliments where one finds them.

Apart from the cost involved – £900,000 of public money, prompting all sorts of local outrage (“What’s that in school books and hospital beds?”) – the Mirror was also touched by controversy of a different kind. As the project’s own consultant astronomer himself warned:

“The mirror will focus light, just as does a magnifying glass, down to a particular point that moves as the sun moves.”

“You need to stop the sun from falling on it in the first place. If you don’t there’s a potential danger. Any pigeons which fly through the beam could be instantly barbecued.”

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed a subtle but significant re-alignment of my hour-by-hour visitor stats. As midnight approaches, there’s a pronounced upwards blip, as regular readers swing by to see whether I’ve met my self-imposed daily deadline. On some days, such as this one, it can be a close, nail-biting call. Especially when, after spending the entire evening slaving away over a feature-length album review for Stylus, I find myself quite, quite drained. Ah me, must they drag my words from the core of my very soul? What more do they want from me: blood? Blogging can be a harsh, pitiless mistress.

Nothing else of significance has happened today, it has to be said. The usual agonising start-of-week wrench away from the comforts of the cottage. (Why do Monday mornings in the Derbyshire Peak District have to be consistently f**king picturesque? Someone up there is mocking me.) A morning spent in fraught near-panic over a new and seemingly impenetrable work assignment, whose mysteries were kindly and patiently unlocked for me over the course of the afternoon. A lunchtime spent in the usual spot: basking in the windy sun-trap of the Playhouse courtyard, beneath Anish Kapoor’s Sky Mirror, alternately giggling and wincing over a hard copy of the last couple of months’ postings on the ever-magnificent Forksplit. (I like to save them up, and then indulge myself with a marathon splurge.)

After a whole month of four day weekends, this return to a five day working week still feels like a monstrous invasion of my freedom, and Friday still feels like an age away. Whatever shall I find to write about between now and then? Funny how these things always end up taking care of themselves.

Right then. Load the dishwasher, finish my beer (just the one tonight), and then bed, sweet bed. Some days, it can be a real struggle to force myself upstairs, as I have inherited the family penchant for the late evening Second Wind. But not tonight. Tonight, I can hardly wait.

(Photos taken yesterday afternoon at Chatsworth House, courtesy of dearest Dymbellina. I told you those dahlias were dazzling.)

HIT: Our second visit to The Bull’s Head at Ashford in the Water confirmed it as our new favourite country pub with food. I don’t want to say “gastropub”, as that’s not really what it aims to be – despite having been named one of the country’s ten best towards the end of last year. (By persons unknown, but a list’s a list for all that.) Rather, it’s an unassumingly traditional place, with no fancy decor, a straightforward chalkboard menu, no advance table reservations, quick service, and a fairly rapid turnover of tables: you arrive, you eat, you leave, but there’s no unseemly pressure to vacate your places, either. The welcome is an uncommonly warm one, the low-key buzz of the place puts everyone at their ease, and the food is flipping fantastic.

Last night, all four of us chose a minted pea mousse for starters: served warm, on a bed of watercress and rocket, with a spicy tomato sauce. There was nothing remotely showy-offy about it, and yet the clever combination of simple ingredients added up to something stimulating and new, yet wonderfully reassuring at the same time. My baked plaice came in a thick, creamy sauce, and was… hell, I can’t bloody well remember what it looked like, I was too busy enjoying it. Sheesh. The four of us (myself, K, Dymbel and Dymbellina) then shared two puddings: a something (with chocolate), and a something else (with pastry). They were both completely scrummy, and the fact that I can remember nothing else about them (apart from the pastry), should not be read as any sort of indictment. Whoever said that all memories should be catalogued for future reference, anyway?

MISS: Although, before their departure, Dymbel and Dymbellina expressed their wish to publicly disassociate themselves from my slaggings, I have to say that our lunchtime visit to the newly opened “Design Museum” (plus attendant café) at the David Mellor kitchenware shop and factory in Hathersage singularly failed to delight me.

For “museum”, read a single wall of display cabinets, plus a letter box, a rubbish bin, a few chairs, some bollards, traffic lights and a Pelican crossing. Mellor designed them all, you see. My word, but the geographic and functional re-contextualisation of the Pelican crossing… well, it made it look like a Pelican crossing, basically. Still, it was nice if you like looking at old knives and forks.

And many do, don’t get me wrong. It was just that I was hungry, and cranky, and in no mood for delayed gratification.

The attached caff looked stunning, granted: a beautiful row of tables and chairs against a long glass exterior wall, its panels opened to the warm afternoon sunshine, with divinely turned wooden benches spanning its length both inside and out. But, oh, the service. An age to take the order, and at least 35 minutes to bring it to the table – and we only wanted salads. It’s not even as if they were swamped with other food orders; we barely saw another table served while we waited. Then, the coffees: a cafetiere so weak at to be undrinkable, and a nasty, bitter espresso which perfectly matched my mood.

HIT: The gardens at Chatsworth house are currently playing host to an exhibition of modern and contemporary sculpture (yes Virginia, there is a difference), with works provided by the Sotheby’s auction house. All pieces are for sale – but God knows who’s going to be able to afford them, as this is serious stuff. Dali, Miro, Moore. Gormley, Hirst, Kapoor. Names, names, names, sweedie.

The positioning of the pieces around the extensive gardens is bold, ingenious, and frequently quite magical. A Gormley stick figure perches on the roof of the house itself; in the landscaped rock garden, a scaled down version of his “Angel Of The North” looks down on passers-by from either side. A custard yellow Keith Haring figure sits on the main lawn, with Robert Indiana’s bright red “LOVE” letters halfway up the water cascade behind it, and Damien Hirst’s intricately gruesome “Saint Bartholemew, Exquisite Pain” off to the left. Down by the canal pond and the Emperor fountain, there’s another miniature: this time, it’s Anish Kapoor’s “Sky Mirror”, looking even more effective than it does outside Nottingham Playhouse. At the pond’s end, Dale Chihuly’s “Sunset Boat” radiates bright yellows, oranges and reds: the colours of the bizarre glass objects which fill its hull.

It’s not all hits: Joan Miro’s slapdash assemblage “Femme Et Oiseau” causes me to coin the phrase “objets plonkées”, and the space-age optimism of Juan Dubuffet’s “Arbre Biplan” looks as tired and shabby as its cultural contemporary, Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. However the vast majority of pieces complement their settings so well, that you find yourself longing for them to remain there permanently.

(Oh, and the dahlia garden by the entrance to the maze is quite, quite dazzling, my dears; almost as good as the lupins of a couple of months ago.)

The exhibition runs until October 27th, and I commend it earnestly to the group.

Update (1): I agree with most of Richard Dorment’s review of the exhibition for the Telegraph (don’t miss the slideshow), with two major exceptions. Firstly, the Dali sculpture is not on the same axis as the Hirst; they’re at opposite ends of the garden, and the Dali is hidden up a narrow walkway. Secondly, I couldn’t disagree more with Dorment’s suggestion that Manzù’s seated cardinal should be swapped with Condo’s Miles Davis – the current location of both pieces suits them quite wonderfully.

Update (2): Justin has more photos: the LOVE, the Miles Davis and the Salvador Dali.

1. I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’.

The brilliance of this song, currently the Number One single in the UK, is to a large extent due to the way that it is made up entirely of “good bits”. What’s more, each separate “bit” is so good that, even as you’re enjoying it, a part of you is tingling with anticipation for the next “bit”. And it has two consecutive choruses, which is something of a masterstroke.

This is possibly the first single since Deee-Lite’s “Groove Is In The Heart” to enter that select canon of unassailable, Everybody To The Dance Floor Now, You Can’t Possibly Go Wrong, Wedding Disco Classics – and as such, expect it to be soundtracking Happiest Days Of Our Lives for at least the next thirty years. It’s also destined to be the hit for which the Scissor Sisters will always be remembered: their standard, their show-stopper, maybe even their albatross.

(That debut album, as fine as it was, was rather short on tracks which stood up as hit singles in their own right. Maybe that’s why we all got to the point where we couldn’t bear to hear “Take Your Mama Out” one – more – bloody – time – thank you.)

As the lead track from the album, “I Don’t Feel Like Dancin'” also sets a false trail. None of the twelve tracks which succeed it aspire to quite that level of unabashed celebratory glee (the plaintive melancholy of the lyrics notwithstanding) – or indeed, and let’s get this pesky little term out the way right now, campness. (Sigh.)

2. She’s My Man.

Which isn’t to say that some of them don’t come close. Stylistically, this is pitched somewhere between the Elton John of Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only The Piano Player/Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and that short-lived strain of “rock disco” which popped up in late 1983/early 1984 (Michael Sembello’s “Maniac”, The Pointer Sisters’ “I’m So Excited”, that sort of thing). As indicated in the title, there’s also a healthy dollop of gender perversity – but you’ll search in vain to find much more in the way of obvious queerness during the rest of the album. Like The Hidden Cameras with Awoo, the Scissors appear to moving away from the arguable limitations of the sexual-orientation-specific, and towards a more general universality. Timid sell-out, or natural progression? Oh, I know which side of the fence I am with that one.

3. I Can’t Decide.

And with the crisply enunciated line “f**k and kiss you both at the same time” in the first verse, Ta-Dah automatically crosses itself off the list of nice jolly albums for the kids to sing along to during the School Run. Now who’s being timid?

As with so many songs on the first half of the album, there’s a yawning chasm between the carefree jauntiness of the music (here enlivened by a twanging Jews Harp, and Graeme Garden’s son on barrelhouse piano), and the bleak miserablism of Jake Shears’ lyrics. (“My heart feels dead inside; it’s cold and hard and petrified.”) As already alluded to in interviews, some deeply personal shit-storms are clearly being documented here. Unfortunately – and here’s another parallel with the Hidden Cameras – they’re sometimes couched in such private, personal language that it’s difficult to work out just what’s going on. However, the bitter vitriol on display here is hard to miss.

4. Lights.

An absolutely ravishing pastiche of mid-tempo Seventies-style pop-funk (“Couldn’t Get It Right” by the Climax Blues Band springs to mind), enlivened by sassy brass stabs from Bob Funk and Larry Etkin of the Uptown Horns, and lifted into another dimension by the immediately recognisable guitar/bass contributions of longtime Bowie collaborator Carlos Alomar (there are clear echoes of “Fame” in the opening bars of “Lights”). Alomar picks up a co-writer’s credit for his efforts, and it isn’t the last that we’ll be hearing from him.

5. Land Of A Thousand Words.

A surprising choice of future follow-up single, if the sticker on the front of the CD case is to be believed, as this is a big production ballad of the “Mary” school. It’s tedious to harp on about the Elton John comparisons – but really they’re inescapable here, both stylistically and in terms of Jake Shears’ vocal phrasings.

Once again, there’s a pronounced juxtaposition between words and music. While the music carries all the stock certainties of the Big Ballad, the lyrics describe a relationship whose future sounds far from certain. Shears and his lover appear to be hanging on by the skins of their teeth, not ready to give up just yet, but straining in opposite directions none the less.

Trouble is: this kind of material works best when everyone can access the emotions they describe. (Think “Victims”. Think “Angels”. Think “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Me”.) The impact of this song, lovely as it is, is severely diminished by its lyrical obtuseness. So we’re probably not looking at a second consecutive Number One.

6. Intermission.

In which the previous track’s tastefully restrained string arrangement from Joan Wasser (aka Joan As Policewoman) is cruelly superseded by the sumptuous orchestration on display here, as provided by no less a figure than Van Dyke Parks. Now that they are in a position to do so, the Scissors are choosing their famous collaborators wisely.

Speaking of which: here’s Dame Elton of John on piano again, fresh from tinkling the “old Joanna” on the album’s opener (and picking up another co-writing credit along the way, the greedy bitch).

For all the heavyweight talent on board (not to mention some glorious piano work from JJ “son of Graeme” Garden, rapidly emerging as Ta-Dah‘s unsung hero), “Intermission” styles itself as just that: a short, frivolous distraction, with vaudevillian nods to the likes of “When I’m 64”, Lou Reed’s “New York Telephone Conversation”, and some of Freddie Mercury’s camper (sorry!) moments on A Night At The Opera. And that would have been that, were it not for the continued bleak bite of the lyrics, which peak with the jaunty refrain of “Tomorrow’s not what it used to be, we were born to die, happy yesterday to all, we were born to die”.

It’s a turning point, of sorts.

7. Kiss You Off.

Actually, if Ta-Dah does have an interlude, then this is it. Scything through all of Jake’s accumulated angst over the first six tracks, pistol-packin’ mama Ana Matronic gets her one shot at a lead vocal: and she ain’t pussyfootin’ around, neither. Working an amusingly extended lipstick analogy, she declares “I’m gonna buy me a new shade of man”, and “it’s standing room only for a piece of my pigment”. You Go Girl, etc etc.

However. The Goldfrappy schaffel-stomp of the rhythm track is watered down to the point of inspidity, the song overruns by at least a minute and a half, and Matronic, deeply lovely as she is (we’ve met twice, and I adored her on both occasions) simply doesn’t have the requisite vocal authority. Occupying a similar tonal range to her co-vocalist, Matronic cannot help but come across as Shears Lite.

Maybe mindful of this fact, Stuart Price has been drafted in, fresh from the triumph of Confessions On A Dance Floor, solely to provide something called “additional vocal production”. Hmm. It might have worked for Madge, but all the “treatments” in the world can’t supply the presence which “Kiss You Off” inescapably lacks.

(God, I feel horrible for saying that.)

8. Ooh.

Having reached the pits of despair, and with Ana having crisply dispatched the source of the problem on Jake’s behalf (she’s good to him like that), we’re now climbing up the other side, and back into the light. And so, at last, here’s a straightforwardly happy party tune, free from any contradictory undercurrents. It’s nifty, it’s frisky, it’s funky, it’s the Bee Gees with a dash of Prince, and it’s Ta-Dah‘s nearest equivalent to “Filthy/Gorgeous”. F**k art, let’s dance, etc etc.

9. Paul McCartney.

Actually, scratch that thought immediately: with its speedy two-note electronic bass throb, this is Ta-Dah‘s nearest equivalent to “Filthy/Gorgeous”. (I told you that these were rough tasting notes.) Carlos Alomar and the Uptown Horns are back, although their presence isn’t quite as keenly felt as earlier.

Shears, you sense, is getting his shit together here. “There’s an urgency I’m feeling for the first time”, he tells us, in the song’s opening line. “Do we dream about each other at the same time?”, he muses, with a giddy optimism that is sustained for the rest of the song.

None of which explains its central mystery: why, pray, is the song named after Mister Fab Macca Wacky Thumbs Aloft? “Intermission” I could have understood – but not this one, not at all. Someone needs to ask, don’t they?

10. The Other Side.

Now, what was I saying about other sides? The soft disco chug of the guitar echoes “Comfortably Numb”, just some of Jake’s phrasing echoes that of Roger Waters – but that’s where the comparisons end. Instead, this is a tender declaration of love, made all the more tender by the lower, more confidential register that Jake adopts, in one of the album’s best vocal performances. There’s still a sense of distance between the singer and his lover – between the Big Star and the Ordinary Guy, perhaps? – but unlike “Land Of A Thousand Words”, Jake is trying to accommodate the inevitable gap, and to bridge it as best he can.

Oh, and if we’re going to invite our new famous friends along for the ride, then we might as well go the whole hog and rope in Judy Bloody Garland, sweedie. Yes, you heard. 500 extra Camp Points duly awarded. Oops!

11. Might Tell You Tonight.

The natural companion piece to “The Other Side”, this continues in much the same vein of tender romanticism, with Shears retaining that same intimate lower register, and now plucking up the courage to declare his undying love for his new-found beloved. The effect is genuinely touching (or at least it is if you’re an old softy like me), and the song has enough directness and universality to be adopted as an “Our Tune” for any number of courting couples, of any orientation that you might care to mention. If they wanted a change of pace for the second single, then maybe they should have gone with this one instead. (Or maybe they’re holding it back for Saint Valentine’s Day. I wouldn’t put it past them.)

12. Everybody Wants The Same Thing.

With our emotional journey complete, all we need now is the Big Anthem at the end – and this number, first performed at Live 8 in 2005, duly obliges in spades. Having learnt his life lessons, Shears now turns to face us, his audience – and he’s got some Big Questions to ask of us, hoo yes indeed. Yup, it’s a Message Song – and hence maybe not to everyone’s taste, but I find it rather uplifting, in a self-helpy Pick Up Thy Bed And Walk kind of way. Then again, I’m easily led like that.

Bonus Track: Transistor.

Oh, please. Do you want me to do all the work for you? Our friends have arrived, and it’s time to go and make them feel welcome.

But if you’re still wondering whether to purchase Ta-Dah on Monday lunchtime: Mike Troubled Diva, he say Go For It. This is going to be inescapable over the next few months, so you might as well start getting used to it.

“Show me your motions, tra la la la la…”

Yes, well. Let’s just leave it there, before too many thoughts of brown wotsits in the ring intrude. One wouldn’t want to Go Too Far.

Just be grateful I didn’t start riffing on this weekend’s other crap pun:
Partum Perineum (The Gentleman’s Relish).
Look, it was FUNNY IN THE PUB, OK?

Yes, it’s the inevitable Contractual Obligation holding post, written at great speed, purely to avoid the ignominious fate of being cast as Clapped Out Has Been in perpetuity.

A bitch of a day, redeemed in just two ways. Firstly, my mood has lifted immensely after popping in for Early Doors at the Red Lion at Hognaston, en route to the cottage. Early Doors (#65) + Marston Pedigree (#6) + first sight of village (#5) = Temporary Abatement Of Self-Invented Angst. A simple equation for a simple soul.

Secondly, I am now the proud owner of an official advance promo copy of the new Scissor Sisters album, Ta-Dah. I’ve just played it for the second time, and fear not, ’tis a good ‘un. I was hoping to blog some rough tasting notes for you this evening, but time constraints mean it ain’t gonna happen just yet. In the meantime, you can listen to it for yourselves – legally, mind – via the band’s Myspace page, available via the link on the right. K says he’s disappointed with it, but I think he’s wrong.

OK, dinner’s on the table. Ooh, dressed crab. I’ll have me some of that!

Catch y’all on the morrow, peeps.

1. Paul Smith shirts.
2. Fat buds on roses.
3. BLTs with slices of hard boiled egg, and plenty of mayo.
4. Audrey Hepburn.
5. The first sight of the village on Friday evenings.
6. Marston’s Pedigree.
7. K’s cooking.
8. Clambering into freshly laundered bed linen.
9. Trashy tarty looking men, who aren’t quite aware of it.
10. The puppy-dog enthusiasm of young posh people.
11. Crossing the threshold with a Bridget Riley.
12. Saint-Véran and Viré-Clessé.
13. Fast wireless broadband.
14. Doing a really good beat-mix on Mixmeister.
15. Pub fish and chips.
16. The perfect communion of shared laughter.
17. Introducing the right people to each other, and watching them hit it off.
18. Re-reading an old blog post, and discovering that it still stands up.
19. Man cleavage.
20. Shaved backs of necks.
21. Pruning the geraniums.
22. Agas.
23. Contemporary ceramics.
24. Semi-abstracted landscapes.
25. Thirst-inducing tulips.
26. Blowsy dahlias.
27. Salacious gossip, safely shared.
28. Al fresco sandwiches at Cast Deli.
29. Hitting Send on a gig review.
30. The comforting orderliness of iTunes.
31. Meeting other bloggers.
32. Jon Ronson’s column in Guardian Weekend.
33. Boiled eggs on weekend mornings, with Gentleman’s Relish on toast.
34. Powell & Pressburger.
35. Choosing presents.
36. Active listening.
37. The total elimination of homophobia as acceptable behaviour in mainstream British society.
38. Everything neatly put away.
39. Art fairs.
40. Dressing up for a smart meal.
41. The creative brain-fizz of a happy hangover.
42. Being a good drunk.
43. A catchy tune with a good beat to it.
44. The rolling twenty-year echo in my head.
45. Making social plans in London.
46. K in his best clothes, leaving the house for a meeting.
47. Getting in on the guest list.
48. Dancing round the kitchen to my new favourite song, knowing that no-one is watching.
49. Discovering things before everybody else does.
50. Spreadsheets.
51. Making people laugh.
52. Snappy phrases which appear from nowhere.
53. Serendipity.
54. Fulfilling a fantasy, then ticking it off.
55. The equidistance of being in one’s forties.
56. Finding common ground with a bright, eager teenager.
57. Finding common ground with a gently subversive pensioner.
58. Freedom from desire.
59. Empathetic feedback loops.
60. Ridiculously tenuous name-dropping.
61. Pop trivia quizzes.
62. An unexpected compliment from someone you admire.
63. Friday nights in front of the fire, decent telly and a good bottle of red.
64. The Social and the Rescue Rooms.
65. Friday early doors.
66. David Sedaris.
67. Classic Al Green.
68. Flirting.
69. Harvest moons.
70. Five-star luxury with a human face.
71. Being a pair of right snarky little madams, knowing that no-one is listening.
72. Cracking the surface of a foreign city.
73. Being in the right place at the right time.
74. Good manners.
75. People who don’t claim to have all the answers.
76. Doing a really good poo, with a cup of tea and a newspaper.
77. Molton Brown (talk about guilty pleasures).
78. Everyhit, YouTube and Wikipedia.
79. Innocent smoothies.
80. Six Feet Under.
81. Horse Meat Disco.
82. Tate Modern.
83. Eurovision.
84. CBT.
85. Seven-mile hikes.
86. Pho for breakfast.
87. Umami.
88. Freshly grated Parmesan.
89. Being the centre of attention.
90. Being part of the gang.
91. Sitting back and letting everyone else do the talking.
92. “I Don’t Feel Like Dancing“.
93. That secret blog that I’m not allowed to tell you about.
94. Friends becoming successful.
95. English wit.
96. The trash aesthetic.
97. The love of my man.
98. The hunky plumber off Desperate Housewives.
99. Bursting into tears during Desert Island Discs.
100. An extra hour in bed.

Aargh, I’ve just discovered another reason to be paranoid. (Finding reasons to be paranoid being one of my major life skills.)

I’ve just discovered that, in certain circles, failure to greet a new commenter with a quick “Hello and welcome” is regarded as a breach of blogging etiquette. Now, I’ve often observed other people welcoming newcomers, and I think it’s a dead nice thing to do and all that – but I’ve always taken it as a matter of personal style/preference, rather than as The Correct Thing To Do.

It could well be generational, and informed by the perspective of a relative old-timer, stuck in his original paradigm. When I started blogging nearly five years ago, the rules of engagement were somewhat different – and I don’t recall anyone doling out the Meet & Greets as a matter of course. (Peter, maybe?) Indeed, you could make a sound case for arguing that blogging was a good deal more aloof in those days, and a good deal more community-minded these days – but that’s a think-piece for another time.

In any case, I have certainly never expected my comments to be automatically replied to. Rather, instead of feeling snubbed when a comment is ignored, I tend to feel a mild ripple of pleasure when someone chooses to acknowledge it – because I have said something which has been deemed worthy of further discourse.

I do frequently reply to comments, and always by name. However, the fact that I have replied to some and not others should never be seen as favourtism, or cliquiness. It’s merely because some comments inspire further thoughts on my part, and some comments don’t. And it has certainly never occured to me that new readers might end up feeling excluded.

What about you? What’s your policy?

Update #1: Based on various people’s comments, I’ve added some follow-up thoughts of my own, in which I surprise myself by taking quite a severe line.

Update #2: For what has to be the definitive statement on this whole malarkey, you are strongly urged to read this excellent post from Status Anxiety.

K and I have just enjoyed an exceptionally tasty dinner. Since the recipe was of K’s own devising, and since we’ve got a bit of time to kill before Capote starts on Sky Box Office, I thought I’d blog the details for you. It’s cheap, it’s nutritious, it’s quick, it’s easy, it’s delicious, what’s not to like, well exactly.

Penne pollo con zucchini.
Serves two.

Ingredients:

• 100g penne pasta.
• 1 large courgette, cut into match-sticks, approximately 0.5 cm wide.
• 2 chicken breasts, cubed, approximately 2.5 cm wide. (I reckon they’re a bit smaller than that, but chef says not.)
• 2 cloves of garlic, chopped.
• A pinch of dried chilli flakes.
• A lump of Parmesan cheese.
• Olive oil, salt, pepper.

Boil the penne until al dente, drain it, and leave it to one side.

While the penne is boiling, fry the chicken in olive oil over a high heat, to get the surface golden brown. This should take about 5 minutes, maybe slightly less.

Throw in the sliced courgettes and stir, in order to brown and soften them slightly. Allow about 2-3 minutes for this.

Reduce the heat. Add the garlic and the chilli flakes, season with salt and pepper, and cook for a further 2 minutes.

Add the drained penne to the pan. Mix it in, until the pieces are coated in oil and have integrated with the chicken and courgettes.

Serve, from pan to plate. Add freshly grated Parmesan over the top, and an extra twist of black pepper.

Go on, try it. You can’t go wrong.

I’ve been feeling listless, melancholy and generally out of sorts today. These photos – none of which I’ve looked at in several years – cheered me up a bit, in a wistful sort of way. In particular, I had forgotten just how young I looked for my age, for a brief spell in my late 20s and early 30s. Still, that painting had to come down from the attic some time.

London Pride, Jubilee Gardens, 1990. The chap on the far left is Grocerina, who first introduced me to K. The chap next to him was his partner for ten years – they got together two weeks after K and I became a couple, and the four of us held a joint 10th anniversary party in 1995. He moved to New Zealand with his new partner in the late 1990s. The chap standing next to me wrote the UK’s biggest selling single of 2000.

Oh God, white denim. And beaded “ethnic” baseball caps. (That one came from Camden Market, and I was very attached.) O tempora, o mores.

A picnic excursion to Calke Abbey. We flew kites, and someone played wildly inappropriate grunge music on a ghetto blaster. The lady next to me was our lodger for a couple of years, during which time she met her future husband. The two of them acted as witnesses for our civil partnership registration in April.

Back in those days, the Derbyshire Peak District was a place to wander about in for a couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon. Any longer than that, and I started getting city withdrawal symptoms, longing for the womb-like embrace of the buildings and the cheering glare of the street lights. In this picture, I defy all known medical science by giving birth, feet first.

Our New Kids On The Block tribute act never really got off the ground…

Stumbling towards the North Norfolk coast, somewhere in the vicinity of Burnham Overy Staithe, in whose windmill we were sojourning.

Such innocent pleasures. The hardcore all-night clubbing phase had yet to kick in…

Photos of people dancing are great, aren’t they? Inside the aforementioned windmill, nearing the apex of one of the most gleefully debauched weekends that any of us had ever enjoyed. (We booked the same windmill a year later and tried to repeat the experience, but it wasn’t quite the same.)

Adored and explored. A-hum. Every dog has its day.

A friend brought me back this Keith Haring T-shirt from New York; I think it was printed especially for that year’s Pride parade. Naturally, I treated it with the reverence normally reserved for holy relics.

London Pride, 1991. Photo taken by Chig, who scribbled a caption on the back: “I always flare my nostrils when I’m having a w@nk…”

Chig’s caption: “Yes, you in the shades, there is a camera pointing in your direction!”

Next to it in the photo album, there’s a “candid” long-lens photo of a shirtless hunk, who is revealed to be deliberately sucking his stomach in. Oh, how we giggled. The cruelty of youth, etc. I’d scan it and upload it, but the photo doesn’t have ME in it, so what would be the point.

I was about to say: Chig looks even younger than I do. But then, he was. And still is, for that matter.

I do miss the home-made charm of those older Pride festivals. Not a sponsor’s logo in sight.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. But there’s a perfectly innocent explanation!

Chig had been cast as a gay dad-to-be with a penchant for rubber wear, in a Birmingham “community drama project” or some such frippery. The wardrobe department had duly sanctioned the purchase of a singlet and shorts from the local Clone Zone, and Chig had come over to Nottingham to “get into the role”, method-style, down at our local club. (That would have been Nero’s on Saint James Street, then.)

Naturally, an early evening photo-shoot ensued – and naturally, I couldn’t resist squeezing myself into the gear, and having a mini-prance round the living room…

…and pretending to be K’s trashy trade, in another shocking mis-representation of our power dynamic. Oh yes.

My “Mogwai” dance was legendary, and here’s a rare sighting.

Compare and contrast with the distinguished “man of letters” figure that I cut today…

(These tips appeared in print yesterday.)

1. Don’t be scared by the technology. Anyone can get a basic blog up and running in less than ten minutes, with no technical knowledge. What’s more, it’s free. Try www.blogger.com – it’s a great starting place for novices.

2. Always be aware you’re writing for an audience, even if it’s only for family and friends. Put yourself in their shoes, and imagine them reading what you have written. If you’re only writing for yourself, then keep it to yourself.

3. When writing about other people, always assume that they will one day discover what you have written. This isn’t just a faint possibility – it’s a distinct probability. You’d be surprised.

4. If you want to be rude about someone, stick to celebrities and politicians. That’s what they’re there for.

5. If you’re blogging about work, then be extra-careful. Even if you’re blogging anonymously, what you say might be seen as damaging to your employers’ reputation. If in doubt, leave it out.

6. Although a small number of blogs attract thousands of readers a day, most blogs have much, much smaller readerships. So don’t blog for the fame and the glory, and don’t start worrying about who’s bigger and better than you. Remember: nobody loves a bitter blogger.

7. Tell us something we didn’t know before. If you’ve got specialist knowledge of something, then share it – you’ll soon attract like-minded souls.

8. Failing that, tell us about yourself: funny stories, sad stories, even what you had for lunch, if you can make it entertaining. We’re nosy, and we like to know what makes people tick.

9. Start building a list of your favourite blogs. Read them regularly, leave them comments, and link to them. You never know: they might link back. (But if they don’t, then it’s bad form to pester them about it.)

10. Your blog can be anything you want it to be. So don’t be afraid to break a few rules.

…then may I bid you a warm welcome. As I’m out of town until Monday, I haven’t yet seen the piece myself, but I believe it’s to be found in the magazine section. (Note to non-Nottingham readers: I doubt very much whether it will be appearing on the online version of the newspaper.)

However, the nice lady who interviewed me did let me see a draft copy, so that I could check it for accuracy – and I have to say that I was thrilled, thrilled I tell you, to find myself described as “slight”. No-one has ever called me this before. After the extended battle I have been waging with my abdominal jut, this alone provides all the self-validation I could possibly need.

Being interviewed, in a quiet upstairs corner at Stones delicatessen on Weekday Cross, was a thoroughly pleasant experience, which left me in a vastly improved state of mind. (I had been in a fairly filthy mood all week.) I guess there’s nothing more guaranteed to lift the spirits than being given the chance to talk about myself at length, to someone who is duty bound to record every word. Better than therapy! And cheaper, too!

As for the photo session the following week, I am quaking in my dressing gown at how this will have turned out. I didn’t make a great start by greeting the photographer outside my front door, then realising I had left the house keys back in the office, and having to prevail upon him for a lift. The office is only ten minutes away by foot, but thanks to the lunchtime traffic and the labyrinthine absurdities of Nottingham’s one-way system, it took almost as long by car. We went all rahnd the ahzes, if I might be permitted to slip into the local vernacular.

The purpose of the photo-shoot was to capture me actually in the process of blogging – much as happened when the BBC interviewed me in 2005. However, the study is a bit of an unphotogenic tip these days, and so it was swiftly decided that we would stage the shoot downstairs with a laptop. As the photographer commented, Man At Table With Computer isn’t the most arresting of images, and so I was directed into ever more unlikely postures around the living room: perching on furniture, staring moodily out of the window… and eventually (and I bet this is the shot they end up using in the magazine) stretched out on my front on the sofa, head raised, with the laptop resting on the arm, and my legs coquettishly raised and crossed behind me.

“I feel like I’m posing for FHM!”, I quipped, nervously.

“That’s it, keep it there, nice big cheesy grin”, he urged, professionally.

Meanwhile, I pretended to type a blog entry with my one free hand, my head cocked upwards so that I couldn’t see the keyboard.

“jggjksnn ghgh jkjiyh ggg jjj”, I blogged, helplessly.

“That’s great, one more, perfect.” Yeah, fake it baby.

I was also asked to supply some supplementary material for the side panels: a short extract from one of my blog postings, and some blogging Do’s and Dont’s for the curious novice. For the extract, I suggested four pieces: the Period Living photo-shoot, the “swanky do” at a local hotel, my appearance on BBC Radio Nottingham, and a brief but telling conversation that I had with K whilst hiking to a country pub. However, the nice lady from the Evening Post decided to make her own selection: a piece where I talk about purchasing a pedometer. (Further evidence of my prolonged struggle with the abdominal jut, you see.)

If you are new here, then my favourite postings are all archived on the side panel to the right, under the heading “we wrote”. Do feel free to have a good rummage. I also recommend the piece entitled “Arbeit macht frei“, which is nestling right down at the bottom of this page. I made a bit more of an effort with this one, and I think it’s the best blog post I’ve written all year. (Most of the time, I just brain-splurge straight to the keyboard. Such is the nature of our fledgling medium.)

As for the blogging Do’s and Dont’s: I’ll publish them here tomorrow, when the newspaper is no longer on the stands. In the meantime, please make yourselves comfortable – and if you feel moved to do so, then please leave a comment. (You can do this pseudonymously, if you so wish: none of the little boxes on the comments form are mandatory.)

Now, read on. And in case you were wondering whether I ever live up to the title of this blog, then the posting below should provide all the evidence you need.

Look, I’ve been to BLOODY HOSPITAL, you know? In SHEER BLOODY AGONY, in case it had slipped your attention. And DO I GET ANY SYMPATHY? DO I? DO I?

Because I’d say that THREE MEASLY COMMENTS, all of which were placed merely to TEASE AND MOCK ME, is NOT WHAT ONE MIGHT HAVE REASONABLY EXPECTED UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES. Petite Bloody Anglaise would have had 200 “ooh, poor poor you” comments by lunchtime. Girl With A One Track Mind would have had armies of journos besieging the hospital staff for the full lowdown on any interesting birth marks. But Mike bloody Troubled bloody Diva gets THREE BLOODY COMMENTS, even though he might be WRITHING IN EXCRUCIATING PAIN RIGHT THIS SECOND, NOT THAT ANY OF YOU LOT WOULD BLOODY CARE.

Yes, the Diazepam has well and truly worn off.

I expect better from you in the future.

Remember my groin strain moan of a couple of weeks ago? Well, there was a slight relapse at the weekend – and a severe relapse this lunchtime, which left me stranded in the middle of town and quite unable to walk. Indeed, it was painful enough merely standing and waiting for K to pick me up and take me to Accident & Emergency. Where I spent an uncomfortable and tedious afternoon, before being dosed up with some seriously groovy painkillers and sent on my way.

This is all most tiresome. I think I’ll be working from home tomorrow.

Gah, me and my pledges. I’m feeling knackered and flat today, after staying up too late last night, and the night before, for no good reason other than not wanting to go to bed.

Actually, that’s not quite correct. I was on gig-reviewing duty last night, and so had to suffer an hour and a quarter of an amiable but dreary performance by Amp Fiddler, down at The Social. This started promisingly enough, but quickly sank into blandly noodling retro-funk tedium. Too limited in musical and emotional range, too reverential to its roots, and just too damned cosy by half. Dude needs to take some risks.

Nevertheless, this gave my plenty of material for my review, which I rattled off fairly quickly when I got home. (I used to spend up to an hour and a half, agonising over every word. These days, I can think them through on the walk home, bash them out in 20 minutes, edit them in another 10, and they’ll be much better pieces for it.) Trouble is, even once the review is done and dusted, I’m still left saddled with a surge of residual energy, despite the inconvenient lateness of the hour.

So I’ll generally pour myself a “well earnt” beer – always the third of the night, as I only ever allow myself two at the gig – and settle down to some “relaxing” web-surfing. And then, before I know it, it’s stupid o’clock, and I’m shame-facedly sliding into bed and trying not to wake K in the process.

In which case, let’s fulfil the “one post per day” pledge by means of a quick Open Mike session. This should also help to get the brain juices flowing before I head out later, for my office-buddy JP‘s “farewell” drink. (He’s back off to Hangzhou for a few weeks.)

Please leave me a question in the comments, and I’ll do my best to answer it. One question per person, and I’m only going to answer the first five. OK Go!

1. Will asks: Which is the best/your favourite ABBA album track that was never a single?

It might surprise you to know that I only own one Abba album that’s not a compilation: 1974’s Waterloo, which I bought at the time. I came quite close to buying their next, self-titled album, and have clear memories of fingering it wonderingly in the record department of Boots the Chemist in the Doncaster Arndale Centre – but teenage rock cool eventually got the better of me, and so we parted company for a few years. By the time we were fully reconciled, their recording career was over.

Anyhow, there can only be one answer, so thanks for the easy lob: it’s “The Visitors” from 1981, which I first heard on a Hi-NRG compilation album in 1984, and haven’t stopped enjoying since. Brooding, epic, explosive and deliriously, deliciously paranoid.

2. Joe.My.God. asks (although he’s having to shout to make himself heard above Abba’s “The Visitors”, which is playing right now, very loud): If not K, then who?

An even easier lob! Bless you!

I’ve thought about this a lot over the years. Of all the people I’ve ever met (and, for that matter, “met”), could one of them ever have graduated to the status of Life Partner, if I had never met K?

It’s an intriguing thought – not least because I have been prone to the occasional crush along the way. Sometimes, it has been quite a strong crush. But every time, without fail, the crush has faded within a few months at most. And, despite their occasional intensity, no crush has ever encroached upon the feelings I have for K.

That’s partly because my feelings for K exist in a different dimension, and partly because crushes are, by their very nature, transitory and illusional. To experience a crush is to be temporarily captivated by your idealisation of someone. Or rather, by the ideals which you project upon them. The longer you know them, and the better you get to know them, the less able you are to sustain the idealisation.

I couldn’t imagine ever sustaining a successful long-term relationship in a parallel universe with any of my crushees. That’s partly because, trust me, I am very high maintenance, and most people wouldn’t put up with it. But that’s also because – and I’ve said this before, and I meant it then, and I mean it now – K is, in my objective judgement, the most wonderful man I have ever met. Indeed, I work on the implicit and only partially delusional assumption that everyone who meets him is silently kicking themselves for not getting in there first.

So, if not K, then quite probably no-one. My love life was disastrous before I met him, and I suspect it would have been equally disastrous without him.

(Incidentally, and lest you think otherwise: he gets crushes too, and we chat about them quite light-heartedly. Jealousy, you say? Darlings, we just don’t do jealousy.)

3. diamond geezer asks: You’re secretly enjoying this “having to post every day”, aren’t you? Even though you’re pretending not to.

Well, if anyone should know about the pleasures of daily posting, it would be diamond “hardest working blogger in the business” geezer. Yes, I am enjoying it – because I’ve successfully imposed an external discipline upon myself, which seems to be working. I work best under duress. Too much freedom makes me flabby. And when I get flabby, I get miserable, and progressively more unable to fight the flab.

Having said all that, I opened Blogger with a heavy heart this evening. Oh, must I? The feeling lasted at least halfway through the second paragraph.

4. z asks: You seem to have your dream job. Is it, or is there a sneaking ambition for something else, or something more?

Yes, z, you are quite right. IT consultancy is indeed my dream job, and the fact that I get to work in CICS/COBOL on an IBM mainframe is merely the icing upon the cake. What more perfect a match could there possibly be for my skills and talents? Why, I couldn’t imagine ever doing anything else. And the fact that members of my company’s management team regularly read this blog has no bearing upon my answer at all, no sir!

(The serious answer: it’s far from my dream job, but it’s comparatively stress-free, and it pays OK, and I can do it, and it doesn’t leave me so spiritually sapped that I can’t do anything else outside work, and none of the people I work with are w@nkers, far from it indeed, and there are no crappy office politics to deal with, and my current clients are the most professional outfit that I have ever worked for. But I can’t see myself still doing this in ten years’ time, for all sorts of reasons.)

5. patita asks: Looking forward to any new music this year? CDs or live performances.

The easiest of all lobs! For upcoming live performances, all you need to do is scroll down until you find the “we’re seeing” section in my sidebar. The list is automatically generated by upcoming.org, and I am most diligent at keeping it up to date.

(Yes, the inclusion of last year’s X-Factor finalists Journey South is a little weird, but I have a morbid curiosity and am hoping to fashion an interesting review from the experience. Getting someone else to accompany me might be a little tricky, though.)

Looking through the full schedule, I am particularly looking forward to the Hidden Cameras and the Scissor Sisters, both of whom I shall be reviewing. All of which handily provides the answer to the other half of the question, as I cannot wait to get my clammy paws around Ta-Dah and Awoo.

Here’s the idea. By clicking on the sixth link in my blogroll, then the sixth link in the blogroll that follows, and so on until I get bored, I shall be magically transported to some strange and exotic new lands, way outside the confines of my weekly round.

Well, it beats dreaming up original new content, at any rate. So here goes.

The sixth link in my blogroll is Blogadoon, which I have been reading since the back end of 2001. In fact, looking through the rest of my blogroll, there are only three other sites left from 2001: Hip To You, Overyourhead and World Of Chig. Perhaps not surprisingly, I have met all four bloggers in person, many times. That must be the secret for blogroll longevity.

Anyway, Blogadoon is a fine place to start. Between February and June of this year, Ian and I spent most of our Wednesday late evenings together, down at Get Em Off And Win A Hundred Quid Nite at the White Swan in Limehouse. Ian’s blog remains resolutely hand-coded, and retains the same site design that it has always had. There’s a good deal more photography than there used to be: I like the Brighton & Hove beach huts best of all.

But tarry we mustn’t! There’s an adventure to be had!

So, off we go to Ian’s link #6 – and why, if it isn’t dear old Minor 9th. This is one of the oldest names in the UK blogosphere (it was started in 2000), and yet its author has only just turned 23. Pausing only to admire a nice picture of carrots at Borough Market, I zoom off in search of Simon’s blogroll…

…only to discover that he doesn’t have one. (Separate “links” pages don’t count. Far too much like hard work.) So it’s back to Blogadoon, and down to Ian’s link #7.

And now we’re off into uncharted waters. Bob’s Yer Uncle also trades under the name Blogging Makes Me Drowsy, depending on where you look. The Bob in question is currently travelling round North America – but he must be a Londoner, as lo and behold, he too has recently visited Kit Off For The Lads Nite at the White Swan. And oh! And whoops! Bob also has Troubled Diva on his blogroll! Perhaps we have rubbed shoulders, without my even knowing it. Time to move swiftly on.

Bob’s sixth link takes us across the Atlantic good and proper. Zenchick – Musings From The Lotus Position is currently on hiatus, so my visit will be brief. Her sixth and seventh links have expired, but her eighth link whisks us off to…

The Pieces Of My Life, which greets its readers with a photo of a baby’s bottom. This woman calls her children Doodles and Sweetie. There are several transcribed conversations between Doodles and her Mommy. There is a birthday cake in the shape of a space rocket. And link #6 is to…

Daniella’s Misadventures – Bringing Big Easy Charm to the Tri-State area! Big Easy? Is that New Orleans? But where on earth is the Tri-State area? It’s at times like these that I realise how my overseas readers must struggle with my own regional parochialism. Daniella is also hiating, so let’s zoom off to…

Pepper of the Earth – The Home Office Record & Mostly Daily Gazette. New York based, good photos, nice writing – but very little new content since the middle of May, which seems a shame. I’m beginning to feel like I’m wandering through a blogging Marie Celeste: all the signs of recent activity are still there, and the food on the plates is still warm, but there are no actual human beings in sight.

Speaking of warm food on plates, here comes a familar name: Chocolate & Zucchini, which was long-listed under the Best Food Blog category in this year’s Bloggies.

(I know this because I was one of the judges in this category, despite barely being able to boil an egg. My speciality is pinging the buttons on the microwave, a skill at which I am second to none.)

Chocolate & Zucchini is a class act indeed: professionally laid out, with an air of calm authority, and OH MY GOD SHE ATE AT EL BULLI JEALOUS DOESN’T BEGIN TO COVER IT. (What other restaurant would be mad enough to seal portions of olive oil inside soft casings, to make them look like real olives?)

An Obsession With Food is up next. This sports a lengthy blogroll – and guess what, they’re all food blogs. I feel that I have stepped into a self-contained world within a world, and may never escape.

OK, let’s see how long this takes.

The Amateur Gourmet (Burrito French Toast, Pot Au Feau au Trois Viandes) -> Give Me Some Food (Pappa al Pomadoro, Bresaola Carpaccio with Gribiche Vinaigrette) -> Becks & Posh (Harissa, Almond and Chocolate Tart) -> My Epicurean Debauchery (Stuffed Trout with Edamame-Miso) ->The Girl Who Ate Everything (Fish & Chips, Lamb Curry, Shepherd’s Pie, no blogroll) -> Lovescool – For The Love Of Dessert (tea-flavoured sweets) -> Dessert Comes First -> (Nectarine-Plum Cobbler with Hazelnut Biscuits) -> The Traveler’s Lunchbox (“Seven Steps to Perfect Brioche”) -> OKAY, STOP. THIS ISN’T FUN ANY MORE.

Conclusion: blog-hop for long enough, and you too will end up stuck in the larder.

“So, [insert name of interviewee here]. Do you have any regrets at all?”

“Oh, no, no, no, ha ha! No regrets! If I had my time all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing!”

Sorry, but does everyone think like this, or it is just something which people say in interviews because it’s a nice easy cop-out of an answer, which they hope will make them look all wise and resolved and at peace with life?

Regrets? I’ve got hundreds of them. Poor judgments, bad decisions, missed opportunities, time wasted, potential undeveloped, acts of selfishness, acts of weakness, sins of omission… and, the most keenly felt of all, all those occasions where thoughtless words or deeds have caused hurt or offence to others. Sure, some of them have been Learning Experiences, which have Made Me The Person I Am Today – but, given a rewind button, I would erase most of them in an instant.

That’s normal, isn’t it?