Problems of Cream Cheese and Glycollic Significance


The highlight of the day came when I decided on a carpe diem approach to curing the make-up defying red patches that have taken residence on my face with a mask made of cream cheese and fresh lemon juice. It smelt delicious, in case you’re interested. Alas, it did not solve the redness, as the internet promised it would. After removing the lunchtime snack, I looked at myself for two seconds in the mirror, mentally threw my hands up in the air, and for the very first time in my life Googled life changing issues such as:

– Skin care regimes for your 30s; and

– Where can you buy [acidic, unfriendly skin sounding chemicals] that deliver to Switzerland?

When I couldn’t get straight to the heart of these issues, I decided to make my eyes cosmetically ‘pop’, as instructed by a child young enough to be my daughter had I been more sexually advanced in my teens – which might have been the case had I ever learnt to properly apply make up. She had a palette of  twenty eye shadows. I have a (now) redundant kit that someone sold me outside the WH Smith in Charlton. I’ve not known what to do with my collection of make-up brushes since receiving them as a gift two years ago, but was encouraged to see the girl using similar looking tools. I left her on in the background and pulled out my make-up bag (which means stuff I have brought in the recent past when I get into a ‘I should be more of a girl’ mood) and tried to ‘contour’.

The last time I heard the word ‘contour’ as much was in year seven Geography. I have no idea what they were talking about then, and I still have no idea now. I think it’s because I’m not a natural artist (or geographer). I’ve seen people put on make up and practically change their whole face. I’ve seen drag queens who wear make-up more convincingly than I do. The eye make-up kept disappearing into small bursts of coloured cloud instead of sitting on my face and when it did stick, there were just lines of different coloured eye make up. I think the word ‘blend’ fits into this somehow, likely with its own special brush, but I’ll look into that another day.

After scraping the stupid clown look from my eyes, I returned to the earlier quest of finding out what in tarnation I’m supposed to have been doing in my twenties to my skin that I clearly didn’t, and what, if anything, I can do now. Cue millions of pages of advice that did nothing but bamboozle me further. I have never heard of ‘phytollipid’ or ‘glycollic’ until today. They sound unfriendly, like something a cigarette pack should be admonishing you for. Regardless, and sticking to my cause, I found a site that delivers to Switzerland and queued up some sci-fi driven bottled potions that should arrive in a few days.

On reflection, it’s not my proudest day. Additionally, the cream cheese seems to have exacerbated the red patches and they have now spread to my nose.

Posted in Undomestic Goddess | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Can My Sister Even Read?

During a FaceTime chat with my sister on Friday I asked her to read my recent blog post. She squinted at her screen when the page loaded. She haltingly read out the post title and as her eyes flickered to the end of the two short preview lines, she seemed – startled.

Sister: It’s really long. I make mine really short.

Me: Yeh I’ve noticed the average is about 500 words –

Sister: You could cut it up into a few – that’s what I do with mine.

Me: Will you read it though?

Sister: Um. Yes – but it’s really long.

I have a sneaking suspicion my sister never got round to reading the 1000+ word post.

But why would my sister just decide not to read it? As though there was something off putting about the post? It’s not as though reading upwards of one thousand, unedited, unstructured thoughts that relate to a situation she has no genuine interest in would be something she just wouldn’t do! No – I thought, waking in a clammy sweat sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning – there had to be a reason.

I decided to investigate.


After a weekend of papers, pins, red string and coffee I have boiled it down to this solid theory:

My sister can’t read.

So how did I come up with this? It really goes back to that look of horror as she surveyed the post, as she comprehended the numerical value of the words she was confronted with. Call it intuition – the seed was planted. Saturday, I trawled her social media profiles – posts about teaching children and her English degree I decided to put to one side. I mean – everyone lies on their Facebook page don’t they? Holiday photos irked me when I tried to fall asleep sometime round 4am on Sunday morning – what was missing? Sun, check, bikini, check, alcohol, check. But there was something – not right. It hunted me through a patchy, nightmarish sleep and the answer woke me around half-six on Sunday morning:

The book was missing.

Everyone reads on holiday, don’t they? And why wouldn’t they – AS LONG AS THEY COULD? The last piece of the puzzle came from my brother and his words sealed it. He too had asked Becky to read things he’d written in the past. And he said she never did.

This is in essence an act of reaching out. If my sister comes back to me with a reaction, perhaps I’ll rescind my theory and look a little closer to home. She alluded to this concept known as ‘concision’ in writing. Perhaps, if it turns out that I’m actually wrong, and that my sister can read, I might look into that.

Tom Cruise

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

I Don’t Know How to Clean My Oven

I happened to call my Dad today, interrupting him from his current struggle with an epic white goods related flood that I have received stormy toned emails about from my Mother. We had a lovely, albeit short, conversation in which he also mentioned that he had seen Alan (my father-in-law) that morning and that Alan had spent three hours cleaning the oven in our old place. Three hours. Oh the shame. I should have apprehended this ending to the Charlton home story, owing to the fact that when Alex and I were sitting in a bar in Lausanne last weekend, Alan had called to say that he and Alex’s mother were at the old house, and amongst other things, the oven was ‘a bit grimy’.

About my oven. To start, you really need to understand its position in a geographical sense. Imagine a tropical island – perhaps the size of Mauritius. Imagine an oven, on the island. And imagine, with all the other requirements of keeping Mauritius tidy, ordered and dodo-free, how often you might remember to check the oven. That, roughly sums up my oven and my attitude to cleaning. Whilst our kitchen might not be the size of Mauritius, it was certainly big.

My sister effortlessly posing in a corner of the kitchen. If you stood at the other end of the kitchen, she would appear to be about two foot tall. Truth.

My sister effortlessly posing in a corner of the kitchen. If you stood at the other end of the kitchen, she would appear to be two foot tall.

And with a big room, the floor is somewhat endless (I don’t really have the knack of mopping either – I just seem to spread water on the floor, and have to get on all fours to actually get any dirt up. Sometimes with my nails). On days when I thought the kitchen needed a clean I would tend to the surfaces and the washing up, and on occasions when I felt really committed, the floor. When it looked shiny enough, I would then congratulate myself by doing something less – what’s the right word? – recurring. Because despite having spent all that time cleaning the kitchen, I would only have to get up and do it all again another day.

I have to write about the house move as a different post, because it’ll go on too long, but suffice to say here, the only demand I made was that I could be there for the physical house move, and in the back of my mind, I wanted to be there to clean up that weekend. You know clean up, as in, hide the abhorrent slobbishness I had allowed our way too big house to give way to.

Alex and I lived there for three and a half years and Alex is a self-declared ‘the water’s too hot to wash up, I don’t know how to cook, my parents ironed my shirts’ sort of man(-child). I’ve been out of work since around August 2014, and had supposed to myself that to demonstrate to Alex, as well as all the invisible onlookers I suspected to be at our curtains, how sensible the decision was to leave work, I would keep the house clean and have meals on the table for when he came home. As well as trying to write the next most-amazing-book-ever-written-thereby-diminishing-the-creative-use-of-the-English-language-to-a-what’s-the-point-she’s-done-it footnote. Since October, as the house began to disappear into boxes, the housework itself took an even lower priority, with a little voice saying, ‘it’s okay, do the proper cleaning once the house is empty’.

As circumstances would have it, we flew back to London the evening after the house move, leaving my brother Jon and Alan to supervise the move itself. Alex and I had decided to hire cleaners to do the last part of the cleaning up, but his parents offered to save us some money and do it for us. Hence the three hours oven cleaning. I don’t know how long they took on the rest of the house, which back to the geography comparison, would suggest a size of … oh – probably two galaxies stuck together.

There’s just nothing worse than someone walking into a place you have been responsible for when you haven’t had the opportunity to run around doing those little fixes you know how to do. It’s like the bathroom. What is it with kitchens and bathrooms? You feel as though you’re letting the world see your soul and decide from those two interior spaces whether you’ll have a happy after life or not. Alan and I had spent a very pleasant two days a few months before painting and fixing the bathroom, which was prone to that orange stuff that turns into black mould. So, orange mould. Mould in an earlier part of the evolution cycle. Alan sorted out the mould and showed me how to scrub a wall. I can’t quite explain the shame I felt as he ran a proper scrubbing brush over the white tiles and the ‘incurable orange stuff’ as I had called it vanished before my eyes. I had been using raggedy jay cloths and the hard side of a sponge, and condemning the bathroom as some sort of un-air conditionable damp trap.

I didn’t condemn the oven in the way that I had the bathroom – a can of Oven Cleaner that I brought twice through the years, promised that all I had to do was spray it onto the oven and later wipe it off (I confess – I don’t have many memories of wiping it off). I remember going to extraordinary lengths two years ago with some glass cleaner on the inside of the oven door. Me and that oven – we shared some times together. If ovens could speak, mine would have said, ‘she did try – when she remembered’. But I’m more afraid of what, during those three hours with Alan, the mute, victimised oven might have suggested. What sort of wife/woman/human being am I if I don’t even keep the oven clean? Are they frightened that they will find Alex covered in dust with holes in his feet after a few years with me? Grandchildren! They’ll be those children with smudges of chimney dust all over their faces, with raggedy clothes and unexpected Victorian orphan accents! Alan is a sensible man. But even he must have found himself pushed to the point of insanity with all the horrors of what the oven was mutely suggesting. I know I am.

Confession over. I am now in a flat in Lausanne, which in comparison to the old house is a mere postage stamp. It’s already a lot easier to keep on the clean side. I can’t promise you that there aren’t a few splatters on the kitchen floor, but you know – I’ll get round to that. As soon as I had spoken to my Dad, I sent what I hoped was a repentant email to my mother-in-law, thanking her for the work they had put in. What I didn’t say, but what I hoped came through was:

I’m sorry that you cleaned my oven and discovered my soul. I am available for an exorcism at your earliest convenience.

Posted in Undomestic Goddess | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Bored Girl at the End of the ‘Phone – Part 1



An Existential Quandary

Having never managed to get round to reading Sartre’s Nausea, I recently checked the general meaning of existentialism with my younger, learned brother. He described it as thus:

..when you come to a point of questioning so much how the world got to this point that you almost consider it fractured and as a world unreal…

If this is the case, I feel I have been correct the many, many times that I have reached for the phrase and decided to apply it to my life. It’s seen me through sixth form, periods of involuntary social inertia and more pressingly, my career.

No job.

My long-term job?

My job that must be a career by now because I don’t try to leave it.

And really, this difficulty to categorise, to sum up the actuality of where my body has settled that my brain wills it on from, is the greatest, if not main reason for the constant invocation of a theory set down by a French man (he was French wasn’t he?) that I have never found the time to read.

How has my world stopped and sputtered at the gates marked Fruitless Endeavour? There was even a signpost that read ‘EXIT HERE TO AVOID BRAIN DEATH’ but I passed that by around the spring of 2009.

But, for all my complaints, I took a route and exhibit a pressing reluctance to leave. For this account to be completely true, I owe a clear, simply set out explanation of how it came to this. Before the light of ambition was snuffed out, before the glow of motivation died.

Before these things, there was a plan.

The Plan

By 2010 the plan had started to unravel. But, the time before that, from 2004-2009, the plan had been 75% exercised. A degree had been started and finished, a good result had been achieved; I was able to say

I am a Law graduate

but I’m not quite sure how often I did. I definitely don’t now. In the August of 2007, I embarked on what should have been my final year of full time study under the strict regime of the Legal Practice Course, a practical framework so dry that the wood had chipped and onlookers suspected imminent forest fire.

£10,000 for the pleasure, which coupled with a 7.5% fixed interest rate (I thought I was being sensible to avoid the unpredictable meaning of ‘variable’) increased the fees to produce a ten year repayment plan that never seems to decrease.

The course was arguably insufferable – a constant tide of group exercises, dynamic problem solving and a library of books collected on the first day that could proudly break the back of a cart drawing horse. Or the boot of my father’s car.March 2008 002

However, the intensity of the approximately 10 month course was a constant drive to push on. The January blues of black mornings and frozen fingers was unaided by the never ending modules, though I had started to really enjoy the walk from Charing Cross Station to Tottenham Court Road. I even invented games to make avoiding crowds fun, like the one where I pretended they were zombies and I’d have to avoid colliding with them to ensure my non-zombie state. I was in my early twenties. Early, mid, what’s the difference now anyway. Then there was a death in the family that was so close and unexpected that the dirge of the LPC felt a million miles away, a luxury of angsty boredom that rightfully belonged to another life.

Finally, May – perhaps June rolled round, the study requirements ended and I traced my initial and surname in The Times, a tiny print amongst the hundreds perhaps thousands of eager and anticipatory post-graduates emerging just that summer, from just that college. Around the country – thousands is definitely the correct ball park figure – finished the identikit courses at a variety of (expensive) providers.

So, in the summer of 2008, I found myself with nearly a full set of equipment to complete the plan, The sole item I lacked was the ambitious confidence that had dwindled remarkably over the second half of the LPC, and that little matter of a training contract.

The training contract was the golden ticket – seemingly impossible to arrange, despite the rolling publication of the Training Contract Handbook, which I excitedly cracked the spine of during my second year at undergraduate level, before feeling overwhelmed by the pages and pages of tiny font firms that I would plan to apply to – the single, even double page spread firms were, as I had discovered at another point, out of my league. I made applications throughout the second, third and post-graduate years and received in return a shower of personalised emails with variations on the theme of how many applications they receive each year and how sorry they are that it wasn’t me that year.

I took their multiple apologies and turned them into Plan B – a much better plan, through which I would manage a Paralegal role (usually earning about £12-14,000 at the time), show the firm how useful I was and eventually win a heartfelt training contract.


I was ripping up a notebook and found that I had written the above into it. I think I wrote it about a year and a half ago when I was working in the worst job ever for about the third and a half year. This was the end of this section, with nothing following it. I may aim to carry on where it stops!

Posted in Plans | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Into the blurb

This will be my first, and possibly single wholehearted blog. Though if my positive attitude continues, it may just be the first of many. 


Herein lies the beginnings of my novel. Yes, I’m one of those people, who will die saying I’m trying to/thinking of/really, really want to write a book. This is my fourth genuine attempt in eight years (the first attempt swallowed four of those years), though I can count at least three more that stopped to fascinate for a while. Of those three genuine attempts, I am still yet to finish one of them – finished in as much that I can give them to Husband to read without having to supervise the reading experience by explaining exactly what it means in the context of the scenes and information that I haven’t yet got round to writing, because – don’t worry – they’re in my head.

The ghosts of course of the previous attempts are surrounding my table now, whispering discouragements – 

- You’ll only stop halfway through because you’ll get BORED – 

- It’s never as good when you actually start writing it – 

- You’ll never write a book! Never! NEVER!

At the moment I don’t have a lot to reply to them with – I’ve been waving them away most of the afternoon with a flap of one of the three notebooks I’ve decided to use.

Which really brings me to the main reason I decided to blog instead of cook dinner. I’m a self-confessed stationery obsessive, but I had always functioned on the belief that the more notebooks I brought, the more organised I would become – one for writing, one for cooking, one for gifts, one for books that I’ve read…

In April I set myself a cold turkey mission and told Husband that I was throwing away all the notebooks that I wasn’t currently using, which would leave me with one hardback Moleskine, one mini Moleskine and my then brand new super exciting all singing all dancing Arc notebook. For any concerned readers, the detox actually involved lovingly wrapping the unused notebooks in newspaper and storing them in a cupboard with labels like ‘Blank’ and ‘Can be used as blank’. Actually, they were the only two labels. 

Saturday morning, I woke in a panic at 5.30am (panic due to some absurd worry that all my current ideas for ‘the new book’ would fly out of my mind unless recorded right that second). I made numerous cups of coffee, ‘tidied’ the living room (moved a few glasses into the kitchen) and then decided that it would be best to go and sit at the desk upstairs and start to write things down. Then I broke into my stash and rescued one Moleskine cahier, one brand new still in its wrapper soft Moleskine and a (at the time a recklessly spontaneous purchased) Moleskine project notebook. I never had any projects to work on, so it really had been greedy of me. 

However. They have all come into a pretty interplay, the two smaller notebooks bound in a Filofax Flex that I found in a TK Maxx for a fiver. I spent a while on Saturday morning trying to set up a Flex dashboard like the ones I had spent waaaaaaay too much time reading about on blogs when I brought it, but gave up when I realised I was fussing. And procrastinating.

Which is what the biggest ghost said all day – there’s no way I’ll ever get this book done as long as I sit around and play with the notebooks. So I played in a different way and made up stories. A lot more fun, and hopefully a lot more productive!


Posted in Writing | Leave a comment

Honeymoon Day 1: World War T

It’s challenging being a Briton abroad. We sort of carry the weight of the average impression on our shoulders. You try to be extra polite, extra gracious and extra embracing because you are extra aware that we have an international label of extra fussy.

Dalaman Airport, Turkey emptied the plane promptly onto two buses. Great! We knew we had a few hours ahead of us in a hopefully air conditioned car (though if it was just rolled down windows, that would be okay too – we’re not fussy!) – leaving the plane so quickly was a bonus!

And then came the queue for Passport Control.


Except it wasn’t a queue. It was a mass. A mass of mainly British holiday makers. A mass of mainly British holiday makers in 28 degree heat. A mass of mainly British holiday makers in 28 degree heat with one thing on our unified mind:

Protect your queue – for Queen and Country!

The photo is from about the halfway point and just before my realisation that Husband and I would have to jiggle into a snaking line of tourists that was making its way more directly to one of the Passport booths. At the point we joined, along with how many others, you couldn’t even see the booths.

An angry and likely overheated teenage boy to my right was eliciting advice from his more quietly angry mother about what to do as more and more people merged with their ‘queue’.

Don’t let them in,

She said with all the certain control of any good matriarch,

There’s too many…

A boy of about five or six to my left had already declared his exasperation at everyone joining his queue. I’m beginning to think it’s something they put in our water.

About a fifth of the way to go, we heard a whistle behind is and could see the crowd trying as best it could to part, fanning back in a reluctant Mexican wave for a man in a wheelchair. Yes, the same man who had been bouncing spryly up and down for the toilets, the trolley and for Husband to get past him, in the seat at the end of our row on the plane. Clever old people. However, the look of unabashed delight as he flew through the mass was sort of worth it. More whistles came, more suspect wheelchair inhabitants, along with large groups of family trailing past us behind them.

Behind me, a conversation broke out.

Well, now you’re in our queue!

I’m not in your queue.

Yes you are. You were in that one, and now you’re
in this one!

[sheepishly] I’m not in your queue.

I turned to see the speaker of the first more tense interlocutor and beheld a red faced bespectacled English man berating a younger, more embarrassed looking Englishman with scrunched up shoulders, sort of caught between both queues.

Because there were no queues.

And when that happens to the British – when one of our great underpinnings of polite society is challenged, we descend into chaos.

Or, because we’re British, terse verbal exchanges with other holiday makers.

Posted in Wedding | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Reading Challenge 2014 So Far…



I thought I should make a list to see how this resolution’s going…

B – Bellman & Black, Diane Setterfield – 1/5

F – Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock, Matthew Quick – 4/5

G – The Girl on the Landing, Paul Torday – 3/5

H – The Husband’s Secret, Liane Moriarty – 4/5

L – Life After Life, Kate Atkinson – 4.5/5

M – May We Be Forgiven, AM Homes – 4/5

N – The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern – 4/5 

R – The Rehearsal, Eleanor Catton – 3.5/5

W – What Alice Forgot, Liane Moriarty – 4/5


Ohhh – I thought I had read more!

Any suggestions would be appreciated for the many missing letters!

Posted in Reading | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Wedding Week Day2: It’s Too Late to Change!

I was sitting on the sofa last night, slotting the Order of Service invites into the cards. These things have taken me a while. It started on Saturday when my printer decided to hiccup, throwing the whole ‘can I even print them’ question into the equation. I printed 20 successfully. Then I ran out of ribbon after the first 16. Proactive Friend, who had lent a hand with the mind numbing double sided tape exercise disappeared to Bluewater and returned with three new reels the next day. By Monday, All 62 were printed. I finished sticking. I finished binding with ribbon. Now, to insert the pieces, drop them in the rubbish brown box that I should do something to prettify.

Boyfriend, a little more engaged now that the World Cup has abandoned him, decided to flick through the completed versions only to notice that I had forgotten to put his friend’s name in bold to show that he’s a reader. Boyfriend asked me to re-print – it would only be the inserts. Um.

On another note, the bridesmaids are in rebellion. Possibly the subject of a later post, their dress hunting has been for me the most M. Night Shyamalan part of this process – they were going to wear blue – but they wore pink! They were going to wear pink – but now they’re wearing cream! They were going to choose their own outfits – but then they couldn’t decide! They were going to wear different dresses – but now they’re wearing the same! They said they liked the dress I eventually chose – now they don’t!

When Cousin asked if she could change out of the (news to me) unflattering dress, I didn’t act with poise or nonchalance about the fact that it is just a dress, I made a snippy comment instead. I have since realised the error of my idiocy and within twenty minutes retracted the refusal and told her and Sister to wear whatever they want in the evening. For crying out loud, it is just a dress.

For Sister’s perspective, maybe check out her account of the last few months in The Aftermath – I felt a little bit Bridezilla after reading that! And maybe I should have read it earlier than three days ago!

Posted in Wedding | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Wedding Week: Day 1

Image 2

It’s Monday.

 We are getting married on Saturday – at 2.30pm in case you’re interested.

Downstairs, there are forty something Order of Services to be bound and decorated with pink stripe ribbon; there are about twenty serviettes left to be rolled and wrapped in raffia, the delicately hand written heart wood pieces to be attached.

 Boyfriend and I are finally listing the songs that will make it onto the playlist. We decided to ‘go personal’ and ask for three songs from each guest, and add a selection of our own choices. This equates to nearly seven hours of music. We only need music for three and a half. Editing is required.

 Seating is still to be finalised. I still have to subtly find out the surname of a close friend’s boyfriend (without giving away that I have completely forgotten it despite her telling me only a few weeks ago), and I also need to find out whether another friend is bringing a husband or a mother.

 We still have to buy the wine for the reception. My eyebrows are in dire need of some hot wax attention. Suitcases are to be filled with honeymoon clothes. Mum still has to buy flowers, the bridesmaid’s owed money and my bridal hairstyle –as yet unarranged – is likely to be a slightly back combed and sprayed version of my normal hair.

 Boyfriend has put the imitation Champions League Cup Trophy over his head.

 I am upstairs having a Blue Moon. I think this is the best way. 

Posted in Wedding | Leave a comment

World Cup Final 2014 vs Titanic


Half time has hit after forty something minutes and Boyfriend has flicked the TV set over to the best choice Channel 4 has made in a long time… Titanic. The iceberg has just hit, as though the schedulers knew that millions would be growing restless at half time and manipulated that ‘impossible’ moment to air just as viewers around the country started flicking.

For the record, I was able to enjoy Mr. Andrews circulating the ship in a state of abbreviated concern (as I now understand it through adult eyes, ‘gormlessness’), evil Cal framing Jack, Rose’s lips becoming puckered to a state of near apoplexy for every shocking turn of events within ten minutes (this particular portion shoved a lot in – the iceberg, the diamond emerging from Jack’s coat, the coat that she thought was Jack’s bearing a label with someone else’s name, Jack being taken away, Cal’s facial spank, Mr. Andrews’ timely reminder that she was the lead character in a tragic love story that also wanted to blithely comment on life and class).

As the ‘I’ve had enough of football thank you very much’ option the broken boat film is a lazily genius inclusion within the TV listings. In fact, I’m not sure why I’ve stayed down here where the second half’s started, instead of running upstairs and watching the film in bed. As Boyfriend is a massive sports fan, as opposed to a normal person I’ve endured many a World Cup inspired docuganda** slot generally focusing on the humble roots of now world renowned players, who have become sources of actual national hope. And now, because I watched but only ten minutes of the football fan’s black mirror, the comparisons between Titanic and my World Cup weeks are startling. Weeks of humble roots, national pride, national hope, the impossibility of Spain leaving so early, the shock that no one was shocked about England’s early departure***.

Such is the great comparator that Sports Fan Boyfriend at 79 minutes in has speculated,

I wonder what’s happening with that boat…

and we’re back to Channel 4 – Cal’s shooting at Jack. Boyfriend fact checked and now we’re back – still 0-0. I may have disappointed him with the lack of truth behind the World’s Greatest Love Story. Ever. IDST.

The last three weeks have been tiring, demanding of commitment and the suspension of reality – even as I have observed the elimination of countries that I’m convinced will be there to the end, I need to know what happens. Regardless of whether I care for the last ones standing. And I could be saying exactly the same if I had watched the film from the very beginning. Three hours can be just as much of a commitment as three weeks – the hope, disbelief humble roots and impossibility is loads more intense in a tight time frame. Honest. It’s true.

So, thank you Channel 4 for offering the absorbingly terrible film to cover the period stolen by the World Cup final. I saw this film eight times in the cinema, and cried every single time. It was like a therapy. It was permitted time to be devastated by the death of LOVE. There’s no doubt that within the next hour the roads from Brazil to London will be filled either with sobbing Argentinians or sobbing Germans****. Because the fans invested. They hoped. They made it this far. AKA, Jack and Rose on the wardrobe door*****. Because of the inevitability of tragedy, Titanic was always the only other viable option.

It is a mathematical certainty.

WC Titanic

**Have I just made a word up? If so, docuganda is the preparation of facts that are true, including a series of familiar to the facts talking heads and pointed photo or video montages relevant to the fact. A docuganda is distinguishable from a documentary, as the facts are set up to show that the factual event is part of something with a universal, ethical, philanthropic heart.

***This used to be a source of domestic mourning – this tournament it was a clinical roll of the eyes and the hope that another European country would get there instead).

****Actually, do Germans sob? They seem so together the majority of the time?

***** A helpful lesson on what to do if you’re shipwrecked. The answer is ‘share the available space out of the water’.

Posted in Wedding | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment