Other Stories

Musical Interlude

A musical interlude today on Other Stories. Here is my own personal goddess KT Tunstall doing 'Stoppin' the Love' (from the first album).

PS launch party went very well. Met some very exciting people including ex-Booker judges, a rather eminent novelist, and other assorted bigwigs. Knackered today though, and suffering from blistered feet from hell. Stoopid shoes.

Guest Blog: The Black Strat - Phil Taylor

Another guest post today on Other Stories. Boyfriend isn't a big fan of fiction - something to do with an inability to suspend his disbelief and forget that "it's all just made up" - but give him a book about guitars and he's a happy chap. Today, then, I am posting his review of The Black Strat: A History of David Gilmour's Black Fender Stratocaster by Phil Taylor.

The Fender Stratocaster is probably the most famous and popular electric guitar in the world and there have been many notable examples in the history of rock music; George Harrison’s psychedelically painted one from The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper/Magical Mystery Tour era, the white one that Jimi Hendrix played at Woodstock, Rory Gallagher’s one that had almost all the paint worn off and, perhaps most famous of all, Eric Clapton’s ‘Brownie’ and ‘Blackie’ which fetched around $500,000 and $1,000,000 respectively when they were sold at auction in recent years.

Perhaps less famous, but no less notable, is the black guitar that Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour has played on and off since 1970 and which is the subject of Phil Taylor’s book. Taylor has been Gilmour’s guitar tech since 1974 and has restrung, tuned and handed this guitar to Gilmour on countless occasions at concerts and in studio sessions since then. This guitar was played on Floyd albums ‘Meddle’ ‘Dark Side of the Moon’, ‘Wish You Were Here’, ‘Animals’, ‘The Wall’ and ‘The Final Cut’ and during that time it went through several changes of neck, pickups, scratchplate and vibrato bridge. The only original parts still remaining are the body and two of the pickups.

Gilmour retired the guitar in 1984, just after the tour to promote his second solo album, ‘About Face’ and just before he played as part of Bryan Ferry’s band at Live Aid in 1985. In 1986 the guitar was loaned to the Hard Rock Café in Dallas, Texas where it remained for the next eleven years until Taylor requested it back on Gilmour’s behalf. It was restored to playing condition and was eventually seen again in Gilmour’s hands, with yet another neck, in the Classic Albums TV show about the making of ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ in 2003, the album’s 30th anniversary.

The guitar was next seen at the momentous and emotional reunion of Pink Floyd’s classic lineup of Gilmour, Richard Wright, Nick Mason and their long estranged bass player and principal lyricist Roger Waters at 2005’s Live 8 concert and Gilmour continued to use it (with another neck!) for the recording of his 2006 ‘On an Island’ album and the subsequent tour.

Taylor’s book is a dream for guitar geeks with loads of detailed pictures of the guitar (and some others from Gilmour’s collection) from every conceivable angle. It’s also oddly moving to read about a musician being so attached to one instrument for so long, even after lengthy periods of playing other guitars and, as a Pink Floyd fan, it was nice to see the best parts of their career nicely bookended (Live 8 almost certainly marked the end of the band) with Gilmour playing the same guitar. Well, almost the same!

Feminist Raving...

...by which, for once, I don't mean "raving" in the "ranting" sense. Oh no, I mean in the musical sense. Well, maybe a little ranting, if you'll humour me.

Last night Academic Friend and I went to 'Maeve's Feminist Rave' in East Oxford, held as part of the Oxford International Women's Festival. It was International Women's Day on Saturday 8 March - but I'm sure y'all don't need me to tell you that.

Now don't get the impression that Academic Friend and I were larging it up in a warehouse with glow sticks and whistles, oh no, this was an acoustic evening for women to come and play music. We had quite the variety of instruments: many guitars of course, but also a cello, a squeezebox, a violin, a tin whistle, and a very fine double bass player too. I'm not saying it was a night of stellar musical talent all the time, but it was a fun evening, and I'm really glad I went. It was organized by an excellent woman by the name of Maeve Bayton, who is a lecturer at Oxford University, and who wrote a book called Frock Rock: Women Performing Popular Music. Coincidentally, Frock Rock is published by Oxford, but please don't think this was in any way a work thing. The book came out 10 years ago, and I recently came across a second-hand copy. That it was published by the company I work for was nothing more than coincidence. Promise.

There were lots of posters etc from Amnesty International (to whom I renewed my membership this very morning) about violence against women, and I slyly pocketed a beer mat with some very disturbing statistics on it. I shall finish this post with those statistics, and it'll be my only rant, I swear:

• 33% of British people believe a woman is at least partly to blame for being raped if she wears sexy clothes, flirts or drinks.
• Today's conviction rate for rape cases is under 5.3% - but in 1977 it was 33%.

And remember:

• Sex without full, free and informed consent is a crime. Sentences for rape range from 2 to 14 years.

More information on Amnesty's Stop Violence Against Women campaign can be found at http://www.amnesty.org/svaw.

Oh, and another thing. This week there is an exhibition opening at the National Portrait Gallery (officially my favourite gallery ever) called Brilliant Women, which explores the extraordinary stories behind the spirited pioneers of sexual equality in the 18th century. Mary Wollstonecraft, Fanny Burney, Ann Yearsley, Elizabeth Montagu et al. Nice piece in The Times about it yesterday:

"As far as the life of the mind was concerned, it was death by embroidery. The intellect, much like the linen in a wedding trousseau, was best left unfolded. After all, a woman once married became a piece of property. And what husband wanted an opinionated wife? It would be as bizarre as a spaniel with a political point of view."

Quite. Me want to go see. Exhibition opens tomorrow.

Guest blog: Eric Claption - My Autobiography

So, there we were. We'd had a lovely, home-cooked dinner, had polished off a bottle (or so...) of wine, and were idly sitting on the sofa talking about everything and nothing. Talk turned to books, and Boyfriend gave me the lowdown on the Eric Clapton autobiography, which he had got for Christmas. I, a glass or two of vino to the good, suggested he write me a blog post about it, and hurrah, he has. And here it is. Over to John...

I’ve been a fan of Eric Clapton for many years and it was with great excitement that I went to see him in concert for the first time at the Edinburgh Playhouse on the 9th of April 1983. I was 16 at the time and that was the gig that made me want to play electric guitar and blues in particular. I’ve seen him three times since, the last time being in Glasgow in 1992, and every show was a transcendent experience for me.

There have been several biographies of Clapton written over the years, authorised and unauthorised, a few of which I’ve read. So when I heard there was to be an autobiography, I was naturally interested to read what the man had to say about his own life. No one could deny that he has led an interesting life, or that as a guitarist he has been enormously influential, and the biographies covered these aspects satisfactorily enough, even going into some detail about the making of albums or what guitars and amplifiers Clapton used at various points in his career. They also presented a fairly sympathetic view of him as a thoughtful, modest person without glossing over his fairly well publicised problems with drugs and alcohol, not to mention his pursuit and eventual marriage to Patti Boyd, George Harrison’s then wife.

I have to say I found the autobiography a sketchy, unsatisfactory and rather shallow read. The greatest detail is reserved for the casual willingness with which he threw himself into the drug scene and how he bedded virtually every woman that seemed to enter his field of vision even after he had won over Patti Boyd after several years of trying. The recording of his greatest albums and songs are dealt with all too briefly and there’s nothing like enough information for the guitar geeks amongst us, but then he did spend most of the ‘70s and half the ‘80s in an alcoholic haze, so perhaps the lack of detail is understandable.

I think what disappoints me most though, is that the man himself comes across as a rather shallow, cold individual who seems now to have become part of the landed gentry. I have to confess a certain distaste for rock musicians who, when they become wealthy, buy huge country piles and seem unable to come across any kind of fauna without shooting it, but maybe that’s just me. Still, I remain a fan of Clapton’s best work and as a live blues guitarist he still has the ability to be breathtaking. I guess the old saying about idols and feet of clay is often true and, difficult though it may be, it’s best to let these people’s work speak for them and pay less mind to their personalities.

I return from the wilderness!

Happy New Year my blogular friends. I return from a few weeks in the wilderness, where I have been zooming up and down the length of Britain, drinking too much, eating far too much, and generally carousing in a Chrimbo/New Year stylee.

Santa was exceptionally nice to me, and booky acquisitions were the following: Light Years by James Salter, 800 Years of Women's Letters edited by Olga Kenyon, Victorian London Street Life in Historic Photographs by John Thomson, and London in the Nineteenth Century by Jerry White. I am massively looking forward to all of these, and I heartily (and publicly) thank all those kind souls who gave them to me.

I have finished two books over the Christmas period. It would have been more but I was waylayed by alcohol and finishing my uni essay (which is now handed in, praise god). Those books were The Dreamers by Gilbert Adair and Attention All Shipping by Charlie Connelly. My reading is nothing if not varied, anyway. Full reports on those to follow.

I have also now offically decided on my Top 10 books of 2007. In no particular order:

• Old Men in Love -- Alasdair Gray
• Dr Haggard's Disease -- Patrick McGrath
• The Female Malady -- Elaine Showalter
• The Easter Parade -- Richard Yates
• Trumpet -- Jackie Kay
• The Corrections -- Jonathan Franzen
• Darkmans -- Nicola Barker
• Gents -- Warwick Collins
• The Penelopiad -- Margaret Atwood
• Daughters of Decadence -- ed. Elaine Showalter

It really has been a very good year, book-wise.

I have also decided on a bookular New Year's Resolution, which I half-attempted last year before giving up spectacularly: try not to buy as many books, and get through some of Mount To Be Read. I'm really going for it this time, promise.

Actually, I have just managed the impossible. I have pared down my book collection somewhat. *gasp*! Yes indeed, I have packed two large boxes of books off to Oxfam on St Giles, and sold another 50 or so on Amazon. I had to. It was getting ridiculous. Not to mention that with Boyfriend (finally) moving in with me there suddenly has to be room found for his books. Now, he doesn't have anything like the number of books I have as he is far too busy being a music geek to be a book geek, but he does have an astonishing number of books on The Beatles, a fulsome range of other music geekery books, a growing library of "God is Bollocks" books (Dawkins, Hitchins, et al), and more Peanuts books than I've ever seen collected in one place. They all have to go somewhere. As does the piano, but that's another story.

Right then. So, I am back and blogging with a vengeance. Hurrah!

Christmas Records

Woo! Another post from me already.

This is just to say that over at OUPBlog I've just posted a fantastic piece by the editor of Oxford's Encyc. of Popular Music about Christmas Records.

It's a cracker (ho ho!), and I am fully expecting Boyfriend to treat us to his opinions in the comments section. Go see.

Encore!

I am pleased to say that the choir concert went without a hitch. The dreaded 6th Movement (which I always found hard) went fine. Both Mother and Father managed to be in the same room without killing each other (and without talking to each other either). Muso-Boyfriend declared us to be "very tight", and didn't find any bum notes to wince at. Our conductor even said we were one of the best amateur choirs she's worked with. Everyone was very happy, and the audience was a sell out.

Though I was wearing heels and after standing for 7 movements, my feet were flippin' killing me.

However, here's an advance date for your diaries: our next concert will be on 17 May 2008, and we'll be singing a selections of choruses and arias from the operas of Mozart, Puccini, Verdi and Humperdinck. The original Humperdinck obviously - I think it's highly unlikely that we'll be breaking out into 'Please Release Me'. That said, the last choir I sang in did a stellar concert of classical pieces (Ave Maria, Ube Caritas) then finished on a Barry Manilow medley. We had to sway, and everything.

The saga of my electrics continues. While I now have heating and hot water (which is lucky, because it tried to snow here last night), my sockets have been declared unsafe and I need to have them all re-wired. This entails floor boards coming up, and just general chaos. Oh joy.

*sigh*

But, I shall remain positive. I am still savouring the delicious Old Men in Love, and in amongst my uni work I will be making time to read Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell, in celebration of the BBC drama.

Blatant Advertising

Of course you're all coming to hear us sing, aren't you?

Read this poem, and the glory of Brahms

I've had a good start to my day. I was perusing The Reader Online, and came across a rather wonderful poem. I assume I can't post it here due to copyright shenanigans, so please do pop over to The Reader and read it here. The poem is by Grace Ingoldby, and is called Morning be salve to you. It was a salve for my morning at any rate.

In other news, the work choir concert draws ever closer. Rehearsal last night went very well, though, and we were working especially on the second movement, which is my favourite of the seven. There's this wonderful passage where all four vocal lines are in unison, and it's ff, and it's all minor, and it's just wonderful. It made my spine tingle. I'm even getting the hang of the German pronunciation.

Of course you'll all be coming to the concert, won't you?

* * An Update * *

Just spotted this blog over at the Guardian, which is rather interesting. It is recommending the blogs of writers, published and unpublished. A few here I'm not familiar with, so I shall certainly be checking them out.

Bank Holiday Joy

Oh, how I love Bank Holiday weekends. Just think, if I'd still been in Glasgow, it wouldn't have been a Bank Holiday at all. So there are some plus sides of being down here (of course I won't be saying that on the 2nd January when I have to go back to work).

Anyhoo, I managed to pack quite a lot of joy into one weekend. On Friday I survived the hell of wearing stupid shoes and went out for dinner at the rather posh Gee's in Oxford, with Dad and Boyfriend. It was the first time they'd met, despite the length of time I've been with Boyfriend (largely because of Dad living abroad) so I was a little nervous. I needn't have been though, they got on like a house on fire. I was beyond thrilled. And! I had steak and chips, and the chips came in a BAG. I loved this detail more than is decent. Drank a lot of wine, laughed a lot, then took dad to my local. He had a couple of brandies, and it being a Friday night some friends were in, so Dad was introduced to loads of people. All in all, it was quite fabulous. Phew!

Went to London on Saturday and walked for miles. Went out for a very late dinner, and walked from Westminster to London Bridge along the South Bank (the South Bank is possibly my favourite place in the whole world), stopping at Gabriel's Wharf for pizza and cheesecake and Peroni. Took ridiculous photos of each other pulling faces. I went to Foyles at the RFH and bought books because they were open late (more Bookery books: What Was Lost by Catherine O'Flynn and The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies). On Sunday we walked round Soho, loitered in Denmark Street looking at guitars, loitered in Charing Cross Road looking at books, then went to the pub, drank cider in the afternoon and listened to some live music.

I came up with a plan. (All hush hush)

Came back to Oxford in time to grace the Open Stage night at the local with our presence. Drank more cider. Thanked God for having Monday off.

Monday came. Boyfriend plied his trade. I read. (I can heartily recommend Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips -- not quite finished it yet, but should have by tomorrow). We did the Test the Nation IQ Test. Boyfriend had a grump because I scored higher than him. Heh :) I wrote this.

And that was that. Bank Holiday Joy.

Collection of random thoughts

Morning. First off, a disclaimer: I have a headache, I'm tired, I didn't sleep well last night, house guests mean that I am sorely lacking in any space (they invited themselves for a longer time period than I would have invited them for) to move or think, and I need a flipping holiday. Just so you know.

So, nothing of any real consequence, but a mere collection of whimsies. More than usual, I mean.

Nice piece on the Today Programme this morning about bloggers of the political variety and the effect they have in America, as well as a discussion on whether bloggers could have the same impact over here. Conclusion: we are a couple of years behind the US when it comes to blogging, so maybe in the future, but then again, maybe not because we have the BBC News Website, a veritable news monolith that "everyone" looks at. They don't have an equivalent in the States. Man, my grammar was astonishing there. Conjugate THAT!

I've had basically no time to read this week, and it's making me twitchy. I can't be anti-social and go and hide in the loft with Jonathan Franzen though, no matter how much I would love to. When did I get so busy? With house-guests until next weekend, then a weekend in Glasgow after that, I am very, very much looking forward to my bank holiday weekend away with Boyfriend.

Speaking of whom, I have been receiving an education in the advantages and disadvantages of vinyl versus CD/iPod. Boyfriend's Father and Step-Mother have recently retired, sold up, and gone on a year-long tour of Europe in a mobile home so they can decide which country they want to settle in. Which sounds like a pretty nice way of deciding which country to live in if you ask me, but that's besides the point. All of this means that they have quite a lot of belongings that need storing in the meantime, and it has fallen to Boyfriend to take custody of record player, speakers, reel to reel tape deck, and a mountain of records from his youth (and before). Since Boyfriend is moving in with me at some unspecified point over the next few months, it seemed to make most sense to install all of the above in my loft, which is to be "his domain", and which has the space he is lacking in his own place.

Anyway, Boyfriend has been getting misty-eyed over some of the records now residing chez moi, not least an Eric Clapton single, which had a token on the sleeve to cut out and send off for tickets to see the man himself live. There was something sort of poignant about the sleeve with the triangle cut out of it. Also, the Boomtown Rats single that he wrote on the front cover of when he was a teenager. Some of his records are older than me, not to mention the tapes of him playing with his dad's band when he was about 15. A veritable trip down memory lane.

Most of a whole Sunday was recently spent going through all the records, interesting for me because I have had very little exposure to vinyl. I was born in the 80s, by the time I started listening to music it was all cassettes and boom boxes. I am of the MTV generation. My parents, though music fans (blues and jazz a speciality), had no time for vinyl and my dad was one of the first to get a CD player. As soon as he had hurriedly got everything he wanted on CD, he got shot of the vinyl and the record player. The only vinyl record I remember with any clarity was an LP of Disney songs, bought to entertain me as a toddler. The rest of my childhood was waking up on a Sunday morning in my dad's flat in the West End of Glasgow, his blues albums playing on CD at alarming volume, my dad's singing along enthusiastically, if not tunefully.  Mum, on the other hand, was the jazz fan, and she had a suitcase of cassettes behind the sofa that was pulled out every evening to be pored over on the living room floor, till she decided what she wanted to listen to. She only got a CD player a handful of years ago, when the cassette player finally gave up the ghost.

I digress, sorry, I blame the headache. So, my vinyl education. Things I have learned:

• Yes lyrics. Oh dear sweet mother of god. See also: Emerson Lake and Palmer.
• Vinyl sounds a bit rubbish compared to CD. Witness Boyfriend alternately playing Abbey Road on vinyl and on CD to prove this.
• I now know how to choose to play different tracks on a record. I did not know before the other weekend. Boyfriend thought it was cute that I had to ask. Though I did have to set up his iPod for him.
• My cats are fascinated with the record player, and Zadie kept putting her front paws on the turn table, only to wonder why they seemed to be moving of their own accord.

So, I am learning. Every day is a school day, as my father says. Though, I have to say, I think I'll stick to my iPod. The sound quality is better than any of the above, and at any given time I have nearly 2000 songs in my pocket.

I have recently been having a CD clear-out. I realised that my piles and piles of CDs largely consistedly of really godawful mid-90s heavy metal, which I loved at 14, but which now mainly makes me crack up laughing. God bless Amazon marketplace, for I have sold over 40 CDs in the last week. The rest of the CDs that I am keeping are going up to the loft, which I means downstairs I have more shelf space for books. I may know close to bugger-all about vinyl, but I do know my books, and I fear the shelf space will be filled imminently...

Sorry for this massive ramble today. It was all written in a stream of consciousness, except with slightly more full stops. I need a holiday, for a week or something, where I don't have to run around seeing people and doing housey things. I just want to go somewhere quiet with a pile of books, no mobile phone, and a duvet. Is that really so much to ask?

On names and faces

Progress continues apace with Jonathan Franzen's excellent book of essays How to Be Alone.

In the meantime, though, I just wondered whether anyone else suffered the same afflication as me. That is, I am *awful* at remembering names and faces. Awful. Beyond awful actually. Names are especially bad for me if they sound even the tiniest bit similar.

For instance, consider muso-Boyfriend's hysterical laughter, constant teasing, and complete astonishment when I confessed, one dark and lonely night (possibly after a beer or three) that I got Van Morrison and Val Doonican confused. See what I mean? Now, in a hasty bid to defend myself, I knew that one sang 'Brown Eyed Girl' and 'Moondance' while the other hung about in rocking chairs and chunky sweaters. I just couldn't remember *which one was which*. I confessed this to him months ago, but he stills enjoys bringing it up, quietly muttering "Val Doonican... Van Morrison..." under his breath. Especially when I correct him on things. "Yeah, but you get Val Doonican and Van Morrison mixed up". DID! I *DID* get them mixed up! I can guarantee I'll never get them mixed up again. I even bought a Van Morrison album as penance.

Anyway, all this preamble about yet more of my failings as a human being brings me back to Mr Franzen. You know sometimes you have a picture in your head of what someone looks like? I was convinced I knew what he looked like until it struck me while reading in bed the other night that the person I thought of every time I saw the name Jonathan Franzen was, in fact, Stewart Copeland from The Police. I immediately had to leap from my cosy bed and google-image him. All I can say is... they both have glasses.

Language Barrier

My workplace is fairly rare in that it has its own choir. Well, this is Oxford, dahling.

I have recently joined said choir, after hankering after the choirs I used to sing in when I was younger. I did classical singing training, donchaknow. We're singing Brahm's Requiem - the two piano version - in November, and I'm excited about it already.

However, what I conveniently forgot until I was handed my copy of the music is that it's in German. I speak not a word of the language. While in Germany with friends in 2005, trying to get a train from Frankfurt to Paderborn, I could been found desperately trying to learn things phonetically from a phrase book in the ticket queues. Of course, I was then thrown when they asked a question in reply because all I learned how to say was "Three tickets to Paderborn please". *shakes head* It was shameful really, though I did get my "ein bier bitte" down to a fine art.

So I found myself, at the first Brahms rehearsal last Friday, in a double quandary. Not only did I have to sight-read the music - and that's not something I've had to do since my cello grade exams - but I was also sight-reading the bloody language.  I have downloaded the Cambridge King's College Choir (try saying that 10 times pissed) rendition and have been wandering around my house listening to it on my iPod, trying to get my mouth round the words - the cats have been regarding me with suspicion.

All of which is to say this: if you know me in real life, and I suddenly start reciting things in German at you, please just humour me. And if any passing Germans hear me murdering the Teutonic tongue, I'm really, really sorry.

Morning ramble on a bit of everything

Look at me! Blogging from home! Oh, how I'd missed sitting in the spare room, looking out the french windows, trying to ignore the fact that my neighbour's garden is much nicer than mine (must dig out the sec... secuteurs... secateurs... sorry, I can't spell), and defending my keyboard from two ultra curious cats who enjoy nothing more than padding over it to lick my nose. I return from the midsts of a broadband-less land.

Incidentally, I know it's really quite pathetic to be in broaband-withdrawal after only two weeks. This is because I'm a bit of a geek. I'm fine with that. I actively embrace it.

Further to my geekness, I've just installed a rather natty little widget that gives me stupidly minute detail on all of you, my avid readership (not that there's many of you - I'm at the stage of recognising IP numbers, which is a sorry state of affairs really). I see I've been getting visitors from the exotic climes of Belfast, Italy, University of Glasgow, and even Milton Keynes. Welcome, one and all.

On a different note, I'm going to my first Proper Oxford Ball this evening, and I'm wearing a Proper Ball Gown, which is going to be frankly hilarious because I'm not really a "dress" person. I'm more of a jeans and Converse person. But one has to make an effort when one is going to a ball, doesn't one? Between Boyfriend, who has been forced to dig out his dinner suit from the depths of God only knows where, and I, in my full length burgundy glory, we're going to cut quite the dash. Possibly. I am already dreading the photos... my friends have been explaining the protocol though, so I think we'll be fine. Thank God I have several friends who went to Oxford, that's all I can say. I never went to my graduation ball when I was at Glasgow Uni, and the graduation ball at Stirling basically equated to a band and some balloons in the gym hall. That said, at Stirling it was Diana Rigg who conferred our degrees, so that was a bit exciting (not least for my father, who was in the front row).

Anyway, tonight I shall transform from my denim-clad self into A Proper Girl. Or at least, that's the plan. We all know I'll spill champagne down my dress and smear lipstick across my face within a hour. At least there's a music quiz to keep Boyfriend happy.

In other news, we went to see both psychological mind trickster Derren Brown, and a wonderful singer by the name of Kyla Brox last week. Mr Brown was a baffling as usual, and I appreciated the Victorian-seance-theme of the evening. Boyfriend was afterwards trying to describe the tricks to the landlord in my local but didn't get terribly far as it largely amounted to "but... he knew what was in the envelope! And! He knew who was going to come up on stage at the end!". I guess you had to be there. Kyla Brox was fabulous. I'd never heard of her, so was trusting Boyfriend's recommendation. In the end, I enjoyed it more than he did, it was me that bought a cd, and it was me that went to speak to her afterwards. :) Typical.

I see this moring that Salman Rushdie has been given a knighthood. Hurrah for him! I really must get round to that copy of The Satanic Verses that has been sitting on the shelf for more than a year now. At the moment, though, I am dividing my time between Eminent Victorians by Lytton Strachey, and Bleak House by Dickens. I was talking to a friend about them last night after I'd returned from a bit of an epic pub session (a good friend was leaving work and returning to the Motherland so we gave a bit of a send-off), and said that since I had had a bit to drink I'd be reading Dickens instead of Strachey because I had to concentrate less on Dickens.

"Kirsty", she said, "only you would refer to Dickens as the easy read. You're such a nerd, but that's why I love you." I was quite touched, oddly.

Too much sleep, the wrong illustrations, and nippy fingers

You must excuse me for I am somewhat stunned by sleep. I stayed up till the wee small hours reading, before realising that I did actually have to get up the next morning, so had, perhaps, better get some shut-eye. I was awoken violently by a staggering combination of my mobile phone alarm bleeping malevolently at me and John Humphries having some sort of verbal altercation with Patricia Hewitt (I had apparently fallen asleep with the radio on). This aural assault was quickly followed by Alice - one of my two staggeringly beautiful black cats - leaping upon my stomach and purring at me.

I am still not quite awake, despite the bountious quantities of uber-strong coffee I have imbibed. I feel vaguely like I've been slapped about the face with a large, wet fish, a la Monty Python. Anyway, this is all a disclaimer in case I don't seem quite on the ball this morning. The more uncharitable amongst you will be questioning whether I'm _ever_ on the ball, to which I say PAH! This is my blog and I shall ramble if I want to. Oh god, what am I talking about?

Books! I finally finished the majestic Jane Eyre last night. You don't need me to explain how wonderful it is, I'm sure. It suffices to say that it is one of those rare novels that I can read an infinite number of times without tiring of it. In fact, in my slightly ecstatic state on finishing it I briefly considered going back and immediately starting it again until I remembered just how many books I've had sitting waiting patiently for my attentions while I have been wallowing in the world of Jane, Rochester, Bertha, the family Rivers and Thornfield Hall. I will return to you Jane, I promise, but I have other things to read first.

My opinion on the illustrated edition that I've been reading remains unchanged. The illustrator, an American comic book artist by the name of Dame Darcy, calls herself - randomly - a "neo-Victorian", and obviously loves the novel. But... she seems to miss the point SO MANY TIMES with her illustrations that I found myself questioning both her ability to remember what she's drawn before (Pilot the dog changes colour from one drawing to the next), and to actually restrain her imagination and draw what it says in the book. For example, as I said before, why put Jane on the front cover in front of a burning mansion when Jane doesn't see the Thornfield fire at all but only finds out about it months later? Why do that? It's such an elementary error that I don't know who to blame more... DD for drawing it, or the publishers for not picking her up on it.

I like the idea of illustrated editions of books, and Jane Eyre is ripe with possibility for such a product. Even doing a gothic-y one is not a bad idea in itself because there is so much in the novel that does fall under the literary definition of The Gothic, but please, GET IT RIGHT. This edition could have been amazing, but instead, it was just irritating. And what is with the photo of the illustrator on the back cover? Such pretentiousness. Why did I buy it in the first place? Because I hoped that the cover wasn't an indicator of what lay inside (and I had book tokens to use up). Do I wish I hadn't bought it? Pretty much.

But finish it I did. And then I moved on to another book, wildly different to Charlotte Bronte's. Wanting to read something completely removed from the Victorian, I picked up Negative Space by Zoe Strachan, which I picked up ages ago after adoring her last novel, Spin Cycle. It is her first novel, and is so far largely set between the West End of Glasgow and Kilmarnock. I'm not terribly far into it, but so far it's shaping up to be at least comparable to Spin Cycle, which was one of my favourite novels of 2004. Strachan has a lovely way with imagery - in the very first paragraph she describes someone who has just woken up as looking like a "half-shut knife". I thought that worked beautifully. It's also looking like a very quick read, so no doubt I'll have a fuller report up here soon.

But for now I'm stopping here. I have been somewhat obsessively playing my recently-bought electric guitar, and I have been learning to play leady things. This, I confess, suits me far better because I'm a cellist, and playing one note at a time comes more naturally than contorting my hand into weird shapes. :) Thing is, it doesn't half make the old fingers nip when the callouses fall off...

***AN UPDATE***

Boyfriend tells me that "half-shut knife" is a recognised Ayrshire-ism. This I did not know. Probably because I'm not from Ayrshire, and he is. Ho hum. Still love the image though, and will be shamelessly nicking it for my own use.

Going for a Song

So, singing isn't something I've really ever done in public. Certainly not by myself at any rate. In fact, my only previously singing-in-public experience was in my regional choir at high school. And it was in Latin. Ubi Caritas, in fact.

But on Sunday night at my local's open mic night, the bullet was bitten, and I sang three (count 'em! three!) songs, with Boyfriend on guitar. I'm not a singer. There are many better singers than me in the world. But I seem to have done alright. On the set list were Underdog by Turin Brakes, The Golden Age by Beck, and Girl and the Ghost by KT Tunstall, and it seems to have gone down a storm. In fact I'll be going back a week on Sunday (this Sunday I'm in the Motherland), back by popular demand... but what will I sing?! Oh the agonies of being an artiste. :)

Also in the land of open mic nights, I was at one inadvertently a couple of Thursdays ago at a pub in East Oxford. It was Irish-themed, and people were there with violins and flutes and guitars. I had high hopes; I've been to Dublin and heard the music in pubs, and while it isn't the type of thing I usually go for, it's a nice way to pass an evening. This night however, the mentalists had evidently been let loose, and none of the instruments (voices included) were in tune with each other. I've no doubt they were in tune to themselves, but sadly none of them were in concert pitch. It was... agonising to say the least. My friends and I took solace in the plentiful supply of beer (in my defence, the music really was awful, and I was celebrating getting onto my MA) and got somewhat drunk.

I have to say that the next day at work was less pleasant than it might otherwise have been.

Relief

Apologies for a few days of quietness. You will all be relieved to hear that the essay was completed and sent in in good time - I'm sure you've all been ringing your hands in desperation since Friday. And the fairy cakes were very tasty, though I never got round to icing them.

I had an exceptionally lazy weekend with Boyfriend, who was forced to watch the entirety of the Eurovision Song Contest with me on Saturday night. Wogan just gets better as the quality of the songs deteriorates each year. Scooch were just horrendous, as I'm sure you all know, and frankly it was a travesty that we got any points at all. I hadn't heard the song all the way through before, and was aghast at it - the innuendo! "Would you like something to suck on landing, sir?"

Err, no, actually. *Shudder*

The sooner I wipe that one from the old memory banks the better, frankly. On Sunday night, we went to the new open mic night that my local pub - the best pub in the world, incidentally - has just started. Numbers were low, but hopefully it'll pick up in the coming weeks. Boyfriend played a few songs, and was generally fabulous, and one kind gent told him that his version of 'Blackbird' was the best one he'd ever heard apart from The Beatles. I was all proud. :D I have promised to sing next week, God help us all.

Apart from that, I have largely just been very nervous about the MA interview, which is the real reason for my silence. Finally, it happened yesterday afternoon. My train from Oxford was delayed so was nervous wreck and had to get a cab from the station because I wouldn't have made it on time if I'd taken the Tube... burst through the door with approximately 3 minutes to go only to find out they were running late anyway, so I needn't have panicked. And the interview was great, actually. I made to say some sensible things, and I seemed to make sense, because they're letting me onto the course. :D I am *ecstatic*.

So, all the worrying and preparation has left me very little reading time over the last few days, though I have been ploughing into the new Penguin illustrated version of Jane Eyre, largely because it was relevant to my uni application so I felt like I could get away with it.

Jane Eyre is one of my favourite books anyway. I know it's been read to death, and it's probably a really obvious favourite to have, but I have loved it since I was little. I first read an abridged version when I was maybe 8 or 9, then read the full version in my early teens. It cropped again when I did my first degree, and I've read it again since. And now. Every time I go back to it I find more to love.

The illustrated edition, though, was a pure indulgence. The goth-y, Tim Burton-esque drawings appeal to my repressed teenage gothdom, but unless that applies to you I really wouldn't bother. Even I have ben irritated by some of the illustrations just being a bit, well, wrong. For instance, on the cover you see Jane (presumably) outside a burning house - I assume Thornfield. But Jane wasn't there when the house burned down, she just came back to find an empty shell! You see what I mean. Small irritations. And the photo of the illustrator on the back is just a bit pretentious.

RIP Cassettes

Ladies and gentleman, a minute's silence please for the passing of the humble cassette.

Yes, apparently it's true. The cassette is becoming obsolete, and I, for one, am quite sad about the whole thing. Being an 80's child, they were the format of my childhood, and I have fond memories of it the same way that other people have a soft spot for vinyl. I know the tape got chewed easily, and they wore out with repeated listenings, but there was just something exciting and homemade about them. I'm sure music geek Boyfriend will lambast me and tell me about levels and sound quality or something (won't you, dear?), but I stand defiant. I love tapes.

One of my earliest memories is standing in the kitchen of our house, aged about 3, while my dad's Moody Blues cassette played on the little ghetto blaster thing on top of the fridge. It was a black cassette with an orange label (I can't remember the name of the album, or indeed any of the songs, though would be thrilled if anyone can enlighten me based on that scant description), and I remember repeatedly pressing stop and play alternatively because I was high on the power of being able to start and stop music as I pleased. I remember asking my parents if the band were inside the machine and that's how they knew when to start and stop playing.

Incidentally, my grasp on technology has improved little since. I feel high-tech having a blog. I can't work a video player, and I couldn't figure out how to set up my answerphone. But I digress.

The first tape that was All Mine was the NOW CLASSIC Kylie album, with The Locomotion and I Should Be So Lucky and Je Ne Sais Pas Pourquoi on it. I was six. I made up my own dance routines in the kitchen that were largely based on me clambering onto the work tops then doing star jumps off them and nearly breaking my head.

My dancing hasn't improved either.

Going to see my dad at the weekends when I was older meant listening to his tapes in the car. I can still recite most of the lyrics from The Proclaimers's Sunshine on Leith album. I hope that says more about my dad's music taste than mine. Mind you... then came my goth phase. It started around the age of 13 and lasted until way into university (I'm suitably ashamed). I started compiling my own series of mix tapes that I could listen to on the way to school on my Walkman, imaginatively entitled "Cool Rock Songs". I believe I got up to Volume 9, and they comprised of everything from Def Leppard (I'm not ashamed, I'll always have a soft spot for Pour Some Sugar on Me) to Nirvana to Metalllica and later Marilyn Manson, Korn and co. My dad used to cut the tapes to stop me playing them in the car. Can't say I blame him now, actually.

Oh, the shame and embarrassment. My last car had a cassette player, and I kept a stash of my surviving mix tapes in there to whip out as a blast from the past occasionally (strictly on solo car trips). I suppose I should have taken the hint when my car was broken into once, and they left all my tapes behind.

Anyway. Yes, I adore my iPod, and yes, I am addicted to downloading whatever I like. But yes, I will miss tapes... making someone a mix CD somehow just isn't the same. Too sterile somehow. Maybe that's just me.