Creative and Witty or Decidedly Weird?

So it's official. The Central Line actually has delays written into its raison d'etre. I'd long suspected, but finally received confirmation this morning.

Uncharacteristically, a train showed up within a couple of minutes of my arrival on the platform at Notting Hill. Even madder, it wasn't jam packed - let's not get carried away here, obviously there were no free seats, but my head actually occupied only its own space, as opposed to that of a stranger's armpit, for once. So we happily trundle along - wonder of wonders, the train doesn't even sit in a tunnel for interminable minutes and then… at Lancaster Gate… an announcement comes over the loudspeaker "ladies and gentlemen due to a service requirement, this train will be held here for one minute." And again at Queensway. "Due to a service requirement this train will be held here for one minute." A service requirement? A service requirement to delay the train? That explains so much.

As I've mentioned before, I am a bit useless at the whole 'constantly on the pull' part of being single. I am not very good at noticing things in general (it's not uncommon for me to arrive home soaking wet and when someone asks if it's raining outside reply "not that I noticed" - and mean it) and so keeping my eyes habitually peeled for the man of my dreams simply requires altogether more concentration than I am capable of. My sister despairs of me. Whenever we are out and I am happily focusing all my energies into boogying to the wrong rhythm and singing along off key, she will grab me, whirl me around with slightly too much violence and hiss "there is a fit guy checking you out!" By the time I have emerged from my shell-shocked panic of "Who? Where? When? … Why?!?" Whoever he was has usually married someone else.

A couple of weeks ago, I reached a new crap-at-pulling low. I was drinking with a mate of mine, when a guy he works with joined us. This guy, on paper, is 100% my ideal man.
Tall, dark and handsome? Check (so sue me for being unoriginal)
Creative and witty? Check (at least I didn't say good sense of humour!)
Slightly wild, a bit of a loose cannon? Check (yes, this is one of my requirements… and you wonder why I am single!)
Decidedly weird? Check (don't look at me like that)
Canadian? Check!
We're all in the bar, some other people join the table, so we all get up to move to a bigger table. I had stashed my coat and bag under the chair opposite me, so when everyone got up, I hovered by the table waiting for everyone to go so that I can lean over and grab my stuff. Mr Right is also a gentleman (forgot to mention that - also swoon-worthy!) so he gestures and says "after you". I explained about my stuff, and Mr Right grabbed it, handed it to me and held on just a second too long after I took it, smiling a (I believe, patented) "you're the only woman in the world" smile. So what did I do? I thanked him and walked away. Now don’t get me wrong, I understand from my mate who works with him that this particular bloke is capable of monogamy for approximately three and a half minutes (usually in a jammed stop elevator) so it's not as though I gave up a chance of true lurve and hand holding through the park and babies, but I didn't even think that at the time. Here was, theoretically, my dream man, and it didn't even cross my mind to go into turbo-charged flirt mode (although goodness knows what that would have entailed).

However, just because I am useless at all this, doesn't mean my sister is. She is a woman on a mission, a pimping-her-sister-out mission. Her latest project works with her. It seems that she has pitched me, undesirable qualities (as only a sibling can) and all, and apparently he has expressed willingness to climb a rock. (In an effort to dissuade her, I once announced that I would only consider rock-climbers.) Last night she brought home a gift from the Project for me (a good start, it must be said)… an eighties teen girl book entitled "My Dream Man". Intriguing. Could this be a Creative and Witty check or a even Decidedly Weird check?

Michael Kelland Hutchence January 22 1960 - November 22 1997

Where to start?

This time nine years ago, I was working my very first job after finishing school around six months previously. It was a terribly trendy PR firm and I happily pretended to be a character in Absolutely Fabulous while sending new fangled emails to friends and drinking champagne from 10am. That particular morning, I remember having a vague sense of 'something has happened' but for whatever reason had been in a world of my own that morning and hadn't paid much attention to the newspapers that people were reading on the tube. I arrived at work and busied myself with the first order of the day, making a cup of tea, joining the group of PR execs in the kitchen area who were all busy outdoing one another with barbed quips about this scandalous death dominating the headlines. One of the male event organisers caused much hilarity by confidently asserting that this was indeed a well known way to enhance orgasm - prompting everyone else to ask precisely how he knew. I didn't pay masses of attention, until I was headed back to my desk with the cup of tea, when I idly asked someone who they were talking about.

"Michael Hutchence. You know, who's going out with Paula Yates? Singer in that band, err…"

"INXS." I muttered, an indescribable chill sweeping over me.

"Yeah that's it. He's only gone and hung himself. Died yesterday."

I walked slowly back to my desk, telling myself that there was nothing to be upset about. I had thought the hoards crying over Princess Di's death a couple of months before a bit ridiculous - here was a man I had never met, nor was ever likely to, what did his death matter to me? It had nothing to do with me, it wasn't my place to grieve. But seconds later I was sitting at my desk wracked with heaving sobs, feeling acutely the absence of a man so vibrant, so alive, so creative that the world was a palpably duller place without him.

They say that the brightest stars burn out first, and that is the only explanation necessary. In the weeks and months that followed, as tabloid media picked over the gory details and speculated over what caused his death, I could only rage that it didn't matter. A father, son, brother, friend and idol is gone.

Musing for the week

On Monday morning the Central Line was suspended from White City to Leytonstone. So despite its name, it neglected to touch central London whatsoever. Just to add to the fun the Circle Line was taking it easy, clearly easing itself back into work mode after a lazy weekend. We all know the feeling. It was off down to Earls Court, therefore, in the optimistic hope that a District Line train might see fit to take me to work. Clearly, everyone else in West London had had the same thought - who needs a sauna when you've got the District Line? As we all stood on the platform, bravely launching ourselves into the seething mass of humanity on the train, a bloke newly arrived on the platform asked generally of the crowd what was up with the trains. An elderly man, formal in a three piece suit, turned wearily around and replied in a cut glass accent "well they're fucked."
Just Monday morning then.

One of the Sunday supplements carried a feature about women's body image and relationship with food. It seems that we are all verging on annorexic, ridden with guilt and self hatred every time so much as a morsel crosses our lips. Err, who are these women exactly? Presumably they are all hidden away sobbing over lettuce leaves, or have dieted themselves to such teensy proportions that they are invisible to the naked eye, but for goodness sake would everyone please stop tarring us all with the same ridiculous brush? Don't get me wrong, if I were desperately overweight, if my health was at risk, I was hindered from doing things I want to do or people looked nervous when I boarded a plane, then I would worry about it and sort it out. But as a perfectly averaged sized person - neither a bag of bones nor as wide as I am tall - I eat when I am hungry, thoroughly enjoy a good meal, occasionally while away a boring morning at work day dreaming about chocolate but other than that do not give food a moment's thought.

It seems that a particular area of concern is what men think of our percieved wobbly bits. For one thing, I tend to find that most blokes, bless them, are fairly easily pleased and as long as there is a pair of boobs in there somewhere then they are happy enough. And further - I know the male species is regarded as a bit dim from time to time (again, bless them) but surely we should give them credit for already having a vague idea of what to expect? If I have dated a guy a couple of times, and presumably he has looked at me during those times, then why on earth would I worry that he will whip my clothes off and promptly fall over in shock not to discover Kate Moss beneath? Why would I want to date a man who thinks I wear magic clothes?

Razorlight

After all the pallava of journeying down to the deepest darkest depths of Surrey and paying my 50p to pick up the tickets I am pleased to report that Razorlight were absolutely worth every iota of sleepless deep anxiety.

To be completely honest, I hadn't expected them to be quite so good live. You know those bands that come out with slick, fantastic albums and everyone goes bonkers over them and they win a billion Brits and Q Awards then gradually people realize that they can't cut it live so they rather swiftly swoosh off the face of the planet and no one ever hears of them again until one of them shows up on Celebrity Big Brother? Those bands that, when you hear them live, you are blown away by the talent of of the techs who mixed their album on the studio? Well if I am entirely honest I had a teeny sneaking suspicion that Razorlight might be one of them. The UK is just so saturated with them right now, that cynical me thinks that if someone's promotion team is working that hard, they are trying to squeeze out all the dosh they can from the hype before anyone notices that they can't play for toffee.

However, I stand corrected. Those boys can play - not even in the usual Brit rock/indie girlie boy kind of way - they rock. The show opened with a stunning drum solo - their drummer is phenomenal - then the bass then other guitars kicked in one by one (someone been watching Live Baby Live?!) and we were off to a roller coaster ride of rocking tune after rocking tune. Their instrumentals were spectacular - Johnny's voice one of the strongest I've heard in some time (he held a few notes for a faint-inducing amount of time) they performed overall with an energy and confidence that far outweighs their years.

I am thrilled to finally have a Brit band that I truly love - since James, Blur and Travis (only one of whom are still together and even they've been quiet for some time) I have really struggled to find a home grown band. I think Oasis are the most overrated act since Madonna (who I can't bear) and while I like Franz Ferdinand and Snow Patrol, I am not blown away. Yet, at least - looks like I'll be seeing Snow Patrol in a few weeks so might end up adding them to Claire's hall of fame after all. I am sure that they are thrilled.

Serves Me Right for Cheating on INXS...

There are very few things that truly wind me up. As a general rule, I am of the "meh, it'll figure itself out" school of thought. When I got my passport renewed less than 24 hours before I was due to check in for a flight to Vancouver, my mum was in a deep state of sleepless anxiety, but until the plane actually took off without me on it, I refused to get all that stressed about it. Every time I tell the story of running out of petrol in the middle of bugger all in north Queensland and having no choice but to sleep in the car alone, people gasp and exclaim (okay fine, exclaim might be a bit of an exageration) that I must have been terrified - and looking back, realizing that absolutely no one in the world knew where I was (other than "between Townsville and Brisbane") and my cell phone was with my friend Tony (and therefore a couple of hundred kilometers behind me in McKay) it strikes me that it was a bit worrying. But at the time, I just shrugged and cuddled down on the backseat because what choice did I have?

It's not that I am a terribly mature, evolved, mellow person - I think it comes down to sheer laziness actually. If I can see something to be gained from kicking up a fuss, then I will do so; but if it clearly isn't going to achieve anything then I would rather expend the fuss-energy elsewhere. There are a few exceptions:

1) Truck drivers who signal their preference for going faster by driving three feet behind me and flashing their lights. (Australian truck drivers are the worst - especially those on the Bruce Highway when I am going over the speed limit and there is no where to let them pass.)
2) Doormen at West End clubs (just in general. I unequivocably detest every last one of them - and that's not a generalization, I have pretty much had a run in with every last one of them. The king of those detested by me is currently the pretentious halfwit on the door at Café de Paris who thinks he has the right to comment on other people's appearances - not mine, incidentally - when he thinks it appropriate to gel his hair back in 2006.)
3) South West trains (just in general - I do believe that they slowly suck my soul out every time I have to get on one of their interminably slow/delayed/cancelled excuses for a train service.)

And that is pretty much it.

Having said all of that, I am currently in a deep state of sleepless anxiety (although to be fair, given that it's 11.42am my boss wouldn't be thrilled if I was in a state of sleepful anxiety) due to panicy high jinx over getting hold of tickets for this evening's Razorlight concert at Wembley. I bought them off Ebay (a brilliantly selfish Christmas present for my sister as I get to go with her!) on Saturday. I did not - pay attention, because this is important - sign in to PayPal to pay for them, because I couldn't remember the password. Instead I put in my card number and address and waited patiently for the tickets to arrive. I fully accept that I should have paid more attention to the receipt when it was emailed to me, but you don't usually, do you? I glanced over it, it all looked fine and that was that… except that it turns out that Ebay or PayPal obviously recognised my email address or card number or something - because they added the transaction to my PayPal acount - which has as a postal address my parents' down in Surrey. Which is where the tickets are now. I frantically email mum to get our neighbour who has a key to our post box's number, hoping that she can get the tickets and I will send a courier down to pick them up… except that the neighbour isn't home. Most likely to stop me dancing around the office screeching and tearing my hair out, Emma suggested that I take a half day's holiday and go and get them myself. So that is all fine. Until mum emails to remind me that the sorting office in Horsley shuts at 12.30pm… which is less than an hour away and as it's at least an hour and a half's journey (on buggering bollocksing fuckwit South West trains) I am unlikely to make it. I've phoned the sorting office and the man there promised to take the tickets across the road to the post office in Bishopsmead Parade, which is open until 6 and this is going to cost me 50p. I plan to invoice PayPal.