Wednesday, March 26
resultThings are going swimmingly at work (or, as my mother somewhat inexplicably calls it, my 'little job'. To me this evokes tripping off to work in a milliners shop three afternoons a week and demurely handing over my pay packet to Jack every Thursday so he can dole me out the housekeeping money. But I digress.) Anyway, the happy tidings are that the eleven-month contract I was offered last year just after I finished my PhD has been upgraded to a permanent contract. Life is good.
On the ubiquitous subject of gender roles I greatly enjoyed cross-dressing as a junior mobster (Baby-Face Elder) for Clare's Gangsters and Molls party on Saturday. Slicked my hair back and wore my job interview trouser suit, white shirt, black tie and fedora, the last two items borrowed off Jack. J was an accessory in more than one sense of the word, gussied up in a fetching fuchsia and orange dress (not mine, I hasten to add), scarlet lipstick (OK, I'll admit to that, but only because it's part of my dress-ups makeup), a black feather boa (Alex's) and carrying a delicate little evening bag (OK, mine, no excuse). I put his hair up in braids fastened with big pink and purple flowers, and he was a symphony of colour. Party itself was a blast - a group of us clubbed together to buy Clare her first tattoo, which seemed to make her extremely happy.
Realised the next day that I felt a lot more confident and less ridiculous dressed as boy than I ever have in an evening frock, high heels and makeup, which generally makes me feel like a reluctant drag princess. Go figure.
Thursday, March 20
wtf?Saw one of those 'Buy Two, Get One Free' signs yesterday. In a shoe shop.
????????
Wednesday, March 19
it's all down to shoutingI've started cycling to work again, taking the towpath along the river as far as I can, dodging barge-dwelling dogs and rowing coaches with megaphones, sucking in the smell of mown grass and blossom and the odd cow by-product. Usually by 8:15 the Cam is rowing crew soup but today it was unexpectedly quiet in a glassy misted-over way. Until, that is, the stillness was suddenly perforated by hoarse yells of 'DO YOU WANT IT? CAN YOU SEE IT, CAMBRIDGE? CAN YOU SEE IT? LET ME SEE HOW MUCH YOU WANT IT! SHOW ME! OH YEAH! HURNGH!' With the sound of creaking rowlocks and pained grunts, a sweating crew of eight rounded the bend in the river, their pint-sized cox continuing to bellow further ludicrous macho exhortations at them. I'm surprised none of them fell out of the boat.
I went back for another Raqs Sharqi class on Monday, having given the mocking voices in my head the evening off (well, they've been working so hard lately, they deserve a break). Spent a very satisfying and klutz-free hour and a quarter learning how to walk like an Egyptian, pause, wiggle frantically, and repeat (this was by way of being choreography). The Egyptian walking was not at all like the Bangles song and did not involve striking sideways poses. Instead it consisted of a clumping, lopsided gait, propelling the feet forward from the hips as though the ankles had been hobbled together with something rigid. Have no idea what the political implications might be of said movement, nor of the fact that I took to it immediately and enthusiastically.
Friday, March 14
NB. I do enjoy my job. Usually. Unlike some of the poor sods who contributed to this page. Ah, it takes me back... if i hand over my purse will you leave me alone please?it's red nose day. the enforced corporate jollity is starting to get out of hand. i already gave them all my money. please don't let them make me join in the conga line.
help me....
Thursday, March 13
Having spent the better part of the last decade (and then some) at university, exercise has been something I fitted around study and work as a necessary health and sanity measure rather than physical activity for its own sake. Now that I have all this thesis-free time I decided that this year I would learn something new and physical, just for the fun of it. However I'm torn between sticking to the Raqs Sharqi (co-ordination, creativity, getting in touch with long-dormant [or possibly moribund] femininity, eventually managing not to look like dancing potato while I'm doing it) or some form of martial art (physical, mental and spiritual rigour, ability to punch people's kidneys out through their noses).Mmmmm, punching...
Speaking of which, a fight broke out on our bus today, and I hasten to add that I wasn't involved. I don't usually get the bus because it is actually two buses and takes over an hour, as opposed to walking (50 mins with a following wind) or cycling (20 mins, ditto). But I've feeling a bit buggy over the last couple of days and it's a warm and peaceful place to sit still with a book while someone else sorts out the getting you to work bit. Provided, that is, that two of your fellow passengers aren't threatening to break each other's fucking necks in a most discourteous manner. Apparently one of them, an older man with a Mediterranean-sounding accent, had trodden on the foot of the other, a rather lippy sixteen-year-old girl straight off the Arbury estate. This lead to a heated debate which took in, among other issues, the etiquette of communal travel, the legitimacy of self-defense and current immigration policy. The volume, if not the inventiveness, of the debate increased, and the rest of the passengers sat with their heads cocked to one side as if half-listening to a mildly interesting radio programme. Eventually the girl took out her mobile and made an obviously phony call to the police, announcing dramatically that she wished to report an assault on the C1 bus. At this point I had to change buses so I missed the end. I hope it was good.
Thursday, March 6
Aaargh. My odo has somehow managed to zero itself, possibly while in my coat pocket. It's as though the last 900 miles never happened.Mind you if it were a car odo I'd probably be quite chuffed.
Still, aaargh.
Tuesday, March 4
exotic wigglingWent to my first ever Raqs Sharqi class last night with Alison. Can't yet decide whether is: (a) ludicrous and patronising appropriation/vulgarisation/commercialisation of marginalised yet venerable tradition by a load of fickle over-privileged Western women with too much free time; (b) load of trendy bollocks; (c) bit of a laugh and an excuse for some exercise; (d) all of above. Also discovered that either: (a) wiggling one's arse about in time to music is a subtler art than I had anticipated; or (b) I'm generally uncoordinated and specifically crap at dancing. I suspect (b) - I've never got on with dancing, especially not the choreographed kind. (Although I once participated in a Queer Ceroc class. For political reasons.) I imagine that shortly after my emergence from the womb my mother took one look at my chubby, flailing limbs and made a mental note that ballet lessons would be a needless expense. Anyway after an hour and a quarter of increasingly frantic wiggling accompanied by the popping of hips (mine) and the squelching of knee joints (ditto), I realised to my chagrin that I am so uncoordinated I can't even make my hips twist in one direction while my torso goes in the other. Pity me. Still, there's always next week, eh?
Jack came home last night with a grin that was at once triumphant and slightly shamefaced. 'I've got you a present,' he announced. 'It's for your bike. Notice I don't say bought', he added hastily, to keep my mounting excitement from getting out of control.
'You've ripped something off one of the bikes in your work bike rack,' I said. 'No wait - you found something by the side of the road.'
Turns out it was a bit of both - there's an abandoned bike chained to a post near his work, which is being progressively denuded of all working parts, and Jack remembered that I needed a panier rack. My hero.
