"Magic Wands: Need They Have A Point?"

Come closer, my chickadees, and I shall relate a tale. A tale of glamour, intrigue and romance. Okay, actually, there’s no romance. And it is, objectively speaking, a little light on intrigue. And the glamour is unmistakably missing. But other than that, it is a tale exactly as advertised.

It is a tale that begins last Saturday afternoon, at about five o’clock. I had slept off my early morning Harry Potter read, and was in Richmond, shopping. I had bopped around M&S’s sale, as one does, and decided to buy the previously-mentioned yellow-striped polo shirt. And then, fair readers, my eye fell upon a skirt. A navy, knee-length skirt, with a bow thing at the front and a few pleats. It was sort of like a netball skirt, except longer and less routinely pleated, and without the… actually, no. It was not at all like a netball skirt. Expunge that comparison from your minds. Anyway, I quite liked it. And being a creature of impulse, I bought it along with the yellow-striped polo shirt.

And now I’m having a quandary. I tried it on with the yellow-striped polo shirt, and decided it didn’t suit me (it is a trifle boxy, and as I am myself a trifle boxy, not to mention deplorably short on the old leg front, it was not a happy union of clothing and figure), and I would return it. But this morning, for some reason, I tried it on again with a red v-neck top suitable for the purposes of working like a trojan (don’t say a word), and my red shoes, and I decided it didn’t look too bad. I consulted Katie on the matter, and she agreed that all in all I could have looked more hideous. I am now at work, wearing my navy knee-length sort-of-pleated skirt. And I’m still not convinced. Obviously it’s too late to take it back now, but – oh, fiddle! What to do? What, as the constant cry goes, did Baby Jee do in the fit of a clothing crisis? When he stood in front of his little cupboard, deciding whether to wear the brown robes or the slightly shorter brown robes with the little twiddly red bit? What then, fair readers?

Having put aside this trauma for a moment, I shall embark upon another, not dissimilar tale. I braved the Monsoon sale last week on having a spare ten minutes at Waterloo, and purchased with my dwindling pennies a skirt and an evening top. The skirt has met with unqualified approval in the sartorial centre of my brain. The top failed at the first hurdle and I decided I would perforce have to take it back. Monsoon sale items must be returned within a week. I made my purchasal a week ago. I have forgotten to bring the top with me today. Katie, was the plan to take the Silverlink up to Camden this evening? Because if Monsoon is still open later in the evenings, I thought I might just train it into Waterloo, take the wretched thing back, and tube it up to Camden instead. But I shall see how late Monsoon is open.

Moving away from my clothing-related woe, last night saw the Guide trip to see Wicked, which more or less went off without a hitch, from my point of view. The Guides were all on time. N and H had their forms (N rather mysteriously so, given that her mother had denied all knowledge, but there you go), and R had left hers behind, but filled in a new one and her grandmother signed it. H realised whilst we were waiting for the train that she had left her glasses at home, but she rang up and her father brought them to the station in time, so we caught the planned train. Got to Victoria at about quarter to seven, and I let them roam free in WH Smiths for a while whilst we waited for Xanthe. Pobbled over to the theatre, where they all wanted to go to the loo, though unfortunately the theatre three-minutes was called, and I eventually had to go and hustle them a bit so we didn’t get stranded (not that it was going to happen and usually, of course, one ignores the theatre three-minutes as it is a giant lie, but on this occasion I was playing it safe). Wicked is, of course, made of win, and the girls seemed to enjoy it lots, and were reasonably well-behaved (though N and O could have won prizes for rustling at one stage, and R kept having to explain the plot to H). We got home without any bother, and at the stated time – huzzah! They all piled out at the end, and I wish I had told them beforehand that they needed to come and tell me who they were going home with, because none of them actually bothered, and we were peering around trying to see who was with whom.

So, I hope all the grown-ups enjoyed themselves! Tis a fabulous show, n’est-ce pas? Merci to Pimly for coming to Mortlake with me, and holding all my bits and not minding my bad temper, and merci to Katie for being the Other Grown-Up on the way home. In an evaluatey kind of way, did it work smoothly for those who went? If there was anything you thought I should have done, or shouldn’t have done, please could you let me know so I can fix it next time!

Steve tonight!!! Very excited, very excited indeed...

"Well, we can't all come and go by bubble!"

So, a few more thoughts on Wicked.

1. I do really hate the Apollo (I know, sorry, I keep going on about this). Last time Katie and I went, we got day seats and were in the front row of the stalls, which was brill, and meant I didn’t really notice the rest of the theatre, but last night we were half-way up the circle, and it’s just the most ludicrously giant theatre in the whole of Munchkinland… er, London.

2. There were lots of new cast members, chiefly Elphaba, Glinda, Fiyero and Madam Morrible. They were all jolly good. Whatshername Whatshername was good as Elphaba, and had an excellent singing voice, though I wondered what exactly her accent was doing when she spoke. And Dianne Whatshername was really good as Glinda, though I wasn’t sure to begin with. And I liked the new Fiyero.

3. I do really love the way it weaves in and out of The Wizard of Oz. I mean, there’s all the obvious stuff with Dorothy and the cyclone and the Yellow Brick Road, and the bits about how things came to be, like the winged monkeys (did I miss it, or did she not say ‘fly, my pretties!’, which I’m sure was in the script before?), and the Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow. But then there’s the throw away lines like Nessa and Boq: “What’s in the punch?” “Lemons and melons and pears.” “Lemons and melons and pears? Oh my!” And Elphaba’s first cackle (still love that, though I think Idina Menzel did it better), and Glinda telling her to get over it, they’re just shoes… *sigh* I love this show. Must go again at some stage…

4. The music. The music is so fab. I love it vee much indeed. When I’m listening to it at home (and singing along, natch), I like Defying Gravity best, but when I go to see it at the theatre, I always end up liking No Good Deed more – don’t know why. I think it’s all that woe and angst behind it. *loves*

"As terrifying as terror is..."

So, Gordon Brown has announced that there will be a consultation on whether to extend the period a person can be held without charge to 56 days. This comes two years after Tony Blair's proposal to extend it to 90 days was defeated in the Commons (it's currently 28 days).

I appreciate that the whole global terrorism thing is a bit of a threat, and people nowadays seem rather keen on the blowing-people-up plan, but to be honest, that's been the case for years. And yes, the kind of terrorist networks which apparently are flourishing now make evidence-gathering tricksy. But that should NOT mean that we abandon some of the most basic tenets of law. In this country, we do NOT bang people up without telling them why. We do NOT keep them in prison for months on end without bringing charges. Apparently, the first duty of the Government is security. Take a look at Guantanamo Bay and the concepts behind it, people. If that's "security", I'm not sure I want it. I do not wish to be secure in the knowledge that my country denies people their basic human rights.

There must be better ways to deal with the problem of finding evidence and what have you. Denying bail to terrorist suspects, for example, which is at least principled, and presumably has more or less the same outcome.

"It seems the artichoke is steamed..."

What a hideous article! Rawwwwrr. I want to go and slap her.

I have no title for this post. I am bereft.

Further to my skirt dilemma, I must report the following conversation:

One half of my head (let us call it Zoot): *looking at me in shop window reflection* I dunno, makes her look a bit fat.
The other half of my head (let us call it Fuzz): That’s because she is, objectively speaking, a bit fat.
Zoot: This is true. I cannot fault your logic.
Fuzz: Well, it has been said, from time to time, that I am not unendowed in the brainbox department.
Zoot: Brilliant, I would say.
Fuzz: No, really. You’ll swell my metaphoric head. Metaphorically.
Zoot: I don't even think that's possible. May I touch you?
Fuzz: Metaphorically? If you must.
Zoot: *touches* Thank you. I feel a better person for having been in your presence.
Fuzz: Don't mention it. I think of it as a kind of public service.
Zoot: I love you.*

Also, what’s with the bow thing? Essentially, it seems to be constructed in the belt/tying mould, but is clearly only decorative in nature. And yet it has been pre-tied into a tiny bow with long dangly bits. The tiny bow I can cope with, but the long dangly bits reach almost to the hem, which is slightly strange. And I can’t raise them by tying a bigger bow, because then it just looks absurd. Oh, my life is filled with worry and strife.

Also, Oxfam was filled with men. And not in a good way, for they were, bar none, the sort of slightly odd men with transport obsessions and no means of conducting interpersonal relationships. It puzzled me greatly. Maybe it was a flash mob.


* Please do not attempt to analyse this conversation. Your head will explode. Metaphorically.

Alack-a-day...

Meh. Hear the sound of a thousand pathetic squeens, bleating their communal woe. Oh but wait… surely not? It is but the one? This cannot be so!

It is so. I am filled with confusion and woe. As, indeed, I have been the fifty million times I spammed your respective flists today.

I am supposed to be going out tonight with Katie and Helen. I have been looking forward to this, my girlish heart skipping with glee every time I thought on’t.

But I feel quite poo-like. And I am very, very tired. The thought of having to come home, faff, go out again, career around London like some socialite of the 20s, eventually get home very, very late indeed, get up for work the next morning, work the entire day, come home and tidy up for my parents, is a thought that fills me with dread. But I want to go. But I don’t want to go.

I am the very picture of dejection and confusion.

Woe.