Monthly archive: October 2002

Last night at the L & G household:

Tv is showing advert for The Osbournes starting on Channel 4
L: I guess they're showing that instead of Will & Grace now.
G: Oh, you know what? They're bringing Jack back as a straight character.
L: What? The quintessence of camp, the epitome of flamboyance… straight?
G: Huh?
L: What next? Karen gets off the Stolly?
G: I meant Jack from Dawson's Creek.
L: Oh, right.

JackMcFarland – JackMcPhee. Gay. And that's where the similarities end.

Happy Halloween, my little ones!

"If you love me pop and fly;
if you hate me, burn and die".

"Hoping this night my true love to see,
I place my shoes in the shape of a T".

Click on thumbnail for larger view [image: via friend (Andrew) - origin: unknown]

My wristwatch decided to give its soul back to its Swiss creator while switching back from British Summer Time. Time-travelling must have taken its toll on it (or it could just be the battery that chose a very topical moment to go on strike uttering "hey mate, I've already gone from 1am to 2am once, what's this all about?") and I haven't worn one for three days now.

I can't remember not having had a watch on my wrist ever and, although I am not the typical Italian owning an average of half a dozen different Swatch watches to match their outfits, I thought it was something I could not do without. Well, of course I can, surrounded as I am with devices that keep hammering into me what time it is, all the time, whether you want to know or not.

I was quite bemused then yesterday, as I was making smalltalk with an employee of the company I had an appointment with to hand my translations in (and yes, even watchless I got there on time). While the IT Tech Guy was connecting my laptop to their network, I asked him how long he'd been working there and he instinctively looked at his watch, which made me ask him whether he was counting the exact minutes he'd spent at his desk.

What is surprising is that every now and then I keep lifting my forearm and shake my wrist, as if my watch was still there, to put it back up into place (I like wearing it very loose), just like people who get a short haircut and keep pushing a non-existent fringe back from their eyes or behind their ears,

Not the manliest of gestures, I'll admit.

Let's see if I can make some use of this blog.

I am writing an invoice for a freelance translation job I've just handed in. It is the first time I do this, and I need to know what the rules are for invoicing, i.e. has anybody got the right to do it in this country? It was quite complicated in Italy, where you need to register your company or your services first.

If, as a few (unfortunately not very knowledgeable on this subject) friends have told me, I can just do it and then register to pay tax on it, what is the invoice number going to be? "0000001"? And what do I need to do afterwards to notify the relevant authorities that I need to pay tax on private work?

I am currently (Wed 30th Oct. 2002, 10:52am GMT) searching the web for information – if any of you can drop me a line (comments or email below) to clarify this and / or point to helpful web sites, it will be greatly appreciated.

('stead of makin' me better, you keep makin' me ill)

Blogging is good. Blogging is great. Blogging is… an excellent way to find out what I've been up last Sunday through other people's blogs.

I had spent two whole weeks secluded at home, crouched over my computer trying to figure out what the heck a Pozidrive Countersunk Screw and an IR Flood Output meant (it's NOT what you think, you dirty minds) and how I could translate them into Italian. There I was back on the scene, with a mighty great intention to have the time of my life.

Unfortunately, I was also quite tired and deprived of sleep, so it didn't take much (I hypocritically blame that one glass of chilled white wine at home while getting ready) to turn into the Clubber From Hell (you know, the one who knocks down your double G & T that you've just got from the bar – by the way as of last Sunday I know it costs exactly 3 pounds 60 at Substation South).

Did the DE experience really tackle with her trademark tact and political correctness (i.e. lack thereof) the Moscow theatre siege? Can't remember. And the Washington sniper? No recollection either. What? There is an Almighty remix of latest H & Claire song that I am absolutely crazy about? Nada here. Crooning along with David to "Close To You" while swaying in synch with Mike? Zilch.

I recall taking part in the Snogolympics 2002 – pairs long programme – oh, that I remember very well.

But apart from that, I think I was having more fun when I was having less fun, if you see what I mean. At least I remembered it the following day and I could make it last a whole week.

First it was Ronald, now an inflatable tank. Why do things keep being lost in Wales lately? Is it the Cymru Triangle? A black Du hole in a parallel universe? They're not exactly tiny wee objects – the submarine is as big as three cars!

Lost: one tiny metal ball, RVT dancefloor, Sun. Oct. 27th, 10pm approx. Owner would like to reunite it to existing forlorn ring on belly button. Ta muchly.

Last night at the RVT I met this chap (let's just call him "a guy") and since he knew about my blog (I met him through a mutual blogger friend) there was no need for me to give him my phone number, he said he'd simply visit these pages and email me his contact details.

I haven't got the time to stitch up my torn reputation by editing out all the posts narrating the details of my past few months of intensive dating – and besides, that would leave only three posts on the whole blog, two of which about Popstars: the Rivals.

So, "a guy", if you are reading this, please try and believe that I am not such a TV-addicted sleazeball really – they just blog me that way.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Priceless moment on tonight's Popstars: the Rivals: Geri Halliwell (who, by the way, this time managed not to complete one single sentence so that it made some sort of sense) shifting in her chair while blabbering away and letting out this embarassingly loud farting noise (it must have been leatherette sliding across leatherette – we all hope).

Here at the "G. and L." household we cater for all tastes. Even our candles come in both "circumsized" and "uncut" versions.

I suggested piercing a Prince Albert into one of them; G. cringed.

Disclaimer: the above paragraph does not imply that the candles represent our own thingies at all.

Blogger is up again after a security intrusion. Check info at status.blogger.com. It is advisable to change your ftp password, and username if you can, and delete all server information from Blogger.

This might explain why I am single – I work from home.

Ronald McDonald at Large in South Wales.

At first it was feared to have settled on a nearby railway track that links South Wales to London.

"We received a call to warn us of the possibility of a large inflatable object lying on the track near Newport West," a spokesman for rail operator Railtrack told Reuters.

"At first our log showed it was a hamburger but it later emerged it was a Ronald McDonald.

"As a precaution we carried out an inspection of the track but nothing was found. It must have blown off somewhere.

By nightfall, Ronald was still missing.

"We're offering a Big Mac to anyone who can give us information leading to his safe return," a McDonalds spokeswoman said.

Source: Reuters

Is this for real? Hopefully the thing can't swim. It scares me.

Permanently closed. The Complete Friends Script Index is no more, threatened with legal action by Warner Bros. for breach of copyright laws. Too bad: I used to check it all the time and read the scripts for new episodes in advance. Now I'll have to sit through the real thing instead.

I can't believe it. It's 2am, I've just woken up after a 4-hour nap and I'm playing chinese shadows with my flatmate's cat (I can only do a lousy dog and a not very convincing butterfly, but she seems to fall for them, bless her). I want my life back.

Army officer admits beating soldiers with dildo. Yes, but what was the dildo doing in the barracks in the first place, I wonder?

Women get their tits out in a church in Rome – after 150 years. Exactly what bit of the cherub was cut off? (scroll down to last paragraph in the article)

Umph. Working a lot.

Working from home is not as much fun as it sounds. True, eveyone thinks it's cool to get up whenever you want to, take a break whenever you feel like it and for how long as you need, and just stop if you don't feel like working any longer. Or if EastEnders is on.

I say it requires an incredible level of self-discipline (a quality I've never excelled at, I'm afraid) and the strength to resist temptations. That last one is tough, especially when people do not understand that yes, you manage your own schedule but no, you can't just drop everything and go out all the time.

I am running slightly behind schedule on this translation project and yet I have spent the past couple of weeks working on average fourteen hours a day. From the comfort of my living room, barefoot and with my feet on the coffee table, but working nevertheless.

This is just a temporary solution. Then, when I'll perhaps be a slave to the corporate system and won't even be able to go have a slash without filling in a request form and compiling a report afterwards, I'll probably look back and regret these few weeks. After all, what other job allows you to have a wank break?

…and my Sunday wasn't the same without the Tavern either.

One doubt: did M. miss me (I would like M. to miss me) or have I become by now part of the fixtures there? (which I can't really take as a compliment, considering that the place is rather run down).

Hey ho, hey ho, it's off to work I go…

It's 5.30am and I've moved from bedroom to livingroom, switched on the computer, opened my current translation work… and started playing around with Google. What's the point of getting up so early to work only to spend the first hour or so doing nothing but sipping coffee?

I'm in love. I had been seeing this guy on and off for a while, then he disappeared.

Apparently he's just been spotted on BBC Choice.

Is this a good enough reason to get that cable thing subscribed to (as if I did not watch enough crap telly already)?

He's been in and out of my comment boxes, I've been roaming around the stunning photographs and writing on his site. Now it's about time for formal introductions: please meet Danny, who apparently I make giggle, and who wrongly refers to me as a "she" (or was that intentional perhaps?).

OK. Let's keep calm here. There's a show on Channel Five called 99 Things To Do Before You're 30. Before you're 30? What's wrong with being, say, 35? Life has just started for your late bloomer here. And anyway, the programme preview features feats such as kick-boxing a pyramid of tins in a supermarket and thrashing a hotel room rockstar-style. If this is what being under 30 means, I'll proudly flaunt my wrinkles thank you very much.

I wish I was here instead of working now.

It's been all work and no play for a while now, which is a good change. On one side, I'm earning money. On the other hand, I'm spending less by not having the time to go out, and probably smoking less too.

It is also very refreshing to spend some time with myself and concentrate on a project rather than living day by day and randomly spamming CVs around the web as a lame excuse for a jobsearch.

Why am I convinced then that my perfect match might be out there this weekend (and only this weekend, mind you, before retreating to a lifetime of bitter loneliness and isolation not having found his twin soul) and that I am going to miss him?

I've got chills going down my spine and tears welling up in my eyes. I am watching the opening act of tonight's Popstars: The Rivals. Ten gorgeous hopeful young girls brilliantly performing their energetic rendition of Sister Sledge's We Are Family.

*stifled barfing sound*

Pass the bucket, will ya?

I picked up the latest trends this morning while working and glancing every now and then at SMTV (for those of you who live outside the UK, that is by no means a cable sex channel devoted to bondage and domination, but quite simply Saturday Morning Television):

• first were five Bratz;
• then came five Diva Starz;
• but now there are two Brat Boyz, Cameron and Dylan;
• with a Crazy Hair Braider you could braid your hair in seconds;
• and now with a Crazy Wrap Styler you can easily wrap coloured thread around your hair.

I would not want to have an eight-year-old daugher. With long hair. And a penchant with productz with a 'z' in their name.

Ignorant Fairies – original title Le Fate Ignoranti, starring Stefano Accorsi (left), directed by Ferzan Ozpetek of Turkish Bath fame – is one of the best movies I've seen over the past couple of years. I was wondering if it was showing somewhere in London, or if it has been released on VHS/DVD in the UK. A quick Google search after, I found out that three of the first ten results are from South African web sites. South Africans have very good taste apparently.

Which reminds me that I've still got Disappearing Man's t-shirt, that I still have not met him, and that I might have found a way to trace him instead: he had introduced me to Sexy Smile Man who I'd been seeing and nodding hallo to every Sunday afternoon at the RVT. Why didn't I think earlier to ask Sexy Smile to give Disappearing Man my phone number? That'll also kill two birds with a stone, as I would not mind exchanging t-shirts with Sexy Smile himself one of these days.

Damn. I wanted to post something with a slight cultural tone to it for once, and there I go again meandering the alleyways of sex. Hopeless.

Anyone Who Had a Heart

The 18th (!) series of Blind Date kicks off tonight. Apparently they've tried to make it meaner, crueller and more humiliating, borrowing features from successful reality show formats. From now on, when the screen goes back and the contestants find out what their chosen date looks like, they will have a chance to ditch them and go for another one. That'll be good to see ("Sorry, you're a dog – goodbye. Next!"). There will also be a "walk of shame" for the unchosen. Will Cilla don a long black leather coat and wire-framed glasses? Will she manage to make the whole new experience "a lorra lorra fun"? Not for me I think.

Yay! End of couchlessness. Not one, but two Ektorps have arrived, and made it through the stairs alright. I am finally working in a civilized position, plumped up on cushions, feet on the coffee table, laptop on lap, Fame Academy on TV (I might follow Chig's piece of advice misleading command and vote for Chris after all – Pippa and Katie sucked).

I feel sorry for all the Pippas who have ever gone on holiday in Italy. In the language of my forefathers, their lovely name unfortunately means "wank".