My Guy

The air smells wet. Like, it has that faint but decidedly moist whiff to it. That soggy sense clings to you, and you're acutely aware that it's November.
Bonfire night is one of my favourite calendar events of the year. It arrives in the most understated manner, without the expectations that come with New Years Eve, or the effort that Halloween demands, and it completely blows the non-event that is Easter out of the water. Strangely, I always find there's something quite cleansing about gazing into a great mountain of fire. Catharsis, and all that. Plus there's the technicolour treat of fireworks, that climb and fizzle and whistle and crackle and finally pop.

I had the rare opportunity to enjoy a day of 'solitude shopping' in Birmingham yesterday. However anti-social it may be, I always prefer to go shopping by myself rather than with a group of friends, as you're able to focus 100% on what you need to get. After sensible deliberation (mainly brought on by the fact that, much as I hate to admit it, I am not in possession of a limitless bank balance) I settled on a thick cerulean jersey jumper from Cos, and a black and white mohair-blend scarf from French Connection.

I only realised upon returning home and perusing their website that Cos is actually the far more dapper and cooler sibling of H&M - kept that one quiet, didn't you Cos? Their aesthetic is really comforting because it's all about taking items back to basics, but then enhancing them with little bits of detail, like the denim-wash effect that my jersey jumper has, which is barely noticeable unless you look closely on the sleeves. The simple template of all their designs really appeals to me, when so many things nowadays are covered in zips and patterns and pockets. The jersey jumper merely shrugs, 'I am jumper. You wear me.' Brilliant.
I know a lot of people find mohair a distracting son of an itch, but it never seems to give me much jip. It's one of those materials that you can't truly appreciate unless you give it a bit of a closer inspection; again, it's all about the detail. The scarf is a honeycomb web of warmth, and I can't wait to wear this and the jersey jumper together on Bonfire night.


The fact that a day of blissful Brumie browsing was bolstered by one of Starbucks' seasonal gingerbread latte's was just the cherry on top; liquid magic.

YourTube

Poppa Pop is a bit of a busybody. Tomorrow's an important business day, that requires heading first class down to London. Apparantly he spent the afternoon heckling with whoever's in charge down south to move the appointment to 9am. 'Are you sure you can get down here for that time?' the voice on the other end of the line pondered out loud. 'HA!' snorted Poppa. 'Of course I can get down there for that time, there's a train that leaves here at 5:55am!' He eats early morning's for breakfast.

£170 later, first class ticket clutched in his hands as he walks through the front door, I can barely suppress a smirk when I casually inquire as to whether he'd heard about the tube strikes today...?

As he orders me to go and find the quickest route from Euston to Canary Wharf stat, I can't help but marvel at the wonder that is the tube map. Like a retro mosaic in 80s strobing, I can think of no other image which better summarises London. If you want to really experience the super city-slick living of our capital, what better way than the underground pandemonium of the tubes? Tourists might flock with their Kodaks round their necks to get snap-happy with the towering presence of Big Ben, or gallavant to the West End to enjoy a musical or two, but it is those angular and controlled contours in every dominant shade that really shape the city.

Central slices through the middle, while the Hammersmith and Metropolitan line slither by barely noticed. Complain about the stuffiness, smell of urine and bastard buskers all you want, this is the stuff that LDN is made of. Isn't it about time a map of the tube is hung in the National Museum of Art?

Carole Baker interview

Dutch spirit

Why are the Dutch so much better than us? Not only does their capital constantly stare death in the face with one quarter of it below sea level, and they have a barge completely devoted to stray cats in the form of the good ship Poezenboot, but today I discover they're light years ahead when it comes to 'care farming' too.
Julie White, of Growing Rural Enterprise, tells me: "The Dutch have been doing it for years, they're about ten years in front of us."
The mind boggles!

A text-ual analysis

James: are you ready?!
J: BUGGER ME!
Amy: a diving catch! i trashed my trifle in my excitement
J: i don't think i'm ready for the second half! shaking
J: what's with jucinta's teeth?
A: goosebumps!
J: b! eight! get in the cuba!
J: ahahaha "the cuba" :D
A: in my hysteria i deleted your last text before even reading it :P clueless!
J: concentrate stocking! you'd never survive in the cuba!
J: nicola! ;D
A: what's with all the lumberjack shirts?!
J: they're all chopping wood - tapped!
J: national lottery!
A: rollover!
A: untouchable!
A: his lankyness is his greatest asset
J: like me!
J: so tense
J: "don't let it rattle you", wise words from the fox
J: "just that final leg!" omg, that punched me in the stomach
A: you keep quoting just as i'm in the middle of typing the same quote! fwoo trace is getting tight chested
J: tell her to take a deep breath. i've had to remove my knitwear
J: the tower's laughing at him!
A: brought him to his knees, steady on schofield!
J: did you see the body was played by... the body! :D

THE CUBE

Need a leg up?

Can you feel it? That's the sound of the underground; it trembles. The balls of your feet touch the ground as it shakes, your ankles twist as your legs break. The noise isn't broadcast. It's pissing in the wind of broadcast, like a sozzled dog tied to the stilts of a beach house. Tune in, zone out, but just don't take your eye off the leash - else a stampede of Beethoven's will invade Amsterdam and not even the good ship Poezenboot can save you then.


Leggykic

You know it makes sense.

Sacrébleu!

Recently I seem to have been listening to a lot of foreign music. All tracks have been found through decidedly British avenues, such as TV programmes like Skins, but they originate from foreign lands. I think it's the fact that I don't have a bloody clue what's being said. Without a form of lyrical meaning to latch on to, the words just become yet another instrument and layer of sound that you can interpret as you see fit. Or something.
Amy Stocking quipped that Mapaputsi's Kleva was "ghetto bhangra", a combination that is sure to intrigue, whilst Royan by the wonderfully titled Francois and the Atlas Mountains is either a fragile ode to love or the hurt it can cause; again, I'm not sure it really matters which one it is.
I don't intend to Google either of them for their literal meaning - I'd rather be lost in translation.