Going to the Pictures

Heather and I went to see the film 'Julie and Julia' today. Heather told me off because as we entered the cinema foyer I said, 'Ooh, I haven't been to the pictures in ages.' Which is true, because I haven't. But apparently, no-one calls it 'going to the pictures' these days. I didn't like to ask what the film-going experience is called now in case it was something appalling that offended my English Literature graduate sensibilities, like 'checkin' on da flick house'.

And then I got told off for paying for the de luxe seats.
'Faux pas, Mum,' said Heather.
'Why?' I said. 'I have a wide bottom. I want a wide seat in which to place it.'
'Because there will be no-one else in the screening,' said Heather. 'So we could have started in the ordinary seats and moved into the deluxe seats when the film started.'

Apparently. no-one bothers to check if you are sitting in the right seats at a mid-day showing on a Friday when the schools are in term.

Well, I would have felt guilty if I'd have indulged in this seat-swapping deceit so I decided the extra 50p a seat I paid was money well spent for a clear conscience.

As it was there were 3 other people in the cinema with us. And for all I knew, one of them could have been an undercover cinema seat ticket inspector ready to pounce.
'Your ticket says standard, you are sitting in deluxe,' they might have said. 'Please pay the extra 50p or move.' Which would have been highly embarrassing in front of the other 2 people there.

Anyway, the film was very entertaining. I didn't nod off once, unlike the last time I went 'to the pictures.' I can't even remember what the film was I fell asleep to. I think it had penguins in it. But 'Julie and Julia' proved to be a feel-good film and confirmed my belief that Meryl Streep is my all-time favourite actress. Someone in the writing group I joined reckons I look like Meryl Streep. They don't wear glasses, as far as I am aware. Perhaps they should.

The film, without giving away the plot and subtle nuances of character and friendship analysis, is about an American woman who learned how to cook French food and then taught other American women to cook French food, and then another American woman, forty years later, who wrote a blog about cooking every one of the first woman's recipes in the French cookery book she wrote forty years previously. Inside a year. It was also about being a writer.

In some ways, the whole blogging and getting published subtext was slightly irksome to someone who is a writer who is blogging and trying to get published. But in many, many more ways, the characters were inspirational in their determination, their femininity, their quirkiness, their passion and their individuality. It got me thinking about whether I possessed these qualities myself in large enough doses that I could do something like they did. ('Julie and Julia' is based on a true story with real people.) And then I thought, 'Will I ever experience that happy co-incidence that lands me in the elusive 'right place at the right time?' (It happens in the film, but I don't want to spoil your enjoyment by telling you how if you decide to pay a visit to 'the pictures' yourself.)

Of course, it doesn't matter one way or the other really, because I enjoy writing and won't ever not write. But going to see a film that makes you think in a positive manner is a good way to spend a couple of hours.

All I need to do is discover my Unique Selling Point. To think of something that no-one else has ever done before, that I could do and then write about in a unique voice.

Suggestions, anyone??

Pumpkin Delivery Time

Apparently, there is a scheduled outage at 12.00 PDT today on Blogger. What does this mean? I'll tell you what it means because it happened to me once before and caught me out. It means that if I write a blog and publish a blog at the wrong moment i.e outage time, it might disappear forever, never to be seen again, which would cause me no end of angst as I hate to see hard work go to waste, especially mine.

Andy says, 'write your blog in Word and then cut and paste it to Blogger, then you won't lose anything.'

Ah, but hubbly has much misplaced faith in my cutting and pasting ability. I can cut and paste, I know I can, but every now and again I have a touch of the idiot mist descend over my IT skills and things go AWOL in the ether. So I prefer to blog straight onto Blogger. Andy reckons it's because I am stubborn. Ridiculous thought!

And now it is 4.23 p.m British Summer Time and I am thinking, 'How does that equate to 12.00 PDT and am I safe to blog? What does PDT stand for anyway? Are we ahead of America or behind America? (I mean in time, not in anything else. Clearly us Brits are streets ahead in terms of historical value, culture, manners and general finesse!) 'T' must stand for 'Time'. But 'P' and 'D'? 'Pumpkin Delivery,' maybe? Americans like pumpkins. But it isn't pumpkin season yet and I know this because my three pumpkin plants have only 4 leaves each, no sign of a pumpkin yet (but I DID find my first two baby tomatoes today whilst on watering and side shoot pinching duties this morning!)

Or maybe it means 'Panda Dancing Time.' Perhaps the pandas are being outed, perhaps their houses need cleaning and the panda keepers have scheduled today at 12 in order to do this? Or perhaps it is 'Pringle Dipping Time!' Oh yes! But I have no Pringles because, well, you know me and Pringles, so they don't even cross the threshold of Much Malarkey Manor.

Last time there was a scheduled outage and I got caught out, I carefully made a note of the time differences and filed the carefully made note away for future reference. Can I remember where I filed the note? Can I heck! I've had about 4 tidy-ups since then.

Anyway, enough burble, what have I done today? I have done some swimming, I have done some writing. I have done some housework, I have done some gardening. I have done some 'I no longer require this material possession' therapy and am thinking maybe a boot fair would be in order to turn these possessions into cash for my 'buy a pair of piggies' fund. I'm not keen on boot fairs. I've only ever done one before and was alarmed at the way people SWOOPED on my boot before I'd even got the trestle table out. If I decide to do a boot fair, a big stick for beating back the crowds will be in order. And I won't be haggled with, either.

Stubborn, you see.

The non-existence of me

Before writing my post every day I catch up on other blogs I follow, one of which belongs to mon amie en France, Vera, at Labartere.

'Oooh goody!' I thought, seeing there was a new post this morning entitled 'Pas Francais. Espagnol!' I clicked on it, keen to read the next thrilling adventure of self-sufficiency across the Channel. Would Lester still be down the well with a hole in his bucket? Has Vera managed to smuggle a bag of potting compost past the pile of donkey dung? A message popped up.

'This page does not exist,' it said.
'Oh,' I thought. And tried again, because every now and again Blogger will pop up a message that can be proved balatantly untrue by bashing the keyboard a bit and yelling things into cyberspace. But no. Again the message popped up. And again. I tried various approaches to gain access to Vera's latest blog entry like going to the main page and then through the individual titles and then taking it by surprise by pretending I'd never come across the blog before and saying loudly, 'OOH, this looks interesting. I think I'll have a read.'

It wasn't having it.

Then I thought, perhaps its me? Perhaps my suspicions have been confirmed and I don't actually exist. Perhaps I can't access this newest blog entry because I THINK I exist and am sitting in my office on my laptop and I have a friend called Vera in France, but really, I am a figment of my non-existent imagination.

If this is true it would explain many things. Like why no agents or publishers have recognised my writing talent. I mean , they wouldn't publish someone who doesn't exist, would they? What about ghost writers, though? Hey, maybe that's it! Maybe I'm a ghost writer! Okay, so all I need to do is find an illiterate celebrity with the intelligence of a bag of cornflakes and offer to ghost-write a novel for them and then I'd get published.

Ah, but would that compromise my artistic standards? In order to keep the standards high (ish) I would have to be a ghost-writer for a non-existent celebrity. Then I could assume that identity for my non-existent self thus rendering myself real and able to read Vera's latest blog.

Aha! I could do it you know. On Sunday morning, as Andy was sitting at the kitchen table trying to read 'A la recherche du temps perdu,' and sighing into his toast and marmalade with the effort of it all, I wrestled the book from him and did my own translation of Proust's original. My version included Mme Swann wearing a gi-normous pair of clown trousers and blowing a small trumpet for the amusement of the local children. It made Andy laugh so was instantly more enjoyable than the version he was trying to read. If I can ghost for Proust, I can ghost for anyone, including a non-existent, cerebally -challenged celebrity...

Here we go...

My nam is Luella-Lola Spanglepants and here is my storeeee. It is a storeeee of 'ardship and woe, of deprivation and more 'ardship. I mean, we was so poor I didn't get no hair straighteners until I was nearly eight years old and then I 'ad to sell mi baby brovver to git 'em but that didn't matter coz 'e was the spawn of the Devil. No really. And this is my storeee. Wiv ghosts and everyfing...