Losing My Voice

I can't really trace it back to a specific time or place.  It's been happening for a while, now, but it's been in the past six months that it has accelerated beyond my control.

I remember mocking TOH for once, while on the train out to New Jersey - to Elizabeth for a pilgrimage to cheap chests of drawers and bookshelves at IKEA, I think, but I could be wrong - for exclaiming at all the "soccer fields."  It was hilarious and ridiculous; it was a story to tell our families and friends of the Americanisation (-zation?) he was undergoing, while I remained pristine, the intact Londoner.  I think I really believed that would continue; that I would live here without being touched by it - at least in this respect.

Of course, words crept in, here and there.  That was inevitable.  It's impossible to make oneself understood otherwise.  Phone calls can be particularly painful, with my clipped, cold accent, long vowels, and Old World vocabulary.  Then there would come the joshing - it's you who haven't moved on, US of A, with your language that's closer to ye olde English of the Pilgrims - we've evolved.  We use a preterite, where I come from - that's what I learnt. 

It's like a steady form of memory loss, this erasure of my identity, my tongue.  Is that British?  What is the word for that at home?  Is it the same?  Explaining the nuances of "quite"; substituting it with "pretty."  Where would I emphasi(s)e that word?  Where does that stress come in?  Ad-DRESS.  AD-dress. 

Shop.  Store.  Boots.  Cleats.  Football.  Football.  I mean football.  The one where more than two players actually use their feet.  I mean NFL.  College Football. 

August, 2013.  I am in a cab, heading home from the supermarket.  That's home-home, not Brooklyn-home.  I have two homes.  My mum got back from a hospital stay a few hours ago; I have picked up provisions.  The cab driver asks me where I live.  I'm taken aback, but then I realise - it's because I clearly don't live here anymore.  US?  Yes, nine years.  He speaks with a thick Indian accent; he moved to Britain in his late 30s and, despite being in his 50s now, he struggles with the language still, a little - he started learning it too late.  He struggles with certain words ("Well, 'mumble' means...") and with my accent.  I get to my destination, and he takes my shopping across the street for me.  I leave him a tip; he doesn't realise that I have left, lost, a little of my soul, my heart, a sense of myself, in his car.

Some things stick.  Pronunciations.  Quarter.  Water. 

Tomato is the real kicker, the one that I avoid saying if I can, at all. 

I used to slip into my accent - myself, the person I still think I am - like a comfy slipper.  With British strangers; with family on the phone; with friends in the pub at home.  Now, I struggle.  I can't remember what I sounded like.  I can't drink full British pints; I order halves.  The voice is unnatural, forced.  Even when surrounded by people from home, I don't sound like them.  It used to irritate me, my inability to keep my accent - I would become Bristolian-light if with people from the West Country; Brummie in Birmingham; and flatten my vowels with anyone north of Leicester.  My accent ever was a bastardized thing, with East and West Midlands parents, Sarf-East London roots, and for much of my childhood, a desperate need to not sound Sarf-East, my telephone voice for work (terribly home counties and nice), my reclaiming of London for university, my Yorkshire partner.  Sometimes people from home couldn't tell which part of the country I was from.  But it was me; British me; original me. And for some reason, it's much harder to accept that there is, indeed, NYC me mingled in how I speak.  Tipping; clothing; demanding good customer service; good summers, with free parties and concerts and outdoor activities; expecting 24-hour cheap public transport and cabs.  These things are all easily part of me.  But not the voice.  Please not the voice.

I still say London when people ask where I'm from.  But it is increasingly hard to sound like it.

Summer Hours

Summer. It's great. 

Well, mostly. The garden is thriving, thanks to a sweaty, damp June and, so far, July is rather similar. In May, TOH wrangled the hose out from the basement but, other than testing it that first day, it has remained unused, thanks to the frequent outbursts of rain. 

Still, there is enough good weather to warrant time outdoors. My new job (even after a year, it's "my new job") moves to summer hours come June. Then it's 10-6, and July and August see me doing 9-5. I am an owl rather than a lark, it's true, and thus I'm not always overjoyed by this change. Nonetheless, this year I'm determined to take advantage of it. We've been weeding, eating, grilling, and just reading outside, a lot.

Last Thursday saw us take advantage by having me plonk down my bags to save space in Brooklyn bridge park for a few of us to watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off. The best part was undoubtedly the viewing of Twist and Shout where almost the entire audience got up and danced. It was glorious. 

There's something almost alive about the atmosphere - the air hums with it - when watching a much loved movie with people who love it as much as you. Last year we saw Coming to America at a Brooklyn institution, and both She's Your Queen solo and the Soul-Glo commercial were lustily belted out by the crowd. Usually I am the grinch of movie watching - I glare, tut, and hiss at crunching, chatting, texting, and all other distractions. But among a throng, it could not be better.  

Living Just Enough

Today was a stellar day.

It's hard to believe that a year ago I was still at my old law firm job; it's even harder to believe, looking at the wind blowing the trees and suffering the biting, near-freezing temperatures today, that about a year ago, spring appeared to have sprung. Things have changed so much for me personally in that year, not least the frequency with which I blog here.

But today was one worth recording.

I went to a school this morning that's a mere ten minutes away, and presented to three classes. The students varied in their interest in the program; the students presented some interesting disciplinary issues (I got called "very strict" by a student, which I'm sure my parents would find hilarious). But they were funny and smart and feisty and I loved them; the teachers were invested and good people, and I loved them, too; it was great. Back home for a quick lunch - extremely tasty leftovers - then hoicked up to Washington Heights to a school there.

It's been a while since I was in the Heights - I was there for a few hours at a school at the very start of January, but otherwise I've spent no real time there since we left for Brooklyn nearly four years ago.  I don't miss it that much, I can't lie - all our uptown friends had moved for the outer boroughs, and we'd grown tired of no outdoor space and not much room, both of which we have here. But today, things felt familiar - and fun. The students I taught were wonderful - funny, bright, vocal, active - just great. Then I wandered back to the GW Bridge and, on a whim, rather than catching the subway, I walked up on the bridge to take advantage of the shining sun and the extraordinary view south along Manhattan.

It was utterly beautiful. Then home to buy freesias, filling the house with their scent, and watch the wind shake the trees in the back garden. That wasn't so great, but it was light - sweet! - and I've spent the evening gently doing email chores and listening to TMS, with my feet warmed by a big fat cat. A stellar day indeed.

Springing

About a week or so ago I was most disgruntled about the change to daylight savings and it being dark when I arose for boxing lessons. Oh, what a difference a few days makes; yet again, I am overexcited about the joys of spring. The weekend was absolutely glorious, allowing me to boat around Central Park, eat a lot of Grom hazelnut gelato, visit the beautiful magnolias at the BBG, and do several hours' hard graft in the back garden. It needed it, I have to say. This year I plan to spend a lot more time just gently idling and pottering in the garden. I think it's good for me, as I tend to be an all or nothing type, and gardens require consistent but, often, low-level attention. I say this every year, of course, but I'm determined to make this year different. Yesterday saw much raking and turning of the soil (I'm so sad people don't really use the term "hoeing"). This week I need to turn some more, fertilise, and then this weekend we need to mulch/re-do the paths with wood chips and then do some serious seeding / planting.

Movement

I've associated New York City with Keith Haring since my first visit here. He's someone I wouldn't have known about without KTB, and so when I came here for the first time, I made sure we went to Pop Shop, the store on Lafayette that sold all things Haring - t-shirts, mugs, skateboards, dominoes; you name it, it was there with a Haring design. We bought an unbelievably cool flanneled hoodie dressing gown with Haring's Little Angel on it for our friends' 8 month old (meaning that child is now 10 - holy hell). I bought a cool t-shirt that I still own, albeit tattered and faded.


Today I went to the Members' Preview of Keith Haring 1978-1982, a really cool retrospective at the Brooklyn Museum. It was fabulous. His works were enormous and vibrant; they surprised me in their visceral and often overtly sexual nature. His work was playful and joyous and exuberant. I hadn't realised how much he used video, whether bopping away to a messed up version of the Flying Lizards' Money (That's What I Want) as his Tribute to Gloria Vanderbilt, or painting away to a Devo record. That movement is echoed within his paintings, where everything is in motion: his figures grow and stretch and dance and kick and wave. His use of street art is exciting and part of his overall sense that art should be for the people, not something bourgeois or only for the educated middle classes. One of my favourite things in the whole exhibition was a wall reproducing adverts for his performances and art works and installations - fliers with his photo, scrawled times and dates. You got the sense of excitement, but also how easy it would have been to ignore his work. I see signs stuck everywhere in the city but would never have thought that there could have been a Keith Haring behind it.

The exhibition also emphasized how bloody cool New York City was in the late seventies and early eighties and just why those who were here then have a sense of superiority at having been here; why they feel it's not as edgy or cool. Because it's not. Not anymore.

MOVE IT! 1/3 Complete

Today was the New York marathon, and TOH and I ambled up to Clinton Hill, between the mile 8 and mile 9 markers, to see if we could spot our friend, Al, who was running. Despite frantically checking his progress on the handy website tracker, we somehow missed him; we had failed to tell him where we'd be or check what he'd be wearing. Suddenly, having gone through a sparse patch of runners, there were hundreds of them, everywhere, and we failed to find him. But he finished in a fantastic 3:43:57, and I am immensely proud of that achievement. I still don't want to run a marathon, but am absolutely awed by everyone who does. It's rare that we get to cheer on an everyday person - someone with a day job, and maybe not that much natural athletic ability - doing something absolutely physically remarkable. Which is, I think, one of the reasons why I love the marathon.

The place to watch it is definitely Fort Greene/Clinton Hill. As we wandered west toward the Q train for our football match, we went through that neighbourhood and heard funk bands, drummers, an awesome school band, and an amazing gospel choir outside a church. All there to entertain the runners and everyone there, and it was a fantastic New York day. It didn't hurt that the sun was shining, the sky was blue and clear, the leaves on the trees were yellow and red and orange, and it was fun to be wandering around.

Then came our game. Hard work, today. I got winded after a giant collision with a dude who while not large, is a lot bigger than me; there is also a guy on the team we played today who plays rough and I do not like, but I tried not to get too enraged. Well, not too often. My hip twinged a lot, but I don't tend to mind that as it takes my mind off my aching knee. We drew, 2-2; not a great result, but a hard fought, tough game. And three pieces of exercise complete. Which means I absolutely have to work out tomorrow, and that conveniently means I might finally use my groupon which expires this week...

Go Away

It's been raining continuously for at least nineteen hours now. Yesterday morning was gloriously sunny, yesterday afternoon it clouded over but with a nice breeze, and it stayed warm. But it was thunderously pouring at around two this morning, and although the intensity has waxed and waned, it has rained non-stop since then. It woke me up in the middle of the night several times; one growl of thunder lasted longer than any individual clap I've ever heard. It's been a remarkable sustained effort from the raingods today.

I don't quite understand New York summer storms. While in other places the release of thunder heralds some sort of break in humidity and heat, those things seem to intensify with summer rain here. Thus for the first time in ages I'm going to have to put on the dehumidifier* on. Usually I'd empty the full tank onto the garden but, obviously, that's a little pointless right now. I think it's probably doing the garden a world of good, helping our tomatoes to grow - the tomatoes that are going to end up ripening right while I'm away. I can feel it.


* Every time I use it I think of The Onion point-counterpoint article that sadly is not online but is absolute genius:

Point-Counterpoint: Humidity
"What We Need Is More Humidity" - Duracraft Natural Warm Moisture Humidifier, Model DH-901
"Humidity Must Be Destroyed" - Edison 25 pt. Dehumidifier, Model DHE25W

It Won't Get Any Better

I can remember the exact moment when I first heard - or, rather, knowingly heard - an LCD Soundsystem tune. It was in late 2004 or very early 2005 - John Peel had just died, to date it - in Hi-Fi, a bar in the East Village in NYC, and a friend from home was visiting. I'd sort of lost touch with new music, and she could not believe I'd not heard of them; she put on Daft Punk Is Playing at My House for me.

I can't say I was an instant convert, but when Sound of Silver came out, it slowly but surely happened for me, and the first time I saw them live, that was it: I was in love. I did not think I'd love a band again in the way that I did as a teenager but LCD Soundsystem provided the soundtrack to my falling in love with New York, with developing strong and solid bonds with my friends here.

And now James Murphy et al. are retiring LCD. While I'm saddened by that, the real devastation came when I missed out on tickets to the last ever show at MSG but, fortunately, we scored tickets this week when they released more. We're going to be in the gods, barely able to see, but we need to be there; LCD has been a soundtrack to our time in NYC, it feels right to be there when the band signs off. Although we saw them last night at the pen-penultimate gig, it would not have been the same. While I can't quite believe we won't get to see LCD perform again, I think it's a good thing, it's time; the shows have got increasingly large with increasingly large numbers of idiots and people who don't seem to care about the old stuff. Go out on a high before you end up lacking respect for the people who behave like idiots at your shows, I say. Go out when people love you, when people will mourn you with genuine love and affection.

I will.

What She Said

One of the things that a middle-class, highly educated Euro-louche-lily-livered-liberal such as myself finds confusing, bewildering, and often difficult about living in these US of A is the high levels of religiosity. I come from a place where barely 10% of the population attends church on any sort of regular basis.* It's just not... done. We don't believe the Prime Minister needs to be religious - indeed, in the debates any religious belief was downplayed so as not to bring about accusations of zeal/intolerance/irrationality. It's just a different landscape, albeit one that I still, after many years, sometimes find hard to get used to.

But what I find utterly intolerable is the utter ridiculously bigoted, terrible reactions to Park 51. I'm not going to go into my reactions, but Jill summarizes nicely some of the reactions (good and bad) and also points you to some incredibly well-researched, well-written articles that neatly point out why the opponents have no standing to prevent the building of this community centre (I recommend reading them all). I've been incredibly disappointed in Harry Reid - what precisely does this NY issue have to do with you, Senator Reid? - and unsurprised by the racism, anti-Islam and general nonsense coming out of the mouths of Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich et al., who spend most of the year throwing New Yorkers under the bus for their liberalism, elitism, and generally not being "real" Americans.

It's not all bad news, though. What I find heartening (given the context) is the polling that suggests that while a majority of US dwellers don't want the mosque built, a majority of them also believe that the builders have the right to do so. But mostly, the person who I have come to admire, greatly, for his stance in this is Mayor Bloomberg. I'm not a big fan of big Mike on a lot of things, but his courage, eloquence and passion on this subject have made me almost want him to break all those crazy term-limit rules and run for a fourth.

My favourite passage (tissues ready):

Our doors are open to everyone. Everyone with a dream and a willingness to work hard and play by the rules. New York City was built by immigrants, and it's sustained by immigrants -- by people from more than 100 different countries speaking more than 200 different languages and professing every faith. And whether your parents were born here or you came here yesterday, you are a New Yorker.

We may not always agree with every one of our neighbors. That's life. And it's part of living in such a diverse and dense city. But we also recognize that part of being a New Yorker is living with your neighbors in mutual respect and tolerance. It was exactly that spirit of openness and acceptance that was attacked on 9/11, 2001.

* I also come from a place where the most devout - in terms of observance - members of the population are Muslims and, despite what you might read about the state of Britain in The Daily Mail et al., it hasn't fallen apart as a result.

A Taste for Blood

While the nation I live in celebrates booting out the evil imperial forces from which I descend, some members of this country don't seem to realise that it is no longer necessary to go after English blood. Yes, American midges/mosquitoes/ticks/biting thingies - that means you. I have got about 20 bites in the past two days. They are huge, disgusting and uncomfortable, and I am distinctly unimpressed that the biting insects do not seem to realise the war is over.

Still. Despite the ignorant and hostile behaviour of these creatures, I will honour today's historic significance - I shall make burgers (homemade from free-roaming organic meat from the co-op, obviously) and grill hot dogs (Nathan's, also obviously) and drink Brooklyn Beers - summer and pilsner today. Currently I am working gently while listening to baseball (and the adverts for law firms chasing mesothelioma victims), then will sit out on my deck and listen to the revelry while doing more work and waiting for darkness and fireworks and parties. Overt displays of national patriotism bewilder me, I think, when they're not related to sport, but nonetheless I feel extreme loyalty to both London and New York, these cities that reared and fostered me as a child, and have been my homes as an adult, forming the person I am now. So tonight I will raise a beer or two to this wonderful city that is both quintessentially American and, yet, unlike anywhere else in this country. It's going to be fun. And, doubtless, the cause of many more welts and bites.

Home

Greeted by two mammoth cats who appear to be very pleased to see me, and a gorgeously clean apartment. I smell dreadful, as is to be expected from the combination of 24 hours of travelling and someone as sweaty as me. I'm working on uploading photos, unpacking and working out just what it is I cannot find. Thus far, simcard for phone and beautiful bookmark given to me by TOH's parents. Dammit. Why is it that I never lose socks, or horrible pants, or stupid pieces of paper that I don't need? Hope that I'll find them is fading rapidly, sadly.

Still, excited about the mountainous amount of sport on tv and number of episodes of The Soup to catch up on. Huzzah! And still avoiding thinking about work.

Flowery Prose

On Friday TOH and I actually did as planned, and made it up to the Bronx botanical gardens. And what a scorching, perfect day to do it - sun high in the sky, and we slowly pottered our way round, as we were still full of pizza, pears and Peroni from our trip to Arthur Avenue and the Bronx's Little Italy. It was a fantastic day, with the unexpected bonus of the littering of Henry Moore statues throughout the Gardens giving the park a gorgeous edge. It's wonderful anyway, but very much like a giant stately home, Natural Trust-type property. The coming round corners of pathways to see a smooth, bronze reclining figure, all angles and shadows, added something very special to the experience. The giant white fibreglass female reclining figure was almost incandescent against the green - I wish I could have captured it better.

Speaking of capturing, the camera is dead on its legs, and so many of these are a tad fuzzy and not quite what I'd like, but sadly a combination of no funds for a new one and the fact that Radio Shack has every single type of battery in the world other than the one we need for my gorgeous old Olympus' light meter means that you'll have to make do with these.





My favourite statue was this latter one - all angles, verdigris, shadows and twists cast upon a perfectly manicured green lawn that swept down from the building housing the laboratories and research centre. It would have been a perfect site for a period drama were it not for the curving, stark statue on the grass.

Four and counting...

I only have four classes left at law school. It's utterly terrifying. I really am almost done - I've even registered to take the bar. Ulp.

So, slowly, I am having my last ever last class of the semester. Tonight I had to say goodbye to my legislative drafting class. This has been absolutely fantastic - I've learned so, so, so much. Even more exciting has been sharing the class with politically active people who know so much about the inner workings of New York - both State and City. Several people in the class work for politicians, and one of our profs works for the judiciary. So tonight, in our last class, we talked a bit about the bill & statute we're drafting for our final project (on testing criminal defendants for HIV where there was a chance of transmission), but had a few glasses of wine, some pizza, and gossiped about what's going on in the government in NYS. I find my anger so often directed at the Bush Administration, I don't pay enough attention to what's going on around me, on a municipal level. This class was absolutely great, and I'm really going to miss it.

As for law school... yep, that too. I expect.

Unclean

This morning was an interesting one. I walked back from an extraordinary meeting with the Chair of the Police Ombudsman for Northern Ireland - an amazing woman - only to be covered in smog and dirt from midtown. I loathe midtown. Times Square is disgusting anyway - they "cleaned it up," having got rid of the sex shops, but now it's a soulless horrible mess. I can't see how that's an improvement, really - sex is gross and dirty and must be expunged from the public view, but tasteless, commercial horribleness in the form of the Hershey's store et al. are somehow better.

Even worse, I saw the Mittmobile. I murmured obscenities under my breath as I walked past, obviously. Actually, all I'd have had to say to offend him would be words like "women are equal," "stemcell research saves people's lives and that's a good thing," "healthcare for all is a GOOD idea" and other horrible, dreadful things like that. I wish I'd thought of that at the time. Bugger.

Well that was fun

Left house - 8.35.

Got to desk (albeit via a detour for egg white sandwich and iced coffee*) - 11.15.

I kid ye not.

Gawker's take on the story tells you what you need to know, although it is rather exclusively east-sided - and while I work east-side, I am very much a westsider. It's one of the unexpected transitions I have taken in NYC, having gone from being a southeasterner through and through - and remaining so - in my Londoner identity, I am now living on the northwest corner of Manhattan.

To commemorate this situation, I present my top ten suitable songs for this morning:

1) Going Underground (or not, as the case may be) - The Jam (with an honourable mention for Down in the Tube Station at Midnight)

2) Drowned World / Substitute for Love - Madonna

3) Crosstown (or any bloody kind of it today) Traffic - Jimi Hendrix

4) Underwater Love - Smoke City

5) Stuck in the Middle (of Manhattan, the bus, whatever) with You - Steelers Wheel

6) (Pounding the) City Pavement - The Subways

7) People Under The Weather - Jehst

8 ) It's Oh So Quiet - Bjork (office is DESERTED)

9) Ain't No Sunshine - Bill Withers

10) Train in Vain - The Clash

*Yes, I have become yankeefied to that extent. Yikes indeed. You'll be pleased to know I counteract this by having a cup of Yorkshire tea every morning, what with Yorkshire being so unbelievably English that it nullifies the yankeeness.

The Only Pool in which I'd Happily Drown

Unfortunately for a guest at the glorious dinner I went to last night, he mentioned he'd been listening to LCD Soundsystem just before heading to dinner. The poor guy was then backed into a corner and forced to listen to just why I thought they were so great and why the concert I went to on Monday night was in my top five of all time. And that was before the drinking had really begun. Ahem.

But, seriously, it was extraordinary. I know I'm supposed to blog elsewhere for music-related fun, and I will do about just why it was so so so good. However, I (along with others) had a real sense of feeling at home in NYC this week, which was overwhelming in the finale to LCD Soundsystem - predictably, but still beautifully, New York I Love You but You're Bringing Me Down. What I particularly loved was there was only one person who got out a lighter, that I could see, and they soon put it away. New Yorkers weren't going to stand for that. And that's why I love them.

Bliss

There's something extraordinarily glorious about wandering through NYC when the sun is out and toasty on my skin, the sky is blue, and I have What's Going On* blasting through my headphones.

*Scroll down to number 6.

Finally, achievement

I actually managed to fulfill one of my New Year's Resolutions... for this week, at least. Yes, indeedy, I walked down from 96th St. It was a great opportunity to listen to some podcasts and catch up on Test Match Special and Woman's Hour, on things ranging from the lost art of dressmaking, to comfort women, to the loss of the old cricket grounds in the West Indies.

It is such a glorious morning. NYC is at the stage where it seems warm in the sun - beautifully so - but it's still rather chilly in the shade and after sunset. Yet you can feel things coming back to life, and everyone seems just so much happier. I love it so. This is my new Thursday plan. Honestly. Seriously. Walking is the way forward.

Unwholesome*

Yesterday I made the fatal error of thinking I could "just pick up some sausages" from Whole Foods. Foolishness. I had been lulled into that by I'm not sure what... forgetfulness, lunacy, or indeed the very good experience I had there earlier this week when buying an orchid - the flower lady was fabulous, orchid beautiful, all well and good.

* Apologies to those who have heard some format of this rant before. I thought I'd got it off my chest, but apparently not.

Nonetheless, yet again I went and yet again I ending up swearing to myself that NEVER AGAIN would I step foot in that stupid, stupid, stupid supermarket. Here's a blow-by-blow account of my time there:

8.05pm: Enter behind girl wearing ridiculous pageboy hat. Vow to not ever think I'll look good in one of those, no matter how long I live in NYC.

8.08pm: Get stuck trying to pass the deli counter where woman stands in middle of aisle and refuses to move.

8.11pm: Find veggie sausages. Get sausages from deli. Instead of three, get four meat ones because other half normally grumbles about too few sausages. Brilliant - in and out so quickly, a miracle.

8.12pm: Walk to the checkouts. Look somewhat in disbelief at the queue snaking back to the muffin carousel. Realise that yes, this is the "express" checkout.

8.15pm: Fume inwardly at the stupid people in front of me who clearly have more than 10 items in their trolleys. Daydream about confronting them and their inability to count. Realise what I am doing and loathe myself for what I have allowed Whole Foods to make me become.

8.16pm: Notice that Whole Foods management actually knows that it is "10 items or fewer"- internally commend them for this fact.

8.17pm: Continue to fume at the people in front who CLEARLY have more than 10 items.

8.19pm: Note the incredibly nice and VERY high-heeled shoes two people manage to shop in. Am wearing scuzzy trainers, as always.

8.25pm: Fume as realise that lady with HUGE amounts of collagen in her lips and who is in the large baskets queue, having arrived at the same time as me, is going to leave Whole Foods a good twenty minutes before me.

8.28pm: Longingly look at the ginger Green & Black's chocolate, only to remember that they are owned by Nestlé and I don't buy Nestlé products. Damn stupid consumer boycotts and "ethics".

8.35pm: Wonder what Jaime Pressly did to get on the front of Wine Connoisseur monthly, or whatever it's called.

8.36pm: Feel highly smug that the very very beautiful and impeccably dressed couple in front of me don't recognise Jaime Pressley. Feel very very very dirty for what I've become.

8.38pm: Wonder who exactly buys Shambhala Sun magazine.

8.41pm: Get text message from friend confirming that in fact other friend is in town and having dinner with us. Lose will to live at the thought of leaving the queue again, decided everyone will have to make do with two sausages each.

8.45pm: get directed to a counter by someone who could well be only half my age.

8.46pm: manage to get change from a $20 that includes Andrew Jackson. This hitherto mythical event somewhat dampened by fact that am so flustered to get out of Whole Foods--due to their rapid pressing of the next-customer-flashing-light-thing and how annoying it is to wait in the queue--that throw money everywhere. Oops.

8.47pm: ESCAPE TO COLUMBUS CIRCLE. Vow never to set foot in whole foods ever again at the weekend. Go home and moan and moan about this to people who are kind enough to put up with my moaning.

32 is the magic number

Yes it is.

A friend went to university in Minnesota and told me how, during winter, everyone would wear shorts and flipflops when the temperature finally got up to 32F. Yep, that is freezing. Minnesota natives (I know a surprisingly large number) have confirmed this strange habit.

Well, I thought it was strange. However, it's now been over a week without the temperature rising above zero (celsius). On seeing that, according to the NY1, it might today get above that level, I now understand the joy of some relative warmth. Not enough to wear flipflops - it's still flipping cold. We also have the windchill factor and I'm down at South Ferry at the bottom of the island which is GENUINELY much colder than the rest of NYC (water, wind tunnels, unpleasant - and in summer, a hazard for dress/skirt wearers).

Plus, I feel completely nesh when I look at the current temperatures and current windchills round the country... it's COLD out there. Still, I feel utterly justified in cooking a warming tomato pasta dish and watching a video tonight...

PS I re-watched The Philadelphia Story for the UMPTEENTH time last night... There really is no other film to match it for wit (and casual or not-so-casual misogyny). New favourite line: I'd sell my grandmother for one. And you know how much I love my grandmother.