Belatedly, a collection of stuff that has amused/obsessed/infuriated me over the past
8 7 days.
- Obsessed: Teenaged Bedrooms on tumblr. Tumblr could be the death of blogging, replacing the (virtual) journal with the (virtual) commonplace-book in, to me, a distinctly regressive and disappointing step. ION, I want to live in some or all of these rooms. Recently, when at home, I found a picture in which the 1990s had basically vomited on my walls. I can only bow before the trashy sixth form let-it-rot-then-laminate jewel-encrusted BEAUTY you see here. When I was seven I drew a picture of how I wanted to look at seventeen – enormous perm, sparkly earrings, a lot of denim and the wardrobe of a gothed-up Spice Girl. I thank Teenaged Bedrooms for going on to live that dream.
- After seeing Frankenbatch at the National on Saturday, self and m’comrades were privileged to sit on a pigeon-beshat step opposite the South Bank’s branch of Eat. The following dialogue ensued:
ME: omg omg is that harriet walter THAT IS HARRIET WALTER oh my god OH MY GOD DON’T LOOK
ME: THERE she is THERE there THE ONE BEING HARRIET WALTER oh my god don’t look oh god she’s so BEAUTIFUL
Needless to say, the way in which Dame H. sat there, eating a salad and talking to some sort of unknown manchild REDEFINED the aforementioned acts of sitting, eating, and talking. If I am EVER FORCED into a situation where I have to make coherent remarks at her (and, god willing, it will only be once), I will die. Oscar Wilde slept on Lillie Langtry’s doorstep and tbh I would probably do the same, except no, that’s creepy. I didn’t speak to her. Just hyperventilated a bit, because saying “omg Clamorous Voices and Other People’s Shoes and would you like to be in my DPhil, they should have made you a Dame years ago and what was it like being Harriet Vane?” would be much too much. Yes.
- That was almost a neat segue into something else which made me wail this week, for INFINITELY LESS GRATIFYING reasons. Simon Thomas, author of Stuck In A Book and in any number of ways a normally decent human being, this week blogged the following piece of effluvia: Agatha vs Dorothy. Consequently, I lost all coherence and shrieked like a banshee when we met on the High Street. I don’t know what’s wrong with Simon. Sayers is interwar. She’s middlebrow. She’s a woman. This is basically the blueprint, believe me, for fiction which Simon likes. I’d rather have found out he ate babies.
- In related news, while looking for a picture to illustrate the Walterspam, I found a blog: Dear Harriet Walter. I just want to assure the internet that I didn’t write it. Wow.
- Chain Factor.
- Kat Gupta answered some questions for me over at Mixosaurus. Thanks, Kat!
- I have learned to use a cafetiere and thus drink coffee in the mornings. Can you tell?
Happy Friday, all!