Venusberg | That's not your heart, it's a piece of helicopter casing

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Hang on... Helen Gentry, 62, wants to pound Judge Greer? That's filthy. Although I suppose this is essentially an argument about who has the right to decide whether or not a tube should be pushed into and taken out of a lady, so perhaps the whole thing has gone a bit porno. Not usually the sort of thing you'd want the executive branch to get involved in, but then I'm sure Tom DeLay knows what he's doing. There is no contradiction between arguing for an end to big government and demanding the right to interfere in states' applications of existing law in individual cases. Allowing a competent spouse to make judgements based on his wife's wishes is as a principle invalidated by the desires of her parents. We have always been at war with Oceania.

Saturday involved a hilarious number of commitments and potentials, which I dealt with in a mature and sensible fashion by taking myself totally out of the game with a Friday of shocking overindulgence, starting at lunchtime at the Mango Tree, continuing in the afternoon at Balls Brothers and culminating messily and at some length at the Marquis of Granby. Dad pub. Totally.

So, I did not march to bring the boys back home (and put them back in Northern Ireland, where they belong). I did not attend any of the many phases of Bran the Blessed's birthday party. I did not make it to Sadie Coles HQ, go suit shopping, or snap and buy an iBook. Or an iPod. Or a photo iPod. Or an iPod Shuffle. Or a Tapwave Zodiac. Or an Advent T9400. Or a Mac Mini. At this rate when I do snap it will be heard in China.

I certainly did not go to the Rhythm Lounge, or to Duckie, which was a shame but would probably have killed me. Also, apparently, they no longer play Chant of the Ever Circling Skeletal Family, as guaranteed a floor filler as I have ever heard. In the hands of a pop alchemist like Justin Timberlake, I truly believe this could be the feelgood hit of the summer.

What I did do was drag my bones up to Tufnell Park for the end of the knit-in. By the time I got there the resolution to knit a huge scarf in celebration of the return of Dr. Who had broken down entirely, and, in the manner of the post-breakup Spinal Tap, everyone was working on their own projects.

Then a quick hop to the Poetry Library. I hate that the Poetry Library is closing, as one can only truly hate the sudden removal of something you should have used far more. Simultaneous inconvenience and shame, and not in a good way. Bouncing beneath London, where I was privy to a heartening moment where a discussion sparked by two fellows noticing that the minigoth to my right was reading Patricia Cornwell, and then the person next to them joined in, and so on until by the time I got off a subterranean mobile book club had kicked off. This was significantly more heartwarming than my usual engagement with literature on the Tube, which centres on a struggle not to tell people that a) it's Mary Magdalene and b) she's buried under the Louvre.

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