:: The Lamb Has Landed ::

I've done it, a seven pound leg of lamb (one of the few things I stil quantify in imperial!) is sitting in the fridge, waiting for Sunday's feast. One of the joys of working near Smithfield is the ready availability of quality meat. And to top it off, I popped into the local branch of Nicolas to buy something to wash it down with: a pleasant Rully and what promises to be a delectable bottle of Beaune. Being a slave to epicurean urges, this more than the prospect of 4 days off work is what excites me most about Easter.

And as if to emphasise the prétencieux at this stage, I might as well harp on about the fact that whilst I was reading an article on synaesthesia, my mind was drawn to Baudelaire. Let me explain: in the heady days of '95, my A-level French teacher first brought the concept of synaesthesia to my attention. Not in the medical sense, you understand. This was a literary device which Baudelaire had explored in Les Fleurs Du Mal, in particular, the poem "Correspondances":

La nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.

Comme des longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.

Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants,
Doux comme des hautbois, verts comme des prairies,
-Et d'autres corrompus, riches et triomphants,

Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.

In case you find reading French impossible, harrowing or tedious, multiple translations are available here. Incidentally, the site that comes from is an excellent resource for Baudelaire's work in translation. If only more foreign poets were afforded the luxury of this style of poetry, they might be more appreciated by English speakers. I've probably mentioned it before, but most Russians are incredulous when they discover that Pasternak is known in the West solely as the writer of Doctor Zhivago. In his homeland, he is lauded principally for his verse.

Before I go over the top on the highbrow stuff, let me assure you that I have plenty of trash to dole out before I go merrily skipping off to gorge myself over the Bank holiday weekend. This game brought back waves of memories from my adolescence - believe it or not, even I was a "rebellious" teenager (sometimes). And various people I know are addicted to this one, too. Thankfully I shun such silly pursuits and instead delight in the silly shoppery available on b3ta and (believe or not) even the beeb. The obligatory seasonal story is notable only for the fact that the chaps in the picture appear to be unfeasibly slim. They appear to be clutching rather low quality chocolate ova. If on the other hand, they waved a dark chocolate one from a more upmarket purveyor, I might get a bit of a hard on...

And on that bombshell, I'd better love you and leave you. Take care...

:: Caffeine Kicks ::

Life in the office would be perfect at the moment, but for one thing. Blue skies, sunny day, seat next to the open window might appear to add up to a favourable working environment, but the dodgy cleaners have broken/stolen my cafetière. As a result, I'm now having to use a tea infuser to brew my morning cup of Skybury-blend coffee. Whilst the result is considerably more palatable than the instant shite deemed fit for consumption by us minions, I find it a little insipid and grainy. So, for the time being I shall be keeping my delicious UCR Organic Ethiopia Yirgacheffe at home whilst I attempt to rectify the coffee hardware situation.

Whilst on the subject of conspicuous consumption, I phoned my mother on tips for cooking a large joint of lamb for Sunday, when I shall be filling the house with hungry thesps and culinary goodness. She recommends inserting slivers of garlic into the skin side before covering and roasting at a high temperature for half the time. Then the foil is removed and the oven turned down for the remainder. Apart from the traditional accompaniment, I shall be providing a selection of roasted vegetables, braised leeks with butter and white wine and Shrewsbury Sauce. If I get time, I'll also buy some lovely chocolates from my fabulous local sweetshop.

Unable to extricate my thoughts from the realm of gourmandise... having won last month's OFM best newcomer award, it seems that the lovely Leon is set to expand, with a new, larger branch near Ludgate circus! I foresee a good few pre-prandial saunters down Farringdon Street when this comes to pass...

Other news? Not that much to report really, although many of my evenings now seem mysteriously vacant (could that be a hint, Tigger?) and I have rather more time to surf for amusing shite. Anyone who has been bugged by phone sales staff in Mumbai may well have heard of (and tried to register with) the Telephone Preference Service; however, in a parallel universe, someone has invented the God botherer preference service, a perfect antidote to JWs. My response to religious nutters during Holy Week is to wear this from the lovely chaps at threadless:

And proving their up-to-the minute topicality, I realise that they have a garment available with the caption My Mom Likes Maiden, just as the seminal Brit-rockers are announced as headliners at Reading & Leeds.

Question of the week (alternative to b3ta's crap one) must be What's the point of 3G?. Just as I'm about to get a new phone, I realise that the extra function I use most is the built-in FM radio, available on an ever dwindling number of handsets. Do I want to check emails on the go? Probably. Will I pay to watch premmiership goals? Fuck Off! And I still have yet to be convinced of the value of being able to photograph drunken scenes at closing time, at poor resolution. Any thoughts, peeps? Even Orange's Consumer Press Officer has had a difficult time persuading me...

And finally, the obligatory list of search terms, through which weary net-wanderers have stumbled here:
  • morten harket bread
  • "what was in the mystery envelope"
  • "sleeping becks" national portrait gallery"
  • Brezhnev + Honecker + pics
  • hellovetica
  • instruction "flat-packed" furniture Ikea humor
  • Vassily Sigarev
  • "Capezzoli di Venere" recipe
  • vecherinka lyrics
  • on-a-Space-hopper sex

That's it, I'm off to get run over by a granny buggy...

:: Oh Dear ::

Due to several days off work, mostly spent manufacturing a papier mâché tree for this, things have all gone a bit quiet. I'm not the only one who's on a bit of a hiatus though... At least Dr Rufus is back in the land of the cyber-living.

Oh, and I also have to finish compiling a crossword for tomorrow, which is a bit too much hassle for my liking. May be I should invest in some helpful software, especially if it's going to become a regular thing. Just for help filling in the grids (15x15, rotationally symmetric), you understand - I do my own clues, thank you very much.

For more evidence of my "handiwork" in recent theatrical productions, the Fuente Ovejuna photos contain rather a lot of my painted cyclorama, fountain and shield.

And if my overweaning sense of self-importance is getting to you, you'd better take some painkillers...

:: Oven-Hoover ::

Another week, another production: only two more performances of this to go:

It's made a change for me, doing sound, painting set (photos soon available to view online) and not acting. Currently there seems to be a competition as to which wag can bastardise the name of the play in the most hilarious fashion. Surely it can't be that hard to pronounce...

I was disappointed to read this week that Pinter is to stop writing for the stage. As I wide-eyed teenager, I witnessed the National Theatre's savage production of The Birthday Party. Seldom has an introduction to a playwright's work been so memorable to me, and I've had a wide admiration for Pinter's work ever since. David Ell directed One for the Road as part of the New Directors' Showcase at South London Theatre last year...

Now, before I pop off, there's time to cover those topics allegedly best avoided at middle class dinner parties: Politics, Religion and Sex. To be honest, I've always found these to be the only suitable topics of conversation at such occasions although not all would agree. I remember that attempts to get my mother to say "cunt" in front of the dinner guests didn't go down to well - I'm nearly ashamed to admit that I was 22 at the time. However, this was during a (vaguely befuddled) conversation about the power of language in which I argued that much of a word's potential to shock was founded in the speaker's intention rather than its inherant definition. I suspect the lawyers in the current Michael Jackson case are indulging in a similar game...

- As far as the mini-Machiavellis are concerned, I relished the fact that Tony Blair was officially snubbed in his attempts to rule Little Britain as well as Great Britain, and the Tories have revealed a secret weapon in the shape of Michael Howard's wife. Let's hope she doesn't stoop to cooing Beatles hits at startled Chinese people.

- Religion? Not much that I care about really. So here's a picture of the Pope on a space hopper

- Sex might have to wait next week (on recent progress - till next year), but you can read all about people losing their virginity on b3ta.

And the burning question of the week for me: What was in the mystery envelope?