fourth floor feminism | sociable speculation

Love can hijack your otherwise normal life with only a rusty bent teaspoon and a packet of clothes pegs - the wooden ones that start out a pleasing pine colour and end up a slimy grey-green from the weather. Love can drive you barmy with its relentless weeks of monotony that prepares you for throwing it all in and getting a real life, and then it flattens all your objections with a broadside of pure bliss so iridescent that you are blinded for days and your mind is invincible in the afterglow. I betrayed my great love the other week for a few days, as I sulked about the lack of a visa and in a fit of pique I threatened my mind with going home and starting another undergraduate course in the history of another country, one that would give me a visa. I even contemplated, god forbid, Australian history. But you can’t rage against what is in your blood, what is hard-wired into your brain, what brings you your greatest joy. And so I am stuck with being irretrievably in love with Britain, ...

From the ages of 5 to 16 years old I wanted to be an archaeologist, nattily attired in khaki, under the baking sun, slowing brushing away red dirt to reveal priceless treasures . When I gave up that dream, I replaced it with another one, that of marrying an archaeologist. This occurred to me when, collating some of my favourite quotes to facilitate the delivery of a pithy yet educated aside in polite conversation, I came across Agatha Christie’s assessment of life with an archaeologist; An archaeologist is the best husband a woman could have. The older she gets, the more interested he is in her. Dame Christie was my top author for many years and I still experience the thrill of meeting up with an old friend when Poirot and Captain Hastings converse in their sitting room at the start of each story, much like those other most famous of sleuths, Holmes and Dr Watson. Such was my admiration that, believing imitation was indeed the sincerest form of flattery, I once tried to create my...

Oh yeah baby, it is snow time again in London and this year I was better prepared than last year . Better prepared meaning I was not acting like a five-year-old and running around in circles chanting songs composed on the spot about snow. I was really cool, calm and collected and limited myself to hustling Jac out of bed to look at the snow and taking photos from my window of my snow-covered view. This year I got to view the snow falling from a few storeys up though which was cool. In the space of my 40 minutes getting ready you could really see the different styles of snowfall ... it wafted down, slammed down AND come down kinda horizontal. I do think that my three morning companions were a little shocked that I took photos of them though; the stocky guy in the bottom flat who has breakfast in his white towelling dressing gown each morning, the guy in the top flat with his two huge Mac monitors in his home office and the shy guy in the middle flat who keeps on ducking out of sight...

I have a few plans to implement this year and I am going to ask for nominations for one and offer the other one as a kind of timeshare offer. Two of my resolutions are to read more non-fiction and to subscribe to magazines that provide contemporary commentary. RESOLUTION ONE AIM: Read two non-fiction books a month on History and Literature / Ideaology, choosing areas of the world that I have no specialisation in (ie not Britain or Western Europe). METHOD: Turn the pages. EQUIPMENT: A learned, yet easy to read tome that covers a good chunk of the history and literature / ideaology of the area chosen. April – China and Mongolia May – India June – South East Asia July – Scandanavia August – Eastern Europe September – North Africa October – South Africa November – South America December – Central America Essentially I am taking recommendations. I do not have a wide enough knowledge of these regions to know who the scholars are and which publications are the most authorative or well-written...

The National Portrait Gallery is my favourite place in London, mainly because my passion is people and a good portrait displays the artist’s ability to render in paints what I seek to render in words. However, the National Portrait Gallery has two other excellent qualities that endear it immensely to me – it hosts a free lecture and a free musical performance each week. I have listened to lectures on Dandyism, Chinese Opera and writers in residence in Antarctica. I have listened to Cole Porter Jazz tunes, medieval Christmas Carols and, tonight, a collection of works for guitar, violin, flute and voice influenced by or composed in Spain. The recital was by young artists from the Concordia Foundation , an organisation I am rapidly becoming a fan of as the amazing performance I saw tonight has impressed me with the calibre of their pool of creative talent. I was given the great pleasure of watching four performers who will be commanding very large fees if I want to see them again. A...

I had been seated in the front row of the audience for the performance and remained behind for a little while, savouring the pleasure of the previous minutes. As I got out of my seat I was approached by the two elderly ladies sitting across from me. I was sure I had seen them before in my travels and I had certainly noticed them sketching quickly during the performance. We quickly established that all three of us attended approximately the same events, but Gwyneth and Joy had come up with a unique way of thanking those whom they watched perform. Both ladies had produced a lovely sketch of each performer, and afterwards, took it to them and asked them to sign it. I watched each of the four artists be melted by this gesture, smile delightedly and chat away to the two women, charmed by the gift of art for art. I myself was inordinately pleased when they showed me the sketch they had done of me, fur collar around my neck and face transformed by the music. They had caught me during the ...

I have a new job. It is one of those jobs that make you wonder what you did the night before to deserve it. The tube ride is a relaxing 40 minutes from door to door, including trains that ran on time and uncrowded carriages of good looking men in suits. Exiting the tube I am met by the clean, green scent of the breeze off Green Park, the route to work taking me through the quiet streets of St James past shops that sell that indefinable edge that makes the posh and rich look right. The office is serene and elegant; wood panelling, original artwork, lush carpets, silver service, three butlers, a wine cellar and a corporate curator. My own office has two windows, an armchair and brass plate on the door that is shiny enough to check my reflection in. There is a full cooked lunch each day in the dining room and I am already in possession of complimentary tickets to exhibitions that employees are entitled to. This is the kind of job I imagined London to be able to offer, but I did not ...

Shakespeare's Globe 2005 THEATRE SEASON THE SEASON OF THE WORLD AND UNDERWORLD The 2005 summer theatre season at Shakespeare’s Globe has been announced as The Season of The World and Underworld. Three plays by Shakespeare - The Tempest, The Winter’s Tale and Pericles – will be joined by an adaptation of The Storm by Plautus. This Graeco-Roman comedy has been adapted by Peter Oswald whose previous work for the Globe, The Golden Ass, was a huge hit in 2002. In addition to these productions, two company projects will explore voice and the use of masks on the Globe stage. The Season of The World and Underworld, which begins on 6 May, will examine the influence of classical Greece on Shakespeare’s works. The season will finish on 2 October with The Tempest. It will be Mark Rylance’s final performance as artistic director of Shakespeare’s Globe. The Natural History Museum CURRENT EXHIBITIONS Wildlife Photographer of the Year Tickets £5, £3 concessions, £12 family ...

Today Bunty Marshall, 82, breezed into my life from Derbyshire (driving 2 ½ hours down the M1 by herself thank you very much) to remind me what I should be doing with my time over here. She was trying some loose powder, I offered a hand massage with the new hand cream and we talked about the weather, her Christmas, her son's travels, my travels and we finally got to my degree. And then we were off, talking faster than we could manage of the Danelaw, WRENs, the Great War and the feeling you can get of the countless years of an old building reaching out of the very stones for you. I pulled out my chair, seated her behind my counter and we became the best of friends. We covered her impression of the Imperial War Museum's Women in War exhibition that we had both seen and her founding of the Repton Historical Society. We bonded over our mutual thoughts on Hastings Castle, the Battle of Bosworth, Gallipoli and Normandy. We stood with slightly teary eyes discussing the profound ef...

When you are not at school or university, lessons creep up on you. In the middle of a quiet December I had one day in which I learnt quite a few things about the importance of being earnest about clean socks, the obligations inherent in being older, the difference between sticks and knives, why I miss my cousins and the real look of sun damaged skin. Perhaps I should start at the top then. The importance of clean socks, or in my case stockings without holes. Accessorize stockings are in my top five 'Things I Love About London' along with Pret a Manger sandwiches , any food from Marks and Spencer's , New Look trousers and the Sunday Times' Style Magazine . I have a pair from last year that were worn every day for five months and have only two holes. This year's pair are showing all the signs of repeating the star performance as the sturdiest stockings in existence. But this year's pair had not been washed, and neither had my jeans, so I was wearing skirts ...

Dude, the tongue stud is not going back into the tongue tonight. R I P

All the 2004 stories from my superceeded forum have been posted up today, illustrated with photos etc. For those readers who have not seen my earlier forum, this is your golden opportunity to read some of my other writing. Further 2004 writing and the 2003 stories should be up soon - they will be back dated and will therefore will be found in the archives.

I have an impressive list of workplaces from the last 16 months in London, the Evangelical Alliance , Transport for London , the Victoria and Albert Museum , Drake International , Avanti Architects and now Elizabeth Arden . This week I started out on my three month contract as an Elizabeth Arden counter dolly and it has been an eye opener. The entire arrangement fell into place because of a throw away remark made by the London Area Manager. Alison and I were exchanging banter and she asked me why I couldn’t come and work for her. When I told her my contract with Head Office was up in five days, she rushed the whole thing through in a week and I was a consultant – all rouged up and ready to go. The two interviews, one with her and one with the store turned out to be mere formalities. The interview with Alison was an amusing one, as she told me she loved the hair, loved the eye makeup and loved me. I just had to lose the tongue stud and start wearing lipstick. The lipstick rule is a...

Shakespeare's Globe 2005 THEATRE SEASON THE SEASON OF THE WORLD AND UNDERWORLD The 2005 summer theatre season at Shakespeare’s Globe has been announced as The Season of The World and Underworld. Three plays by Shakespeare - The Tempest, The Winter’s Tale and Pericles – will be joined by an adaptation of The Storm by Plautus. This Graeco-Roman comedy has been adapted by Peter Oswald whose previous work for the Globe, The Golden Ass, was a huge hit in 2002. In addition to these productions, two company projects will explore voice and the use of masks on the Globe stage. The Season of The World and Underworld, which begins on 6 May, will examine the influence of classical Greece on Shakespeare’s works. The season will finish on 2 October with The Tempest. It will be Mark Rylance’s final performance as artistic director of Shakespeare’s Globe. The Natural History Museum CURRENT EXHIBITIONS Wildlife Photographer of the Year Tickets £5, £3 concessions, £12 family ...

Royal Mail provide a new Premium Service in London. You put your package in the Post Box, and five days later they deliver it - not to the addressee - but back to you. What could they possibly come up with to top THAT for service? I arrived home on Tuesday and as I made my way up the stairs, Monica sang out that I was a lucky girl - I had a parcel. I caught sight of the parcel and it looked all too familiar – you see it was Alicia's Christmas present, posted on Friday for Perth. I know for a fact that at least one of it's accompanying parcels actually reached Perth on the same day. I stared, I trembled and I unleashed a display of anger and swearing that had Monica leaping out of her skin. She watched me stride around the house calling into question the parentage and intelligence of all Royal Mail workers and I think she was shocked at the outburst. Who knows what I did wrong! On the front of the envelope – structurally the front, the side with the Royal Mail stamp...

It's Christmas and I haven't seen family and friends for about 16 months. This means I have a lot of Christmas Cards to send. If you haven't heard from me for a while, it is probably because I have been closeted away writing, addressing, wrapping and posting. This is just the Christmas Card collection for Perth - this is not including about 10 more individuals, presents for the best friends and immediate family, and certainly not the presents and cards for London. The 50 odd cards in the photo, with at least 30 more to go, are keeping me awake at night when I should be sleeping to tackle the next day of writing. But my goodness they are worth it! I would not be as happy as I am in London without the constant contact from home. The presents, the photos, the Cherry Ripes, the SMS's, the phonecalls. So thank you, all of you, for being so very good at keeping in contact. I would rather be driven crazy by the need to get something sent to everyone than be relaxed a...

A short story, starring Claire and Jerome in their younger years - Baby gorillas Two small brown heads are bent over in concentration, four small hands are engaged in cutting, writing and ripping up sticky tape and two darting sets of eyes are keeping an eagle eye out for the presence of MUM . You see, the Naughty Club was being created, and the entire reason for the Naughty Club was to facilitate real and tangible rebellion by a 4 year old and a 3 year old against the tyranny of good behaviour as expected by MUM . In stealth, and very limited legibility, the Naughty Club membership cards were cut out, inscribed with secret symbols (lost now to your reporter) and 'laminated' with large amounts of sticky tape. The inaugural meeting was arranged and the current members of one of the newest radical movements of 1985 split up to try and allay suspicion and confound the ever watchful eyes of MUM . One of MUM 's great weaknesses was that she was old and tired and need...

Last Thursday I was making my leisurely way down Regent Street to the National Portrait Gallery and I walked past the new Apple shop , unwrapped from its scaffolding and hoardings only that week. Despite the fantastically bright red and blue Christmas lights spanning Regent Street, it was the light (the light …), the clean, white light that attracted me. As I flattened my body against the window in curiosity, I had to admit that Apple had spent their money well. Calculating the price the company paid for a two storey shop front, three times the width of most of the other shops makes my head hurt. But it is what they have done with that decadent amount of space that really makes the shop extraordinary. There are a few vast, clean blonde wood tables nearly lost in the gleaming whiteness and the sexy machines sit in splendid isolation so you can caress them and still have more than enough room to bring your other hand up to wipe the drool away in comfort and without disturbing your neig...

The cattle-class conditions of rush hour on the tube are an amazing way to learn to ignore people. With my head tucked into my neighbour's armpit, the wookie attempting to suffocate a seated bystander and some diminutive child eyeing the pink plastic handle of my umbrella as if it was a candy-cane, I travelled in one forgetable morning on a train that was packed to dangerous and unsociable standards. When in such circumstances the urge to withdraw from the outposts of your body is overwhelming and I cease my habitual, ceaseless and obvious observation of the people in the carriage, pull all my nerve endings in closer to my spine and attempt to ignore any touch registering with my brain. I blur the edges of my peripheral vision so I can be alone and discreet in the swaying mass of steaming, exhaling, sweating bodies. Today I was particularly loath to be in such close quarters with anyone as I was reading Perfume by Patrick Suskind and the rich descriptions of Grenouille's o...

Today it rained heavily for about 20 seconds at 8.12 when I stepped, umbrella-less, out of the door to work. I went back for the umbrella. This took all of a minute. By the time I got back out it was drizzling. I barely raised an eyebrow. I remember sitting in my room in the middle of the English 'summer' just past, rearranging my photos and postcards on the wall and trying not to look outside. I tended to overuse non-descript when describing the weather this summer, but I will use it again because the only better way to describe it is as an absence of weather and that is just silly. One boring and grey day, as I sent my reluctant gaze outside like a child into the gloom of England's summer, my mind had itself an epiphany – I could write a book about eternal summer and beautiful gardens and adventures and ...! I suppose, then, that the sunny, balmy days of English children's literature were wishful and hopeful rather than factual. Given that I spent my genuinely sun...