Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!
« Fucking Aussie stalkersDropping a clanger »

A surprise at 1011 110010

  Fri 25th October 2013

"Dad! I need your help!" texts my most histrionic daughter.

"I've got to learn an audition speech. Can you help me with it?" The local rep is considering her for the part of the fairy Titania in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

I go round to Kirsty and ooh-ooo like a Clanger as I walk through the door. Histrionic Daughter is giggling at the internet with her sister. But The Great British Bake-off is on and Shakespeare offers no competition to Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood, for any of us. I ask if Kirsty wants "anything from the shop"--the drinker's coded way of diffusing his habit.

Melanie--my youngest, who once asked me how one becomes a tramp--starts on her homework about Of Mice and Men. She'll have trouble getting a job; she's inherited my selfishness and hedonism.

As the irritating Ruby thankfully fails to win the bake-off, Melanie storms in. From a soaked coat, she fetches out a rain-sodden "application" form for what is described as her "work experience" they all have to do early next year. How can one "apply" for something one doesn't want to do?

I suppress my laughter. "It's alright, we can dry it out, don't worry. Hang it over the fire." As we try to do so, hooking one corner under a little wooden box and the other under some letters, a corner of it falls off, weakened with wetness; I can't help laughing. "But that's my application form for a fucking job in Waterstone's," she says, with a loveable, far-sighted knowledge of the strait-jacket world of work, like a little Debord. I wrap my arms around her from behind as she kneels in front of the gas fire looking at the dismembered form. "Oh Melanie, that's such a metaphor." Why does she have to do "work experience"? Why can't she just spend the fortnight reading Steinbeck?


I was in the kitchen practicing writing the time in binary. I thought it would be useful if ever I bought a binary watch. It was 1011 / 110010 when the girl from Hanoi walked in. I was taken aback as it's the first time she's ever sought a conversation with me. She announced that she will be moving out on 1st November to live with a couple of other Vietnamese students. She says her schedule is out of sync with the rest of us and that she disturbs Ned in the room below.

Ned comes down a few minutes later to see how the bread is rising. He looks guilty and is apologetic, wrongly thinking it's his fault that I am now plunged into penury again, unable to meet my obligations. "She thinks you don't like her," I say. "Yes I know, I heard." He says that he did have to take her to task over two things. First he requested she refrain from taking forty-five minutes over a shower, drying her hair, and stomping about in the bathroom above his room at 6.30am on a Sunday morning; and he asked her to clean up after herself as she was about to leave raw chicken guts on the chopping board overnight.

It hasn't worked with her from the very start. Every time I see her, it's me that initiates conversation, which is always rebuffed with a quizzical and slightly agressive look. Cultural differences, timidity, and her self-isolation have all played a part in that. But part of it is sheer fucking rudeness.

She must be from a wealthy family to be able to afford the £19,000 p.a. that her course costs. She could afford her own flat and be an arsehole all by herself.

4 comments

Rudeness crosses cultural and economic boundaries. It’s one of the slender threads that run through all humanity.

Even though it’s a terrible inconvenience, your constant parade of renters has provided entertaining content for your blog. Who’s next?

Fri 25th October 2013 @ 11:49
Comment from: [Member]

I don’t know! Desperately need someone here–quick. This is part of the trouble–I haven’t got the luxury of being able to turn people down.

Fri 25th October 2013 @ 12:17
Comment from: Homer [Visitor]

Gizzards aside, she sounds like the Stormtrooper from Norwegian Wood.

Sat 26th October 2013 @ 15:04
Comment from: [Member]

I’ve not read that–I ought to. She’s just so silent–that’s what I can’t get. She’d be better off in the Travelodge.

Sat 26th October 2013 @ 20:17


Form is loading...

looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 60 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
Another Angry Voice
the asshat lounge
Clutter From The Gutter
Crinklybee
Eryl Shields Ink
Exile on Pain Street
Fat Man On A Keyboard
gairnet provides: press of blll defunct, but retained for its quality
George Szirtes ditto
Infomaniac [NSFW]
The Joy of Bex
Laudator Temporis Acti
Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder
The Most Difficult Thing Ever
Quillette
Strange Flowers
Trailer Park Refugee
Wonky Words

"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006

5:4
Bristol New Music
Desiring Progress Collection of links only
NewMusicBox
The Rambler
Resonance FM
Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
Talking Musicology defunct, but retained


  XML Feeds

b2
 

©2024 by looby. Don't steal anything or you'll have a 9st arts graduate to deal with.

Contact | Help | Blog theme by Asevo | CMS + user community