Of seating plans, turtle doves and symphonies in watered silk - Part 1.
From a distance, it looked like a simple floral pattern: a series of large circles, each ringed by a series of smaller circles. Only upon closer inspection did it reveal itself as the seating plan for my colleague's wedding. We huddled round her desk, marvelling at the precision of it all.
"Was it all very political? Are there people that you've got to keep apart at all cost?"
"Yeah, a few. You know, ex-partners..."
God, the flashbacks. I was instantly reminded of the hours that K and I spent, drawing up a seating plan for my 40th birthday party. It was like a very complicated logic puzzle: one false move, and the whole structure would collapse. Ex-partners weren't even the half of it; there were people in the same room who hadn't spoken to each other in years. Not just the odd one or two, either; there must have been at least seven or eight potential major flashpoints to defuse. When good cliques go bad, and all that.
We were awfully proud with the finished product. One of my finest ever pieces of Excel-manship, if I may be so bold. OK, so shoving most of the married couples together (with just the one Token Gay, for seasoning) did look a leetle bit crass (*), but we were generally delighted with each table's carefully weighted balance of common interests, and its finely tuned blend of pre-existing friendships and potential new alliances. Indeed, when speculating upon all the new social connections that might derive from this one luncheon party, we could get quite starry-eyed. Thingy and thingy: they've got so much in common! And thingy, two seats away: he'll have the whole table in stitches!
Which would have been great, if the diameter of each round table hadn't been about twice as wide as estimated. This meant that, rather in the manner of a formal court banquet, each guest could only comfortably converse with the person immediately next to them. The whole premise of our plan had been that guests could talk freely across the table, with anyone they pleased. Thus restricted, it was now revealed as woefully wide of the mark. All over the room, people were left picking at their meals in silence, as adjacent pairs of old friends went into impenetrable huddles. (Such table etiquette would never have held sway at court, but what can you do?) Alternatively, people who had met maybe once or twice before, maybe in a pub or at a party, were forced to spin out their brief acquaintance into many hours of strained chit-chat, with no reprieve in sight.
Still, at least we knew the names of all our guests, and at least we invited both halves of each couple. Unlike some weddings in the 1980s which I could mention. Ooh, I feel some unresolved bitterness coming on...
(*) Update. Our office bride-to-be, this afternoon:
"I've put all the gays together on the same table. Do you reckon that's all right?"
"Of course it is. Basic rule of social engagement: in any large gathering, ALL the gay people WILL automatically seek each other out, and WILL form an Exclusive Gay Huddle in one area of the room. It's a sort of natural process of self-ghettoisation. You can't buck the laws of nature, so why stand in their way? Besides, you want one table to be leading all the whooping during the speeches, don't you?"
Congratulations on your forthcoming wedding, S. Hope it all goes wonderfully for you.
Apparently - and why wasn't I told about this before, because you know what a good little joiner-in I am - there's a gi-bloody-normous pan-global mass participation stunt going on today, by the name of BlogDay (via). The premise of BlogDay is that:
Bloggers from all over the world will post recommendations of 5 new Blogs, preferably Blogs that are different from their own culture, point of view and attitude.
Anything to spread the love, I guess. Or, more to the point: I was already planning to introduce two new blogs to you today, so why not add three more to the list?
So, if you'll forgive me for paying scant regard to the "different from your own" part of the assignment, here are five blogs which I have never linked to before.
Argy Bargey. It's always nice to be inspirational. This was created just yesterday, by no less a figure than The Other Gay One In The Office, as a direct response to my recent "I like staring at ladies' bosoms" posting. As a result, I shall have to stop referring to him as The Other Gay One (which would have made a nice little acronym: TOGO), and shall instead use his new blog name of JP forthwith. Welcome to blogging, JP!
Reluctant Nomad. Although this was created over a year ago, following his three-week stint as a guest blogger on Troubled Diva, my erstwhile midweek drinking partner Alan has let it lie dormant until today. About bloody time and all! Welcome to blogging, Alan!
Anchored Nomad. He's reluctant, and she's anchored; how unfair life can be. Sarah lives in Chicago; she has a Portuguese husband; she's rather partial to my podcasts; and I like the cut of her jib.
eachman.com. Anybody remember prolific.org? Well, this is where veteran Amsterdam blogger Caroline ended up next - and frankly, it's a disgrace that I haven't linked to it sooner. Caroline has been in this game since 1999, which makes her one of the First Bloggers Ever - and, when the history of our illustrious medium comes to be written, she will surely be remembered as The Inventor Of The Permalink. Oh yes! We have also spent a couple of very pleasant evenings together, supping beer and chuffing fags in one of the Irish bars on the Rembrandtplein. OK, so she absolutely loves U2 and Joss Whedon, and I absolutely do not - but diversity is key, don't you think?
Guyana Gyal. But if you really want Cultural Difference, then this might be just the ticket. This blogger from Georgetown, Guyana has a style all of her own: a kind of African patois, which I find most evocative. Watch this one: she's gonna make waves.
Oh, she's such a tease. Today on Naked Blog, Peter deigned to supply us with sub-headings only. If we wanted the full post, then we would have to write it ourselves. There might even be a small prize. A Port Of Leith T-shirt, most likely.
Pity I don't do T-shirts, except when hiking or gardening. Still, I never could resist a challenge...
Port In A Storm
Controversy reared its head in the Port yesterday, as Mary solemnly re-tuned the telly from the gee-gees (C4) to the rolling coverage of Katrina (Sky News). Howls of protest from the Star Wars end. Hie thee to the bookies, says Mary. Show some respect. (She has rellies in New Orleans, dinnae ye ken.) Scowls exchanged, at point blank range.
Down at the other end, two of my bingo ladies had wandered in. Flushed with success from a modest win, they were already onto the second gins. And we all know what gin does. Makes a girl maudlin, see.
So there they were, moist-eyed supplicants at the altar of Murdoch's wall-to-wall disaster p*o*r*n, fishing in their bags for hankies, and wondering if there was a number they could ring for donations. Ever noticed that it's always those who have nothing, coming to the aid of those who have lost everything? There's your "community", Tony.
As for this old girl, she just sat there betwixt the two camps, nursing her Guiness, biting her lip during the endless ad breaks. Accident insurance, mainly. Oh, the irony. Or if not that, then it was all shrill cross-promotional plugs, strictly for the benefit of that ghastly billionaire tyrant and his pushy mail-order bride. The rich serve only themselves. Sic transit gloria mundi.
My mam and my da taught me never to show emotion in public. Sign of weakness. So I had a wee blub when I got home, the wasps my only witnesses.
Much love to all who have been affected by this horrible tragedy.
Naked Ambition
Then the call came. Big media, wanting in on a slice of my estimable organ. The lure of mammon. The glint of greenbacks. LSD signs in the eyes - and we ain't talking microdots, hon.
As older readers will know, we've been down this path before. Rocky road. Vale of tears. All too much for a white woman. Why, I can hear you all now. She'll flounce before the ink is dry. No staying power, that one.
Que sera sera, as Dorrie's mam used to croon, back when the world was young. Alea jacta est. (It's Latin. Look it up in a book. You remember books, don't you?)
Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown
Monday, September 19th. The date when yours truly makes his debut on the national airwaves. Oh, there'll be none of that "community radio" tree-hugging hippy shite for me now. Strictly mass media, darlings. I'd love to tell you more, but wild horses and all that. (And, more to the point, legally binding non-disclosure agreements. These boys and girls leave nothing to chance.)
So, will it be sink or swim? Triumph or tragedy? Apotheosis or apocalypse? Place your bets now.
More details as we get them. Don't go changing! Natasha hen, get those sofa cushions plumped!
Weight a Minute
So, if all this stress is destined to bring me nothing but heartache, then at least it should be good for whittling away a few inches around the girth. For as my media advisor always says, the camera does add ten pounds (4.5 kg). In which case, there's work to be done.
The Guinness is right out, for starters. What do those skinny bitches in OK and Heat drink, anyway? Vodka, I do believe. Never could see the point of that vile brew. But needs must when big media drives.
Celebrity Blogger Fat Club. The meme starts here! Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye!
