March 8th, 2011

International Women’s Day

 ‘Tis today, the day of the woman. It’s also pancake day, so as more than one internet-based wag has pointed out, it's a perfect day for the woman in your life to spend in the kitchen. I giggled at that. The first time. Then someone sent a (presumably serious) tweet encouraging the international women to “stay beautiful, stay sexy” which I kinda thought missed the point, just a smidge.

 

Here’s the thing. Some men in the UK, and not just in the Daily Fail, have been asking questions. Wondering why we need a women’s day at all. Wondering where their day is. Well, here’s my answer. For me, personally, International Women’s Day isn’t about sexism or glass ceilings or even Lord Sugar demanding to know my private and personal plans for my body. We haven’t achieved gender equality in the UK, not by a long chalk, but today isn’t about that particular struggle for me. I prefer to focus on the international part of the day. I prefer to focus on the fact that, today, ONE THOUSAND women and girls will die in childbirth.

 

That’s not a typo.

 

In my life, I’ll be lucky to even know one thousand women – friends, acquaintances, colleagues, fellow students, friends of friends. If I knew that every single one of them was going to die giving birth to a baby – that every single woman I know was going to die if they got pregnant – I’d think they deserved a day. I’d think they deserved my time, my energy and my focus.

 

For sure, celebrate our achievements, our advances. For sure, continue to work for equality in whatever way you can. Even better, take action and join the White Ribbon Alliance. But whatever you do with your day today, please give some small part of it to the one thousand women and girls who will die trying to give birth. Because I think they deserve that.   

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December 17th, 2010

Cauliflower, cheese and Christmas

Big day today. Huge. Just some of the highlights:

 

The neighbour’s dog jumped up on me on the way home from the shops, tearing both my shopping bag and the litre of milk contained therein, which then proceeded to drip drip drip all the way home, into the living room and up the stairs. I might have to buy more milk tomorrow.

 

I put handcream on, then touched my hair. My ‘do won’t last another day. Greasy greaserson / schoolboy error.

 

I’m having cauliflower cheese and chips for tea. I am eating it right now, bowl at the side of the PC, just like Nigella. I keep getting food in the keyboard. That never happens to her.  

 

I suspect that Gingey will never make the chorus. But he might still be the lead. (The Wiggly Nativity should settle it the matter once and for all.)  Also, when did ‘street’ dance mean ‘Little Bunny Foo Foo’? What kind of street is that teacher living in, cos it sure as hell ain’t near mine? (Girlfriend.)

 

Yes, today’s theme is celebrating the small stuff.

 

It’s been a tough week. Gingey had a wee operation on Tuesday. As Bloke is always telling me off for over-sharing, and there’s a slim chance Gingey might read this one day, I will draw a veil over what the op was for. Suffice to say we were a trifle concerned that his first words when he came round from the anaesthetic were going to be ‘what the feck have you done to my shvantz?’  

 

Thing is, it was a tough week. Really tough. But – thankfully – tough weeks like that aren’t part of our ‘normal’ life. Our son is healthy, strong, cheeky, funny, obstinate and so incredibly beautiful I could eat him on a piece. All is well. Not everyone is so lucky.

 

So tonight I write my Christmas blog and wish you all good things for Christmas and the year ahead. I know I’ll fail, but my New Year's resolution is to concentrate on the good things and celebrate the daft things. No doubt I’ll still be ranting about the shit things (fear not) but I’m aiming for a little bit of perspective. Let me know how I do.

 

So.  Here’s what I say. To the friend who secretly thinks I share too much here – meh-heh!  To the emigres: throw another prawn on that barbie, it may feel weird but at least you don’t have to eat Christmas Cake. To the girlies doing crazy dancing at the party I’m missing right now: throw those shapes, and throw them hard. To the bump carriers – and there are many of them just now – I say just you wait. Joy doesn’t even begin to cover it. To the parents: stop reading this right now and give your child a hug. Maybe even ruffle their hair a little bit. And pinch their cheeks.

 

And: eating cauliflower cheese and chips while typing is rarely successful.

 

To everyone, have a happy and peaceful Christmas.  Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.  

 

 

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October 10th, 2010

Review: Jamie’s Italian

It's not all insightful social commentary and X-Factor, you know. OrdinaryJo also eats food and shares the results with you…

To Glasgow, for a small reunion. We needed somewhere close to the station, for a party of 6 who all had different dietary requirements (but how terribly post-modern).  The pressure was on – hard enough to pick a restaurant for 6 people who haven’t all been in the same room for more than ten years, without the added weight of the odd bit of food writing which Ordinary had (of course) bigged-up somewhat into a career that would make AA Gill gnash his teeth with envy.

But the power of social media came to my rescue, with my Weedgie-based Facebook crowd suggesting Jamie’s Italian, a shiny new venture in Glasgow’s George Square.

Actually, I did hae ma doots. I’d previously eaten in a Jamie’s near London and had been a bit puzzled by their ‘no-bookings’ policy, which meant we’d queued for 40 minutes for a table. Outside. Which was fine on a balmy Southern August evening – but not really the sort of thing I could see translating to the Scottish climate.

 
Thankfully, whoever decided to open in Glasgow had actually spent more than ten minutes in the city (it rains in Glasgow. Constantly.) so the problem had been solved by adding a bar space to the already enormous restaurant. We rocked up at 7, explained we thought the rest of the party would arrive around 7.30ish, were told the wait would be about 40 minutes and then sent down to the bar with a wee buzzer. In the event, our table was ready 25 minutes later and 2 of us were late, which bothered them not a jot. In fact, the staff were uniformly brilliant, no mean feat when you consider the amount of people they must see on a busy night: hats off to them, although they could maybe lay off the upselling just a tiny bit.
 
The menu is Mr Oliver’s take on modern Italian. Starters mostly antipasti based and – while very simple – well executed. The ingredients are good enough to speak for themselves though and could do with a little less hyperbole. I just don’t believe the olives were ‘the world’s best’. I mean, they were really good, but the best in the world? C’mon Jamie… (Likewise bread that is ‘top’, meatballs that are ‘incredible’ and cake that is ‘awesome’. I’ll be the judge of that sonny…)
 
We shared various antipasti – all good, and mostly went for pasta for mains. My puttanesca wasn’t quite as punchy as I'd expected, but the herby breadcrumbs on top added another dimension of texture and made a very simple dish quite special. Desserts were all homemadey and delicious, especially a stonking tiramisu which finally made me realise what all the fuss is about with that particular pud. 
 
I think my issue with Jamie’s is the level of expectation a top chef’s name brings. If it was just AN Other’s Italian I’d probably be raving about it – the food is simple and has a strong base of authenticity, which I really liked. Maybe if I’d approached it from the viewpoint that it was a high-volume chain restaurant I’d be more impressed with what is a high level of competence in the kitchen, with a commendable focus on customer service.  
 
That all said it’s a good night out, perfect for big parties and indeed small reunions. It’s buzzy, bright and busy and actually tons of fun. Pukka, in fact – but I’m still not convinced about those olives. 
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October 4th, 2010

Cheryl’s got the ‘eh??’ Factor

Perhaps my last post gave the impression of a certain high-mindedness. A cultural sensibility, if you will. And yes, much of the time Ordinary can be found, wine glass in hand, debating the major issues of the day. Last night, that meant X-Factor.
 
Oh Cheryl. Oh Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl.   
 
Let’s not even start on Over-Entitled Katie’s eyelashes (Rat for Lashes as some wagster has dubbed her). No, let’s not go there. We’ll never come back. Instead, let’s focus on the fact she could barely stumble through her song. Stopping because ‘it’s all so emotional’ is not going to get you very far when thousands of people have paid twenty quid for a ticket, is it lovie?
 
And as for tiny little Cher… Absolutely, her first audition was astonishingly different (by X-Factor standards). She may actually be talented. But she buggered up her audition, big style. And in the real world she would not have been forgiven for that. She simply wouldn’t have got the job.  
 
I’m actually not a talent-contest basher. I enjoy them. But I do think they have some responsibility for the ‘but I want it so bad’ culture that seems to exist amongst the young these days. Hey, we’ve all want our own personal versions of ‘it’. But most of us realise that if we don't perform – in the job, in the classroom, in the audition – ‘it’ won't be magically handed to us. You have to get it right on the day. Sometimes you don’t, and that’s when your heart gets broken. Sometimes you do get it right, but someone else gets it more right – same result. And it’s a crying shame that TraC or TraCee or Traybake however she spells her name (what is with parents and these stupid names?) actually took the knocks, went away, got better and still didn’t get her place because it was stolen by a posh girl with an entitlement complex and a borderline anorexic who is too young for the pressure. And that’s a pity, because that was a lesson that could have been worth learning.
 
 
(In other news, Simon Cowell knocked back a couple of good groups for two groups he put together last week out of the soloists who didn’t make it. Apparently we are supposed to act surprised… )
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September 28th, 2010

Choose life. Not shoes.

It’s nice when your point is proven before you even make it. Today I updated my Facebook status in advance of writing my blog. I said that, if I could find the time, I was planning a web-based rant about shoes. A man who will remain nameless (OK he’s Al and he’s very, very lovely and if you've ever wondered what it would be like to uproot your life and move to the other side of the world you should definitely read his blog and this is not a criticism of him AT ALL) commented that I probably would make the time because I’m a woman and, for women, it’s all about the shoes.
 
QED. *Smug*  
 
Because it is not all about the shoes.  I am totally, utterly over the shoes. I mean, I intend to keep using my feet to get to places so obviously as a means of toe protection, yes, shoes rule. But it is time to stop with the fetishism. Because it’s making women look stupid, and silly, and giggly, and like we want jobs as pole dancers. Newsflash – Carrie in ‘Sex and the City’ is not a real woman. Real women have things to do, which means we have places to get to. So take the stupid, slutty shoes off and on you go. There, doesn’t that feel better?
 
Seriously, do you think wearing hooker shoes to work enhances your status at that board meeting? Do you think your inability to walk over cobbles in your uber-skinny stilettos without gripping your boyf’s arm makes you seem like an equal partner? We’ve even taken the training shoe, that perfect symbol of female empowerment (Just do it, anyone? Anyone?) and slapped a five-inch wedge on it. Teeter-teeter, trippy-slippy, mincey-mincey, pinchey-pinchey. Why not just take all your power, wrap it in a nice shiny box and donate it to your nearest man-gathering, where they will put it to good use focusing on such matters as earning more money than you?
 
No, obviously I’m not advocating we all return to sensible lace-ups. I like to look nice and I like pretty things as much as the next girl. But can we just stop and think about the image we’re portraying? And while we’re at it, can we just stop banging on and on and on about bloody shoes and actually talk about some of the things that matter?  Like the wage gap. Like birth and infant mortality in developing countries. Like what Sunday lunch is going to be like at Mother Miliband’s house next week (I mean, what is that going to be like? It's all a bit Greek tragedy for me).  But not shoes. Or chocolate, for that matter. Chocolate fetishists are just as bad. But I’ll save that one for another day.
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September 16th, 2010

A personal Pope post

Popes make me melancholy.
 
The last time a Pope visited Scotland was in 1982. I got the day off school. Catholic Guides were forming part of the guard of honour at the Bellahouston Park mass, but I wasn’t old enough to go so my beloved Grandma took me to Edinburgh to see His Holiness arrive at the cathedral. Four memories:
 
The garrulous JPII was always running late, so he approached the cathedral at speed, with the lid down on the Popemobile. Luckily, the windows were made of reinforced glass, for my Grandmother’s outraged howl of ‘oh Holy Father, give us a chance’ would have shattered anything weaker.  
 
Then, on his way out, again as was the Polish Pope’s custom, he approached members of Edinburgh’s Polish community who were waiting outside in their national dress. Grandmother’s language at this point was not fit for publication, but went somewhat along the lines of a polite suggestion that he could maybe catch up with them the next time he was in Poland on his holidays and perhaps he would be better off popping (popeing?) over to the other side of the crowd to give her a blessing.
 
The third was a coach-load of nuns – Carmelites I think, but definitely from an enclosed order, i.e. one where they are confined in their convent and don’t mix with the world at all. They sped past practically busting their stays with excitement about being in the world again, however briefly. This affected my consequent thinking about the Church in a profound way – I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.
 
My Uncle was a police officer who worked a number of shifts on the Pope’s protection detail. His superior officer knew of his strong faith and apparently kept pushing him to the front so he could be close to the Pope. I think this was one of my Grandma’s proudest memories ever, that her son had been a mere 50 feet away from the Pope.
 
So today I am sad, because neither my Grandma or my darling Uncle are here to see another Pope’s visit. That’s all I wanted to say. I miss them, and I am sad.
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August 25th, 2010

Some days in August…White at The Traverse

Even OrdinaryJo can’t maintain the navel-gazing in August. She selflessly exposes herself to Festival Fever and shares the results…

Wrinkle and Cotton have a very important job to do. They live in a white world, and their job is to keep it that way. Any accidental flashes or splashes of colour must be immediately put into the bin. They tend their eggs, mend their hen houses and generally sweep, tidy and keep everything pristine. Then, one day, Wrinkle finds a red egg…

White is utterly, utterly brilliant. Sweet, gentle, clever and engaging, I can't recommend it highly enough. It is apparently aimed at 2 – 4 year olds but frankly, anyone with an inch of soul will be mesmerised. The colour-burst finale will melt even the hardest heart and I particularly like the way the little hidden garden at the Scottish Book Trust becomes part of the show. Check the wall outside at the end and just listen to the little people gasp.

It's a very simple show and I don't want to over-complicate this review – so let's just leave at this: go and see this show. (And don't be shy – there were adults there *on their own* today… )

 

9/10

Various times till Sunday at The Scottish Book Trust (Traverse Theatre)

 

 

 

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August 15th, 2010

Some days in August – Twinkle Twonkle at the Pleasance Dome

Even OrdinaryJo can’t maintain the navel-gazing in August. She selflessly exposes herself to Festival Fever and shares the results…
 
Bit of a tricky one this. I didn’t really like Twinkle Twonkle, but Ginger Boy – and he is, after all, the target audience – was completely engaged in it for a full hour with no fidgeting and no running around, which is, quite frankly, unheard of.
 
Why I didn’t like it: two children jump through a telescope into space. Cool, I’m all about the space travel. But ‘space’ was represented by a spotlight on a mirror ball. The mirror ball wasn’t even revolving. Surely the first transition into ‘space’ should have made me gasp, just a little bit? Nope, no magic here, unfortunately.
 
My other gripe will make me sound mean. Sorry enthusiastic drama school graduates. But what are they teaching you these days? You are young, and you look it, so you get cast as a child. But you don’t have children of your own and when you tried to do your in-depth observation of a group of ankle-biters the police took you away. It’s not all your fault, poor thing. Here are some tips from Auntie Ordinary.
 
Children do not do that bend-over-from-the waist-over-excited-big-bug-eyes-shoulders-up-round-the ears-to-to-indicate-enthusiasm thang that you have so down pat. They don’t. And even if they did, they wouldn't do it ALL THE TIME. Children move in pretty much the same way as adults – just faster and with better posture. They are mercurial and can’t hide their emotions – everything shows on their face. And they are all different so maybe you could try not to do exactly the same physical characterisation as the 5 keen-beans on their first paying Festival gig that you’re currently sharing a box-room in Granton with? Thanks awfully.
 
But back to the positive. Gingey loved it. His favourite bit was ‘the things hanging down’ which I believe is the technical term for ‘a set’. He even joined in the audience participation and he liked the seats that went up and down. I will not be a curmudgeon and, because he was completely rapt for 60 minutes, I will recommend this show for the 5 – 8 year olds out there with a slightly kind 7/10. 
 
7/10
Daily until August 30 at 2 pm in the Pleasance Dome (not Wednesdays).
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August 8th, 2010

Some days in August… The List Operators for Kids at The Pleasance

Even OrdinaryJo can’t maintain the navel-gazing in August. She selflessly exposes herself to Festival Fever and shares the results…
 
The Pleasance has got all good for tiny people. This has probably been happening over the course of a few years, but I’ve missed it because I tend to go there once each Festival and get so very drunk that I forget who I saw and feel too embarrassed to go back. (I forget jokes too but I do that when I’m sober. That is why, for me, a comedy DVD is the gift that keeps on giving.)
 
This level of alcohol consumption means you might miss a few things, like a crèche, indoor and outdoor play areas and a family-friendly café. The café is hoorishly dear but I don’t suppose they’ll mind if you take in your own Fortnum & Mason picnic hamper, which will still work out cheaper than a round of £4.50 wraps. This aside – and of course The Pleasance are hardly the only offenders in this area – it’s all very pleasant, with the crèche in particular being a genius idea should you want to see a show that is not aimed at the ankle biters.
 
We were feeling family-friendly, and saw The List Operators for Kids. It’s a simple premise: two men wear silly shorts and make up lists, which then become the jumping-off point for what I suspect would be called ‘physical, anarchic and inventive comedy’ if it wasn’t full of fart jokes and aimed at wee ones.  Sure, this is an extremely silly show, but it is also highly skilled, beautifully paced and very, very funny.  There was an endearing confidence in the material with no ‘humour on a different level so the grown-ups can laugh in a sophisticated manner’ – instead, a confident belief that we would all find farts funny. And we do. Because they are.
 
Despite its ‘age 5 – 100’ billing some of it did go over a youngish 5 year old’s head, and I would rather see a parent on stage getting the sound effects wrong that a slightly bewildered kid. And – of course – the venue was stifling, another classic Festival issue that always makes me slightly cross. Minor quibbles though. Go see if you like a giggle.
 
8/10
Daily until 29 August at 2.30pm in the Pleasance Courtyard Cabaret Bar
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August 7th, 2010

Some days in August… Assembly @ Princes St Gardens

Even OrdinaryJo can’t maintain the navel-gazing in August. She selflessly exposes herself to Festival Fever and shares the results…
 
As is traditional, the Thursday of preview week is devoted to drinking through the auspices of The List Festival Party, where the usual collection of lovelies, luvvies and liggers (do your own categorisation) came together to make merry. The free booze helps. Mightily.
 
Star of the show this year was undoubtedly the venue. Festival behemoth Assembly have taken over part of Princes Street gardens this year, and the only mystery is what bloody took them so long? The old Ross Bandstand is used as a venue – often with a community slant – every year, but is definitely showing its age. Assembly have transformed the space with a multi-level venue, bar and hanging-out spot which revitalises the Bandstand and brings the Fringe right into the heart of Edinburgh. Us locals are usually pretty blasé about the castle an’ that but the skyline is breath-taking, and being right there as the Tattoo fireworks explode above your head is really very special. Go for a drink, go for a show – but make sure you go.
 
The lovely folk at The List apparently laid on much entertainment, we didn’t see any of it being unable to tear ourselves away from the cheesy-but-fantastic popular music stylings of Guilty Pleasures. We very much enjoyed dancing our pants off, laughing at the hilarious floorshow and marvelling at the hostess/DJ’s legs, which are an (endless and cellulite-free) Fringe show in their own right. Sorry for staring. But you’re pretty.
 

Loins girded, footsore and happy, we are ready. Let the Festival commence.  

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