Monday 31 2004
We've just watched an interesting programme about séances: essentially they are a matter of psychological manipulation where participants are drip-fed information which when collated form a collective idea. This invokes a certain amount of terror - we don't understand how our minds work and so suspect psychic interference.
In this scenario a group of students were assembled using press adverts - this would guarantee a mean age of applicants: no wise old folks here, just susceptible folk in their early 20s. We we told they were 'open' to the idea of the paranormal. The host began by going into a history of the séance and demonstrated some of the tricks of the trade: while the students were told these were mind-control methods at work, it was clear they preferred the explanation of psychic intervention. The host then went into detail about a cult-ish suicide pact - which had taken place in the deserted building they were in. One of members of this fatal pact was to be contacted ( - the pact happened in the mid 70s - why would the relatives of such a tragedy agree to their family being channeled on a tv programme??!). Photos of the suicide victims were shown and the participants were told to focus on one member by means of a convoluted trap whereby 85% chose 'Jane'. Interestingly, her photo was in this position:
if you look in your local supermarket, you'll see the products they want you to buy are in this prime middle position - we all go for the middle. Also of all the photos, all bar Jane's were taken at an angle - her's was the only face we saw looking straight forward.
The programme culminated in a hand-holding circle where a silver cup and a light wicker ball rose in the air and a bell rang, heralding the presence of a spirit.
After much screaming, the host walked out of the deserted building & went to a parked van where we meet 'Jane'. It was indeed an exercise in suggestion, control and manipulating the unconscious mind.
I knew it was a set up but I was chilled to the bone. Something told me though that beyond the clunking rouses it was a faked scenario: what? her eyebrows were the wrong shape. They were sleek rather than the characteristic 70s 'surprised' arcs.
Tuesday 25 2004
I love relaxing I do: am hot in black stretchy 'yoga pants' and decrepit bobbly vest top. My arms are aching from the last time said yoga pants were on - Saturday at Body Pump followed by Body Balance. The former is synchronized weightlifting to boppy poppy rocky music: it involves you standing clutching a bar with some weights hanging off it (as heavy as packets of Bachelor's Pasta n' Sauce in may case). You do all manner of squats (I think squat sounds like something rude - anyone with me on this one?) and lunges and arm-lifty things all the while dragging this bar after you. Really the routines are fabulous - you get all pumped up (ho!) with adrenaline (overrides the sympathetic nervous system biology bairns) and you think you can see the bats melt away as you sweat gloriously.
There were women in my class with makeup & salon hair: zoiks! my fringe was vertical in a squint way & me oxters could've done with a once-over - perhaps that's the best place they'll get to go all week so get truly gussied up for the trip to the gym. I mind seeing a Jane Fonda workout video years ago she went for the burn in outfits that always featured a lycra cod-piece type Superman pants-over-trousers thing. It really emphasises the lady bits - a good look. Anyhoo, I'm glad that fashion no longer prevails & that stretchy yoga pants are the thing.
They come into their own at Body Balance - a dynamic mix of Tai Chi, yoga and pilates done to music as 'diverse' as Moby and Bruce Springsteen. Each 12 week period the music & 'move' sequence changes - I have heard tell the next session will feature Evanescence and Dido ...
Yes - aching arms. It was saturday I went to slough off my lurks at Scotstoun leisure centre - some
things in this life do last.
We're currently really into Jambalaya - a spicy surf n' turf, without the surf seeing as prawns look like giant maggots (but I'll eat them if I can't see them)
a good length of chorizo sausage chopped into smallish chunks
2 chicken breasts sliced/chopped (bite-ish sized)
heat a wok (that can be covered - or use a large casserole) to a high heat &
chuck in the chorizo. Birl aboot & let brown. Remove & stick in chicken -
birl aboot too until browned. Remove
2 sticks celery - stringy bits peeled off then sliced thinnish
1 onion finely chopped
1 red chilli finely chopped
1 red & one green pepper chopped into precise 1cm cubes
2-3 garlic cloves, crushed
tip all this into the wok & sauté til more than translucent but not browned. Remove.
a good amount of rice - say a cupful at least (I use basmati)
heaped teaspoon of hot smoked paprika
heaped teaspoon on oregano
heaped teaspoon of cayenne pepper
a teaspoon of chilli powder
tip rice into pan & sprinkle over the spices. Stir until rice begins to go opaque.
At this point tip over the meats & vegetables you've just cooked. Have the kettle boiling.
a spolge of passata (about same volume as rice)
a good two handfuls of cherry tomatoes halved then halved again
Add these to the rice mix & pour over a little boiling water to make it all loose.
Stir it all around well & cover. Check every 5 minutes or so & top up with water
if needed - you'll just need to judge it by eye & by how firm the rice feels.
It's ready when the rice has absorbed most of the liquid but still has a firmness to it.
(Basmati does cook faster than most rices, but because there is a limited volume of
water in this recipe, it doesn't go claggy & logged with liquid)
a bunch or spring onions, sliced
good handful of parsley finely chopped
stir this through the finished dish - yum!
Wednesday 19 2004
Emotional state: extreme post-stress dwaam
Tight of neck I heaved into Polkadot Towers this evening after the exam. The seat to table ratio was all wrong for me, plus I'd worn jeans after days of pyjama bottoms thus had to hold in lurks and swolbs of fat unused to such leashing. Despite those overpowering factors, the exam was ok, though I say that with great trepidation mindful of past exams that 'went ok' which earned me very poor marks indeed. My handwriting veered from neat, to right sloping, to left sloping to a god-awful mess. As time went on I clutched my pen so tight my right shoulder was almost higher than my head.
The wifies doing the invidualating were frost-head nightmares: whispering accompanied the swish of nylon draped breeks and the schhhh of soft rubber wedge shoes. They were professional fuss-pots dedicated to hushing up quiet students in order to better transmit their stage whispers. Or so it seemed to me, frowning & narky this afternoon.
Anyhoo, all my days of studying lead me to understand a rather dystopian and depressing idea: that our memories are simply accumulations of protein and well-trod circuits of neurones. Has any of what we remember actually happened, or are our pasts simply the by-products of a protien blow-out? Should I avoid roast chicken in case I think of myself as a sturdy wench plying my trade to all & sundry? This seems to feed the idea of solipsism whereby we believe reality only exists within our own heads, that all around us are projections & fabrications of our imagination.
Were that the case, The Ukraine would certainly not have won the Eurovision Song Contest.
Monday 10 2004
Polkadot Towers echoes with the dry smooth scrape of highlighter pens and biros: both The Lovely Stan and I have dedicated this glorious month to indoors life. Sallow grey (him) and old knicker-white (me) are the skin tones we'll greet June with. He is completing his Master of Science - this make me hoot with laughter: Stan is a fabulously intelligent man, but the thought of him being at one with test tubes and pipettes is surreal. Mind you, I'll be a Batchelor of Science in 4 years, which is just as strange.
Yesterday I had a brush with death in the form of a bus heading west. The driver inside decided my crossing the road while the little green man flashed meant he could run me over. Had I not leapt back the corner of his penis extension would have slayed me for sure. In my shock I cried for hours, but as my Lovely Ma pointed out, there's a positive lesson to take: it's just not my turn to die. Thank god too - if I'm to die in an accident I don't want to have my sunday slob clothes on (nae knickers either). From now on I vow to always have a panty liner on, which I'll whip out as I cross a road - just in case.
Thursday 06 2004
exam in 13 days...
to escape the pressures of studying meiosis refuge has been sought in TV. Years ago my way of excusing not studying was to tidy tidy tidy my way to an obsessive compulsive disorder. Now it's my way to watch every soap bar River City and Family Affairs. Emmerdale I love because of its simplicity and the dreadful Viv Hope, a woman bereft and moral standards but rich in 80s suits. Coronation Street I like because of the dreadful Cilla - a woman bereft of moral standards and make-up application skills. A good tv show need a good female baddie..if only I could act. Eastenders I can't be arsed with, thus negating what I just said about watching everything - I meant two, I watch two soaps.
When I was peedie I thought it'd be just grand if all my favourite tv detectives got together for a show. There'd be Inspector Hercule Poirot, Columbo, Bergerac and Miss Marple. Perhaps Starsky & Hutch could have a cameo role - perhaps serving at a drive in cinema dishing out poisoned food on roller skates. I know a person who wrote to Jim'll Fix It wanting to be in Dynasty. Which, by way of association with big hair & chandeliers, takes me back to biology - time for the Krebs' Cycle. I quite fancied Ray Krebs in his Dallas hey-day .
Monday 03 2004
Niver cast a cloot afore May's oot....
tell that to me & my ilk: two beats of sun & out my trotters are whipped. In the scrunch of a sock they are wodged into toeless shoes. My body doesn't get such treatment - unlike some I believe my belly best kept under wraps: tight ones. If I were to heed the advice of my Granny & Ma & loads of other ladies, I'd keep my scarf & mittens on till the 1st of June at which point summer would be over & we'd all be cursing ourselves for stocking up on suntan lotion.
After several weeks of toe-curling worrying, Stan's new camera is actually going to arrive. It seems the eBay person selling it didn't physically possess the item they purported to own: they were waiting for a credit relationship to be established. After 2 weeks of worry I had the presence of mind to check their past purchases: bulk lots of novelty lighters and phone covers: a real professional outfit! We got the person (who has several names - much like Satan) to phone us & the tracking number is real....I just hope it doesn't turn out to be the tracking number of a flashing phone cover with integral lighter. I've stopped smoking for god's sake!
photoshop's a great thing. The recent email going round has been a before & after shot of an actress who plays a role in Footballers' Wives: apparently a vindictive designer decided to take revenge after the woman was stroppy at a photoshoot. She doesn't look bad at all - but that the photoshoppers slim down elbows is bizarre...[link no longer works - was a before & after shot of an actress in a bikini showing how a computer can tak eoff pounds, celulite and dodgy flows of water between womens' legs]
Anyhoo, I've discovered in our own version of Photoshop one can painter-ify pics
 
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