The infatuationist

All out gears of war

“It’s funny how you adopt the interests of your partner when you fall in love,” my friend Lizzie mused over tea and cake the other day. We were in Drink, Shop, Do in Kings Cross and I was mildly obsessing over the mismatched vintage cups and saucers. “Though being me,” she went on, “I have to go that one step further and take on their characteristics as well as their hobbies.” I looked up from the prettily painted bone china and frowned at her. “Don’t get me wrong,” she reassured me, “if the guy has a lot of nice qualities then it’s fine, but if he’s someone who possess a lot of bad qualities, and let’s be honest, that’s most of them…well, that can be a problem…” She pinched the tiny gold leaf handle between her delicate fingertips and took a big gulp of tea.

Although I can’t confess to adopting someone else’s characteristics myself (at least, I don’t think I have), this whole thing of picking up a boyfriend’s hobbies is oh too familiar. He loves art-house cinema? Francois Truffaut is my middle name. He says he’s into cocktails. Within 24 hours, I’m making the meanest Gin Sling in the West. And so on. Now, in my experience, these are almost always infatuations. It makes sense: during the early days of wooing you are so blinded by love that you believe literally every single thing your new beau is interested in must be genuinely fascinating.  However, once the hormones start to level out and you settle into a ‘normal’ relationship you realise that your partner’s passions are not yours and that this is quite the way it should be. 

Take H and me for example. At the height of the first-flush of romance, I believed Gears of War 2 to be the very essence of highbrow intelligence. I decided I too would start playing the alien-human war game and be the toughest shooting gal in town. I even got H to make me a profile. He took great pains to make my cartoon appearance as lifelike as possible but, unfortunately, in his attempt to give me ample cleavage and a curvy behind, he made me look far fatter than I am in reality (well they do say the camera adds 10 pounds). Even though I corrected this error—reshaping myself into an animated version of Megan Fox (much more accurate)—my love affair with the X-Box was quickly waning.

Problem is, now that we live together, H is desperate to get me playing the third and latest Gears of War installment whilst the only thing I think the X-Box is good for is watching movies. For a month I firmly resisted his advances. Then, two Saturdays ago, debilitated by a hangover and unable to move from the sofa, he spotted an opening and cajoled me into having a game. “Go on,” he encouraged, “it’s not like you’re capable of much else today is it?” That was a fair point, although I wasn’t sure it said a great deal about the intellectual rigour of the game. Being at my most vulnerable, I gave in without a fight. Less than an hour later I had been defeated yet again, this time by a control pad that flat out refused to make the man on the screen do what I wanted. “This is so stupid,” I declared and threw the thing down like a toddler might throw a toy. “Don’t worry,” H soothed me with a smirk, “it requires a lot of skill to use the buttons and the control stick at the same time. You’ll get better with practice though.”

An average player of Gears of War 3 

Chatting to a friend-of-a-friend at a party the following weekend, the conversation turned to home movie watching. “We use the X-Box for films” she said, “which is OK, although it drives me insane when Steve’s mates come online.” “Oh I know,” I nodded emphatically, “with their little nametags popping up all the freaking time.” “Totally interferes with the plotline,” she finished my sentence. “Gears of War?” “Nope, Battlefield. But it’s the same thing, just a different game. Steve is even going to queue up at the shop at midnight on the day Battlefield 3 is released so he can start playing straight away. And he’s going to take the next day off work.” “Wow, that is bad… My boyfriend has never done anything like that.” I tried to look sympathetic but I couldn’t quite hide my glee.

Since then, H and I have been holding X-Box peace talks and as part of our ceasefire, I have agreed to play on it with him from time-to-time (as long as it’s not Gears of War). Yesterday, he revealed that the game he intends for us to ‘work on’ together is, Batman: Arkham City. “It’s based on a seminal comic from the early 1990s called, Batman: Arkham Asylum,” he lectured me as we got on the tube to Arsenal, “I’ve got a copy on the bookshelf if you want to have a look.” Twenty minutes later, standing outside the Emirates, H and I listened to his mate George lament over the fact that his Modern Warfare days are over. “I just don’t have time now that I’ve got kids,” he sighed. “So?” said H. “He’s got a life,” I snapped, slightly shrill. “Er Modern Warfare is pretty violent,” George went on, “and the boys are only little, there’s no way their mother would let me play it now.” “You just wait,” H was shaking his head and smiling, “in a few years time…” he paused for effect and I waited for him to add, “that’ll be me”. “…you’ll have the boys on the X-Box with you! Split screen!” He made a sort of shooting slash console game playing mime and laughed heartily whilst a lifetime of attempting to press buttons and use a joy stick at once flashed before my eyes. There was only one answer, damn it: I was going to have to get really, really good. Arkham City here I come.

For the delectable vintage china, tea and cakes visit: www.drinkshopdo.com

Let them eat pancake (Osaka-style)

“I’m thinking about getting into baking,” I announced to Mindy at a party last week. “I mean obviously baking’s a bit passé these days,” I added quickly, seeing she was nonplussed, “after all Marian Keyes is about to publish a memoir about cake making and depression.” “Hmmm,” Mindy nodded, half distracted by whatever else was happening in the room, “if you want to be cutting edge it’s probably best to avoid anything Marian Keyes is doing.” “You’re right of course,” I continued, ignoring the fact that she was edging away from me towards a more interesting (trendy) group of people, “but I can’t help thinking that baking might give my life a sense of meaning. Besides, I have a lot of spare time on my hands at the moment.”

That evening, I foraged through a pile of old newspapers for a cake recipe I’d torn out from a Guardian Weekend magazine some weeks before. I had originally been drawn to it because the main ingredients were chocolate and sour cream and the accompanying photo showed a perfect slice: moist, velvety brown sponge smothered in a thick layer of butter icing. “It does look good,” H commented, peering over my shoulder, “but it could be a bit too complicated for a beginner.” “Are you suggesting my cooking skills aren’t up to it?” “No darling, just that it might make sense to begin with something easier and work up to this. What about flapjacks?” I gave him a death stare. “Next time you’re on the phone to your mum, ask her if I can borrow a couple of cake tins… Being a ‘girl that bakes’ will only strengthen my status as perfect daughter-in-law-in-waiting.” Now it was H’s turn to give me a death stare. “What?” I skipped off to the pantry to assess our baking supplies. Turned out our cupboard was barer than old Mother Hubbard’s; I needed to buy everything, even the flour.

Now I’m not going to bore you with the details of the cake making process itself but what I will say is that the result proved very successful. “You’re not expecting me to wash this up are you?” H blustered as he entered the kitchen and shielded his eyes from the pile of utensils, jugs, bowls and pans stacked up on the side. Admittedly this was almost as bad as the time I made dosas. “Well, that is the rule isn’t it?” I tried to give my tone an air of authority, “Whoever doesn’t cook, cleans up.” “In normal mealtime circumstances yes but this is different. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for your new interest in baking, but not if it means I get lumbered with loads of dishes. You can do your own dirty work.” I sighed and wiped my hands on my apron, cocoa powder and flour were smeared all over my cheeks and I had mixture around my mouth. In fairness, the chocolate, sour cream sponge looked as good as it did in the magazine photo, possibly better, and that never happens, at least not to me. I got H to take some photos before grabbing the camera to ensure that the cake’s best angles were caught on film. I then called my mother on Skype and paraded my masterpiece in front of her squealing “Look what I’ve made mummy”.

Moist and velvety brown: A couple of perfect chocolate sponges

Three days later, H dragged me to a council estate in deepest, darkest Battersea for a charity event. Now H wouldn’t normally go one stop on the tube for a charity event on a Sunday, let alone 40 minutes on a bus, however this wasn’t any old change-in-a-bucket affair, this was a fundraiser involving a teppan grill and a okonomiyaki chef called Paddy.

In brief okonomiyaki is a Japanese pancake. Paddy makes his Osaka-style: a batter consisting of egg, flour, water, yam, cabbage and radish is molded into a disc and fried up with an array of additional ingredients (e.g. seafood, cheese or pork) before being topped with something akin to HP brown sauce, seaweed and bonito flakes and Japanese mayonnaise. Basically, it’s an omelette with knobs on.

Many moons ago, H had been Paddy’s assistant on his okonomiyaki stand at a music festival and he’s had stars in his eyes ever since. Now, he hovered around Paddy (a traditional Japanese name btw) and fired a barrage of questions at him as he watched the pancakes being tossed. “What else can you cook teppan style?” “Is that sesame oil?” “How do you clean the grill?” “What’s in the gluten free one?” “What’s the difference between the Osaka and Hiroshima styles?” My boyfriend then listened in earnest as his new man crush explained that he would be taking the proceeds to an okonomiyaki restaurant in Japan that had been badly effected by the tsunami earlier this year. “One man who makes pancakes helping out another man who makes pancakes,” he explained with a grin. Caught in a full on bromance, H started cleaning cutlery and ferrying the okonomiyaki to the hungry customers: in his attempt to become Paddy’s sous chef, he’d ended up becoming a busboy. “Bless,” I said and gave him a consoling kiss, not at all demeaning.

Since that fateful charity do last weekend, H has been talking about Paddy and his pancakes incessantly. Then yesterday he suddenly said, “What’s happened to your new-found passion for baking? There’s been one cake and then nothing… Where are my flapjacks?” “What’s the point,” I huffed, “I make the most amazing chocolate cake, even better than the photo, and you don’t raise an eyebrow. A man flips a few pancakes and you can’t bloody shut up about how awesome they are.” H nodded, “Well, if you’d done it on a teppan grill, I mean it was a good cake but…” he made a flipping motion with an imaginary spatula. “I was trying to be a domestic goddess,” I wailed as I dramatically stormed out of the room (stomped my feet a bit).

Fortunately for H, I woke up this morning to find that I was over my MS (mini-strop) and, furthermore, my resolve was greatly revived: it’s time to up my baking game and show Paddy Pancakes who’s boss. Today flapjacks, tomorrow the World…

To make your own sour cream chocolate number: www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/sep/23/sour-cream-chocolate-cake-recipe

A shoe fetish (non-sexual)

“I’m not sure I approve of you wearing those to work,” said H as he peered at my feet yesterday evening. “You’re going to cripple yourself, or have an accident.” It was my turn to look down at the black court shoes. “It’s really not a big deal,” I replied, trying for nonchalant, “I’ve always had shoes like this for the office.” “Really?” He scrutinized my face and concluded I was lying. “Whatever,” he shrugged, “just don’t come crying to me if (when) you hurt yourself.” I winced: at that very moment I wasn’t sure what was paining me more, my feet or the fact that H was right.

I have been aware for some years now that, as a woman, I’m supposed to love shoes. I mean LOVE them. Obsessively. Problem is, I generally couldn’t care less. Shoes, as I see them, have two functions: 1. They prevent me standing on shards of glass and infected needles 2. They allow me to wear socks outside when it’s a bit chilly (which it is in Britain for most of the year).

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that those black patent Christian Louboutins with the 6-inch heels are jaw-dropping amazing. Yet the mere thought of running for a tube or hop-skipping down an escalator in them because I’m late for a rendezvous (likely) leaves me feeling queasy. Death by shoe-related tumble is not the way I plan to go out.

Despite my own lack of interest, or perhaps because of it, I find the whole shoe-fawning thing fascinating. So when my PR friend, Mindy, invited me to a fashion bloggers event for a French shoe company called Sarenza a couple of weeks ago, I thought it would be an exercise in social anthropology if nothing else.

That I am no fashion blogger myself was immediately apparent on my entering the back room of the Foundation Bar: every other woman (fashionista) had on the kind of skyscraper heels that make me feel sick. “But I thought flats were in?” I wailed internally; I’d definitely read something about Pippa and Kate (rah rah royals) starting a trend in ballet pumps. After making a mental note to never wear flats to a fashion event again, I slipped into a corner, grabbed a flute of champagne and started gossiping with Mindy about her love life. Alas, technically working, my one ally (friend) soon dissolved into the huddle of too-cool-for-school style scribes and left me to flick through issues of Now and Closer whilst everyone else chit-chatted around me.

“I live half in France and half here,” a girl sitting close by piped up in a plumy voice. I saw a chance to integrate. “Oh, whereabouts?” I asked. She screwed up her face. “It’s just that I was living in Nice until recently,” I quickly added. This clearly gave credibility to my interruption and soon the girl was chattering at me incessantly about how she splits her time between fashion blogging, her academic studies and working her way up the ranks of the junior wing of the Conservative Party. “Last night I was at Westminster doing a quiz,” she told me between sips, “Boris Johnson was the quiz master, it was hill-ar-ious.” I preferred it when I was standing in the corner on my own.

Handling a pair of shoe-boots I really liked…I was later stopped from leaving in them

On spotting a woman closer to me in age and also wearing flat shoes, I slipped away from the teenager and introduced myself. With Miss Normal as a companion, I now found the inner courage to start looking at the shoes strategically displayed around the room. “Oooo, these are nice,” I cooed as I grabbed a green, open-toed evening number hanging from a low chandelier. I twirled the green suede and gold-trimmed heel in my hand. “It’s funny,” I said to Miss Normal, “I’ve never really understood the whole shoe-obsession thing but when I look at this I start to appreciate the aesthetic.” I reluctantly went to hang the shoe back up; it swung for a second then fell directly onto the blonde head of a fashionista below. I apologised profusely and went to hang it up again, only it did the same thing, landing with a thud on her perfectly styled up-do. She tried to laugh but her nostrils were flaring and she moved slightly to the side. “Third time lucky, hey?” I said. On this attempt I managed to knock the whole lampshade/shoe display construction: the same heel flew off and hit the same girl. Farcical isn’t the word. “Oh my God, you must think I’ve got it in for you! I haven’t. Honestly.” Sensing an explosive, hair-pulling situation, Mindy jumped in, dealt with the display and then pulled me out of the fray by introducing me to her boss.

The precarious chandelier of shoes, gorgeous green ones to the rear

“Have you got a shoe fetish?” I asked him, the champagne clearly rendering me without social etiquette. “Oh absolutely,” he answered unfazed, “but it’s totally non-sexual.” Sensing that I was slightly inebriated he and Mindy then cajoled me into modeling a pair of faux tiger fur platforms that had ‘twisted ankle’ written all over them.

“Don’t try and pretend you’ve suddenly got a shoe fetish, non-sexual or otherwise,” H mocked me when I go home later that evening, “even I’ve got more shoes than you have.” He blew a raspberry, which I ignored. “Let me guess which ones you tried on…” he continued as he flicked through the Sarenza catalogue I’d been given. “Those?” I glanced over, “Yes.” He laughed. “What?” I muttered. “They’re ridiculous!” “God, you’re such a man.” I shook my head in feigned resignation but, in fairness, as a woman I couldn’t pretend I totally got it either. Still, I decided at that moment that I might just start to try, hence the black court shoes I was modeling yesterday night. Fingers crossed there are no bones broken by breakfast.

Indulge your own shoe fetish (faux or genuine) at www.sarenza.co.uk

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend

“That thing they do, where they dance on their toes.” I nodded at H like he was a small child who’d just done something amazing for the first time. “Yeah,” he continued, “that’s weird.” His expression suggested he’d sucked a lemon. “Well,” I replied with a whisper, “if you’ve never been to a ballet before I suppose it must look a little strange.” “And the men are hilarious!” he interjected. “I mean, what are those pants about boy?” I turned and saw he was almost doubled over, cracking up at the very thought. I hoped none of the refined theatre-goers making their way to the Amphitheatre bar were paying us any attention. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy the next one a bit more,” I tried to hush. “The Rubies are less classical, have a bit more fire in their bellies… Oooo, ice cream…” Our conversation came to an end as H dragged me past the kids holding tubs of raspberry ripple towards the alcohol.

Steven McRae, Zenaida Yanowsky and Sarah Lamb in Rubies. Photo: ROH, Tristram Kenton

Like many little girls I fantasized about becoming a ballerina. For me this fantasy held strong from the ages of 5 to 10 and 26 ½ to 27. During the first period, I would often twirl and leap around the living room making up my own ballets to my parents’ classical music collection. Then I would go to class and get frustrated because my teachers stopped me from standing en pointe. In my 7-year-old eyes, the fact that I wasn’t wearing pointe shoes was no justification for this.

The second period was one of my famous infatuations: I woke up one morning and decided that my dream of becoming a prima ballerina was still realistically achievable even though I was in my mid-twenties, only just over five-foot and a wee bit bigger than an A cup (think C… OK, D). As per usual, I threw myself into the affair: I kitted myself out with all the gear and signed up for a term of beginners’ adult ballet at Dance Works. In class, lithe Japanese girls performed perfect pliés whilst I hid in the corner and did ungraceful squats better suited to an altogether less ladylike situation.

My dreams shattered for a second time, I have since kept a distance from the world of ballet; that is until now. This recent lapse has been triggered by a visit to the Royal Academy’s exhibition, Degas and the Ballet. All those pastels and paintings of tutu-clad women on the stage made me want to leap around the living room again, and it also made me long to see a real ballet.

Fortunately George Balanchine’s Jewels is on at the Royal Opera House at the moment and I duly set off last Friday morning to stand in line for an hour until the box office opened at 10am. “It’s one ticket per person if you’re buying on the day,” the attendant told me. “But my boyfriend is coming so I need two tickets.” I took care with my annunciation in case he hadn’t heard me the first time. “Yes, sorry, it’s just one of our little rules,” he bent over the desk to get closer, “we’ve had a few problems, other people in the queue can get quite angry.” I looked behind me: the three people waiting quietly didn’t look like they would notice if I was holding him up at gunpoint. “It’s alright though, if you join the back of the queue you can purchase another ticket in just a few moments.” “OK, but what if the seats next to mine have been sold by the time I’m back at the counter?” A romantic evening was going to require us to be at least within touching distance of each other. There was now only one person queuing. Sensing that this conversation could take a while, he agreed to sell me a second ticket.

This was H’s first ballet and he only wanted to come because it suited the research he’s been doing on Degas. “My money’s on Emeralds,” he predicted as we took our seats in the gods. On principle H is against all precious gems, he says they are dripping in blood (I know, it’s a big thing for a woman to come to terms with), however, as an artist he tends to think in colours and he really likes green. Alas, after half-an-hour of Emeralds I was slightly jaded and feared H was too: he kept saying “weird” over and over as the lights came up for the interval.

Fortunately, a G&T looking over the piazza followed by 21 minutes of Rubies lifted our spirits. With jazzy splashes and bendy limbs, the red gems were robust and had a sense of humour. I could tell H was more impressed because in the next interval he said: “That was good.”

For obvious reasons, I had high hopes for the last ballet, Diamonds. As the heavy red curtain came up a small group of women sparkled in the centre of the stage in white tutus and glittering bodices. They were fairytale ballerinas and I was 7 all over again.

Glittering Diamonds. Photo: ROH, Tristram Kenton

Dancing to Tchaikovsky, the male and female principles glided in each others’ arms, they were entwined then leaping then lifting. It was poignant, delicate, mesmerizing… and I was overcome (slightly hormonal). Looking down on the stage from the rafters, the view of the finale was particularly impressive. Three-dozen dancers created a swirl of formations and patterns; the reflection of the spotlights on the costumes was blinding.

They love to clap at the ballet, so on the 5th curtain call we sneaked out in the dark. “What did you think?” I asked after a moment of quiet contemplation (polite silence in the lift). “Yeah,” H replied slowly, “it was amazing. You know, at the end then, I counted 32 dancers on the stage plus the two soloists. That’s 34 dancing at once.” He widened his eyes at me. Being a man, size clearly mattered and, obviously, the bigger the better.

He took me to Belgo for supper and we feasted on mussels and beer. This was unlikely to be on any ballerina’s diet plan; perhaps best I didn’t make it into the Royal Ballet after all.

The last performance of Jewels by The Royal Ballet takes place tomorrow evening (Wednesday 5th October, 7.30pm). Tickets available from the Royal Opera House box office from 10am tomorrow, starting at £9 (standing)/£15 (seated)  www.roh.org.uk

Degas and the Ballet: Picturing Movement is on at The Royal Academy of Arts until 11th December www.royalacademy.org.uk

Reggae reggae sauce

In my last post, I mentioned a certain cold and flu relief medication in relation to class-A drug dependency. Night Nurse is, of course, also a famous song by the late reggae icon, Gregory Isaacs, and funnily enough some observers have claimed that the subject of the 1982 hit was not a female medical practitioner doing a late shift but rather the crack cocaine that Isaacs was addicted to for much of his adult life.

This all brings me rather neatly (convolutedly) to one of my latest infatuations. No silly, not the crack, the reggae.

It was at a dancehall New Years Eve party that I met H and it was H who introduced me to Isaacs. He also introduced me to Horace Andy, Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, Barrington Levy, Dennis Brown and Bob Marley (OK, so I had heard of the last one before). As the months passed, it was these men who provided the soundtrack to our relationship. It had never occurred to me that reggae music could be romantic or soulful; up to this point I had only associated it with beach shack cafes, 90s Aswad chart hits and Lilt adverts.

To be a true reggae connoisseur (geek), it would appear that an immersion course in the genre is absolutely necessary. Obviously I can’t compete with Rodigan yet but if I study hard I imagine I will be on a similar playing field by the end of the year.

Luckily H’s sister, Lucky Cat, has an enviable reggae (research) collection. She has a monthly residency at a suitably hot and sweaty music bar in Brixton whose motto is: “Where the sun shines all year,” (yes, I too am sure something similar was professed in a Lilt ad). Clearly this is false advertising because in Brixton you’ll be lucky if the sun shines from April to October (and that’s excluding most of June, July and August). However, I’m willing to overlook this because, when it comes to reggae, Lucky Cat knows what she’s talking about and it’s worth going to her night not only to discover obscure artists but also to watch the expressions on the hardcore reggae fanatics faces go from doubtful to confused to awe as the white girl behind the decks plays one tune after another. By the end of the night the crowd are doing that whole fist punching thing with her over the decks.

“If you’re going to write about Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry then you should at least do a bit of research so you can publish an interesting, informative piece about him,” H said when I told him I was doing a blog post about reggae. “Why?” I scrunched up my nose. “This isn’t about Lee, it’s about me.” H frowned. “You don’t understand,” I added with a dismissive hand wave, “the whole thing about being infatuated is that you don’t like anything long enough to really know anything about it - next week I’ll have forgotten who Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry is.” He looked at me in silence for a moment. “There’s a lot I don’t understand about you,” he muttered and returned to his exhibition catalogue. I went back to listening to my all time (most recent) favourite reggae number, Natty Dread a Weh She Want, a song about a woman who’ll only be satisfied by a Rasta guy.

Lucky Cat next plays at Mango Landin’ on the 21st October: www.mangolandin.net

For Rodigan’s Reggae: www.rodigan.com

Photo of Gregory Isaacs by Manuel Lino: www.flickr.m-fx.net

Confessions of an infatuationist (self-diagnosed)

Hello, my name is Hannah, and I am infatuationist.

In case you’ve not met anyone suffering from this syndrome before, then let me explain (this is the quick version): I have a tendency to become infatuated with things, so much so that I would say I pretty much live in a constant state of infatuation.

In the past, the problem almost exclusively concerned unsavory/unsuitable/unobtainable men, who I would pursue with wild abandon, declare my undying love to and then, out of nowhere, dump unceremoniously.

Then, last year, I met the man I plan to be infatuated with forever; it’s been quite a shock to the system, let me tell you.

Like many other addicts, I’ve found going cold turkey tough. Too tough. The result is that I’ve had to channel my infatuationist tendencies elsewhere, towards the other (non-romantic) aspects of my life: so these days, whether its an artist, a pair of shoes or a surfboard,  I’ll possess passion in abundance but only the most short-lived commitment. For some reason it reminds me of the way a police woman friend told me heroin addicts use Night Nurse as a sedative: it’s not as powerful as the original drug, but it keeps me calm and the side effects are less damaging.

This blog is my way of recording all the fads, phases and crazes, all the infatuations, because, believe me, there are a lot and it’s easy to forget after a while that I ever had such strong feelings for this, that or the other. Of course, it’s early days and we’ll have to see how it goes; after all, this blog could be just another infatuation…