Get this party started.

Indeed.

Marks and Spencers is one of Britain's most loved shops with a long history of quality clothing, delicious foods and dodgy menswear. It has long been a staple of tradition, refusing to open on Sundays until long after everyone else did, refusing to accept credit cards becuse it would increase the prices of their products (again they eventually had to give in) and until recently all of their clothes were made in the UK (which meant production costs were high and profits were low). This changed in the last few years so that M&S could compete with other clothing stores such as H&M, Gap and TopShop.

In the last few years, M&S has been struggling as sales have dropped and its image has suffered badly. But this is no more, largely due to a brilliant autumn advertising campaign which has peaked with a hugely talked about advert. The advert is hugely British, featuring London landmark Tower Bridge, 60's supermodel Twiggy and the crowning glory of it all, Dame Shirley Bassey. Singing a Pink song. Only people familiar with Shirley will recognise the madness and genious of this, but here it is for you all to enjoy.



The only downside in the whole thing is that the song is not being released commercially as a single. It would most certainly have been a big Christmas hit.
But well done M&S!

Contaminated?

Big news in Britain now is the case of the Russian ex-spy who has died after being poisoned with pollonium, a radiactive element, at a sushi bar in London. "Gosh!", I thought. "Sushi!", I thought. "Yum", I thought. And then realised. "oh!" I thought. And then I didn't think again. Until today when I ate sushi from Itsu having had to calm my boss's nerves before we tucked in (not only were we eating at Itsu which is clearly death-defying, but we were also risking life and limb by trakking to Canary Wharf, the home of many a paranoids' terrorist attack nightmares). Not that sushi really has anything to do with anything, but this morning I woke up shattered, having had a horrendously active dream which left me wondering if I too had been in someway contaminated.

And, Lord!, this dream was a belter.

I was on holiday in South America (which looked rather like Tokyo) in a swish hotel (radioactivity-free may I add). I was walking down the street with 2 friends I've not seen in 10 years, when I spot a group of troublesome sorts behind us. So I quickly dump my wallet and keys on a drinks stall outside a convenience store (this would be safe in Japan) and then the group kidnaps me but kindly lets my 2 friends come along. As they dump me in a disused pool (billiards) room, I tell Graham (school friend) to call Sanchez (??) to pick up my wallet and keys, and, as he leaves, the gang starts boasting about how much money they've stolen from my 4 (??) bank accounts using my debit cards, and I laugh, "yeah, right!", in the knowledge that Sanchez (who? anyone?) is taking care of them. So I escape and run back to the plush hotel which now seems to be possessed by evil things. And my parents are there too, but fortunately we're in separate rooms. It's very fortunate, because in the next moment in my dream I am experiencing night paralysis, and a Japanese samurai is on top of me, attempting to molest me and I am protesting (yes, I was surprised too), but it finishes after a small tussle (no change there then). Straight away I'm on the phone to reception to report that I'd been kidnapped and subsequently had an attempt made on my modesty by a ghost (??) but reception aren't answering, so I sunter down to reception (which happens to be full of business people and rich folk having meetings) and make a show of myself by berating the staff for not answering my phone when I was making a cry for help. And all the posh folk and business people start exclaiming that they've noticed funny things going on and within seconds have grabbed their belongings and evacuated the hotel leaving papers scattered and things broken in their wake. Even the staff go. Only I'm left. And my parents. So I go to their room, the atmosphere around me becoming increasingly menacing and strange, and bang on the double doors to their room. Noises come from the room at the other end of the corridor, so I bang some more. My very relaxed parents open the doors. I hurriedly explain to them the need to leave, and they start to pack their bags at which point there is a whoosh and a bang on the doors. White goo starts to ooze in through the gaps at the top and the bottom of the doors. "Hurry!", I tell them, but the goo pushes in. So I must take action. Direct action. I step backwards. Further back. Then run at the door. Fast. Faster. Shoulder forward. BANG! The double doors swing open and the white things lands on the floor. What is this thing attacking me and my family?

Is it the troublesome sorts from earlier back to finish the job?

Is it the randy samurai ghost?

No.

It's a five foot tall, star shaped brie cheese (of course!??). And it's angry. It lunges at me, grabs me (it has arms, hands and a face of course) and we wrestle, until I manage to flip it out of the window. Of the fourth floor. And I watch it fly through the air and splat on the street below, the life draining out of it's piggy cheesey eyes, the soft centre squelching out from within it's crusty exterior.

And shortly afterwards I wake up with the urge to go vegan again.
What does it all mean? (Part 3,982).

Autumn in the city...

It seems we've officially had the warmest autumn since the 17th Century (possibly the warmest since 1731) but by the time you leave work at 5pm the night sky is well and truly settled in. And that lends itself well to socialising, so Wednesday saw an abortiive attempt at dinner with Silvana. Thursday was a night in the pub with Megan, Mandy and Terese and Friday was a quiz and karaoke (or rather, Singstar) night at Roland and Katrina's. Finally on Saturday I carted my Japanese food stuffs to Lyn's to cook dinner for four which went rather well. So after all the activity, I spent a relaxing Sunday wandering around London's Hyde Park. And taking pictures.

  

Momiji is of course huge in Japan. As in popular, not meaning that the leaves are large. And in the UK we don't really have the Autumn festivals to celebrate the changing of the leaves. So this is my own private appreciation. I spent much of the time telling my camera how much I love it because it always takes such purdy pictures.

  
 
  

Alright ladies, line up for your photo. That's it get ready, *click*
 
Hang on... WHERE THE HELL IS NUMBER 4?

  

Now girls, that's more like it...
 
  

 

My new boyfriend is very shy and rather fearful that his belongings will be stolen. So he carries them everywhere in a suitcase and a bin liner. Gosh, we miss Japan's coin lockers...
  
  

What happened once I got off that bloody train...

Well, having spent all that time wondering if livestock were going to continue throwing themselves at trains, if the heat would dehydrate us all tot he point of death and if we'd ever leave Wigan station, I finally made it to Lancaster. And spent the weekend with Suzanne, my old flatmate from Manchester.

  

We spent what was left of the evening catching up on gossip and news and discussing old uni friends and work colleagues, and then on Saturday morning had a wander around the town. This is Lancaster castle. And it's still in use, as a tourist site, a prison and a court. Lancaster coucil knows how to makes its tax dollars work...

  

Suzanne was very patient as I took pictures of the autumn leaves and the old stone buildings.

  

This is Lancaster Priory. It's not Catholic. But it is rather nice. It sits on a hill looking a bit drab and unloved, and then you go inside.

  

Other than Christmas I don't make it to church very often these days (i.e. I don't go), but this is the second one I've been in as a tourist since I left Japan. As you can see, it's lovely.

After our stroll we headed back to Suzanne's to wait for Helen, her baby daughter Erin and Claire to arrive before heading out to lunch in the Burroughs, a rather swish restaurant where we sampled vegetarian black pudding for the first time. As real black pudding is made from pig's blood and oats (or something), it was always going to be interesting to see what they would put in a veggie version. It stopped being interesting when it tasted like shake'n'vac.

Maxine joined us, and after lunch, with Helen and Erin heading home, we relocated to a pub to celebrate Maxine's birthday. We had a few drinks and ended up spending the night in chatting, laughing and generally having a good time.

In case a cow had escaped from suicide watch I decided I should head home early-ish, but not before catching up with Suzanne's Mum and Dad which is always good fun- I don't know anyone who travels as much as they do.

The train ride home was not, of course, without incident, as most of the toilets were broken, and I pressed the automatic door-open button only for a rather embarrassed young lady knickers round her ankles, to wonder aloud why the lock hadn't worked. And Virgin trains managed to surprise me again. The train arrived in London 10 minutes early...

Another trip...

another Virgin Trains experience.

I board the train and, after a rather manner-free interruption from a man who claims I'm sat at sit at his allocated seat (I was- the seat reservations signs were switched off and a young lady was sat in my spot), sit at my seat, and soon am aware of how hot I am. "Has my cold gotten worse?", I wonder, thinking that it's only me that's rather more than toasty. And then there's an announcement over the tannoy- the train in front has broken down and is being inspected, and we'll be held in position until the problem's been rectified and the train has moved on. This is really no cause for anguish or concern. It happens so often it should be accounted for in timetables. So we're 25 minutes behind schedule. And then the ticket inspector comes along. He alone was the saving grace of this journey- if he'd given us any more information we'd have been privy to his inside leg measurement, favourite underwear and childhood trauma. He tells us that the computer systems are broken in this and the next carriage, so the heating is running wild and the reservations system has decided to have a rest. And we all let out a collectively knowing laugh of "here-we-go-again" without realising that there's more to come.

It seems Virgin trains is working in partnership with an un-named agency to make it's customers have an even more memorable experience. Thirty minutes later and we're at a stand-still again, and the tannoy system is beeping again. Poised for a rundown of the Ticket-inspector's daily dietary intake and plans for Christmas, we are infact told there has been an incident a few trains ahead in Leyland, just before Preston. A bull has decided to play chicken at the wrong moment. Any ideas of an impromptu Virgin staff railside barbecue are put to rest as it as announced that the bull is still walking and a vet has been called. And possibly also a scrap metal dealer as it seems bulls are stronger than Virgin trains.

After a further half-hour stop at Wigan we are finally back on the move, albeit slowly so that we just shunt any more suicidal livestock of the tracks and finally arrive a mere 1 hour and 20 minutes late into Lancaster. This journey will remain in my memory for a long time, alongside the 12 hour journey to Manchester when the signals froze, the heating broke down, and the shop ran out of water for hot drinks an hour after our December 27th deparure (it was well into December 28th before we arrived). Virgin really do strive to make it a night to remember.

Love for...

 

Nao chan! I received a parcel yesterday and it contained lots of new winter chocolates from Japan, as well as lots of favourites. Thank you Nao chan! 

 
I had the day off work, but went up London anyway to take pictures and to meet Megan for dinner(yum, yum- Japanese food at Yoshino's). And within minutes I was getting it wrong and getting into trouble.

It seems you're not allowed to take photos here. So I shan't say where it is or that it's next to a certain ice-rink containing exchange out the back of Liverpool Street Station. Fortunately by the time I was told off I'd taken the pictures of the statues and trees that I wanted... 

 
Centrepoint is one of the few tall buildings in the west end of London, and you can see it from accross the city. But no-one really knows much about it. Most people think it's got something to do with homeless charity. Apparently this is not the case. Recently it was rumoured that the top two floors were going to be turned into a luxury night-club for stars such as Sir Elton, but I really don't think so. And finally it was included in a newspaper report about a pop-idol style show where viewers choose their favourite eyesore to be demolished. Now I don't think Centrepoint's particularly ugly, but levelling it would finally mean the grotty end of Oxford Street could be rezoned and the traffic finally sorted out. But it would also mean the end of the lovely bar at the bottom. But then again, they have irritating toilet attendents. I don't want to pay £1 for a spash of CK One and a paper towel thank you. Leave me alone or I'll set Cheryl Tweedy on you. 

 
In the back of this picture is a tower- the British Telecom Tower. It is rather non-attractive, but I have been mildly fascinated in it for years largely dur to the fact that it features in the climax of a film I've since at least 30 times- the 60's comedy "Smashing Time". In the film it is given groovy names like, "London's heaven threatener" and "the scene with the built in trip", in reference to it's stature as London's then-tallest building and to the revolving restaurant that sits atop, hance it's name, "The Top Of The Tower". Said restaurant has remained shut since 1971 when the IRA decided to blow up the men's loo (?!) but rumour was that it was to reopen this year. I must find out... 

 
Ah, Christmas. Last Sunday was Guy Fawkes night, so there really is nothing left until Christmas. 46 shopping days or some such nonsense. And proving that Christmas is becoming even more secular (i.e. just a shopping, drinking and eating extravaganza), Regent Street is rolling out the same lights it used last year, making them different by changing the symbols of corporate sponsorship- the lights carry pictures of characters from a different Disney or Pixar (or whoever) film than they did last year. Only I'd rather promote the use of public transport, so there's a bendy bus in the foreground and a glimpse of the lights in the back. Happy Hanukah too! 

 
What a way to end the night. As Megan looks at folk CDs, All Saints wobble in front of my camera at Piccadilly's Virgin Records. 

Scotch on the rocks

Last Thursday I headed up to Scotland for reunions, a 30th birthday bash and a spot of culture. I meant to write about it sooner, but I'm still recovering. I should have realised that it was not going to be a quiet trip when, an hour and a half after arriving in Edinburgh, having had only a chocolate orange for lunch, Cathy and I were meeting Joe and Barry in the pub. Needless to say a chocolate orange isn't a suitable meal before going drinking, so pretty soon I was feeling the effects. So Xathy and I went home, talked about her upcoming move to Okinawa (Jealous? Me? Muchly so) and watched a crap Japanese horror film ("Pulse") and then "Hostel" which was hilarious despite being rather horrible. And then on Friday I headed over to Glasgow.

 

Now, I've never been to Glasgow before and had heard that Edinburgh is much more beautiful, but I'm not sure. The picture iabove shows what much of Glasgow city centre is like. Gorgeous old buildings that are well maintained. I didn't go for my free spinal check though.

 

The reason I went to Glasgow was to see Jess and Dan, friends from Japan who are doing PGCE courses. Jess and I had a quick wander around the town and discussed having a quiet night as she was full of a cold and wasn't wanting a big one. I agreed, thinking the party in Edinburgh the next night would be a big one. And then we met Dan in the pub. Dan was not alone. He was with... Mr Harper.

  

Mr Harper is dangerous. He is very good fun, likes to have a good time and likes his drink. He is DANGEROUS. But in a good way of course. He likes his drink, and he likes other people to drink too. So by 8 eight o'clock we had each consumed comething stupid like 6 pints of Fosters and 8 Jagermeister and Red Bulls. At which point Mr Harper went home leaving the three of us flailing about like loons (or perhaps that was just me). We headed to Jess and Dan's flat befgore carrying on drinking and I broke their kitchen. Elephant's can't fly you know, but it seems microwaves can. Dan led me into their lovely kitchen, and in my drunken state I decided to jump on their breakfast bar. The breakfast bar was clearly not prepared for this and flipped up under my weight launching the microwave into the air. Oops...
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but involved more drinking, Mars bars, secret bars with members' keys, sandwiches, pies and curry. I must go back to Glasgow soon...

 

So, Saturday came and after only about 4 hours' sleep it was bound to be messy, but after waiting for other visitors to park their bags at Cathy's and watching X-factor, we headed off to Joe's 30th. A very drunken evening ensued with lots of new people to talk to (or should I say babble at, as the drink was doing it's job) and some suitably lewd dancing. The party was in a nice bar somewhere in the centre of the city, but was followed by an after-party at Joe and Barry's flat where Cathy became toast queen and everyone marvelled at how massive the flat was.

Sunday, the actual day of Joe's birthdau was another marathon, where Cathy and I made a late entrance to a breakfast and drinking session that had apparently started at 10. Breaking our drinking run for a spot of shopping, I managed to make an idiot of myself in Topman by paying for jeans on my storecard and then paying off a random amount on the card straight away. And Cathy hugged a tree. Cathy and I finished drinking early, she at 6:30 and me at 8, not before time. The others battled on until 3am. Brave soldiers they were.

  

On Monday morning I had somne time to kill before my train and wandered around Edinburgh trying to figure out what foodstuffs would counting three days of drink and chocolate consumption (approximately 23 bars). ANd I also took some pictures. This is a view of the buildings on the Royal Mile from Princes Street. Very pretty.

 

More pretty buildings on the Royal Mile where I searched unsuccessfully for sticks of rock.

  

Some funny rooves with interesting tile work. Lord I was feeling rough at this point.

  

This was the view from the train on the way home. Lots of the journey is on the coast, so you see just beach. The best bits are between Edinburgh and Newcastle. I relaxed on the journey, reading, gorging myself on fishy sandwiches from Sainsbury's (you can bet the man sat next to me wasn't too impressed) and gulping down healthy smoothies. And despite my best efforts I seem to have a heavy cold now. Good job this weekend's been quiet.