I Want

My train was delayed today because it was A Bit Hot. Like, by hours. I had finished my book. So I re-listened to Tracey Emin’s Desert Island Discs.

I adore Tracey. I have three of her prints up in my house, including one super-limited edition one that I couldn’t really afford but inexplicably had to have. 

Listening to her talking, it struck me for the first time that - over and above all the usual observations about her - in all of her work, she is so open about WANTING. It is all suffused with unadulterated wanting, yearning, disappointment, fury at the injustice. Maybe that’s what makes people feel so uncomfortable. At its core: Wanting. 

I’d never noticed this theme before. One of her works I have a print of is called I WANT IT ALL. I used to think it was a joke. It’s not a joke. 

She is the opposite of the cool girl. 

I was bred to be the cool girl. Yeah, I’m fun, whatever you want, I don’t mind really. Yeah, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it.

Fuck that. 

Wanting is ugly. Wanting is embarrassing. Shameful, even. Unladylike.

Wanting may even be disgusting. I realise, lately, that I am never more myself than when I am at my least attractive. At my most disgusting. Home alone, sweating in the heat, slumped on the sofa in my pants, pasta-filled belly out, watching that George Harrison documentary AGAIN.

I want to be disgusting and stupid and very clever and sexy and ugly and fucking glorious.

I want to not be ashamed of wanting.

I want everything.

How To Be Luminous

My great friend Harriet Reuter Hapgood writes more beautifully than you can possibly imagine. She recently produced both a book and a baby into the world in the space of one week, that’s the kind of casual over-achiever she is.

Usually, if I read a book and wish I’d written it myself to the point of jealousy, it’s because it has a clever, twisty plot that would be far beyond the limitations of my small brain. However, Harriet could write a book in which nothing happened whatsoever – full of sighs, meaningful glances, no dialogue and solely descriptions of beautiful rooms and outfits – and I would happily spend the rest of my life reading it. I honestly don’t know anyone else on the face of this planet who has her gift for unusual description, unexpected detail and sighingly gorgeous lycricism.

Her new book, HOW TO BE LUMINOUS, tells the story of the three teenage sloe sisters. Their famous artist mother has disappeared and Minnie, the middle sister, has lost her ability to see colour. There are gorgeous boys, even more gorgeous settings, outfits I wish were real and in my wardrobe, fictional artworks that I can see right in front of me, and a rabbit called Salvador Dali. There are roses and sequinned platform shoes and secrets and wild swimming and a thousand shades of bright pink and existential angst.

Her first book, THE SQUARE ROOT OF SUMMER, is also wonderful but I think I love this one even more. I highly recommend reading both. She is frequently compared to Jandy Nelson – company of the highest order and very aptly deserved.

In short. I do not even have the linguistic skills to convey how beautiful Harriet’s writing is. It makes me feel like Georgia O’Keeffe and PJ Harvey and Sylvia Plath do, but about teenage girls in South London. I can’t wait for all the things she’s going to do next. The word ‘humbled’ is overused and I hate it but… yeah, that.

As well as being a very proud friend, I also really like this sensible and wise article on being single by Garance Dore. I think she’s a pretty cool woman.

I also bought some tiny Ivy Park shorts on Depop (I only buy second-hand clothes now). I bought them from a cool teenage girl and now totally feel like one when I’m out running. It’s a great feeling.

I have been drinking a lot of kombucha. Fun. Today I’m 42 days sober (the longest since I was 14 years old) and I’m told this is where it gets really good. Incidentally, I have now not smoked in 9 months. This almost passed me by, and it feels normal now, most of the time.

I presume you already do Yoga With Adriene, but stepping up to doing at least one of her (usually short) videos every day has changed my life for the better.

Last night, we ate pasta sauce made with olives from the garden and few things have ever made me happier.

Things are really not too bad on this humid, London, sleepy, wearing my boyfriend’s shirt to work Monday morning.

Not In Front Of Family

• I have been listening to this repeatedly and weeping for a multitude of reasons. It is utterly perfect. Especially the song Not In Front Of Family.

• I have been making my own homemade vegan Nutella (I am not a vegan) and it is very satisfying, because it’s much greater than the sum of its parts or the effort made in putting them together.

• Over the years, I have been conflicted in my feelings about the Smashing Pumpkins. However, I must concede that I have recently been educated in how listening to Siamese Dream first thing in the morning gets the day off to an excellent start. Preferably with coffee and crumpets.*

• Anyway, I am as obsessed as everyone else is with To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before. It is sweet and lovely and I love it and Peter Kavinsky with all of my haggard but perpetually teenage heart.

• I read Motherhood by Sheila Heti and I think we probably all should because it has made me feel better about myself and other people and the whole world.

• I have been to see the Picasso 1932 exhibition at Tate Modern twice now and it is awe-inspiring. On a very basic level, just that he managed to get that much done in the space of one tumultuous year, quite frankly.

*Incidentally, this also prompted a weird realisation that boys seem to use Smashing Pumpkins as a definite wooing tactic. The first time I heard them, it was when an older boy called Jago (dream holiday romance when I was 15) played me Disarm on his Walkman. I carried on listening to the song on repeat long after I went home and went off him.

Then, on my seventeenth birthday, a boy called Futoshi gave me Adore on CD. Futoshi was from Tokyo and played drums in my boyfriend Nico’s band. He confessed his secret crush on me with that present, announcing ‘if you like me, you can kiss me’. I declined and ended up giving the CD to my friend Tommy, as it had also soundtracked his much more grown-up New York holiday romance. Circular, no? I can now see that I was an idiot. That Smashing Pumpkins CD was a sweeter and far more thoughtful gift than Nico ever gave me. He was handsome but flaky (in retrospect I realise: mostly because he didn’t like me that much).

The art of precious scars.

I am a bit obsessed with this video, which my friend Edda sent to me today. I find it incredibly soothing.

I have learned that kintsugi is revered in Japan as 'the art of precious scars': literally it is Japanese for 'golden joinery'. The philosophy of it is that breakage and repair are part of the history of an object, and should be celebrated as such.

Broken pottery is fixed with a special technique using gold, not trying to hide the fact that the object has been previously broken, but treating its golden scars with pride. The object, with its visible and beautiful repairs, becomes a symbol for fragility, beauty and strength - considered stronger and more precious than before.

Isn't that a lovely metaphor for all of us?

Edda is taking a friend, who is recovering from a broken heart, on a kintsugi workshop this weekend. That is the most perfect thing I can think of.

Time Again.

I keep writing things and deleting them.  Ooh, how deep and metaphorical?!

Anyway. Here are Some Current Things.

I went to see Bananarama and it was unexpectedly one of the best gigs I have ever been to.

I also went to see Aldous Harding and she was quite special.

My friend Neil gave me a T-shirt that says MORE ISSUES THAN VOGUE on it and I love it deeply.

At the weekend my mum came to stay, and we went to the Crab Claw on Brighton seafront and ate clam chowder chips - recommend, would 100% eat again every day for the rest of my life if I could, etc etc etc.

My random festival friend Jez is making a documentary about the album 'George Best' by the Wedding Present and you can find out all about it here.

I've been clearing out lots of stuff and have made many trips lately to Brighton tip - again, highly recommend. They also sell compost.

I became obsessed with the artist Babak Ganjei via Instagram (modern!) and I have been buying lots of stuff from his website. I literally could not love him more.

I am forever torn between thinking it's A Bit Common to put one's Christmas tree up too early, and - if I'm going to spend £30 on a tree - wanting to get my money's worth. So...I put mine up yesterday. Katherine and I walked down London Road intending to get small trees and carry them home. Of course we ended up getting thoroughly carried away and having to take our huge fatty trees home in a cab. Mine has three sets of fairy lights on it and thus looks uncannily like Winona's 'Stranger Things' series 1 breakdown.  Festive!

Reminder that you can buy copies of the beautiful, lovingly homemade lo-fi fanzine I AM NOT ASHAMED - along with 'euphemism cocktail' postcards and a whole bag of incredible one-off swag - from our online shop. We now deliver worldwide! Would make a pretty cool Christmas present, let me tell you.

Bye for now!

ECW X

The good stuff that I am seeking.

I seem to have spent the past week or so typing and deleting posts. You can guess what they're about. I may or may not post. I'm not sure there is any point.

And so, instead, to the absolute opposite end of the spectrum. Stuff I like; stuff I'm excited about; stuff that brings me joy.

My New Kitchen
I've been redecorating and it is an absolute DREAM. Mexican star tiles, Pepto Bismol candy pink walls, floorboards, many shelves for tiny wineglasses and cookery books... Kitchen discos ahoy (the kitchen glitter ball, of course, remains).

Stella Vine
I am a long-term and avid fan. So, it was a stroke of luck that - semi-drunk on a train the other night - I saw her post on Instagram saying a new limited-edition print was available to buy. Total whim, bought immediately - so much so that I got the very first one. I am in love with it.

Riverdale
Total binge-watch like I haven't done in ages. I watched the lot in one weekend and am now struggling with the idea of having only one ep per week. I need more Veronica in my life.

Glossier
The magic is real. The package arrived like a proper glorious treat, and the lipstick is the perfect naughty shade to make you look like you've been drinking raspberry cocktails and snogging a boy you fancy on a rooftop all night.

I AM NOT ASHAMED
Issue 2 of my old-school 90s-style fanzine, lovingly made with the beaut Harriet Reuter Hapgood, is now available to buy from our online shop! Featuring essays on Riverdale, Emma Forrest, Courtney Love; the in/out list, behind the issue, euphemism cocktails and more!

The Brighton Fanzine Tea Party!

I am extremely excited to announce that - following our wildly brilliant mini-workshop at YALC - Harriet Reuter Hapgood and I are hosting our very own BRIGHTON FANZINE TEA PARTY.

If you'd like to come, you can buy a ticket here!

Here's the deets:

I AM NOT ASHAMED zine (by YA authors Harriet Reuter Hapgood and Eleanor Wood) presents THE BRIGHTON FANZINE TEA PARTY. Come and spend a cosy afternoon with us, making zines and celebrating DIY culture – with cake and music and glitter. Teens welcome!

• Make your own zine
• Chill in the zine library
• Buy personalised zines and books
• Browse the jumble sale
• Drink tea and eat cake

What you get:

• Everything you need to go home with a master copy of your own fanzine
• Zine-making tutorial, advice and all craft materials (much glitter)
• Chat to authors about your book/zine/writing
• Tea and coffee and homemade cake
• Hang out with friendly creative people in a lovely cosy place
• Exclusive I AM NOT ASHAMED party bag

Hi. How are you?

Hi.  How are you?  It's been a while.

What's been going on?  Not a lot, in the scheme of things.

Re-reading Viv Albertine's 'Clothes Music Boys' (incidentally, I always love that 'boys' is at the bottom of that list - quite right), and listening to her 'The Vermillion Border' A LOT.  Basically, I love Viv Albertine very, very deeply.  She is always great for life advice and general inspiration.  Did I mention I love her?

I have also - slowly, carefully - reread Tracey Emin's 'Strangeland', for the first time in a long time.  I also really love Tracey, but in a different way.  I think she's one of my favourite artists because she is so much about words.  Powerful words.  Words like fucking grenades.  But also incredibly beautiful.  I once nearly passed out with vicarious raw emotion at one of her video pieces in the Hayward Gallery.  True story.  It's how she makes me feel.  I can't read that book very often, but when I do it's an experience.  I want to go back to Margate.  And to Turkey.

I went to the launch party for Chris Russell's 'Songs About Us', the sequel to his 'Songs About A Girl'.  Now it's probably no secret that I enjoy teenage books involving girls, bands, music, romance and drama... so, obviously, it's a yes from me.  It was a lovely party, in a great pub called the Cat's Back that was like a cosy living room in a really cool house.  I can't wait to read the book.

Other than that... trying to stay on the straight and narrow, working hard and not getting enough done, feeling lazy but not getting enough sleep, trying to get out into the sunshine and fresh air, dreaming of impossible things.  Keep on keeping on, comrades.

I AM NOT ASHAMED

It finally exists!

To explain, my wonderful friend Harriet Reuter Hapgood* and I have been talking for AGES about how we are going to make a proper old-school photocopied 90s-style fanzine.  Just talking about it has been the best fun ever - a bit like being a teenager and discussing at length with your friends about how you're going to start a band but never actually playing a note (was that just me and my friends, maybe everyone else used that time to actually learn to play guitar properly?).

Anyway, we spent days drinking tea and eating snacks, talking about how great our fanzine was going to be.  Obviously, this was a very worthwhile exercise.  We would write bits, ambitiously plan bits, draw bits... then put them in a drawer and kind of forget about them.

This weekend - during a Brighton heatwave - we decided: ENOUGH.  We spent a whole day sitting in Harriet's garden in the sunshine, with her cat and a bag of cookies and a stack of craft supplies and a suitable playlist, and we GOT IT DONE.  We made a fanzine!

Our fanzine is called I AM NOT ASHAMED.  Its (very broad, quite vague) theme is ENTHUSIASM.  Be an unapologetic enthusiast.  Enthusiasm is good.

I AM NOT ASHAMED will probably be available at a publishing event near you soon.

In the meantime, here is a little zine inspiration board.

*If you have not done so already, I cannot recommend enough that you read Harriet's beautiful book, The Square Root of Summer - it is truly wonderful and I am still pretty blown away that this amazing and gorgeous genius is my friend, TBH.

Mind-trains

Sometimes a book comes along that I need to keep on my person at all times – moving it from handbag to handbag, dipping into it on every train journey; comfort blanket, talisman and Bible, all at once.

When I was much, much younger – I used to carry Franny and Zooey by JD Salinger around with me.  For a long time, it became Your Voice In My Head by Emma Forrest – still the wisest and most comforting memoir I can think of, I think that book has inspired me more than any other, and (crucially) made me feel like it’s going to be OK in the end.  And, more importantly, that it’s OK if it isn’t ‘OK’.  As Emma puts it far more beautifully herself: ‘Time heals all wounds.  And if it doesn’t, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay.’

For months now, that book has been M Train by Patti Smith.  As I expect you know, the ‘M’ stands for ‘mind’ and it was inspired by a dream in which a cowboy (kind of a Sam Shepard-ish character, obviously) appeared and told her ‘it’s not so easy writing about nothing’.  And it is kind of a book about… nothing.

Well, that’s not strictly true.  It’s a book about writing itself, about travel, about coffee, about cats.  Above all, it is a book about loss.

It’s a very quiet book.  And while the young Chelsea Hotel energy of Just Kids is and always has been pretty much my lifeblood, there is something about the elegiac tone of M Train that fits my mood exactly these days.  I find myself coming back to it again and again and again.  The other day, I bought a new copy of it because I forgot to take it on a long train journey with me.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that I am just like Patti – and not just because I have copied her lightning bolt knee tattoo, not just because I cut my own hair and love Rimbaud and Rilke, and I too believe ‘people have the power’.

Patti and I have the same speed, as we both slouch around town in our flat boots and second-hand overcoats.  I work in bed to stay warm, writing furiously rather than putting the heating on, just like Patti.  I do all my best writing in bed, in the winter – always have.

Sometimes I go to cafes and sit in the corner with my notebook.  I’ve been to Paris and New York alone; I seek out graveyards.  When I was a child, I once took a whole roll of film in a French Catholic graveyard, just for fun, before I even knew who Patti Smith was.

It took me a while, but I love living alone.  Sometimes I go whole days without talking to another human.  I want to spend Christmas alone.  Maybe New Year too.  How very Patti of me.  In the new year, I might get a cat.  I enjoy the quiet; I’ve been trying to slow down – and I have.  Maybe I’m not so manic, any more.

Then it hits me.  Patti is a widow; her children are grown up; she has done the work, all her life.  She has earned her silence (incidentally just like Leonard Cohen – or ‘Jikan’, of course).

On my bedroom wall, I have the inside sleeve of her album Wave framed.  It is a picture of Patti dancing in a white dress and the Rilke quote:

“For one human being to love another, that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.”

I want Detroit.  I want a Fred Sonic Smith.  I want French Guyana adventures.  I want it all.

I am exactly half her age.  I am just a 35-year-old woman staying in bed and freezing to death, typing.

This year has been a shift but my New Year’s resolution should probably be to get off this mind-train and get out into the world more…

For us to dream.

A good week for culture.

Not least because Bob Dylan has won the Nobel Prize for Literature.  For some reason, this is something that speaks directly to me and I feel a weird sense of slight ownership over - no idea why, but judging from The Social Media, a lot of my friends feel the same.  He means a lot to a lot of us, basically.  Good reason to give him the prize.  His words are special.

So, on Monday night I went to the Royal Festival Hall and got to be in the same room as the ACTUAL Louis Theroux.  As predicted he is tall, well dressed and very erudite.  Bonus Adam Buxton, too.

Tuesday night I went to the Barbican to see the Michael Clark Company.  This was a genuine revelation.  I was only vaguely familiar with Michael Clark's work, and it was one of those great events that I never would have gone to if not for my friend buying the tickets and inviting me along.  Sometimes the best kind of nights.  The dancers were incredible (what the human body can do blows my mind), but it was also surprisingly moving - music by Erik Satie, Patti Smith and then a tribute to David Bowie.  Really incredible.

I got home on Wednesday to the most bonkers, generous and wonderful present from my friend Neil. A huge, flat cardboard box that turned out to be A PLACE FOR US TO DREAM.  Vinyl, limited edition, signed - a 4-volume box set of 20 years' worth of Placebo, with a photo book so beautiful it made me cry.  Twenty years of my life and friendship, right there.  Unbelievable.

I have rarely felt so lucky to have the friends I have, lately.  I don't want to go into some 'hashtag blessed', my-friends-are-the-best-yes-better-than-your-friends smug outpouring.  I'm sure we all feel the same way about our own friends - I hope so, anyway.  But lately I have been feeling the value of great friends old and new, that's all.

In between times, lately I have been listening to The Cure a lot, rereading my beloved Patti Smith, living quietly, eating healthily, feeling inspired.  These are the things that are good in life.

Hopelessness (at the Barbican)

I would say I am a medium-sized Madonna fan.  I have been to see Madonna live exactly once, and it was kind of by accident.  It was on her Re-Invention tour, at Earls Court in 2004, when American Life had just come out (I still maintain that is a really underrated album, one which I still listen to a lot - Nothing Fails is up there as one of my all-time favourite Madonna songs; then again my favourite Madonna song is Secret, so what do I know?!).

Anyway, as we know, Madonna charges a small fortune for concert tickets.  Which I find kind of annoying and would have stopped me from even considering going to see her.  Except my friend Neil had an unexpected spare ticket and asked me at the very last minute to come along.

I arrived that night in typically/slightly blasé fashion and I left a total convert.  For weeks afterwards, it was all I could talk about.  I'm still so glad I went, and grateful to Neil (as for many things) for making it happen.

Similarly, yesterday - my friend Debbie posted on Facebook that she had two tickets to see Anohni at the Barbican for that very night, and she could no longer go.  Would anybody like the tickets?

Yes, I would!  I had read a bit about the new Anohni album and that was it.  I was intrigued, but mostly it was just a nice sunny evening in London and I fancied a night out at the Barbican.  I roped in my friend Meadbh and we went for cocktails first.

That day, as I had read more about Anohni and the new album, I started to get more and more excited.  In fact, I started to wonder if maybe I was somehow *supposed* to unexpectedly see this show.

I'm so glad I did.  It was like nothing I have ever seen before - truly moving, powerful and wonderful.  Genuinely inspiring.  I can't even explain how incredible it was.  It went by in a flash.   As the lights came on, we looked at each other as if to say 'is it really over?'.  We couldn't actually speak.

The feeling is still with me today and I think it will be for some time.  In some tiny way, I am changed - which is the great aim, really, isn't it?  This is what art at its true best can do to us.  I want to write masterpieces and change the world.  In small ways, maybe.

The album and the show are titled Hopelessness - and it is an apt title, but the purpose it serves is the exact opposite.

As described in an article in the New Yorker:

“Hopelessness” does not live down to its naysaying title. As I fell deeper under the spell of Anohni’s voice, I forgot about the logistics of creating a better world, and began thinking about what I demand from art, why I had scoffed at the grand premise of this album. Why doesn’t more art aspire to do something that seems impossible? “Hopelessness” won’t turn back history or undo politics—that would be a foolish presumption. But, like the most powerful music, it reminds us of the importance of dignity, integrity, and imagination. The world Anohni describes on “Hopelessness” is unrelentingly awful; it is our world. But at the center of it is a transcendent voice singing against heavy machinery, daring you to listen to the words coming out of your own mouth.

Stuff. Nonsense. Things.

Hello, there.  It's been a while.  Not intentionally.

I haven't even been *that* busy.  I just haven't had anything very pressing to say ('doesn't usually stop you, ECW!' I hear you cry).  I think this may be a good thing.  I have been doing the usual stuff lately, I suppose.  I have been reading a lot of books, watching a lot of films, eating a lot of avocados, wearing a lot of dungarees.

I had a brilliant trip to Manchester for a weekend, where I danced to Joy Division under disco lights, bought Smiths records, gained a new earring, drank/ate a five-dollar milkshake, watched a truly impressive (and joyous) St George's Day parade through a very rainy Sunday morning in the Northern Quarter.  The Northern Quarter reminded me of Brooklyn - I loved it.

Yesterday, I went on the most delightful of day trips to Charleston.  It was genuinely unique and amazingly inspiring (I hope that doesn't sound too ridiculous).  Honestly, it made me want to write a masterpiece and above all to live brilliantly and bravely.  It is so important to be reminded of this sometimes, with places and art and people who feed our souls and remind us of the things that are really important.  Those Bloomsbury types had it right - it's all about art and ideas.

Devoted companion to the extreme sacrifice

I have a Modigliani print hanging over my bed.  It was a present.  Fitting, as I like to think I look a bit like a lady from a Modigliani painting - like me, they seem to be all long nose, dark hair and hips, basically.

I have been reading a lot lately about Modigliani's 'common law wife', Jeanne Hébuterne.

So sad, but absolutely fascinating in a doomed romance sort of a way, kind of like something out of Jean Genet (but real, so actually tragic).  I'm not sure how I feel about being 'devoted companion to the extreme sacrifice'.

I kind of love the idea, in a sick way - just the same sort of way that sometimes I listen to this song on repeat.

Wild hearts can't be broken

If I want to do one thing in life, it is to live bravely.  I want to be remembered as a brave person.  I want to get stuff done.  I never want to do things because I am scared.  If the options are to do a thing or not do a thing, I want to say fuck it.

Fortune favours the brave.

Sometimes it takes a reminder to be brave, to remember what I am here for, to focus on my creative life and not get dragged down by all the little stresses and the other stupid, boring shit.  It's important to hang onto these things and remember the person you are supposed to be.

So, today, I have been making plans.  I have been reading about Patti Smith and Vali Myers and Jean Genet...and the other brave souls who inspire me (in my own small way, obviously).  I have been thinking about how I want to be, and how I want to be remembered.  The things I really want to do.

I have been listening to this song, which never fails to make me dance like a woman possessed.

Stuff.

It's been a good cultural week.

I had a lovely night out with my BFF to watch Hangmen (like everyone else in the world, OF COURSE I have a huge crush on Martin McDonagh).  It was even more amazing than I expected. Dark and funny and clever, and properly brilliant.

Yesterday, I went to see A Woman's War, the Lee Miller exhibition at the Imperial War Museum.  Again, it was incredible and highly recommended.  What a brilliant and fascinating woman.  I am slightly obsessed.

In other news, I would also recommend reading Station Eleven, So You've Been Publicly Shamed, and my friend Sara Barnard's wonderful Beautiful Broken Things, which very excitingly comes out this week.

In Netflix recommendations, Force Majeure made me feel very bleak but in a clever and fascinating way, and then We Are The Best! cheered me right up.  It is truly lovely.

Fuck dance, let's art.

I was feeling sleepy and a bit hungover this morning.  A bit burnt out, a bit sad.

So, instead of eating food or going running as I usually do, I spent my lunch hour in the Tate Modern.

I am not clever about art, and I wouldn't even consider myself a very visual person, but there is something about an art gallery that makes me (re)fall in love with the world and its possibilities.  Other people's work - sometimes especially when it is a different medium to the one you work/aspire in - is so inspiring.  It's the best form of 'jealousy' (not quite accurate but for want of a better word) - when other people's creations make you want to work harder and be better at your own.

I also bought a print of this, which is a portrait I find fascinating: http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/hockney-mr-and-mrs-clark-and-percy-t01269

Then I came back to my computer and saw this on Facebook.  It is really cheesy and I normally hate this sort of thing - but right now I whole-heartedly agree with every single one...

Travelling (wo)man

This probably sounds like an annoying thing to say - I'm so Pollyanna-ish these days, it must be driving my friends bonkers - but my new job is the nicest I have ever had.  I'm really enjoying going to work at the moment.

Everyone says that work travel isn't fun, but I really love it.  One of my favourite things about the work I'm currently doing is that I get to do a lot of running around.  Apparently work travel isn't 'glamorous', and in literal terms this is probably true in my case, but I find travel inherently glamorous.  Even when it's the 7am Easyjet flight to Newcastle.

I'm crap at doing 'proper' reading or writing on trains, no matter how good my intentions.  So I have taken to carting my ancient paperback copy of Dolce Vita by Iseult Teran with me.  It's an old favourite and perfect for dipping into whilst in transit.  Top travel tip from ECW, there.  (Ha!)

I recently had a lovely day out in Glasgow - one of my favourite UK cities - and had a bit of free time.  I got to go to GOMA (The Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art) and see some cool stuff - http://www.glasgowlife.org.uk/museums/GoMA/Pages/default.aspx

There was an exhibition by Sue Tompkins, which I found really fun and kind of intriguing (although opinion was definitely split).  She was in the band Life Without Buildings - I distinctly remember hearing them on John Peel when I was a student and writing their name in my notebook.  I love such little circular moments.

Arena

I am in danger of slipping into grandma-esque ‘they don’t make them like they used to’ nostalgia here.  Not that my own grandmother has ever said anything like ‘they don’t make them like they used to’ in her life; she’s pretty modern, unlike her second-eldest grandchild.

Anyway, a little while ago – as I do – I was looking up The Hotel Chelsea on Youtube.  I came upon a 1981 BBC Arena documentary about my spiritual home.  It’s very BBC and early 80s – it doesn’t tally with my own memories of the Chelsea at all – but it’s fabulous.  To me, it seems kind of sanitised, but perhaps it just captures a bygone era that I missed.  It was, after all, made in the year that I was born.  It’s still utterly brilliant – featuring Quentin Crisp, and a hilarious lunch involving Andy Warhol and William Burroughs in the style of a nature documentary.

So, this made me notice that there were a lot of Arena documentaries on Youtube, and I started watching the lot.  They are, without exception, brilliant television.  I suggest you watch them all.  I’ve been watching episodes on such varied and interesting subjects as Joe Orton, Poly Styrene and Cindy Sherman.   I also accidentally watched one on Pete Doherty, and even that was good TV.  After all, Werner Herzog called the Arena series “the oasis in the sea of insanity that is television”.

(I should probably also mention that, in general, I don’t approve of people assuming they should have free access to content [watching whole programmes on Youtube, etc.].  But I pay my licence fee – now I actually have a television – and I don’t think there’s a way of being able to pay to watch these, so I don’t see that there’s a problem.)

On a less boring note, I shall leave you with my favourite moment from the Chelsea documentary, which occurs in the pyramid on the roof…