the girl who’s afraid of foxes

What’s that they say?

If you don’t have anything good to say, don’t say anything at all?

Back in a while (maybe)

Surely somebody has thought of setting up a FF league for Irish bloggers? I’ve been fine-tuning my team all week, and the more leagues I get to win in may the better Does anyone know the code if there is one? The only one I could find was at the fantasy premier league blog, but I’m not that popular so the party may be going ahead somewhere without me (as usual! ;))

Haruki Murakami is one of the coolest writers around. How come? 1) He’s Japanese, and therefore cool by default. 2) One of his novels is named after a Beatles song, and music plays a pretty big role in several of his books, without it ever appearing forced or name-droppy. 3) All of his books have beautiful, minimal, white matching covers. 4) He seems like a pretty down to earth kinda guy and now 5) He runs. Oh and he has taken the name of his current memoir from one of my favourite Raymond Carver books ever. Enough said.

I am obsessed with running, so obviously I would find this kind of book pretty interesting. Given that I’m a Murakami fan as well, it’s a no-brainer. But for those not quite so enamoured with the world of long distance running, there is so much here that is of interest - in fact in my opinion there is not enough about running! Murakami draws parallels between running and life in general, as well as the effect that being a runner has had on his career and journey as a novelist. There are some really nice little stories of his experiences along the way, one of my favourites being when he talks about how he will never get an MP3 player because he believes music and computers don’t mix. Instead he lugs around his Mini Disc player on runs.

Just to be clear Murakami isn’t just a casual runner who jogs around the block a few tiimes, although I don’t think he gives himself enough credit to be honest. He has completed a marathon every year since he started running in 1983 and he has also finished an ultramarathon (that’s 62 miles for the uninitiated). A pretty spectacular record. But he never alludes to this, instead he chooses to remain humble, always modest, and extremely grateful for the gift of running in his life. What I talk about… reminded me of why Murakami is one of my favourite contemporary writers and it also made me want to pick up my Asics and go running. I think that’s probably the best review I could give.

Part of me so wants this. I mean, the thought of being able to read The Man without Qualities without having to lug the bloody thing around with me is very appealing. And when I finish it, on the journey into work, I can read a new book on the journey home. I can download new books and get access to them instantly. It seems quite pretty too, though no pink version

Then, another great big chunk of me says, oh no I don’t. Having to pay the same price as the print book? No thanks (fair enough, there are VAT issues involved which I hadn’t considered initially). I’ll also miss the nice way that book covers in certain series match, and the way that random piles of books can be used as makeshift furniture (a la Marco Fogg in Moon Palace!). I might wait this one out for a bit, while I’m making up my mind, and befriend a first-mover come September 4th!

Sundays are the worst day of the week for me (though on Bank Holiday weekends they are considerably better!). I still can’t get over that ‘back to school’ feeling that starts hitting once the leisurely breakfast with the Sunday papers is over. And you realise there’s a big pile of ironing to do as well. But even more than that, I hate Sundays at the gym. This shouldn’t be the case really, because Sunday mornings are pretty quiet (everyone is still in bed after the night before I guess), and I *love* when the gym is quiet.

But.

I’m not ashamed to say that the once a week, ‘Sunday morning brigade’ (ten minutes in the pool and an hour in the sauna afterwards to sweat out the hangover) are a constant source of both amusement and irritation. The former because, well, some of the conversations you overhear are priceless.

I’m the kinda girl who pushes herself in the gym (let’s just say you don’t want to be the person who uses the bike after me lol. Not that I don’t wipe it down with a towel and everything mind!). I’ve just discovered heart rate monitors - or my new Cardiosport Go 30 to be exact. Awesome. It’s all very well feeling like you’re giving it your max (the bleeding quads and nausea are usually a good indicator ;)), but well let’s just say, the HRM doesn’t do ‘feelings’, so it’s nice to have some empirical back-up that your heart’s in the right place (that’s the 75-85% of maximum heart rate zone by the way :p). And for all those swim-and-sauna go-ers, don’t worry, they are also waterproof…

A little showery, a little sunny …before the camera battery ran out

What was I thinking? I mean, really. OK I know what I was thinking. A friend just told me she read Gold by Dan Rhodes and it’s now her favourite book, so I’m blaming this disaster on her. I should know better than to have such faith in my friends. And here’s me trying to keep an open mind, in the vague hope of discovering a new writer I can work my way through (which makes me sound like a right book slut). Well I had always associated Dan Rhodes with the whole lad-lit thing (even though I hadn’t read him before) which put me off a little, but my friend was pretty adamant so I saw Anthropology, Rhodes’ desperate attempt at short fiction, and thought it couldn’t hurt.

Ha! It brought a whole new meaning to the word throwaway. The book consists of 101 short stories, all about half a page long, with one word titles, arranged in alphabetical order. instead of making every word count though, which one would invariably expect given the enforced brevity of the pieces in Anthropology, most of the stories read like bad barstool jokes (In fact, I was actually waiting for one of them to start with ‘So a guy walks into a bar…’). Here’s an example of one of the better ones, entitled Herself:

Running Water left me. She told me she was very fond of me, but that she needed some time to herself. 6 weeks later i saw her outside the church, wearing her very best ceremonial head-dress & clinging to the arm of an unusually handsome man. I rushed through the confetti, and glared at her. “So how did you enjoy all that time to yourself?” I hissed.

“It was great thanks,” she answered, smiling for the cameras, and looking even prettier than I remembered. “I had two cups of coffee and a croissant, and then I read a magazine.”

is it just me? After the first few the novelty wore off and I cut my losses when I got about halfway through, at a story called Lost. I thought it was as good a place as any.

I really don’t know what to write about this book, it was absolutely horrific. After reading the opening chapter of the novel, you pretty much know where the novel is headed. Or at least you think you do, but really you have no idea just *how* bad it is going to get.

The novel is set in a prison camp in Bosnia, with a large portion of the book dedicated to events that happen in the (euphemism of the decade!) ‘women’s room’. Drakulic writes the story in such a way that it pretty much feels like a biography, and indeed I sense that large parts of it are probably pretty accurate to what was happening in the 1990s. The characters are only known by their first initial, a device that adds both to the dehumanisation of the prisoners as well as emphasising the fact that the story of S. could equally apply to many other women.

I’m not sure I have ever read a book that has actually affected me so physically to the point where I felt quite sick reading parts of it (that might be because I normally only read nice books about fluffy rabbits and baking muffins though :)), but really, I am glad I made it to the end. There are of course some positives, if you could call them that: the spirit and courage and strength of the women, but intrinsically S. leaves you with the sick feeling that the world is still an incredibly messed up and broken place, with the capacity to unleash true suffering whenever it wants to. I think I just lost quite a chunk of my faith in humanity.

Got a new phone today - nothing too fancy but it prompted me to have a little look at my back catalogue, thanks to the nice people at gsmarena.

My first phone - a panasonic. I’m pretty sure it was this one but in silver. Not quite the Zach Morris phone, but hardly svelte.

From 1999… the Philips Savvy.

The defining phone of a generation - the Nokia 3310. Everyone had one at the time. I mean *everyone*.

Siemens C35. The 3310 got nicked, ironically about 2 weeks after spending 50 quid getting the screen replaced, otherwise I may still have it to this day!

The Siemens S55. This was very swish at the time. I won it in a competition. It was so cutting edge it actually had a little camera attachment for it…

Nokia 3510. Never really warmed to this one. Cheap, plasticy nokia that randomly turned itself off.

Nokia 3200. The one with the see through plastic case that you could customise. Again, short lived. A blight on nordic design standards.

Motorola L6. Really loved this phone. Super, super slim. Basic but did the job. Had it for quite a while, in spite of dropping it at least a dozen times on concrete. Defied the general crapness of Moto phones.

Sony Ericsson K610i. Have had this for 18 months now and it’s giving the odd random error message so it’s time to say good bye. Nice 2 MP camera though.

And today: Nokia 3120 Classic. 3G, 2MP camera, radio, mp3 player, video calling, good battery life. It’s basic, but quite nice. The colour screen on Nokias owns the SE phone displays. Let’s see how long it lasts

A friend of mine still has this beauty, complete with an ‘Eircell’ network operator logo on the screen. It just about sends text messages!

…right this second are:

Neon Beanbag off the new Stereolab album

Lindt Lindor

The dollar being worth shit (go the euro!) –> cheap eBay buying

Getting my favourite shower in the gym (it just feels better…)

Everything by Orla Kiely

Impromptu profanities (you know the kind, the ones that make no sense and are fashioned out of extreme urgency / pain / anger)

Chocolate brown corduroy

Afternoon naps after the gym

Randomness

Running

Short fiction

Tshirts that fit right

The sea

Porridge made just right

Empty trains

Random pints

People not knowing when your birthday is (then they can’t forget it)

Postal surprises!

Prime numbers

When people use the word ‘factoid’ inadvertently

Notebooks from Muji

New books (the smell, the pristine-ness, before students get their mucky paws on them)

Coffee with friends

Reciprocation

Not getting rained on on your way to work

Getting my favourite treadmill in the gym (I’m a little possessive…)

Drinking coffee and reading on the DART

I think you get to that age when you realise it’s the wee, little, tiny insignificant things that make life a little better.

/mish is feeling old today