Code name: operation book group

So recently I was casually assessing the many factors which constitute my non-stop excitement life currently in South Northamptonshire. What did I conclude? My life is missing a book group.

Having tentatively done some market research into "book groups" both as a concept and a practicality I concluded that, perhaps unsurprisingly, they're not the coolest things ever. Especially as most people know I have a penchant for Hardy and Tolstoy with the odd dash of Jilly - an eclectic mix yes, but the right mix for a book group? Probably not. Somehow I can't picture 4 people sitting around discussing "the way Jilly used duck egg blue as her main adjective" and concluding that this "was just, lyrical somehow". Much more likely to be along the lines of "hell of a lot of shagging in these books isn't there? She's a randy old mare Jilly Cooper" and then the conversation would inevitably descend from there.

Not on my watch. I am holding out some determination for this to be an intellectually stimulating affair.

(I am aware by the way, that I will probably look back on this blog (as it's one dedicated reader) in a few weeks time and laugh hysterically at my naiive hopes for it to be "intellectually stimulating" and confirm to myself that I am at times, a complete tosser.)

Anyway, so I figured once I had lured people into the wilderness (aka where I live) they would have little choice but to say yes they would join my book group. Mainly to shut me up, probably, but they would join all the same! The location was decided, the bait, white wine and lasagne. A classic. I recommend it. So my three unsuspecting friends trundled over expecting a light evening of lasagne, white wine and general chat. I did not disappoint. All of the above were provided, but they came with a side serving of... a book group. Not what you might usually expect from a Wednesday night but fuck it. This is the post-big brother era we are living in now, we should be prepared for anything after the detritus which usually fills our televison of a weekday evening (Classics related documentaries are of course not included in this).


Fortuntately, I have some lovely friends, who are willing (or at least appeared willing, which I'm happy with) to indulge me in my ambition for a book group. Despite the rather rocky start - evidently just having a title and an author is not enough information in which to choose a book from (tough crowd) we did eventually settle upon one. Thanks to the on-hand google and some rather frantic searching eventually the democratic vote was taken and "The Wish Maker" by Ali Sethi was chosen. WHAT AN HONOUR. If only the author knew, how would he handle the news - probably by making a Gwyneth Paltrow style acceptance speech I'd hope.

So Operation Book Group somehow turned out to be a success. Careful monitoring of its members has shown that 4/5 have purchased the book so it's off to a pretty good start. I'm fully expecting the discussion part to be a complex and engaging affair demonstrating the power of freedom of speech and the opportunity to explore issues we have not encountered before... followed by shitloads of booze.

Amen to that.

Sha la la la

So I'm pretty into my music, me. I do love it. A few months back I was abroad and had many long car journeys to make and music was a big comfort. My mp3 player inexplicably stopped working one night and I was genuinely, actually, really distressed. I distinctly remember texting a good friend of mine complaining about it and then, when realising the extent of my distress asking the same friend if it was possible to be addicted to music, and if so, was I? Unfortunately due to circumstances which I was unaware of my excellent friend had gone on a drunken rampage and had managed to lose her phone. I can't remember the exact details, probably the excitement of finding a stick or something. Phone... Stick... Phone.... Stick... Stick... Yeah! Stick! These things happen, I can picture the thought process.

Anyway so when I received no reply to my pathetically panicky text messages my neurotic state of mind naturally caused me to convince myself that I am, totally and utterly addicted to music. Now I have calmed down (mp3 is working again) and I am in a (slightly) more rational state of mind I do stand by this conviction. However, subsequent circumstances have caused me to wonder if perhaps I am just primitive to the extent of just liking "noise" per se. There was a period of time when my car radio was not working and so rather than drive to work each day in total silence I poached my parents SatNav so I could be given unnecessary directions. Who am I kidding? Really I just used it as a talking point, never has "at the next left, bear right" lead to such a stimulating one-sided discussion of South Northamptonshire roads. It was pretty wild.

But this is a digression. Music is bloody ace, and I continue to indulge my addiction regularly. Currently a massive fan of Spotify - wonderful invention that it is. Despite it forcing me into adding the guy who sounds like a darlek onto my list of people to punch in the face I still persist. The shared playlist is wonderful, although to be used with caution. I added the song "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits to a shared playlist and was mightily confused when it seemed to have disappeared the next time I checked the list. This led to a flurry of confusion on my part, had I deleted it? Had I even ADDED IT IN THE FIRST PLACE? Had Spotify deleted it? It was relatively traumatic. The explanation came when I was voicing these theories about where it had mysteriously gone to the other party of the shared playlist who eventually quietly confessed that... she had actually deleted it. It was firmly established that it was gone not from a point of abhorrance but because it was one of her favourite songs ever and for reasons of preservation, deletion was essential. I was happy with that, it put my mind at rest and smoothly avoided the awkwardness of a situation of deleting a track which you think is shite, but your friend thinks is the best thing since eggy bread. Ah, the complications.

Maybe this is what I actually love more, the drama and the complications behind music. Something stops working, something disappears, you hear 2 lyrics of a song can't remember the rest and spend the remainder of your day with it gnawing away at the back of your brain like a piece of apple stuck between two teeth.

Well, fucking brilliant I say, long live my addiction to music and everything it entails. Sha la la la.