Hmm, perhaps I was not very clear in the last post... I don't want pictures of people per se; I want pictures of the posters for the book (and if people happen to be in them, that's nice too).
Please stop with the penis photos now.
Please stop with the penis photos now.
News from the BEE (Best Editor Ever), Helen, this morning:
Should you go down to the tube today (at least at Green Park, central Westbound Piccadilly line stations, and some of the Northern Line ones) you'll hopefully see some of the brilliant advertising for the paperback...
Ahh, Green Park tube station. The memories.
Unfortunately, I'm not in London at the moment - but some of you must be! If anyone wishes to send me a cameraphone pic from now until the end of October, I would love to see what the posters (and my super lovely creative readers) look like. Mail to belle_pics at hushmail dot com, keep the files smallish... and maybe I'll post the more amusant ones here.
Should you go down to the tube today (at least at Green Park, central Westbound Piccadilly line stations, and some of the Northern Line ones) you'll hopefully see some of the brilliant advertising for the paperback...
Ahh, Green Park tube station. The memories.
Unfortunately, I'm not in London at the moment - but some of you must be! If anyone wishes to send me a cameraphone pic from now until the end of October, I would love to see what the posters (and my super lovely creative readers) look like. Mail to belle_pics at hushmail dot com, keep the files smallish... and maybe I'll post the more amusant ones here.
What insanity. Jude Law's bits look perfectly normal to me. Nothing to write home about, but nothing to be ashamed of, either. There are two kinds of men in the soft-and-nude stakes: showers and growers. Personally I'd opt for the latter.
The bloggers abroad who are collectively shuddering at the thought of an uncircumcised specimen, though: you are the freaks.
The bloggers abroad who are collectively shuddering at the thought of an uncircumcised specimen, though: you are the freaks.
Visited a friend and went for a walk. Friend's Dog came, too. The dog is a he and has a rakish one-ear-up, one-ear-down sort of look. The dog gets all the ladies.
But in spite of his dog's-dog, low maintenance appearance, this pup has needs that mark him out as a little more metrosexual than you might expect. Such as scratching requirements. This is a dog that will push its bum into your face and demand to be scratched there, often, because it's the one place he can't reach.
So, we're walking around the pond on a balmy afternoon, the sort you think summer was expressly made for. Ducks and a few honking geese, other people and other dogs, children playing in the fields. Sir Dog is let off the leash for a few, runs as far from us as he can, then begins a little dance: three circles clockwise, three anti-clockwise, have a poo and kick the grass over it. It's a level of fussiness about his toilet that is, frankly, unbecoming in a male.
We hook the lead back on and round the pond. A child comes up to us, a boy, maybe twelve. His hair is long and he's wearing a t-shirt that reads Ha Ha Ha. 'Can I pet the dog?' he asks.
'Sure.'
And the kid, he goes straight for the spot. The bum spot. Sir Dog is digging it in the extreme. 'You love that, don't you?' he asks the dog. 'My dog loves that too.'
As we go on our way, the kid yells after us. 'Don't do it too much, though, or he'll start to demaaaand it!' Which, of course, the dog already does. 'He'll start coming up to you and sticking his bum in your face!' And the kid sticks out his own bottom, and sort of wags it.
But in spite of his dog's-dog, low maintenance appearance, this pup has needs that mark him out as a little more metrosexual than you might expect. Such as scratching requirements. This is a dog that will push its bum into your face and demand to be scratched there, often, because it's the one place he can't reach.
So, we're walking around the pond on a balmy afternoon, the sort you think summer was expressly made for. Ducks and a few honking geese, other people and other dogs, children playing in the fields. Sir Dog is let off the leash for a few, runs as far from us as he can, then begins a little dance: three circles clockwise, three anti-clockwise, have a poo and kick the grass over it. It's a level of fussiness about his toilet that is, frankly, unbecoming in a male.
We hook the lead back on and round the pond. A child comes up to us, a boy, maybe twelve. His hair is long and he's wearing a t-shirt that reads Ha Ha Ha. 'Can I pet the dog?' he asks.
'Sure.'
And the kid, he goes straight for the spot. The bum spot. Sir Dog is digging it in the extreme. 'You love that, don't you?' he asks the dog. 'My dog loves that too.'
As we go on our way, the kid yells after us. 'Don't do it too much, though, or he'll start to demaaaand it!' Which, of course, the dog already does. 'He'll start coming up to you and sticking his bum in your face!' And the kid sticks out his own bottom, and sort of wags it.
Tonight I will be dining in high style with two girls I was at school with. In an interesting, if unlikely, turn of events, we have ended up in the same place at the same time with similar taste in food. I am reliably informed of, and suitably excited about, a 'dessert room' (for yes, this girl has an insatiable sweet tooth) and promises of much swank. It should be an enjoyable evening.
The occasion, you may ask? Their recent birthdays and my upcoming one. It's been so very long since I have had female friends - round about the time I last saw these two, in fact - that the etiquette of feminine gift-buying is beyond my ken. I know lingerie is out, books are too predictable (in another odd coincidence we are all reading Jonathan Strange & ... at the moment, and it is good), and jewellery smacks of trying too hard.
So it's out to the shops for me. Life is rough sometimes.
Today I had a tub of little sweets from M & S in the post! Courtesy of the very nice gentleman who is patiently (I hope) awaiting my return. It was like a whiff of Englishness came through the door. They were slightly melted into a chocolate-and-coconut slurry, but gorgeous. Whets my apptetite for the impending voyage home.
I wonder if the girls would be interested in a half-eaten clutch of biscuits?
The occasion, you may ask? Their recent birthdays and my upcoming one. It's been so very long since I have had female friends - round about the time I last saw these two, in fact - that the etiquette of feminine gift-buying is beyond my ken. I know lingerie is out, books are too predictable (in another odd coincidence we are all reading Jonathan Strange & ... at the moment, and it is good), and jewellery smacks of trying too hard.
So it's out to the shops for me. Life is rough sometimes.
Today I had a tub of little sweets from M & S in the post! Courtesy of the very nice gentleman who is patiently (I hope) awaiting my return. It was like a whiff of Englishness came through the door. They were slightly melted into a chocolate-and-coconut slurry, but gorgeous. Whets my apptetite for the impending voyage home.
I wonder if the girls would be interested in a half-eaten clutch of biscuits?
About the time my weblog won that Guardian award, my inbox started to fill with offers from very serious and not-so serious people. Would I write a book? A column perhaps? A screenplay? I did my best to sift through what seemed like serious requests, and in the end selected an agent and publisher based entirely on Mil Millington's opinion of people he trusted in London (of which there were two).
I had but one interest in writing, and it may surprise you to know, it wasn't turning out a book. I wanted a column. A big, glossy, Sunday-magazine column in a reputable broadsheet. I was going to be the girl Millington. And possibly even start dating a German and dye my hair fuschia as well.
But, I was promptly informed, that was never going to happen. 'It won't fly at the Guardian,' one person advised me. 'Half their Saturday magazine staff threatened to walk after they offered a column to stripper.' And that was only a stripper.
I grumbled and harrumphed, and that revelation, plus the predictably rubbish reviews from the Guardian and Observer a year later, led me to a single conclusion: it's quite alright to be a self-identified feminist, and a whore, so long as you're Valerie Solanas and want to kill the men you fuck.
Or something like that. Long story short, I was disappointed. Being too racy for the Times, I could see. But too racy for the Guardian? The same people who published Susie Fox? I wasn't even planning to recount all the men I'd ever slept with, just the interesting ones.
Anyway. Fast-forward to now. The totally wicked Sunday Telegraph Magazine chap who edited my first major piece for a large publication (er, sorry for the unintended slight, Labour Tribune), has ridden to my rescue again. Starting sometime this Autumn, I'll have me very own column. In the Torygraph. Getting what I wanted at long last. Hurrah, as they say, for small miracles.
I had but one interest in writing, and it may surprise you to know, it wasn't turning out a book. I wanted a column. A big, glossy, Sunday-magazine column in a reputable broadsheet. I was going to be the girl Millington. And possibly even start dating a German and dye my hair fuschia as well.
But, I was promptly informed, that was never going to happen. 'It won't fly at the Guardian,' one person advised me. 'Half their Saturday magazine staff threatened to walk after they offered a column to stripper.' And that was only a stripper.
I grumbled and harrumphed, and that revelation, plus the predictably rubbish reviews from the Guardian and Observer a year later, led me to a single conclusion: it's quite alright to be a self-identified feminist, and a whore, so long as you're Valerie Solanas and want to kill the men you fuck.
Or something like that. Long story short, I was disappointed. Being too racy for the Times, I could see. But too racy for the Guardian? The same people who published Susie Fox? I wasn't even planning to recount all the men I'd ever slept with, just the interesting ones.
Anyway. Fast-forward to now. The totally wicked Sunday Telegraph Magazine chap who edited my first major piece for a large publication (er, sorry for the unintended slight, Labour Tribune), has ridden to my rescue again. Starting sometime this Autumn, I'll have me very own column. In the Torygraph. Getting what I wanted at long last. Hurrah, as they say, for small miracles.
