Right. Well that’s January out the way then. The month where you have to look forensically at the fiscal reality of the choices you’ve made. “Oh good. I’m below the threshold. Because I earnt so little. At my age. Hooray. I still can’t afford to pay my class four National Insurance towards a pension I’ll never have. But at least I earnt so little I don’t have to pay tax.”
Meanwhile some of my friends appear to be vegan Kung-Fu masters jetting off to work with Spielberg and the rest are angry, restless, distracted, hopeful, scared, wondering. It’s dark, and a year ago I was in Los Angeles breaking bad patterns and making contacts. Arguably going to bed sloshed every night for a fortnight despite atrocious cashflow is proof of how quickly they come back, those naughty naughty patterns.
I’m writing this in a pub waiting for a friend. I’ve also – just – had the idea of doing “Sexy February” which means I’ll have to write off the first and spill over to the first of March. “What’s Sexy February?” I hear you all cry. It’s a month where we make a conscious effort to feel sexier, every day. I need that month. I’m gonna take it. It’ll almost certainly involve less booze.
What do I find sexy? Focus. Fitness. Self control. Drive. Forward movement. Sexy February has no rules and doesn’t alliterate. It’s not for charity. It’s for us. And it starts tomorrow and ends after the first of March because I’ve just thought of it and I’ve already fucked today because I mostly felt sorry for myself and now I’m having beer and neither of those things are sexy. There’s probably going to be exercise. Exercise is sexy. Maybe there’ll be kissing (heaven forfend). There’ll be good food for cheap, optimism, ambition and fresh sheets. Mostly there’ll be me using the fact that this blog forces me to tell you what I’m doing, attempting to put out proof that I am getting sexier and sexier as February grows. And I will be. Oh yes.
This evening was the final day of the inaugural Food Film Festival. (Had it existed in the ’80s, 9 and a half Weeks would’ve smashed it.) I was at the awards gala downstairs at The Mondrian thanks to lovely Robin. They were awarding short films about food, and the winner was “Cooking with your Mouth”. It’s a one trick pony of a film, but if you are weirded out by spit you might find it funny or something. The organisers are clearly lovely but seriously – for a couple of hundred quid and a piece of paper I’d have taken that microphone and made sure that people weren’t talking throughout their ceremony. They had a gong, which was initially helpful, but then they passed the microphone to a charisma vacuum. It was an active effort of will not to get bored by him -when you could even make out his words around his atrocious mic technique. That’s why you use professionals. I kept listening, but most people disconnected and the winner was announced to an indifferent room, which is perhaps for the best because the winning team hadn’t shown up anyway.
The cocktails were bangarang, and free. And they brought out a meatball pasta cake which was like a cold version of the sort of thing I’d have come up with after 12 pints when I was a student. Still, it was the right event for me, being fascinated by food theatre but with a grounding and history in film.
But all that bullshit aside, SEXY FEBRUARY. Who’s in? 🙂