I'm a sucker for Victoriana; the juxtaposition of grime and ornament, technology and the primitive, manners and monsters. Here's a fantastic blog offering glimpses into Victorian life, by an Australian but with a focus on Victorian London.
This blog by a historian and 'robot fancier' purports to "drop history like Galileo dropped the orange", so it's clearly down with it, homes, as well as being educational.
A look at the bizarre adventure-romance novels set in the Australian interior at the turn of the twentieth century, including George Firth Scott’s The Last Lemurian.
Melbourne in colonial children's novels.
Being the water wise people we are, we have a bucket in our shower to collect water for the garden. I’m not sure how our plants feel about being hydrated with our icky bodily run-off, but they’re not really in a position to make demands. (After all, when a drought’s on, bougainvillaeas can’t be choosers.)
Ours isn’t a huge shower, but I’m fine with the bucket being there, as long as it’s in the corner to the front of me and to the right; that is; opposite the door, and at the furthest distance from the taps and showerhead.
It seems, however, that every time I step into the shower (usually daily, I’m quite the metrosexual), the previous user of the shower (whom I shall here refer to as ‘the lady of the house’ or ‘m’lady’) has moved the bucket to a less favourable corner. That is to say, the corner opposite the door, but closest to the taps and showerhead.
This I find vexing, as it frequently results in brief but nevertheless undesirable contact between the rim of the bucket and my right calf. And so I move the bucket to my preferred corner — and there it stays until the lady of the house comes to use the shower again.
On one such occasion I wondered if, despite my disquiet about m’lady’s preferred position for the bucket, I should return the receptacle there once my showering is complete. But then I reasoned that if we both moved the bucket to our preferred corner and left it there, we would be sharing the burden equally. If I alone moved the bucket back and forth each time, m’lady would never have to move it, and that’s clearly no way to achieve equality between the sexes.
This reminded me of a formulation I conceived many years ago concerning the most appropriate default position (vertical or horizontal) for a toilet seat in a multisex sharehouse or office. (Just to clarify, I’m referring to a sharehouse or office in which there are members of both sexes, not one that plays host to a multitude of sex acts, necessarily.)
A frequent complaint about men is that they leave the toilet seat up. This is presented as no mere negligence on the man’s part, but as a deliberate, calculated act whose barbaric intent can be equated with that of clubbing a seal or harpooning a whale.
Let me suggest that if there are an equal number of men and women sharing a toilet (not simultaneously, just to be clear), and each person places the toilet seat either up or down according to preference and need, then leaves the seat in that position upon the completion of their transaction, the burden between the sexes is equally shared, as in the shower and bucket example above.
If anything, the males in this equation come out second best, since a proportion of their toilet usage will, one hopes, require the seat to be down. It would be unusual for such a visitor to lift the seat again once full satisfaction has been achieved; therefore, assuming the next visitor is female, they will find to their delight that the seat is in the optimal (ie. horizontal) position and not in the hysteria-inducing vertical position.
My point, elaborately made, is this. All other things (number of men using the toilet relative to number of women, regularity of bladder and bowel emptying, attentiveness to the position of the toilet seat and appropriate dealing therewith, etc) being equal, for every instance of a toilet seat having to be lowered following a previous visitor’s upright urination, there will be a slightly greater number of instances of a toilet seat having to be raised.
If anything, men should be complaining about the toilet seat being down all the time. After all, the consequences of accidentally sitting in a seatless toilet are mild embarrassment and the possibility of acquiring a chill (and perhaps some bruising) around the rump; the consequences of accidentally making use of a toilet from the upright position while the seat is down include, but are not limited to, getting piss everywhere.
Just a quick note to say that I have a story in ‘Junk’, this year’s Visible Ink anthology, published by students of the Professional Writing & Editing course at RMIT. Some wonderful stories (mine possibly not included) and wonderful design (love the perfectly balanced typography on the cover, minor quibbles over the line-length of the internal text).
My story is called ‘Great Hoaxes of the Twentieth Century and Beyond’ and reveals a few things you might not know about Orson Welles. You can find out not much at all at the Visible Ink website.
Copyright remains with the authors so I may eventually put the story up on the site, though I’d urge you to buy a copy if you see it around. Anthologies like this make for great holiday season reading.
There’s an episode in the third series of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer in which Buffy becomes infected with demonic blood and gains the demon’s ability to hear people’s thoughts. At first she finds this new power amusing, entertaining, even useful; but by the end of Act II, Buffy is overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices in her head and falls unconscious in the school cafeteria.
Evil midgets, lecherous men with x-ray eyes, and sadistic hot-rod driving go-go dancers. Is that a promise, Boris?
It wouldn’t be a stretch to describe me, in my weaker moments, as having a passive aggressive temperament. It’s a maligned trait; people would much rather you be aggressive aggressive. That way you get everything out in the open. People may get maimed or killed, but at least everyone knows where they stand. (Or not, if there’s been maiming and killing.)
Aggressive aggression led to two world wars during the twentieth century, and countless other territorial and religious conflicts throughout the ages. One wonders how the world might be different if Hitler had merely stood at the border of the Sudatenland, glowering across Western Europe and wearing a ‘Fine, keep your lebensraum’ T-shirt.
However, there are times when I can see the unhealthy and unattractive side of passive aggression. One manifestation of it in particular makes me pity and despise the passive aggressor. You may have encountered it yourself. It’s when someone in your workplace or sharehouse puts up one of those trite, sarcastic and judgmental notices concerning the kitchen fairy (more specifically, the non-employment thereof on the premises).
I’ve seen numerous examples of the kitchen fairy notice, most recently a version in the form of a job advertisement. I can only presume that a simple ‘Please clean your dishes’ notice would fail to a) achieve the desired outcome, b) fill the author with the requisite degree of self-righteousness or c) deliver quite the same Martin-Luther-nailing-his-95-Theses-to-the-Wittenburg-church-door feeling.
When you work in publishing, you live in a state of constant anxiety that you might be responsible for letting a really nasty typo into the wild. I used to proofread telephone directories (oh the glamour) and can still recall the cold, knifing fear that ran through me when it appeared that we’d included the wrong mobile phone number in a paid advertisement for an erotic masseur. The masseur was OK about it, but the owner of the mobile phone, who was not an erotic masseur and had no interest in changing careers in that direction, threatened to sue.
Fortunately, the error was not mine, and I was able to obtain not only the correct phone number but also, subsequently and consequently, the pleasures of a highly relaxing massage.
I doubt the same soothing ministrations were available to English printer Robert Barker when he left out a fairly crucial appearance of the word ‘not’ in the 1631 edition of the King James Bible. Crucial because the ‘not’ was part of the Seventh Commandment in Exodus 20:14, which normally reads ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery’ — but in Barker’s edition became a commandment of a much more liberating nature.
Barker’s bible became known as the ‘Wicked Bible’. (Wicked as in devilish, not as in ‘Gnarly dude, thanks for the God-sanctioned sex-action’.) Barker wasn’t sued, but he was fined — something like £300, which pretty much destroyed him.
He did, however, manage to squeeze in several weeks of Bible-approved fornicatin’ before a replacement edition was printed.
The London Illustrated News was the world's first illustrated weekly newspaper. This image library features a selection of woodcut illustrations from the newspaper dating from the mid-nineteenth century onwards.
A brief account of book smuggling in the British Isles in the late eighteenth century.
First there’s all the fun of adding wacky information about yourself to your Facebook profile.
Then comes the slow realisation that anyone — current or prospective employers, the police, animal rights activists — can now discover that you’re interested in ‘nude performance art’, ‘cockfighting’ and ‘nude cockfighting as performance art’.
Then begins the guilty, remorseful process of deleting the offending material before it gets noticed by anyone in a position to strip you of your job, your liberty or your afterlife.
I was walking down my street this morning when I heard a tune both mournful and carnivalesque.
Around the corner walked a crusty, withered old rake playing some sort of sea shanty on a mouth organ. He wore a dark navy overcoat and tugged upon his grubby sailor’s cap as we bade each other good morning.
I thought how splendid it was that he was providing his own entertainment. I thought, “Wow, that’s so much better than carrying an iPod around”.
Then I thought, “Wait a minute, you can’t listen to a podcast commentary of last night’s episode of Doctor Who on a mouth organ.”
Here are a few of our favourite pieces from the field at the latest Helen Lempriere National Sculpture Award at Werribee Park.
We thought the quality was a bit down on previous years but it always makes for a noice day out.
The sculpture above is called ‘Happy Endings’. I’m pretty sure the smile is an exact replica of the face from an old BASIC program for the Tandy TRS-80. Either that or it’s the evil computer Miles from Electric Dreams.
We can’t remember what this sculpture was called but we liked it. Feel free to call it ‘Wood Balls’ — I have.
I thought this was going to be a mother with baby but it’s actually a lonely child sitting at the edge of a playground while the other children play Murderball.
These are mortality statistics made from old railway signage. There are mirrors interlarded among the statistics — you walk up and see yourself as a number. A cheery thought when you’re munching on your cucumber sandwiches*.
* We weren’t actually eating cucumber sandwiches (the cucumber sandwich shop was closed)
Spotted this on the 5.14pm Epping train.
if you don’t arrive at your destination on time please inform our friendly station staff and we promise to refund you the cost of your journey if we dont (sic) deliver the service we promise why should you pay full fare? Thats (sic) why we’re introducing “FARE FAIR” a new system to help diminish our terrible double standards.
I was looking for quotes on the subject of time for an article I’m writing for work when I came across two very different ways of saying the same thing. This, from H. Jackson Brown Jr:
Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Teresea, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.
This struck me as being a touch self-righteous. I much prefer Charles Caleb Colton’s way of looking at it:
Much may be done in those little shreds and patches of time which every day produces, and which most men throw away.
H. Jackson Brown Jr, by the way, is the author of Life’s Little Instruction Book. Colton was a nineteenth century English cleric, gambler and moonlight-flitter.
I know who I trust.
This combines my Dalek obsession with my iPod evangelism, which is all I really ask for in life.
I just read on the Guardian website that HarperCollins are starting to do video trailers for books. Not sure what to make of it except that I don’t think trailers is the right word — they’re more like amped-up PowerPoint presentations than movie trailers, and (I presume) you have to actually visit the website to see them. It’s not like going to see a movie and being treated/subjected to previews of other movies that you may or may not be interested in: it’s a different paradigm altogether.
The ‘true’ book trailer experience would surely have to involve buying a book (the latest Julian Barnes, say), taking it home, brewing a cup of tea or coffee, settling down in your favourite armchair, opening the book to page one, chapter one – and being greeted not with a crisp, elegant opening sentence from Barnesy but with a big fat steaming advertisement for the latest Captain Underpants.