Today I went to a conference celebrating the life and work of Mr Genius. We gave a little presentation about some of the stuff from his archive.

As I listened to the talks, I became more and more annoyed. I am sick to death of Mr Genius. I don't want to have anything to do with his archive for a long time. I find all his ideas really tedious. I hate all his friends. I hate the way he works because it makes things personally inconvenient for me. I know a lot of his opinions and I hate them too. And I particularly hate his close friend and collaborator, Mr McGenius, who wrote the most terrible songs.

So when I heard someone play the music at the beginning of one of his most famous programmes, and declare, "This bears repeating", I am forced to disagree. I have listened to that music many, many times and my reaction is - not that irritating jangle again. When I watch a film about a group of singers who are carrying the torch for the folk revival, and hear them sing, I think "I bet Mr McGenius is to blame for this - he taught them that song". And so on, for an entire afternoon.

You will be relieved to hear that this is not the impression that I gave when I spoke. I pretended that I thought it was all really interesting.

Last weekend, I went shopping for bridesmaids (James, should this have an apostrophe or not?) dresses with A,C,C, and A, who is getting married in September. My dear friends have just emailed me some pictures. I look like a murderer in all of them, with my big staring eyes and chubby little face.

But I don't care. I am going to have hour-long singing lessons every week next term with my lovely new singing teacher. I am beginning to suspect that I rock.

Don't tell. Keep it quiet.

James has more problems with birds

A large pigeon keeps coming into our garden and poohing on our garden chairs. It also flies up on the roof near James's window and moves around in a noisy and annoying fashion. So if pigeon pie suddenly appears on the menu at Eastmede Rd, you'll know why.

I am reading such a good book. It's called Sovereign. It's a thrilling mystery set in Tudor Times, with lots of period detail. It's great, the kind of thing my brother would buy me for Christmas because it's for weirdos. There are 2 more in the series.

L and I are all set to play tennis next week. I have months of badminton defeats to avenge. We are both much fitter now, so I am interested to see how this will change our games.

James and I are both feeling nervous about the move to France. I am feeling paranoid and James is being very organized. We have discovered that our flat is a single-room studio and we are rather concerned, because fences make good neighbours.

The Boden catalogue is rather disappointing this season. All the things I want are ridiculously expensive.

Somewhere, buried in the vaults of this blog, under a pile of dull moany posts, is a list of my heroes.

They are:

the kakapo
Gandhi
my cat Jenny
Bob Dylan
Gene Kelly

and I think I neglected to add Winnie the Pooh.

Winnie the Pooh is obviously a hero. There has never been any question in my mind about this. Without him, there would be no Useful Pots for Putting Things In, or Expetitions, or Rabbit's Friends and Relations, or songs like 'Cottleston Pie' and 'How Sweet to Be a Cloud'. How would we know to Plese Knck if an Rnsr is Not Required?

However, certain people have suggested that Winnie the Pooh should have more pride and he shouldn't wear the little red coat in the winter without wearing pants as well. And have published non-E.H. Shepherd illustrations on their blogs.

So far, I have objected to these slanders in fairly moderate terms. This may not continue. I spent a lot of time in the Hundred Aker Wood when I was little and I know it very well. So beware.

James has been given a year's residency in France. He gets a free flat and maybe some money from the French government.

(posted after 3 glasses of bubbly)

james is marchign up and down the hallway phoning all the people who are likely to be awake at this time - so far Pete Ashton and his mother in America.

It's been a weird week and not just because of this.

A torment worthy of Hades

Some of you may be familiar with this poem:

The Spring is sprung,
The sun is riz
I wonder where the birdies is?

That's all I can remember.

It is spring at Eastmede Rd, but we are not wondering where the birdies is because there is one right outside our kitchen window.

He is a large, very handsome blackbird.

By now you are probably wondering what the point is.

Well, the point is that in a previous life this bird did something Very Bad. Whatever he did is up there with the crimes of Tantalus, doomed to reach for fruit forever slightly out of reach, or Sisyphus, who had to push a large stone up a hill only to see it roll back down just before it reached the top. I can't remember what their crimes were, but maybe someone will enlighten me.

Every day for the last month, the blackbird has been hurling itself at our kitchen windows. It sees its reflection and thinks it's a rival male. James hung towels out of the windows to blank out the reflection, but they went all damp when it rained so we took them down.

Today James said he considered killing it, but only for a moment. I was very shocked.

We decided to name the bird, since he's been banging around for so long. The list included Blackie (banaal and obvious and therefore amusing); George (in case we couldn't think of anything better); Narcissus (because issues with his own reflection get him in trouble); and, the final choice, Hector (because he is a valiant warrior who will probably come to a bad end and because of his persistence).

If anyone can think of a way to free Hector from his personal hell, do let me know. I am considering Doing Something, and you know how radical that is.

I am glad I'm a girl.

Today I had a conversation about the collection I'm cataloguing and was struck by the peculiar habits of mind I get into in order to get the job done.

One important way of coping is to pretend that none of it is interesting. Obviously most of it is interesting, or it wouldn't be worth keeping, but it's important to remain slightly detached from the subject in order to keep going and not get distracted. You need to say enough to explain what it is so people can see whether it might be useful for research. Then you need to do the same with the next thing on the list. And so on. Until you can't stand the subject any more and want to throw the whole collection out of the window. Fortunately you can't open the windows of our office.

It's weird when I start talking to someone who's doing research on it because their job is to be interested and make connections and this gets me doing it too. I do have lots of opinions about the archive, but I don't pay much attention to them because that's not my job. So I'm always slightly taken aback when someone else thinks they're useful and makes notes about what I'm saying.

It's been a while since I wrote anything, so here's some gibber

Attentive readers of my blog - and if you are such a creature, take a long, hard look at yourself and resolve to become a better person - may have been wondering why I haven't written about the Ent yet.

I read the entry for Tolkien on Wikipedia and decided that I didn't know enough about his connections with Birmingham to be able to write anything very informed.

Except to say that an Ent is not a tree. An Ent is a tree herder, a shepherd of the forest.

James has improved the bathroom. He is the Ann Maurice of Eastmede Rd. There are three pretty red candles on top of the toilet cistern and a very attractive shower curtain with red flowers.

I feel grown up. We have got rid of the comedy shower curtain with the cartoon starfish and other sea creatures.

I did 10 minutes on the step machine at level 6.

I have been going to singing lessons this term. It is very interesting. It is over ten years since I have had any singing lessons. I had a lot of lessons when I was a wee imp.

Last week, my teacher made me sing some jazz and improvise. I never thought I could sing jazz because you can't get rid of years of classical singing in a single lesson, so I thought, wrongly.

I can sing jazz, yippee! I can sing classical as well, yippee!

I love to sing-a
About a moon-a and a June-a and a spring-a,
I love to sing-a,
About a sky of blue-a, and a tea for two-a,
Anything-a with a swing-a, or a "I love you-a,"
I love, I love to sing!

Give me a song-a
About a son-a gun that went and done her wrong-a.
But keep it clean-a,
By a cottage small-a with a waterfall-a,
Any sob-a that will throb-a to a bluebird's call-a,
I love, I love to sing!

I was born a singin' fool-a,
Lah-de-dah!
Ol' Major Bowes is gonna spot me,
Got through Yale with boula-boula,
Lah-de-dah!
Old microphone's got me!

I love to sing-a,
I love to wake up with the Hendy in my mouth-a,
And wave a flag-a,
With a cheer for Jrome and Danny and another for my mammy,
I love to sing!

The swingin'est,
Hot singin'est,
Bell-ringin'est,
Song singin'est
High tootin'est,
Sky tootin'est,
I love to sing!

Some information which, while of great interest to me, is of little use to the readers of this blog

Here's what I learnt in singing lessons today.

Let out all your breath until your lungs are completely empty. Then breathe in. You will naturally breathe from your diaphragm and leave your throat loose and relaxed. Remember what this feels like and practise. It's good to practise when you're lying in bed because you will lift up off the bed slightly.

Smile when you sing. It looks better, improves the tone, keeps you in tune, and relaxes the body.

Smile, then drop your jaw slightly. This is the best mouth shape for singing. It doesn't look silly, although it feels like I am girning like a gremlin.

All this seems very simple, and it is, but it involves changing my habits and that's hard. I think this could make a real difference. I have resolved to practise.

Thank the Valar I live in King's Heath

From time to time I have blogged about the stupid plan to build an enormous metal statue of an Ent on the Green in Moseley.

I have just discovered that the Council have accepted the planning application and the lovely people up the road in Moseley will have their stainless steel Ent, surrounded by several non-native ornamental trees, including a gingko - isn't that the one that smells like shit during the summer, James?

A chance to get really aerated and blog about The Lord of the Rings is really not to be missed, so watch this space for a detailed post, with extensive references to The Lord of the Rings, which will explain exactly why 1) an Ent is not a tree 2) an Ent should not be made of metal 3) the whole idea is rubbish.

The right question

I didn't ask the right question. The question was: if you buy a pair of trousers that look like denim, but are in fact corduroy, what is the point?

The answer is that in the World of Marvin, corduroy is always a Good Thing. Beings from other worlds may disagree, but what do they know?

And it's not just me. There is a Corduroy Appreciation Club in New York. Surely there is room for one here too?