kate, do the decent thing

..and give back that Oscar you won for your performance in The Reader - you may be a six-time nominee, but that doesn't give you the right to win the most prestigious gong there is. She didn't really have much to do apart from take her clothes off and look as though she might have been an SS guard in a past life. As a cinematic experience it had so much going for it, with Germany's best actors forming the better part of the cast list. David Kross worked really well as the young Michael Berg, Bruno Ganz, who we last saw acting a deranged Hitler in Downfall, was excellent as the law lecturer, and Burghart Klaußner as the judge was a good turn. It ought to have had a great screenplay, adapted as it was from the novel of the same name by excellent German writer Bernhard Schlink. His Reader has great emotional depth while dealing sensitively with a difficult aspect of the German population's involvement in concentration camps.

I felt the film failed to be a true portrayal of how German's feel about the war, and how they react to it when it comes up in normal conversation or on the news. This is possibly because it used the 'Allo 'Allo technique of presenting foreign languages - in English, with a hammy German accent over the top, especially true in the case of Winslet. Just as the novel works better in German, I felt this film should have been filmed in its original language. It's on location in Berlin, Hamburg and Auschwitz, but for the sake of the two Brits Winslet and Fiennes, and presumably any British backers they had, the film has been made dreadful by distracting accents. There was no real sense of the collective "Schuldfrage", or question of guilt, often used to describe how Germans feel about the war. In the scenes made up entirely of German actors, such as in the university lecture theatre discussing the trial of the female SS guards, the impact was not as powerful.

As far as the 'reading' went however, I enjoyed hearing snippets of my favourite books being read aloud. Lady Chatterley's Lover, Tintin, T.S Eliot's Four Quartets, Huckleberry Finn, The Lady with the Little Dog... It did something for reading at least.

bring me the head of aladdin sane

• Two pots of fabric paint - £5
• 100% cotton PE t-shirt for young boys from Marks & Spencers - £2
• Knowing that my Aladdin Sane t-shirt is not from Topshop - Priceless
  

My previous foray into the world of fabric paint and stencils was not a success, so I'm very pleased with how this turned out. It has thus far survived a very sweaty Late of the Pier crowd last night, though I'm afraid it may all come out in the wash - I ironed and ironed it, but I'm still a bit dubious.

Late of the Pier at the Kentish Town Forum were quite wonderful. There's nothing like a gig to blast the cobwebs out of your brain and get those toes a-tapping. Their set closer was Focker, a riotous affair that even managed to coax the ever-present middle-aged stationary stalwarts into doing a little more than nodding their heads sagely (they've seen it all before of course).

"We journalists make it a point to know very little about an extremely wide variety of topics; this is how we stay objective."

The written word, and more specifically journalism, has always held great intrigue for me, but I am beginning to feel that I have chosen the wrong profession to aspire to. In September I will turn up at university with my collected works of Shakespeare other various tomes by the authors of the past millenium who are thought worth remembering, and spend three years of my life in the festering quagmire of words and criticism that is a degree in English Literature. And for what? Looking at the letters page in today's papers, it seems like every English graduate from Oxford to Aberdeen has left university and found themselves applying for the lowest of journalism posts with 500 other graduates desperate for work - and invariably, they've either failed or only managed to find unpaid internships. Now don't get me wrong, I definitely didn't want to become a journalist for the money, but somehow it's a future that is becoming less and less appealing as readership of newspapers with any intellectual integrity falls year on year (and yes, I am a snob in this respect having met the editor of a certain bile-filled red-top and found that he truly believes that the readers of his rag have the mental capacity of rocks). Junk journalism is like junk food - it's the easy alternative, and addictive. The sleaziness of the world of journalism, the hypocritical culture of double-think - "Buy our paper! But we're better people than you!" - is a surely a sign that something is wrong.

Why can't we return to the journalism of old? Roving reporters, ranks of telephones, exciting, chaotic newsrooms. I could bypass my worries about the future and morality of the world of journalism today by simply becoming a photographer, in the vein of Vicki Vale...

My own box camera, superhero boyfriend, fiery red perm and mint green suit wouldn't go amiss either.

"in life as in dance, grace glides on blistered feet"

Are we so petty that we will begrudge our inner-child's delight at the most snow since 1988? Calm down Britain. I've spent two weeks doing not much apart from biting my nails and feeling anxious, but the snow offered a literal and figurative clean slate. I'm even doing some ballet again. Since my studio burnt down in December and my class moved to an evening I can't do, I've been really missing it. It seemed like such a futile end to years of hard work and commitment; ballet was the one area of my life where I'd really done my best. An arson attack on the carpet storage factory next to my studio is a ridiculous but oddly mundane end to a 15 year career, having worked up from the good-toes-naughty-toes level aged 3, to taking grade 7 next term. Qué sera sera?

There's nothing to stop me admiring ballet from afar however. I saw Matthew Bourne's Edward Scissorhands a few weeks ago, and although it didn't quite capture the effervescent atmosphere of the film, it was very well danced. Matthew Bourne's focus on the male choreography is refreshing, as men tend to play the part of wimpy love interest in ballets, whose only function is to do various lifts. Seeing a man dressed in a complex costume with scissors strapped to his hands dance that well is a sight to behold.

I really enjoyed the other costumes too. It had the same 50s vibe as the film, the characterisation of the neighbourhood was great.

Next on my list to see are Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake, which I first glimpsed in Billy Elliot and have had a minor obsession with ever since, and La Sylphide, which much of the grade 7 syllabus was based on - very romantic, soft arms rather than stiff, with romantic long skirts. I think the huge tulle tutus are nice, but the longer ones make all the movement more flowing.

Above photos: 1. Swan Lake 2,3. La Sylphide 4. Copellia 5. Swan Lake

jeeves & wooster

I'm starting to look more and more like Hugh Laurie. It is perhaps due to my incessant viewing of either A Bit of Fry & Laurie, Jeeves & Wooster or House MD at any hour of the day. It is also perhaps due to genes. People used to not be able to tell between Hugh Laurie and my uncle Paul back in the 70s, when Oxbridge was full of exciting things and people. It's the Bailey side coming through I think, right down to the bald patch.

Hugh Laurie:

Uncle Paul with Em:

Me:

I'm wearing: very old and comfy double-breasted coat from Next, Vivienne Westwood scarf, navy Docs from a vintage shop in Canterbury, necklace with the One Ring attached - ring from Tiffany, I'm going on a Fellowship with some short friends of mine.

context, strategic, restorative, empathy and intellection

According to a psychometric test I took (properly, not just on quizilla or something), those are my 'top 5' strengths. I've always been sceptical about any type of test claiming to know me better than I know myself, but this one seems to have caught me out. If I'm not a word-obsessed, backward-thinking, argumentative introvert, what else could I be? It's nice to have them termed as 'strengths', having spent my whole life holding my tongue due to that nasty intellection habit. Reading between the jargon, I think it's saying that I'm good at seeing things objectively, in a different light, able to find the wood for the trees, the most direct solution to problems. I get the 'empathy' one particularly (oh how ironic). Unfortunately I don't have a natural predisposition for sympathy to counter it. I generally have a pretty good idea of how people are feeling and what the possible causes are, but if they just want comforting I'm the absolute worst at it; empathy combined with honesty means I will want to tell tem exactly what they don't want to hear. Sometimes the truth is not the best policy, but in that case I'd rather say nothing than dress it up for their benefit. Concealing things from others always has unintended consequences, like stepping on a butterfly - it could easily cause a hurricane somewhere else...

...yeah I've been ill this whole week. This is what being trapped indoors and toked up on vitamin C with only House to keep me company does to me.

Another Beyond Retro jummy. I always have to obey my shopping list when I go out hunting, and it invariably says "NEW JUMMY WIV CUTE STUFF ON". I bought this because it's like a Green Peace top I had when I was in nursery but lost. If I can find a white-striped jersey skirt I will re-create the whole outfit. Being 3 was fantastic.

Today I wore: pale pink tee from American Apparel, lilac jersey skirt (beth) DITTO, coloured lace belt from Beyond Retro, scarf from my uncle. It says "Made in Cornwall", and is thus a Cornish Scarf.

I'm not a pastel person usually but I, like the whole planet, have been suckered into believing the Topshop Unique 80s vision of Summer 09. Also, beware getting your haircut next to a woman who's just got back from Thailand and is telling a fascinating story about an attractive male clairvoyant and his mysterious eye paintings - me and my hairdresser got so engrossed that neither of us noticed how fast my fringe was disappearing.

"love is the province of the brave"

There are moments in life when you stumble across something, be it a painting, a song, or a particular few lines in a book or poem, that makes you stand absolutely still and reflect on your self and surroundings. This happened to me last year with the song 'Province' by TV on the Radio. The various elements of this song have converged in one place through chance, and the result is a song which speaks volumes to me; the lyrics are the modern equivalent of T.S. Eliot's disillusioned post-World War I poems, the piano has exactly the kind of unearthly timbre which I am constantly trying to recreate, and David Bowie sings backing vocals.

Suddenly, all your history's ablaze
Try to breath, as the world desintegrates
Just like autumn leaves, we're in for change
Holding tenderly to what remains
And all your memories, are as precious as gold
And all the honey, and the fire which you stole
Have you running through all your red-cheeked days
Shaking loose these souls, from their sacred hiding space

However until recently I'd never seen the video, until an idle afternoon last week following a youtube maze I came across it. If possible, I now like Province even more than before.

It's a very simple idea - the woman in military uniform is the main focus of the video, just her singing with a male voice, while the background constantly morphs between images of a forest, birds, cages, planes, planets and stars. She is shot twice by the animals which lurk at the edges with hunting guns, and finally dies. I actually get teary at this video, and an AMV which uses the song with clips from the anime Grave of the Fireflies from 1988, which tells a heartbreaking story of two children orphaned in the firebombing of Kobe in the World War II... I well up just thinking about it. Gah.

After all that, today I wore:

Denim skirt from Next 90s and chopped in two unceremoniously by me, white jumper from Beyond Retro (Great Marlborough Street), burgundy tights from Topshop.

I long for the return of being able to go to school and come home in the hours of daylight.