#84 The Offcuts
Avocado on toast for old times?
Happy Blue Monday, the saddest day of the year. It’s january the 1900th. The veil between human psychology and capitalist marketing is at its thinnest. Unsubscribe from the Wowcher emails and stay safe out there. See also -
I put down a book, I pick up another. The dopamine hit from ticking off another book, of edging closer to the reading goal I’ve set for 2026 spurs me on. I pick books deliberately with fewer pages, or at least I let it sway me. Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu was 128 pages long, and my next pick, Audition by Katie Kitamura was 208. By the end, I was glad to put it down. A book of two parts, about a play of two acts, that don’t marry together. It seems that was rather the point, and though I like ambiguity in books I read (and the stories I write), this was too much for me. The next book I picked up I won’t mention.
What does it mean to despise a book so much that you have to stop reading and put it down, probably never to be touched again? I have done this maybe four times in recent memory (of the last six or so years). I am a person who likes to finish things and will not give up in the face of a list to be ticked off or a specific number of books to read by the end of the year. Self-imposed limitations of failure. With trepidation, I have done it again. As a writer, I mull over the question of it, the decisiveness of books and how even a highly rated on Goodreads piece of work could be something I didn’t like at all. Are my opinions wrong? Am I prepared for the range of reactions that might come towards my own work? I don’t know, but I’ve now picked up As Young as This by Roxy Dunn and I’ll see how I go.
Other links:
Grok is misogyny by design and, everyone hates the idea of Grok stripping clothes off children - rightly so
Fashion brand Coach announces its first official partnership with The Sims
A good passport photo is the ultimate flex
Some interesting and hard-hitting thoughts on the conversation of sexual consent
A photographer’s portraits of her Dad helped her to understand who he was
Haley Nahman - The edge of annoying
Hunter Harris - Being an active participant in the kind of community you want to see
Camille Moore - Virality is not enough
doechii - My shower head is racist (as a fellow hater of overhead showers, I loved this)
I bought tickets in the Official London Theatre sale for £30 to see Ballet Shoes next week. I remember the first time I heard of Ballet Shoes was when the 2007 TV film adaptation was announced with Emma Watson as Pauline Fossil. I never watched it. Finally, 19 years on, the cycle will be completed.
On Saturday, I was having a conversation about breakfast foods and my apathy for them. I am, for the most part, ambivalent towards breakfast food. That is, I said at the time, with the exception of pancakes or French toast. With maple syrup, fruit, and mascarpone cream. Delicious. But it’s not the kind of breakfast you can have every day. Or maybe it is, but I never want to tire from desiring it, so I keep it as a treat. Later, I was getting a coffee on my way home, and as I was waiting, I noticed every table inside the cafe had a plate of Avocado on toast. I needed some of my own. So, I went home and had avo on toast with feta, lemon, chilli flakes and coriander. Is that 2016 enough for you?
Isn’t female friendship precious? I saw two girls, dressed almost the same in jeans and baby blue baby tees, curls clipped back their heads half up, half down, carrying bags back from a shopping trip. The bonds of female friendship are not to be undermined. The unity of women is an alchemy of potent power.
In quick succession this week, I came across some very strange flavours of food collaborations. A Creme Egg Grenade protein bar, Heinz Tomato Ketchup crisps and worst of all, Colman's Honey and Mustard. You can’t see, but I am grimacing as I write this.
Nick Cave tackled 50 questions for the 350th issue of The Red Hand Files. Somewhere between bone-dry satire and earnest spirituality, Cave has an answer for everything. Cave’s opinion on one particular question stuck with me. Well-intentioned trying is always better than not trying at all. In all aspects.
Q: “My childhood best friend lost his teenage daughter in an accident. I haven't seen him for years and I struggle with writing him a letter of condolence. Do you remember a special letter or words you got sent when you experienced your loss? Or the opposite – anything you found difficult to handle that someone said to you.”
A: No, but I remember those who didn’t make contact.
