the state I am in

I am left contemplating the strange fact that, no matter how much I resolve not to, I always come back from book club with more books than I brought back, many of the returns shamefacedly unread. Clearly this is a sneaky ploy on the part of my subconscious to gradually, over time, and by due application of mathematical logic, relocate all books belonging to other book club members to my own bookshelves, where they will continue to remain reproachfully unbroached, and will also incidentally collapse the bookshelves into either L-space or a small black hole. (Iron Council defeated me, I never got beyond two-thirds of the way through, which probably accurately reflects my total lack of political will). I'm hoping it at least makes the books obscurely happy to experience this sort of change of scenery, since a lot of the time I'm certainly not getting much practical use from the process.

Last night continued the week's mad social whirl somewhat involuntarily, since I was forced to flee the house for the evening to escape a meeting of the Evil Landlord's all-male, unashamedly chauvenist, cigar-smoking poker club. Their club charter states that no women are permitted at these gatherings unless they're wearing bunny suits. The Evil Landlord thinks that my response to this - namely, teeth-grinding, blood-boiling and a tendency to segue into feminist ranting as soon as the club is mentioned - is absolutely hilarious. I in fact rather deeply fear being in the house at the same time as a bunch of probably drunken men who feel that they are in a space sanctioned for sexism, and, when arriving home, I tend to scuttle through the house like an alienated rabbit, fearing notice of any sort. A small, irreverent portion of my brain, however, has a recurring desire to turn up to a meeting in Anya's version of a bunny suit, viz. a big, pink, fluffy, all-over padded outfit that's about as sexy as a sack of coal. Militant icon deconstruction, c'est moi.

Fortunately sanctuary was at hand: the usual marvellous Thai supper at jo& stv's, followed by DVD-watching, in this case The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, which I've been meaning to watch for ages, having loved the trailer every time I've seen it. It turned out to be one of those movies that is, in fact, an utterly different kind of film to that constructed by the trailer, but was pretty darned good fun anyway. Like The Royal Tennenbaums, only more so, it functions with a kind of deadpan off-the-wallness; unlike Royal Tennenbaums it plays what I would call, were I writing a pretentious academic article, the most wonderfully self-reflexive games with reality and representation. You're never quite sure from moment to moment whether what you're watching is actually deliberately ham pseudo-documentary, or apparently ham human emotional dysfunctionality, and I adore watching good actors doing ham. The sequence with the cut-away ship was marvellous. Self-conscious narrative, so my favourite. Oh, and about an hour into the movie I suddenly went "Oh, my gods, that's Cate Blanchette!" Chameleon woman*.

I should be writing encyclopedia entries this weekend, but I seem to be on subconscious strike, possibly as a result of a sudden, brief dose of existential angst. I combatted it with retail therapy, with the net result that I'm spending a pleasant afternoon turning myself into a ravening fangirl for Belle and Sebastian. Lovely, gentle, reflective indie-rock with a slightly wacky twist, and I am so a sucker for good melody.

* A similar creep-up weirdness of meaning arises from the soundtrack, which features one of the characters singing pretentiously in Portuguese over acoustic guitar. It's only after a few lines that you realise he's playing almost unrecognisable David Bowie songs. Acoustic David Bowie in Portuguese. Yes, well.