Road To Nowhere

And this is the dress I will be wearing for weddings this summer.

CLICK HERE

Yesterday one of our photography graduates came to see me.

He brought with him a picture for me - a print of an Anthony Gormley statue standing in the sand, looking out to sea, but with the sky and sand golden green and blue, in a riot of sci-fi colour which I have to say looks bloody brilliant.

But the undoubted talent of Arnie as a creative photographer isn't the point of his this entry.

I hadn't seen him since last September. I'd just assumed he was taking his time, especially as he's a big fan of working in the style of Man Ray and so travelling back in time is more his thing than paying attention to now.

But it turns out he's been very ill. He had a brain haemorrhage last autumn and spent seven hours in the local casualty department waiting to be diagnosed while occasionally saying things like 'Actually, I think I've had a brain haemorrhage.' Once they'd woken up to his not having migraine they rushed him to Salford. A few weeks in hospital there and he was out. he's tired a lot of the time. he sees doctors regularly. They think his brain is clear now. he gets headaches. he counts himself very lucky.

Like all artists he thinks deeply.

'I bet it made you think about life,' I said to Arnie.

'Yes,' he said pausing. He stumbled over his words a little next, possibly because the conversation had strayed to things bigger than photograohy and sculpture, possibly because he saw I wear a small, gold cross, but he continued. 'It's like life a flash, Deana. Life, it goes like that, you are here in a flash of light and then; gone.'

So that's gave me something to think about as I watched Manchester Utd's hopes fade last night.

Feeling close to death makes you so aware of the 'now'. Best to live as vividly as you can, while you can. Because time here can be snuffed out so quickly... best crack on.

You mucky buggers!

There I am, new girl in town, all wide-eyed and trying not to drown in the sea of people who are everywhere (how many of you are there for god's sake? I felt like a salmon trying to swim up stream coming out of Euston station) when eventually I find respite in a hostelry in Ealing.

And I look to my right. And what do I see? Swinging London at play.

At first I thought I was watching the stragglers from a works' Friday night drinking session. Then I realised the foursome were a foursome.

It was the way the bloke, in his late twenties-early thirties, had his arm round the woman... in her sixties, at least. A pretty blonde girl perched uncomfortably to the woman's right. Eventually she moved to sit with the older man. The younger man continued to stroke the older woman's back. This clearly wasn't a 'there there, dear' comforting moment.

Not so much MILF as GILF. (Grandma's I'd Like to...)

And so it went on.

They left at about nine and the final, depressing scene saw granddad patting blondie's back and then her bottom as they walked out.

So yes, nice first-night caberet!

I managed to fall over running for my train last night.

As well as the embarrassment of going flying down the platform and having my bag's contents gathered by very kind, fellow passengers, I managed to lose chunks of skin from both hands' palms and my left knee, which is also pretty bruised.

The train conductor very sweetly helped me on, to a seat and came and checked on my condition (bit meepy but being very brave and trying very hard not to cry while spitting on a tissue and dabbing at bleeding palms).

It takes me over an hour to get home so I'd bucked up by the time I got in but throwing my battered body in a nice hot, splash of tcp bath, was stingy.

Consequently both palms have plasters on and every time I move my mouse it's ... ouch.

I see chocolate being purchased at some point today.

'Pearl two, knit four, pearl two knit four...'

I am back on the knitting.

It's like meditation with something to show for it - other than progression on the road to enlightenment.

Anyway, it's cheaper than gin and far more pacifying.

The plan is to have enough sample squares for a snuggly throw by winter.

Yeah, like it looks anything like summer out there today.

Fact is said to be stranger than fiction, so maybe it is no surprise that true murder can be more astonishing than the most wild imaginings of any author.

Last week I bought and read The Suspicions of Mr Whicher: orthe Murder at Road Hill House by Kate Summersdale.

It's a true story, the tale of a police investigation into the murder of a child at a country house in Victorian England. It is the story of the first detective policemen in the 1830s, how that inspired authors like Dickens to create the first fictional detectives and how those new, special policemen were viewed by society. And it is a tale of class and prejudice and the sinister actuality of what happens behind a family's closed doors.

As an examination of Victorian society and its being just a few steps away from chaos, this is a fascinating book. As a story it has twists and turns aplenty and more than satisfies as a murder mystery.

It's utterly riveting. You could not make this up. A top read, but I warn you - the murder is shocking.

I have had them for the first time.

In a lovely Italian fish restaurant in Bold Street in Liverpool.

Salty little beggars they are too, them oysters. But extra yum with a spot or two of tobasco sauce.

Me and NM shared half a dozen as a starter while out on Friday night.

And the lemon sole I had as my main was beyond delish. A very pleasant evening all round, even with lashing rain and a very dubious brandy in the Vernon (tasted more like grappa and I am far too princessy to be drinking the distilled sweepings of a wine maker's floor). But we finished up in the Lion where the brandy is fab, so no tears before closing time.

Roll on the weekend.

I sneezed all the way through our swine flu business continuity meeting this morning.

Aiiiichoooooooooooooo!

Don't worry, it'll be a (nearly)summer sniffle.

So I'm sitting in the bunker/passenger shelter on platform 2 of Oxford Road station this morning, waiting for a train to Bolton, in the middle of a boy-boast session.

They were five students, on their way to sit an exam, who had crashed their car and were now progressing to Salford by train. 'I've been in five car crashes, two were just bumps but two were right offs.. and I'm not even 22.'

'Your 25,' pipes up his mate loudly, informing all of us trying to read/sleep/not completely lose it and blungeon them to a pulp with umbrellas and copies of the Metro. 'I nearly died in a car crash when i was 21.'

Irritatingly they are all still alive though.

And so they prattled on about how no one in India would believe they were on their way to uni at 5.30am, never mind that they were in a car crash on the way. And then, thankfully, the train rolled up and I headed for the opposite end of it and there was peace once more.

If that's how young, apparently intelligent people drive I'm glad I travel by bus and train.

I've got a big mouth. *Noooooooooooooooo!*

Yes, it's true.

I can put my size six-and-a-half feet easily into my size 12 gob at any gathering.

It's my own fault: 1) I have opinions and (2) I like to air them and (3) given a friendly audience I like to entertain.

At a conference last year I was stood with some fellow PROs regaling one woman with tales of a PR agency I'd worked for which ran on hysteria and tantrems displayed in the slamming of clipboards, the sucking of silk cut extra light on the doorstep and the back-stabbing, bullying antics of any cheerleading team in any US tv show or film. Coming from a PR background where 'it aint a crisis till someone's dead and then it's an incident' I didn't like it. I didn't much like writing about cider when I'd been used to writing about cancer research science either, but that was a mess of my own making.. mostly I hated trying to work with the mean girls who, as I was telling my fellow PRO, were mostly failed dancers.

And so they were. Unfortunately so was the woman standing behind me who I actually knew quite well. Though to be fair she was a successful dancer who moved into PR, but she wasn't seeing the difference. I did my best to point out that as a successful dancer with a dance-teaching career in the bag she was hardly in the same category as this snarling pack of madams I had endured (until someone put me out of my misery and made me redundant).

She glared at me at meetings for the next six months but I have finally been forgiven. I have paid for my sins with compliments and helpfulness.

Yesterday she turned up at a meeting carrying a very impressive piece of arm candy which couldn't fail to catch the eye and impress. Her husband had bought it for her for her birthday. It was deep purple. It was Prada. it would have cost hundreds...

And I tell myself I don't want it. That it's too expensive, that I'd worry about scratching it, that I'd be mugged... (see, given this A LOT of thought)...

But it was lovely. Sigh...

Well we can hardly be surprised. Rupert Murdoch, media mogul and money-maker extraordinaire, wants to make News Corp readers pay for online material.

I suppose you can hardly blame him. Having ignored new media for an astonishingly long time he bought MySpace... just as everyone moved on. That must have been expensive.

Murdoch is a man big on money maximisation: low on generosity. Giving the people something for nothing? You can almost hear the throaty, Aus-accented hollow laughter.

Mr Murdoch has never let the little things stand in his way. 'Nationality a problem in media ownership law? No problem. Change that.' Hello US citizenship.

Shmoozing politicians? 'I can do that. Well hello Margaret, don't you look lovely today? And how's Dennis and that lad of yours, lost in a desert in a racing car still...?' Move forward to 2006. 'Tony, mate. Looking fit, you old dog. How's the war treating you?'

Yep, he's a man with a global plan.

But will this plan work?

Can you change a new generation-driven culture? Why will people want to pay for something that previously cost them nothing? Isn't online advertising revenue enough?

The Financial Times, of course, has online subscription, but it also has a very niche readership. Is that going to transfer to a news of the World/Sun/Times readership?

I read online news in that I flick through, I research, but I don't read it in the sense of considered, careful absorbtion of information. I do that on the journey to and from work. I do that lolling in the bath in the evening. Maybe it's generational. Maybe it's that I used to be a newspaper journalist and I love them. The design, the structure, the feel, discovering stories i would never looked for, columnists i wouldn't have seen online... I'll be reading newspapers till I can't see to read anymore.

And perhaps I won't be the only one to recognise that it you are going to pay money, having something to read that's portable, foldable and (relatively) bath-proof is a damned sight better value.

Yes, I'm having an optimistic day!

So, pulling now punches today!

Now I have found one tagline from the bowels of mediocrity, and one example of copywriting from planet Bubble, I can't stop.

While walking towards Leicester University on the way to a conference (more of which later) last week I came across this dangling from lamp posts. One passion: one leicester.

Don't get me wrong, I like Leicester. I'd like it more if it weren't such a faff for me to get to from Manchester, but I like it nevertheless. It's different. The market, the Lanes, the real ale pub with no wallpaper, the fabulous Belgian cafe - it's packed with gems which make it charming. But it's also got some godawful architecture, a road system with little time for pedestrians and every variation of undesirable imaginable stumbling about its train station.

Passion? One passion? No - another example of marketing madness for me.

Why does the government think anyone is going to run forward to volunteer for this?

CLICK HERE

What is the point? Apart from spending £5bn when we have soooo much money just now.

Call me selfish, but why should I sign up? What is the benefit to me?

Apparently it's going to protect me against terrorism... "Stand back Mr Terrorist, I am thrusting my ID card into your face..." *waves ID card at Mr Terrorist*

Yeah. Right.

Yours

Ms Unimpressed of Manchester

I like a bit of top-spin as much as the next communications professional. I'll even accept some marketing spin.

But this?

This appears to have been inspired by... well, who can imagine... but it cheered me up. As found on a hotels website.

The 'dawning of a new era' apparently! I'd been looking for one of those. I'm not sure I want design elements 'oozing from every crevice' though..

Imagine a place where the boho chic of New York's East Village meets with the glitzy cosmopolitan self esteem of London's West End - and somewhere in the maelstrom, you will find Manchester's Canal Street - situated alongside the Rochdale Canal, as the name would suggest. Velvet Manchester has been instrumental in, and indeed integral to Canal Street's Cafe Society for more than a decade, maintaining its place as the Village's premiere venue to eat and drink, chill or party as the mood takes you, amidst the ever changing and evolving social-scape of this unique and exciting destination in Manchester City Centre. The addition of the chic 19 bedroom Velvet Hotel, occupying the four floors above the Bar & Restaurant, will take things to a higher echelon, offering individually designed luxury bedrooms and balcony suites. March 2009 sees the dawning of a new era for both Velvet and the Manchester hotel circuit, as Velvet sprinkles its unique chutzpah and creates the plush 4 Star Velvet Hotel. Hotel stays will be taken to an opulent new level for business and leisure guests alike. 19 fully air conditioned decadent boudoirs, individually designed with the utmost of tender loving care, will comprise all of the things you would expect of an exceptionally high standard of Bedroom, airy Balcony King and lavish Duplex Suite - digital TV, complimentary Wi-Fi access, in-room safe, bespoke tea & coffee making facilities, fully stocked mini bars, plus some things that you might not, like iPod docking stations, in-room cocktail and canapé packages and lovely Burt's Bees toiletries. Careful detailing and distinctive design elements will ooze from every crevice, creating a contemporary feel with a twist, and coupled with attentive yet understated service with a smile. A choice of Continental or Full English Breakfast - all locally sourced and with a few Velvet curveballs thrown in for good measure

Absolutely nothing if you're with Edwin Starr (and I am) but it does also make a decent museum piece. If only it would stay a museum piece.

I spent a very pleasant Sunday afternoon wandering around Imperial War Museum North where, as its tagline rather enigmatically states, 'war shapes lives'. Err.. yes, that's one way of putting it. Like 'being stabbed/shot/terrorised is quite painful' or 'having one's family blown to bits can be quite affecting'.

You can see why they have to talk that middle ground: but surely as taglines go they could have come up with something less limp?

Anyway, as a taste of history it's one of those scratch and sniff experiences that will keep kids amused and there's enough letters, uniforms and human interest stories to appeal to the likes of me. I was also rather surprised to discover how small harrier jump jets are and that tanks are actually quite nippy.

For some reason the floor slopes and I've no idea what's going on there... maybe to signify the upwards struggle towards peace... not that that seems to last five minutes with the British.

I also bought a very cute 1940s-esque pinny in the shop (flowery with polka-dot trim) and it's free to get in.

Oleanna, a play by David Mamet now on show at the Octagon Theatre in Bolton, is certainly arresting.

An American lecturer and student meet to discuss the student's frustration with her course. He is pretty useless at the student-lecturer dynamic. Apart from being pompous and elitest he makes a terrible joke with sexual references in it, he tries to hug the student to reassure her... you can see where this is going, can't you. And so she complains to his tenure committee and he meets with her again and just manages to fan the flames and before he knows it he's accused of attempted rape.

It's an interesting study of relationships and power but I'm not sure how relevant it is today. I can see how it perfectly captured the mood of the times in the early 1970s. In mid-1980s Britain my first newspaper's MD forbid women to wear trousers. Can you imagine that today?

Now I work in an organisation where people have said in meetings - with a completely straight face - that it's not appropriate to talk about brainstorming as it is offensive to epileptics and we must call it 'thought-showering'.

But the lecturer's real sin appears to be putting ego before process, disempowering his student in order to satisfy his own need to feel superior, albeit subconsciously. And who can say that is such an easy trap to avoid? The student then takes control and could be seen to abuse the power she gains, resulting in a dramatic final scene.

Interesting play. Great set. Pleasantly succinct.

I bought a new umbrella yesterday.

Very cute. Black with little scottie dogs in it, with wee tartan collars. Some had wee tartan coats too.

I threw the old one in the bin. It was partially collapsing.

I carefully put the receipt in my top drawer, because you know how flimsy they can be. "If this one gives up the ghost in less than a month it's going back," I said to myself.

Last night - I left it on the bus.

Curses!

Yesterday I spent a lot of time talking about and going to meetings about Swine Flu.

By 6.30pm I was flagging a bit.

Which is my excuse for emailing colleagues about Wine Flu.

That's the one where you feel sick, can't stand daylight and get a constant banging on the inside of your head.

I really must learn to type/read/not rely on spellcheckers!