Dystopia

Shoe shopping is one of my least favourite things. I can't think of many worse examples of style over convenience. The shoes are almost always laced up so that you can't tighten them and inevitably there'll only be one available so that you're at the mercy of an over-worked sixteen-year-old running her legs into nubs. Angers me. Still, I faced it today. Hopefully that will see me through another five years or so.

Lately I seem to have been reading a whole heap of dystopian teen fiction, apparently it's the hip new thing. Here's some words about some of them:

Hunger Games
Yes it's almost a straight rip off of Battle Royal. Yes it's about a teenage love triangle. Yes it's obvious. Yes the third one stretches the suspension of disbelief so far past snapping point as to be laughable. Yes the film is about to come out and smear my expectations against a massive hunk of disappointment (Prince Harry as Cato? Really?). But if you can think of a more enjoyable book I will fight you and I will prevail because I will have right on my side.

Wither
Yes it's almost a straight rip off of the Handmaids Tale. Yes it's about a teenage love triangle (well pentagon). Yes it's obvious. Yes it's only the first part of a trilogy and the next two could very easily be rubbish, but I for one am going to find out how good they are as fast as I possibly can - which will probably be about eighteen months - come on Lauren de Stefano get back to your writing.

Pure (no not that one what's been in the news, the Julianna Baggott one - incidentally, if you google Pure Julianna you get someone trying to sell you pigs)
Well hello, Pure. I was told that you were going to be teen fiction, but you appear to be rather more literary than that. You're like a book for grown ups that just happens to have sixteen-year-olds as the main characters. You're also mighty twisted, with your deformed lead characters and your brutal, brutal world. You know, Pure, I think that we could be friends.

I'm too ______ for Milan

It was only when I went to buy a paper this morning and saw the dregs of humanity that had managed to make One stop that I truly realised how stylish everyone, that's EVERYONE, in Milan looked. There was no one who looked like they'd just stumbled out of bed and landed in something resembling the outside. Everyone was tailored up to their eyebrows.

I liked Milan 'though. It's dismissal as an industrial hellhole seems somewhat unjustified. I guess when you're comparing it to VeniceFlorenceRome it comes out short, but it seems to be a proper place, rather than the upper-middle-class Disneyland of the big three.

Pleasantly surprised.

Bags of Belgravia

Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London, I'll show you something to make you change your mind. Bags of poo. That's what I'll show you. Loads of them. All over Belgravia. You know what this means, don't you?

Dogs have got opposable thumbs? Nope. Initially I thought that it was semi-polite dog-bothering cretins that were too lazy to find any kind of formal, respectable receptacle. But that doesn't make sense. I mean, what kind of demi-human trollboy takes a plastic bag to clean up after a dog then leaves said bag festering on the side of the road? Surely no one.

Which means people in that end of London must have got so posh that they are refusing to have toilets in their houses. It's the only logical explanation. Word of advice, if you're in West London and you see a man in a top hat carrying a small M&S sandwich bag do not accept the offer of a sweetie.

______________

In other news, during karaoke the other night I got told that 'at points the noises coming out of your mouth were indistinguishable from real singing'. This is the highest singing praise I've ever received. Unless you count the guy who asked if I was a professional - which I don't because he was clearly an idiot.