Never Redder

I have fair and freckly skin. I've had said skin for a little over 30 years. I have been responsible for said skin for, let's say, 20 of those. I've lived in warm-to-hot climates for the last 7 of those 2o. It's safe to say I know my skin and how to take care of it after all these years.

For example, I only ever use face cream with SPF of at least 12 all year round and when it's time to peel off layers and reveal some flesh my morning routine expands to include full-body application of sun cream following shower. Like I said, I know my skin, I know its limits and I take action accordingly. I don't think there is anything exceptional about this; it is after all my skin.

Yet that notion appears to confound well-meaning Italian, Spanish and French acquaintances. Anytime the sun rears its head in my vicinity worried looks and "Are you wearing suncream?" abound. It drives me daft.

Of course I'm wearing bloody suncream. How stupid do you think I am? Don't you think I know my skin? I've been living in Rome for almost 3 years now, in Seville (Seville!) before that and France before that. I'm not a tourist who's been caught unawares by a heatwave. I bloody well know how to look after my bloody skin. At any given time I own (and use) more bottles of suncream than anyone else on this planet (apart from maybe Nicole Kidman.) Please take your well-intentioned remarks elsewhere. Grrr.

And then, yesterday happens. It's a beautifully sunny day but I don't really reveal excessive skin or even spend much time outside during peak sunshine hours (asides from lunch with Caro- yay! and the first ice-cream of the season- double yay!) so I don't put on any suncream. In the late afternoon I am more concerned about being cold at a local rugby game than I am about being hot- it starts at five pm after all- so I put on an extra (black) layer and squash a cardigan (black) into my handbag (...) Only to arrive at the stadium and find myself sitting facing the blazing sun- for the entire two hours. It is so hot that even the tan-obsessed Major tries to hide behind the shadow created by his lone crutch.

Over pizza afterwards I can feel an unmistakeable glow emanating from my skin. Goddamnit. How can it have been so hot from five to seven? Even those of us who know our skin and its limits couldn't have expected that.

And as Major and I wait (and wait, and wait) for the bus home I know exactly what kind of reaction I am (deservedly) going to receive from my Italian colleagues when they catch a glimpse of my scorched skin this morning, "But why weren't you wearing any suncream you silly, silly girl?" And I am sure that I will detect a knowing glimpse of smugness gleaming in the corner of their eyes.

Last Night I Watched #24

The setting the scene for the move to L.A. continued last night with 'The Shield.'

It's a bit more Major than me, but I'm not adverse to a bit of quality cop drama from time to time so I'm happy to watch it and figure out the parts of Los Angeles I won't be living in- for different reasons to 'Entourage' of course.

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #79

This morning I listened to the Fleet Foxes' eponymous album for the first time and I have to say I like what I heard: a bit of Americana* to remind me of my (not-all-that) imminent move Stateside.

Hints of Band of Horses anyone?

*I loathe labels but this is what I understand Americana to be. I'll happily be pulled up on it if I'm wrong.

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #78

I think I'd heard of but never heard Yo La Tengo before seeing them live at Benicàssim (the best music festival on the planet) in 2005. But that concert made me see the error of my ways and in the years since then I've managed to amass their sizeable back catalogue. The starting point was 'Prisoners of Love' a mid-priced, 3 CD, best-of-type thing that I still recommend as an introduction to the curious.

A lovely, lovely way to start a sunny (finally) Friday. A better pick-me-up than a haircut I tell you.

Yesterday On My Way To Work I Listened To #4

Yesterday was day four of my classical music education and I gave Caro's recommendation of Mendelsshon's Violin Concerto in E Minor a whirl. It sounded more like what I expected from classical music than my last two forays (Bach and Chopin) and less dreamy. More dramatic soaring and sweeping. I could see myself watching it being performed. Which will of course be the next step- going to a classical music concert.

I'm definitely on for listening to more Mendelsshon though and definitely more violin.

What I Won't Miss About Rome #17

Not having an ironing board.

By which I'm not implying there are no ironing boards in Rome, no, no, no- like the bathroom before- I'm talking about my particular experience in Rome, living in a flat that is too small to accommodate any bulky unneccessaries- a bed and a sofa, a TV, a separate bathroom floor and shower floor or an ironing board. There simply isn't enough room.

I also don't want to imply that I like ironing- God forbid- I despise it. It's simply that using the corner of a table on which to iron renders the entire enterprise even more despicable, tedious and time-consuming. I might hate ironing but at least I remember that with a board it's easier.

So I do my best to avoid ironing as much as possible:

• I buy clothes that don't need to be ironed.
• I hang those that do to dry as crease-freely as possible.
• If I have time I take them to the dry-cleaners to be ironed, then I get to feel like I live in New York when I go to collect them.
• And I never- much to my mother's despair- iron the Major's clothes.

But sometimes, like yesterday, I discover that all of the clean clothes I own need to be ironed before they are donned, I clear some space on the table, lay down a towel and prepare myself for tedium. An hour later I do feel a bit better- at least I have clothes to wear to work for the rest of the week- but the job is pretty botched. In the three years I've been ironing on the corner of a table I still haven't learnt how to iron out more creases than I iron in.

So, I'd like to officially add one more item to my list of things my next apartment must have:

• a separate bed and sofa
• a separate bathroom floor and shower floor
• enough space to store and accomodate an ironing board.

Really, I don't think it's asking for much.

Last Night I Watched #23

I'm hoping that living away from Ireland hasn't made me overly sympathetic to all things Irish and warped my critical judgement, but last night I went to see 'In Bruges' and I thought it was great. On all fronts. Funny, well-acted, well- written- the whole shebang.

But I'm left wondering, did I just see it through green-tinted glasses or is it genuinely a good film?

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #77

Now don't get me wrong, I love my Belle & Sebastian;I just don't like Isobel Campbell's breathy, feathery, gaspy singing voice. And as far as Mark Lanegan is concerned, well I have 'Bubblegum' by him but that's it. And yet, there is something about when these two artists come together that intrinsically appeals to me.

I liked 2006's 'Ballad of the Broken Seas,' I know it's not a masterpiece by any means but I like the combination of their voices- and yes I'm going to cite Tom Waits & Bette Midler, Jane Birkin & Serge Gainsbourg, Brigitte Bardot & Serge Gainsbourg, Nancy Sinatra & Lee Hazlewood, Stuart Staples & Isabella Rossellini- you get the idea. Perfectly lovely precedents.

Ok, Capmbell and Lanegan don't exactly reach those dizzying heights of duetting greatness but still, I enjoyed their new album 'Sunday at Devil Dirt' this morning- especially "Come on Over (Turn Me On)" and I would not be adverse to the rest of my life being peppered by releases by these two. You never know, they might just keep getting better.

What I'll Miss About Rome #32

Ok, so Sharapova might have stood us up on Saturday and it may not have been as sunny as on previous years, but still, one of my favourite things to do in Rome is to go to the Italian Open to watch a match or two.

Just like international rugby, football and Champion's League games, I'd never gone to a live tennis match before moving to Rome and was pleasantly surprised by how how nice a way it is to spend a day. And just like the aforementioned sports, I was also pleasantly surprised by how cheap it is- 10euros to see both women's seminfinals, or at least it would have been if Ms Sharapova had felt like showing up.

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #76

Summer has disappeared in Rome for the umpteenth time this year and it's bucketing rain all over again. Thankfully this morning on the sticky, steamy bus to work I had Lykke Li's 'Youth Novels' to lift my spirits, make me feel like dancing and help me ignore the fact that my short straight hair was rapidly metamorphising into a short, frizzy ball on top of my head.

The malaise is officially over. Tracks like "Dance, Dance, Dance," "I'm Good, I'm Gone," "Little Bit" and "Breaking it Up" had me completely and utterly back in love with new music. Fabulous stuff.

I would have liked not to tar her with the Swedish Music Brush but a track like "Hanging High" sounding so similar to El Perro Del Mar means it has to be done. 'Youth Novels' is everything I was hoping for from El Perro Del Mar's disappointing 'From The Valley To The Stars' and more.

One of my albums of 2008 so far (yes, I know there have been a few) by a Swedish singer or otherwise.

Off To A Bad Start

Friday was a pretty quiet one workwise so I decided to slip off a little early and head to the hairdresser for some pampering. It's true what they say about short hair requiring more frequent cuts- in the year since the big chop I've been to the hairdresser more times than in the preceding 29. But it's all good- I've found one I like and trust.

So with my hair looking slightly shapeless and some time on my hands I thought the best way to start my weekend was with a bit of a trim. I fixed my make-up and staightened my clothes- because I know (thank you Cosmo) that if you want your hairdresser to take you seriously you have to look good going in- and snuck out of the office to go get my hair done.

It all started very well.
"Ciao bella, come stai? Ah, I see you need a cut. We need to take some off the sides and give you some more shape at the back. Here have a seat and relax. Coffee? Prosecco?"
Ah, I thought, how nice it is to have a hairdresser who knows me so well. Sipping on my prosecco I relaxed and started to daydream about the fabulous weekend that was about to unfold, leaving Luca to work his wonders.

And that, ladies and gentlemen was where I went wrong. That is the advice that Cosmo never gave me. Fuck fixing your make-up and ensuring you don't look like a baglady when you go to the hairdressers. The real advice should be: Don't trust the bastards. Don't let them ever lure you into a state of complicity or complacency. Your hairdresser does not know you and never will, so how can he possibly know what is a good look for you?

Luca went to answer a phonecall and I, noticing for the first time the worrying amount of hair amassing at my feet, gave the back of my head a quick rub. My heart leaped into my throat- THERE WAS PRACTICALLY NO HAIR LEFT. Luca returned. I was sweating and breaking out in blotches.
"Tutto a posto, cara?" (Everything ok love?)
"Mi sembrano molto più corti di prima..." (Erm, it seems a lot shorter than before- my voice cracking as I spoke)
"Più corti sì, ma molto- non lo so" (Shorter- yes. But a lot shorter, I couldn't really say so.)

He went on to assure me that I would still have a bob, just a more shapely one. I bit my lip and said no more. After all what could I do at this stage? It was too late. The damamge was done.

Luca finished off the blowdry with a flourish- visibly proud of the transformation he had inaugurated on my head, leading the other hairdressers to coo, "Oh, sei bella- è una taglia molto fashion" in chorus. I was desperate to leave, already routing my way home according to the location of hatshops around the city. I started rummaging for my wallet in my bag while simultaneously removing my smock. "But don't you want to see the back?" Luca was brandishing a mirror. "Ok, yeah, go for it." I summoned up all the courage I had in me for the coup de grace.

It was worse than I had imagined. It was the kind of haircut that provokes sympathy in others. The 'Oh-my-God-what-was-she-thinking-allowing-someone-to-do-that-to-her?'
THE REVERSE MULLET- short at the back and long at the front.

I fought back the panic and paid.
"Non ti sento convinta" (You don't seemed convinced.) Luca looked crestfallen.
"No, no I am. It'll be fine. Don't worry." (What the fuck have you done to me? I look like the president of the Posh Spice fanclub.)

The weekend was off to a bad start. I clearly should never have told him I was moving to L.A.

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #75

I wasn't all that excited listening to the Dodos over the weekend. 'Visiter' seemed alright but not the kind of thing to shake me out of my new music malaise.

But then this morning, listening to its summery, at times Stephin Merritt-esque pop (especially on "Winter") I began to think that maybe there is more to the Dodos than I thought; that maybe 'Visitor' merits a few more listens before I pass my final judgement.

Today On My Way To Work I Listened To #74

Gigs have been pretty low on the ground in Rome in 2008 and the outlook is pretty bleak- the next gig I'm going to here won't be until July. Chances are it'll also be my last gig in Rome.

Nevertheless I am excited because this next and last Roman concert is Sigur Rós at the Auditorium. I've never seen Sigur Rós live before and the prospect of finally seeing them has me all happy.

So this morning in order to start my pre-gig revision I gave 'Ágætis Byrjun' a first listen in a long time. And it was bliss.

And I thought I was excited at the idea of seeing them live before today's commute...