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Misquoting Shakespeare is always amusing and frequently apt: "Vanity, thy name is Karie Bookish".

This evening we were invited to the opening of World Press Photo 08 exhibition at The Scottish Parliament. My partner wore a suit and I opted for a little black dress. Sadly I also opted to wear high heels for the first time in three years. If they could speak, my feet would be screaming right now. I'm now limping on my heels and I'm also wobbly. But I looked really good, so there.

And the photos were very good and interesting, of course. I tried to find an online representation of the one photo that really stood out in my eyes: a Kenyan warlord who is depicted in his office with two bodyguards. The photograph is very sparse as is the office, but the guy has a few, selected trappings: two mobile phones, a pair of sunglasses and he is wearing a Stetson. All coolly calculated to give him an air of Western machismo. The guy looks like Hollywood is telling him he is supposed to look. Taking the context into consideration, the photo is absolutely chilling.

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It Is Not Entirely My Own Fault

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Following on from yesterday's Chomsky snippet, here is an article asking Can You Teach Your Kid To Have Taste? The premise is that a classical music reviewer has been dragging his ten-year-old son along to work and has begun wondering how that influences his son's taste in music/art/literature. The kid likes Tolkien, Russell Crowe westerns and visiting museums - maybe not the most average boy - but has that to do with his parents' (evidently highbrow) taste or is it something inert?

Unsurprisingly the writer does not come up with an answer, but the article made me reflect upon my own taste. I can pinpoint why I like Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra and Cole Porter. I can also tell you why I enjoy reading Georgette Heyer and watch the Eurovision Song Contest religiously. But I come up short when I reflect upon my weakness for films like Roeg/Cammell's Performance and Todd Haynes' entire oeuvre. And what about my love of modernist poetry and early twentieth century abstract art? Not to mention my love of very, very bad sci-fi films? What has caused this odd pick-and-mix of things I grew up loving and things I have encountered later in life?

Can you trace how your own taste was formed?

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Running After Myself

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These past few days have been rather rough. I'm struggling to get enough sleep and my body feels as though I have been running several marathons. I haven't even touched knitting once, that is how exhausted I have been.

So blogging feels like an afterthought.

But I'm learning new exotic phrases from my blog spam (they do what to zebras?!), I am a merciless conqueror in Civilization Revolution, and I have a new mobile phone with built-in pedometer so I can feel extra guilty about how little exercise my body allows me these days. And I have learned the hard way that Tesco's Budget Long-Lasting Unsweetened Soy Alternative To Milk tastes really, really foul.

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Neapolitan Shawl

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For various reasons I have been unable to post a photo of my first major foray into knitting in fifteen years. This is the stole shawl that spawned an obsession, dear readers.

I have known E. for many years and she is one of my closest friends. She turned forty in February and I was unable to celebrate the big FOUR-OH with her. I found some yarn. I started knitting. I finished. I loved it.

It is very fitting that I'd be knitting a Neapolitan coloured shawl for someone who has insisted on trying out various desserts on me before serving them for the rest of her friends: "So, Karie, do you prefer the lemon meringue pie or the chocolate bread pudding? Or maybe the frozen Cointreau mousse?" At least my gift won't wreak havoc on her waistline.

In related news, I like the look of Twist Collective, I saw a designer in person the other day and opted out of saying hello and I have bought my own weight in thin 2-ply wool. I'm also still sunburnt.