Jenni Ajderian

I hate to be the party pooper at the big Sherlock Love-in, but the Great Detective isn't looking so great at the moment. Or rather, his writers aren't. The original stories are not known for their fairer treatment of the fairer sex, largely painting women as either frantic and emotional or cold and calculating, with only occasional whisps of character. It is notable, then, when Irene Adler is referred to in the books as ' the woman', since to Holmes she was the only one worth really bothering with. To Watson, Mary Morstan is surprising and attractive, “with a firm step and an outward composure of manner”, and swiftly becomes his wife. Both these characters have made their mark on the BBC’s Sherlock fans, but in ways completely different to their original counterparts. Of course, adaptations don't have to stick to the original, but this means that all Holmesian retellings I've seen have drawn up a romantic subplot between Holmes and Irene Adler, despit...

Photo by Dan Hems, gnarley waves by Mother Nature      My dad went to hospital last week. He's okay, he just learned some valuable lessons about launching a kitesurfer in 30 kilometre-per-hour wind too close to a car. An ambulance ride and an x-ray later he possibly has a broken rib, definitely has a sprained ankle, and certainly won't be running the Fairford 10k tomorrow, only ten days after he got too friendly with someone's brake-light.            So, tired from travelling and sitting in the hospital, and frankly overjoyed my father was still breathing, I suggested I take up dear old Nick's place at Fairford.      Looking back, we both did something stupid that day.      What followed was ten days of training, on and off, to get me up to speed with my mother, who has been doing this for the last 3 months. As an experience, it ranged from 'interesting' to 'whatthehellwasithinking', right through...

     One of the most interesting sidebar ads I've ever seen on Facebook popped up just the other day for NurtureDonors.com , a recent arrival to the UK which recruits egg donors and pairs them up with couples in need of fertility treatments. After a lot of reading (it's exam season- I have a lot of procrastination to do) I'm seriously considering egg donation, and my conviction that this is a good idea is emphasised by the fact that the website annoys me so very much.      It's clear Nurture Donors want young hip fertile gals just like myself both by their advertising strategy via social media and the fact that they insist on referring to their donors as 'gals'. A couple of times, they even call me 'girlfriend'. They over-use exclamation marks and they misuse apostrophes and hyphens and when sentences like this pop up my pedantic grammarian nerves are really close to breaking point- "A gals BF is often her Mom - if you are going to disclose ...

Dear Hallmark : We're all very impressed by what you've done with St Valentine's day. No, really- the appropriation of the death-date of a Roman heretic who went ahead and practiced illegal marriage ceremonies and its transformation into one of the biggest gift-giving events of the year ? Seriously, bravo. Aside from the chocolates, the cards, the squishy teddy bears and the extortionate romantic holidays, you've also spawned an entirely new way to feel bad about oneself, a season around which Hollywood can organise its mushiest films, and an anti-movement just as strong as its lovey-dovey counterpart. So why did you stop there ? No sir I ain't fakin' / When I say I don't eat bacon There are plenty of other Saints in the Roman Catholic calendar just begging to be used for money-making ends, and a lot of them are better documented than St Valentine. These lesser-known saints come prepared with their own celebration day, traditions and a pre-defi...

(originally published by EdinburghExchanges blog)           Freshly-rested and a little over-stuffed after Christmas, we're all back in Aix to knuckle down and try to pass an exam or two. I'm sure I'll get round to writing about them soon, when I'm not actually doing them, and when my hesitant daily excursions into the outside world stop providing me with such interesting things to see.      One of I'm sure many unannounced public art installations, Joséph Donten's simply-named 'Arbres Cours Mirabeau' certainly brightens up the street now the twinkly lights of Noël are gone. It's as if the trees have become incredibly tall, incredibly chic French fashionistas declaring that Polkadot is, very much, in. Though with my anglo-eyes I can't help being reminded of Pudsey Bear.      With January comes sales, and if you add to that a love of Franglais and sensationalism in shop-fronts, you get something like this. A phenomeno...

     In the 50s, having a job as a secretary may have been considered modern, or even empowering, but mostly, as Rose Pamphyle (Déborah Francois) says in her job interview, it's the chance to work for an important man. Seen in this light, the rise and fall of a Speed-Typing champion is just as much to do with a woman's personal victory as it is to do with her boss' encouragement and coaching, as well as the freedom he allows her to have.      In the film, and in life, the Speed-Typing Championship probably stemmed from a cigar-fuelled "I bet my secretary types faster than yours" argument, and the exclusively female competitors inhabit a space somewhere between real sportsman(woman?)ship and simply being allowed to play. The rocky ground of post-war sexual power-play is tested with bright colours and the happy clack-clack of a typewriter, and leads us somewhere a little more patronising than first-time director Regis Roinsard may have been hoping for. ...

     There's an advent tradition here in Provence that was entirely unknown to me until a few days ago when I picked up a leaflet in town about Saint Barbe and Le Blé de l'Espérance . Today, the 4th of December, is Saint Barbe's day, and many Provencial people will have bought wheat seeds from street vendors to plant in her honour.      Sainte Barbe was around in Lebanon in the 3rd century, and according to various highly respected sources accessible via Google, was either locked in a tower to keep her away from troublesome leanings towards Christianity, or locked herself in there to get out of marrying some Prince. Either way, she managed to sneak a priest in, who gave her a good baptising, saved her soul, and really annoyed her dad.      You know how it goes with these saints: once they've sworn their faith aloud, they get a get-out-of-death-free pass, though sometimes this isn't such a blessing. Every time they re-swear their faith, God...

     It's quite appropriate that the above quote comes from none other than Desiderius Erasmus, the eponymous hero of the European exchange scheme I'm currently on.      The Book Market is in Aix only one day a month, and this was the first time I managed to make it to Place de l'Hotel de Ville at the right time. The square is full of outdoor seating for cafés still in use even in December, and on Tuesdays hosts a flower market. I think I'd prefer a romantic present from this selection though.      These French translations of Shakespearian plays are a real favourite- the tomes themselves are huge and way out of my budget, even with money from Desiderius' representatives, but they look beautiful. The translated titles alone are worth a look and a giggle. The two comedies pictured here are 'Love's Labours Lost' and 'Much Ado About Nothing'      The market itself is as typically French as you might expect- if ...

     Aix is a tricky city to drive in. The trademark French winding cobbled streets and semi-pedestrianised alleyways which turn into markets three days a week can't be an easy thing to steer a ton of metal down, even on a lazy wednesday. So it's not surprising that there are a lot of bikers here- and before they all go into hibernation for winter (which, oddly, has not happened yet. It's mid-November) I thought I'd give them a little showcase       As well as the beautiful tourers and big macho bikes are the little girly scooters that whizz around Europe whatever country you happen to pick. If anything these seem more appropriate here for inner-city driving, as usually bikers (scooterers?) are going at near-walking pace to weave in and out of pedestrians and nip in front of the white vans and lorries which still seem to manage to negotiate Aix's streets.      But what's really got me interested are these little things- at about ...

     I sat on the edge of the wall and held my arms out so I could no longer see it under me. Though I'm well aware that Mont Ste Victoire has been solidly standing for a thousand times longer than I will ever live, and the wall was probably put there a hundred years before I was born, I could feel them both move under me.      In the 1870s a troupe of church-goers did the same two-and-a-half hour hike I had just done, but with ten feet of metal on their backs. The cross now erected on the peak of Mont St Victoire is visible from miles away, has now rusted and charred in a hundred and fifty years of weathering, and makes a simple, omnipresent statement: we were here.      It's easy to see why people build churches on high points. The walk up took us sixteen Erasmus students from sea-level to over a kilometre in the air, and each rest-stop was punctuated with sounds of awe and breathless, admiration-filled statements. In our last half hour...

(originally published by Edinburgh Exchanges blog)      Well, they DID warn you, before you came to France, that the bureaucracy would be a nightmare. You thought they were just comptes de fée, but it turns out they're all true. Slaying all the demons and finding all the magic keys you need to get what you want to get done done can leave you with both sore muscles and damaged pride. I write with tales of experience from both myself and fellow Erasmus students.      Our first tale is of the Erasmus student who wanted to exercise. Moving to France means moving into closer proximity to more boulangeries than you can shake an enchanted baguette at, and to counteract the  mille feuilles  and  pain au chocolat aux amandes , a gym membership might be necessary. But, hark! what is that on the horizon? Our brave Erasmus hero steels hisself- it's the demon of  bureaucratie .      "Kraaak!" (this is the noise the bureaucracy mo...

     How very new and exciting, I'm trying to do a vlog alongside this more textual effort!      I'll keep linking back and forth between here and there, but just so you know there is now a YouTube playlist with my name on it which I promise to fill with weekly updates and bits of language. For anyone who has time to watch (hi, mum & dad), but particularly people who may be considering the rich world of Erasmus themselves.

          The more I watch countless music videos, movies, tv shows, there are things which stand out as themes that I love. Past your simple in-jokes and nice sepia tones, I've found cinematographical (sp?) techniques which always draw me in- The un-cut tracking long-shot is unquestionably my favourite of these in the world of film. Though I'm not entirely certain of the name, this involves an extended shot, usually following just one character, over the course of a few minutes with absolutely no cutting away, no extra angles, no funny business. Just a clean, long shot, and a lot of good timing and, presumably, luck on the part of the director.      Most recently I've found it on YouTube with Walk off the Earth's Gianni and Sarah Blackwood with a rendition of Love Sponge. The slow-motion sections add an extra something-something too.  Of course, your standard point-and-shoot youtuber vlog will be in this same format, but when we up the qu...

     Far be it from me to blog about language or music, but while trying to trawl through reading for an essay about a spectrogram, I came across a remix by Rizzle Kicks where they do something pretty interesting with their sample track. In this case, Lily Allen's The Fear is cut so that the phrase "I don't care about clever, I don't care about funny" loses its last syllable.      The effect of the loss of the final '-nny', makes a non-word which the rappers employ in place of the word 'fuck'. By taking away this, they've essentially just taken away the release of the [n] stop, which we interpret as being a voiceless stop. Rizzle Kicks - Fuck Loadsa Dubstep (Lily Allen Mix)      Let me explain      What is said and what we hear are two different things. Advertisers (notably that awful Irn Bru ad) have used this to their advantage, which, in a lot of cases, involves us filling in the blanks for ourselves. In the case of...

(originally published by The Student )      Watch any western, any black-and-white adventure film, any rags-to-riches adaptation, and you'll realise we've seen this all before. The guy gets the girl, the evil tyrant falls and the True King rises, be it Middle Earth or the Mid-West. We've seen these scenes repeated across time and space, and we know how it goes. Without the speech, the scene still goes the same way. New film The Artist proves this, without saying a word. Aside from the picture-perfect cast and a dog which will reach cult celebrity status any day now, the film addresses the transition between '20s movies and '30s talkies, and a sparse use of sound which offers a challenge to the film-makers.      In one scene, uncharacteristically static, a pair of old friends meet and greet, swap stories, laugh- the details, irrelevant, are replaced by an emotive score and some close camera-work, all of which makes us feel no less connected to the...

The all-absorbing nature of the Festival became all too clear when everyone started going on about some riots down south. Here, our newspapers are replaced by free review magazines, the daily grind with plays and comedy and exhibitions and the occasional concert. The strange filtering-through of news to a flat with no internet, no regular newspapers, no TV, was reminiscent of Glastonbury in 2009 when Michael Jackson died, and while the world outside was crying its face off, most of us were none the wiser. Whereas in the fields and the mud we had RIP Jacko tshirts by the following morning, up here in Auld Reekie the comedians react in the only way they know how- jokes. What seemed like a race to make the easy jokes first meant stand-ups were telling us how they were desperately trying to contact their loved ones in Tottenham- “Size eleven, nothing in white.” (Steve Day, Run, Deaf Boy, Run!), or how they were happy to be already in Scotland before the locals start re-building Hadrian...

During the Edinburgh Fringe, Bristo Square is home to the E4 Udderbelly- a giant inflatable purple cow, which lies on its back with hooves and udders proudly pointing towards the sky.      But in Freshers' Week it's populated by students- whether milling around between events and lectures and awkwardly forming flash-in-the-pan friendships in the daytime, queing for Potterow at night or, after a night at the SU, resembling the aforementioned cow, lying on their back with hooves and... well, you get the picture.      And just as the Summer loves Tourists, so the Autumn loves Freshers. The ever-present flyerers of the Fringe have a new lease of life in the first few weeks of September as we are offered student discount cards, drinks promotions, club events, soc events, and even the odd chaplaincy meet-and-greet. The clever ones start their pitch with the word 'free'.      "Free sweets!" (and a leaflet encouraging you to attend ...

I could be worse employed Than as a watcher of the void Whose part should be to tell What star if any fell   I saw four shooting stars tonight. Lying on the grass in my back garden I was wondering why I know so few constellations and so little about the universe.      The thought used to be truly comforting. That however huge and important we think our lives are, there are things a hundred times older than we will ever be, and which will keep burning a hundred times longer. And we can see them only as one fleeting after-image of a life that may be already extinguished.      I've sat under the stars with a friend and talked the world to rights. I've watched a starry sky turn into a sunrise over the sea, and heard a thousand strangers cheer the setting sun and the emerging moon.      A kind of paganism seems built in. It's the part of us that swears at the rain even though all we're really talking to are bags of water hanging in...

ca·thar·tic / kəˈ θ ärtik /  • adj. 1. providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions      Examples of cathartic text being the Shakespearian plays Hamlet and Julius Caesar, as well as the entire contents of WHSmith's Tragic Life Stories section. Six shelves of books sit and document the tragic life stories of children, adults, small fluffy things probably and anyone else the author can get their hands on- sometimes even themselves. With eyesnatching adjectives for titles such as "Betrayed" (Lyndsey Harns), "Worthless" (Marilyn Hardy) and "Disgraced" (Saira Ahmed), each promises to be some variation on the theme of harrowing childhood stories of misuse and neglect; tense emotional battles in which the subject's sole ally is a kindly stranger/ sister/ author; all in all a life-changing, tear-filled tale that is, by definition, cathartic. By the time you've read it, you feel pretty happy it didn't happen to ...