Etsy has some very cute offerings in the handmade hottie department.

It’s snowing in London. It’s too cold to snow in New York. It’s pretty bloody chilly in Dublin, where I’m going to be next week. At times like these, I fantasize about all things warm. Cashmere, cats, hot chocolate, saunas, thermal underwear, real fires, wool tights, big fluffy duvets … and hot water bottles. There are many new-fangled devices for warming beds, things like electric blankets and shapeless objects you put in the microwave. But I secretly wish I lived in the days when a maid would come to your room and run a copper pan full of still-glowing coals over your sheets just before you got into bed. Of course, if I lived in those days, I would more likely be the maid, who then has to climb a draughty staircase to a freezing attic where the wind howls all night long and fur-coated mice nibble frostbitten toes. But anyway. Maybe it’s because they were the stuff of my childhood, but I still have a fetish for hot water bottles. In fact, I’m quite sad that I don’t need one where I’m living now; the radiator squeals and burbles alarmingly and emits more than enough heat. But encased in a snug wool or felt cover, a hottie is the perfect bedmate: it won’t steal the covers or snore or wake you up to tell you its crazy dream about making sandwiches with Kim Jong Il. Find the one pictured here, or browse Etsy for other designs. Just make sure the top of your hottie is on tight, though, or it could wet the bed.

Lately, I’ve been seized by the idea that there’s not enough poetry on the internet. I don’t mean you can’t read poems online, I just mean that most of what’s on Facebook, Twitter, and, to a lesser extent, blogs like this one, is depressingly prosaic. This has already inspired some odd behavior on my part, including posting a tweet in Latin. I’m sure one could argue that social media sites have encouraged many kinds of creative, anti-utilitarian verbal experimentation. Rather than diving into that debate, I think I’ll just leave you with one of my favourites by the Northern Irish poet Paul Muldoon. A copy of one of his collections would be an excellent addition to any bookworm’s stocking.

Quoof

How often have I carried our family word

for the hot water bottle

to a strange bed,

as my father would juggle a red-hot half-brick

in an old sock

to his childhood settle.

I have taken it into so many lovely heads

or laid it between us like a sword.

An hotel room in New York City

with a girl who spoke hardly any English,

my hand on her breast

like the smouldering one-off spoor of the yeti

or some other shy beast

that has yet to enter the language.

I’m hungry for heroines: inspiring, dynamic, kick-ass, glass-ceiling-busting women doing cool things. And one of my latest obsessions is Alondra de la Parra, founder and conductor of the Philharmonic Orchestra of the Americas. She’s 28 years old, grew up in Mexico City, and started the orchestra five years ago while studying at the Manhattan School of Music. Her mission: to bring the music of the Americas to audiences while providing an opportunity for young musicians to kick off their orchestral careers. That’s right: at an age when most of us were still racking up student loans, spending them on cheap alcohol, and lurching about drunkenly to Britney Spears’ “Oops … I Did It Again,” she founded an orchestra. And her musical talent seems to be matched by her flair for fundraising, because now that orchestra is going strong, and at the two gala concerts I attended the audience was a veritable parade of well-heeled, flamboyantly-dressed Latin American glitterati.

As for Ms. de la Parra, she is gorgeously glam, but getting dressed must be a challenge for the female conductor. For one thing, the audience is getting the rear view. You want to look elegant; you don’t want an entire concert hall staring at your derriere. You also need a lot of freedom of movement. I think there’s a wonderful opportunity here for a smart female designer (Isabel Toledo? Carolina Herrera? Stella McCartney?) to create some custom-made conducting outfits for Ms. de la Parra. Admittedly, there’s not a huge market for women’s conducting garb right now, but thanks to A. d. l. P., that might be about to change.

The POA’s repertoire is populist and accessible; it’s also inclusive of composers and musical styles that the canon of orchestral music traditionally ignores. RIP DWEMs (Dead While European Males). Viva Alondra and the POA!

Anish Kapoor's "Tall Tree and the Eye" (and The Brow)

The Brow just went to the Anish Kapoor (sculptor known for his revelatory use of form, colour, and space) retrospective at the Royal Academy in London.

The show starts in the courtyard in front of the RA; the first thing you see on walking in is a giant tower of reflective spheres, seemingly suspended in space, mirroring clouds, cobble stones, the buildings surrounding the courtyard, and the myriad visitors with their cameras. Called “Tall Tree and the Eye,” it’s the perfect preview of coming attractions: a work that awakens the viewer to the infinite number of ways of seeing the world and the self in it.

It’s hard to write about art, wine, or sex without sounding ridiculous. Kapoor’s work defies description. He suggest a reason for this: “I have often said that I have nothing to say as an artist. Having something to say implies that one is struggling with meaning. The role of the artist is in fact that we don’t know what to say, and it is that not knowing that leads to the work.”

As one who is pretty much resigned to struggling with meaning, I will say, go to this show if you can. I will say that it’s worth it to see a cannon splatter the hallowed walls of the Royal Academy with a bucket-sized bullet of red wax. It’s worth it to watch the respectable, elderly punters nearly jump out of their skins when the cannon fires with a loud bang. It’s worth it to wander round a room full of magical mirrors, finding yourself looking for yourself in every one. I will say that it’s worth it to lose yourself in a wall of yellow and to feel like you’re being sucked into an omphalos of color and light. It is worth the twelve quid price of admission. And afterwards, let it all sink in over coffee and a slice of orange-almond cake in the lovely Royal Academy restaurant.

Speaking of food, after my transcendent aesthetic experience I trotted over the road for the slightly more prosaic pleasure of a visit to Fortnum and Mason. This is one of those proper feel-good shops, the kind that lulls you into forking over far too much for something small but delicious. My dad took me to the restaurant here for a highly memorable birthday lunch about twenty years ago. I remember being rather awed by the posh surroundings and wondering whether I could have my choffee milkshake before my burger. Dad assured me that the poshness of the place meant I could have exactly what I wanted, when I wanted, without anyone batting an eyelid. And so I did. Then we went to see “Cats” which was rubbish.

Today, I didn’t stop to eat — just wandered the store leaving a trail of drool, like a large and inedible snail. And bought a few gifts. And saw Ronnie Corbett in the gift-wrapping department. What more could one ask for in a shopping experience?

"Tall Tree and the Eye" again

And The Brow