My friendscape has shifted, changed. Bits that were corroding have broken off, bits have been added, some bonds that had gently relaxed are stronger now than they ever were. Some remain constant, a comforting presence, like an invisible circle of hands holding you in, keeping you away from dangerous edges.
I am in a state of hypervigilance. This is what I have been told. It is likely to be related to why sleep has been such an issue for me. In a world of friends, I fear the unseen foe: the woolly mammoth around the corner, as a wise woman so aptly described it to me recently. Hearing that analogy made me laugh, even though the context of the rest of our conversation would make most people cry.
Like Madonna, (and yes, I am aware of how trite that sounds), I have a tale to tell. Sometimes I hide it well. But (keeping with Madge)... it burns inside of me. And when something burns with such intensity, you need to manage it, to create some distance from it.
It is necessary to treat such a thing as a foe – you need to keep it close enough to see what it is up to. You look into its blinking, cunning eyes, see into its darkness and the places where its tendrils have secretly snaked their way into your being, and then, only then, can you peel away the creepers, take it by the scruff of its neck and shove it aside for good.
Sometimes you bleed during the process. The process can be so painful that you are numb, and only when you are in a place of relative safety can you let yourself examine yourself and see what shape the cuts are, what hue the bruises and then – then – you begin to apply balm and dressings and although you are raw, something has changed.
A few people are aware of your tale – you don't know why you chose to tell them but you did. They clicked on some level; their strength, knowledge and compassion, perhaps invisible to others, is visible to you, and it is a relief to share such things, to see that the aftermath of the telling does not repel but in fact draws them closer.
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Time and tears
I feel as though I am on a water slide, with no means of grabbing the sides, and I'm going up, down, through tunnels (some long ones) and occasionally getting splashed as the carriage moves so swiftly that you can only just make out people's faces, and places, as you pass by.
My diary is packed with things to do. The slots on my 'to do' list are filled and then struck through but there always seems to be the same amount pending. I get it done, mostly, somehow. The unnecessary things get left aside, they don't even make the list. The other stuff is a variety of nice and not-so-nice but all must be met head-on.
I know, for example, that kung fu must be prioritised, as it brings me sleep and fitness at levels I've never previously known, and I love doing it and have a few friends there. Work, well, that's just work (but I do love my job, so that's OK, too). Socialising slips in as well, as it tends to be with a mixture of people from my sporting and working lives.
The not-so-nice is another matter. That doesn't have to be booked in. It just settles in and makes itself comfortable at times. It's to do with insomnia, stress (that has caused me to grind my teeth so badly that one must come out) and suchlike. I am still on medication for the insomnia (albeit at a reduced rate), I don't drink much alcohol now (when I did a few weeks ago, I didn't sleep a wink), and my diet is pretty healthy. So, despite all the negatives of not sleeping and its effects, I have picked up some pretty good ways of coping – exercise and eating well. Sometimes, when I wake, my eyes are puffed up and the area around them is dark, but at other times, I feel and look reasonably well.
But, like one day this week, when I may have looked OK to those around me, there can in fact be a volcano brewing underneath the surface. I couldn't breathe. I felt faint. My head was swimming. It was scary. But fate dealt me a kind hand – I was writing a feature on stress – and had to look for solutions to what could have (I imagine) developed into a panic attack. So, there I was, at my desk, with breathing exercises at my disposal. I sat there, pretending to be engrossed in my work when all the while I was dragging normality and calm from where it had hidden, thanks to the serendipity of my work assignment.
I drank lots of water, I ate lots of fresh fruit and felt better within an hour or so of doing the deep breathing. But my cloak of armour failed me later, when I crumbled into tears at kung fu, as the effort of being lively and dynamic at work all day snatched my shell from me when the instructor, (who knows of my stresses/insomnia), made a perfectly innocent, kindly remark. I mentally zipped myself up, took a deep breath and carried on sparring, tears drying around my eyes.
The next morning, however, I felt amazing. Really bloody good. The endorphins, lack of rogue adrenaline, and good food in my stomach had sent me into a decent sleep, and I woke up feeling as though I could take on the world. If I could capture that feeling I would. The thing is, though, I now know the ingredients for conjuring up that feeling now, and chances are high that I will be cooking up that recipe for quite a while.
My diary is packed with things to do. The slots on my 'to do' list are filled and then struck through but there always seems to be the same amount pending. I get it done, mostly, somehow. The unnecessary things get left aside, they don't even make the list. The other stuff is a variety of nice and not-so-nice but all must be met head-on.
I know, for example, that kung fu must be prioritised, as it brings me sleep and fitness at levels I've never previously known, and I love doing it and have a few friends there. Work, well, that's just work (but I do love my job, so that's OK, too). Socialising slips in as well, as it tends to be with a mixture of people from my sporting and working lives.
The not-so-nice is another matter. That doesn't have to be booked in. It just settles in and makes itself comfortable at times. It's to do with insomnia, stress (that has caused me to grind my teeth so badly that one must come out) and suchlike. I am still on medication for the insomnia (albeit at a reduced rate), I don't drink much alcohol now (when I did a few weeks ago, I didn't sleep a wink), and my diet is pretty healthy. So, despite all the negatives of not sleeping and its effects, I have picked up some pretty good ways of coping – exercise and eating well. Sometimes, when I wake, my eyes are puffed up and the area around them is dark, but at other times, I feel and look reasonably well.
But, like one day this week, when I may have looked OK to those around me, there can in fact be a volcano brewing underneath the surface. I couldn't breathe. I felt faint. My head was swimming. It was scary. But fate dealt me a kind hand – I was writing a feature on stress – and had to look for solutions to what could have (I imagine) developed into a panic attack. So, there I was, at my desk, with breathing exercises at my disposal. I sat there, pretending to be engrossed in my work when all the while I was dragging normality and calm from where it had hidden, thanks to the serendipity of my work assignment.
I drank lots of water, I ate lots of fresh fruit and felt better within an hour or so of doing the deep breathing. But my cloak of armour failed me later, when I crumbled into tears at kung fu, as the effort of being lively and dynamic at work all day snatched my shell from me when the instructor, (who knows of my stresses/insomnia), made a perfectly innocent, kindly remark. I mentally zipped myself up, took a deep breath and carried on sparring, tears drying around my eyes.
The next morning, however, I felt amazing. Really bloody good. The endorphins, lack of rogue adrenaline, and good food in my stomach had sent me into a decent sleep, and I woke up feeling as though I could take on the world. If I could capture that feeling I would. The thing is, though, I now know the ingredients for conjuring up that feeling now, and chances are high that I will be cooking up that recipe for quite a while.
Sunday, 4 November 2007
Teeth
I have been clenching my teeth in my sleep. This has meant I often wake with headaches and a jaw so tight that I must open and close it to release the muscles of my neck and face.
One of my teeth has died. This is because I grind my teeth, and a chunk of a molar broke off a few months ago.
It is a stress-related thing. Stress has killed one of my lovely teeth.
One of my teeth has died. This is because I grind my teeth, and a chunk of a molar broke off a few months ago.
It is a stress-related thing. Stress has killed one of my lovely teeth.
Thursday, 1 November 2007
White rabbits
'Tis the first of November, so I shall say 'white rabbits' to attract the luck fairy. Or something.
However, M is a black rabbit and is not too happy about this scenario...
Can anyone tell me where Jan-Oct went? Please?
However, M is a black rabbit and is not too happy about this scenario...
Can anyone tell me where Jan-Oct went? Please?
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Odd, not even
Feeling odd today. It is as though my hands are not filled with as much blood as they should be. As I drove home from meeting my friend I had to make a special effort to grip the steering wheel. At home, I lay down.
S and our rabbit, M, were there, too. M 'clucks' when she is stroked the right way (so that you get her ears and cheeks). She did a lot of clucking and scrabbled on the bedcover with her little paws.
Well, I am stressed – the reasons are far too long and complex and would fill a book, not a blog... So, it could be that that has caused the oddness, but it could also be that I haven't had much to eat today. I had a massive piece of cake (plus breakfast) but maybe that just isn't enough these days.
* * *
It's 17:41 and very dark outside. Why do we end BST every year?
Why do we have the same debate about how it's so very silly that we change the clocks by an hour "just for the farmers"? The farmers, who are in the minority in the UK, have the same amount of daylight as they would if the time wasn't altered. It is, surely, a no-brainer? Can we please stop mucking about with the time?
S and our rabbit, M, were there, too. M 'clucks' when she is stroked the right way (so that you get her ears and cheeks). She did a lot of clucking and scrabbled on the bedcover with her little paws.
Well, I am stressed – the reasons are far too long and complex and would fill a book, not a blog... So, it could be that that has caused the oddness, but it could also be that I haven't had much to eat today. I had a massive piece of cake (plus breakfast) but maybe that just isn't enough these days.
* * *
It's 17:41 and very dark outside. Why do we end BST every year?
Why do we have the same debate about how it's so very silly that we change the clocks by an hour "just for the farmers"? The farmers, who are in the minority in the UK, have the same amount of daylight as they would if the time wasn't altered. It is, surely, a no-brainer? Can we please stop mucking about with the time?
Saturday, 27 October 2007
International relations, puffy eyes and deflation
I'm meeting my friend Inz today, so we can have a rare catch up before she goes back to France. She comes over now and then to get her hair done as she has never found a hairdresser in Paris who can do her locks justice – good for me as we get to meet. It may sound indulgent to those who can walk into a salon and have an inch snipped off, or whatever, but as Inz and I know, a good hairdresser who can do more than just cut in a straight line is hard to find. Plus, it's a great reason for her to come back to London.
Tomorrow, I'm meeting a friend I've known since primary school – she is visiting from her new home in the Ukraine, so we are meeting for brunch. Due to the sleep programme (which I abused today by having an extra hour in bed), I am usually up early, so brunch will be a good use of the morning hours (especially as we have an extra hour in bed what with British Summer Time ending – annoyingly – tomorrow).
My eyes are rather puffy. They have been like this for a few days now. It could be due to the cold/crying/infection. Either way, I shall go to the chemist and buy some medicinal eye cream. I may buy something for my bruised arms and legs, too. Kung fu was tough this week. One of the classes felt like it was designed to punish us for not attending religiously (and I mean religiously). Our instructor, N, is passionate about kung fu and gets frustrated at times, accusing us of apathy. Personally, I think it's those who are sat at home who need to be told that they are apathetic, not those of us who make the effort to go along. And I do make an effort.
I feel deflated by kung fu at the moment. I'm much stronger, as toned as I could wish to be, and can hit hard and fast, but due to a lack of any positive comments, my enthusiasm has waned. Yes, I passed my grading, but was told "that can't be right, I'll have to check that", when I revealed my results in class (even though N must have known already...). I know our performance reflects on N, but I can only do my best. Which will never be remotely good enough, it seems.
Also, one of my classmates with whom I was sparring is frustrated at having to spar with me. He wanted one of the other men to be there instead. They have more experience fighting, and are lads, so probably feel easier kicking and hitting each other. Hmm. Also, I have rarely – if ever – been praised for anything in class, whereas others seem to elicit more praise.
I don't feel as though I am dire at kung fu – in fact, I know I am improving, albeit pretty slowly – but only hearing feedback when I've done something wrong (which may be a psychological device) is wiring a synapse with negativity and it doesn't motivate me where it might work with others. It makes me wonder whether there's any point me trying. I am so tired and pouring my energy into something that makes me feel low and useless may not be helpful...
When I was ill, N commented that there "was always something wrong" with me when my friend passed on a message that I was ill, which I found incredibly hurtful. I have chronic insomnia, am on serious drugs for a serious reason, and have taken up a demanding sport. Most people would curl up on the sofa and watch TV, eat comfort food and use shopping as exercise. I do sleep well after exercising but am in the sort of mood where I am liable to snap if told off for no good reason or have sarcasm levelled at me, especially if it's to do with my health. I am resilient but I am also human, and now is not a good time for me. So, I may give it a miss for a bit.
Tomorrow, I'm meeting a friend I've known since primary school – she is visiting from her new home in the Ukraine, so we are meeting for brunch. Due to the sleep programme (which I abused today by having an extra hour in bed), I am usually up early, so brunch will be a good use of the morning hours (especially as we have an extra hour in bed what with British Summer Time ending – annoyingly – tomorrow).
My eyes are rather puffy. They have been like this for a few days now. It could be due to the cold/crying/infection. Either way, I shall go to the chemist and buy some medicinal eye cream. I may buy something for my bruised arms and legs, too. Kung fu was tough this week. One of the classes felt like it was designed to punish us for not attending religiously (and I mean religiously). Our instructor, N, is passionate about kung fu and gets frustrated at times, accusing us of apathy. Personally, I think it's those who are sat at home who need to be told that they are apathetic, not those of us who make the effort to go along. And I do make an effort.
I feel deflated by kung fu at the moment. I'm much stronger, as toned as I could wish to be, and can hit hard and fast, but due to a lack of any positive comments, my enthusiasm has waned. Yes, I passed my grading, but was told "that can't be right, I'll have to check that", when I revealed my results in class (even though N must have known already...). I know our performance reflects on N, but I can only do my best. Which will never be remotely good enough, it seems.
Also, one of my classmates with whom I was sparring is frustrated at having to spar with me. He wanted one of the other men to be there instead. They have more experience fighting, and are lads, so probably feel easier kicking and hitting each other. Hmm. Also, I have rarely – if ever – been praised for anything in class, whereas others seem to elicit more praise.
I don't feel as though I am dire at kung fu – in fact, I know I am improving, albeit pretty slowly – but only hearing feedback when I've done something wrong (which may be a psychological device) is wiring a synapse with negativity and it doesn't motivate me where it might work with others. It makes me wonder whether there's any point me trying. I am so tired and pouring my energy into something that makes me feel low and useless may not be helpful...
When I was ill, N commented that there "was always something wrong" with me when my friend passed on a message that I was ill, which I found incredibly hurtful. I have chronic insomnia, am on serious drugs for a serious reason, and have taken up a demanding sport. Most people would curl up on the sofa and watch TV, eat comfort food and use shopping as exercise. I do sleep well after exercising but am in the sort of mood where I am liable to snap if told off for no good reason or have sarcasm levelled at me, especially if it's to do with my health. I am resilient but I am also human, and now is not a good time for me. So, I may give it a miss for a bit.
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
Things I saw today...
1) A man – just like the model-esque black guy in the Coca-Cola advert, smiling and singing to his iPod as he walked home after work. He didn't look crazy, just happy. I couldn't hear him so have no idea of how he sounded.
2) A torn blanket, a plastic sheet and a small carrier bag left in a pile by a busy roadside in central London. Someone's home for the night.
3) Lavishly decorated Christmas trees in the windows of a public building. They weren't lit, but still, it is only October.
4) The view of the London skyline and the Thames at dusk. A twinkling, beautiful, historic, modern, busy, interesting, quiet (if you know where to look), wonderful place. Delicious.
2) A torn blanket, a plastic sheet and a small carrier bag left in a pile by a busy roadside in central London. Someone's home for the night.
3) Lavishly decorated Christmas trees in the windows of a public building. They weren't lit, but still, it is only October.
4) The view of the London skyline and the Thames at dusk. A twinkling, beautiful, historic, modern, busy, interesting, quiet (if you know where to look), wonderful place. Delicious.
Monday, 22 October 2007
I wish I was a superhero
I am stupefyingly ANGRY at this so-called 'sentence' for the 'man' who left a 96-year-old war veteran blind in one eye and so ill he must now be cared for in a home. If this doesn't make your blood boil, nothing ever will. A three-year supervision order? Are you fucking joking?????
I had to stop thinking about it on the way home as it was making me cry in public.
I would like to have 10 minutes alone with the 44-year-old fuckwitted cowardly lowlife scumbag who meted out an unprovoked beating to this old man who did nothing but 'stand in his way' on a train.
The old man walks with walking sticks. I would like to make the 44-year-old walk with walking sticks. And blind in one eye.
WHY THE FUCK IS STEPHEN GORDON NOT IN JAIL? WHY??????????????????? I hope there is a hell.
I had to stop thinking about it on the way home as it was making me cry in public.
I would like to have 10 minutes alone with the 44-year-old fuckwitted cowardly lowlife scumbag who meted out an unprovoked beating to this old man who did nothing but 'stand in his way' on a train.
The old man walks with walking sticks. I would like to make the 44-year-old walk with walking sticks. And blind in one eye.
WHY THE FUCK IS STEPHEN GORDON NOT IN JAIL? WHY??????????????????? I hope there is a hell.
Sunday, 21 October 2007
Dark pictures
My beloved digital camera is behaving strangely. It flashes – seemingly at the right time – but when you look at the image, it is dark. Don't understand it. I've fiddled with the menus and controls but it doesn't make any difference.
I poked my head outside this morning to take in the very cold air. The sun shone into my face and I pointed and clicked. That was OK. I have a picture of the glaring brightness of an autumn morning, which is no bad thing. I may have to invest in a new camera, though.
* * *
Didn't sleep much. Had just one glass of wine as we had a visitor last night, but I kept waking up to a pounding heart, feeling hot. Horrible. I'd rather be teetotal than put up with that, especially seeing as the same thing happened last Sunday, after two small glasses of champagne. What's the point?
I poked my head outside this morning to take in the very cold air. The sun shone into my face and I pointed and clicked. That was OK. I have a picture of the glaring brightness of an autumn morning, which is no bad thing. I may have to invest in a new camera, though.
* * *
Didn't sleep much. Had just one glass of wine as we had a visitor last night, but I kept waking up to a pounding heart, feeling hot. Horrible. I'd rather be teetotal than put up with that, especially seeing as the same thing happened last Sunday, after two small glasses of champagne. What's the point?
Friday, 19 October 2007
Deterrent? Crapola
Hmm. Two years for stoning a man who then died of a heart attack. Apparently, the punishment – two years in a detention centre – will 'act as a deterrent to others'.
The boys cried and hugged their parents as they were sentenced. Call me a cynic but I'd wager the only people they cried for were themselves.
Reading about the father and son, the mundane details – that they put up a makeshift set of cricket stumps so they could practise bowling – make me want to weep and scream.
I hope the offenders' guilt, if they feel any, stays with them forever, especially when they have children of their own and realise what they stole.
Two sodding years. What a joke.
I have no doubt (judging from previous posts) that there will be people reading this who will be bursting to tell me how badly the boys' lives were/are and oh, what a hard fucking life it is, deprivation this and poverty that. Well (and yes, I am bloody furious), I'll have no truck with that, for a million different reasons. Come on, I dare you...
The boys cried and hugged their parents as they were sentenced. Call me a cynic but I'd wager the only people they cried for were themselves.
Reading about the father and son, the mundane details – that they put up a makeshift set of cricket stumps so they could practise bowling – make me want to weep and scream.
I hope the offenders' guilt, if they feel any, stays with them forever, especially when they have children of their own and realise what they stole.
Two sodding years. What a joke.
I have no doubt (judging from previous posts) that there will be people reading this who will be bursting to tell me how badly the boys' lives were/are and oh, what a hard fucking life it is, deprivation this and poverty that. Well (and yes, I am bloody furious), I'll have no truck with that, for a million different reasons. Come on, I dare you...
Estate agents are liars (not exactly a revelation)
So, I'm sitting here, in my dressing gown (yes, it is 1.30pm but I am still not feeling quite right and I am working at home, so who gives a damn?)...
I hear a rattle of keys at the front door and make a noise, thinking that someone maybe had the wrong flat, or was going to the neighbour's place, and heard: "Mell, Mell, it's [insert name] here from Estate Wankers."
Conversation through a closed door:
Me: What are you doing here?
Estate Wanker (EW): Nick left a message yesterday.
Me: I am off sick, I didn't get a message.
EW: But he called.
Me: I didn't get a message. It is not convenient now.
EW: So, we can't come in?
Me: As I said I am off sick, no appointment was made, I expect a call when someone is coming round. Will you check it with Nick?
EW: Yes, I'll go back to the office and check it.
Me: Good.
Then I called up the office and complained to the manager about the EW feeling perfectly free and easy as far as entering my property is concerned. How fucking difficult is it to pick up the phone to ask whether it is convenient?
I do not like being lied to about such things. Am furious. Suppose I was in the middle of an important interview, in the bath, or walking around with my pants on my head?
Bastards.
Which reminds me, I had a call from a different estate cretin earlier this week. She congratulated me on my 'pregnancy' on the basis of me and S looking at a few properties in the area. The idiot called me up at work and went on and on and I had to say that she had got that wrong. This is the same twunt who told me I looked like her sister and that that made her want to slap me. I really need to write some searing, arse-burning letters. Pronto.
I hate them. Idiots.
I hear a rattle of keys at the front door and make a noise, thinking that someone maybe had the wrong flat, or was going to the neighbour's place, and heard: "Mell, Mell, it's [insert name] here from Estate Wankers."
Conversation through a closed door:
Me: What are you doing here?
Estate Wanker (EW): Nick left a message yesterday.
Me: I am off sick, I didn't get a message.
EW: But he called.
Me: I didn't get a message. It is not convenient now.
EW: So, we can't come in?
Me: As I said I am off sick, no appointment was made, I expect a call when someone is coming round. Will you check it with Nick?
EW: Yes, I'll go back to the office and check it.
Me: Good.
Then I called up the office and complained to the manager about the EW feeling perfectly free and easy as far as entering my property is concerned. How fucking difficult is it to pick up the phone to ask whether it is convenient?
I do not like being lied to about such things. Am furious. Suppose I was in the middle of an important interview, in the bath, or walking around with my pants on my head?
Bastards.
Which reminds me, I had a call from a different estate cretin earlier this week. She congratulated me on my 'pregnancy' on the basis of me and S looking at a few properties in the area. The idiot called me up at work and went on and on and I had to say that she had got that wrong. This is the same twunt who told me I looked like her sister and that that made her want to slap me. I really need to write some searing, arse-burning letters. Pronto.
I hate them. Idiots.
Thursday, 18 October 2007
The smoke alarm
It started beeping yesterday when I was in bed during the afternoon: a short, sharp screech, just the right pitch to be heard above everything else. It then started again this morning for an hour or so, was quiet all day, and has been going for about an hour now. The sound is emitted every minute, I think.
I have been irritated by the smoke alarm and sit here waiting for the next mini-scream. A bit stupid really, seeing as it's only doing its job, and a damn good one at that. I need to buy new batteries, not waste my energy being annoyed with a clever and rather useful contraption.
As I am still not quite right, I shall let myself off for not buying the batteries today, and for forgetting to ask S to bring some home. I mean, I didn't even venture out to buy the lemons I needed.
Hmm, I shall cook some delicious M&S fish (ready prepared), put on a DVD and try to relax. Not easy, but I shall try. For some people this would be effortless but for me, when I am under the weather, I feel an absence of what I could/should/would otherwise be doing.
I have been irritated by the smoke alarm and sit here waiting for the next mini-scream. A bit stupid really, seeing as it's only doing its job, and a damn good one at that. I need to buy new batteries, not waste my energy being annoyed with a clever and rather useful contraption.
As I am still not quite right, I shall let myself off for not buying the batteries today, and for forgetting to ask S to bring some home. I mean, I didn't even venture out to buy the lemons I needed.
Hmm, I shall cook some delicious M&S fish (ready prepared), put on a DVD and try to relax. Not easy, but I shall try. For some people this would be effortless but for me, when I am under the weather, I feel an absence of what I could/should/would otherwise be doing.
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
Words and paracetamol
Sitting here in my dressing gown with ears that prickle, a throat that is swollen and a head that is heavy, I am pondering a variety of things. (My harsh boss – me – has given me the day off, as I feel as rough as sandpaper toilet roll. I am so nice to me...)
Words is on my ponderance list: heavens, they have the propensity to cause all sorts of problems, don't they? I could write reams of words on words but to do so would be tricky at the moment due to the unconnectedness of my verbal reasoning synapses and the call of the leftover curry I'm heating up for lunch.
Curry fact: the heat from chillies in a hot curry cause the brain to think the mouth is burned, so it releases endorphins, which is possibly why so many
people crave spicy food. Works for me.
So: words. This way we have developed of communicating with one another has evolved from non-verbal communication and grunts. Supposedly. But let's face it, non-verbal goings-on and gut feelings – intuition – can have a huge impact on us and can rule out the misunderstandings caused by words.
I set great store by my gut feeling, and the more I do so, the more it tells me, like an indistinct voice to which your ear becomes attuned. It is literally a persistent, simmering, throbbing feeling in my solar plexus, and I can know certain things (people's motives, whether someone will do what they have promised, whether something is advisable, more mundane things, too), with certainty, because of it. I consult it.
Who is to say that those areas of the brain about which we know nothing are not operating on what is naively described as 'another plane', but are governing such hunches and 'illogical' moments that most of us bury under a pile of steaming reason?
The trouble with words, as much as I love them, is our tendency to see what we want to see, to draw meanings according to our limited experience, and to interpret them in infinite ways. The more limbic things – the scent of one another's hormones, the smell of fear, a sense of danger – are often far more reliable simply because we do not translate these through our flawed, word-mangling, word-strangling, biased brains.
And on that note, I am going to take some paracetamol and lie down.
----------------
Listening to: Portishead - Sour Times
Words is on my ponderance list: heavens, they have the propensity to cause all sorts of problems, don't they? I could write reams of words on words but to do so would be tricky at the moment due to the unconnectedness of my verbal reasoning synapses and the call of the leftover curry I'm heating up for lunch.
Curry fact: the heat from chillies in a hot curry cause the brain to think the mouth is burned, so it releases endorphins, which is possibly why so many
people crave spicy food. Works for me.So: words. This way we have developed of communicating with one another has evolved from non-verbal communication and grunts. Supposedly. But let's face it, non-verbal goings-on and gut feelings – intuition – can have a huge impact on us and can rule out the misunderstandings caused by words.
I set great store by my gut feeling, and the more I do so, the more it tells me, like an indistinct voice to which your ear becomes attuned. It is literally a persistent, simmering, throbbing feeling in my solar plexus, and I can know certain things (people's motives, whether someone will do what they have promised, whether something is advisable, more mundane things, too), with certainty, because of it. I consult it.
Who is to say that those areas of the brain about which we know nothing are not operating on what is naively described as 'another plane', but are governing such hunches and 'illogical' moments that most of us bury under a pile of steaming reason?
The trouble with words, as much as I love them, is our tendency to see what we want to see, to draw meanings according to our limited experience, and to interpret them in infinite ways. The more limbic things – the scent of one another's hormones, the smell of fear, a sense of danger – are often far more reliable simply because we do not translate these through our flawed, word-mangling, word-strangling, biased brains.
And on that note, I am going to take some paracetamol and lie down.
----------------
Listening to: Portishead - Sour Times
Sunday, 14 October 2007
Champagne
I had alcohol for the first time in six months last night – two glasses of champagne.
It tasted good.
I got home late... have slept for about an hour.
I feel awful.
It is not fair.
I am tireder than the tiredest person in Tiredland.
Tireder is a strange word...
It tasted good.
I got home late... have slept for about an hour.
I feel awful.
It is not fair.
I am tireder than the tiredest person in Tiredland.
Tireder is a strange word...
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
People
I like watching people, and sometimes I watch people watching other people.
On my way to and from work I observe them, like ants, scurrying this way and that. All in their own secret worlds. It can make me want to cry, these people and their mysteries, weaving their way through my favourite city in the world.
Why is she smiling to herself? Is he holding in tears, or is that anger? Where is she going? What is he thinking? Can any of them read my mind? If they can: hello...
If I listen to my red thing I feel as though I am travelling through a film script, especially when I'm in central London. Today's random shuffle began exquisitely and started with the song I most wanted to hear:
Love Like Blood (Killing Joke)
Sour Times (Portishead)
The Unforgettable Fire (U2)
Protection (Massive Attack)
O Mi Babbino Caro (from Gianni Schicchi)
Strangers (Portishead)
----------------
Listening to: Björk - Human Behavior
On my way to and from work I observe them, like ants, scurrying this way and that. All in their own secret worlds. It can make me want to cry, these people and their mysteries, weaving their way through my favourite city in the world.
Why is she smiling to herself? Is he holding in tears, or is that anger? Where is she going? What is he thinking? Can any of them read my mind? If they can: hello...
If I listen to my red thing I feel as though I am travelling through a film script, especially when I'm in central London. Today's random shuffle began exquisitely and started with the song I most wanted to hear:
Love Like Blood (Killing Joke)
Sour Times (Portishead)
The Unforgettable Fire (U2)
Protection (Massive Attack)
O Mi Babbino Caro (from Gianni Schicchi)
Strangers (Portishead)
----------------
Listening to: Björk - Human Behavior
Monday, 8 October 2007
Broken finger, mended friendship
It's called a comminuted fracture, which means that S's little finger – which he fractured back in May, and has broken again this weekend thanks to cricket – is in pieces. He's on strong painkillers and won't be swinging a bat or catching a cricket ball for a while. Work will be tricky, too. And so is bathing (I showered him today and yesterday as he sat in the bath, his poorly hand draped over the side).
Anyway, this latest mishap (all sustained while S was fielding or keeping wicket) follows the breaking of another finger (keeping up?) a few weeks ago. That break was a hairline fracture.
So, in summary: we have finger A, which was broken in May, then healed (albeit at a strange angle), then was broken again, badly, at the weekend, and finger B on his other hand, cracked a few weeks ago but now OK. That, hopefully, will be the 'three'. Finger A is blueish red and very fat. Thinking about the shattered, twisted little bones inside makes me feel queasy. He chuckled as he told me about it.
* * * * *
My friend, P, who I have known for 20 years, drove us to have a lovely cream tea at the weekend. We had lost touch for more than five years for various reasons (I had things going on; she went abroad) but I realised in the course of our latest conversation that the good bits of P are very, very good, and that the not-so-good bits (as I had perceived them while not in a great state of mind) were really not at all not-so-good (double negatives necessary, I'm afraid). Perspective is a great thing.
Not one of us is perfect, and it became apparent to me as we chatted and ate scones slathered in jam and clotted cream that we have both grown up a lot during the hiatus. Certain insecurities are not there any longer, confidence has replaced what were growing pains, but most importantly, what made us friends as teenagers hadn't changed a bit.
I don't know anyone who hasn't said something that, if I so choose, I can perceive as hurtful. And I know I can be sharp at times (especially this summer with my insomnia, but the people who genuinely care see past my fug of deepest, darkest exhaustion; those who choose to see the negative, such as my ex-friend R, focus on themselves only, saying things like, "You aren't the only one with problems"...). Hmm, yes. Whatever. This isn't a fucking contest.
If I turn this thing round on its head, maybe P could have chosen to feel victim-y and cast me as a bad person... At the last meal we went to – a meeting of friends – weeks before she took a job abroad, I barely spoke to her despite her best efforts, and I walked away at the end of the evening, putting in place the first brick of a gap in our friendship that was actually quite damaging to me, as I added it to my feelings of being wronged. I remember it clearly. My breath rose in the air as I marched back to my car and drove to the flat I lived in alone. I'd said goodbye to everyone bar her. I don't blame myself for behaving that way, as I had stupefying things going on, but it's not a happy memory.
Anyway, when I contacted P at New Year after discovering her new mobile number (well, I'm not a journalist for nothing), I wasn't sure if I would receive a response. But I did, and when she remembered my birthday, months later, I suggested we meet. She called me up immediately and we met a week later. It was a little odd talking about big events such as my wedding to S. But it was also not odd, not painful, not embarrassing. It was OK, it was really OK. And that spoke volumes.
Anyway, this latest mishap (all sustained while S was fielding or keeping wicket) follows the breaking of another finger (keeping up?) a few weeks ago. That break was a hairline fracture.
So, in summary: we have finger A, which was broken in May, then healed (albeit at a strange angle), then was broken again, badly, at the weekend, and finger B on his other hand, cracked a few weeks ago but now OK. That, hopefully, will be the 'three'. Finger A is blueish red and very fat. Thinking about the shattered, twisted little bones inside makes me feel queasy. He chuckled as he told me about it.
* * * * *
My friend, P, who I have known for 20 years, drove us to have a lovely cream tea at the weekend. We had lost touch for more than five years for various reasons (I had things going on; she went abroad) but I realised in the course of our latest conversation that the good bits of P are very, very good, and that the not-so-good bits (as I had perceived them while not in a great state of mind) were really not at all not-so-good (double negatives necessary, I'm afraid). Perspective is a great thing.
Not one of us is perfect, and it became apparent to me as we chatted and ate scones slathered in jam and clotted cream that we have both grown up a lot during the hiatus. Certain insecurities are not there any longer, confidence has replaced what were growing pains, but most importantly, what made us friends as teenagers hadn't changed a bit.
I don't know anyone who hasn't said something that, if I so choose, I can perceive as hurtful. And I know I can be sharp at times (especially this summer with my insomnia, but the people who genuinely care see past my fug of deepest, darkest exhaustion; those who choose to see the negative, such as my ex-friend R, focus on themselves only, saying things like, "You aren't the only one with problems"...). Hmm, yes. Whatever. This isn't a fucking contest.
If I turn this thing round on its head, maybe P could have chosen to feel victim-y and cast me as a bad person... At the last meal we went to – a meeting of friends – weeks before she took a job abroad, I barely spoke to her despite her best efforts, and I walked away at the end of the evening, putting in place the first brick of a gap in our friendship that was actually quite damaging to me, as I added it to my feelings of being wronged. I remember it clearly. My breath rose in the air as I marched back to my car and drove to the flat I lived in alone. I'd said goodbye to everyone bar her. I don't blame myself for behaving that way, as I had stupefying things going on, but it's not a happy memory.
Anyway, when I contacted P at New Year after discovering her new mobile number (well, I'm not a journalist for nothing), I wasn't sure if I would receive a response. But I did, and when she remembered my birthday, months later, I suggested we meet. She called me up immediately and we met a week later. It was a little odd talking about big events such as my wedding to S. But it was also not odd, not painful, not embarrassing. It was OK, it was really OK. And that spoke volumes.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Fighting fit(ish) and a birthday
This week has been rather too busy. Sleep has been a friend for a few nights and a foe for the others, which hasn't helped in the light of the amount of work I've had to do lately.
I woke up yesterday with a scratchy sore throat, feeling drained and dizzy. My head is blocked this morning – I doubt I recovered from the virus thing last week. The scratchy throat thing has extended to my left ear today – you know that feeling when you have to wiggle your ear as the sensation is so deep in your eardrum? I shall ignore it. Pah.
Anyway, I am now allowed to fight. Yes. Fight! I passed my kung fu grading (though when I attended class recently I was very uncoordinated and felt about as worthy of my new belt as Britney Spears would be if she were crowned mum of the year). I was embarrassed and frustrated at my ineptness and my instructor joked that he thought me passing the test must be a mistake. I smiled but I felt bad. Maybe I should have just stayed at home and rested. But I'm not that sort of person. Even when I should be.
* * * * *
One of my dearest friends, Inz, celebrated her 40th birthday yesterday. It was a lovely gathering of people she'd collected from various times in her life. I rarely see her as she lives in France but when I do it's great. We met at a writing class in the early 90s, and clicked immediately. She is funny, lovely, caring, warm, and as cute as a button.
The music – which was courtesy of the radio – was an appropriate mixture of 70s, 80s and 90s tunes. The food, provided by Inz's mum, was delicious. It was an evening of easy reminiscing, devoid of angst, as it should be.
I got home post-curfew and walked past cars covered in condensation. Everything was that bit quieter, stiller and there was ice in the air. Autumn has definitely arrived. The ivy that was green and red is now blazing scarlet.
I woke up yesterday with a scratchy sore throat, feeling drained and dizzy. My head is blocked this morning – I doubt I recovered from the virus thing last week. The scratchy throat thing has extended to my left ear today – you know that feeling when you have to wiggle your ear as the sensation is so deep in your eardrum? I shall ignore it. Pah.
Anyway, I am now allowed to fight. Yes. Fight! I passed my kung fu grading (though when I attended class recently I was very uncoordinated and felt about as worthy of my new belt as Britney Spears would be if she were crowned mum of the year). I was embarrassed and frustrated at my ineptness and my instructor joked that he thought me passing the test must be a mistake. I smiled but I felt bad. Maybe I should have just stayed at home and rested. But I'm not that sort of person. Even when I should be.
* * * * *
One of my dearest friends, Inz, celebrated her 40th birthday yesterday. It was a lovely gathering of people she'd collected from various times in her life. I rarely see her as she lives in France but when I do it's great. We met at a writing class in the early 90s, and clicked immediately. She is funny, lovely, caring, warm, and as cute as a button.
The music – which was courtesy of the radio – was an appropriate mixture of 70s, 80s and 90s tunes. The food, provided by Inz's mum, was delicious. It was an evening of easy reminiscing, devoid of angst, as it should be.
I got home post-curfew and walked past cars covered in condensation. Everything was that bit quieter, stiller and there was ice in the air. Autumn has definitely arrived. The ivy that was green and red is now blazing scarlet.
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
Poisonous waters?
Feel a bit better today, thank goodness. Maybe I sweated out the remainder of the virus – or the weird stuff that I found in my bottle of mineral water (more later) – at kung fu. Yes, there was a lot of sweat – we were all drenched, exhausted and loved every minute of it. Instructor N was on good form – tough but good-humoured – and the class was a pleasurable mix of pain and triumph.
I still have big bruises on my arms from last week's class. One is purple, one is red with a yellow patch in the middle. It was funny, N told me to "calm it down" when we were in pairs sparring. I have plenty of enthusiasm and speed but my technique needs sharpening up (as is the case with all of us). I quite like that I need to be told to calm it down when sparring with a six-foot man. Ha ha.
But, yes, the water-poison thing. Well, we were out on Sunday, having a relaxed day, stopped at a café for lunch and I bought a bottle of mineral water to take away. I sipped from it. All fine. Later, I put the bottle by my bed, drank half of it and went to sleep – a fitful sleep. The next day, I felt utterly horrendous.
Before we went out (once I felt vaguely normal), I came across the bottle and found that the water was now green, slightly frothy, contained what looked like the large remains of a capsule – floating like pieces of a giant tapeworm – plus tiny purple globes of stuff.
Now, I don't know what it was – it may have been a vitamin. All I know is that I felt like death warmed up the morning after (but then again I had been ill for a few days...). But I couldn't lift my arms or stand. Hmm. If I go back to the café, I'll only get an apology and free bottle of water, and I can't prove anything (though I still have the bottle with the now-purple water). Ugh.
* * * * *
M the rabbit had to go to the vet today. She hated it and tried to hide under the scales (she weighs 2.5kg, a fact that makes my heart melt for some re
ason). The vet gave her two injections and a check up. M tried (as much as a bunny can) to cling to me. It was very sweet. When we got home, she raced around, annoyed and in discomfort. I gave her a carrot top, which she ate, but I know she was disgruntled at being taken to the vet. She looks so sleepy now, poor little thing. I'm playing my iTunes favourites softly, which seem to soothe her. She likes God Only Knows by The Beach Boys, I think. One ear has swivelled towards the computer, you see.
----------------
Listening to: Duran Duran - Rio This may seem naff but I remember being 13, in a plane, flying over the Rio Grande and listening to this song on my Walkman. Fucking amazing... "You make me feel alive, alive, alive..."
I still have big bruises on my arms from last week's class. One is purple, one is red with a yellow patch in the middle. It was funny, N told me to "calm it down" when we were in pairs sparring. I have plenty of enthusiasm and speed but my technique needs sharpening up (as is the case with all of us). I quite like that I need to be told to calm it down when sparring with a six-foot man. Ha ha.
But, yes, the water-poison thing. Well, we were out on Sunday, having a relaxed day, stopped at a café for lunch and I bought a bottle of mineral water to take away. I sipped from it. All fine. Later, I put the bottle by my bed, drank half of it and went to sleep – a fitful sleep. The next day, I felt utterly horrendous.
Before we went out (once I felt vaguely normal), I came across the bottle and found that the water was now green, slightly frothy, contained what looked like the large remains of a capsule – floating like pieces of a giant tapeworm – plus tiny purple globes of stuff.
Now, I don't know what it was – it may have been a vitamin. All I know is that I felt like death warmed up the morning after (but then again I had been ill for a few days...). But I couldn't lift my arms or stand. Hmm. If I go back to the café, I'll only get an apology and free bottle of water, and I can't prove anything (though I still have the bottle with the now-purple water). Ugh.
* * * * *
M the rabbit had to go to the vet today. She hated it and tried to hide under the scales (she weighs 2.5kg, a fact that makes my heart melt for some re
ason). The vet gave her two injections and a check up. M tried (as much as a bunny can) to cling to me. It was very sweet. When we got home, she raced around, annoyed and in discomfort. I gave her a carrot top, which she ate, but I know she was disgruntled at being taken to the vet. She looks so sleepy now, poor little thing. I'm playing my iTunes favourites softly, which seem to soothe her. She likes God Only Knows by The Beach Boys, I think. One ear has swivelled towards the computer, you see.----------------
Listening to: Duran Duran - Rio This may seem naff but I remember being 13, in a plane, flying over the Rio Grande and listening to this song on my Walkman. Fucking amazing... "You make me feel alive, alive, alive..."
Monday, 1 October 2007
Faint – but with fab hair
Ended up sprawled in the bath in my night clothes this morning, while my hair was saturated in hair dye.
I had been having breakfast, with dye-damp hair piled on top of my head, when the blood rushed from my brain, from my limbs, and I felt horrendous. I have never passed out but must have been very close to doing so.
Had I not been in a hair-dying situation, I'd have somehow crawled to the bedroom, or called for S. But no, my tresses (and arms – on account of slumping with my head in my hands) were covered in this deep, dark stuff that was ready to be washed off, and I imagined that if I left it, it would burn my scalp away. So, cold and perspiring frighteningly, I let some time pass, barely able to move. Then, I walked – very slowly – to the bathroom, careful to hold the walls (but not stain them in the process) to keep me upright. I felt, with every step, that I might fall, and was terrified that I'd hit my head in the small bathroom, and S would find me out cold or worse. It was that bad.
Eventually, I slid into the bath, clothed, and lay there for a while. Then, with my head swimming, I shifted underneath the shower head and let warm water flow over me, which soothed me slightly. It took ages for me to have a shower as my body felt like jelly and my arms and legs were like a rag doll's. Even typing this – an hour later – my fingers feel bloodless. My face is white.
It's very odd. I've been eating well... so I don't know what caused this. I just hope it doesn't repeat as S and I have a longed-for day off and he's taking me out to a lovely place celebrate our third anniversary of nuptials.
I shall wear my red dress and damn this bizarre dizziness.
I had been having breakfast, with dye-damp hair piled on top of my head, when the blood rushed from my brain, from my limbs, and I felt horrendous. I have never passed out but must have been very close to doing so.
Had I not been in a hair-dying situation, I'd have somehow crawled to the bedroom, or called for S. But no, my tresses (and arms – on account of slumping with my head in my hands) were covered in this deep, dark stuff that was ready to be washed off, and I imagined that if I left it, it would burn my scalp away. So, cold and perspiring frighteningly, I let some time pass, barely able to move. Then, I walked – very slowly – to the bathroom, careful to hold the walls (but not stain them in the process) to keep me upright. I felt, with every step, that I might fall, and was terrified that I'd hit my head in the small bathroom, and S would find me out cold or worse. It was that bad.
Eventually, I slid into the bath, clothed, and lay there for a while. Then, with my head swimming, I shifted underneath the shower head and let warm water flow over me, which soothed me slightly. It took ages for me to have a shower as my body felt like jelly and my arms and legs were like a rag doll's. Even typing this – an hour later – my fingers feel bloodless. My face is white.
It's very odd. I've been eating well... so I don't know what caused this. I just hope it doesn't repeat as S and I have a longed-for day off and he's taking me out to a lovely place celebrate our third anniversary of nuptials.
I shall wear my red dress and damn this bizarre dizziness.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Green dress, aching head
I've succumbed to some sort of virus thing. My head feels as though it's got some kind of balloon inside that expands and causes awful pressure that blocks my ears and gives me heavy, dragging headaches above my eyes.
Trouble is, as a self-employed person, illness is not an option. But having to work when ill means that your working days are very long as you struggle to do things that would take you half the time normally, and you don't rest. Somehow (and this has happened to me several times), the weekend, or a holiday arrives and you are laid low. I spent most of yesterday on the sofa.
* * * * *
Googlers have been searching for pictures of Cecily Tallis's green dress in Atonement. I know because a couple of them have come here.
Here it is again, on the very slim Keira. It is a backless creation and is lovely. There doesn't seem to be much information about the dress out there. But The Dress, it seems, has become a star in its own right.
Trouble is, as a self-employed person, illness is not an option. But having to work when ill means that your working days are very long as you struggle to do things that would take you half the time normally, and you don't rest. Somehow (and this has happened to me several times), the weekend, or a holiday arrives and you are laid low. I spent most of yesterday on the sofa.
* * * * *
Googlers have been searching for pictures of Cecily Tallis's green dress in Atonement. I know because a couple of them have come here.
Here it is again, on the very slim Keira. It is a backless creation and is lovely. There doesn't seem to be much information about the dress out there. But The Dress, it seems, has become a star in its own right.
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Clichés are based on truth
Estate agents = wankers/bastards/moneyfornothing scrotes? Well, based on my experience this is certainly the truth. All bar one outstanding chap (who I think has left the 'profession'), they have all been useless time-wasting tossers over the past five years. I would use the rudest word at my disposal but I think the words 'estate agents' will just have to suffice as a substitute.
Long story short:
1) We see a house we like – it's one we had spotted ages ago, when we were looking for our current place. It's back on the market.
2) We put in an offer – the asking price; it is accepted. We very quickly put our place on the market with the same agents, thinking they'd have the motivation and it would be easier to deal with just one firm of twerps.
3) The estate wankers (who we feel have overpriced our place but who love it) use 'summer' and 'the holidays' to account for the lack of viewings. They bullshit us, bring a handful of people round (who mess up our lovely pale carpet with their clodhoppers) and that's that.
After a few weeks, we realise that these people can't be arsed. Just can't be arsed – they don't even know if there is a service charge, whether it is leasehold etcetera... Their 'solution' is for us to rent our place out (via their sister lettings firm – hmm) so we have two mortgages on the go. In the current climate, this is hilarious, and we do not want to be landlords or have any extra stress.
4) S tells them that we are worried about the renting option, stresses to the agent that we still want the other place and would the manager of the estate wankers get back to us to let us know what the vendor thinks.
5) I casually browse the internet this morning and search for the address of the place we thought we were still buying. It's back on the market. They didn't even tell us. I am fucking incandescent and am minded to take the 'for sale' sign outside our place and ram it up the estate wanker manager's arse.
6) Today will be interesting. I feel it's time for me to wear my investigative journalist hat – again. Excellent.
----------------
Listening to: The Source Feat. Candi Staton - You Got The Love
Long story short:
1) We see a house we like – it's one we had spotted ages ago, when we were looking for our current place. It's back on the market.
2) We put in an offer – the asking price; it is accepted. We very quickly put our place on the market with the same agents, thinking they'd have the motivation and it would be easier to deal with just one firm of twerps.
3) The estate wankers (who we feel have overpriced our place but who love it) use 'summer' and 'the holidays' to account for the lack of viewings. They bullshit us, bring a handful of people round (who mess up our lovely pale carpet with their clodhoppers) and that's that.
After a few weeks, we realise that these people can't be arsed. Just can't be arsed – they don't even know if there is a service charge, whether it is leasehold etcetera... Their 'solution' is for us to rent our place out (via their sister lettings firm – hmm) so we have two mortgages on the go. In the current climate, this is hilarious, and we do not want to be landlords or have any extra stress.
4) S tells them that we are worried about the renting option, stresses to the agent that we still want the other place and would the manager of the estate wankers get back to us to let us know what the vendor thinks.
5) I casually browse the internet this morning and search for the address of the place we thought we were still buying. It's back on the market. They didn't even tell us. I am fucking incandescent and am minded to take the 'for sale' sign outside our place and ram it up the estate wanker manager's arse.
6) Today will be interesting. I feel it's time for me to wear my investigative journalist hat – again. Excellent.
----------------
Listening to: The Source Feat. Candi Staton - You Got The Love
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Whiter than white
Hmm. So, Bollywood actor Shah Rukh Khan is being criticised for advertising a product that can be used to lighten the skin. Apparently it endorses stereotypes. Well, stereotype, schtereohype.
If people still want to spend their money on things that make them feel attractive (however misguided in others' eyes) let them get on with it. If they are buying X or Y simply because they feel that others may view them as inferior if they aren't A or B, that's sad, but what are you going to do? Impose sanctions?
Are we going to stop brunettes buying Garnier blonde hair dye? Where are the news stories about the myriad sun-worshippers and fake-tanners who want to darken their skin (and risk bloody cancer in their pursuit of a brown 'attractive' skin)?
And, while I'm at it – why aren't we all moaning about the number of anti-ageing products around? Why is being old – and looking it – a sin? Hmm.
If people still want to spend their money on things that make them feel attractive (however misguided in others' eyes) let them get on with it. If they are buying X or Y simply because they feel that others may view them as inferior if they aren't A or B, that's sad, but what are you going to do? Impose sanctions?
Are we going to stop brunettes buying Garnier blonde hair dye? Where are the news stories about the myriad sun-worshippers and fake-tanners who want to darken their skin (and risk bloody cancer in their pursuit of a brown 'attractive' skin)?
And, while I'm at it – why aren't we all moaning about the number of anti-ageing products around? Why is being old – and looking it – a sin? Hmm.
Save the date
I received an email yesterday. It was prettily decorated with pictures of shiny red baubles and candles and chocolate.
It was an invitation to a Christmas party, telling me to 'save the date'. Heavens. First, it was the (increasingly large range of) festive biscuits and selection boxes in late August, Christmas cards in September, and now, I must start thinking about what to wear for this bash. Apparently.
I am too tired to make a fuss. I'll just get my diary and save the date.
It was an invitation to a Christmas party, telling me to 'save the date'. Heavens. First, it was the (increasingly large range of) festive biscuits and selection boxes in late August, Christmas cards in September, and now, I must start thinking about what to wear for this bash. Apparently.
I am too tired to make a fuss. I'll just get my diary and save the date.
Monday, 24 September 2007
Atonement
Ian McEwan is not everyone's cup of tea (what writer is?)... I find his books either turgid or very good, a bit similar to my reaction to Nick Hornby, who failed miserably (in my humble opinion) with How to be Good. I am anal about books but that one went flying across the room and was sent to the local Oxfam store very quickly. The sight of its cover set my teeth on edge after about page 20.I enjoyed McEwan's Amsterdam. Enduring Love was OK, but I didn't like it as much as the former. I didn't get as far as buying Saturday, but I did buy Atonement when it was published in hardback, years ago, on the strength of Amsterdam and the black and white picture of the girl on the cover.
I am not sure why I never read it but it may have something to do with hardbacks being a little too heavy to read on the Tube. Plus there was never enough room in my bag.
So, I decided to see the film of the hardback. I deliberately avoided reviews, didn't pay the blurb on the cinema listings much attention, and put away my irritation with Keira Knightley.
My friends (two men, who had no idea what the film was about) and I watched the first part of the film waiting... It was drawn out, soporific, threatened to be dull and full of ingredients for criticism, and I thought they'd slate me afterwards for choosing the film. But my goodness, it turned around. Some devices used in the film were irritating (the echoing "Come back to me...") but overall, bloody hell, that opening half hour was essential, just to contrast with what followed.
Keira did what Keira does best: fragile, posh and, when she was swishing about in that green dress, very English rose. James McAvoy was brilliant, as were Romola Garai and Saoirse Ronan.
The Dunkirk scene, which will be talked about for years (and has got to be Oscar-worthy), was compelling, amazing and somehow conveyed the sheer madness and horror of war through one shot (shot only once) that lasted seven minutes.
The rest of the story is difficult to describe without giving away too much. Suffice to say, when you realise what has happened, the thing for which the girl on the book has tried to atone (and its effects), it is unexpected. I am so glad I didn't read the book, or that moment would have been spoiled for me.
© Mellifluous Dark, all rights reserved.As it was, I recounted the story to S the next day, surrounded by leaves such as the ones above, and surprised myself by crying as a few scenes came to mind – the ones at Balham Underground Station (it was indeed bombed during the war on October 14 – 68 bodies were recovered from the sludge; 600 people had been sheltering...); the one where Robbie (McAvoy) is with his friend, trying to sleep at Dunkirk, the revelation, the beach... among others. Yes, this may be fiction, but people have been through some of this stuff, and it really is heartbreaking.
I'd recommend Atonement – the film – for its entertainment value, for its score, beauty, sadness and its ability to move, if you are at all movable.
Cynics will say blah and blah, but cynics always do; they are never satisfied, always superior but culturally vultural. And what's to recommend that?
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Do you realize?
I didn't really know much about the Flaming Lips. They were one of the support acts at a wonderful Massive Attack concert in London's Hyde Park a year or so ago... They performed this and rendered me speechless.
I cried my eyes out behind my sunglasses.
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun don'-go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh
Do You Realize - that everyone you know
Someday will die
I cried my eyes out behind my sunglasses.
Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun don'-go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh
Do You Realize - that everyone you know
Someday will die
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Autumn
Autumn is here. This is deeply pleasing.Mornings of sharp, bright sunshine. Breath you can see in the air, giving you feedback that you are alive.
Crisp leaves underfoot. The need to wear a coat and boots. Glossy chestnuts by the dozen, so shiny they seem to have been polished by Mother Nature... Perfectly-formed acorns, the targets of skittery squirrels.
The spectrum of colours... leaves blazing with fire before they die. Ivy, climbing up walls, turning scarlet for a few precious weeks in a scintillating display. Stunning.
The comfort of getting home from spending a day out, revelling in being warm and cosy.
Beautiful.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Excited about curry
I am so hungry. I have just done a sort of dance-type movement, having ordered a curry to be delivered from the best Indian restaurant round here.
I stooped to the floor and told the rabbit, M, that 'we are having curry, yes, we're having curry!'. She didn't even blink. But be sure that she will want a piece of chapatti – she always does.
Ah, my saliva is at the ready. I really am very excited. Mmm...
I stooped to the floor and told the rabbit, M, that 'we are having curry, yes, we're having curry!'. She didn't even blink. But be sure that she will want a piece of chapatti – she always does.
Ah, my saliva is at the ready. I really am very excited. Mmm...
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Arghhhh
I didn't realise September 24th is just a few days away (and incorporates a weekend).
This means I have one working day left to write a feature that I have thus far thought I could finish in about eight days' time. Blast.
This means I have one working day left to write a feature that I have thus far thought I could finish in about eight days' time. Blast.
Gorillas in a twist
So, certain people think the Cadbury's advert with the gorilla playing the drums is racist because it was shown on Channel 4 after Brian (who, for those who didn't watch it, is black)... won Big Brother. What the hell?
Does it not say more about those whining about 'racism' that they go on about offending black people when they see a gorilla?????? How incredibly idiotic.
I watched that advert and didn't jump to thinking: "Oh, my, that's a gorilla – that's offensive to black people. Let's ban it." For goodness sake, get a grip, people. Get a bloody grip.
Does it not say more about those whining about 'racism' that they go on about offending black people when they see a gorilla?????? How incredibly idiotic.
I watched that advert and didn't jump to thinking: "Oh, my, that's a gorilla – that's offensive to black people. Let's ban it." For goodness sake, get a grip, people. Get a bloody grip.
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
Wasp in the cooker hood
It's in there, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. At first I thought I was going mad, or that the fridge was about to die. But no, a wasp is living (or trapped) in the cooker hood.
I switched it on for a few seconds and all went silent. But only for a couple of minutes.
I am so tired. So very, very tired. My back is aching. When I move, I can feel – and hear – the vertebrae crack.
----------------
Listening to: Editors - Escape The Nest
I switched it on for a few seconds and all went silent. But only for a couple of minutes.
I am so tired. So very, very tired. My back is aching. When I move, I can feel – and hear – the vertebrae crack.
----------------
Listening to: Editors - Escape The Nest
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Me, interrupted
You've been sitting nervously on the floor for two hours, your backside's growing numb and your lumbar spine is beginning to ache. Then your name is called. You step up. You – and the three others who have been called up at the same time – do the first part of the kung fu exam – a random combination of hand moves, turns and kicks. Tricky. Trickier yet due to the nervousness spilling from every pore.
But you try to focus. Focus. Focus. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your mind is clear, dangerously so. Your legs wobble ever so slightly. It's scary. Imagine around 70 people watching you during an exam. There were 60 sitting on the floor behind plus, say, 15 of the elite in front, arranged according to hierarchy [think Last Supper]...
Then – then! – just before the second (and main) part of the exam, I was called over by the guru (to carry on the Last Supper metaphor, we are talking about the most Holy one here)... I was so nervous I must have looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I thought he was going to tell me to leave for being or doing something appalling but instead he whispered in my ear and told me not to worry. I'm sure it was for about five minutes. Five minutes while 75 pairs of ears strained to hear what I was being talked to about. To put this into context, no one else had such a summoning. Just me.
Maybe they all thought he was imparting some secret technique, some previously-hidden method of something or the other. Instead, he gently asked about, and advised me on, my eating. He asked whether I was sleeping well [he surely must be psychic] and generally seemed to pick up on the fact that I have been extremely stressed and needed a bit of a pep talk with regards to looking after myself well. Even though he has met me only twice, he'd noticed I'd lost weight and was concerned. I was touched, even though the context of the chat was quite surreal.
The chief is a (very tough) man who eats meat – and plenty of it – and you really do need to eat well to have the strength to train properly. I'm not a veggie but I don't eat enough protein and haven't stepped up my food intake to compensate for the thousands of extra calories I burn off at kung fu. So, he had a point. But to be interrupted in the middle of my grading was novel, surreal and made everyone else stare at me for a while. Suffice to say, I have bought a batch of meat and fish so that I can get into my size eight jeans without needing a belt to keep them up. I seriously do not want to lose any more weight. I wish I could eat chocolate but I'm still banned from it due to the caffeine yadda yadda.
Watched Girl, Interrupted last night on the box. Hmm. It was pa
inful viewing in places. There was Winona, all angsty, but quite normal really. And there was Angelina Jolie, being very nuts. What was scary and sad is that this story was based on a woman's experience. Thank goodness the world knows more about mental illness these days.
Bits of the film reminded me of a wonderful, wonderful book I read earlier this year: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell. A moving and deeply disturbing read, and one of my favourite books.
----------------
Listening to: Kosheen - Empty Skies
But you try to focus. Focus. Focus. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your mind is clear, dangerously so. Your legs wobble ever so slightly. It's scary. Imagine around 70 people watching you during an exam. There were 60 sitting on the floor behind plus, say, 15 of the elite in front, arranged according to hierarchy [think Last Supper]...
Then – then! – just before the second (and main) part of the exam, I was called over by the guru (to carry on the Last Supper metaphor, we are talking about the most Holy one here)... I was so nervous I must have looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I thought he was going to tell me to leave for being or doing something appalling but instead he whispered in my ear and told me not to worry. I'm sure it was for about five minutes. Five minutes while 75 pairs of ears strained to hear what I was being talked to about. To put this into context, no one else had such a summoning. Just me.
Maybe they all thought he was imparting some secret technique, some previously-hidden method of something or the other. Instead, he gently asked about, and advised me on, my eating. He asked whether I was sleeping well [he surely must be psychic] and generally seemed to pick up on the fact that I have been extremely stressed and needed a bit of a pep talk with regards to looking after myself well. Even though he has met me only twice, he'd noticed I'd lost weight and was concerned. I was touched, even though the context of the chat was quite surreal.
The chief is a (very tough) man who eats meat – and plenty of it – and you really do need to eat well to have the strength to train properly. I'm not a veggie but I don't eat enough protein and haven't stepped up my food intake to compensate for the thousands of extra calories I burn off at kung fu. So, he had a point. But to be interrupted in the middle of my grading was novel, surreal and made everyone else stare at me for a while. Suffice to say, I have bought a batch of meat and fish so that I can get into my size eight jeans without needing a belt to keep them up. I seriously do not want to lose any more weight. I wish I could eat chocolate but I'm still banned from it due to the caffeine yadda yadda.
Watched Girl, Interrupted last night on the box. Hmm. It was pa
inful viewing in places. There was Winona, all angsty, but quite normal really. And there was Angelina Jolie, being very nuts. What was scary and sad is that this story was based on a woman's experience. Thank goodness the world knows more about mental illness these days.Bits of the film reminded me of a wonderful, wonderful book I read earlier this year: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell. A moving and deeply disturbing read, and one of my favourite books.
----------------
Listening to: Kosheen - Empty Skies
Saturday, 15 September 2007
GFG: the one where she is a fuckwit
The precious peace that I wrote about in my post this morning quickly evaporated with the sound of Ground Floor Girl (GFG)'s persistent door slamming and her blaring music and television.
There is no way she can have imagined that it was acceptable. I could hear – and feel – the door slamming so loudly while I was in the bathroom that I suspected there was building work going on downstairs. When the consistency and familiarity of the sound/vibration revealed what was actually happening, my neck tightened and adrenaline coursed through me. I was on fire. I was as rigid and tense as a steel girder.
S emerged from the living room and I could see that boiling point for him was not far off. He'd been sitting there, having breakfast, enjoying what had been a relaxed start to the weekend, having worked hard all week, as had I. He has been nice to her, giving her the benefit of the doubt where, for me, The Line had been crossed a while back. He looked bemused and hurt.
All we have ever done to her has been neighbourly: pick up her shopping, take in her deliveries, give her wine, feed her, tidy up the (joint gardens), paint the (communal) areas, pay for the (communal) plants, close her huge window that she had left open when she was away and prevent bailiffs entering her place.
She has kept me awake – or woken me up – with the amount of noise she generates when coming back from a night out several times. As an insomniac (she knows this), I think this is tantamount to abuse and cruelty. And her attitude ("I don't think I should pay my share"/"I don't care about looking after the place; it's just the way I am" etcetera), stinks as badly as a dollop of shit in your freshly-coiffed hair. It's just not on. No. No, no, no.
We are nice people. We are quiet. We are considerate. She is a total cunt.
I was shaking with rage. I am fucked off with people treating me as though my good manners and general amiability are an open invitation to take the piss. I don't often lose my temper properly but when I do, I can turn the air bluer than the sky over the sea on a clear day. I was fully prepared for this to go down that road. And oh, it's nice to throw in a bit of blood-curdling logic when such situations occur.
I don't scream, but I suppose 'fierce' sums it up. It shocks people, and I find it excruciatingly unpleasant, but it has to be done in certain circumstances to stop liberties from being taken. Such times – and I can count them on one hand – are rare. I prefer to serve a dish icy cold – if I can be bothered to prepare it – when someone really needs to eat their words at some point.
It was just as well we'd already planned to go out as the mercury hit 'had enough' for S, who joined my level of disbelief and fury as she continued to pollute our peace. S screamed at her to shut up and I said something (that I shan't repeat here) as we passed her front door. GFG is surely wrong in the head if she thinks that it is OK to behave in the way she has. What? Does she think the stupid, polite people upstairs will turn the other cheek and say, 'thanks for the fuckage, please miss, can we have some more?' Er, no. No.
As we came back home, having deliberately stayed away from our home to avoid walking into a situation (which in itself is obscene to have to do), we saw GFG and her (poor bastard) fiancé leave, with bags in hand. He doesn't live with her – he is currently based in another country. Wise man.
So, we didn't wish her 'happy holidays' as they loaded up the cab. She saw me and stepped back behind her front door. I had my sunglasses on and she couldn't see my eyes. Just as well. If looks could, they would have done the proverbial.
----------------
Listening to: Editors - Munich
How apt – the lyrics are perfect.
There is no way she can have imagined that it was acceptable. I could hear – and feel – the door slamming so loudly while I was in the bathroom that I suspected there was building work going on downstairs. When the consistency and familiarity of the sound/vibration revealed what was actually happening, my neck tightened and adrenaline coursed through me. I was on fire. I was as rigid and tense as a steel girder.
S emerged from the living room and I could see that boiling point for him was not far off. He'd been sitting there, having breakfast, enjoying what had been a relaxed start to the weekend, having worked hard all week, as had I. He has been nice to her, giving her the benefit of the doubt where, for me, The Line had been crossed a while back. He looked bemused and hurt.
All we have ever done to her has been neighbourly: pick up her shopping, take in her deliveries, give her wine, feed her, tidy up the (joint gardens), paint the (communal) areas, pay for the (communal) plants, close her huge window that she had left open when she was away and prevent bailiffs entering her place.
She has kept me awake – or woken me up – with the amount of noise she generates when coming back from a night out several times. As an insomniac (she knows this), I think this is tantamount to abuse and cruelty. And her attitude ("I don't think I should pay my share"/"I don't care about looking after the place; it's just the way I am" etcetera), stinks as badly as a dollop of shit in your freshly-coiffed hair. It's just not on. No. No, no, no.
We are nice people. We are quiet. We are considerate. She is a total cunt.
I was shaking with rage. I am fucked off with people treating me as though my good manners and general amiability are an open invitation to take the piss. I don't often lose my temper properly but when I do, I can turn the air bluer than the sky over the sea on a clear day. I was fully prepared for this to go down that road. And oh, it's nice to throw in a bit of blood-curdling logic when such situations occur.
I don't scream, but I suppose 'fierce' sums it up. It shocks people, and I find it excruciatingly unpleasant, but it has to be done in certain circumstances to stop liberties from being taken. Such times – and I can count them on one hand – are rare. I prefer to serve a dish icy cold – if I can be bothered to prepare it – when someone really needs to eat their words at some point.
It was just as well we'd already planned to go out as the mercury hit 'had enough' for S, who joined my level of disbelief and fury as she continued to pollute our peace. S screamed at her to shut up and I said something (that I shan't repeat here) as we passed her front door. GFG is surely wrong in the head if she thinks that it is OK to behave in the way she has. What? Does she think the stupid, polite people upstairs will turn the other cheek and say, 'thanks for the fuckage, please miss, can we have some more?' Er, no. No.
As we came back home, having deliberately stayed away from our home to avoid walking into a situation (which in itself is obscene to have to do), we saw GFG and her (poor bastard) fiancé leave, with bags in hand. He doesn't live with her – he is currently based in another country. Wise man.
So, we didn't wish her 'happy holidays' as they loaded up the cab. She saw me and stepped back behind her front door. I had my sunglasses on and she couldn't see my eyes. Just as well. If looks could, they would have done the proverbial.
----------------
Listening to: Editors - Munich
How apt – the lyrics are perfect.
Dear morning
One of the good things about having to get up early at the weekend is that you feel like you are stealing time. It's quiet, no one else is around, and if the sun is pouring in through the windows, as it is today, you slowly start to feel energised and awake.
Tea, toast with butter and honey. A happy rabbit at my feet. And some melodious music. I don't have to start thinking yet.
----------------
Listening to: Massive Attack - Joy Luck Club
(This link doesn't take you to the song for some reason; see 'Collected' if you want to hear this exquisite song)
Tea, toast with butter and honey. A happy rabbit at my feet. And some melodious music. I don't have to start thinking yet.
----------------
Listening to: Massive Attack - Joy Luck Club
(This link doesn't take you to the song for some reason; see 'Collected' if you want to hear this exquisite song)
Friday, 14 September 2007
Protection
And this one sums up how I feel sometimes...
----------------
Listening to: Massive Attack - Protection
----------------
Listening to: Massive Attack - Protection
Absolute
I love love love the harmonies in this song – they have a physical effect on my solar plexus, I'm sure of it. It's so clear and clean-sounding, Green's voice is like honey... the whole thing verily glitters.
----------------
Listening to: Scritti Politti - Absolute
----------------
Listening to: Scritti Politti - Absolute
Strength
It's a funny thing, the way I can perform some moves in kung fu and yet be so weedy at others. I went along, feeling deeply tired, a bit emotional, and worried, challenging myself to: a) be alert, b) not cry, and c) have confidence. It was a trial to maintain a, b and c, but somehow I did it, although I was acutely aware of my failings as I performed the moves.Instructor N has become super-strict in the past couple of weeks. I regret telling him that his holiday stand-in was "Nice, and very strict" the other day... He's a good chap, though, and I think he is utterly fraught, as some of us are going for our first grading soon, and our efforts will reflect his teaching ability. He sat with his head in his hands the other day as we did our moves. Lord.
There's great camaraderie building in class. There aren't that many of us, and over the months, those of us who have attended regularly have got to know each other well enough to laugh, joke and encourage. The other regular female club member, V, whose spirit appears light, but has hidden, dark depths, has become a friend.
Lots of odd things have happened this month: good, bad and weird. I'm not quite sure what to expect next. But then again, was I ever? I know that I have become a little more resolute in the way I deal with things, even though I am still just as upset by the bad/weird. The good, when it comes – and it does – is often tinged with the vibrancy and sparkle you'd associate with seeing stars or the glistening, glassy surface of a mountainside lake. These times are not to be taken for granted; they are beautiful and peace-bringing. You can immerse yourself in their glow, but cannot hold such moments in your bruised hands.
Sometimes, strength is knowing when to just let something be, to let it drift, catch the wind and blow away so that it can embed itself where it is more suited. It may indeed float back to you (but you may have moved elsewhere).
Paradoxically, strength can also be knowing when something needs to be dealt with, such as the ghost in my nightmare. I suppose I am haunted, in a way, by something: my personal poltergeist. When I told S about this particular dark dream, it took only two minutes to recount, yet it had managed to ruin much of my day.
That aside, I do believe in ghosts. Real ghosts. I've seen some (not just the ones that inhabit dreams). They fascinate me.
This phrase I read the other day, penned by Ernest Hemingway, stopped me in my tracks: The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Thursday, 13 September 2007
Nightmare
Just when you think
Ghosts don't exist
They come for you
In the night
And tap, tap, tap
On your shoulder
Ripping you from sleep
Dragging you from calm
Filling you with dread
That lasts the day ahead
Ghosts don't exist
They come for you
In the night
And tap, tap, tap
On your shoulder
Ripping you from sleep
Dragging you from calm
Filling you with dread
That lasts the day ahead
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Come back with me
Oh, it's sooooo wrong. Come on, come on... you know you want to. Bring a six-pack and jump in with me... (plus, I have just twigged how to embed YouTube vids). I'm ridiculously hyper.
And, a couple of very guilty pleasures while you calm yourself down... Remember – you're indestructible, apparently. "You knew that he was there on the case, now he's in love with you, he's in looove with you..."
*cough*
And, a couple of very guilty pleasures while you calm yourself down... Remember – you're indestructible, apparently. "You knew that he was there on the case, now he's in love with you, he's in looove with you..."
*cough*
Flashing
God, I am mad. I have been taking photos – with the flash – of my eyes to compare and contrast them. Now, I can't see properly and my eyes ache.
I am a total loony. Fucking bonkers.
I am a total loony. Fucking bonkers.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Christmas
Yes, in Sainsbury's there are selection boxes. Selection boxes. As in Christmas. Christmas selection boxes. There were also shiny boxes of biscuits – the kind you only ever see at Christmas.
Words to lick greedily
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
William Shakespeare
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Ernest Hemingway
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
William Shakespeare
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Ernest Hemingway
Monday, 10 September 2007
Three things I read today...
1) This one is sad but I'm trying my best to be philosophical: the friend who was being odd with me has turned on her (virtual) heel and gone off as one might have done at the age of 10. Can you believe that a 34-year-old ended a 12-year friendship (by email) for no good reason? Ah, life is a playground. It was depressing reading, naturally.
So, she isn't my friend any more – her reasons are paper-thin and this is probably why my repeated offers to meet and talk were ignored. She has dug her heels in and now they are stuck. Sadly, I am not a cobbler and there is only so much I can do. I would have her step out of those shoes but they are her shoes and they fit just right, even though she can now no longer actually get anywhere with them so firmly jammed.
I have cried a lot about this situation, been annoyed, hurt, all those things you felt when you were a kid and were 'left out' on odd occasions, but am now just a bit numb, as she failed – totally failed – to really try to understand why insomnia, and its extreme treatment (brain drugs for fuck's sake), may have meant I was out of sorts and not feeling sociable enough for her satisfaction. I have, apparently, 'blanked' her. There were no allowances made for my sickness, headaches, unbelievable lethargy, curfew or low periods. I have some wonderful friends (fleshy and bloggy), so I'm a lucky boot, but this did knock (and shock) me for six.
2) I read some 'restricted' notes over someone's shoulder while going home on a crowded train. I don't think they were that exciting but there were warnings about 'going in armed' and strangely, on the same page, instructions from this company about 'men and women being careful about their interactions while abroad, as it could have a negative effect on other relationships'. Oo-er.
3) A woman was sitting gazing at a list of waxing treatments: brows, chin, lip, legs, arms, bikini line, Brazilian, Hollywood, I dunno... Copa Cabana... She looked at the paper longingly for rather a long time. Then she became all self-conscious (this was again on the train) and put the pink document away in her purse. She didn't look like she needed waxing but maybe there were bits that I was shielded from, mercifully, by dint of her being fully-clothed.
So, she isn't my friend any more – her reasons are paper-thin and this is probably why my repeated offers to meet and talk were ignored. She has dug her heels in and now they are stuck. Sadly, I am not a cobbler and there is only so much I can do. I would have her step out of those shoes but they are her shoes and they fit just right, even though she can now no longer actually get anywhere with them so firmly jammed.
I have cried a lot about this situation, been annoyed, hurt, all those things you felt when you were a kid and were 'left out' on odd occasions, but am now just a bit numb, as she failed – totally failed – to really try to understand why insomnia, and its extreme treatment (brain drugs for fuck's sake), may have meant I was out of sorts and not feeling sociable enough for her satisfaction. I have, apparently, 'blanked' her. There were no allowances made for my sickness, headaches, unbelievable lethargy, curfew or low periods. I have some wonderful friends (fleshy and bloggy), so I'm a lucky boot, but this did knock (and shock) me for six.
2) I read some 'restricted' notes over someone's shoulder while going home on a crowded train. I don't think they were that exciting but there were warnings about 'going in armed' and strangely, on the same page, instructions from this company about 'men and women being careful about their interactions while abroad, as it could have a negative effect on other relationships'. Oo-er.
3) A woman was sitting gazing at a list of waxing treatments: brows, chin, lip, legs, arms, bikini line, Brazilian, Hollywood, I dunno... Copa Cabana... She looked at the paper longingly for rather a long time. Then she became all self-conscious (this was again on the train) and put the pink document away in her purse. She didn't look like she needed waxing but maybe there were bits that I was shielded from, mercifully, by dint of her being fully-clothed.
Saturday, 8 September 2007
A talent for war
Yes, that's me. I open my mouth and stick my feet in. In they go. So I'm told.
I feel choked.
I wonder if I should just not talk, should find a little hideaway.
I could just write.
If I made enough sense.
Insomnia is evil.
Most people really, really don't understand it – and why should they? One of my closest friends has sent me an email regaling me of my insomniatique sins. I was/am stunned. But there we go. I have apparently been a terrible friend – an 'unhelpful' and 'difficult' person – even though I have felt as sick as a (very sick) dog a lot of the time lately. I've not been so upset by a friend's words for years.
Wow, what a great month so far.
I feel choked.
I wonder if I should just not talk, should find a little hideaway.
I could just write.
If I made enough sense.
Insomnia is evil.
Most people really, really don't understand it – and why should they? One of my closest friends has sent me an email regaling me of my insomniatique sins. I was/am stunned. But there we go. I have apparently been a terrible friend – an 'unhelpful' and 'difficult' person – even though I have felt as sick as a (very sick) dog a lot of the time lately. I've not been so upset by a friend's words for years.
Wow, what a great month so far.
Teenage kicks
On the shortcut home from the local Italian restaurant, we came across two young women sitting on the ground near some workshops. It was dark and all we could see were dark shapes and hear plenty of giggling.One called out: "Hey, hello, can you wait a minute? It's OK, we don't want any money or nuffink like that. But can you open this bottle? We have the thing but we don't know how to do it. We are not alcoholics. God you must think we are such lushes."
Goodness, I cannot recall not knowing how to open a bottle of wine (obviously, I didn't open bottles of wine as a child).
S had a go but the poor quality of the opener and the manky plastic cork was a rather tricky combination, and there was a risk that the cork would be stuck and goodness knows what the girls would have done to try to extract it. So, up for holding a wine bottle, (it has been a while) I had a go and, sure enough, the old skills kicked in.
Before they could say: "We're seventeen," and I could say, "You're drinking underage and are young enough to be my daughters," I'd whisked out the corks and plonked the plonk down. They told us we were lovely, "had a great figure", and suchlike. We warned them about the rats that might be lurking nearby but either they didn't know what rats were or they weren't bothered.
We got home to the strains of a party down the road. It was obviously a post-GCSE party, or a going-to-college do, or something. But my, these youngsters were loud and happy, and very, very drunk. It was all rather sweet. Bless. Just the thing to make you feel really old, too, if you were of a disposition to worry about such silliness.
Friday, 7 September 2007
Fish heads
Just because I want to – and it makes me smile (plus, it's a little treat for all you eccentric 80s kids out there). Have a listen: Fish heads.
It's fabulously insanely bizarre and crazy.
I give up
A 'good' friend who:
a) is always too broke to meet me (but regularly goes out to get hammered)
b) is nearly always hungover (and thus was zonked when we last met – for the first time in ages)
c) has never showed me her new flat (but tells me how she's had other people there)
d) texts me at 2.30am (despite knowing I have a sleep problem) – and got frosty when I mentioned it politely – and didn't apologise – but did it again...
e) knows about my sleep horrors but never really asks about my state of mind/body
f) has made trite comments about 'everyone needing therapy' (I saw a therapist as part of the sleep programme)
g) never remembers that I travelled halfway across town to see her for years (when broke)
h) hasn't called me in months
i) didn't put a stamp on my birthday card – I had to pay to receive it when I picked it up today (my birthday was months ago)...
... has just asked me – via email – why I have been 'cold' over the past few months. Give me a break. I've felt like bloody death warmed up, that's why. Why didn't you pick up the phone and ask?
Sometimes, I really just give up. I give up. I give up. I've been happy to accommodate her choice of meeting places, bought her gifts to cheer her up, employed her, listened to stories of drunkenness and brokeness (over the cheapest ginger ale) while being as tired as fuck... So tired I could die. So fucking tired I've nearly crashed my car on a fast road.
I give up. I really do. I am lost for words.
a) is always too broke to meet me (but regularly goes out to get hammered)
b) is nearly always hungover (and thus was zonked when we last met – for the first time in ages)
c) has never showed me her new flat (but tells me how she's had other people there)
d) texts me at 2.30am (despite knowing I have a sleep problem) – and got frosty when I mentioned it politely – and didn't apologise – but did it again...
e) knows about my sleep horrors but never really asks about my state of mind/body
f) has made trite comments about 'everyone needing therapy' (I saw a therapist as part of the sleep programme)
g) never remembers that I travelled halfway across town to see her for years (when broke)
h) hasn't called me in months
i) didn't put a stamp on my birthday card – I had to pay to receive it when I picked it up today (my birthday was months ago)...
... has just asked me – via email – why I have been 'cold' over the past few months. Give me a break. I've felt like bloody death warmed up, that's why. Why didn't you pick up the phone and ask?
Sometimes, I really just give up. I give up. I give up. I've been happy to accommodate her choice of meeting places, bought her gifts to cheer her up, employed her, listened to stories of drunkenness and brokeness (over the cheapest ginger ale) while being as tired as fuck... So tired I could die. So fucking tired I've nearly crashed my car on a fast road.
I give up. I really do. I am lost for words.
Peter Rabbit
Should a 38-year-old really be crying into Beatrix Potter tissues?
Miss Potter's pictures, printed on the tissues, make the 38-year-old cry even more.
What a bloody stupid 38-year-old.
Miss Potter's pictures, printed on the tissues, make the 38-year-old cry even more.
What a bloody stupid 38-year-old.
Hellish
Ah well, the stitches are out. Wasn't too bad. Looks a bit odd, but hopefully it'll now just heal up and there will be a light scar only.
My headache, which developed at midnight, is unmoved by painkillers. I think I had two hours' sleep.
My headache, which developed at midnight, is unmoved by painkillers. I think I had two hours' sleep.
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Dresspiration
I am working – as some of you may know – on five assignments.
I therefore need some inspiration, some reason, some sort of carrot, to keep me going. For now, it will be this that enables me to shove my nose down on to the grindstone:
I am not even sure whether I really, really like it. I love the colour. Oooh, I adore deep red (the colour of wine)... Ooh.
Thing is, I can work out how much I have earned of the fee I'm charging (for one particular piece of work) in direct proportion to the dress. So far, I have paid for the waist down. Just the sleeves and bodice to go, then...
Update (three minutes later): actually, I've just realised that I have indeed already paid for the dress (in terms of work completed). Oh damn. Now what shall I use to spur me on? Shoes? Boots? I'm just too good, me...
I therefore need some inspiration, some reason, some sort of carrot, to keep me going. For now, it will be this that enables me to shove my nose down on to the grindstone:
I am not even sure whether I really, really like it. I love the colour. Oooh, I adore deep red (the colour of wine)... Ooh.
Thing is, I can work out how much I have earned of the fee I'm charging (for one particular piece of work) in direct proportion to the dress. So far, I have paid for the waist down. Just the sleeves and bodice to go, then...
Update (three minutes later): actually, I've just realised that I have indeed already paid for the dress (in terms of work completed). Oh damn. Now what shall I use to spur me on? Shoes? Boots? I'm just too good, me...
Lazy girl blogging
Bullet points will just have to do, as I am so lazy and also, paradoxically, so very busy. Get me...
- Ooh, I slept better last night. Deep joy. Oh, yes. I even dreamed about NMJ. (Don't worry, NMJ, it wasn't anything dodgy.) Am still aching with tiredness though, possibly brought on by kung fu the other night. Why is this text so small?
- S has recovered from climbing three of the land's highest mountains for charity. A splendid effort in stunningly bad weather. I felt chilled just hearing about the rain, wind and general inclement conditions. There were tales of helicopter rescues as it was so tough.
- My stitches have one more day to cause me strife and itch and pick and stick. Yerck. Not really looking forward to doing what I always do – smile while under stress – and pretend all is well *smile, smile* when I see the nurse for stitch removal tomorrow.
- I worked for 12+ hours non-stop yesterday. Some of it was rather dull, some rather interesting. Mostly dull. My backside is now the shape of my chair. (Well, not really, but it feels like it is.)
- Luciano Pavarotti has died of pancreatic cancer. He looked like a man that lived doing what he loved (and who he loved). The first opera I saw live was Turan
dot (which contains Nessun Dorma (how apt!)) and it changed my life by shattering preconceptions I held about certain types of music. I was speechless with awe. Pav wasn't in it but the song was so his that you surely could not hear it and not think of him striding across the stage, his charisma oozing out of every pore. RIP, Mr Pavarotti. Your voice will stay with us.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Blugger
Why do bad days always shovel in as much strife as possible? Why?
For fuck's sake.
I am working for five organisations/publications now and the phone won't stop ringing and I cannot recall who is who but they all obviously think I can recall exactly which John, Mike and Katie is which – they say "Hello" and then pause. They think I am sitting here just waiting for their call.
*scream*
One of the stories I am researching is heartbreaking and it has made me cry. It's about people dying suddenly. Excellent.
For fuck's sake.
I am working for five organisations/publications now and the phone won't stop ringing and I cannot recall who is who but they all obviously think I can recall exactly which John, Mike and Katie is which – they say "Hello" and then pause. They think I am sitting here just waiting for their call.
*scream*
One of the stories I am researching is heartbreaking and it has made me cry. It's about people dying suddenly. Excellent.
Puffy
I feel horrible today. My eyes are puffy. There are things I cannot understand. I feel out of kilter with things. Like a shoe that is too big or too small, it's just not right.
My life seems to be formed into concentric circles, nothing Venn diagram about them. Today, for instance, will be a tired day, for reasons that I cannot go into, for various reasons. (Also, it would be tedious.)
Oh, well. At least I have lots of work to occupy me. Thank God I'm at home today and don't have to contend with the effects of the Tube strike.
And, yes, my stitches bled after kung fu. That was nice.
My life seems to be formed into concentric circles, nothing Venn diagram about them. Today, for instance, will be a tired day, for reasons that I cannot go into, for various reasons. (Also, it would be tedious.)
Oh, well. At least I have lots of work to occupy me. Thank God I'm at home today and don't have to contend with the effects of the Tube strike.
And, yes, my stitches bled after kung fu. That was nice.
Monday, 3 September 2007
Blah
I feel as though I should write stuff. I have plenty to write. But I cannot find the words tonight. There is, instead, a mush of zigs and zags within my head.I hope my beloved words have not departed. I would be bereft. How would I express myself? I would be like the hair left on the floor at the hairdresser's: once nice and glossy and shiny, but more recently trodden underfoot and of no use to anyone.
And, to top it off, I could not transfer the chunk of novel I wrote on holiday on to my desktop. It's there, locked away.
I just don't know what to do.
(Pic is there simply as am uninspired and there is a lack of anything pictorial on this Dark page. And pictures help with such a page. Anyway, it's lazy. I know.)
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Bashful bunny
Even though Albert has been put into rabbit foster care to be rehomed after all the fights she had with M, it would appear that M fears that Albert is lurking.
She sits at the threshold to the large kitchen, a soft lump of squidgy, sweet bunny, all brown eyes and darkest, velvet fur, and watches, even though she is hungry and wants her food bowl. I just moved the door and she flew down the hallway at 40mph.
I'm sure she thinks Albert will leap out like Matt Damon (who is very, very good) in that early apartment scene from The Bourne Ultimatum (the one where the fan's behind the door, if anyone's seen it)...
Poor M.
She sits at the threshold to the large kitchen, a soft lump of squidgy, sweet bunny, all brown eyes and darkest, velvet fur, and watches, even though she is hungry and wants her food bowl. I just moved the door and she flew down the hallway at 40mph.
I'm sure she thinks Albert will leap out like Matt Damon (who is very, very good) in that early apartment scene from The Bourne Ultimatum (the one where the fan's behind the door, if anyone's seen it)...
Poor M.
Saturday, 1 September 2007
Melancholia
My head is hurting.
I feel guilty as I visited my parents but I was so zonked through lack of kip last night that I fell into a doze that lasted ages. I wasn't great company. It's my lovely, lovely dad's birthday and I didn't spend much time talking to him and I feel very bad now. He covered me with a blanket when I fell asleep. Thinking about this is making me cry.
I'm happy and grateful to be my parents' child, if that makes sense, and they'd think I was silly for feeling like this. But I just feel like a selfish cow.
I feel guilty as I visited my parents but I was so zonked through lack of kip last night that I fell into a doze that lasted ages. I wasn't great company. It's my lovely, lovely dad's birthday and I didn't spend much time talking to him and I feel very bad now. He covered me with a blanket when I fell asleep. Thinking about this is making me cry.
I'm happy and grateful to be my parents' child, if that makes sense, and they'd think I was silly for feeling like this. But I just feel like a selfish cow.
A stitch in mine
I am very tired due to not being able to sleep well as I was rather too conscious of the stitches in my armpit. When I lay on my left side, I'd eventually end up stretching the area stitched. And, when I lay on my right side, I'd get all stiff and have to move, forget about the stitch situation and then wake on feeling the pinchy-pinchy thing.
As for the insomnia, which I realise I have not mentioned (deliberately) for a while, well, the sleep programme continues. No choc, no alcohol, no caffeine, an alarm call every day and, yes, I am still taking the tablets (albeit reduced).
Sometimes I have been so tired that I fall asleep, uncontrollably, (especially if I'm being driven somewhere). It's not part of the plan, and napping is in fact banned, but it's like being sat at the top of a slide – with a vat of feathers below – and being given a hefty push. There's not a lot you can do about it but let yourself slip down into its warm, comforting depths, where you lose yourself completely...
As for the insomnia, which I realise I have not mentioned (deliberately) for a while, well, the sleep programme continues. No choc, no alcohol, no caffeine, an alarm call every day and, yes, I am still taking the tablets (albeit reduced).
Sometimes I have been so tired that I fall asleep, uncontrollably, (especially if I'm being driven somewhere). It's not part of the plan, and napping is in fact banned, but it's like being sat at the top of a slide – with a vat of feathers below – and being given a hefty push. There's not a lot you can do about it but let yourself slip down into its warm, comforting depths, where you lose yourself completely...
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