A culture of shame?

Right now I am a young woman in India. Now is the time to talk about being such.
I had not mentioned the heinous crime against a woman my age, Nirbhaya, in Delhi because I knew people at home would worry. But outrage has snowballed here and spilled into the rest of the world and yesterday brought me a "be safe" message.
Because its not just Nirbhaya that is a victim, it is many women. In Delhi 1 rape is reported every 18 hours, and now that this has been suddenly leapt into the public conscience questions are being asked how this has happened?
Of course I don't have the answers to the questions. But here I see many versions of India and its baffling.
The first India is a place where we are warned to keep our knees and shoulders covered with baggy clothes. A place where our rickshaw driver keeps us out of the crowd in the line for street food because he's worried someone will touch us (I should add that we felt this an unnecessary measure). A place where men's eyes fall out if they drive past a girl in leggings.
The second India is glittering, glamorous Bollywood, where scantily clad women dance to the catcalls of an audience.
The third seems to be glimpsed in the young and progressive, in those who have taken to the streets to protest against a terrible crime and furthermore against deep-rooted and outdated attitudes.
Let me tell you about the palace at Udaipur. A daughter of the king was so beautiful and good she had two competing suitors who would go to war if the king did not pick them. The king, seeing only one solution for peace, poisoned the princess.
This act becomes even more unbelievable when you consider the fact that the women of the household where kept away from the eyes of all men...always shut away behind curtains.
To a certain extent, some of these issues still exist.
You know when you check into some hotels, women have to write the name of their father or husband, as if they aren't a valid person without a man-owner. In train stations there are separate waiting rooms for men and women.
As we have travelled around, we have found it quite a challenge to find women to talk to. When we meet a husband and wife, the man does all the talking, usually even answering questions directed at his wife. I don't know if the women are shy or don't speak english well, or we've been unlucky? But it felt for a long time that we didn't hear any women's voices.
On the other hand, our first weeks here we were travelling with a man. Now, Jure is a wonderful person...very funny and interesting, but since he left us we have not seen close to the respect he inspired. Is it because we aren't as funny and interesting? Or is it because we are single women?
So what about Bollywood? Isn't that a measure of freedom? Well, apparently not. There have been articles questioning why the films show the heroes harrassing and pursuing heroines who say no again and again...and still in the end, the man gets the girl. What message, the newspaper asks, does that give to young impressionable audiences?
I don't know if I ever believe popular culture really makes people do bad things. Its the same as rap being blamed for violence. But art mirrors life and where you see a recurrent problem in one, it is probably reflected in the other. A lack of respect of women does not come from movies, but both come from a common cause surely.
Might I also mention Suresh, our flute teacher and a respectable artist man. When we told him we' d seen the karma sutra a temples at Khajuraho, he said will never go there because he is ashamed. Ashamed of his own heritage? Ashamed of human nature? Is this culture of shame to blame?
I'm not an anthropologist, and I don't know India well enough to judge but third India gives me hope. It is an India that sees problems and demands change and I hope, for the happiness of all, they succeed.

An apology

Hmmm...considering I want to be a writer I feel I'm being most ill-disciplined about this blog.
This has been brought to my attention by 2 sources in the last couple of days.
The first, my mum asked why I hadn't written a blog on the Taj Mahal?
The second, my first reading of a blog of a fellow traveller we met in Udaipur. Drew's blog (much more successfully than mine) is a daily and detailed journal of his adventures.
But I conceed defeat. A couple of blogs a week is enough for me (I'm busy don't you know/asleep very early), I hope it's enough for you reader?
So why didn't the Taj make the cut? Well, perhaps because it was so exquisitely beautiful that you must go yourself. I could never do justice to the moment it seems to grow in front of you, gleaming white, perfectly balanced, stunningly romantic.
The other reason I never wrote about it is that apart from its own glorious self, it brought the same themes I've covered before: constant requests for photos of us with a multitude of families and tour groups. As if we were an attraction worthy of competing against the Taj (Ha)!
So that is your only glimpse into our stay in Agra. So what else did I miss?
A Goan Christmas: lobster dinner, Midnight's Children on the beach, swimming in the Arabian sea. Seems a trifle smug doesn't it?
Camel safari or horse riding: yes fun to go on but I would be afraid to bore you with descriptions of rolling hill or desert sunsets. I'll simply tell you I'm having a wonderful time.
I don't want to tell you the minutae of my day to day life. Look at my pictures (well..Kirsty's pictures. Much better photographer) and you'll see it all.
In the meantime, please excuse my lack of discipline and shortage of posts. With only two weeks left in India I'd better get my eyes in focus and pen in hand for the last chances I'll get to share a little piece of this lovely, sometimes broken, but always epic country with you.

Bollywood

I write this blog from a Goan beach. I will not, however be writing about this glorious place just yet. The only things worth mentioning are the golden sand, the colourful parachutes drifting over a blue sea and my straw hat which is possibly the best thing I've ever bought.
Boring, no? And might I add...haha!
No, I will not write about a place I was looking forward to going to, but about a place I was not: Mumbai.
It surprised us both how much we liked it. We were only there for a day and a half but we met some very kind people there: a couple of sea captains who we drank coffee with as they explained what to see in the city, and gave us a lift in swanky white car to the cinema; the boy who showed us the gateway to india; the Philosopher who imparted so many words of wisdom I forget them all. My favourite was the 2 things everyone gets free in this life: the air we breathe and a trip around the sun. We all know I'm a sucker for a free holiday...and it turns out my life is one long travel!
But anyway, the thing I want to talk about is the cinema. Of course! Mumbai is the capital of Bollywood so obviously our first Bollywood experience had to be there.
So we saw Dabangg 2 and understood no words but got the general gist of the story. You should definitely see it. Very funny...not least the inexplicable breaking into song and dance. It was like one of those old Busby Berkley films, you know, but with slow-mo fight scenes featuring bare-chested men that drew the whoops and whistles of the whole audience.
And the uncontrollable laughter of us.
But you can't deny it, they really know how to enjoy a movie here. I'm not entirely convinced all the characters were relevant though. One dance scene featured a never before or after shown woman as the main singer/dancer. I think they only brought her out because she was pretty (her appearance immediately drew more shouts of appreciation).
Which brings me onto another point that I liked about Bollywood. A hundred women dancing around in croptops and not a six-pack in sight. Basically a much more realist ideal body than we have in Hollywood, no?
Kirsty and I voiced our approval for a full day before planning our Goan beach yoga and sit up fitness regime.
What? We're dancers...it's ingrained! 

People on the train

One of the first things you noticed about India is the sheer amount of people. Considering its such a big country, it feels packed to the rafters.
I'm again writing this blog on a train, this time on the way to Pushkar. Every seat is full, as are the aisles, and a few peoples' laps. There is a boy who is casually leaning a centimeter from my head and the woman next to me has her hand on my knee.
In my polite Britishness I don't tell them to move. Besides..there's no space for them to. Anyway, the man next to me is unashamedly reading every word I write so I'm certainly boosting my readership. I hope you're enjoying this sir.
Perhaps this lack of space is the reason everyone seems so affectionate here. So tactile. If you spend your life in small spaces with lots of people I guess it isn't weird to have a stranger lean on you.
Actually having just finished reading The Jungle Books, and with my head full of wolf packs, man-cubs and The Spring Running it almost seems a little odd that at home I have a whole room to myself..plus the run of a barely inhabited house. When we were jungle people, living in caves the idea of that much space would have been laughable.
And here in this jumble of limbs, where strangers demand your personal space but offer you biscuits in exchange, you suddenly see how unnatural the London Underground is. Often just as packed but with no one touching anyone and everyone staring transfixedly at a poster for car insurance just above their eyeline.
But here in Animal India there are much more interesting things to see..and we all stare. At the rolly-pollying child who jumps up with hand extended. At the rude man, sprawled next to his beautiful, glittering and pouty wife: someone struck lucky in an arranged marriage and by the look on her face... At the transvestites who just walk onto the train, clap their hands and all the men throw money at them, uncomfortable and obviously not wanting to be confronted with such..unnaturalness.
A man spits onto the filthy tracks.
But back to the affection. And I'm talking about a specific kind of affection that you don't see at home: bromance. Men holding hands, lying on each other..it's quite a common thing here. You would think they were gay if they didn't casually say things to you like: "sex, you interested?" Perhaps it's because before marriage male-female relationships don't happen here? I don't know..
So a lack of Western reserve and anything resembling privacy has allowed people here to be very easy with one another. And for us, we try to throw ourselves into the culture but I'd rather not do that with a strange man's head on my shoulder. He obviously hasn't enjoyed the read as it appears to have sent him to sleep.

Touring with the Boys

So I last wrote trapped in a hotel by our fear of jewel smugglers. You'll be pleased to hear that we escaped pretty sharpish, travelling 1000km north to Shimla where some friends of ours we arriving that day on their motorbike tour of the country.

Dear Phil and Roy! Considering this was a quite unexpected destination for us, it has proved to be a bit of a highlight. There' s nothing like a bike to get you off the tourist trail and seeing real life here. If I wasn't so spacial- awareness challenged I'd get my CBT. 

But for the last couple of days we have been "biker chicks." We got matching silly helmets and have been whizzing through the mountains behind the self- titled "Gay boys on tour." All the fun and none of the work...I was gazing at the stunning scenery and thinking about (of all things) The Flintstones, while Roy had to look out for potholes. Ha! But a BIG thank you to them both for looking after we damsels in distress so well. We love you :)

And the men got me wondering, at the end of our trip, will Kirsty and I be as much of an old married couple as Roy and Phil? Or are we now?

As I write my travel wife is also diary- ing. We have companionable writing time every evening. This morning we spontaneously had a dance around, sit- ups and (pathetic) push up (attempt) session. The other day on the freezing sleeper bus we had survival spoon.

When we meet people we tell them we are married...We have quite highly developed storylines by now....but are we actually married to each other? Probably.

Anyway, our bikers are going to do a tour of Thailand next year...wife? Are you busy?

What do you want from me?

There's something in the air at Khajuraho and it isn't sex...whatever the locals tell you about Shiva's penis in the lake, and therefore the increased prowess of everyone in the vicinity.
Apparently if you come to this little town single you are almost certain to have some kind of affair. If I wasn't fake married I'd be in trouble, huh?!
No, apart from the glorious temples with their medieval porn (beautifully crafted porn at that), the thing that strikes me most about Khajuraho is...unease.
You see, all over India so far, people are constantly wanting something. Photos I don't mind, even if it is a bit weird. Talking English with children I obviously don't mind- I know the value of language practice. Just plain curiosity is never a problem.
But then there is the constant symphony of:
"Excuse me Madam...you come see my shop....?...But you, but you are my friend. I give you good price...You want boat? Hashish? Banana? Pashmina...real silk."
Its exhausting. And so difficult making them accept no.
But in the cities you can just walk by and pretend not to hear. You can hide somewhere else for a breath and your own thoughts and company.
Here in Khajuraho its different. Everyone knows everyone else it seems and they all have different advice. The hotel says we shouldnt trust people on the street, they are just trying to sell us stuff. The people we meet on the street say not to trust the hotel as they mark up prices. And they all seem so helpful. And yet...
It now feels like the hotel are monopolising us. They didn't even let us escape for breakfast this morning.
As for our friends we've made around town, they seemed nice. They didn't even try to sell us anything and got us the secret cheap menu at a restaurant. But yesterday we met Uncle Babu: an impressively moustached diamond exporter who invited us to lunch, and to stay at his house in Delhi, and was not happy unless he was telling a moving story about his tragic love life, or his money. If he wasn't involved in a conversation he'd click his fingers until attention was back to him. He was funny but this all seems a bit Don-like. And we found out their angle... you know on a tourist visa you can carry £5000 of stuff out of the country..and if you want to earn some extra cash, just sell it back to the exporters.
Hmmmm....
So we're being sweetened up, but I ain't taking nothing home except the one silk scarf I couldn't say no to. Especially not for a man who hugs you unexpectedly for rather too long.
Shudder.
So now we gave to hide. But that's easy...the hotel won't let us leave anyway.

Good Karma

These past few days have been ones of enlightenment. You can see how easily sensible people morph into hippie types in ali-baba trousers. If it wasn't for the fact that ali-baba trousers look ridiculous on me I might consider joining them.
I write this blog from Varanasi, the magical holy city of Hinduism and we arrived to a particularly enchanting day: the festival for (I think) Shiva. The banks of the Ganga were lined with candlelight, incense wafted along the banks, fireworks lit up the sky, and a few holy cows strutted through the general melee of the devout, the festive and the spectators.
So many people spoke to us, as always, so we had good feelings about this joyful culture.
The next day, however, was an eye-opener. We took a boat ride to see the Burning Ghat. You see the thing Varanasi is most famous for is being the place that people come to die. If you die here and your remains scattered in the sacred Ganga, you can escape the cycle of reincarnation and go straight to Nirvana.
A priest came aboard our boat to explain. He seemed very devout, kind, thoughtful. But part of what he told us made me quite angry. The caste system (which technically has been abolished but in reality...) Is an integral part of the belief system. Basically if you do well in this life, in the next you get to move up a caste. Within your life, no. If you are born an Untouchable, a beggar, a street sweeper, you will die the same. No genius or ambition or kindness on your part can change that. There is no escape except into the Ganga.
For such a beautiful faith it seems rotten at the core.
Now, I must say that this is changing. Probably it is mainly here in the holiest of places that clings to the old ways. In the rest of the country, the very poor remain the very poor because they don't know how to get out, or because as children they are made to beg on the streets to earn money instead of going to school.
Which brings me to Bodgaya. We made a short trip here, to the place where Buddha sat meditating under a Bodhi tree for many weeks and achieved enlightenment.
Another city of temples for another faith. This time instead of the whirl of colour and light we were greeted by the calm stone face of a 25 ft Buddha and a temple of still water and the sound of gongs. And also by a young Nepalise man called Mikku.
Mikku, who trained for two years as a child monk is in Bodgaya to teach and work at an Orphanage. Elizabeth Children's Home. After taking us around the city and explaining the monuments and telling us funny stories about monkeys, Mikku took us to visit the children at the home. We were introduced to all the 32 children in residence, each shook our hand and introduced themselves in English and then they sang a song for us, while the youngest, Matthew, sat on my knee. At less than a year he came in tiny and malnourished, and now here was a happily heavy baby.
The school is Christian founded (hence the Biblical names and halleluiahs) but mainly run by Buddists. As Mikku said, we are all the same anyway. And the same is now true for the children. Instead of being orphans on the street, and getting stuck in their caste and downtrodden position, they are learning Hindi, English, science, being cared for, smiling, and eventually getting a good reference for a good job.
I hate to sound cliche about it all, but it was humbling to see the good things that people like Mikku do in the world. And I hope by sharing this good work, I might get a little good karma too.

Post from Varanasi

We all love getting mail. There is always something so exciting about seeing your name handwritten on an envelope. Words that have flown through the world just for you. Perhaps letters from the bank or HMRC ruin this feeling somewhat. They can keep their words frankly...I don't understand them anyway.
And here in India I have so many words to send. When I get home I'm probably going to be one of those annoying people who constantly drop into the conversation "when I was in India..." I apologise in advance. There is soooo much to take in though, and with "goggles" (as a man we met yesterday thought eyes were called) that are wide open for the weird and wonderful even the smallest thing becomes a story.
We got up early this morning to watch the sunrise over the Ganges and I was immediately inspired to write an overly lyrical paragraph in my diary in honour of the event. And whilst eating my cornflakes I wrote a poem about kites. Too much?
So expect gushing postcards from me, where everything is magical. Particularly here in Varanasi, which IS magical.
Because not only do I like to receive words (and feel free to send me post whenever you like...or maybe email in India as I'm addressless), you may have noticed that I also like to give them. I'm not selfish you know. Besides which it costs about £1 to buy and send a postcard...if that.
Also, you are often bullied into buying postcards by brightly clad women who stick bundis to your forehead so I may as well send them to you or I'll have rucksack full of them, and I'd rather fill it with new hippy clothes.
Hmm...I really don't think I'm sticking to the point today. Those kites have made my brain wander, I'm still thinking about playing the sitar and worrying about whether the mud I got on my flip-floped foot yesterday was in fact cow pat...or worse :s I won't put that in my postcards though, or any emails. I don't want everyone to know I have poo foot. You can expect only the magic. And in return feel free to send me a "no news but I'm a big fan of your work" email a la my sister. Thanks Becca, I may have read that wrong but I know that's what you meant!
And now I sign off with lots of love,
Jess xx

Trains and Mountains

Part 1

I`m writing this blog from the back of a jeep to Darjeeling. After these 2 minutes I already suspect it will be an interesting journey. For once I have an excuse for poor spelling. The road is a bit bumpy for touch screen typing.
We've just experienced Indian trains for the first time and aren't they a million miles away from Virgin Trains? Imagine a first class compartment, air conditioned, beds, blankets and a ready supply of Chai tea and coconuts.
And now put in a lot of people. The king of the area was our neighbour who talked, advised, lectured, ate, then declared at 9pm that it was bedtime, put down the bunks, here are your sheets, turn off the light please.
Now also add into the mix the constant hawking of goods. We made a list of 32 things its possible to buy. This includes toe nail clippers, screwdrivers, religious statues, etch-a-sketch and string. I wonder how many people buy these things?
Now put in some cockroaches and a mouse and two girls, feet up on the seat to avoid them. The girls check their shoes before putting them on.
And then its time to sleep only to find the king is not only a burper but a snorer too. And what a cacophony of snore sounds he has too. You get used to one tone and then he surprises you with another. If he is married I'm certain his wife hasn't slept for years. We were, however, early which is more than British Rail can manage. And it gives you such good stories and slightly hysterical laughter. The next train we are due to take was supposed to be sleeper class (lower). We are changing our tickets. You know, I did not intend to write so often but there is so much to say. But now: on with the journey.
(Posted and corrected a couple of days later)

Part 2


Now we are in Darjeeling. Quite a weird town. To look at the view is incredible...Himalayas, snowy peaks, tea fields. B-e-a-utiful.
And then you smell it. Not the fresh mountain air you'd expect but a noxious mix of car fumes and wet tarmac. So much for escaping the bad air of Kolkata.
It's ok though. Today we went trekking...away from town. And the air was good, although I would have liked a little more oxygen. And fitness. Note to self: get some stamina before Nepal or I might die and I'm too young for a heart attack.
We've made some friends here and they came trekking with us. We pretty much split into two groups: the guides, the Indian man and the German (who we've named Tom-Tom in honour of his in-built GPS)  were the athletes and miles ahead of us. The artist (us, and a couple of Slovenians, architect and sculptor) were slooooooow and stopped every few minutes for photos, eye-spy and fairytales. We are serious hikers, no?
And then back to Darjeeling in a tiny van that played The Venga Bus at full volume. Party bus. Whoop!!
And now, as we can't walk, I post two blogs in one as we sit wrapped in blankets. Cold here. Shiver.

Kolkata...this is a travel blog now

Its proving quite difficult to choose a subject for my first blog from India. Its such a bombardment on the senses that I could write an essay...and its only day 2.
We are in Kolkata, which is not the most beautiful of cities and its just as dusty and dirty as you'd imagine but unexpectedly full of nature.
The first thing we did when we arrived was to take a taxi from the airport. Incidentally, this is quite the cliche. There are no rules on the road. Indian taxi drivers are probably the best drivers in the world...just heedless of danger. We drove though gaps in traffic that i'd be afraid to walk through in a traffic jam. Anyway, as we sped through the city we passed packs of street dogs, herds of goats, baskets and baskets of live chickens, those same chickens tied to bicycle handlebars, still alive and squawking, and in bundles of 50. There is always the sound of unknown and unseen birds joined with the sound of a thousand horns, and most magical, butterflies everywhere. Big blue ones that visit while you drink coffee.
Curiously, the most exotic animals in Kolkata seem to be us. Yesterday, sitting in the park we had three separate groups come to us to ask for photos. I hardly think its for our beauty. We'd been awake for 24 hours by this point, were dusty and sweaty and (in my case) sunburnt (already? Unfair!!). Maybe then its because we are world famous dancers/blogger/animator. Maybe we were mistaken for someone else....hmm. Possibly its because I am a transparent freak. One of these new friends said she's afraid to see me in the sun. Jeez, thanks. She was 10 by the way and clearly had a lot of tact. Its ok, we had an exchange of skills while her mum acted like paparazzi. We taught her some ballet and in return learn a little classical Indian dancing. And then we did a little demonstration of contemporary. Much like the performing monkeys that we passed on the way home.

Some 'To Do' Lists

This time next week I will be in India (she jumps about a little in excitement) and while I'm there I have no commitments beyond my flights. I barely even have a list of things I want to see beyond a fairly vague and probably useless: Everything.
However, at the moment, my head is full of To-Do lists. Here is a small sample:

Pre-India List

1. Finalise the 'short list' of clothes I want to take (it currently consists of approximately twice the amount I could fit in the bag/lift of the ground for longer than 2.5 minutes);
2. Find a way of hiding the rest of my belongings so they don't mysteriously find their way into my sister's possession by the time of my return;
3. Make a Christmas present for the fam;
4. Accustom myself to both vegetarian food and spice whilst...
5. Making the most of my last opportunity to eat the following: bacon, gravy, Yorkshire pudding, black pudding, uncooked vegetables, tap water, juice...

Post-India List

1. See number 5. from above;
2. Learn about grammar. And spelling. Develop a keeneyefordetail;
3. Either embrace the modern world and learn how to use computers, phones...calculator...Twitter...or journey to a happier time before these things. Suggest: rich lady in the '20s a la Downton Abbey.
4. Make something beautiful (this always appears on my to-do lists in the hope that I discover some hidden talent for craft);
5. Perfect (read: make first attempt at) the art of making Fondant Fancies.

Next 3 Holidays List (because you've got to have something to look forward to)

1. A month (or so) in Italy in manner of Julia Roberts (Eat, Pray, Love) to learn to speak Italian properly, rather than the random selection of almost entirely unrelated words that I currently have possession of;
2. Berlin because I imagine it to be a positive Mecca of modern art and dance...and they make excellent hot dogs in Germany;
3. Tokyo via Trans-Siberian Express. I love a good train journey.

List of Objects on my Computer Desk

1. Phone
2. Pink and yellow Post-It notes with indecipherable list of numbers on it
3. Tape measure
4. Someone's tissue (eww)
5. A curly piece of plastic

Why do we care so much about the US elections?

For the last week, certainly the last couple of days, everyone it seems has been obsessed with the presidential elections. But why? We are British: so why do we care so much?
In fact someone cared so much, this was their status update last night:
"If Mitt Romney gets into power, I will take it upon myself to burn down every fast food place and twinkie factory in the US #voteobama"
A more common and less extreme update was a simple "Good luck America," because we did not wholly trust that the correct [read: our] choice would be made.
Everyone seemed to look on in horror as the polls became uncomfortably close, because we all knew who we wanted. This is what the rest of the world thought:

Now, I don't know a lot about politics, even in this country. I remember being quite enthusiastic about our 1997 elections. I got up super early to discover that Tony Blair was PM and I probably skipped a little. No, not because I was a young Labour supporter, passionate about those ideals and policies. I was 8. I was excited about Tony because he was (fractionally) more glamorous than John Major (who reminded me a little of Mr Somerville, the local vicar).
In the elections that have followed this, I've not really cared so much. I vote of course, I love to vote, but they all seem much of a muchness. No one in British politics really inspires me. British politicians of the past (probably through some weird nostalgia) were much better. More eccentric. I like an eccentric politician. It makes me think they a)have a genius quality, b)care about the country, not about the power or money c)wear interesting hats. Bring back the Bowler!
American politicians, however, are bigger, stronger, more glamorous (Tony pales in comparison), just more.... You can get excited about them because they are more exciting. The candidates seem to represent two such different images of America. Stereotypes even: one liberal, progressive and sensibly impressed by the genius of the NHS; the other who seemed anti-women's right, anti-gay rights, part of a slightly odd religion that nobody understands (not that that matters really, I'm just building up the character profile), and probably loves Country and Western (just an assumption).
As you can see I've followed it all extremely closely. I believe if I lived there I'd be most concerned about the economy. But I don't understand money. No one in the world seems to have any so I reckon things are bound to improve whoever takes the lead. I'm an optimist.
But crucially, none of it directly affects us so we can really get behind our choice, because if it all goes wrong we can simply send our sympathy across the Atlantic and continue to complain about our own boring government.
That is all except: Bravo Mr Obama. I would have voted for you. I might love you a little. And good luck for your second term...because I know you'll be reading this.

Adonna Khare and dream drawings

Found this and wanted to share because its magical: Adonna Khare and her pencil

Here are my favourites:

 

 

Some story inspiration I think...it's like something out of a dream :)

Moscow State Circus

So Friday I went to the circus.

 

Boom!

So much fun...I love a circus. I might join. First I just need a skill of some sort.

I'm already teaching myself how to juggle. It's kind of slow going though because throwing is a problem for me. That, and catching. But once I've mastered these small elements of this noble art there'll be no stopping me.

Other things to learn:

1. High-wire
2. Backflips, somersaults, etc etc
3. Skipping (like proper skipping with flips and stuff)
4. Hoola-hoop.
5. Fire hoola-hoop.

Moscow State Circus had all these treats (minus fire hoola-hoop) and more and they were A-MAZ-ING! If you get a chance, go. Here are some dates for your diary. 

My only criticism of the whole thing was the dancing, not just because it wasn't good, but because clearly none of them wanted to do it. Fortunately, this lasted only a minute at the beginning of the show so you can swiftly put their fixed grins and clicking out of your mind.

And then it's all superhuman awesomeness and clowns, scarily muscle-bound men in pink chiffon, overly-large shoes and audience participation (don't sit at the front if you don't want to go onstage).

So basically, go to the circus. I'm going to work on my juggling for a little... whilst doing a one armed handstand. On a carefully constructed tower of chairs.

 

Bad hair days

There is no denying it. My hair looks like a mop. This is not surprising and is entirely down to my own laziness so I shouldn't complain. Not getting it cut for 3 months probably isn't acceptable for someone with short hair but I got lucky. Curls cover all manner of sins.
At the moment however, they also cover what feels like my entire face (whether or not that can be counted as a 'sin' I'll leave to your discretion) and although that look works for Cousin It, it's a bit annoying for me.
I'm going to cut it all off before India though. Relief! Maybe I'll shave it...you know like Sinead O'Connor.
Errrrmm..except...on reflection, maybe not. That's a little too far.
I will of course hate my hair even more once it's gone. Without exception, ever time I leave the hairdresser I am weeping inside because they always make me look like my twin brother. N.B. I don't have an actual twin brother but he has hair worthy of McFly.
And to make matters worse, everytime this tiny catastrophe happens, one of my friends always laughs. One time (the worst time) her boyfriend was there when I saw her and she said we had the same hairstyle. He had terrible hair. Mini sob.
I have to live with that comment and this hair you know. A sympathetic lie doesn't hurt anyone. In fact I would like to champion a little white lie. Often both parties know the truth, but a little untruth goes a long way to make you feel the tiniest bit better about your new, and blessedly temporary look.
Honesty is a wonderful thing, and my friend is a rare and glimmering beacon of truth. She is that person who tells you to shut the god damn window, it's freezing in here. Or doesn't tiptoe around making you do the washing up. Or informing you that for the good of the world you probably shouldn't sing in front of other living creatures. Because sometimes you need to know these things. If you are being annoying, or selfish, or you smell bad or something, you need someone to set you straight.
But hair is an altogether different thing. No one needs to know the truth about something that is unfixable. I can see for myself what it looks like, what I need from other people is for them to lie through their teeth and tell me it's ok. You look nice.
So when I get my hair cut in a couple of weeks, no laughing. I know. I already cried about it. Tell me it's fine. Thank you.

Halloween

“Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make.” -Bram Stoker, Dracula 

"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?" - Edgar Allan Poe

Today I (my mother) bought a bucket of Halloween sweets. These, as I'm sure you are all aware, are to give to small children in superman or cat outfits for their creative dressing up skills. And to give to older children who don't bother dressing up but carry boxes of eggs and toilet rolls. Blackmail payment.
Frankly, I would prefer to park the cars not next to the house, close the curtains, turn off all the lights, pretend we're out and eat the sweets myself.
I never really got Halloween. I was never allowed to go trick or treating so I find it a bit weird that you can go knock on a stranger's door and demand sweets or money or I'll shoot you with this water pistol that is a cunning part of my cowboy outfit.
Bugger off you little sh*t. Cowboys are nothing to do with Halloween.
If in doubt, here are some costumes that I will accept:
Ugly witch, complete with warty nose;
Fully bandaged mummy giving off powerful reek of formaldehyde;
Woland;
Some kind of pagan god of harvest;
George W Bush;
Something that fits this description:

“Hateful day when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. 'Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred." - Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

or something SUPER cute like this:

Now that is a good costume. Not particularly scary/at all, but look at the effort! And for a day that kid is just a child in a costume instead of a child in a wheelchair. He does have a whole truck of ice cream though...he probably doesn't need my Haribo.

My Grandfather tried to kill me.

I am lucky enough to have all of my Grandparents. In fact I have five of them and they have always seemed indestructible. Like Dumbledore or Gandalf: you know they are old but they just don't seem it.
Until recently that has always been the case. But suddenly and simultaneously, they all seem to be preparing for their apparently imminent death.
Well, I'm exaggerating. Grandad Bob still thinks he's 27, goes to the gym everyday and travels across the country on public buses just because he can. And Grandad Partridge really lives too far away to comment on, but I do know he goes electric-cycling and every time I see him he reminds me of that time I bit a chunk out of the glass I was drinking from. It was painful enough the first time, I don't really need reminding frankly.
But, as one must with Grandparents, I laugh along.
Apart from such anecdotes, and the constant and unavoidable questions like "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "So when are you getting married?" and "What happened to that builder?" (who I went on ONE date with!!) (do you see a theme emerging?), Grandparents are nice really. I mean I'm a lucky girl. They tell you interesting stories about Lord Kitchener and some Prime Minister they knew; they make yummy cake and teach you to make pastry; they tell you that you're pretty; and they smell like talcum powder and velvet.
But now all of a sudden, Nanna has started trying to give me books and fabric and paintbrushes every time I go over so that there is less to sort out when..."you know, I'm not young anymore."
Humph!! I disagree. And anyway, her Mum, my Great-Gran, lived until she was 96. Plenty of time to be young.
And then there is Nainy and Taidy who are throwing a lot of stuff away and selling their house. Downsizing so that my Auntie, who lives with them, has not got too big a place to manage.."you know when..."
And that makes me sad. I love that house; doing cartwheels on the lawn; climbing over the wall; finding apples and potatoes and roses and mushrooms and the occasional stray cat; popping over for a bath when our heating wasn't working; lemon curd sandwiches.
I guess there will still be lemon curd sandwiches in the new house, but I'm sure they won't taste the same.
I have in the last few weeks had some cause for concern on the oldness front though. Taidy (for anyone who isn't Welsh that is the word for Grandad) has been nice enough to drive me places twice and both time he definitely tried to kill me. The first time he forgot to put the brake on when I was getting out of the car and it rolled backwards, me clinging to the door for dear life. The second time I suddenly realised we were going incredibly fast down quite a short hill. He had accelerated instead of braking. Never mind the house, I think they should get rid of the car.
So that's scary, not just because my life hung in the balance (exaggerate much?), but because someone I think of as capable and indestructible is maybe...not.
Of course I'm not worried that they'll read this: they aren't much into blogging. Classic grandparents really. I will keep visiting for a cup of tea and a story or two; I will stop getting in the car of death; and I will continue to hope that this will continue for a long time to come. Even with all the questions about my love life.

No, I don't know what I'm doing!

This week I'm going a little crazy. I have discovered that it takes me less and less time to do any jobs around the house (no! not though being less thorough...I would give Kim and Aggie a good run for their money :s), I write a little or a lot (depending how inspired I am), play the piano, the ukulele, I prepare myself to teach (pop my ballet shoes in a bag). And then I'm bored. It does not help that it's rainy.
It's OK. I'm going to India in a month where I will be far from bored and far from home. Excitement, oui?!
But this has got me thinking what will come next. I have options:

a) Return from travelling, get any old job, save, travel somewhere else.
b) Return from travelling, get any old job, save, go to Italy for a while to eat a lot and learn a new language.
c)Return from travelling, get any old job, save, go to University, study something undecided (English/History/Publishing/Journalism/help me!)
d)Return from travelling, get a job that I like. Maybe do an internship.

a) or b) are the easy options. I like new places, I like the lack of decision these entail. There is something pleasantly bohemian about wandering around the world, journal in hand, dancing as I go. But I don't want to have to put up with awful jobs in between.
I'm realistic enough to know I will end up being a waitress or something when I get back to London in February. Yes soul destroying, but it's easy and something is better than nothing. But then what?
Small aside: the radio is currently telling me (and has been for the last ten minutes) how difficult it is to get a job and how everyone is unemployed (957,000 young people). Great, thanks Newsbeat. Humph!
It does not help me that people keep asking me what I will do next. There is nothing like the pressure of expectation, is there? Grandparents are a particular culprit. I tell them I will have an epiphany in India. I hope the thought of me becoming some kind of meditating and silent female Buddha, and worse, a vegetarian, freaks them out.
As for the internship option, how do you fund yourself? I'll have just spent all my money on poppadoms and papier-mache, I can't afford to work for free.
It's tough to be so indecisive. Perhaps I should choose something that's in demand. I'll google it...
Ok, the results are:
HR - I don't like filling in forms
Construction - But my beautiful nails!
PR- What do they even do?
Teaching - With fresh memories of being shown a verruca, I think not.
Midwifery - Kind of like the idea I suppose, apart from the life/death part :s
IT Consultant - Ha! Hahahahahah!
Nursing - Yuck.
Accounting - Zzzzzzz
Oil worker - Made for it, clearly.
Market Research - Hmmm...no.

See. There's no pleasing me. Being a silent, vegetarian, do gooder sounds more and more appealling (except the lack of talking, bacon and clothes shopping).
That's it, I'm going to be an astronaut.

Falling at the speed of sound.

Amongst all the bad news in the world, there is one shining example of the glorious human spirit of daring: Felix Baumgartner, the man who jumped from Space.
I don't know if there was a point to the exercise. Maybe just to see if it's possible. Which is exactly the sentiment that I love in all these great adventurers. "Let's swim the channel...because we can." "Let's find the source of the Nile...it could be fun." "Let's launch ourselves headfirst into the great beyond, just to see what's out there."
And why not throw yourself out of a balloon 128,100ft above the Earth, where you can see the curve of the Globe and the glow of the atmosphere? Why not fall at the speed of sound, spinning out of control as you go, a Spacesuit the only thing stopping your blood turning to gas?
And I would say the answer is as simple as the desire to push the edges of possibility, to conquer not just oceans, the world, space, each other, but to overcome our own limitations, our own frailties.
Maybe it is a bit of Viking spirit. The point of living is for glory, to leave a mark on the world.
Don't get me wrong...there is no way I'm jumping from anywhere near Space (it's been done darling!) but in a small way I want to thrown myself into life instead. Borrow a little bit of Felix's mettle and hopefully land on my feet with the same panache that he managed.
Just before his jump to immortality, Felix told the watching world "Sometimes you have to go up really high to see how small you are.” A quote worthy of Neil Armstrongs "One small step..." I wonder if he planned that line before the mission. It's one to remember anyway. It seems to apply to all kinds of high.
But for me, I never fail to feel tiny, like a speck on the earth, when I look up at the stars. Because I know they are massive and so far away. And how beautiful! And in a funny way it's quite a freeing feeling to know that whatever I do, it makes very little difference in the end. So I may as well risk life and limb to make something as beautiful and fleeting as a fall to Earth.
Now I just need to think what to do. Hmm....preferably something that doesn't risk life and limb though actually. Can I make up a spectacular dance instead. Or write a fairytale worthy of Hans Christian Anderson. Or make the most delicious cake ever that it so good it creates World peace. Is that likely?
Anyway...who's with me?

A little bad behaviour.

Today a British scientist, Sir John Gurdon, was awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine. Well done him I say, and I'm sure my congratulations mean the world.
The thing about this achievement that has sparked interest though is a science report Sir John received at Eton:

He "will insist on doing his work in his own way," written as criticism is praise indeed. That kind of creativity and original thought is exactly what one would expect of a future Nobel Prize winner.
The teacher's lack of recognition almost harks to the following letter that was in the news a few months ago:

Imagine the kind of world we would have if we churned out students like Mr Hilliker wanted. A very confused one at least, a brainwashed and blind one very likely.
So, speaking as a student who received excellent reports, and was very well behaved, and is yet to do something to merit a Nobel Prize, I would like to champion a little bad behaviour.
At the moment I am a dance teacher. It's kind of a funny job actually and one I'm probably not suited to for a long time. However, I have discovered that the children I like the best are the ones who play up in class a bit. One of the girls, is not particularly talented, but she dances around all the time. When I tell her to stand at the bar she's doing cartwheels; when I tell them to use their faces, she really goes for it and makes the whole class fall about laughing; when I teach them polka she says she can't do it and fakes a twisted ankle then polkas over to me next lesson saying she's made up her own step.
And that is a natural performer.
I seem to have begun with science and ended up with the arts but really they both require an ability to break rules and a lot of imagination. And like John Gurdon, who has his school report hung up above his desk in the Institute named after him, drive in the face of criticism.
I wonder what Alex (of the second letter) became...?

Meg

My little sister is 18 today.
I honestly don't know how that happened.
Well yes, I suppose the passage of time is the answer to that but still...that girl is six years younger than me. How am I possibly six years older than an 18 year old? There's nothing like someone who you recited 'Each Peach Pear Plum' to when they were a foetus becoming a woman to make you aware of your own march towards (shut up...I'm not there yet) being a grown up.
So Meg, welcome to adulthood and Congratulations!!!! You now have the supreme joy of being able to vote: that boundary between 17 and 18 means you have to at least attempt to know what's going on in the country or you may, like I did, vote for David Cameron. I would say you also have the supreme joy of being able to drink but...you know...Then you have all of these things to look forward to: jury service, credit cards, seeing your birth certificate if you were adopted. Hint.
I jest of course. I've already admitted to foetus poetry.
I am currently living with said birthday girl for the first time since she was 10 and can I say what a treat. Maybe I'm itching for freedom at other moments but I returned to find Meg was not the annoying little girl who stole my title of 'youngest child' and grabbed my hair when she was a baby. She is now (as cheesy as I risk sounding) like my bestie.
I always knew she was funny. A child who can come up with treasures such as:

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Tree.
Tree who?
Tree branch (followed by massively disproportionate laughter)

is bound to become quite the wit. Clearly she has an innate sense of comedy. Now there is some kind of face joke/insult she throws at me that I'm too old to understand or make use of.
But I try. She's successfully converted me to the joys of One Direction and Taylor Swift. Don't judge me, I'm 18 for the next two months. I will put The Shins and Iggy Pop back on my Ipod when I become 24 again.
But this is not about me. My point is that I'm incredibly grateful to my little sister and friend who is not only pretty and funny and lovely, but she also lends me her clothes and makes a mean corn beef hash. And she drunk texts so I know all her secrets...and those of her friends. She is my Hollyoaks and I love her.

So Happy Happy Birthday! May your life be as long and charmed as you deserve. May you avoid jury service. May you find and marry Harry Stiles before all the old ladies get to him. May you smile always because you are pretty when you smile.
*Insert something vaguely insulting about your face here*

:D

A pre-travel blog

Travelling is surprisingly expensive, no? The hunter-gatherer in me resents this a little. Having seen Andrew Marr's History of the World I feel that me wandering around should be free. I blame farming (for anthropological reasons that I refer you to Andrew for).
Ok, so I understand that the hunter-gatherers walked everywhere. I am flying so I suppose it is acceptable that I have to pay to travel (the environmentally friendly me would say necessary and important). But visas?? I risk sounding like a seven year old but "its a free world," or should be. Why do I have to pay to be on that bit of earth but not this? I'm bringing my tourist money, aren't I? Probably there is a good reason that I haven't thought about.
And then there are vaccinations, insurance, passport and visa photos in different sizes for different places, stamps and envelopes, and that's before you even leave the country. Then you've got to get a backpack, first aid kit, malaria tablets, all kinds of clothes from walking boots to bikinis (all compact enough to shrink to nothing), camera, power adaptors, the Lonely Planet guide which is maybe slightly larger than the Bible and slightly heavier than a baby elephant. Etc.
I live with the hope that once I get there I will feel like a super rich Westerner and have cash to burn.
On the other hand I fear the prospect of seeing poverty that I will never experience. Then I will feel rather ashamed of this blog and the fact that I resent spending money on having a nice time and not needing to work for months.
Selfish Westerner.
But for now I will put that thought to one side, and think instead of seeing tigers, ancient caves, palaces and temples. Of drinking from a coconut on the beach whilst reading The Jungle Book and applying liberal amounts of suncream and mosquito repellent. The hunter-gatherer in me is baffled by this prospect but is looking forward to the coconut.
I will save a fortune on Christmas presents though, being away from November to February. Look forward to your Christmas emails and poems friends and family. You lucky people. Maybe you can have a souvenir rupee when I get back (N.B they are worth about a penny).
But I still have 50 days to go and plenty to do. Visa application 1 is sent. Now I have to wait for my passport to come back before I can do the other. Next stop, guest house booking and health insurance. Confused.com?
It's quite scary sending your passport away. I feel like I posted my identity. And I have the fear that Nepal will lose it and I won't be able to go anywhere. And I won't be a real person anymore. Oh no!
Calm thoughts, Jess...sunshine...beaches...baby elephants...

Trains

Not that I mean to sound like some kind of anorak-wearing enthusiast, but I do like trains. There is something so romantic about them. When I take the train, I can almost imagine I am a fur and pearl clad woman in an Agatha Cristie novel; that the person who has reserved the seat opposite will almost definitely be Poirot, who will be instantly charmed by my innocent yet witty manner and rescue me from a terrifyingly dashing, moustached murderer. Ah, the glamour...
In reality of course, this doesn't happen. The reasons being:
1. Poirot almost certainly would never travel third class.
2. Although I do have a beautiful pearl necklace, I look rather like a fuzzy pom-pom in a fur coat, and Poirot would probably mistake me for a small bear or a cushion if I was to wear one.
3. Virgin Trains and the rest are no Orient Express. You are more likely to come across a paper cup of lukewarm instant coffee than a gin and tonic. And more likely to have a drunk Everton fan fall asleep on you shoulder and knock his Carling on your copy of Murder on the Orient Express than encounter a charming Belgian detective.
Nonetheless, I live in hope and still enjoy flying through the glorious countryside and spying people's back gardens on the way.
But then there are days when the rail network fails you, like that time my train stopped for 5 hours somewhere outside Rugby and my friend's bag got stolen while she when to get her Sorry-We've-Made-You-Late complimentary coffee.
Today was not that disastrous but I did get stranded in Crewe briefly because the track was flooded.
My annoyances are two-fold. First, we live in a country where it rains for a third of the year. If you think of the UK, it is probably raining. Why have we not got trains that can deal with this problem?
Second, and more importantly, Crewe is no Monte Carlo or Venice. It may be one of the least inspiring places I've ever been. Being stranded somewhere a little more elegant would be so much better. But the weather and British town planning are against me.
So today I was stuck. I had narrowly missed missing the train in the first place: jumping on board with about 30 seconds to spare. I was so pleased with myself for avoiding being late for work, only to be shot down by flooding.
At Crewe though, I did meet some marvellous people. Not Hercule but the first was a modern day Hercules/hero of sorts. While the rest of us grumbled about the lack of bus replacements, the weather, the lack of information from the guards, Amy Childs's existence...our man was calling the train line, organising buses, dividing us into different destination groups, being generally efficient and cheerful. I think I fancy him a little.
My other new friend was an 86 year old man who sat next to me on the finally appearing bus and told me (in thick Welsh accent) "Girl, you'll go far." Hurrah! Always a nice thing to hear. He told me his life story, all about his finances and the importance of saving. We discussed how nice Marks and Spencer's food is and what a bargain his coat was. He assured me that even though he could afford to leave £10,000 each to 4 charities in his will (quite the philanthropist) he still always caught the bus. "Of course," I said, "May as well use your bus pass." He chuckled and elbowed me for my cheek. What an old flirt, but we were like BFFs by the time we reached Chester.
And THAT is what is good about trains, delays, and adverse weather: talking to interesting people, hearing some stories, getting some good advice. The people you meet may or may not be not be suave or exotic or geniuses, but they are probably quite funny (intentionally or not) and its probably worth breaking the ice and having a cup of tea together. Or a gin and tonic. It will certainly speed the journey up.

Meeting the Ancestors

Since it began I have been fascinated by the programme Who Do You Think You Are? I always felt it would be almost worth becoming famous to have some BBC researcher find exciting things about my family history, then lead me on a treasure hunt of discovery.
I mean, we had some interesting family legends. You know the standard vanities that probably all families have. My Gran (or rather Great Gran) was a veritable gold mine of stories. One of her favourites was that her father's family, the Cliffes, were descended from the Normans and used to own Kent. Her evidence was:
1. It was a slightly unusual and possibly (if you said it with an accent) French sounding name.
2. Her family came from Kent.
And then there are the standard war hero stories to discover; a guy that may or may not have looked after Lord Kitchener's horses; and maybe a ship's captain.
So, with lots of free time on my hands, and my living family at work or school, I decided to make the acquaintance of my ancestors.
I have two weeks. Those Ancestry websites always give you a free trail for that amount of time so in my eagerness not to have an obscene amount of money go onto my credit card,  I am almost a little too dedicated. They may be family but due to a notable lack of inheritance from them I ain't paying.
It's fun though you know. Every time you see a name you know on a census, or birth index, or marriage certificate it's exciting. I FOUND HIM I FOUND HIM!!
That was what I was screaming when I found the military records for my Great Great Grandfather who had for two days been annoyingly allusive.
Before I go into it, let me warn you: if you ever do research into your own family history be aware that they were very free with their names and vital information in the past. This man seems to start off life as Woods William Cliff. By the time he's in the army he's dropped the Woods (well, fair enough...I would too). His wife is just as bad. Sometimes shes Frances Eliza Bennett, other times Eliza Frances or Frances E. or...and then there are changing surnames to contend with.
Anyway, so I eventually tracked down (Woods) William in the Royal Horse Artillery. Army records are the best ones. For example I know that W.W was 5 ft 5 and about 8.5 stone (thanks for the short gene!), fair haired, grey eyed, of 'fresh' complexion and once broke his right leg because an excitable young horse fell on him. There are about four pages of records that discuss the accident and all conclude 'the injury is not likely to interfere with his future efficiency as a soldier.' All written in beautiful but almost illegible handwriting.
I feel like I know the man quite well. I've grown to be quite fond of the little guy. Especially as I have a vague memory of seeing a photo of Frances E. and I believe she looked a bit like Miss Trunchbull. I hope she was a nice lady or poor man.
So thanks to the British Army I had the names of his parents and their address in Ketton. Not Kent, Rutland. And definitely not the descendants of Norman nobility but actually a long line of agricultural labourers called Isaac.
I have to say I'm relieved. I'd much rather be a family on the up than one fallen from grace. And as far as I can tell they were all decent and incredibly fertile people. I mean to regularly have families of ten cropping up...don't expect me to continue the tradition.
And anyway, those farmers lived through stuff like the corn laws...I learnt about those in history. For me, not exciting, for them probably big news.
So that's the Cliff(e)s. Next the Williams side and there's definitely a master mariner or two to learn about. Wish me luck!

Social networking. Meh.

Social media is all getting a bit much (she says writing a blog). Gone are the happy days when my only social time was ballet class and, critically, the half hour before when we got to speak to the boys waiting for football club. I say we...I mean not me. I was shy. And slightly anti-social. I was standing awkwardly in the background or reading somewhere. Sweet.
But now it's a whole new world. Actually seeing and talking to people is the good part, but it takes some planning with us all being grown ups (when and how did that happen?), with wildly varying schedules and homes not just around the corner.
Which is where Facebook comes in. This I can understand. Though it doesn't make for the longest or best of conversations, at least you can keep up with what everyone is up too. And you never forget anyone's birthday. Lovely. But you get out what you put in...so you have to make some kind of effort. It's ok, phone internet makes it all portable at least.
But then there's Twitter. Gulp. And as much as I'm trying, I don't really get it. On FB you have 'friends,' but Twitter is just a lot of strangers following each other saying not very interesting things in order to promote themselves. Bizarre.
And yet, it's so important now. Everyone has it and I've read so many job adverts recently that ask for a good knowledge of it. So I'm trying.
As you can see though, 140 characters is a bit of an ask for me. I suppose it's good to learn to be concise but I do have a natural proclivity to waffle...
Hence my next bit of social media: this blog. It is my favourite of all but I fear I neglect the networking part. It's all fine and dandy writing down my flow of thoughts but I need to learn to promote.
This failing on my part probably stems from the same bit of me that stood awkwardly around while my friends flirted with the football team.
But when you are a wannabe creative type you have to be good at this stuff. If you can't sell yourself you have to be a waitress, or shop assistant, or something, and if you can't do it on Twitter, you probably can't in real life either.
So it's all good practice.
Well, I'll see how it goes. Follow me @LilJess100 and excuse the blatant plug. I will try to be vaguely entertain and...concise.

On reading Harry Potter again.

For my whole life, or at least for as long as I can remember, stories have been a true love. From my Dad reading Fantastic Fairytales at bedtime, to sneaking a Wilbur Smith novel that I'd been forbidden to read yet, to the wonderful moment on the tube when I realise the poster I've sat opposite is a Poem on the Underground.
But I always have favourites that I can read again and again and never get tired of, and cliche of cliches, one of mine is Harry Potter.
You know what, I don't even care if that makes me highly unoriginal and unsophisticated. It's amazing, you got that?  J K Rowling is like some kind of genius. Nothing on this earth would make me pick up Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey, but Harry is everything that is good in this world: a beautifully crafted piece of magic that is not just about our very famous protagonist growing up, but about me growing up as well. I bet JKR didn't realise that it was all about me when she put pen to napkin all those years ago.
The thing about a series is that I get so involved and know the characters so well, that when it's all over I actually go into mourning a little. This week I completed the Deathly Hallows once again and I haven't been able to pick up a book since. It's like my best friend has emigrated to deepest darkest Peru and forsaken all internet access. Unbearable.
I should admit that this happens quite often and not just with Harry. I've been known to finish a book and go immediately back to the beginning. This happens less often now, I have more self control than when I was a teenager...just. I'm restricting myself to a re-read once every couple of years. Maximum. Because there is a whole infinity of stories to discover in the meantime. And besides, I can't take this sadness more often than that. Oh Harry and co...! What are you doing now? Can't you just be on Facebook or something? And I do not mean Daniel Radcliff who is a big fake and not even close to the greatness of Harry. I mean the real, fictional deal.
Maybe I have problems...cold turkey is the only option really until my next relapse. Alternatively, I could watch the films and become so angry I'm put off the whole thing. Hmm...
For now, to put off any kind of decision, I'm going to read Tales of Beedle the Bard. You know what I'm talking about fellow addicts.

Cinderella (kind of).

So, this week I have started my life as a Housekeeper. I have agreed to be Cinderella in exchange for living rent free and being taxi-ed around when I need it. A fair deal I think, especially considering that I'm...probably inadequate anyway. Sure I did clean the bathroom with a toothbrush yesterday, but today I sat and read Harry Potter as Mum vacuumed around me. And I got a cup of tea in bed this morning.
Thanks Mummy!
In my defence, I made the tea yesterday. However, that may be her one and only treat...I'm not getting up before her once she's back at work and getting up before 7. I'm an artist daaaarling...that would be ridiculous.
I do think I'm doing pretty well with the cooking. I actually made food for the grandparents and an aunt yesterday. Salmon. Then I wrote a fairytale about a salmon. All in all it was a successful and creative day. And the family thought the salmon were delicious and entertaining respectively. They may have been just saying that to make me feel better, but I chose to believe them.
I'm enjoying the cooking. I mainly have my friend Sam to thank for the few recipes I've mastered. Once this limited repertoire runs out (in about 2 days) the experimenting begins. I've been watching Lunch With Gino and Mel this week in preparation. That Gino...he makes everything look so easy, even when he does set fire to the kitchen cloth.
I set fire to stuff too though: the microwave once, when I was heating up pancakes. My lesson from that was to not read whilst preparing food. Its too distracting. It is difficult when Harry is mid-duel with You-Know-Who.
The microwave incident was a long time ago though. Recently I'm much more likely to get bored halfway through the cooking process and serve semi-raw potatoes. Or as I insist: al dente. This is OK when you are only cooking for yourself but I cannot serve my family raw potatoes. Again. This is cosy, middle-class Wales, not Communist Russia.
However I have 2 months and I'm determined to perfect this art. Maybe I'll start taking pictures of my food and this can be a food blog.
...NAH!

The world is my oyster.

And so I begin my first blog away from the constant buzz of London and I would like to write about...TFL.
Did I ever mention how sterling an organisation I find it? No? Well, now I'm saying it. Sterling.
One doesn't appreciate it enough when one has been waiting for a bus for 6 minutes and then when it comes, you have to stand. Damn that cost me £1.35.
Having waited in the rain for 20 minutes the other day for a bus that should have come in half the time, and having paid £1.70 on the only not broken ticket machine for the privilege, I yearn for the days of the 6 minute wait being about the maximum. Oh Boris, how I miss you...
True, this bus was not so crowded...but that's only because the service was so appalling it just wasn't worth it. I just can't drive so i'm stuck with it. Boo.
But, this was in Chester, a metropolis of public transport compared with the one solitary bus that passes through my village every couple of hours. Now I'm really going to have to time this carefully. Or sweet talk my parents into becoming a personal taxi service. I'm sure they will. They loved it when I was 15.
I have yet to decide where I need to go though. I am so far unemployed (a state I'm rather enjoying) and generally undecided about who might give me a job for 2 or 3 days a week for 2 months with preferably no weekends. Hmm... is it ok to sign on so I can save for travels? It doesn't seem quite right somehow. And I really don't know how I would get to the job centre anyway. The bus remember...
And don't feel sorry for me but I am so far friendless (probably because I have been confined to the house by copious amounts of unpacking and healthy supplies of both cheese and cake) so I have absolutely no reason to need public transport anyway.
Which is what brings me to this blog. Nostalgia for the ability to not even notice how much the bus costs because of the magic wand that is an oyster card. The freedom that comes with having a choice not to run for the bus and take one in 2 minutes. Or having a choice of routes. Or having someone to meet at the other end, or a museum to go to, or an Urban Outfitters...alas...
OK, I'm exaggerating a little. I've been here less than a week so my withdrawal symptoms are at their peak. I do not miss being at armpit height on a crowded tube. There.
And actually I've been a lot more productive than I've been for a long time. The time I used to spend on the tube I'm now devoting to perfecting Moon River on the ukulele (I want to be Holly Golightly). And today I re-ignited my love of The Sound of Music. I'm uplifted and ready to climb every mountain, ford every stream...I will have to, if I continue to procrastinate this much I'll miss my bus. Walking up a mountain might be the only way.

Can someone help me please?!

This week I'm faced with the appalling task of packing.
Crap.
Just so you know, I struggle with this at the best of times. Every time I leave the house I spend slightly longer than necessary deliberating what to take with me (it might rain at any time you know!); I regularly overpack when I go away; or forget something crucial like my toothbrush or pyjamas.
These problems are less of an issue this time though because I have to pack EVERYTHING. That is seven years of...stuff...into one car. How did I do this before? It feels like an impossible challenge.
I think the key will be a sudden charitable spirit. I with have to ruthlessly give away all of those things I don't use but hang onto "just in case."
But i neeeeeeeed it all. The incense set you never use? Yes, I fancy a fragrant bath experience when I get home. The old videos? Yes! Good Will Hunting is a classic. The broken bike? Isadora is merely sick and I will nurse her back to health for some glorious country cycling.
You see?
And then once I have crammed my life into a combination of suitcases, cardboard boxes and bin bags I'll have to then unpack. Which is worse. Much worse. Because the thing is, at my parents house, where I am temporarily a lodger/squatter I have even more stuff. Where am I supposed to fit all my clothes, books, sewing machine, tool kit etc when the wardrobe is full of purple Lycra catsuits, tutus, and boxes of old school books? And a million teddy bears, most of whom I have forgotten the names of but can't bear to send away. They'll be so sad. I've seen Toy Story.
What I suspect will happen here is that I will just transfer a lot of stuff to the attic. Don't tell the parents. They'll just get a pleasant surprise when they get the Christmas tree out in December and find my life in the way.
But I'll be far away by then...MWAHAHAHA!
Alternatively I'll become resident interior designer and rearrange the whole house to make a space for myself. Thus far, I have not really looked into potential employment so I may as well add this to my current list of things to do: learn to cook; learn to run; clean; write a book of fairytales. Re-decorate. Lovely.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't even have any cardboard boxes yet. All I've done is look about me in dismay and wail: "Can someone help me please?!" and then immediately leave the room and concentrate on diminishing my food stocks one potato at a time. In my head this is productive.
Maybe I'll wait until my Dad comes to my assistance. Or maybe I'll invite various friends over to talk to me while I agonise over whether I will ever wear that bright green flowery halter neck again.
Expect a call friends. I need you.

Olympic Spirit

I am simply so excited. For someone who never shows any interest in sport, for two weeks every four years I am fascinated by them all. Truly I can barely tear myself away. So much so that this blog has taken a lot longer to write than it should have.
Not only am I hooked by the normal sports I'm also suddenly quite knowledgeable about Dressage, Archery, Fencing. How cool would it be to be on the fencing team and feel like one of the three musketeers? Very. As it is I have to be content to just cheer on the talented members of the nation from my sofa, and plan to join a club so I can make my hugely successful debut at Rio 2016.
And we are doing SO well. To be appropriately cliche: Go Team GB!! For such a tiny island we got some great people, no? Not least, Jess Ennis, who is amazing. Heptathlon is a crazy event as well. Look at a hurdler, then at a shot put thrower and they are not similar breeds, and here are these people who can do it all, and put us all to shame with their washboard stomachs. Jealous much?
Actually no. Just massively proud, as if I personally contributed to this incredible sports person's victory. I think a lot of people feel the same. Because we love her. Fact.
And then even more gold medals on the same night thanks to Rutherford and Farah. Whoop for us. Outstanding GB, outstanding.
As you can tell from my last blog, I have been watching a lot of cycling and was truly devastated when Cav didn't get a look in medal-wise. Poor tactics I guess, but he should have won.
And this is what I really love about the Olympics: that as a nation we jump to our feet and scream all together in both glory and disappointment.
I don't care how much everyone complained about it before, about inevitable transport failure (which hadn't happened), crazy busy London (which hasn't happened) etc. As soon as all those volunteers started dancing around the maypole at the opening ceremony, we were all hooked, proud and behind London 2012 all the way. Do not try to deny it. You'd be lying to yourself.
People are so happy, on the first day I made several new friends including Dennis and Jackie who were out to soak up the atmosphere and basically have a chat. That's great, huh? This Olympic spirit makes everyone so friendly. And all the tourists are so excited to be here. London is like the host of a massive party. Yes, it was a bit stressful to organise but now it's in full swing we're having a whale of a time. Let's do this every Olympics!
And still a week to look forward to. Usain is coming to win again. Now there's someone that transcends country loyalty. I always want him so win. To be superman for 9 seconds. And what a nice man!
And Dai Greene who I support especially, him being a friend of my brother in law. Go on boy! Bad rehearsal, good show, that's the way it is.
For now, tennis, where if Murray continues in this vain he will win at Wimbledon against the man who just stopped him a couple of weeks ago. Fingers crossed.
God bless the home crowd. I wish I was there, somewhere, to share that adrenalin. Still time. That failing, I'm booking my flight to South America for four years time.
So that's it. I'm off to indulge my temporary passion and eat a biscuit while I watch some super fit people running around. Ah the ironies of being a sport fan...

A new legend is born.

Yesterday was a landmark in sporting history: a man with quite outstanding sideburns became the first British cyclist to win the Tour de France. Bravo Bradley Wiggins. Yellow suits you.
The Tour has long been my favourite sporting event of the year, mainly because I like the scenery. France is just so pretty. I spot my 'future home' at least once every stage that I watch. And I'm equally entertained by such a fine collection of legs. Lovely. Yes, I know that's not the point.
Don't get me wrong, I'm hardly a hardcore fan. I dip in and out and vaguely follow what's happening, helped along by my Dad's avid viewing. If I want to talk to him in July, I will pick up a thing or two about various jersey patterns and time trials and sprint finishes.
And talking of sprint finishes, one Christmas I fell upon the best present. Mark Cavendish was doing a signing in a bookshop I happened to be passing. Well, I was straight in there buying Boy Racer and queuing. I did get a little bored though and the message I finally got him to write on the title page read something like:
"Dear Richard, I hope you appreciate how much your daughter loves you. She's had to wait bloody ages for this. I hope it's worth it. Merry Christmas, Mark Cavendish."
I may have paraphrased there but you get the gist. Mark actually chuckled as he wrote and now we're best friends. Fact.
Or we could have been, but I'm very busy and important you know, so I had to rush off.
Still, as I saw him winning Champs-Elysees I was quite proud of my best friend and did a small skipping circuit of the living room in excitement. He is faaaaaast!
And what made it all really perfect was the fact the Brad, golden shirted winner led him into it, spectacularly doing it for both Team Sky and UK. Allez! Allez!
In sport, the thing that inspires loyalty in me is when someone is a hero. Like when Tyler Hamilton came fifth with a broken collarbone. Now there is some respectable feat. I was much less impressed when he got disqualified for doping a few years later. I felt personally betrayed. Heroes do not do drugs. That is all.
Bradley, on the other hand, is very articulate and clearly passionate about both his sport, and the purity of it. One can cheer for him in all respects. And because of the above mentioned facial hair he has become (in my head at least) some kind of eccentric sporting legend. Like that swimmer with the moustache, Mark Spitz. Or Steve Prefontaine.
I digress. What I'm trying to say is congratulations Mr Wiggins. A well deserved victory to an awesome chap. I will even get Sybil (my bike) out of the shed in a fit of sporting inspiration. That, and I have no other option: the Olympics are coming and I suspect London will be impossible without her. No sprint finishes for me. I might get me a yellow t-shirt though, now the sun's out.

Farewell

Yesterday I left a job. It was not a job I ever loved. I complained about it often enough and have in fact been looking forward to leaving for at least the last two years (of two and a half that I was employed). But now here I am, having to say goodbye and it's actually very sad. Whatever faults it has, the company has impeccable taste in employees- that is why I have stayed so long- so this blog is for all of you, to celebrate comradery and friendship.

Friends,

It’s hard to know where to begin actually. I’ve said so many goodbyes in the last two and a half years but now it’s my turn to go. How odd it will be not to see you all everyday.

I don’t know how to make emotional speeches, so even though it has been requested several times you aren't getting any such thing. Ha. Besides, so many of the people I cared about have already gone, said their own goodbyes, that I decided to write instead. 

As much as I hate to admit it, as much as I have complained about it, been angry with it, bitched about it, this job has been a massive part of my life. And I owe so much to it: learning how to cope when there are 300 people wanting coffee and only 16 cups and 7 teaspoons; how to survive for two months of the years on maximum 4 hours sleep a night; how to smile when all I want to do is scream and slam all the doors on my way out; how to tell people off(!!!) and to stand up for myself. All key skills in life I'm sure you'll agree.

But most of all it is the friendships I’ve made that have not just helped me survive no taxis, horrendous hours and lifting twice my body weight in tables, but made it a joy. When I look back I will think of Top Trumps, Weird Crush of the Week, drinking Red Stripe on the Piazza, Naked Calendar, WAKA WAKA!!! Karaoke, eating ice cream on the balcony, cling-filmed shoes, prosecco in plastic cups, the Single Ladies dance…

Now I think I’m pretty good at keeping in touch so there is no excuse for becoming strangers, but I can’t believe the time has come for me to say goodbye. And I’m so fricking happy! It’s my turn. Hurrah! Onward and upward I hope, but let’s make sure we continue with the good stuff and I’ll just be exempt from all the customer service. Thank you Jesus H. Christ. 

Warning: small sad story to follow (ergh). When I was at college one of my teachers told my I was too emotionally immature and I needed more ‘life experience’ to do what I wanted to do. I cried. Of course I did, I was an emotionally immature 18 year old. And I was really at a loss. I danced, I worked hard, I had…have some amazing friends who are sisters to me. It’s only now that I have met people who challenge me, now I have been in love and had my heart broken, now that I’ve gritted my teeth and got the hell on with it, that I understand what she meant. 

And a lot of what I have learnt is down to you people. Who'd have thought? So thank you thank you with all my heart. 

Cin cin, toodles! I LOVE YOU!  Now bring me a flat warm prosecco, I'm signing out! HURRAH!

On a serious note.

I can't seem to be whimsical today and yet I feel the need to write. I'm afraid this may not be the light-hearted blog you may expect by now.

A man spoke to me about God this afternoon while I was waiting for a friend and I found myself thinking he was wrong. It was all wrong. Yes, I find religion interesting as a concept (how it makes people behave) and I would say I am culturally Christian. I pray occasionally, I like the stories, I find churches somehow comforting. But, amongst other things, the 'Afterlife' bothers me. There are questions I have about it that have no pleasing answer: how old are you in Heaven? I would like to be a child with my parents, old with my grandchildren. If you have loved more than one man, how will they feel about sharing? Won't it be hugely overcrowded and eventually boring? I'm not sure eternity is for me.

I have come to believe that Heaven or Hell is not a place, but the legacy that we leave. If we are happy and well-loved, we live on in beautiful memories and hopefully the lives of those we leave behind, which are better for us being in them.

If you inspire only hate, that is a Hell you've created for yourself.

But this evening I saw a documentary called Hitler's Children. Five descendants of leading members of the Nazi party talking about the guilt that their parents and grandparents have left them. 

I have no connection, as far as I'm aware, to anything so horrific but who knows...there have been many atrocities in history, and plenty of time to forget. But I wanted to talk about it for some inexplicable reason. It is one thing to have a million people despise you for your crimes. It is quite another to have your only remaining family have themselves sterilised, as Bettina Goering (niece of the founder of the Gestapo) did, to cut the line that you have tainted. To never have children because they believe anything that comes from you does not deserve to live. Hell, indeed.

But why should they suffer and feel guilt? Each new person is a new slate aren't they? 

But we are told so often how like our parents we are. And not just our faces. Sometimes we inherit a temper, or a stubborn streak. What is it like to fear you could be capable of the same crimes? The same blindness?

Niklas Frank, another of the 'children' has spent most of his adult life chronicling, condemning and telling the world about his father, a monster. But the thing I found most painful was not the fact that Frank felt he had to remind people so it didn't happen again, it wasn't that he needed to punish himself daily by recounting his own childhood memories and experiences of genocide, it was when he revealed that he continued to research because he was looking for one redeeming feature of his father, one life saved or spared, so that he could love his own flesh and blood. He found nothing.

But, there was love too. His daughter never had to fight her past because he has 'already defeated it' for her. And forgiveness as Auchwitz's commander's grandson returned there to be told by a survivor of the camp to stop blaming himself: "you were not there."

As I said, I know nothing of this. I'm highly unqualified to tackle the issue but I wanted to share with you this terribly poignant pragramme. I have no moral to share because I don't know what it should be. Love? Being good? Forgive and forget or remember and learn? Sometimes, a subject raises more questions than it answers, and the twisted, fragile and contrary nature of the human conscious is certainly one them.

Why you should give blood.

Now, I am very pro-blood donation. It's a good thing to do for someone at no cost to you except for the tiniest discomfort, and then you get juice and biscuits afterwards. I feel it's a no brainer really. Everyone should be doing it.
Yesterday however, on my second donation, I incurred a life long ban.
The first time I donated was fine. It was quite fascinating and I practically skipped away and to work after my chocolate digestive. It never occurred to me that this time all might not go so smoothly. I'll talk you through my day.
So I arrived, handed in all my paperwork (I declare that I'm fit, healthy and don't have sex for money); and sat down with the information pack and giant cup of water they make you drink before. The leaflet tells you to do 'exercises' whilst the blood is given: cross and uncross your legs; squeeze your leg muscles for 5 seconds then relax (not difficult: after all that water I really need the loo by now); clench and unclench your fist to keep the blood flowing.
Then you get called for questions and the nurse stabs you in the finger, without warning, to test your iron levels. That is the most painful part.
And then it was time for me to actually give blood. All went fine except that my arm got kind of tired after all the fist clenching. And then it was all over. The nurse popped a plaster on my arm and sat me up slowly and left me to put pressure on the wound while he turned to check someone else.
And then nothing.
When I woke up I had two thoughts:
1. Why are they all trying to wake me up? I'm sleepy. And...
2. Oh no...I don't need the toilet anymore.
And then I tried to close my eyes again and was firmly told that was not allowed and I had to stay awake. I'd been out for long enough for both me to stop breathing briefly and them to call the ambulance.
"This is the end for you now," boss-nurse told me, "you can never give donate again."
Bugger. Now I'll have to give money to charity or something.
And then I had one guy bringing me lemon juice, a lady wiping my face, someone else fanning me and asking for a dignity pack over here please.
At this point I didn't know what a dignity pack was but having ruined the very elegant outfit I had come in, I was really keen to find out. Yes, bring me one dignity pack. Stat.
Turns out it was clean and giant clothes, including some of those blue trousers they wear in Scrubs. They are not getting those bad boys back. They are beauts, and mine now.
And then the ambulance men sat me in a chair, strapped me in and whisked me away. My parting thought was that I hoped there were no newbie donors in the room. What a horrible thing to have to see before you first time. At least I didn't see it all, being either unconscious or semi-unconscious for the whole debacle.
And then I had to wait around at hospital for two hours, with only sick people for company. Yuck. By the time I was seen, my only symptoms were minimal light-headedness and feeling sorry for myself.
However I had an EPG(?) (that thing where they stick stickers all over you with wires attached to them, which was quite interesting) and a chat with the nurse. It was a good job she was nice or I wouldn't have forgiven her for chuckling at my reason for being there. "Such a lightweight."
Well, at least I gave a full pint before becoming a wimp. It would have been an entirely wasted day otherwise.
And then I got the bus home. The end.
But this will never happen to you. It shouldn't even have happened to me. I was fine the first time. And sure I've been banned, but I'll give it a couple of years, put on some weight and go again. And I will be like Robin Hood...doing something I'm not allowed for the good of mankind. Hurrah for me!
And you should go because while I'm out, they are a donor down so they'll need you to step up and give instead. And you. And you.