Monday, 23 April 2012

A list.

Evenings with food, wine and most importantly friends are pretty spectacular, aren't they? Not in a jaw-dropping-once-in-a-lifetime kind of way, but in a I-wouldn't-be-anywhere-else-right-now way. A simple and perfect pleasure is Sunday night club. For the record, Sunday night club can happen on any day of the week. Often Mondays.
And the best bit of nights out is dressing up: simultaneously dancing around in a towel to encourage your nail varnish to dry, applying your mascara without smudging said nail varnish, and drinking whiskey.
And how beautiful it is waking up at the crack of dawn, hearing birds singing and knowing you don't have to get up until midday and then getting up anyway; cycling through sunny London or wearing wellies in the rain so you can walk through all the puddles; looking up words in the biggest dictionary you own; realising the trees are getting leaves in the spring, and piles of colourful crackly leaves in autumn that of course you jump in when no one is looking.
Coffee shops, hummus and pita, dressing up in vintage shops, fresh flowers.
The kind of wind that cleans you. Blows away the cobwebs.
The view from a mountain or the top of a tree. Climbing a mountain or a tree.
Museum trips. Deciding with a friend when in the past you might be from or making note of the method for making shrunken heads, just in case someone upsets you that much.
Often I realise I'm talking to myself in Italian because these conversations always go very well. I understand everything and that makes me happy.
When I get an actual letter, not just bills or junk mail, it makes my day. Writing letters too. I like writing.
Poems, the delicious taste of them on your tongue and in your head. Dedicating them to inanimate objects. The Owl and the Pussy Cat, Carol Ann Duffy, Simon Armitage. I saw him live once. He's so rock 'n' roll.
The feeling of stepping off a train or aeroplane and learning how the air smells in another place. Getting lost and finding something wonderful, be it some interesting graffiti or a castle wall. Old churches and cathedrals, how the stained glass windows drench your skin with a million colours and how loud the quiet is there.
Flying. And train journeys which are like flying but closer to the ground.
Dancing, dancing and dancing everywhere without knowing I'm doing it. Dancing is like speaking. Or breathing because you don't have to think, but when you do you can feel life to the very tips of your fingers.
When you see someone for the first time in forever and within two and a half minutes it's like you've never been apart.
Sitting around the dining room table with my family. I got lucky there.
A cup of tea and a couple of chocolate digestives. Thinking I don't like cheese then not being able to leave that baked Camembert alone.
Reading and being so absorbed you aren't even aware of your own body let alone what anyone else is saying to you. The smell of paper and ink in a new book. The smell of dust and love in an old one.
Hugs. Ones that make you feel like you are sharing lungs.
Cleaning your teeth. Cleaning your teeth while standing on one leg, or wandering around the house, or attempting to have a conversation. The feeling of sharp mint once you have cleaned your teeth.
The excitement of watching someone open a present you bought. Making someone smile. Doing a nice thing for a stranger. Or when a stranger is unexpectedly nice to you. Like when you are running for the bus in vain but the driver slows down to drive alongside you and wave before letting you on and joking that you almost beat him.
Rainbow drops. Rainbows. The rainbow duvet at my parents house.
The heat of a bonfire. The coolness of the sea. Sand between your toes. Skimming stones.
Well, I feel crazy happy now. All this wonderful stuff in my life! I know this is just a list but try it. How content you will be.

Friday, 20 April 2012

Oh, to be a chicken.

There's something quite empowering about doing things by yourself: drinking coffee alone, traveling alone, sitting in a park with just a book for company.
My favourite is going to the cinema alone and  treating yourself to a massive box of popcorn and laughing or crying as much as you want. It's not a place for conversation anyway so why not indulge your inner hermit and go it alone?
Today it was to The Royal Opera House that my solo travels took me. La Fille Mal Gardee by Royal Ballet. And as all the old ladies and gentlemen (it was a matinee, oasis of the comfortably retired) scrambled over each  to find their seats, I sat in my aisle seat observing and writing/pretending I'm some kind of dance critic.
This is an absolutely untrue state of affairs. I'm far too easily entertained to be any good at reviews. Almost everything could probably be boiled down to the sentence: "Well that was quite nice." Three years of dance history and criticism was entirely wasted on me.
Saying that, this is everything you could want from a ballet: a dame in clogs; dancing chickens; and a first-love story between boy and girl who look much better in tights than your average person.
I have two links with this ballet. The whole time I was a teenager I was taught by the woman who danced the lead role more than anyone, over 100 times. And she's amazing. Over seventy and still screaming. I blame her almost entirely for my deciding on dancing as a career. Hmm...
Second, the first piece of ballet repertoire I learnt was the chicken dance (obviously taught by Brenda), and as I was looking in the programme I saw that one of the girls in the role of chicken was in that class with me when I was ten. Oh my god, she's a chicken! That's exciting. If only I were a chicken...
And then there was the fire drill. I had been warned this would happen (inside information) but the patrons seemed a bit grumpy about helping prepare the building for potential emergency.
I, on the other hand, quite enjoyed standing in the rain with ushers, chefs, a horse...
I generally enjoy small (very small) disasters though. Possibly my favourite bit of the ballet was at the end of the pas de deux when the sit lift went wrong. Twice. Because then Laura Morera and Ricardo Cervera had a little stage hug which, even though it was probably choreographed, the audience aww-ed beautifully.
What a nice life characters in ballets have. Maybe not the main characters who have an alarming tendency to dance themselves to death or turn into swans and throw themselves into lakes. But in this ballet they are all happy and remarkably well dressed peasants. Imagine the worst thing that happens in life is a big storm spoiling the maypole dance.
What I'm saying is that this is a super sweet and funny ballet that doesn't take itself seriously. It's quite nice really.
But this wasn't supposed to be a review, it was supposed to be about my independent self.
Whatever...I'm a child again at the ballet. You should go. Alone. There, I covered all bases.

Sunday, 15 April 2012

Writer's block

Today I have become a true writer. I have experienced...WRITER'S BLOCK. Wow. OK, so clearly I'm writing so how can this be possible? But I like writing so I'm pretty much winging it here. Do not expect great things of this read.
Once before I have come across this phenomenon. It was year 7. End of year exams. English. And at the top of the paper: 'Write a story.'
Duh duh duh!!!
So much expectation in those three words. I can't just write a story on demand. I'm an artist, damn it! So in a daze I picked up my pen and began: 
'I was in an English exam...'
Write what you know. And I knew that I was getting an A, so hell...I wrote it. A dazzling adventure that began with my main character (me) not knowing what to write and culminated in her-me getting top marks for a paper she couldn't remember writing. Child prodigy I'm sure you'll agree. And not cocky at all.
And now here it is again, except this time I don't have to write anything. I just want to,even though I have nothing to say. Art (if that's what this self-indulgent chatter can be called) is full of bullshit anyway. I'm just adding to it.
The thing is though, I actually have a lot I want to say. Before starting this, I began blogs about travelling, my sisters, the word 'organic.' Fear not, you may get these blogs at some point in the future but they are not for today. I'm saving my sisters embarrassment for some special occasion (there's a wedding and an 18th birthday this year so watch out ladies); I always want to write about travelling so I won't bore you with my obsession with holidays; and as for the word organic, the only thing you need to know is that if it is used to describe anything that I cannot buy at a supermarket, I don't want to hear it: dance people this is a message for you. The word is wanky. 
I'm basically assuming if you are reading this, you are:
a) very lucky
b) someone I know/know on Facebook
Which means I must avoid offending people I like and being too emotional about stuff. I suppose I don't mind (a small amount of ) emotion in other people, but I find it unforgivable in myself. This is a problem I need to get over, not least because it gives me significantly less writing material. And hey, a rare outpouring might be quite entertaining for you. 
But for now, please forgive this blog about nothing. I can only play the writer's block card once, so now is the time. Next time I'll tell you about my first love or something. 
Or something it is.

Saturday, 7 April 2012

I should definitely be the campaign manager.

May 3rd. Election day. Now considering I'm pretty politically unaware this may come as a surprise: I'm very anti-not-voting. My reasons are threefold:
  1. Not voting is an insult to your ancestors: I had to study Popular Movements at school (I'm talking Chartists and The Rebecca Riots here not Voguing) and I want those people to have achieved more than the only tedium I ever experienced in a History class. That was a DULL module.
  2. I don't want to hear anyone complain about how the country is run, or dare to offer an opinion on the government if they waste their chance to have a tiny say. Comments on how David Cameron's moon face makes people inexplicably angry are always allowed however. That's biology not politics.
  3. Voting is fun. It's one of the only really grown up things I do and I would like you all to relish the experience.
So really, what I'm trying to say is: I urge you to do a little research and go out, poll card in hand, and vote for this man:



What more, Londoners, could you possibly want in your mayor than Boris? If this was an election for King of the World, Mr Johnson would get my vote every time.
For a start, no one waves a flag better than Boris and with the Olympics creeping up on us this is a key skill to have.
Second, and talking of the Olympics, Boris won't even be there if he's not re-elected. And after all his efforts with the Boris-, sorry, Barclays-bikes... I'm not having it.
Aren't those bikes brilliant? Yes I'm biased. I am scared most other vehicles (especially white vans which seem to have some kind of vendetta against me). Cycling on and crossing busy roads is a daily struggle but, thanks to Boris at least I now have a brightly coloured bit of road to myself, as well as a whole peloton of florescent clad business people on blue bikes to drag me along.
Yes, I was a bit sad about the death of the 'free bus' but I understand now that it does make my night journey pleasanter when there aren't several hundred drunk people falling on me and vomiting on each others' shoes. Now, to get the bus you have to be sober enough to find your oyster card. Or sober up on a nice walk home. Really I think this is encouraging responsible drinking.
Truly truly, I'm not being sarcastic here. Boris is just the most likeable person in the world. Even after falling in a river and emerging like a drowning fish, he still manages to be massively cool in a bumbling foolish kind of way. And we're British. Secretly we are all a bit like that...but less obviously.
Besides, take a look at the other options. No one holds a candle to Boris for both charm and comic relief.
We CAN NOT have Ken. First, because he looks sneaky. Second, Ken is a ridiculous name that implies the man has no genitals. A leader cannot be so badly equipped.
So back Boris. In his own words:
"There are no disasters, only opportunities. And, indeed, opportunities for fresh disasters."
We need this kind of optimism...'nough said.