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.

Duties of a bridesmaid.

Today I'm thinking about weddings. No, of course not mine. One shudders at the thought of being so grown up yet. No, my sister's is drawing closer. Actually I'm still slightly in shock that she's a grown up now. In my head we are both primary school age and playing 'Let's Pretend.'
"Let's pretend you are getting married and I'll be the bridesmaid. Here's a pillowcase veil and a white nightdress."
That's not what's happening though. There's a real dress, I've seen it. And she looks like a real princess in it. (That was suspiciously sweet of me, no?)
I'm definitely going to recycle some of this blog for the speech I insisted on doing. The one I'm now a little concerned about. How does someone who is highly unemotional make a moving speech? And if I haven't got that I have to try to be witty...but without either embarrassing the bride (bad form) or talking about myself (also bad form).
I did offer to recite the Fresh Prince of Bel Air rap in my silly voice: a party piece that Becca used to beg me to show Tom. It has been cruelly vetoed though. I can't think why.
Really I would like to make all the guests weep, especially Becca. I'm envious of orators who can inspire this kind of reaction but I just don't think anyone would take me seriously. So I'll just say something like: "Love ya sis. You're awesome init. And Tom...I suppose you're alright too. Hip hip...!"
And then there's the perfect wedding present that has to be magic-ed up. But from where? And does it have to be meaningful or can the Chief Bridesmaid (yes Meg, I claim it, I'm older than you) get away with buying the lovely couple an ironing board?
But today we've been planning. If I thought I'd never have to work at a wedding again I was wrong. I'm already the 'contact' for the venue and am assembling the cake. And I already knew I'll be checking that the cutlery is adequately polished.
I feel that working in Events has ruined me. The staff will almost certainly all hate me. Ah well, at least it will go smoothly. I draw the line at boxing the tables though.
It's exciting isn't it?! There's nothing like a good wedding. And I get to wear a pretty dress at this one. Hurrah!
So in conclusion, all good really. Better than good in fact, as two very wonderful people will be very happy. And the rest of us will be very happy too because we love them and they are giving us a lot of food. What more could you ask for?
Now wish me luck. I need to turn my writing attentions to the speech of the year.

Joie de Vivre of A Pile of People

Seeing friends dance is really quite a weird sensation. On one hand it's super nice. You see them in class and think "why the hell are you not on stage?"...and then there they are, in the spotlight where they should be. And that's great, huh?
And then there's the tiny seed of longing to be up there with them. Especially if you know them from when you danced together.
It's irrelevant whether you are performing the following day or working on something else or on nothing at all: I just like to be on the stage.
I say stage in the loosest sense of the word: I have not been on a proper stage for a while. More often recently I dance in 'spaces'. Rooms, fields, museums, parks.
But I digress...this is not about me. It's about the joy of dancing with people you love. Everyone can relate to this I'm sure. Girls, you know we all made up dances to the Shoop Shoop song in primary school (insert your own 90's hit here). And now I'm lucky enough to get to do the same thing a lot. A couple of friends and I recently learnt the Single Ladies dance in its entirety (yes, I know we were behind the times) and it became a bit of a party piece for a while. And of course I'm always just dancing around. My sister hates going to the supermarket with me because I'm an embarrassment...but I'm just hoping she'll join in.
And then there's The People Pile. Now there's a beautiful thing: "An emerging contemporary dance company so stagnated with joie de vivre, unadulterated fun, colour and accessibility" (thanks www.thelondonaisle.com). So many people. And all of them dancing, or making music, or juggling or...
And now I'm going to say the cheesiest thing EVER!! And all friends. It's true though. I've never know them to have an audition because that's not the nature of the beast. Its about finding other creative souls and getting stuck in to whatever opportunity arises. About working with performers who you already know have that little bit of magic and through them finding more kindred spirits.
And it's working and making performance that ranges from the ethereal to the obscure to the ridiculous. A little something for everyone and from everyone.
And the best thing about it for me is that I feel like that child making up dances with friends. But really really good dances with incredibly talented friends.
You're jealous aren't you? So get involved. Pile On.
www.thepeoplepile.co.uk

God Save The Queen!

How does time go so quickly? First of all it's June already and we've seen the sun for all of a week. And it felt about a month ago that I Richard Wilson was wishing me Happy New Year. It cannot possibly be half gone.
Also on a larger scale, I swear it hasn't been a decade since a friend and I sat drinking Panda Pops on the park wall at the Queen's Golden Jubilee street party in Ysceifiog. (To all that think I just dropped something on my keyboard and forgot to delete, Ysceifiog is a tiny village near my Wales home...yes, it's an odd name.)
I wonder how the Queen is feeling: "60 years! Dang...it feels like only yesterday that I wasn't even in line to the throne." Except she probably wouldn't use the word 'dang' as she isn't from the mid-west.
I like the Queen. Even though, for me, her Jubilee celebrations mean the most chaotic working day of the year, I'm quite excited about it all. And I'm really enjoying the amount of bunting this has inspired.
I wonder what the flotilla will be like. I'm imagining a fleet of tiny pedal boats covered in Union Jacks, with the Queen leading in a pirate ship (maybe the Golden Hind) with a compass in one hand and a pink handbag in the other. Do you think this is likely?
I'll see tomorrow. I'm lucky enough to have a balcony view, as long as all those pesky customers don't obstruct all the windows. I'm working at the only street party that is not taking place on a street. There will be deck chairs though. You know we'll need them because it will be very sunny inside/no less than outside. Not even God's representative on Earth gets good weather when they want it.
But, as I was saying, I'm excited. A bit of national spirit is such a nice thing. I feel like people will speak to strangers and dance in the street. Hopefully all night so I can join in later. And maybe this new community spirit will inspire a return to a time when people can leave their bikes unlocked and still find them on return.
I'm dreaming...
I was also saying that I like the Queen. She seems nice and I would like to go to her garden party. And she does a good job. In reality she's a figurehead only but people love her. She smiles and pretends to be interested in so much that we do as a country, like a benevolent parent. I'm sure she groans internally every time she has to cut a ribbon or attend a silly performance but she pretends well. Great customer service Liz.
So Happy Jubilee! Let's raise our glasses of Pimms to Her Majesty and wave as she passes in her armada. If she's still on board that is. She is the ultimate diva after all...she'll probably arrive late and slip of for a cuppa ten minutes in. And why not? She's the Queen. Jealous.