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...
Friday, 28 September 2012
Monday, 24 September 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, 15 September 2012
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!
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!
Sunday, 9 September 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
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.
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.
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