Put down the phone.

Picture this: you are at the theatre, a beautiful gilt and red velvet one no less; you are watching an amazing ballet with music that makes you want to weep; you are with someone you love, or at least like a lot presumably if you are on an evening out with them. How lovely.

Why then, as soon as the curtains go down and the lights go up, do you whip out your phone? WHY!?

The other day at work, I looked down over the auditorium and half the audience were lit up by their phones, ipads etc. A couple right beside me were both scrolling blank faced through their Facebook feeds and not talking to each other. I don't understand. If they like each other enough to spend an evening at the theatre together, why aren't they talking? Or should I say, why aren't they talking to each other, as it's likely they were both in communication with the rest of the world.

Perhaps they weren't together. I assumed they were because they were having a snog in the back row at the end. But maybe they were strangers who got so caught up in the romance of Romeo and Juliet that they just got carried away. That would be a nice story. 

Two days before I had to tell someone off for using their mobile during the first act of Parsifal. Yes, ok, it is really really really long, but you obviously want to see it or why would you have bought a ticket? Wagner is expensive: too expensive to ignore.

Basically that's just rude. It's so annoying to have the person next to you burst your otherworldly bubble by shining the light of the internet in your face when you had managed to forget they were there for a moment despite the fact they have the sniffles. 

But if you don't care about other people's enjoyment then think of the performers. Those people on the stage, they have been singing not just for hours this evening, but for months in rehearsal. Why is it ok to act like they aren't worthy of your attention? That they are less worthy of your attention than Gus, someone you vaguely remember from school, who has posted a funny picture of his dog in a shark costume. You couldn't possibly miss that.

It just makes me sad, you know, that these phone people never seem to be happy where they are. That they can't just be with who they're with, but have to hang on to the connection with the rest of the world.

Don't you think that maybe, by always being plugged in, you miss something. The world looks so much better through your eyes than on the screen of whatever device you have now. 

And that's another thing. Why so people film stuff...shows I mean. To remember it? If you are filming, you aren't seeing it properly so what are you remembering? A grainy dark image and the concentration of holding the camera straight whilst hiding it from ushers.

Or are you filming to put it online and tell the world how much you are enjoying your life?

Hmmm...

Just stop it. Instead, why not watch, and listen, and see the person next to you.

Here's a little video because this is what you look like:

Big Brother is watching.

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."

Yes. I'm reading 1984. First of all, what a weird world. Second, how does it seem believable somehow? Clever man, that Orwell.
Of course there are many things to say about this book including:
"Hurrah for freedom of the press!"
"If there really are spies reading my mail, why do they want to know who needs to swap shifts with me?"
"How nice it is to have things for no reason."
But what I will actually say is that Telescreens are a bit creepy and make me realise that when the lift doors close and I start pulling weird faces at the polished metal walls, there is probably a security guard laughing at me somewhere.
Because I do weird things like that a lot. At work, when the lights go down and the show begins, I do foot exercises or copy the dancing but only with my head. When I cycle I speak out loud in other accents. Sometimes I stop in the street suddenly and for no clear reason and walk back the way I came.
If Big Brother was watching me he'd probably think me highly suspicious.
I think though that probably everyone does secret crazy things when they think no one is watching. Weird is normal. So it stands to reason that there's probably thousands of hours of CCTV footage of us all doing stupid stuff. What is the point of that? To keep security people entertained? Or as ammunition to keep us humble when we have our 15 minutes of fame?
In the book, the next step is thought-control. But you'll never be able to read my thoughts, will you? Actually, there are people working on it. Watch this.
Of course it's hardly telepathy at the moment. But it's the same as hidden cameras observing me skip down an empty corridor. By looking into someone else's mind, you're just going to find they are as bizarre and inexplicable as you. And then what?
There is no telepathy in 1984 (so far) just an assumption they know what you're thinking, and an attempt to twist your thoughts to their means. Scarier. And even scarier that it has happened, and does happen. And it works...every time a bus passes, I want to immediately book a holiday to wherever is advertised. Egypt most recently, even though I suspect there are reasons they are having a slow tourist season and need all the advertising they can get. It does look golden though. And I would be like a pale Cleopatra, meditating in the breeze from the Nile....
Where was I? Oh yes, not talking about what I started talking about. Classic.
But in conclusion, as there are cameras everywhere, and nothing useful could possibly come of the footage of me, perhaps whichever minor spy is watching my empty-room-dance-improvisations could put me together a showreel. And throw in some of the comedy if you like. It would be much appreciated and clearly you have nothing better to do.
Thanks Big Brother.

The Revolution

I'm a little late on the commentary but did you see the Paxman-Brand interview? It's here if you missed it.

So...is there going to be a revolution? And will we all sing, like in Les Miserables? Because that is my only knowledge of how a revolution would be, and every time I hear the songs I wish I believed in something as passionately as those characters. 

It seems like Russell Brand does care. It's difficult to tell at first...like when he uses too many fancy words (like he is vomiting a thesaurus) I'm not sure I believe him. It's too scripted. Too pretentious. But then he gets angry and I'm convinced. 

I read an article later, calling him "daft and dangerous" for telling people not to vote. That it does make a difference. But really he isn't saying not to vote, is he? He's saying don't vote unless there is something worth voting for. It seems fair enough really, but I like voting and my history teacher drummed it into us girls that it's an insult to the people she taught us about to waste that right. We studied 'Women's Role in the 20th Century,' where there was much throwing of self under horses and hunger strikes. And then 'Popular Movements' where men protested about all sorts of stuff, but the general aim was a better life and a say in the country they lived in.

And now? Pshhh! Who can be bothered? I'm not sure my life would be massively different if the government changed.

Which is Russell Brand's point. I should care shouldn't I? I should vote because I believe it will make a difference, not because it makes me feel like a grown up.

The thing that he isn't giving me an alternative. What is this new system he has in mind, now he's had time to consider it? I'm no politician or person of knowledge but I don't think there is any good way. 

What a pessimist!! But it's true...people are selfish. And there's the rest of the world. This Utopia would have to be worldwide or it is impossible. We can't exist alone. 

And at this point my brain explodes. No wonder the government are rubbish. It's a quite the headfuck, this world. Where do you even start? 

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I was Queen of the World, but I would be terrible. I'm almost positive the only way everyone would be equal is if I wound back time to when we were hunter-gatherers. No one with power...they can't be trusted. On the other hand, there are too many people now and we'd all end up with bad teeth and no cake. So it's back to the drawing board.

Thankfully, I don't need to think about it. I don't have any kind of say. What I can do is be vocal when I want something changed. Like that time I wrote a blog about potholes ruining my enjoyment of cycling. You'll all be pleased to hear that bit of road is smooth now and I (vainly and without any evidence) would like to claim artist responsibility for that happening. Boris probably reads my blog, no?

It seems a concern of the writer of the Brand: Daft and Dangerous article that Brand is like the Pied Piper, leading the young into apathy. Probably though, he is not telling anyone what to think, but saying what many people already think. 

I wish I thought it would make a difference. But maybe I'm just being part of the problem. When the revolution comes, I'll join in at the chorus of Do You Hear the People Sing.

We need to talk.

I try my best to avoid the fact but I'm just going to come out and say it. I am bad at confrontation. There. I admitted it. It wasn't so hard, was it?

Unfortunately, in real life though, it really is. It's all very well to complain about stuff in an online blog that people may or may not read; a place where I am both queen and an anonymity; it's quite another to tell someone face to face that I got a problem with them. You got a problem with that, huh?!

Instead of telling people carefully and tactfully that I would like them to be on time please, or wash up please, or make an effort please, I just tell other people my tale of woe. Basically I bitch. And because I find this an appalling trait I'm going to bitch about it to you. 

I don't even know what the point is. The people I complain to can't do anything about it, and they probably don't care at all. I, however, get to have my little rant without provoking the possibility of an argument, which I will always lose because I forget my very rational feelings and opinions and will want to cry. It's a problem. In fact the only person I can argue successfully with is my sister and that is only through years of practice. Besides, that's how we say I love you so it doesn't count at all. 

One of my best friends, who is the most honest person I know, has no qualms about telling me when I'm being an idiot. And then it's fine again. Problem solved because I know about it. But no matter how many times she tells me to man up and have a conversation with someone...I just can't do it. Massive fail. How does she do it?!

What I do do, is have the conversation, argument, whatever, in my head several hundred times as a rehearsal. I'm always stunningly articulate and convincing and it ends beautifully with me wiping away a single glistening tear before my adversary admits their wrongdoing and has my forgiveness generously and moving bestowed... 

But I can never quite remember how I started... Then it starts seeming like a good idea to write it down. Like a script, you know? I do that when I have to leave a voice message so I know it works. Means you get to have a proper practice before, and don't forget to say something crucial like what your name is. 

On the other hand, if you were interrupted mid-speech, you might loose track. You could have a list of prompts of course, but that would be weird and I would be tempted to just hand over my bullet pointed list and run away. And if I'm going to do that I might as well write a letter of complaint, right? 

Wrong. 

Seems a shame but I cannot become a leaver of notes (SEE: I Lick My Cheese, And Other Notes From the Frontline of Flatsharing (I'm not saying I'm complaining about my flatmates...I should put that out there!)). That would make me a sorry individual and unnecessarily passive-agressive. We don't like those people.

Note to self: we also don't like a bitch so stop it.

What is the point, I ask myself, of relationships without communication? You see, I know in theory how it works, but in practice I'd rather the communication be about what would happen in the roof caved in, or how to make crumble. Did you know that when Jack the Ripper...?

What would be ideal would be if people regularly asked me what was bothering me about them, and as an incentive told me how I was annoying in return. Bish bash bosh...everyone's happy, chests cleared, laundry aired. 

The worst of it is that sometimes I want to say something nice to someone and I can't do that either. It sticks in the throat. I'm very much a fan of the neutral. The safe. The impersonal. 

It is personal though I suppose, life. I should probably admit it eventually. 

So I have a question: you want to talk?

Selfies

Here is a picture of me:

I took it myself. You can tell this by the right arm at a weird angle, clearly holding up the camera; the flattering downward shot; and the blank expression (why would I smile, I'm alone?).
This, for those of you blissfully unaware, is a Selfie: a self portrait usually taken on a camera phone and uploaded to Facebook or Twitter or...
This is from my Instagram: friend of bad photographers and the un-photogenic (of which I am both). Select a filter, make your face a bit blurry and TA-DAH! You have a photo that is half-decent. Hurrah!
So why did I take this selfie? I was sitting on my sofa, not doing anything memorable or interesting. I was home alone and bored. And there you have my reason. Boredom. I felt like making a nice Instagram picture to amuse myself for 5 minutes, that being a new toy I'd recently discovered. Nothing of note around me so used myself as a subject of art.
That and I wanted a new profile picture. I get bored of my face if I keep the same photo too long.
But also (I'll be honest enough to admit) I like it when people say I look nice occasionally.
<LIKE>
But I notice that some people take this to an extreme. Why do you post a picture of yourself every day? Does that mean you are confident enough to think you look nice all the time and want to share that? Or does it mean the opposite, that you crave approval?
And then there are other kinds of Selfie that say other things about you. For a start, the ugly Selfie where you pull a stupid face to show you don't take yourself too seriously, that you have a 'Good Sense of Humour.' Or the group Selfie. Or a shot of your feet, or newly tattooed hand, or the beach with your suntanned legs in shot.
The last is to make you feel jealous of the magical view I have while I'm on holiday...clearly in my case I'm not looking for compliments on my non-existent tan.
I know someone who is a fashion blogger. She loves a selfie for business purposes, to show how clothes look and how you can put them together. Other people use them as a bit of promo.
But the thing is, they are no new thing. Here's an Edwardian Selfie taken with an early camera:

There you are: vanity is not a new phenomenon. It goes back even further than this actually, past early portrait painters, to people painting on cave walls. We humans have a bizarre need to leave a record of ourselves. The easier that is to do, the more prolific it is, and that's why we notice it so much now. If this lady had had Facebook this would be her new profile picture, showing off her latest and most technologically advanced toy.
Weird creatures humans, aren't we?
Now, I have been known to take a Selfie or two, but within reason people! Are you really enjoying yourself if you want to stop and take a photo of your fun-having self all the time? So yes, show us the dress your fairy godmother made you for the ball, but then just go and dance Cinderella! 

More procrastination

Yesterday I was having a discussion about my writing. In particular the picture book that is in my head but hasn't quite made it on to paper yet.
Do you know the reason I gave for having done nothing with it yet? That I need to buy a notebook first.
A notebook?!
How many blank notebooks do I have already? But none of them inspire me. I want a bigger one. And some colouring pencils. Until the moment these tools are sitting in front of me, I couldn't possibly channel my genius into a useful form.
Ridiculous, yes. But I do it all the time, and I know you are a culprit too reader.
Instead of finishing the knickers that I'm supposed to be sewing for myself, yesterday I bought lots of new fabric to make a maxi-dress and something else that I haven't decided yet. Why do I not work out how to attached the elastic first before embarking on a new project?
On a much grander scale, I have pretty much written off this year as one of experiments. Get myself back in shape just in case dance work materialises; work as much as possible to save some money; embark on varying work experience placements to see if I actually like anything; write as much as possible.
Then next September, or before if I'm lucky, I'll actually pick something.
This is the shiny side of the coin that I'm presenting to the world but here's the truth:
This morning I could have got up and gone to ballet but I'm actually sitting on the sofa in my pyjamas (at least I'm writing!); I'm going on holiday in a couple of weeks (yayay!!) spending much of what I've saved recently; having done two publishing placements I'm stuck about what to try next- apparently my ideas began and ended with publishing; I make excuses about not having the correct type of notebook to explain my lack of actual written writing.
So what do I do? Procrastinate. Read. Tidy up. Play the ukulele. Look up where I'll go on holiday next. Look at my blog stats to see where people are reading my blog (this week UK, Russia, Peru).
The thing is that I love potential. The magic in a shapeless piece of fabric that could become a ball gown. The energy in an idea in my head that cold be beautiful but might lose steam as soon as I put it on paper. The nobility of my good intentions.
And I guess it all gives me an excuse for my great indecision.
It just occurred to me how often I have mentioned how indecisive I am about my life in this blog. I'm procrastinating by talking about why I'm procrastinating.
So this is where I'll leave you today. I need to sew my pants. No more distractions!

Celebrities

Yesterday I was at the GQ Awards. Obviously I wasn't a guest: I was in prime people watching position. When you work at these things, even if you are standing somewhere very obvious, you are mainly invisible. Understandably so?
They are just so weird, these celebrity events. Shiny people walk in, look sultry for the camera, air kiss the cameraman, then answer questions about their outfit and man crush. Free drinks, a meal. Then the awards, which over-run by an hour because no one can stop mentioning the nazis.
Then I go home.
My first job was red carpet watch (if that is a job). People, I was in smelling distance of Eddie Redmayne, Michael Douglas, Noel Gallagher, Pharrell Williams, Samuel L. Jackson... I did not recognise them all. Far from it. But this started a game.
People who I recognised immediately: Emma Watson, Claudia Winkleman, Russell Brand.
People who I thought I'd met before: Matt Smith.
People who I couldn't remember the name of but knew immediately because they look just like my friend Abi: my friend Abi's brother. I would have loved to tell him to say hi to her from me but a) that would be a bit weird, b) we weren't allowed to let the famouses know we existed.
People who's names I heard later and hadn't recognised at all: Rosie Huntington-Whitley, Rita Ora, Ellie Goulding.
People I thought looked like I should know them and I probably should have if I had any ounce of cool: the man from The Who, Wilko Johnson...this is difficult because I still don't know their names.
People whose lackies are very rude and make furious gestures for me to move out of the way lest I offend the great man's eyes: Elton John.
People who actually seem quite nice and say hello to you: Elton John.


Yep. I just did a blow by blow of who I saw. What a name-dropper eh?

So there was the red carpet. A place to look chic, to show the world that you are friends with Justin Timberlake. A place to only smile when there wasn't a camera pointed at you.
And then there was my second location, smoker's terrace.
Humans are so odd. I often think this about stuff we do: walking on two legs, hair, hands and feet, exercising in front of the telly.
But I mean, places like this seem so much like a watering hole. But instead of sipping water in the cooling shade of an oasis, people smoke and sip champagne and compliment each other on their dresses. But they suddenly don't look like famous people. They look like an office party, which is essentially what these things are, no?
So why so people find them so fascinating? They weren't even very interesting. I know, I heard a lot of speeches. The only vaguely exciting moment was Russell Brand making a joke about Hugo Boss dressing the nazis very elegantly; and every third speech after condemning him for it.
Oh and Elton John gave his award to Wilko Johnson. That was nice.
So that's what I did yesterday. I grew bored by some people. Standard day at work really, except that I wasn't allowed to sit down.

Crazy people

What's 'normal'? As a person who is occasionally told I'm weird, I would like to argue that everyone is. It would be an incredibly dull world if no one had their little quirks. But my occasional outbreaks of dance, imaginary conversations and random whistling (feel free to add to this list) are nothing compared with the following.
Just click on the links and enjoy the real crazy:

Awful-tattoo-leads-to-amazing-facebook-breakup

Oh dear lord...take down the picture and book yourself in for laser therapy.

This-is-what-crazy-looks-like

Erm...wow.

A letter to the mayor

Dear Mr Johnson,

I was not sure whether to write this letter to you or to Mr Corbyn, my local MP. However, as this concerns areas outside Islington North I thought it best to go directly to The Big Cheese (or whoever reads his post). 

I am a cyclist and I'm writing to express my dismay at the condition of the roads in London. I'm not the most confident cyclist but due to the expense of public transport, I have little other option than to go by bike if I want to afford to appreciate our wonderful city. 

That said, I feel I have enough to worry about on the roads, what with bus and taxi drivers who seem determined to make me fall over (as a cyclist I'm sure you understand- maybe it's worse for you as mayor and recognisable target?!) without adding a road which resembles a lunar landscape. 

May I bring particular attention to Upper Woburn Place. Crossing Euston Road into this street and down toward Holborn is a most uncomfortable ride, not to mention hazardous as its far from quiet.

Once I cycled this way with a box of raspberries in my basket and they were basically compote by the time I arrived at work. A minor tragedy, I'm sure you'll agree. 

I know many people who wish to start cycling but are too afraid of the roads. This is such a shame since its so important at the moment, not only to save money in these times of recession, but to reduce our carbon footprint. 

I'm convinced that better and safer road surfaces would encourage more people to take to their bikes; as well as making people like me safer road users as we would be saved from having to swerve suddenly to avoid plummeting into that crater, and then that one, and then that one...

This is the first letter I have ever written to a politician so I hope I have expressed my concerns in a clear and savvy (I always wanted to be savvy) manner.

All I have left to say is have an excellent day.

Yours sincerely. 

What I want for my birthday

The day before I turned 13 I cried.
"Urgh," I thought, "growing up..."
Far from wanting to be an adult, wanting my freedom like everyone else seemed to, I was dubious about how much I'd enjoy it. First there would be that awkward teenage-ness where everything would get all emotional and solitary, when my body would be replaced by one that I was happy to forego the inconvenience of.
I'd have to stop playing make-believe (yes, I still played it at 12) and start pretending to be interested in boys and make-up and Bacardi Breezers; start to make decisions about what I thought about women's rights, God and Coldplay.
Then obviously I'd end up doing my own laundry, cooking, having to use public transport... Worst, get a job. Maybe I'd have to do the same thing everyday forever!
All things worthy of my tears.
And this year, out of nowhere (how do these things come around so fast), I will reach the grand old age of a quarter of a century.
"Urgh," I think, "growing up..."
Basically I still think I'm not an adult yet. I have a job, I do my own laundry, I cook occasionally. I have decided women should have rights(!); God does exist but is probably not a bearded old man sat on a cloud; and Coldplay remind me of one of my best friends and butterflies falling from the ceiling. Bacardi Breezers are gross but I like the fire whisky leaves in your throat. I like drinking it when I wear red lipstick.
I still wish I could play make believe.
Those fears are gone I suppose. But now I have new fears. I'm pretty sure my habit of raising my eyebrows a little too often is going to make my forehead stick like that soon. Should I start using anti-wrinkle cream?
Someone I met recently asked me why I wasn't married with babies yet. "I had 3 when I was your age," he told me, "women can't leave it too late."
WHAT!!! NOOOOOO!!
Not that I haven't heard this before....yes Nanna, I'm talking to you. But let me state quite firmly and clearly, right now: I will not get married until I decide its a good idea, and I will not have babies until I am not so keen on having a flat stomach. Besides, I'd much rather spend my time and money on seeing new places, eating good food, and ballet classes than on an expensive meal for everyone I know and a lot of nappies.
I fear that I might have to think about getting a pension soon or risk living on £30 a week.
I fear that I'm too unaware of what's going on in the world to change it. I imagine I'd be a marvellous Queen of the World if I was better informed.
I mainly fear that I'll forget how good life is. I don't really know why as I distinctly remember how sweet it was being 12. But what if I get to 50, 70, whatever, and think that I didn't do anything. That I didn't make the most of it all. That would make me sad.
And so I'm starting a project. Laugh at me if you will but I like it.
I watched a film recently, Before Midnight, that is basically a snapshot of two people's life. A fragment of time. There is no conclusion and very little really happens, but it's beautiful (as are the others Before Sunset and Before Sunrise). In this film, one of the characters mentions a letter he wrote himself. 22 year old him to 42 year old him. I don't know what this letter said, whether it offered advice or support or... but it gave me the idea of making a time capsule for myself. A birthday present for me at 50 (not old of course Mother) when I probably will have a few laughter lines, and may have decided to spend 18 years contributing to the over-population of the world.
So I wrote myself a letter, just like I was writing to a pen-pal. I wrote about where I was, what I was doing. I mentioned my friends and the cat which was beside me. I spoke about things I intended to do soon and the song that was stuck in my head that day.
50 year old me will probably enjoy a)remembering an otherwise uneventful day that in all probability would be lost in the void of time, b)the hand-written nature of the letter as I imagine in 25 years handwriting will be a lost skill and we will communicate only by teleportation.
So, what I would like for my birthday this year is a handwritten letter from you. It doesn't have to be about something important or momentous. It certainly doesn't have to be sentimental or tell me that I'm wonderful (although feel free if you can't help but sing my praises).
If you want a letter in return I'm happy to reciprocate. I write a cracking letter and I know everyone likes post.
When I finally open these letters in 2038 I will be so inspired by the mundane/not wonders of your lives that maybe I'll put you in the book I'll write on the whole, lovely, dripping-in-nostalgia project. Cross my heart, I won't read them until then.

I leave you with a little song:

Royal Baby

Kate's having a baby (hurrah!) and I, and almost everybody else, are very excited in an almost medieval kind of way. The security of our nation is at stake people!
...Wait...that's The White Queen. 
But is it a boy or a girl? And contrary to previous desperation for the boy and heir, this time either will definitely be King or Queen one day, so I really want it to be a girl.
In fact if it's a boy I will have a similar face as Edward IV (of previously mentioned drama) when he was introduced to his new born daughter. Disappointed.
One news reporter speaking this morning went so far as to place an 80 to 1 bet on it being a girl named Matilda. Properly medieval. Now that that thought is in my head I'll be disappointed with any other name too.
But it's bizarre isn't it? How much everyone is looking forward to this new baby, like it belongs to us all. I suppose it does really...we're paying for it I guess. And we've seen Kate and William grow up, get married; we paid for their house: we got a stake in this.
So basically I'm looking forward to that easel being put up in front of the palace that announces the new arrival.
I like that too. They got it right, these royals. It's refreshing that it's not going up on Twitter straight away. If I ever have kids, that's how I'm announcing it to the world: write it on a blackboard in front of my house, then pose on the steps outside the hospital to give the waiting press a first glimpse of the little squirt, as well as how glowing I look post-labour.
Beyonce had a hairdresser, manicure, facial etc..in the hospital with her. Do you think Kate does too? I feel sorry for her actually. She's suffering (I've seen One Born Every Minute) and there are a bunch of middle aged men telling the rest of us that all is progressing normally. Ergh. There's something wrong with that.
What a weird day. And what a weird life these people have. And yet, actually, right now they are just the same as the rest of us. It's good to know.
Anyway...good luck Kate. Name it Matilda. Or Jessica (excellent name). 

Rejected by Sunshine

Quite recently I heard in the news that we are going to have bad summers for the rest of eternity (well..20 years at least) and although this is quite a depressing thought it's not entirely unexpected. It's the same complaint every year.
I don't know what happened. I swear when I was growing up, the summers were glorious, and that wasn't so long ago. What's changed? Or perhaps through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia I'm brightening things up a bit.
But now it seems we're getting a two week heatwave. Woohoo! Those dungarees I bought might not have been a complete waste of money after all.
I shouldn't complain about a lack of sunshine really. I was in India, soaking it up, fairly recently. But I got used to that, and really into my suncream routine. Snow White here needs Factor 50 because although I love the sun, it does not love me. Now I don't automatically grab the Ambra Solaire before stepping outside, because there was a miserable, though protective, layer of cloud protecting me. And then the sunshine came out for 2 minutes at the weekend and I'm burnt. Burnt, wearing a jumper and sat under a tree. It's not fair at all.
So I've spent the last few days yelping at the hot water in the shower; vainly trying to move the labels and seams of my clothes into a less painful position; and matching my red work blouse to a disturbing degree.
Yesterday I went swimming (yes, I'm persevering!) and entered phase two of sunburn. Half an hour of being submerged in cool water and I'm peeling. I will apologise now to my fellow swimmers: I didn't know this was going to happen. I feel almost as bad for you as I do for myself. What you don't know can't hurt you though and at least you don't resemble some kind of lizard.
"Oh, your sunburn, " said a colleague to me, "it's wonky...that's annoying. You'll have an uneven tan all summer."
Pah! In my dreams! In a week I'll have shed my skin and be white again.
You see: it's very difficult to be me.
Do you think if I moved somewhere where there is always sun, I would eventually get some kind of tan? More likely I suspect, I would get skin cancer immediately and have to carry a parasol around with me at all times.
Thanks to the joyful news in the weather report I'm prepared now. Automatic suncream is back on the bill and I may dig out the giant straw hat from Goa. Sunshine, you can't drive me away.

Deleting friends

How satisfying is a clear out? You buy stuff, you collect, hoard, can't let it go. "Maybe I'll wear it again...?" You think, "I can't get rid of it, I used to love it. The holes mean nothing to me."

And then one day you start to tidy up, sort out, make a pile for charity, and suddenly you can't stop and your wardrobe is 50% smaller and you start to complain you have nothing to wear.

Cathartic, isn't it? 

Well, this weekend I did just this. Instead of clothes though, I had a Facebook sort out, and once I'd started deleting friends I couldn't stop. I'm still going back to the list to de-friend just one more. It's an addiction.

The first to go were people I didn't know/recognise. I thought I didn't have any of those so they were a bit bewildering to find. Next was anyone particularly annoying, whiny, a little bit too racist.. Then people I wasn't really friends with at school, people who I'm sure are equally unlikely to wonder what I'm doing with my life as I am for them. 

And of course people I just didn't like. 

Oh, and a couple who I actually do like, are interesting but invite me to some event or other every 2 days. 

I felt mean. I felt powerful. I felt godlike. "Like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport." Except somewhat less violent. 

I wondered briefly if anyone would notice, or care if they did. I suspect not. 

It's possible my reader numbers will take a hit. I can only wait and see.

All was going swimmingly and most satisfyingly until I realised that I had been defriended! What? Someone I used to work with and was actually quite close to. Someone who once tried to spoon me. That crossed line I forgave him for. This is unforgivable. I would defriend him immediately if he hadn't already got me first.

So I'm curious to know what his reasons were for a clear out, and why I didn't make the cut. Did I complain too much? Did I post too many self-indulgent and badly spelled blogs? Or did he just decide he didn't like me after all?

I can't ask him. If he's not on Facebook he doesn't exist anymore. You know how it works...you aren't real if you aren't there. I can't even remember his name now. 

But does that mean I don't exist now for all those people I deleted? 

I don't think I mind that actually. So farewell Facebook friends. I probably won't see you around, which is exactly the point really. 

Swimming

In the tradition of all women, one glimpse of the sun and I feel like it's time to do some exercise. Not that there's much prospect of me going anywhere bikini-worthy anytime soon but still. Just in case. 

Actually it's not about shaping up for me really. I just kind of like that buzzy feeling you get in your limbs after a ballet class; or the flying feeling of cycling; or the joy of climbing trees. It's happiness. 

However, since returning from my travels I've had a notable break from movement. Dance classes are out of reach for my draining bank account (damn it India!), running hurts and I'm kind of a fair weather cyclist if I'm honest. 

But you'll all be pleased to hear Isadora is back in my life, complete with wicker basket and yellow helmet. I'm incredibly glamorous. And even though I have not plucked up the courage to get back in a leotard and into class, I have played "badminton" with my flat mate and today I went swimming.

Ok. Considering I like exercise, I like baths, the sea, the feeling of my limbs underwater, I am a bad swimmer. Three lengths and I had to have a little rest. Then another little rest every time I reached the wall. I could tell my arms would rather I drowned than have to continue moving. 

I may have held up the other woman in the slow lane. Sorry about that. 

Yes, I feel like my whole body has had a workout. No, I was not in actual harmful pain like when I try to run. But when I got out of the pool I thought I was going to fall over and I struggled to lift my arms high enough to take my towel off the peg. 

In fact I felt so awful I had to buy myself a pulled pork sandwich on the way home to make it all better. It was the best sandwich I've ever eaten. 

Needless to say, I will go again soon. For the post-swim treat. Just like when mum made me go to swimming lessons and bribed me with a Bertie Burger and chips. Clearly that's the way to encourage me: food. 

In defence of the actual act of swimming, I must say that it's a very nice pool and if you do backstroke you can see the sky. I really enjoyed it for the first two and a half minutes. 

Now, to further reward myself I'm sat in a beer garden drinking Pimms. For the fruit obviously. My arms are too weak to lift the glass so I had to pick something that came with a straw.

Flat Pack Furniture

I have been back in London now for almost four months. I'm pretty much settled back in, and yet I have been living out of a suitcase for the whole time.
Was it a subconcious way of deluding myself I was still travelling? Possibly...on some very deep level. Actually, it was more that I had no time or money to buy a chest of drawers.
Well this week I have plenty of time (still no money but I got to suck it up and buy the damn thing sooner or later) so I ordered one from Argos thinking I'd spend a day off constructing flat pack furniture.
I also bought a desk so that my (desktop) computer has somewhere to sit that is not the floor. It's somewhat inconvenient down there.
And this brought up the first confusion. Argos, instead of asking what day I want my order to be delivered, asked me separately for each individual item. Why would I not want them to come on the same day?
Of course I picked the first day that both could be delivered and thought nothing more of it until this morning when the chest of drawers arrived but not the desk. I asked the man, who told me it would probably come on the transit van later. Then he asked me to make him lunch.
Ermmmm....? In a word...
So still expecting a desk to arrive anytime before 8 I set to work putting together my now glorious chest of drawers.
There are a lot of parts in that box. And who knew that many types of screw existed? But that was not what bothered me.
I thought the point of flatpack furniture was that anyone can put it together, that everything you need comes in that box. But no. On page 2 of the instructions I was informed that I needed a hammer, a screwdriver, scissors, tape measure and safety goggles.
Safety goggles??
Lucky for me, my flatmate (who is moving out on Sunday. SOB!) has quite an extensive toolkit. Well done her. There were no safety goggles but I managed without.
I grabbed a beer and began work. That seems like the appropriate beverage for DIY, doesn't it? And before long I was folding all my clothes into their new home. Hurrah!
And then I waited for the desk. And waited. And waited.
And it bloody hasn't come, has it?! Stupid Argos. I'm not even in until Wednesday. When am I going to get that now?
I was just kind of hoping to have a pretty much complete room by June (better late than never). Argos, you'd better look out for an angry/mildly irritated phone call at some point.
I do know though, that the desk will be build by a brilliant craftsperson so I guess the masterpiece will be worth the wait.
The only question is: will I still have access to the tools by then? What happened to the classic allen key?
That's two questions. Never mind.

Stuff about me.

We have been acquainted for a long time now. I have no idea who you are of course but I've been sharing my life, thoughts and probably sometimes shaky opinions with you for over a year by now. Time flies, eh? 

But here are some things you might not know yet. (Do not expect my bank details and address to appear here.)

A couple of days ago I managed to lock myself in the building next door to the shop where I work and didn't really know how I got there. It was like a very disappointing Narnia.

I lost the key to my locker, broke my bike and forgot my Oyster card in the same day.

Apart from the bike, things I own that are broken include my iPod, my laptop, the Internet of my PC, and almost all of the bags I own. And some of my shoes. 

Yesterday, 4 months ago I was in a hot spring in the Himalayas. 

Yesterday I moved all my bedroom furniture, cleaned the oven, did 3 loads of laundry, took out the recycling, watched a programme about why the descendants of slaves are better athletes, played the ukulele and wrote my name, date of birth and confirmed that I am eligible to work in the UK on 3 application forms. I did not complete the small essay questions that seems to be on them all. That seemed to much like hard work after inhaling oven cleaner fumes.

I have 5 spanners of various sizes in a row on my bedside table.

There are at least 6 books in my head that I think about writing but can't quite decide which one or how to go about it. 

I'm learning to write with my left hand because I once learned about a sailor who had to after his right hand was blown off with a canon ball. I want to be prepared. 

Tomorrow will be the first day I'm not working in 36 days. I'm excited.

Sometimes when talking to customers, I realise I'm not actually talking but making gestures and funny faces that convey my meaning perfectly. I suspect I'm talking to them directly mind to mind and now I have noticed this gift it will vanish forever like the elves from The Elves and the Shoemaker. 

Sometimes I change my handwriting on purpose, just for a little variety. I'm currently experimenting with a new style of A. 

I'm sleepy now. 

Exploring Publishing

I write from the middle of my first foray into "things-I-might-want-to-do-with-my-life." The first potential career I'm investigating is Publishing, courtesy of a month of work experience (aka general dogsbody-ing) at HarperCollins Children's Books. 

So far I have posted alot of books to various other publishers and authors (receiving a delightful letter from the genius that is Michael Bond in the process), looked stuff up on the Internet (random facts, Dr Seuss quotes), made a few spreadsheets and word documents, made a mailing list, rejected a pile of illustrator CV's that I didn't like, sent a thousand prizes to various competition winners.

The trick is though, to keep an eye on what the actual employees are doing to see if that looks like something potentially interesting. I would hope that if I actually worked there I'd get more interesting stuff to do than sealing envelopes. We'd get a work experience sucker in to do that crap. 

So what am I learning? 

Well for a start how to work in an office: how to sit in front of a computer for hours; what to wear; when it's appropriate to break the spell of silence and concentration, and initiate a chat. 

I used excel for an actual purposes for the first time...definitely banging that on the old CV. 

Now, what do I like and dislike? 

My favourite thing about HarperCollins is the staff cafe. They make amazing food for like £3 or so. There is also always boxes of biscuits or Quality Street hanging around the office. Who am I to refuse?

I like not having to do any lifting or cleaning. I like not having to deal with the general public. I love the picture books. Oliver Jeffers may be the coolest person in the world: picture book author, illustrator, plays the ukulele, writes stories about penguin, moose, a kite up a tree. I like how simple it all seems. Contrary to my fears that I might be incapable of a grown up job, it's actually pretty easy. So that's a relief.

I do not like the taste of envelope glue. I hate having to be on the tube at rush hour. I don't love being given instructions by the peron sat next to me via email. That's a bit weird.

What I've really got from the experience though is the wish to write my own picture book. Can't be that difficult can it? I mean, I can't draw but I'll just get someone else in to do that for me.

But publishing seems fine. Not as glorious I expected with all the competition for jobs but better than my actual jobs. And you can read at work. What a delight. 

I will continue to consider it and let the publishing world of my decision. Then I'll be snapped up I expect, if my letter sending skills are anything to go by. Damn, I'm efficient. 

Live Below the Line, Part 2

Ok, I am two days into Live Below the Line Challenge. Three days to go. It's still light outside with hours until bed time and I cannot eat or drink anything more today except tap water and maybe (if I'm particularly desperate) some sliced white bread. Value of course.
Now, I'm not a particularly foody person (Kirsty is...she must be suffering) but this just takes so much thought. Here's a joyful picture of my shopping basket for the week:

The binge on Sainsbury's Value products was only stage one of preparation though. Next came sums. Erghhhhh!! I haven't done so much maths since I was 16. Did you know that a portion of porridge costs 8p. That is for an adult portion. I can only manage a 4p Jess-sized portion because I have no milk or sugar to make it with. It is gruel and tastes of sadness.
I think I'm doing pretty well though. Yesterday I only ate 52p worth of food all day (porridge, a banana, half a value pizza). Yes, that is not much food. I had intended to eat more but I didn't have a chance to do the proper shop before Monday. And you know what that meant: hungry grocery shopping at the end of the day, and with a strick £5 budget. Possibly the most painful thing EVER. No marsbar for the journey home for me. Minisob.
And today I felt genuine hunger before lunch. My stomach grew a small and very loud monster that growled a lot.
And then I get to the meals themselves. I mentioned the porridge already but dinner this evening was just so bland. And stodgy. And uninspiring.
Yes, yes...the food I cook is often uninspiring. I don't put much effort into cooking for myself normally. That's the beauty of working at a nice cafe that feeds me. Good food, no effort.
This challenge is just that: a challenge. I'm eating, yes. But I actually have to spend time both planning and cooking and I get nothing tasty. Sigh.
Of course, some of you reading this will put thought and love into your food on a regular basis. But that probably means you are good cooks and buy stuff like salmon, asparagus, steak... mmmm.... not rice, stock and frozen veg.
So it's difficult, and for my efforts, and Kirsty's (who likes food much more than me) you should definitely sponsor us by clicking here. Your money will go straight to UNICEF to help children who live like this...no much worse than this all the time.
Thank you to you kind and wonderful people who have already donated. For all of you, and in case you need more persuading, here is our charity video that is sure to melt the stoniest of hearts:
DONATE!!! by Kirsty Green and Jess Williams. Filmed by Amy Gomez.

Phone calls in vain.

Man, don't you just hate an 0845 number called in vain. Especially when you're calling to ask for money. Not only do they say no, you know that call has probably cost you a week's wages. Clearly that's not ideal.
So why was I asking for money? No, it was not to ask random companies to sponsor us for Live Below The Line (still time for you to do so though). I recently decided that a bit of education and delicious learning was in order. Namely an Open University history degree. It will take me forever to complete but that's ok. I love a project.
Trouble is, I already have a "degree." That is a foundation degree in Theatre Dance which was great but I only wrote about 5000 words for in total. And we all know I love to write. This means I already have a student loan to my name. And THAT means no more funding.
Sadness.
I suppose I understand. I already have one loan I'm 97% sure I won't pay back. Arty degrees are bad investments i reckon. Joyful, yes. Lucrative, rarely. This is a country in debt...maybe it's a little selfish to even ask for more monies. But what to do now?
Is it worth it to just study for no qualification at all? And will it work without any form of guidance? I don't know...
More importantly, am I that disciplined?
So self funding? Gulp. Maybe this Live Below The Line will continue indefinitely.
So now I have this negative information and the thing that annoys me most is my next phone bill. Because it was apparently unnecessary. 3 calls that got me nowhere.
In other, and better, news I did manage to speak on the phone with confidence and an excellent telephone manner. And Because i knew i was paying i was soooo efficient. I'm growing as a human being.
So thank Student Finance and OU. You have helped me after all.

Living below the line

Here are some friends Kirsty and I made in Kolkata. They were the first kids we met who asked us, not for money, but for a chapati. They are smiling so much because they got biscuits and lassi. And everyone loves a photo.
Before I went to India, of course I knew about poverty. I mean, Comic Relief is on every year. But when you see it with your own eyes, you walk past it lying in the street, it's different. When you talk and laugh with children who are all bone and carrying their baby brother or sister on their hip, your heart breaks a little bit because you can't help them.
But we, and you can. With a little help from Unicef, we have decided to take part in this year's Live Below the Line. The challenge is for us to spend only £5 for five days of meals each. This is the maximum that millions of people around the world can spend on food a week. For us, this means 5 days of porridge and cheesy pasta. But we are lucky enough that the challenge will be over before we know it, leaving us with just a memory of how difficult it is. For people who actually live below the poverty line, this is a way of life.
OK, I know we haven't got a lot of spare cash at the moment. Most of my friends are as poor as me: living in a very expensive city on nearly minimum wage jobs is hard. But don't try to fool me. I know you are all coffee addicts. How about giving up a week's worth of coffee and donating the money to our cause instead? Or on Friday night, get your flirt on, find some banker to buy your drinks and give us your beer/wine/JD&Coke money. That's your challenge.
Ours starts on 29th April. You have almost a month to donate, and you can do it buy clicking HERE!!!!!!! Now definitely no excuses, plenty of time to accommodate a whole variety of paydays. But please please please don't just read this and move on. Don't just be impressed by our noble and generous spirits and forget about it. As soon as you read this, click on the link (look here's another!) and give us whatever you can afford. £5, the same as we're eating on for the week; £500, if any random millionaires are reading this; or £1.50 because every little helps.
Thank you so much, in advance, for your gift. Those kids at the top of the page...their smiles are for you.

Ladies

This morning I settled down with a cup of tea and a couple of chocolate digestives to watch New Girl. Unfortunately the episode I wanted was not online. This is a minor tragedy in a day that I wish to spend doing very little. Instead I had to content myself with Girls and then a weird BBC4 programme about Ladies: An Elegant History.
Just slightly different portraits of women...the first involved STD's, an abortion and babysitting in a transparent dress. And that was just one character: the British one who at least sounds the most like a Lady.
The second was presented by a woman who used to be editor of The Lady Magazine (I didn't even know there was such a thing) who, after learning from many sources that Ladyhood is coming back into fashion now we have more or less acheived equality, decided that she wasn't a Lady and wasn't sure she likes the idea. She was definitely a Lady. In denial.
So what am I? Lady or not?
One one hand, the life of the Girls was not a million miles away (mainly just the stuggling to pay rent on a job you don't really care about front really) It does, at least, seem a little more like real life than the assumption that walking out of a room in a certain way can advance you in life...open doors for you.
But I must say, I'm kind of a sucker for that kind of stuff. I would like to be able to glide around a room as if balancing a book on my head. Mainly as a party trick really, and because I suspect lazy posture is to blame for the fact that, at 24, my back hurts if I walk around with a bag for too long. I will of course maintain that I don't like to carry a bag because I feel so free without one. And it's true...free from pain. Oh dear.
Anyway, I also love a floral print, cupcakes and pearls. One doesn't indulge in these loves all the time of course..I'm currently wearing hippy India trousers and sitting with my feet up, eating the above mentioned biscuits. Can Ladies do that?
Or maybe it's nothing to do with fashion. Maybe it is an attitude. Like self-respect. Something that some of the characters in Girls are missing...hence, they are not Ladies.
"You're a lady. I'm a lady. We're the LADIES!" A remark smartly rebuffed by the British one (another Jess). "I'm not the Ladies... I hate women who tell other women a certain way to be."
Maybe that's a good point. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr Darcy loves that Elizabeth braved a muddy hemline to see her sick sister. It was his sister (or something), the "Lady" that was bitchy about it. Jane Austen knew her shiz, and don't tell me anything different.
In conclusion, this is a rather confused musing on whether I am/want to be a Lady. Is it an old-fashioned and out-of-date set of restrictions that allow us to be mean about each other; or is it a new and improved way to be elegant and self-assured whilst indulging in a mutual love of all things feminine. Things that we are allowed to reclaim now Kate Middleton is here, and (apparently) economic difficulties make knitting and cooking trendy.
Whatever. I kind of like the way I am so maybe it doesn't matter what that is. "A rose by any other word..." and all that.

Property Porn

Ever since I can remember I have wanted a house. My sister and I used to fall asleep describing to each other how ever room of our dream home would be decorated. My tastes, I hope, have improved since then: I distinctly remember describing a room that was half green and half pink with an imposing four poster bed. Now I dream of a free standing bath in the most enormous bathroom. Theroe are French doors leading to a balcony and....

Maybe I have ridiculous bathroom aspirations but my ideal home has become alot more modest; the floor plan (which I used to draw myself) has shrunk from depicting a palace big enough to house not just me but my sisters, cousins and any family we may have, to a 2 or 3 bedroom flat in London. I wouldn't, of course, turn my nose up at a brightly painted townhouse with iron railings out front if it was offered. 

Now, instead of pretending to be an architect and drawing up very over complicated residences for myself, I play the estate agent game. You look in the shop window and pick the place you'll buy when your numbers come up. Sometimes, when I've bought a lottery ticket, I even do this on the Internet, just so I'm prepared. Then there's endless 'Location, Location,' 'Grand Design,' 'Escape to the Country' programmes. My flat mate calls it property porn. 

Said flat mate, who shares this property porn addiction, is currently in the process of buying her first flat. I have never been more jealous in my life. Just think of all the Ikea joy that awaits her. The antique shops and EBay. The Dulux samples. The kitchen shops, photo printing, curtain sewing...ah, to be Kirsty Alsopp! 

My house would be sooooo beautiful. Surely I deserve one, don't I? 

The trouble with having this as an aspiration is it seems too unattainable. It's easy to save for travelling or a new laptop. You just take food from work and walk everywhere. A deposit though! For a girl who works in a cafe and a shop and spends her money on trips to India and replacing her constantly malfunctioning laptop, it's just impossible. 

But I have dreams that begin with my house. Dreams that involve a sunny office with a typewriter, a new found ability to cook (it would be such a waste of a fridge if I didn't learn), a piano. 

Instead, I must content myself with trying to fill my empty room. On the cards is a desk, some drawers, many pictures. At the moment it is like a cell in there. I've hung my jewellery on the wall to make it look less bare. Everyone who sees the room is shocked. Sigh. That's what you get for moving house on the train. Daddy!!! Please bring me some more stuff. 

This does mean though that I can get a little but excited at decorating this small space so I can yearn a little less for dream house until I miraculously save a deposit. Likely? 

The death of punctuality

There are many virtues. A Wikipedia search showed me more than I could really be bothered to count. They included curiosity, frugality, cleanliness, honesty, courage and (weirdly) continence amongst others. All wonderful things I'm sure you'll agree. I would hope that everyone is, at the very least, continent.
As with many things in life, it seems that fashions change. Some virtues are stalwarts (like the little black dress), some grow in value and some are forgotten. Some are even forgotten by Wikipedia which upsets me a little because punctuality is one of the most undervalued virtues, and one I possess in abundance. I'm a little too punctual in actual fact, which is why other people being late is reeeeeeally annoying. Just be in time. If I manage it, why can't you? It's too cold to wait.
OK, I realise it's not cool to be on time. No one wants to be the first person at the pub so I've recently made a real effort to be late for stuff. It goes entirely against my nature though. However, because I am one of the only punctual people I know I've made it a new year's resolution to be less so. Be more selfish and take my own sweet time. (N.B. This will never be true for work, I'm not that much of a rebel!). It's what people expect...to such an extent that it's no longer particularly rude to be late, just stupid to be early.
This effort has not been wholly successful. Last week work forced me to be two and a half hours late for a birthday party..and I missed out on a Nandos. A few days later I aimed to be fifteen minutes late for a meeting, was actually twenty-five minutes late because the person I was meeting text me to put the time back, and I was still waiting for 5 minutes. Not fair! I just wanted someone other than me to notice all my hard work in changing the very core of my nature.
Part of the trouble is that I have a lot of free time at the moment so I'm just excited to be out and seeing people. Keener.
Perhaps the writer of the List of Virtues was also struggling with excess punctuality and deleted it from the list on purpose to deny its malevolent influence on their life.
Anyway, even though I don't think it would hurt if everyone arrives when they say they will, I guess as a minority I will have to adapt. Boo. Any replacement virtue suggestions will be considered. What with being at least half an hour late for everything from now on, I've got plenty of time to work on it.

The Other Blog

This week I cheated on Blogspot. Not only that, it was with Wordpress: the main rival. And can I just say, Blogspot, you are much better. I'm not just saying that..Wordpress is confusing.
Why, you might ask, was I on Wordpress this week? Well reader, I have started a second blog. You can check it out here. It's a productive step towards writing something that is not just the first thing to pop into my head, which is essentially what this blog is. I still like this blog best though, remember that.
So this new blog, A Vertical Expression, is for my very professional persona as dance critic extraordinaire. I even have a suitably pretentious title for it so I feel justified in dishing out my opinions. I might start to wear a beret to any performance I attend. It will be my Vertical Expression hat, and I will take myself very seriously in it.
I may have made a mistake with the title though. It's from a quote by Robert Frost: “Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.”
Hmmm...I like the phrasing but is he saying that dancing is all about sex? That's awkward...I really didn't get that first time around. Thank god I went with the Vertical Expression part rather than the Horizontal Desire part or people might really get the wrong idea of what the blog is about. [Looks embarrassed.]
So I'm stuck with a name that Freud might approve of but I'm not sure is an entirely accurate description of how I feels about dancing. I mean, this morning I danced around my room to I Love To Boogie by T.Rex and did not have any horizontal desires at all. In fact that is the song I would like to be played at my funeral so...you know.
But now I'm stuck with the name and to punish myself for a lack of thought on the name of my more professional blog (a very important decision) I am sharing my shame with you all.
Although, really I shouldn't have told you at all and you would never have noticed but I'm a very honest person and this makes an amusing speak-my-mind blog now.
Despite the now cringy name, the roots of which we will NEVER speak of again, I think it'll be a good blog. I already highlighted the superior talent of my friend Alex and was simultaneously mean about some tiny elements of the show. It's got to be a winner! You should definitely invite me to all your future performances (for free....with a glass of complimentary wine) and I'll be complimentary and/or mean about you too. I have a whole stash of adjectives to use up.
So go read, and enjoy. I have a beret to purchase.

The joys of free food

When I was at school, every May we would make a small Welsh musical and a couple of Welsh language rock bands (fricking cool) and descend on the Urdd Eisteddfod and the glory it held. After winning (in the case of my sister's band) or not (me) we would hit the many stalls to collect as much free stuff as possible. Pens mainly, or information booklets. Or these weird fluffy stickers with googly eyes. Then we would stuff our faces with candy floss and hit the walzers. For all you who don't know, the Urdd is a Welsh children's festival. It is a beautiful combination of wellies and fairgrounds and traditional dancing, all culminating in the chance to win a chair. Absolutely worth the camping it demanded.
But my point is not about forgotten childhood talents but about the surviving joy of acquiring free stuff. The reminiscence was just a pleasantly nostalgic opener.
Yesterday I went to Borough Market. It's mouthwateringly beautiful. I saw fruits I've never seen before. And the cheese...epic. I wish I'd thought to take a couple of photos for your viewing pleasure..I'd've Instagramed them up a storm too. I forgot though in the surge of food lust that overtook me.
Anyway, after actually paying for a hot dog with red onion marmalade and some mulled apple juice (mmm!) we went on a freebie hunt. Of course. Obviously. It goes without saying.
So in tiny, Borrower size mouthfuls we had what probably equalled a meal of various types of cheese, a selection of cured meat including ham and venison, bread and olive oil, crackers and chutney, chocolate, more ham, more cheese, bread and vinegar, biscuits and marmalade...
It was like being at the Urdd again except my childish satisfaction with a free Biro has matured into a frightfully middle class love of organic food. I do like that I'm true to my roots though.
I wonder how much money the stall holders loose as a direct result of people like me? That's why it's so expensive perhaps. That, and the yumminess. If I had £12 to spend on a small piece of cured venison I would. It would certainly be a positive step up from the Heinz Classic Tomato Soup that I'm heating up as we speak.
But despite my slightly sad lunch I'm still quite full and happy from my freebies so all good. Now all that is left for me to say is that I may consider returning every week for my fill. But you should definitely go too. Invite me..I'm a pro at this by now.

A first in my life

Today has been mainly uneventful. It started off with promise (I love a lie in) then plateaued into a day long nap. Less promising.
We have finished off well though, you'll all be delighted to hear. After eating pizza, and while eating my first Cream Egg of the year, I watched Argo. Well done Ben Affleck: that is a gooooood film. I was stressed watching it though, which I suppose is a good thing.
Anyway, the biggest event of the day was not Argo or Erin Brockovich (my lunchtime film) or even the Cream Egg. It was much bigger than that: a landmark day in my life.
Today I discovered I have a wisdom tooth, just beginning to rear its crown behind my upper left molar. I AM WISE NOW! That's how it works, right?
I feel I should take a photo of it, to send to Mum, to stick in my baby book. The entry would read: "Monday 25/02/2013: Jessica's first wisdom tooth appears." But that wouldn't be a great photo so I will refrain.
I thought this was supposed to hurt though. At the moment there is no difference except when I feel the shiny (I hope) new tooth with my tongue (which I obviously can't resist now I've discovered it). Pleased about that of course, I'll stick to this pain-free teething.
But I was thinking, now that I'm a "grown up" I guess I don't have many more of these landmarks to come. Not cool ones at any rate.
I mean, children have first steps, first words, first tooth, first full night of sleep, first day of school....blah blah blah. And me? Now I've ticked off first wisdom tooth am I just looking forward to my first grey hair? Ergh! It's just not going to happen.
Nonetheless, I am quietly pleased about the tooth, hence the blog. I will not think of it (somewhat morbidly) as the tooth that marks the beginning of the end(!), but as the tooth that marks the start of my prime.
Wow! I'm in my prime. It's all been practise until now. Just think of all the things I can do with my new teeth, my new wisdom! I could save the world, find a cure for the common cold (my eternal nemesis), learn to make marshmallows...
Wait, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Also, maybe the marshmallows aren't the best idea. New teeth-sugar? Ummm...
So what will I do?
Ok, I'm wise now, but not that wise. I still have no clue what I'm doing, but it's early days. I've got three and seven-eights of tooth left to grow before I can answer such a question. So until then, you'll find me working on the common cold. Whisky is the remedy, right?

Unemployment and other stories

My Nanna has, for many years, wanted me to write a book. An autobiography maybe, about how difficult it is to be a "professional" dancer, whilst name dropping about all the rich and famous (and generally boring) who appear in my exciting life as a waitress.
I even picked a title: Unemployment and other stories. Hence the title of this blog. I bet you always wondered, didn't you?
I regret to inform you that these plans did not go ahead. Not least because unemployment is boring. Here's my day so far:

• Get up and eat breakfast in front of The Wright Stuff. Am unimpressed by Ruthie Henshall's make-up and any criticism of Kate Middleton but realise I kind of fancy the man panelist.
• Devise daily fitness routine to prevent me turning into a blob. I have unimpeachable intentions to do this everyday but already know...
• Get text from friend asking if I want to do hoola-hoop classes with her. Yes! Fitness routine is now dead to me.
• Shower and dress in the clothes of the unemployed: giant jumper (for the cold house) and leggings (for comfort while I'm napping).
• Paint my nails. One must look ones best.
• Send off some CV's. All hope is draining away since Matthew Wright informed me that this week 1700 people applied for 8 jobs at Costa. Ergh!
• Make pasta. Am already bored of pasta.
• Transfer all my saving into my current account. Well, all but 32p. I think that looks sadder than 0. Resolve to pay myself back and go on holiday ASAP.
• Fill out an application form.
• Get distracted by massively addictive game on iPhone: FreeFlow. I can't stop myself because it's a newly discovered talent. Really...I'm awesome.
• Finish my book, Engleby. Decide I'm not keen and should choose wisely at the library.
• Find myself drawn to more FreeFlow. Damn it.
• Think I should probably try to leave the house today. I am wearing massive socks though (which don't fit under shoes) and can't really be bothered to take them off.
• Damn...it's only 3.30. What else can I possibly do today?
• Begin blog thinking that it's at least work of sorts. Realise blog is quite dull today...but at least I'm giving you the true picture of unemployment.

I've been in this position before. Last time I was working for an agency that gave me too few hours. I developed a horrible sort of lethargy where I lay down a lot and snacked on chocolate digestives. I thank god for a good metabolism.
That time I was on housing benefit. I did not like this situation.
This time I have the ukulele which I'm now going to have a strum on. For the band you know. So far hypothetical band's repertoire includes:

• Ho Hey! -The Lumineers
• Hallelujah -Jeff Buckley
• Queen of the Savages -The Magnetic Fields
• I'm Yours -Jason Mraz
• We are Gonna be Friends -White Stripes
• Tiptoe Through the Tulips -Tiny Tim

I take requests and will master these songs and more by the time I'm in happy, full time/several part time employments.
Then of course I will pine for my golden days of leisure. We humans are funny like that.

 

The trouble with the laptop

It is becoming apparent that my computer is letting me down here. As I type this blog (on my shiny new iPhone) the laptop is frozen and has been, on and off, for almost an hour. This is not the ideal circumstance for doing job applications. It's not even letting me see the ads yet. Gumtree (my eternal nemesis) crashed it on the Reception/Switchboard page.
If I don't get a job I'm blaming Toshiba.
The main issue I believe is that I didn't have anti-virus software for a while so it's probably got a cold or something. Yes....I know all about technology.
I also did not ever buy Microsoft Office so I can't fill out application forms. Small hitch. And because its such a heap of crap I'm not buying expensive gifts for it. I'd rather throw it away and get a new one.
Can't do that though until I get a job so COME ON!!!!!!!!!! WORK!
iPhone is helping of course. There is a handy gumtree app for the tragically unemployed. Can't send CV via app though which seems a bit useless. Maybe I did something wrong?? Highly likely.
Alright. My Internet appears to be slowly waking up. I will try not to rush it or it might throw another wobbly.
Considering technology is distinctly not human, and is cold and logical; it is also annoyingly highly strung. No one else I know seems to have this much trouble with their computers. I suspect that could be because they don't pick them on the basis that they are cheap and silver. I do. I am a fool. Next time I will invest.
I like that word when shopping. Investment. It justifies everything.
Maybe the computer will work better on ASOS website. That would be more fun for me too.
No Jess, stop procrastinating and apply for some jobs. N.B. this blog doesn't count as procrastination, it's work. An investment in my future career as a celebrated writer.
Besides I need something to do while laptop is thinking about the web page it's loading, loading, loading.
And we have a page. Suppose I'd better do my bit now then. Where's my CV?

BAFTA night

Tonight I will be in my pyjamas with a hot chocolate in hand and the remains of a bag of MilkyWay Stars at some ridiculously early hour.
Because IT'S THE BAFTAS!!
One of my best friends works there every year and I'm so jealous. I want to go! Actually I want to be a guest and saunter down the red carpet in some glorious dress and make small talk with my future husband, Eddie Redmaine, causing him to fall immediately in love with me and....
But this year, I'm afraid, I will just watch from my sofa. I wonder if there is any ice cream? Someone...run out and buy ice cream would you?!
Apart from ogling the fashion and Eddie the best thing about film award ceremonies is the fact that there are so many good films out at this time of year. As a film ignoramus I will see the adverts on the sides of buses and think "ooo! I really want to see that!" only to have my friends look at me in shock and disgust a couple of years later when they discover I've done no such thing. The most recent: "You haven't seen In Bruges?!" "No, but it was a great trailer."
I have seen such classics as Shark-Boy and Lava-Girl though. And almost all the Disneys. And Citizen Kane but I wouldn't recommend you follow my example in that. It's rubbish.
Wait! I did see Les Miserables yesterday. That was good. And Life of Pi a week ago. Also good. So I'm doing well with my viewing and am quite the critic as you can see. They should put me on the judging panel. "Quite good...yeah, I liked it."
And then there are the speeches. Please thespians, keep them short and preferably funny. And if you can fall over on the way to the stage that would be great. I promise to do the same thing when I win a BAFTA next year.
I haven't decided which category I'm going for yet. What do you think would be the easiest?
"I'd like to thank my blog readers...and if I wasn't so bloody talented I'd be speechless. As it is I will do a classic Cartwheel of Thanks to the Academy for this beautiful award."
I will wear big pants.
 

The tragedy of the lost phones.

I don't have much luck with phones.
Two years ago I got a new blackberry, when they were good, remember? A month later it got swiped from my bag in a gay club while my friend disappeared into a sweaty crowd with some come-hither-eyed man.
So not only did I lose my phone, I also briefly lost my friend. And I lost an earring when some queen pushed past me in my frantic search. I liked those earring too and now they are gone. Kicked away by a size 11 stiletto.
But worse, the phone was gone after just a month of BBMing joy, and still worse I didn't have insurance.
So I had to fork out to replace it with a lesser model. Still Blackberry but it galls to downgrade. Especially when you have to wait 23 months to change it.
But finally the two year mark is here so yesterday I logged on to o2 and selected my brand new iphone. Confirm.
Only, when I pressed confirm, it did not take me to a 'where-do-you-want-this-phone-delivered?' page. It took me to a 'this-phone-will be-delivered-to-a-flat-you-haven't-lived-in-for-5-years-serves-you-right-for-continually-forgetting-to-update-your-address' page.
Well, shit.
So I got right on the live chat help thing, waited 15 minutes afraid to leave the computer even though I needed the toilet only to be told, once I'd explained the problem, to call 202.
Great thanks. Don't you know I hate using the phone?! That is why you invented live chat...for freaks like me who buy phones but are actually scared of speaking on them.
But I stayed strong and made the call.
"Now, I know this will make me sound stupid but here's what I've done..."
Woman from Leeds told me she couldn't do anything right now because the order hadn't been confirmed at their end but she took my actual address and said she's change it ASAP.
Great, so sorted.
In fact no. After not receiving any confirmation I phoned again.
"Sorry, I can't change the address. I can cancel the order though and you can re-order in 24 hours."
Thank you woman number 2, that's fine.
Sorted.
In fact, no. At about 4 I got an email telling me my order had been dispatched and would arrive in the morning.
What the...?!
Another phone call, this time to South Africa, who was very nice and tried very hard to be helpful. Unfortunately there wasn't a lot she could do seeing as my tragically fated iphone was by then in the hands of UKMail. I spent 20 minutes listening to o2's excellent selection of Hold Music while she spent as long on hold to UKMail.
At the end of the call she took the address I wanted it sent to, thanked me for my patience and told me it was the best call of her day. "Thanks for making me laugh and I'm really sorry it's not sorted yet."
Yeah?! You're welcome...I don't know why you are laughing though. Unless it's a me, and my plight. Although I am funny. I just am..you know..
So this morning a free iphone was due to arrive at some lucky stranger's door.
But I'm not having that. I logged on to UKMail and managed to re-schedule my delivery until Monday (the latest possible). I will come up with a plan in the meantime.
I lost one phone, damn it, I ain't losing another. Do you think UKMail has live chat helpline. I can't phone again...I just can't!

Buttons

I arrive home to a small scale tragedy. But don't you be expressing sympathy...I'd much rather you laugh at my girlish sentimentality.
I write this blog with one hand...completely against my resolution to learn to type properly. But it's ok because the cat is lying on my other hand and I don't want to disturb him in case he is sick on my new jumper. I've already had to clean up after him twice today.
When I left for India I had a large, healthy pet. I return to a bag of bones that I'm a little afraid to pick up.
Buttons, I know we always joked that you were fat but cat anorexia is going too far. What you need is a delicious rabbit. I'm sure it'll perk you right up. I know the doctor says rice, eggs and tablets but that diet would make me sick too. I know...I was just on the same one (just with some additional curry).
Anyway, I write this blog to celebrate the only one of my pets to live a good long life. Before Buttons my track record included the school hamster dying on my watch, within a couple of days of arriving at my house. Needless to say this catastrophy scarred me for life. There was also a frozen rabbit and a dog that my sister couldn't be in the same room as.
But to the point. This evening is goodbye. Dignitas for cats time. Gulp. So we are spending some quality time together. My hand is going numb.
We're weird about pets aren't we? How ridiculous to love an animal. But you know you all cried at Marley and Me, so don't judge me, yeah!!
So a small obituary (having never read an obituary I don't really know how these things are supposed to go):

Buttons lived 15 years and was a loving and loved member of the family, except at beginning when he scratched everyone that came near. He was intelligent though, so soon stopped once he realised where the Whiskers was coming from. An unparalleled huntsman, he regularly made his family gifts of rabbits, mice, frogs and even a bat once. Even though we were disgusted we were grateful.
Tremendously loyal, he and his late brother Marbles regularly took the blame when I ate all the grapes. Their quick thinking in jumping onto the table and sniffing at the empty fruit bowl when Mum came in was perfect timing. Thanks.
Full of sass, a treasured memory is of Nanna's dog banging its head on the patio doors trying to reach him. I swear he rolled his eyes and muttered "stupid dog." I know because I could speak Cat at the time.
Buttons will leave behind a family deeply saddened by his loss, though somewhat relieved they don't have to wash wee out of the carpet anymore.

How was that? I sense you wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. Now I must go...Buttons wants a cuddle. Do you think maybe he was just pining for me and now that I'm back the vet will tell us he'll be fine? I wouldn't be surprised to be honest...

Goodbye travel, for now.

And so we arrive at the end of my first stint of travelling. I have of course learnt fluent Hindi, begun to save the world and "found myself."
Except that I've done none of those things.
My knowledge of Hindi extends to Nameste and Hatcha (if they are even spelled correctly) and the ever useful head wobble...Kirsty will confirm my mastery of this spontaneous and brilliant movement..."Did you just wobble your head at me?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN? Stop it!!"
The world is far to big and messy for me to save in 3 months. I need at least 4.
As for finding myself, I'm not aware of ever losing myself. I still don't know what I'm doing, now or at any future point..but what is it that the Sunscreen Song says? "Some of the most interesting people I ever knew didn't know what they wanted to do with their lives at 40." Everyone knows that is the voice of wisdom. If only I'd heeded the always wear sunscreen part. Maybe I wouldn't have a peely nose now.
So what did I get out of this?
Well, I saw some amazing places. Quick Top 3:
Annapurna Trail
Khajuraho Temples
Sunrise on the Varanasi Ganges
Did some great things:
Motorbikes around the hills of Shimla
Houseboat on the Kerelan Backwaters
Camel ride in the Rajastan desert
Some not so great moments/character building episodes:
Attempt kidnap in Khajuraho by diamond smugglers
Being stalked in Ooty by a man who freely admits it "I' ve been following you for an hour...I fell over three times."
Being stuck at Patna.
Acquired some great catchphrases (including movement):
Bam! (pelvic thrust with sunbathing arms...2 bams each side)
Big Dal Bhat
Hello sir, Jeff? Kristy?
Ice cream?.....you look as if you like ice cream.
Small fat baby
(phonetically) connetichek! (Dutch for super crazy)
.....am I boring you with in jokes?
And met some awesome people. No top 3 here..you all deserve to be named :D So thanks to Jure (you are always number 1!), TomTom, Jiga, Phil and Roy (our biker boys), Drew, Ismail and Faran, David, Amrit (a wonderful guide) and Krishna (a machine)... and last but not least, Holland, card games cheaters and tellers of riddles, Tjerk and Hicham.
Boys, you all made our trip!
But not as much as one person who I not only love but would tolerate for at least 97 years of happy marriage: my travel wife. I'm already planning our next venture so start saving. And expect me to invite myself over a lot..I can't sleep alone anymore.
So I had the best time basically. Can't believe I'm returning to real life. You know I not only haven't had to work for months, I haven't even had to lift a finger..how do I make tea again? I'm back on Thursday though so pop the kettle on, will you?

The Trekking Blog

So we survived! Hurrah! I'm sure I could write ten blogs about our time on the Annapurna Trail, but I'll try and fit it into one.
And can I just say what a beautiful place Nepal is. Snow-capped peaks towering above bamboo and rhodedendron jungle. We saw monkeys and deer and a even a wolf! I was hoping for a bear or snow leopard but no such luck. Or maybe it was best...? We also managed to spot the elusive mountain goat which took on a mythical faun-like quality. I swear Amrit, our guide, made them up most of the time:
"It's there, on the mountain. By the green tree. Near the rock."
"You  just described the whole country...and it DOESN'T EXIST!!"
But him and our porter Krishna, were great. Even with all our stuff Krishna was miles ahead. Amrit stayed behind to make sure we didn't fall off the mountain. I felt we held him up, not that he showed it. But he talked incessantly to keep us going: Kirsty on the uphill, me on the down. As ever wifey and I are yin and yang. And yes, it turns out I'm afraid of walking down stairs. Must be latent fear from falling downstairs so much in normal life. Or from falling out of the top bunk when I was 2. Anyway, thanks Amrit for holding my hand. Wife didn't care. She skipped down.
Injury proved a  great equalizer however. We both fell in the snow and got identy-knee twists. Slowed Miss Green right down. She won't mind me saying she looked like a geriatric because it's true. I was of course already on pain/fear speed. Every time I had to negotiate a particularly large step down I looked like a penguin preparing to make the leap off an iceberg.
However slow we were though, we were still quicker than Holland, two guys who we passed several times and who taught us card games, tricks and riddles on the way. It's not a race....but it is and WE WON!! Bam!
During the journey we walked through the seasons. Autumn to winter to spring. The higher we got the colder and more snowy it became. The reverse on the way down made me feel like one of the Pevensie children when Narnia is thawing. Magical.
And all kinds of weather came our way. Lucky for us it was mainly sunny: a particular blessing on the day we climbed Poon Hill to see the sun rise over twenty mountains. That is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. That and the tea and coffee stand that greeted us at the summit. All mountains should have tea at the top...what a motivator.
Later we walked through an enchanted forest with frozen rivers and waterfalls made of ice. A good day.
The following day brought thunderstorms and lots of rain. I like a good thunderstorm, they are satisfyingly majestic. But we did not have raincoats because it turns out we are some of the most unprepared trekkers ever. Instead we bought big plastic sheets to cover us for the day. It looked like we were pretending to be superheroes. Rain chic. So we spent the day seeing only the inside of our turquoise wrapping, and hearing only the swish swish of it moving.
This was also the day that we had to edge nervously across a landslide. Don't look down. Don't look down.
Snow was of course the other kind of weather as we got closer to Base Camp. It was -15° by the time we reached the top. Still sunny so of course yours truly managed to burn her face, even with factor 50. How is this possible? Or fair?
But the good weather made for stunning views as we walked, and fell over, to our goal. It was like walking through a photograph...you couldn't quite believe you were there.
At the top we celebrated with Toblerone and a photo of the highest spoon ever. Obviously.
The morning that we were due to start our descent, we woke up to see an avalanche happening in the valley we had to walk through. Errrrrrmmmmm!!! What now?
We waited at least 10 minutes before going anyway. But silently and mostly up to our thighs if we slipped off the path (often) or on our bums when we fell over (also often). Poor Krishna spent most of that morning picking me up.
Food was often unexpected. If you ordered jam on toast it came as French toast. Macaroni was basically canned spaghetti. Mars bar roll and custard was quite a treat though. The whole room gasped and looked on in envy when it arrived.
The most famous food was Dal Bhat which all the guides and porters ate twice a day. If they weren't up and down mountains constantly that amount of food would surely give them a Big Dal Bhat.
We finished the trek with a visit to the hot springs, which included a dip in the freezing river first. Can we all congratulate Kirsty for putting in more than her big toe please. It was the major achievement of the trip. It made the springs so much warmer after, as did the whisky we brought with us.
After being submerged for a couple of hours we were clean for the first time in a week and a half. Still massively unattractive though, and wrinkly like prunes. Next time we go trekking we will remember to take razors and avoid looking like the Impulse ladies, or (contemporary dance in joke) Siobhan Davies dancers.
Afterwards we put on our brightly coloured fleecy trousers (passionkillers) to complete our look as stunning hotties.
Notes to future trekkers:
Remember to bring an iPod. A bit of Linkin Park (and 1D...thanks Harry and co.) really helps with a couple of hours climb.
Appropriate footwear helps. Dc Martin's don't work in snow. A point proved in the 15 minutes it took to push Kirsty up the first icy slope. If you find yourself in a similar position, socks over shoes works a treat.
Don't take any Ernest Hemingway to read. The challenge isn't worth it.
Don't take down jackets. They are too hot to walk in, too big to fit in bags, too annoying to carry. Hired ones shed feathers all over you so you look like a maulting chicken all the time, whether you are actually wearing them or not.
Pick up free bamboo sticks from the forest to help you walk. 4 legs are better than 2...those damn goats prove it.