Ode to a Rich Tea

It's not often that I'm sure about what I want from life but today I realised something: of the many indistinct and changeable dreams I have, one desire stands out as something both achievable and mouth-wateringly lovely. 

What I want in my life is a full and varied biscuit tin. That is happiness. 

Now, I don't want you thinking I'm getting all metaphorical and "life is like a box of chocolates" on you. I mean real biscuits: shortbread, Nice, chocolate hobnobs, those coconut ones my grandparents get, and all nestled together in a tin with a picture of a cat or duck or Scottish landscape.

And in this oaty, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth ambition, I might make my own. Mum used to make magical biscuit. I can barely remember the taste however they looked crunchy but were actually a bit chewy, and when you snapped them in half, they were hollow like a cave full of stalegmites. If anyone has a recipe for something similar please let me know. Ours has been lost to time.

Of course I'll take the metaphor as well...if life was a biscuit tin and all that, but I just want something to dunk in my tea basically. Heaven.

I don't know about you but biscuits are so full of nostalgia. They remind me of school snack time, with a cup of orange juice; of home baking; of Sunday afternoons at my grandparents' houses. 

And the tin! That's important. Right now, if I have biscuits they come straight from the packet and I have one type. A tin means they are treasure, an event, a choice.

What dies all this say about me? Is a girl whose only concrete dream is to have a selection of biscuits a premature geriatric? Too comfy? I ambitious? You know what?- I don't even care!

Of course this is not my only dream. One day I'll make something beautiful; I'll dance naked in the rain; I will live in another country; I will feel tiny in a big world; I will be outside a lot; I will dance and make stories always; I will discover what I want to do with my life.

See. Mainly cloudy ideas, but I can achieve the biscuits right now. They are in the shop. 

I suppose I could dance naked next time it rains but it's not the same in London. I'm imagining a forest and no audience. I don't want to be arrested. 

Ok, I'm hungry now. Someone bring me a Bourbon. 

Calling in sick

I just called in sick. It's about time actually, I've been suffering from various severities of cold and cough for 6 weeks now. I don't know what my body is trying to tell me but enough is enough: I'm going to assume it's telling me to stop for a little while so I can fight off this thing with all of the home remedies, possets and potions people keep telling me about.
Ginger and lemon tea.
Hot toddy.
Inhale Vicks vapour rub steam.
Rub oil into your feet.
Garlic.
Thyme.
Chillies.
Eat everything (feed a cold).
Don't eat. Just drink juiced Superfoods.
Rest in bed.
Go for a walk.
Watch Anchorman.
Read Zadie Smith.
Anything else to add, anyone?

The thing is though, that I've tried all these things. I've even tried feeding myself properly and regularly (shocking!) and nothing seems to work. I start to recover from one virus and another one sneaks up on me. When will it end?! I may have to go into quarantine and only drink Barocca if I'm not better...immanently. I can't even remember what it's like to go through a day without blowing my nose.... A night without coughing...
Sigh...
The prevailing feeling is not self-pity though. It's irritation, and I don't mean somewhere in my sinuses. I mean that I always wanted to be more and Elizabeth Bennet than a Jane. Hardy Lizzy who go stomping across fields with mud on the hem of her dress, not sickly Jane who goes out in the rain and spends a week in bed. I don't want to be a delicate, sickly, Romantic heroine.
Did you ever think though, that what Jane probably had when she was suffering enforced bed rest at Bingley's, was a cold. Maybe flu. That's what you catch from being out in the rain (according to tellers of old-wives tales). So, that assumed, I don't know how she ended up (SPOILER ALERT!!) married to Bingley. How was he not repulsed by all the mucus and the red nose? Colds aren't the most attractive look. I certainly wouldn't catch a man like this. I can only surmise that Jane was exaggerating and had she lived today, would have called in sick if she'd sneezed twice.
We all know those people.
Which is another reason I don't enjoy the "I'm not coming in today" phone call. Because I worry they will think I'm that person, when in fact I have a genuinely shitty immune system and no one should be near me.
Saying that, I never assume anyone is lying when they say they are ill, so I don't know why they would think it of me. I suppose it's because my mum always notices when people are ill all the time, and that she rarely is. And if she is, she works anyway more often than not. That's the sign of someone who suffers with headaches. They are martyrs because you can't catch a migraine.
You can catch a cold though, so as I said, I'll stay away from you for a while.
So, to your good health! And mine.

Learning to live with Willie Nelson

This, reader, is Willie Nelson, the newest addition to our household. 

Just as I began to write this blog he sneaked upstairs and did a wee on the rug. I even told him I was writing this so he can't complain that I'm embarrassing him. He certainly had this naming-and-shaming coming.
On the bright side, now that he has relieved himself (in entirely the wrong place as usual) I don't have the fear that I need to keep a beady eye on him wherever he goes for a little while.
I'm on puppy duty today. It's a shame to miss the sunshine but we've opened all the windows, played ball games, tug-of-war games, had a small photoshoot, and even tested out his lead so we could at least pretend we could go for walkies. Unfortunately he doesn't like his lead so that game didn't last long. Not sure what will happen when he's allowed outside (1 week!!), but actually I expect him to be a bit afraid of it. He shook the first time he went into the kitchen, he'll probably have a small panic attack on venturing into far bigger, scarier territory.
I suppose it's fine though. I'm a bit ill still so this forced indoors/tea time is not bad thing.
Small break in writing here when I realise WN has disappeared and I search the house for him, finally finding him napping on my flatmate's jeans.
He shouldn't be napping. He kept everyone awake last night, crying in the kitchen. Remind me to apologise to the neighbours when I see them. So, except for a couple of hours when I wanted him to stop bothering me so I could read the paper, I've been trying to keep him awake. Well, serves him right doesn't it! Also, and more importantly, I'd like him to be tired tonight. So tired he doesn't need someone sat by his bed all night. So tired he doesn't bark. He's a Yorkshire Terrier: a breed not known for soothing vocal qualities.
Despite the weeing and barking, he's alright, is Willie. We're pals. Especially when he does exciting things like sit on command and master the stairs; or sweet things like lick your face if you whine like you are sad.
However, his arrival did signal a sort of life crisis for me. One that was probably not helped by a cough that has stopped me sleeping for any more than a couple of hours since Monday. There's nothing like exhaustion to blow everything out of proportion.
Let me explain puppies to you. PUPPIES ARE BABIES. Babies which are highly mobile, think biting is affectionate, can't wear nappies, and will never grow up. I'm still not entirely convinced I'm ready, even with two responsibility sharing flatmates, to be a parent.
The main reason for this is my life (hence my small personal crisis). It's not enviable. I get by. I don't love my job. I don't travel enough, dance enough, read enough, write enough, see my friends enough. The best thing about it was the fact I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, within reason. I had no ties.
Now I do, and his name is Willie Nelson. He makes me spend my evenings off in the house cleaning the carpet so I don't lose my deposit.
This, I'm sure will get better when he can leave the house and come out with me. Also, when the three of us organise our timetables better. We had to get 4 puppy-sitters this week. This will cost us a fortune in lasagne and pasta bake.
But Willie has also taught me something else: talking about your problems does not fix them. Controversial, I know. People are always telling me to discuss my feeling; tell people when they are being thoughtless or making me angry; be a grown up.
My evidence is this. Before getting Willie Nelson I twice told my flatmates I didn't think I wanted a dog and didn't think it was a good idea. That he was adorable and I already loved him, having seen him just once but I had the fear.
And the result: we got a dog and I have to accept him and learn to be fine with everything, just the same as if I had bottled up my feelings as usual.
Now, I don't want you all to go thinking I'm suffering terribly. It was my fault in the first place for thinking of these problems when we were basically already committed to getting a dog. We'd visited WN and family already. Flatmates just tried to calm me and assure me this was not the end of the world I feared.
And it's quite satisfying that I was right all along about the uselessness of discussion. I take back my Lent resolution to talk about my feelings. What a waste of time.
And to be fair the fact that I have a puppy, is softened by the fact I have a puppy to comfort me. So that's nice. He's trying to read now what I've said about him. We're bonding. He says he likes me best and he can't wait until we can go to the pub together.
Neither can I Willie Nelson, neither can I. Now I'm stuck with you, it's a good job I love you.

And that is what's called: making the best of it.

Driving lessons

Oh dear, it has been a while hasn't it? Two months into the year and only one blog. Terrible.
However, I am sticking with the theme of transportation and moving from bikes to cars. That's right, I'm learning to drive.
The aim is to be roadworthy by the end of the year (preferably September), and that seems like a long time and a small fortune on driving lessons. However I think, considering it's me and I'm hardly the most confident road user, too many lessons are better than not quite enough. My main problems seem to be realising how wide the car and the road are. I'm so used to only navigating my midget frame through the world that I don't trust at all that a car will fit through any gap narrower than the full road. Oncoming buses are not good for my nerves.
Neither are the pedestrians. Especially pram pushing pedestrians who walk out into the road without looking. It's like they have a death wish for their babies.
On the bright side, once I've mastered the art of the near miss, I'll be so London savvy I will be able to drive anywhere.
You'll be pleased to know that it's all going well. Yesterday I zoomed along at a healthy national speed limit pace, I skirted the M25, I took on several roundabouts, including the one that I once navigated my mum around the wrong way (wrong lane not anticlockwise- I'm not that stupid).  I told her to follow a brown car that didn't exist and gave entirely useless information like "that way!"
Maybe I did freak out on one roundabout. It was all wrong. I tried to start in forth gear, forgot how to steer and lost the clutch in one fell swoop. Kevin, my instructor (highly recommended) pretty much had to drive me out of it from the passenger seat.
I don't know what came over me, except that it sounded like a feeble whimper. I can only assume I was briefly possessed.
My driving career did not start in a very promising manner. I had a couple of lessons when I was 17 but all I remember about them was putting the visor down with both hands as I approached a roundabout. That instructor quit soon after, oddly, although I'm sure I wasn't the real cause.
And then there is the volvo-gate for which I would like to issue a public apology. It was during a road trip to Scotland that my friend offered me a tiny driving lesson. Her parents' car, which we had borrowed was automatic so it was a go/stop kind of affair. Being the cautious person I am, I initially refused the lap of the car park, but my excitement won out and five minutes later I had successfully driven in a circle and arrived back in the parking space. Hurrah!
Then I had a second go. And for some reason, as I was pulling into the space a second time, my friend obviously thought I wasn't stopping quickly enough. Probably she was right but I was basically just rolling into the spot. So when she said "and stop...Stop!" I panicked and put my foot on the brake.
Except that it wasn't the brake.
Duel control would have been very useful in this situation, however the car did bump into the wall and the number plate came off. I'm assured this was pretty much the extent of the damage but at the time I was convinced it was awful and I was going to have to buy a new car.
To add insult to injury, the other friend on the road trip was filming the whole thing: Jess's first driving lesson. So somewhere, hopefully never to be seen, is footage of the whole sorry fiasco.
Friend's lovely parents only recently found out what really happened. Friend told them she had done it when a lonely sheep had wandered out into the road. Naturally.
So I'm very sorry about that and I dedicate this blog to you both. I promise next time I crash a car it will not be yours, and I will be fully licensed and insured. I love you. (Too far?)
But now it's going well. Kevin actually says I'm above average, which I suspect may be to bolster my confidence, but I choose to believe him. It certainly helps that I now know which pedal is stop and which is go.

Bicycle Wheels

As some of you might know, I have a bike and her name is Isadora. It's always a comfort when cycling to know she's on my side. As though we have joint responsibility for our lives. 

Yesterday Isadora was cruelly murdered in the street. Both wheels taken. If she is not quite dead she is certainly now maimed and broken and cannot run free. 

There is nothing sadder looking than a bike like this.

Here I would like to add: thieves are so....mean! That's my bike you've just ruined. What have I done to you ever?! And not just my bike, but Isadora: a living, feeling (inanimate) object. She a person! 

But then again..she isn't at all. It's an it, not a she, and I've certainly made myself feel worse by personifying her. 

I have a tendency to do this but I just like the magic a name brings to things. Names are power. I know this from books. They told me so. 

But if you give something a name, are you increasing the risk of heartbreak (and mental instability) when things go wrong? 

Take Isadora. Now I'm faced with a choice: buy new wheels, or buy new bike? In the January sales, what is cheaper? And can I really betray Isadora by replacing her? She carried me in a child seat when I was a baby. How could I just throw her away? 

But the point of having a bike is to save money, and won't I save money in the long run by buying a better bike and not having to fix it up all the time? Isadora is so old anyway.

And then I feel heartless. What a conundrum. 

Because I not so materialistic I don't think, but I do become emotionally attached to some of my belongings. Don't we all. But in the end, is that good for me? If I just thought of it all as "stuff" would that make me less sad when it gets ruined or lost? 

Actually no. I can help it. Stuff is rubbish. I'd much rather have Isadora than a bike. 

But the question remains: save her or move on? 

On a happy aside, I want to tell you about the man who cheered me up yesterday without know what he did. I was of course in a bad mood all morning. Then on my break a man appeared and handed out teddy bears to me and four other girls, and a kitkat to the guys. They came out of nowhere and he just disappeared around the corner on the way out. 

Apparently he often gives out presents just because, but has just really upped his game with Teddys. It's just a pity he wasn't giving out bike wheels but never mind.

There are some great people around aren't there?! So thank you Rob from armoury. I'm naming the bear after you. 

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.