I lick salt spray from my lips and cold water rushes across my feet. I shiver. Do I really want to get in there? The waves loom menacingly on the horizon.
(So big, I’m so small.)
The board, wedged under my armpit, feels heavy. I curse my arms for being too short, the board too wide to hold comfortably. Having navigated this far down jagged shells and stony beach, fighting against this unseasonal wind which knocks me comically sideways, I wonder, is this really August? And more importantly, what am I doing here?
Another breaking swell smashes into my shins and knees. There’s nothing for it. I place the board on the surface. It floats giddily away, gently tugging on my ankle. I’m frightened but walk purposefully forward. Creeping deeper into the seeping cold. The snugness of my wetsuit is oddly reassuring as the board bobs alarmingly beside me. Beneath my numb feet, the velvet sand feels warm. Soft and still. Unlike here on the surface where water and air whip and spin wildly.
(What if I get disorientated?)
Suddenly, I’m waist high, chest deep. I’m not confidant enough to paddle out so I push myself forward, my six foot floating device effortlessly guiding me over the waves, lifting my feet as they pass beneath me. The top of a breaker slaps me full in the face. It’s exhilarating because I don’t drown. Each rise and fall creates an involuntary but victorious gasp.
As the ocean tilts and collects itself, I turn the board around and hoist myself on top. It’s not graceful. It takes several goes. I go right over the top and under a couple of times. Any ego (left on the beach along with dry clothes) is forgotten. Eventually, I position myself on top of the board. It rocks side to side as I struggle to gain my balance. And then I look back and wait…
The first wave rolls beneath me uneventfully. Passed through like a ghost. Disappointed, I watch someone closer to shore catch it on the turn. Hmm. I paddle. It's hard to get motion in the constantly undulating surface. I paddle harder still. Damn these short arms. Another wave slides beneath me. And then. And then. And then a wave captures my board unexpectedly. It throws me forward. I’m gliding! I’m flying! The sheer speed! The board rises above the water, stable, solid, rocketing towards the beach. I’m so overwhelmed I forget to try and stand. I'm on my knees. It seems to last forever. I belly laugh as I roll off, splattering onto sodden sand. The tide pulling at my toes and board.
“Did you see that? Did you see that?”
Water (I hope it’s just water) streams from my nose and face. I pick up the board and pad right back in. Fear and cold forgotten just to experience it all again.
Friday, 8 May 2009
Monday, 30 March 2009
bold as
One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises. Not always good ones, true, but thems the breaks.
This past week has been particularly rubbish on the surprises front as various things I’d subconsciously pinned a few hopes on, unexpectedly slipped through the net. Or, to put it another way, the great bar-stool of life, the one reserved only for me, has suddenly acquired three wobbly legs. And a questionable spot near the toilets.
I was contemplating this clumsy metaphor on the bus home the other day. There I sat, right at the front (because that just doesn’t get old), feeling sorry for myself as the wind and rain rocked the top deck. Fittingly, winter had decided to make an unwelcome comeback further indulging the general melancholy when I noticed a boardroom, directly across from me, hovering above the snarling traffic, with its lights still on.
A late meeting was in full flow. I was glad not to be in their shoes (though my situation was hardly inspiring, stuck at the T-junction opposite, wondering if we’d ever get to join the stagnant flow of traffic creeping towards the Elephant and Castle) but I enjoyed my vantage point and studied the room in all its fluorescent detail.
A man in a pink shirt, washed out beneath the strip lighting, stood in front of a whiteboard. Twenty or so suited men, sat around the table, even from this angle, they were upright and attentive to the speaker's every word. Pink-shirted man waved his arms about, animated and Evita-like. I wondered what he was talking about with such enthusiasm: theglobaleconomicmeltdown? a management buy-out or worse, the dos and don'ts at a healthy & safety seminar? And then, just as the bus began to shudder slowly forwards, all the attendees, in that small boardroom, a stone’s throw from the Elephant, produced a variety of brass instruments which, up until now, had been completely hidden from view. I smiled as they began to play. Pink shirt man happily conducting at the front. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises.
This past week has been particularly rubbish on the surprises front as various things I’d subconsciously pinned a few hopes on, unexpectedly slipped through the net. Or, to put it another way, the great bar-stool of life, the one reserved only for me, has suddenly acquired three wobbly legs. And a questionable spot near the toilets.
I was contemplating this clumsy metaphor on the bus home the other day. There I sat, right at the front (because that just doesn’t get old), feeling sorry for myself as the wind and rain rocked the top deck. Fittingly, winter had decided to make an unwelcome comeback further indulging the general melancholy when I noticed a boardroom, directly across from me, hovering above the snarling traffic, with its lights still on.
A late meeting was in full flow. I was glad not to be in their shoes (though my situation was hardly inspiring, stuck at the T-junction opposite, wondering if we’d ever get to join the stagnant flow of traffic creeping towards the Elephant and Castle) but I enjoyed my vantage point and studied the room in all its fluorescent detail.
A man in a pink shirt, washed out beneath the strip lighting, stood in front of a whiteboard. Twenty or so suited men, sat around the table, even from this angle, they were upright and attentive to the speaker's every word. Pink-shirted man waved his arms about, animated and Evita-like. I wondered what he was talking about with such enthusiasm: theglobaleconomicmeltdown? a management buy-out or worse, the dos and don'ts at a healthy & safety seminar? And then, just as the bus began to shudder slowly forwards, all the attendees, in that small boardroom, a stone’s throw from the Elephant, produced a variety of brass instruments which, up until now, had been completely hidden from view. I smiled as they began to play. Pink shirt man happily conducting at the front. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
crowded house
It’s been a lovely champagne-y kind of breakfast do for a crowd of actors, directors, producers and writers all represented by the same agency. A smattering of producers, not actually under my agent’s wing, have also attended - their production houses conspicuously emblazoned across the sticky labels we’re all wearing.
I’ve been at the agency long enough not to get heart palpitations at the thought of these annual get-togethers: shyness is a clichéd affliction for many in my world - and yes, some do have a very funny way of showing it - but networking is a necessity and, as such, brings on the mildly autistic inner children in many of us.
The room is vibrating with chatter. The venue is always the same, a lovely Italian restaurant on one of Soho’s more notable streets. I am trying hard to keep eye contact with the person I’m talking to whilst juggling a plate of toast and fresh salmon and a drink. I am distracted by my need for cutlery and realise all too quickly the design fault behind only having two hands and one clumsy body.
My colleague, not one for this standing around lark, has cleverly positioned herself at one of the deserted tables. Joining her involves navigating through lots of shoulders and elbows and plates and champagne flutes. My toast is getting cold, the salmon, warm. I make a quick assessment of my position and try to ascertain if it’s possible to squeeze through this forest of bodies with my manners intact. I may want jobs from some of these bodies in the future. I try not to spill anything.
A couple of near-misses later, I safely place my breakfast down. Still on my feet and, euphoric from the non-eventful plate-to-table odyssey, I volunteer to go back and get the coffees. My colleague is pregnant and therefore quite happy to sit this one out.
The coffee bar, in the centre of the room, is packed, utterly packed. A scrum of people peer over the tall counter as the restaurant manager, who seems as familiar with the complicated workings of the coffee machine as I am, presses buttons and pulls levers randomly. He’s being very particular about the cups, and the saucers that go with the cups, which all match, according to size and purpose, and appear to live in different places. After an excessive wait and an awkward conversation with a writer whose project I didn’t pick up, it is finally my turn. I’m on tiptoes and lean over the counter to be heard above the din.
“Two black coffees, please. One, decaf”
“Two white coffees and one decaf?” he blinks, already looking for those titchy saucers.
“Sorry, no. Two black coffees, one of them decaffeinated.”
“Three coffees, one white decaf?”
“No” Somebody’s elbow makes sharp contact with my shoulder, “Two coffees? Both of them black. I would like one of them to be decaf, please.”
He’s confused. The milk’s burnt on the pipe and needs cleaning. “So how many coffees s'at? And which one of them’s the decaf?” he now yells over his shoulder.
I take a deep breath. “Look,” something in my tone has made him turn around, “One black coffee” I raise my forefinger in representation, “and then another black coffee – call it number two – but this one, decaffeinated.” a second forefinger rises up to join the other, "Please." This is the coffee ordering equivalent of Peter and Paul. He takes a moment to look at my fingers still saluting upwards over the counter.
“So you want two black coffees, one decaf?”
I smile and step back. I eventually remember to put my fingers down. And then I wonder how I am going to navigate these tiny little coffee cups, on their tiny little saucers, across this huge sea of people. Some of whom might, one day, employ me. I accidentally step on someone’s toe and, in the process, create an instant black moat around both drinks. I’d grab a napkin but I just don’t have enough hands.
I’ve been at the agency long enough not to get heart palpitations at the thought of these annual get-togethers: shyness is a clichéd affliction for many in my world - and yes, some do have a very funny way of showing it - but networking is a necessity and, as such, brings on the mildly autistic inner children in many of us.
The room is vibrating with chatter. The venue is always the same, a lovely Italian restaurant on one of Soho’s more notable streets. I am trying hard to keep eye contact with the person I’m talking to whilst juggling a plate of toast and fresh salmon and a drink. I am distracted by my need for cutlery and realise all too quickly the design fault behind only having two hands and one clumsy body.
My colleague, not one for this standing around lark, has cleverly positioned herself at one of the deserted tables. Joining her involves navigating through lots of shoulders and elbows and plates and champagne flutes. My toast is getting cold, the salmon, warm. I make a quick assessment of my position and try to ascertain if it’s possible to squeeze through this forest of bodies with my manners intact. I may want jobs from some of these bodies in the future. I try not to spill anything.
A couple of near-misses later, I safely place my breakfast down. Still on my feet and, euphoric from the non-eventful plate-to-table odyssey, I volunteer to go back and get the coffees. My colleague is pregnant and therefore quite happy to sit this one out.
The coffee bar, in the centre of the room, is packed, utterly packed. A scrum of people peer over the tall counter as the restaurant manager, who seems as familiar with the complicated workings of the coffee machine as I am, presses buttons and pulls levers randomly. He’s being very particular about the cups, and the saucers that go with the cups, which all match, according to size and purpose, and appear to live in different places. After an excessive wait and an awkward conversation with a writer whose project I didn’t pick up, it is finally my turn. I’m on tiptoes and lean over the counter to be heard above the din.
“Two black coffees, please. One, decaf”
“Two white coffees and one decaf?” he blinks, already looking for those titchy saucers.
“Sorry, no. Two black coffees, one of them decaffeinated.”
“Three coffees, one white decaf?”
“No” Somebody’s elbow makes sharp contact with my shoulder, “Two coffees? Both of them black. I would like one of them to be decaf, please.”
He’s confused. The milk’s burnt on the pipe and needs cleaning. “So how many coffees s'at? And which one of them’s the decaf?” he now yells over his shoulder.
I take a deep breath. “Look,” something in my tone has made him turn around, “One black coffee” I raise my forefinger in representation, “and then another black coffee – call it number two – but this one, decaffeinated.” a second forefinger rises up to join the other, "Please." This is the coffee ordering equivalent of Peter and Paul. He takes a moment to look at my fingers still saluting upwards over the counter.
“So you want two black coffees, one decaf?”
I smile and step back. I eventually remember to put my fingers down. And then I wonder how I am going to navigate these tiny little coffee cups, on their tiny little saucers, across this huge sea of people. Some of whom might, one day, employ me. I accidentally step on someone’s toe and, in the process, create an instant black moat around both drinks. I’d grab a napkin but I just don’t have enough hands.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
blush
We’re three hours into our first and, let’s face it, last date and I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever stop talking about himself long enough for me to interject.
Why did I stay so long? I simply don’t know. Is it low self-esteem? A misplaced sense of duty? Or a jaw-dropping, if slightly morbid, curiosity, now piqued on this quiet Saturday afternoon (one that wants to see just how badly it will all pan out).
I am now merely a witness to my own poor choice of afternoon companion.
How did I get to here? It’s a short chain of events really. He’s a handsome, gregarious man who works in the charity sector. I thought he was fun, a bit laddish, yes, but with an appealing social conscience that seemed to cancel out the little voice at the back of my mind, the one that was picking up the warning signs and suggesting I change course.
He stops long enough to take a bite of his sandwich. When he starts up again, he is comparing himself to Ghandi. I tune out for good but I’m reminded of the last time I agreed to a date with a man because, and I am embarrassed to admit this, of what he did for a living. Say it quietly. For shame.
Years ago, when I was living in the US, I met a smart, very bearded lumberjack-shirted geologist. Geologist? In the small town I was living in, that was definitely unusual to say the least. I was intrigued.
He offered to take me out for a curry - another unusual first in an oh-so quiet suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. I’d missed our national dish and, he seemed to know where I could get a fix.
He drove me, in his aptly-named pick-up truck, to an out-the-way curry house, in an out-the-way neighbourhood. Shirt and beard aside, I was charmed.
It was so refreshing to be around man who wasn’t a sports jock but as soon as our food order was out the way, he opened with:
“I just need to make it clear, from the start, that I’m not some kind of tree hugging hippy type. Far from it. I am employed by companies like ICI to help them get away with as much environmental contamination as possible. That’s just the way it is.”
I didn't know what to say. He offered me the poppadoms.
“Just so there isn’t any confusion…” he concluded.
I was suddenly aware that I was probably not the only woman who had agreed to go on a date with this man because of his being a geologist. I felt ashamed of myself and horrified for, and at, him.
Call me superficial, but I couldn't see myself dating a man who was wilfully damaging the environment - especially in a lumberjack shirt and a full-on man-beard.
Why did I stay so long? I simply don’t know. Is it low self-esteem? A misplaced sense of duty? Or a jaw-dropping, if slightly morbid, curiosity, now piqued on this quiet Saturday afternoon (one that wants to see just how badly it will all pan out).
I am now merely a witness to my own poor choice of afternoon companion.
How did I get to here? It’s a short chain of events really. He’s a handsome, gregarious man who works in the charity sector. I thought he was fun, a bit laddish, yes, but with an appealing social conscience that seemed to cancel out the little voice at the back of my mind, the one that was picking up the warning signs and suggesting I change course.
He stops long enough to take a bite of his sandwich. When he starts up again, he is comparing himself to Ghandi. I tune out for good but I’m reminded of the last time I agreed to a date with a man because, and I am embarrassed to admit this, of what he did for a living. Say it quietly. For shame.
Years ago, when I was living in the US, I met a smart, very bearded lumberjack-shirted geologist. Geologist? In the small town I was living in, that was definitely unusual to say the least. I was intrigued.
He offered to take me out for a curry - another unusual first in an oh-so quiet suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. I’d missed our national dish and, he seemed to know where I could get a fix.
He drove me, in his aptly-named pick-up truck, to an out-the-way curry house, in an out-the-way neighbourhood. Shirt and beard aside, I was charmed.
It was so refreshing to be around man who wasn’t a sports jock but as soon as our food order was out the way, he opened with:
“I just need to make it clear, from the start, that I’m not some kind of tree hugging hippy type. Far from it. I am employed by companies like ICI to help them get away with as much environmental contamination as possible. That’s just the way it is.”
I didn't know what to say. He offered me the poppadoms.
“Just so there isn’t any confusion…” he concluded.
I was suddenly aware that I was probably not the only woman who had agreed to go on a date with this man because of his being a geologist. I felt ashamed of myself and horrified for, and at, him.
Call me superficial, but I couldn't see myself dating a man who was wilfully damaging the environment - especially in a lumberjack shirt and a full-on man-beard.
Monday, 2 February 2009
white
Well today has been a magical Monday. Central London doesn’t experience the extremes of weather often faced by other parts of the country so when it does, like today, it really is an event. I’ve never seen London like this before, and I’m in awe.
For the first time in eighteen years snow has fallen – and continues to fall – right here, in central London. It’s a wonderful sight to see. From Richmond to Wapping everything is covered in a delicious, crisp and barely negotiable layer. Most of us have had an unplanned day-off. A snow-day, like the ones we had at school.
I've been wandering around with little more than a camera and childish wonder. And I wasn't the only one.
The excitement and novelty factor hasn't gone amiss. Everyone’s been a bit more smiley and snowmen (and women) have magically appeared all over the city, a calling card for their creator’s wit and whimsy.
What a surprise to have grey winter morning blanketed from sight, a welcome and joyful reprieve from the Monday blues...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/wonderingheights/sets/72157613235540615/
For the first time in eighteen years snow has fallen – and continues to fall – right here, in central London. It’s a wonderful sight to see. From Richmond to Wapping everything is covered in a delicious, crisp and barely negotiable layer. Most of us have had an unplanned day-off. A snow-day, like the ones we had at school.
I've been wandering around with little more than a camera and childish wonder. And I wasn't the only one.
The excitement and novelty factor hasn't gone amiss. Everyone’s been a bit more smiley and snowmen (and women) have magically appeared all over the city, a calling card for their creator’s wit and whimsy.
What a surprise to have grey winter morning blanketed from sight, a welcome and joyful reprieve from the Monday blues...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/wonderingheights/sets/72157613235540615/
Sunday, 1 February 2009
meltdown
It's not that I dislike her, she’s actually quite a nice girl, but she’s one of those people who has somehow managed to get into a position of some seniority without appearing to have an ounce of competence. Which is annoying at best.
This was a follow-up meeting from one we had six weeks ago. The one six weeks ago, involved lots of talking in circles and sweeping generalisations. The whole thing was punctuated by a nervous, politically-charged smile. And what appeared to be, a new catch-phrase. If it's possible for a person in real life to have such a thing.
The follow-up meeting was a mystery (there wasn’t anything to follow-up) but she seemed to want a catch-up anyway.
There are several of us from the company and we’re pitching just one idea. She hesitates before she speaks. This time, I’m going to count how many times she repeats the phrase globaleconomicmeltdown?. It is said, just like that, speeded up, moulded into one word and then pronounced with an uptalking high note at the end as if she is asking us if we’re still keeping up.
I hate to say it but I wonder if she knows what it means.
I had noticed her liberal use of globaleconomicmeltdown? the last time we met. It tumbled out of her mouth at an alarming rate. Sometimes immediately tailgating its last appearance. Like a string of long-awaited buses. It struck me then, as it does now, that she’s probably lifted it off a news report as something that sounds knowledgeable and usefully deflective - but it’s not convincing anyone.
Needless to say, we didn’t get very far with the pitch. She doesn’t have any money, you know, not since the globaleconomicmeltdown? She only uses the term four times in the 40 mins we are with her. I feel bad for counting. And for writing about it.
Like I said, she really is a nice girl.
This was a follow-up meeting from one we had six weeks ago. The one six weeks ago, involved lots of talking in circles and sweeping generalisations. The whole thing was punctuated by a nervous, politically-charged smile. And what appeared to be, a new catch-phrase. If it's possible for a person in real life to have such a thing.
The follow-up meeting was a mystery (there wasn’t anything to follow-up) but she seemed to want a catch-up anyway.
There are several of us from the company and we’re pitching just one idea. She hesitates before she speaks. This time, I’m going to count how many times she repeats the phrase globaleconomicmeltdown?. It is said, just like that, speeded up, moulded into one word and then pronounced with an uptalking high note at the end as if she is asking us if we’re still keeping up.
I hate to say it but I wonder if she knows what it means.
I had noticed her liberal use of globaleconomicmeltdown? the last time we met. It tumbled out of her mouth at an alarming rate. Sometimes immediately tailgating its last appearance. Like a string of long-awaited buses. It struck me then, as it does now, that she’s probably lifted it off a news report as something that sounds knowledgeable and usefully deflective - but it’s not convincing anyone.
Needless to say, we didn’t get very far with the pitch. She doesn’t have any money, you know, not since the globaleconomicmeltdown? She only uses the term four times in the 40 mins we are with her. I feel bad for counting. And for writing about it.
Like I said, she really is a nice girl.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
the X factor
“So how did it go?”
“What?” We've just been ice-skating and mostly I'm marvelling at not breaking anything. You know, bones, fingers, bread...okay, unlikely on ice.
“Your date! You know, the guy who’s been flirting with you? The one who’s held a candle for you for the last ten years? I mean, ten years!”
“It was very nice, thanks” which, admittedly, is a measured response but then I have sort-of known this guy for ten years. And what I know about this man makes me not entirely sure about him. He's a player.
“And?” demands N, a woman once known (by me) as the woman who doesn’t date but who, since I disappeared off the blog-cliff-face, has gotten herself into a very serious relationship with a lovely man thank-you-very-much. I realise N needs a new nickname. (And I may need a new hat.) I'll think on that.
“It went well” I continue, “We went for dinner, talked, laughed, drank wine, shared stories, you know...”
“Great, sounds good soo..?”
“Soo," I throw back at her, "he wanted to get his train back to Brighton. And we called it an early night. And he went home” I know this is a red rag to a dating bull.
“Oh. Did you arrange to meet up again?”
“No.” Case closed, I think.
“What do you mean you didn’t arrange to meet again..?” she’s officially incredulous like I've ripped up a rule book or something.
“Well, I figured, in an era of modern communications, there wasn’t a mad rush?” I can hear a trickle of defensiveness in my own voice. "Its not all corsets, dance-cards and watering the horses these days"
She pulls a face. I have no idea if she’s wincing at me, him, my joke or the boots she hired, which are one size too small.
“Have you heard from him?” She's still wincing to make her point. I don't think its the boots. I nod.
"A text"
“Good, and what did it say?”
“Err, thanks for a lovely evening...?”
“Hmm. Doesn’t sound great. Sounds formal,” she’s mulling this over “Any kisses? On the message, any kisses?”
“Err, yes”
“How many? Cos, you know, one doesn’t count - not these days." Touche.
I check. Its amazing to me that I have to check. I wonder if I like him that much.
"Three"
“Good, good, so you haven’t put him off…”
“What?” We've just been ice-skating and mostly I'm marvelling at not breaking anything. You know, bones, fingers, bread...okay, unlikely on ice.
“Your date! You know, the guy who’s been flirting with you? The one who’s held a candle for you for the last ten years? I mean, ten years!”
“It was very nice, thanks” which, admittedly, is a measured response but then I have sort-of known this guy for ten years. And what I know about this man makes me not entirely sure about him. He's a player.
“And?” demands N, a woman once known (by me) as the woman who doesn’t date but who, since I disappeared off the blog-cliff-face, has gotten herself into a very serious relationship with a lovely man thank-you-very-much. I realise N needs a new nickname. (And I may need a new hat.) I'll think on that.
“It went well” I continue, “We went for dinner, talked, laughed, drank wine, shared stories, you know...”
“Great, sounds good soo..?”
“Soo," I throw back at her, "he wanted to get his train back to Brighton. And we called it an early night. And he went home” I know this is a red rag to a dating bull.
“Oh. Did you arrange to meet up again?”
“No.” Case closed, I think.
“What do you mean you didn’t arrange to meet again..?” she’s officially incredulous like I've ripped up a rule book or something.
“Well, I figured, in an era of modern communications, there wasn’t a mad rush?” I can hear a trickle of defensiveness in my own voice. "Its not all corsets, dance-cards and watering the horses these days"
She pulls a face. I have no idea if she’s wincing at me, him, my joke or the boots she hired, which are one size too small.
“Have you heard from him?” She's still wincing to make her point. I don't think its the boots. I nod.
"A text"
“Good, and what did it say?”
“Err, thanks for a lovely evening...?”
“Hmm. Doesn’t sound great. Sounds formal,” she’s mulling this over “Any kisses? On the message, any kisses?”
“Err, yes”
“How many? Cos, you know, one doesn’t count - not these days." Touche.
I check. Its amazing to me that I have to check. I wonder if I like him that much.
"Three"
“Good, good, so you haven’t put him off…”
Monday, 19 January 2009
feeling groovy
Today is a special day. Once known as Blue Monday, it is statistically considered to be the most depressing day of the year. But not any more, feeling gloomy is officially off the menu for Blue Monday has been renamed: International Optimism Day, thanks to a merry collective of individuals who, like me, really believe that a little kindness can make a big difference.
The Optimists Society, which is more a movement than a group, promotes and encourages random acts of kindness - acts often playfully aimed at complete strangers. At the heart of it, there is, I think, a profound truth: by looking after others, we look after ourselves. It's probably one of the most joyful ventures I've happened across in a long time.
You can read more here:
http://www.theoptimistssociety.co.uk/
I'm happy to call myself an optimist. Are you? Happy Monday!
The Optimists Society, which is more a movement than a group, promotes and encourages random acts of kindness - acts often playfully aimed at complete strangers. At the heart of it, there is, I think, a profound truth: by looking after others, we look after ourselves. It's probably one of the most joyful ventures I've happened across in a long time.
You can read more here:
http://www.theoptimistssociety.co.uk/
I'm happy to call myself an optimist. Are you? Happy Monday!
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
baby talk
“Why don’t you have a baby? Don’t you want one?”
She’s weighing me up. Her eyes blinking up at mine with genuine concern.
The question has come out of the blue. It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re watching back-to-back Cbeebies cartoons whilst chomping on a couple of chocolate pudding cups.
“Urm, I don’t know, Ery. Maybe I’ll have one, one day...”
My friend’s five-year old daughter continues to gaze at me thoughtfully as if wondering whether to take the topic further. It’s clear she’s not entirely satisfied with my answer. And, like a miniature John Humphrys, she’s not going to let it drop.
“If you had one, you could bring it over to my house" her voice drops coyly, " I could tell you how to have one…?"
Now I’m intrigued, if slightly horrified about what she might say next.
“Really, Ery?” Where is her mother when you need her, I wonder.
“Yes, its easy really” she confides, “All you need to do is to wish really, really hard. And then your belly gets big. And then, you have one”
I smile. “But you’ve got to wish really hard” she emphasises her point by leaning her elbows onto my knees and scrutinising my face up close. She's being very serious and its apparent that I'm not. The whole effect is nothing less than comic.
I take it as a cue to respond in kind.
“Okay, Ery, I promise to remember that. You know, to give it a go, sometime” but it proves really, really hard to keep that straight face.
She’s weighing me up. Her eyes blinking up at mine with genuine concern.
The question has come out of the blue. It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re watching back-to-back Cbeebies cartoons whilst chomping on a couple of chocolate pudding cups.
“Urm, I don’t know, Ery. Maybe I’ll have one, one day...”
My friend’s five-year old daughter continues to gaze at me thoughtfully as if wondering whether to take the topic further. It’s clear she’s not entirely satisfied with my answer. And, like a miniature John Humphrys, she’s not going to let it drop.
“If you had one, you could bring it over to my house" her voice drops coyly, " I could tell you how to have one…?"
Now I’m intrigued, if slightly horrified about what she might say next.
“Really, Ery?” Where is her mother when you need her, I wonder.
“Yes, its easy really” she confides, “All you need to do is to wish really, really hard. And then your belly gets big. And then, you have one”
I smile. “But you’ve got to wish really hard” she emphasises her point by leaning her elbows onto my knees and scrutinising my face up close. She's being very serious and its apparent that I'm not. The whole effect is nothing less than comic.
I take it as a cue to respond in kind.
“Okay, Ery, I promise to remember that. You know, to give it a go, sometime” but it proves really, really hard to keep that straight face.
Monday, 5 January 2009
time bending
I really have a problem with getting up in the mornings. This, I believe, could have something to do with my problem about going to bed in the evenings.
Right now, I’m tired, I'm yawning and instead of calling it a night, I've opened up a new blog entry. I don't know why I do that. I could be brushing my teeth and heading up the wooden hill, well, not quite the wooden hill, I live in a flat, so more a wooden... plain - anyway, the point is, I’m in the throes of a compulsive delay tactic.
Quite simply, I’ve never really got past that youthful desire to push my bedtime to as late as I can get away with. I still want to stretch time and wring every valuable minute out of my evenings. Children are great believers in stretching time to suit - ever try to tell a small child that you're both leaving in 5 mins? They hear 'now' or 'not now' in fact, it would be easier to get a small child to understand the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the two-state solution than to get them to understand such an abstract construct as time.
Partly, my pushing the 'not now' evening envelope is a bit of a hangover from childhood (okay, that's quite the hangover) and partly, its just that I really, really like to potter. I can be very industrious when it comes to not doing very much. Its good thinking time. Also, there is something very delicious and satisfying about a state of tiredness when relief is imminent.
Of course, being a recovering Catholic, my delaying-going to bed on a work-night, also affords me a dose of guilt to play with. Actually that kind of guilt-hit works with many other forms of delay: shoulda, woulda, coulda gone to bed/filed a tax return/done my homework etc. (Not opened the electricity bill yet? Woo hoo!) It all adds up to the procrastination thrill. And that IS something I thought I’d grow out of.
But maybe, once a procrastinator always a procrastinator. Procrastinating about how to solve the procrastinating, I suppose. I blame Catholicism myself. Guilt's addictive.
Still, is it really such a misuse of time? As long as I get up eventually, fill in that tax form (and send it), do my homework before a given deadline, no harm's done. I know I do my best work under pressure so maybe I get my best sleep in under six hours?
And if not, there's always the chance of a power nap on the Northern Line in the morning.
Right now, I’m tired, I'm yawning and instead of calling it a night, I've opened up a new blog entry. I don't know why I do that. I could be brushing my teeth and heading up the wooden hill, well, not quite the wooden hill, I live in a flat, so more a wooden... plain - anyway, the point is, I’m in the throes of a compulsive delay tactic.
Quite simply, I’ve never really got past that youthful desire to push my bedtime to as late as I can get away with. I still want to stretch time and wring every valuable minute out of my evenings. Children are great believers in stretching time to suit - ever try to tell a small child that you're both leaving in 5 mins? They hear 'now' or 'not now' in fact, it would be easier to get a small child to understand the complexities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the two-state solution than to get them to understand such an abstract construct as time.
Partly, my pushing the 'not now' evening envelope is a bit of a hangover from childhood (okay, that's quite the hangover) and partly, its just that I really, really like to potter. I can be very industrious when it comes to not doing very much. Its good thinking time. Also, there is something very delicious and satisfying about a state of tiredness when relief is imminent.
Of course, being a recovering Catholic, my delaying-going to bed on a work-night, also affords me a dose of guilt to play with. Actually that kind of guilt-hit works with many other forms of delay: shoulda, woulda, coulda gone to bed/filed a tax return/done my homework etc. (Not opened the electricity bill yet? Woo hoo!) It all adds up to the procrastination thrill. And that IS something I thought I’d grow out of.
But maybe, once a procrastinator always a procrastinator. Procrastinating about how to solve the procrastinating, I suppose. I blame Catholicism myself. Guilt's addictive.
Still, is it really such a misuse of time? As long as I get up eventually, fill in that tax form (and send it), do my homework before a given deadline, no harm's done. I know I do my best work under pressure so maybe I get my best sleep in under six hours?
And if not, there's always the chance of a power nap on the Northern Line in the morning.
Friday, 2 January 2009
christmas spirits
I was at a loss. Most years I am, to be honest.
There’s something uncompromisingly conventional about what is expected of us at Christmas and, being single and not on good terms with either parent, I am just one of those awkward people who don’t quite fit.
But this year was different. I decided to volunteer for Crisis at Christmas, a charity that, over the Christmas period, opens temporary shelters across London for the single homeless. It was a fitting choice. Kicked out at 17, I was a member of the hidden homeless whilst studying my A-levels many years ago. From makeshift beds and spare rooms all over the county of Buckinghamshire, I lived an uncertain and miserable existence - but I was one of the lucky ones.
So, that is how I found myself, in the early hours of Christmas morning, searching for this year's makeshift dependency centre nestled underneath the towering chimneys of Battersea Power Station. The only real giveaway to its existence (in a disused office space) was a couple of hi-vi vests standing by a gate. Warm smiles greeted me through the darkness as I was the second member of the relief shift to arrive. These volunteers had worked all night - and they were clearly ready to call it a day.
Nearer the entrance, I found a few more glassy-eyed volunteers keeping awake in the the cool, crisp air. Behind them, a handful of guests, on a festive all-nighter, busied themselves with cans and fags and staggered about like slow-moving zombies. A kindly volunteer welcomed me aboard and offered to show me around. At reception, I was greeted warmly again. What struck me straight away, apart from the smell, the modest twinkling fairy lights and the odd bag of empty tinnys, was the incredible goodwill and blunt graciousness from volunteers and guests alike. I was out of my comfort zone but that seemed okay.
The eight-hour shifts get split into two-hour segments with duties throughout the centre rotated as fairly as possible. And there are so many duties to choose from: the gate, the information point, the café, the kitchen, keeping an eye on the sleeping area, fire-duty, toilets duty, arts and crafts to assisting in IT or hair-dressing. You’re never asked to do anything you feel uncomfortable with and you feel looked after by the more experienced shift managers, everyday heroes who have many years of volunteering under their belts.
The first and most important duty I was assigned (along with half of my Christmas Day-dodging shift) was to ‘float’ around. After the initial briefing, I head onto the floor. 'Floating' means wandering about and talking to the now-rising guests. The smell of cooked bacon over-rides everything as they sit down in clusters in the canteen. I feel nervous. I don’t find it easy to talk to random strangers at the best of times but homeless addicts? What to say? ‘Do you come here often?’ doesn’t seem like a good idea.
I look around and see an influx of volunteers standing around the room, self-conscious and equally panicked. It reminds me of the school disco during a slow number.
Then I meet T. A regular at the dependency centre, an alcoholic with an eleven year habit, a casual taste for crack and a surprising passion for the beauty of maths. He carries a book on algebra in his shabby coat pocket. We talk at length about the punkier end of physics. I want to understand string theory. He wants to get a degree.
Before long, I’m donning rubber gloves (loo duty) and giving as good as I get with the more outgoing guests. T seeks me out to show me his new haircut. He’s clearly very pleased but plays it down “yeah, its quite useful, actually”. Back in the canteen and one marriage proposal down, I cheer on the afternoon’s karaoke and help out in the arts department. Watching over those who just need to sleep brings unexpected satisfaction and there are moments, little moments, littered though the day that touch my heart deeply.
However, there was one guest I'm ashamed to admit to giving a wide berth. She looked like the kind of person who spends all day picking fights from park benches. Her concave frame emanated latent aggression and I didn't want to catch her eye. As it turned out, she loved karaoke and spent most of the day with a microphone in her hand. Eventually, inbetween power ballads, she walked towards me to make a call to a fellow rough-sleeper. Her long-mousey hair sticking like glue to her skull, pinched face and hunched shoulders, she was concentrating hard on getting her point across.
“…this place is great! You gotta come! They’ve got free food! And beds! And karaoke! And..." she leaned against the wall to steady herself, "It’s like heaven! I’m having my hair and nails done later!”
The slurring couldn’t hide the exclamation marks or her girlish enthusiasm. It was heaven.
Later, I was silently willing her to win the bingo - she never wins anything, she complained - but she didn't so she gave the cheerful bingo caller some good-natured grief instead. We all laughed and enjoyed the ride.
My shift was over almost as soon as it had begun. I was tired and glad to be going home – and grateful I had a home to go to. It was dark again, the late-shift had arrived as fresh-faced and nervous as I was. In the entertainment area, the disco was kicking off. The beer, wine and Christmas spirit in full flow.
As our shift made their way out of the building, I saw her again. She was sitting outside, can in hand, watching us leave “thank you” I heard her say to our parting backs. This time, I caught her eye: “Really, thank you for spending time wi’ us" I waved and smiled back. Too choked to say anything else.
There’s something uncompromisingly conventional about what is expected of us at Christmas and, being single and not on good terms with either parent, I am just one of those awkward people who don’t quite fit.
But this year was different. I decided to volunteer for Crisis at Christmas, a charity that, over the Christmas period, opens temporary shelters across London for the single homeless. It was a fitting choice. Kicked out at 17, I was a member of the hidden homeless whilst studying my A-levels many years ago. From makeshift beds and spare rooms all over the county of Buckinghamshire, I lived an uncertain and miserable existence - but I was one of the lucky ones.
So, that is how I found myself, in the early hours of Christmas morning, searching for this year's makeshift dependency centre nestled underneath the towering chimneys of Battersea Power Station. The only real giveaway to its existence (in a disused office space) was a couple of hi-vi vests standing by a gate. Warm smiles greeted me through the darkness as I was the second member of the relief shift to arrive. These volunteers had worked all night - and they were clearly ready to call it a day.
Nearer the entrance, I found a few more glassy-eyed volunteers keeping awake in the the cool, crisp air. Behind them, a handful of guests, on a festive all-nighter, busied themselves with cans and fags and staggered about like slow-moving zombies. A kindly volunteer welcomed me aboard and offered to show me around. At reception, I was greeted warmly again. What struck me straight away, apart from the smell, the modest twinkling fairy lights and the odd bag of empty tinnys, was the incredible goodwill and blunt graciousness from volunteers and guests alike. I was out of my comfort zone but that seemed okay.
The eight-hour shifts get split into two-hour segments with duties throughout the centre rotated as fairly as possible. And there are so many duties to choose from: the gate, the information point, the café, the kitchen, keeping an eye on the sleeping area, fire-duty, toilets duty, arts and crafts to assisting in IT or hair-dressing. You’re never asked to do anything you feel uncomfortable with and you feel looked after by the more experienced shift managers, everyday heroes who have many years of volunteering under their belts.
The first and most important duty I was assigned (along with half of my Christmas Day-dodging shift) was to ‘float’ around. After the initial briefing, I head onto the floor. 'Floating' means wandering about and talking to the now-rising guests. The smell of cooked bacon over-rides everything as they sit down in clusters in the canteen. I feel nervous. I don’t find it easy to talk to random strangers at the best of times but homeless addicts? What to say? ‘Do you come here often?’ doesn’t seem like a good idea.
I look around and see an influx of volunteers standing around the room, self-conscious and equally panicked. It reminds me of the school disco during a slow number.
Then I meet T. A regular at the dependency centre, an alcoholic with an eleven year habit, a casual taste for crack and a surprising passion for the beauty of maths. He carries a book on algebra in his shabby coat pocket. We talk at length about the punkier end of physics. I want to understand string theory. He wants to get a degree.
Before long, I’m donning rubber gloves (loo duty) and giving as good as I get with the more outgoing guests. T seeks me out to show me his new haircut. He’s clearly very pleased but plays it down “yeah, its quite useful, actually”. Back in the canteen and one marriage proposal down, I cheer on the afternoon’s karaoke and help out in the arts department. Watching over those who just need to sleep brings unexpected satisfaction and there are moments, little moments, littered though the day that touch my heart deeply.
However, there was one guest I'm ashamed to admit to giving a wide berth. She looked like the kind of person who spends all day picking fights from park benches. Her concave frame emanated latent aggression and I didn't want to catch her eye. As it turned out, she loved karaoke and spent most of the day with a microphone in her hand. Eventually, inbetween power ballads, she walked towards me to make a call to a fellow rough-sleeper. Her long-mousey hair sticking like glue to her skull, pinched face and hunched shoulders, she was concentrating hard on getting her point across.
“…this place is great! You gotta come! They’ve got free food! And beds! And karaoke! And..." she leaned against the wall to steady herself, "It’s like heaven! I’m having my hair and nails done later!”
The slurring couldn’t hide the exclamation marks or her girlish enthusiasm. It was heaven.
Later, I was silently willing her to win the bingo - she never wins anything, she complained - but she didn't so she gave the cheerful bingo caller some good-natured grief instead. We all laughed and enjoyed the ride.
My shift was over almost as soon as it had begun. I was tired and glad to be going home – and grateful I had a home to go to. It was dark again, the late-shift had arrived as fresh-faced and nervous as I was. In the entertainment area, the disco was kicking off. The beer, wine and Christmas spirit in full flow.
As our shift made their way out of the building, I saw her again. She was sitting outside, can in hand, watching us leave “thank you” I heard her say to our parting backs. This time, I caught her eye: “Really, thank you for spending time wi’ us" I waved and smiled back. Too choked to say anything else.
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