“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…”
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
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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