There must have been forty of us that day, seated in the Ian McKellen Hall, in the dusty, afternoon sun. It's a Saturday and we're volunteers on a training day at one of London’s most prominent HIV and AIDS charities. The day seminar is on the likelihood of HIV transmission across a broad range of sexual activities and the talk leaves nothing to the imagination – it can’t afford to. Many people shift uncomfortably in their seats but mostly because they are rubbernecking at the two seemingly ancient Irish nuns also gamely in attendance.
The volunteers’ trainer – who has probably seen it all - continues to spout, in some courageous detail, the ins and outs (sic) of various off-menu, mostly behind-closed-doors, activities. Every possible variation is noted and discussed. The nuns should play poker – they are completely inscrutable.
As the trainer finally winds up the session, a hand tentatively goes up. He looks over and sure enough, it’s a hand belonging to one of the two nuns sat, stooped and still, at the back. It is, in other words, A Hand of God. A palpable sense of expectation shoots across the room. The odd stifled giggle.
The trainer takes a moment to collect himself, a hint of a blush forming beneath his skin. The whole room legitimately swivels around and holds its breath
“Yes?”
Nun Number One, defiantly oblivious to the stir of excitement she is causing, looks to the trainer and in her soft Dublin accent asks in a surprisingly enthusiastic manner “Can you tell us more about the felching, please?”
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Friday, 8 May 2009
the first time
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.
(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.
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.
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