I recently made the executive decision to stop driving to work. Despite having put significant time and effort into writing a dissertation about Climate Change a mere few months ago (hypocrisy is apparently my middle name) , I usual love the ten-minute cruise into town in Roxy, my trusty, cherry-red Saxo. Well I don’t quite ‘love’ it, in the way that one ‘loves’ chocolate, or Disney musicals, or cats. But I do quite enjoy blasting out some mega-tunes on the commute, to gear me up for the day ahead.
My love for this daily ritual began deteriorating steadily after having to part with NINE POUNDS (count ‘em) a day for the privilege of parking upon arrival at my destination. If I’m going to be pumping coinage to the equivalent weight of a bar of gold into a battered machine that will probably reject half of them or deny their insertion, then I expect a darn sight more than... well whatever it is I am getting from this seemingly pointless activity! It’s not even as if I’m guaranteed security against pesky hoodies or nifty-fingered loiterers, as emphasised by the delightfully-reassuring ‘vehicles left at owners’ own risk’ signage. Yes, paying for parking is quite a bugbear of mine.
As if having to fork out for the parking in the first-place wasn’t enough to dampen my eight thirty AM spirits, I can’t say that I revelled in the daily walk past the building site, (which by the way seems to have been under construction for the last millennia without threatening any sign of completion, let alone bearing any resemblance to a ‘building’). They’ve probably just decided ‘You know what lads? Let’s just take it easy for a while. I mean, it’s not as if anyone has the money to buy property at the moment anyway!’
So, as a result of my general dislike towards early morning bankruptcy and sexual harassment, I have begun taking the bus to work. Ah yes, the fondly dubbed ‘peasant wagon’ as my friends like to call it. A little harsh if I might say so, but I see their point.
In many ways the bus is just as (if not more) unpleasant than the car-park fiasco. The fact that I have to be outside of my house at the bus stop forty-five minutes before I have to be at work regardless of the fact that the journey takes ten minutes is one reason. Or how about the indescribably irritating habit that numerous youths have of blasting their music from their phones’ tinny speakers for the entire world to hear? And not forgetting the vile inhabitants, such as one particularly nasty piece of work I encountered last week. His taunting of an innocent bystander was too much for my pre-caffeine sedated state and as a result of his ignorance he ended up on the receiving end of a full-on verbal attack courtesy of moi. Yes, the general smell, texture of the scratchy faux-velvet seats and unclean-feel of the mode of transport are amongst other reasons not to bus-it.
However there is one overwhelming advantage to taking the bus, and that is the opportunity to become a sponge.
When I am on the bus I literally zone-out from my worry-riddled, thought-filled head and absorb my surroundings. I find myself attentively people watching, eavesdropping on conversations and making social observations. (This, I now realise, is probably the reason I launched into my tirade aimed at know-it-all-smart-arse boy last week!)
Everyday the same school children get on. Inevitably one of them will start to play music from their phone. But I can forgive them. Perhaps it is because it seems so recent that I myself was catching the bus to school on a daily basis. I remember the rituals, like whose seat ‘belonged’ to whom and the consequences of this unwritten rule being compromised. I, after about a two year period of initiation, starting from the very front of the bus and gradually working back as your age, confidence and resultant status in the playground grew, sat on the back row of seats most days. It is fascinating and heartbreaking to observe this common and apparently ever-popular teenage ritual occurring before your very eyes.
Another observation I made at the bus stop was the hilarious manner in which older people struggle to use a mobile phone. One particular man produced a fairly outdated model from his jacket pocket and looked at it with such confusion that a passer-by would be forgiven for mistaking him as having just discovered a cheque for a few million quid just casually screwed up in his coat. The moment was classic and one I assume too familiar to numerous teens whose parents still struggle to operate even the simplest of devices.
As I sat at the stop listening to my IPod on shuffle (is it just me that can never decide what to listen to?!) observing the world and its people go by I realised how insignificant I was. It reminded me of a time a few weeks earlier where I’d become inspired to write on my blog, but had never gotten round to it. I was taken ‘out into the field’ at my new job, to see what the Sales Execs that contact me in the office actually get up to. It involved making some calls in local shops and our first stop was in a place you wouldn’t know existed unless someone told you it was there. It was one of those estates that time and the rest of the world had forgotten. And it got me thinking about how much of a bubble I live in. Ignorance can be bliss, but sometimes, like in moments like this I needed that wake up call to make me realise and appreciate the things I do have. This estate was obviously in quite a deprived area (one that I didn’t even know was there, despite it being practically on my doorstep). I remember feeling sudden pangs of guilt that, due to my up-until now ‘unemployed’ status, I had cancelled my monthly donation to the Red Cross. This may seem extreme, but I do have a big conscience and sometimes even the smallest of jolts can knock it. I felt selfish and superficial and above all embarrassed by my ignorance.
I guess the point I’m trying to make is that we all need to open our eyes a bit more and start behaving with more courtesy and compassion for the people around us and people less fortunate than ourselves. It’s all too easy to turn a blind eye. But sooner or later your bubble might burst and when it does you’ll be thankful for that sponge who decided to take the bus today.
Monday 17 November 2008
Tuesday 30 September 2008
A few phrases that get my goat!
1. “That gets my goat”
Excuse me?! Does a clothes-munching farm animal escape its petting-zoo-confines, rapidly bound towards you, like a trusty canine companion from a 1950’s family movie the minute something winds you up? I simply can’t understand how comparing something that annoys you with a glorified sheep makes any sense!
2. “No offense, but...”
It’s the “but” that really bothers me. Demonstration: “No offense, BUT (actually whatever I’m about to say is more than likely to cause you offence, thus the prefix ‘no offence’, so I’m going to say it anyway and couldn’t care less if it offended you).
3. “Do you know what I mean?” (At the end of a sentence that requires no retort)
Um, yes. I do know what you mean. I do speak English, thus the conversation we were partaking in so far going so swimmingly. It’s as if the culprit suddenly worried that they may have been speaking in Japanese in an absurd Freudian-slip and just wanted to check that stupid little you had understood. I know the phrase is uttered rhetorically, but if the question requires no answer then why waste your breath?! Oops... guilty!
4. “World class”
I realised the stupidity of this phrases whilst watching an utterly boring documentary about floods (yawn). An engineer described the Thames Barrier as a “world class flood defence system”. Let’s clear a few things up here. The Thames Barrier is in the world, oui? Therefore, surely, by default it is of a class calibre enough to automatically be classified as “world”. Just me?
5. “Figure of speech”
Is a figure of speech. And a very cocky, know-it-all one too!
Stay tuned for the next episode of “phrases that piss me off!” Until then...
Excuse me?! Does a clothes-munching farm animal escape its petting-zoo-confines, rapidly bound towards you, like a trusty canine companion from a 1950’s family movie the minute something winds you up? I simply can’t understand how comparing something that annoys you with a glorified sheep makes any sense!
2. “No offense, but...”
It’s the “but” that really bothers me. Demonstration: “No offense, BUT (actually whatever I’m about to say is more than likely to cause you offence, thus the prefix ‘no offence’, so I’m going to say it anyway and couldn’t care less if it offended you).
3. “Do you know what I mean?” (At the end of a sentence that requires no retort)
Um, yes. I do know what you mean. I do speak English, thus the conversation we were partaking in so far going so swimmingly. It’s as if the culprit suddenly worried that they may have been speaking in Japanese in an absurd Freudian-slip and just wanted to check that stupid little you had understood. I know the phrase is uttered rhetorically, but if the question requires no answer then why waste your breath?! Oops... guilty!
4. “World class”
I realised the stupidity of this phrases whilst watching an utterly boring documentary about floods (yawn). An engineer described the Thames Barrier as a “world class flood defence system”. Let’s clear a few things up here. The Thames Barrier is in the world, oui? Therefore, surely, by default it is of a class calibre enough to automatically be classified as “world”. Just me?
5. “Figure of speech”
Is a figure of speech. And a very cocky, know-it-all one too!
Stay tuned for the next episode of “phrases that piss me off!” Until then...
Sunday 28 September 2008
We Never Learn
Why is it so easy to make the same mistakes over and over and over again?!
Fret not, I’m not referring to anything remotely important, where actual feelings of remorse and regret are incurred. I’m simply talking about those niggling little things that we do, that we know before we’ve even done them, are going to be looked back upon with slight unease and questionability. Those moments in time where the levels of human willpower are thrown into question.
Allow me to clarify. Last night was my dear friend Chop’s (don’t ask where the name comes from) twenty-third birthday night out. Needless to say the obligatory fancy dress theme of Cowboys and Indians was taken extremely seriously by al those involved (myself included).
The evening followed the usual pattern. A pattern, that over a five-or-so year long commitment to partying, has been established amongst my close friendship group. And this is where the mistakes begin.
Why, for example, do we still deem it necessary to ALWAYS go the same nightclub (for about four years now), despite all having expressed hatred towards the place!? And why once we’re in there do we complain about the state of the grotesque toilets?! We know that they’re a health and safety hazard because they always have been and always will be. Despite a recent refurbishment I believe the toilets to actually be worse now than pre-modernisation. The lavatories resemble chrome urinal bowls with a horse-shoe shaped piece of what can only be described as butcher’s-slab plastic screwed precariously on top. On one particularly occasion there was an actual infestation of flies in the ladies. It was at that point that we collectively decided to call it a night. I can honestly say I’ve used more pleasant facilities in a third world country.
And it gets worse. Sadly for this regrettable, yet frequently-occurring action I have no one to blame but myself!
I refer to the Apple VK.
For those lucky enough to have never tasted this fine elixir let me illustrate to the best of my abilities the kind of experience drinking one of these concoctions produces.
Packaged in a putrid green bottle, it could be mistaken for a bottle of Becks at a distance. However, saying that is comparable to saying that Jodie Marsh could be mistaken for a well-dressed, conservative, natural beauty from a distance. You see where I’m going with this.
The beverage is served with two straws (something which has always baffled me! You know the old one straight and one bent classic. What’s the point?!) Upon parting with your hard-earned three pounds, the inevitable first sip approaches... (*I’m actually cringing as I type*).
The taste. Imagine mopping the brow of a Sumo wrestler who has just finished a fight on the hottest day of the year, wringing the liquid from the cloth into a blend of 1 parts apple juice to six parts sugar and a squeeze of vinegar and you’re getting close.
The rate at which a white layer of fuzz that one of these brews can create on even the freshest of tongues (I am obsessed with cleaning my teeth and brushing my tongue) is breathtaking. Literally.
There’s more.
Without being arrogant, my friendship group is made up of some uber-hotties. We’ve got blonde-haired, blue-eyed, butter-wouldn’t melt Emma. There’s Charlotte with her perfect complexion and lean, tall physique. Chop with her smoky eyes, cheeky smile and ample bosom. Red-haired Row, who is effortlessly stylish and exudes petite pixie-ness. And there’s porcelain-skinned Laura with her gorgeous dark hair and enviable figure.
Needless to say, as a group we attract a fair bit of attention, especially when in fancy dress. Fair enough. But when the admiring glances cross over into the territory of actual physical groping, accidentally-on-purpose bashing into us and full on grinding, we are less than impressed.
Last night’s gaggle of undesirables that the club tossed our way were of the calibre you would expect in the X-factor’s reject room. You know, the ones that only get shown on TV because they were that bad.
These kind of men come in various varieties and I am seriously considering writing a guide which helps identify them from a distance. Like a nature guide to poisonous snakes. One of our newly acquired admirers had some questionably tight jeans on and repeatedly danced his way backwards into our circle, using his derriere like a battling ram. He also had halitosis, which I found out much to my disgust as he uttered the words a girl never wants to hear from this kind of species: “my mate wants your number”. Wow. If he’s anything like you, just try and hold me back! I politely declined.
Another adopted the 90’s-raver dance combined with full on body smack-downs into each member of the group one after the other. He was a persistent little bugger and still came back for more even after Row had given him numerous shoves in the opposite direction and an earful sufficient enough to scare most grown-men away in tears.
Then there was the inevitable, “can I wear your hat?” guy. Some people just don’t get the fact that if you ask for something twenty-eight times and the answer is always “No”, it is unlikely that on go twenty-nine it will miraculously become a “yes”!
It wasn’t just men though. One particular sizeable woman, who’d had a few too many VK’s and was clutching some free ‘champagne’ (aka Lambrini) like a baby would it’s milk bottle, decided to reverse into Charlotte and then verbally attack her for bumping into her. That was the final straw.
Yet despite all of these hiccups, the night was considered to be an all-round success. After all, Emma was still alive despite having been drinking for two days solid without sleep, no one had been physically injured, no one had cried and Chop the birthday girl was still in her element.
But this is the beauty of being an irrational woman. It’s perfectly OK to go out and do things that we know are going to be unpleasant/annoying/leave your mouth tasting like fur, as long as you can look back on them and laugh. Which I do. Mostly.
Fret not, I’m not referring to anything remotely important, where actual feelings of remorse and regret are incurred. I’m simply talking about those niggling little things that we do, that we know before we’ve even done them, are going to be looked back upon with slight unease and questionability. Those moments in time where the levels of human willpower are thrown into question.
Allow me to clarify. Last night was my dear friend Chop’s (don’t ask where the name comes from) twenty-third birthday night out. Needless to say the obligatory fancy dress theme of Cowboys and Indians was taken extremely seriously by al those involved (myself included).
The evening followed the usual pattern. A pattern, that over a five-or-so year long commitment to partying, has been established amongst my close friendship group. And this is where the mistakes begin.
Why, for example, do we still deem it necessary to ALWAYS go the same nightclub (for about four years now), despite all having expressed hatred towards the place!? And why once we’re in there do we complain about the state of the grotesque toilets?! We know that they’re a health and safety hazard because they always have been and always will be. Despite a recent refurbishment I believe the toilets to actually be worse now than pre-modernisation. The lavatories resemble chrome urinal bowls with a horse-shoe shaped piece of what can only be described as butcher’s-slab plastic screwed precariously on top. On one particularly occasion there was an actual infestation of flies in the ladies. It was at that point that we collectively decided to call it a night. I can honestly say I’ve used more pleasant facilities in a third world country.
And it gets worse. Sadly for this regrettable, yet frequently-occurring action I have no one to blame but myself!
I refer to the Apple VK.
For those lucky enough to have never tasted this fine elixir let me illustrate to the best of my abilities the kind of experience drinking one of these concoctions produces.
Packaged in a putrid green bottle, it could be mistaken for a bottle of Becks at a distance. However, saying that is comparable to saying that Jodie Marsh could be mistaken for a well-dressed, conservative, natural beauty from a distance. You see where I’m going with this.
The beverage is served with two straws (something which has always baffled me! You know the old one straight and one bent classic. What’s the point?!) Upon parting with your hard-earned three pounds, the inevitable first sip approaches... (*I’m actually cringing as I type*).
The taste. Imagine mopping the brow of a Sumo wrestler who has just finished a fight on the hottest day of the year, wringing the liquid from the cloth into a blend of 1 parts apple juice to six parts sugar and a squeeze of vinegar and you’re getting close.
The rate at which a white layer of fuzz that one of these brews can create on even the freshest of tongues (I am obsessed with cleaning my teeth and brushing my tongue) is breathtaking. Literally.
There’s more.
Without being arrogant, my friendship group is made up of some uber-hotties. We’ve got blonde-haired, blue-eyed, butter-wouldn’t melt Emma. There’s Charlotte with her perfect complexion and lean, tall physique. Chop with her smoky eyes, cheeky smile and ample bosom. Red-haired Row, who is effortlessly stylish and exudes petite pixie-ness. And there’s porcelain-skinned Laura with her gorgeous dark hair and enviable figure.
Needless to say, as a group we attract a fair bit of attention, especially when in fancy dress. Fair enough. But when the admiring glances cross over into the territory of actual physical groping, accidentally-on-purpose bashing into us and full on grinding, we are less than impressed.
Last night’s gaggle of undesirables that the club tossed our way were of the calibre you would expect in the X-factor’s reject room. You know, the ones that only get shown on TV because they were that bad.
These kind of men come in various varieties and I am seriously considering writing a guide which helps identify them from a distance. Like a nature guide to poisonous snakes. One of our newly acquired admirers had some questionably tight jeans on and repeatedly danced his way backwards into our circle, using his derriere like a battling ram. He also had halitosis, which I found out much to my disgust as he uttered the words a girl never wants to hear from this kind of species: “my mate wants your number”. Wow. If he’s anything like you, just try and hold me back! I politely declined.
Another adopted the 90’s-raver dance combined with full on body smack-downs into each member of the group one after the other. He was a persistent little bugger and still came back for more even after Row had given him numerous shoves in the opposite direction and an earful sufficient enough to scare most grown-men away in tears.
Then there was the inevitable, “can I wear your hat?” guy. Some people just don’t get the fact that if you ask for something twenty-eight times and the answer is always “No”, it is unlikely that on go twenty-nine it will miraculously become a “yes”!
It wasn’t just men though. One particular sizeable woman, who’d had a few too many VK’s and was clutching some free ‘champagne’ (aka Lambrini) like a baby would it’s milk bottle, decided to reverse into Charlotte and then verbally attack her for bumping into her. That was the final straw.
Yet despite all of these hiccups, the night was considered to be an all-round success. After all, Emma was still alive despite having been drinking for two days solid without sleep, no one had been physically injured, no one had cried and Chop the birthday girl was still in her element.
But this is the beauty of being an irrational woman. It’s perfectly OK to go out and do things that we know are going to be unpleasant/annoying/leave your mouth tasting like fur, as long as you can look back on them and laugh. Which I do. Mostly.
Friday 5 September 2008
Everything Must Go!
Due to my apparent ‘un-employ-ability’, despite having a degree (cheers economy!), many of my days of late have been occupied by rearranging the furniture in my room and as a result of this upheaval, a strange yet common phenomenon has come to my attention.
The phenomenon of ‘stuff’.
And lots of it!
As I root around the room that has remained relatively unaltered since before I went to Uni, I’m constantly coming across and array of utterly pointless items that for some unknown reason I have decided to keep.
And the worst part of it is wondering why I even had these items in the first place, let alone deemed it necessary to store it away in some dusty drawer for nearly ten years. For instance, amongst my top ten ‘why the hell do I own this?!’ collection was a sticker of Wolf from Gladiators, seven keys to doors/padlocks that I was unaware existed, a clay sculpture that I made at school in year seven, twelve empty perfume bottles, fifteen photos of my ENTIRE class on a year six excursion to a country manor in period dress and a yellow plastic beaker with my name on it which I got at nursery school! Yet despite all of these bizarre objects ranking highly, my absolute favourite item of utter uselessness had to be an unused paper Starbucks cup. Why of course! A must have for every home!
I can’t imagine what was going through my mind when I last did a purge, came across these items and actually thought, (within some degree of logic and reason), that they would even be of use to ma again! Of course there is the sentimentality of such items and the memories attached to them, although most of them are probably made up memories. What I mean by this is when one looks at a photograph of them self at an age where it is highly unlikely that any ‘real memories’ can still exist (for the sake of argument let’s say age four), fake ones replace them based on our parents’ stories or what we would like to think happened. Perhaps it is just me whom does this... Anyway I’ve completely sidetracked.
Back to the stuff. The worst part is it’s not just my bedroom that is under this curse. The entire house is full of literally pointless objects! Why, for example does my father have the cardboard box which his laptop came in stacked away in the spare room along with a telescope he’s never used, an exercise bike so dated I’m sure it’s from circa 1952 and three television sets?! If you think that’s bad then venturing into his office is a whole other dimension and gives a new meaning to the word ‘junk’. Is it really necessary to have three clarinets, six brand new, unused canvases of varying size and a fox skull in an office? Methinks not.
My musing upon all of these useless, material belongings and subsequent obliteration of all things pointless has prompted me to try to understand why it has only began to bother me so wretchedly now. I have come to two conclusions.
One: because I am in a period of strange, slow and tedious transition from the joys of irresponsibility towards the burdens of gritty reality (and at the moment a fairly bleak looking future - the inevitability of never being able to own my own home, massive debt, no job etc...), it would seem that I physically need to rid all of this baggage that I’m so desperately clinging on to in order to move forward. Yes, in some respects I am still a sentimental fool who can’t bring herself to throw away photos or birthday cards from four years ago. But the rest is just metaphorically holding me back.
My second conclusion is perhaps more reasoned and logical than the first. Maybe, just maybe, all of this doomsday media propaganda about the eventual and inevitable demise of oil, increasing globalisation, climate change and the rise of Communist China as an industrial superpower has made me realise that as a society we really do need to change our wasteful, consumerist ways.
More than half of the junk that I banished to the bin was made of plastic. It must be more than a happy coincidence that I’m reading a chapter in Michael Moore’s ‘Dude, Where’s My Country?’ about the western world’s dependency on Arab oil, as well as hearing non-stop about Obama’s and McCain’s stances on offshore drilling and alternative energy. I think we have just come to a point where we all need to say ‘enough is enough’ and stop all of this wasteful accumulation of stuff. If the climate change threats are to be believed, slowing down production and consumption of foreign oil and Chinese plastic goods may be our only saviour. The problem then lies with the cost to our already bleak global economic outlook ... At a time like this I don’t envy politicians one little bit! Watch this space...
The phenomenon of ‘stuff’.
And lots of it!
As I root around the room that has remained relatively unaltered since before I went to Uni, I’m constantly coming across and array of utterly pointless items that for some unknown reason I have decided to keep.
And the worst part of it is wondering why I even had these items in the first place, let alone deemed it necessary to store it away in some dusty drawer for nearly ten years. For instance, amongst my top ten ‘why the hell do I own this?!’ collection was a sticker of Wolf from Gladiators, seven keys to doors/padlocks that I was unaware existed, a clay sculpture that I made at school in year seven, twelve empty perfume bottles, fifteen photos of my ENTIRE class on a year six excursion to a country manor in period dress and a yellow plastic beaker with my name on it which I got at nursery school! Yet despite all of these bizarre objects ranking highly, my absolute favourite item of utter uselessness had to be an unused paper Starbucks cup. Why of course! A must have for every home!
I can’t imagine what was going through my mind when I last did a purge, came across these items and actually thought, (within some degree of logic and reason), that they would even be of use to ma again! Of course there is the sentimentality of such items and the memories attached to them, although most of them are probably made up memories. What I mean by this is when one looks at a photograph of them self at an age where it is highly unlikely that any ‘real memories’ can still exist (for the sake of argument let’s say age four), fake ones replace them based on our parents’ stories or what we would like to think happened. Perhaps it is just me whom does this... Anyway I’ve completely sidetracked.
Back to the stuff. The worst part is it’s not just my bedroom that is under this curse. The entire house is full of literally pointless objects! Why, for example does my father have the cardboard box which his laptop came in stacked away in the spare room along with a telescope he’s never used, an exercise bike so dated I’m sure it’s from circa 1952 and three television sets?! If you think that’s bad then venturing into his office is a whole other dimension and gives a new meaning to the word ‘junk’. Is it really necessary to have three clarinets, six brand new, unused canvases of varying size and a fox skull in an office? Methinks not.
My musing upon all of these useless, material belongings and subsequent obliteration of all things pointless has prompted me to try to understand why it has only began to bother me so wretchedly now. I have come to two conclusions.
One: because I am in a period of strange, slow and tedious transition from the joys of irresponsibility towards the burdens of gritty reality (and at the moment a fairly bleak looking future - the inevitability of never being able to own my own home, massive debt, no job etc...), it would seem that I physically need to rid all of this baggage that I’m so desperately clinging on to in order to move forward. Yes, in some respects I am still a sentimental fool who can’t bring herself to throw away photos or birthday cards from four years ago. But the rest is just metaphorically holding me back.
My second conclusion is perhaps more reasoned and logical than the first. Maybe, just maybe, all of this doomsday media propaganda about the eventual and inevitable demise of oil, increasing globalisation, climate change and the rise of Communist China as an industrial superpower has made me realise that as a society we really do need to change our wasteful, consumerist ways.
More than half of the junk that I banished to the bin was made of plastic. It must be more than a happy coincidence that I’m reading a chapter in Michael Moore’s ‘Dude, Where’s My Country?’ about the western world’s dependency on Arab oil, as well as hearing non-stop about Obama’s and McCain’s stances on offshore drilling and alternative energy. I think we have just come to a point where we all need to say ‘enough is enough’ and stop all of this wasteful accumulation of stuff. If the climate change threats are to be believed, slowing down production and consumption of foreign oil and Chinese plastic goods may be our only saviour. The problem then lies with the cost to our already bleak global economic outlook ... At a time like this I don’t envy politicians one little bit! Watch this space...
Friday 18 July 2008
Simple Pleasures
The other day my housemate and I were lazing about the flat, (shocking I know), waiting for our only form of routine or schedule to begin: Jeremy Kyle followed by Ricky Lake followed by Sally Jessy Raphael followed by Montel Williams, each programme punctuated with cups of tea and the occasional delirious outburst impersonating either the show’s eponymous host or one of the undesirable guests. Yes, it seems ITV2 daytime “sponsored by ITV Bingo” (Powered by Party Gaming don’t you know) has become a bit of an unwanted addiction for Chloe and I.
Anyway, whilst the tenth DNA test result of the day was revealed, we both noticed that it was rather hot. Pulling back the floral curtains to reveal beaming sunshine prompted a scene far too similar to one from the Hunchback of Notre Dame than I was comfortable with. It was at this point, whilst we both grimaced and squinted in the daylight that we realised how little time we had left to make the most of Bournemouth’s gorgeous beach.
We raced down to the seafront in record time and decided it was time that we both went for our first swim in the sea for 2008. Excluding a mini-surfing encounter in Polzeath a month earlier, neither Chloe nor I had been deeper than ankle-level in Bournemouth’s waters this year. Come to think of it, I hadn’t swam in the sea since the blissful summer heat of 2006; a time where almost everyday for a month the beach was mine and Sammy P’s alone for at least an hour each beautiful morning!
As we waded into the surprisingly warm waters a bout of girly giggles got the better of us, but nevertheless we ventured on. I maintain that even the grumpiest of sods would be reduced to childlike squeals if pressed into a good old-fashioned seaside paddle.
When we reached a point where the water was at shoulder height we stopped and bobbed, swam deeper then returned, splashed around in the waves and soaked up the atmosphere. The view of the promenade from the water is not one which is usually encountered and provided an interesting spot for people watching.
I can honestly say that nothing has brought me as much simple pleasure or contentment for a long time, than simply bobbing about in the sea, just being. The experience put me in a euphoric mood for the rest of the evening.
The following day was warm and pleasant, although not as picture-perfect as the day before, however we decided to re-enact our little excursion. Unfortunately, as is often the case, returning to a place that created such an important or enjoyable memory on one occasion, it was disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but in almost forcibly trying to have as good a time as the previous day, we inevitably didn’t. My mother, a wise woman as all mothers are, has often pointed this unfortunate fact out to me before – that revising somewhere you really loved would never be as special upon a second visit.
So it is with great sadness that I resign myself to the inevitability of change, the fact that once I have left Bournemouth a day trip here would never quite be the same. Yet I am comforted by the simple fact that I have made the most of every second of my time spent here – even on the numerous days spent vegetating in front of mindless daytime TV, because each and every moment spent at uni over the past three years has forged me into the person that I am now and for that, Jeremy Kyle, I am grateful.
Anyway, whilst the tenth DNA test result of the day was revealed, we both noticed that it was rather hot. Pulling back the floral curtains to reveal beaming sunshine prompted a scene far too similar to one from the Hunchback of Notre Dame than I was comfortable with. It was at this point, whilst we both grimaced and squinted in the daylight that we realised how little time we had left to make the most of Bournemouth’s gorgeous beach.
We raced down to the seafront in record time and decided it was time that we both went for our first swim in the sea for 2008. Excluding a mini-surfing encounter in Polzeath a month earlier, neither Chloe nor I had been deeper than ankle-level in Bournemouth’s waters this year. Come to think of it, I hadn’t swam in the sea since the blissful summer heat of 2006; a time where almost everyday for a month the beach was mine and Sammy P’s alone for at least an hour each beautiful morning!
As we waded into the surprisingly warm waters a bout of girly giggles got the better of us, but nevertheless we ventured on. I maintain that even the grumpiest of sods would be reduced to childlike squeals if pressed into a good old-fashioned seaside paddle.
When we reached a point where the water was at shoulder height we stopped and bobbed, swam deeper then returned, splashed around in the waves and soaked up the atmosphere. The view of the promenade from the water is not one which is usually encountered and provided an interesting spot for people watching.
I can honestly say that nothing has brought me as much simple pleasure or contentment for a long time, than simply bobbing about in the sea, just being. The experience put me in a euphoric mood for the rest of the evening.
The following day was warm and pleasant, although not as picture-perfect as the day before, however we decided to re-enact our little excursion. Unfortunately, as is often the case, returning to a place that created such an important or enjoyable memory on one occasion, it was disappointing. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but in almost forcibly trying to have as good a time as the previous day, we inevitably didn’t. My mother, a wise woman as all mothers are, has often pointed this unfortunate fact out to me before – that revising somewhere you really loved would never be as special upon a second visit.
So it is with great sadness that I resign myself to the inevitability of change, the fact that once I have left Bournemouth a day trip here would never quite be the same. Yet I am comforted by the simple fact that I have made the most of every second of my time spent here – even on the numerous days spent vegetating in front of mindless daytime TV, because each and every moment spent at uni over the past three years has forged me into the person that I am now and for that, Jeremy Kyle, I am grateful.
Wednesday 2 April 2008
Just a thought...
Question: Is there anything more tedious than being in the house on your own, editing a fifteen thousand word dissertation?
Answers on a postcard please!
Answers on a postcard please!
Monday 31 March 2008
Mind Clutter
I've got these jeans. Jeans that I haven't worn for over five years. But I just can't get rid of them. The pair, indigo denim with a beige trim of tatty faux-fur, and bell bottomed ankles, may sound like a heinous crime against fashion, but I still can't chuck them. I have come to some reasoned conclusions as to why this might be the case. Firstly, the battle I faced in order to obtain the jeans in the first place, was a struggle of gigantic proportions, that to throw them away now would be an unthinkable crime! You see, they are Miss Sixty jeans. Miss Sixty!I must have spent at least an hour-a-day for a month begging, pleading with my mother to part with seventy five (yes SEVENTY FIVE) pounds in exchange for the object of my dreams, before she finally gave in.
Another reason as to why I may be so attached to this garment may lie in their the symbolic connotations. The jeans reside in a white chest-of-drawers in my bedroom at home. The room in which I had lived for at least ten of the nineteen years that My family had owned this house... until, I went to uni. I've always felt a very strong attachment to my family home. Maybe it's because my first breaths of air, my first seconds of life, occurred in this very house. Or, maybe it's just the character that my home possesses. It's a grand structure, built in the Georgian era, painted white, with two columns supporting the solid awning above the front door. The garden is huge, (well perhaps not huge, but big enough, and exciting enough to occupy me and my brother in our outdoor adventures for hour upon hour when we were growing up.)There's something about it which I just love and anytime the mention of selling up and moving comes up I just can't bear the thought of leaving it. But back to the jeans. What I'm saying is, that this old, tiny (I used to be a scrawny size 6 up until the age of about seventeen)and unfashionable piece of attire resembles a piece of me, a tangible extension of my character, before I left home. A younger, more innocent, dependent 'me', who has now well and truly disappeared. Every holiday throughout university, I would without fail, open the drawer to check that they were still there, consider giving them to the charity shop, and then tuck them neatly back into their home. The place where they belong.
And it's not just the jeans. Every object that remains in my bedroom at home, every survivor of my termly purge, holds a story, a meaning, that to me, is too important to throw away.
I have but one term of university to complete until I graduate into certified, there's-no-going-back-now, adulthood. This fills me with dread. But I am safe in the knowledge, that when I eventually move back home, before finding a job and a place of my own, I can find comfort. I know where it is. It's where it always is. Tucked away in a white chest-of-drawers.
Another reason as to why I may be so attached to this garment may lie in their the symbolic connotations. The jeans reside in a white chest-of-drawers in my bedroom at home. The room in which I had lived for at least ten of the nineteen years that My family had owned this house... until, I went to uni. I've always felt a very strong attachment to my family home. Maybe it's because my first breaths of air, my first seconds of life, occurred in this very house. Or, maybe it's just the character that my home possesses. It's a grand structure, built in the Georgian era, painted white, with two columns supporting the solid awning above the front door. The garden is huge, (well perhaps not huge, but big enough, and exciting enough to occupy me and my brother in our outdoor adventures for hour upon hour when we were growing up.)There's something about it which I just love and anytime the mention of selling up and moving comes up I just can't bear the thought of leaving it. But back to the jeans. What I'm saying is, that this old, tiny (I used to be a scrawny size 6 up until the age of about seventeen)and unfashionable piece of attire resembles a piece of me, a tangible extension of my character, before I left home. A younger, more innocent, dependent 'me', who has now well and truly disappeared. Every holiday throughout university, I would without fail, open the drawer to check that they were still there, consider giving them to the charity shop, and then tuck them neatly back into their home. The place where they belong.
And it's not just the jeans. Every object that remains in my bedroom at home, every survivor of my termly purge, holds a story, a meaning, that to me, is too important to throw away.
I have but one term of university to complete until I graduate into certified, there's-no-going-back-now, adulthood. This fills me with dread. But I am safe in the knowledge, that when I eventually move back home, before finding a job and a place of my own, I can find comfort. I know where it is. It's where it always is. Tucked away in a white chest-of-drawers.
Thursday 28 February 2008
It's getting closer...
The point has come where I have to seriously start thinking about... Yep, you guessed it - THE FUTURE!!! A daunting prospect.
I am currently tapping the keys of my rather perfectly formed new laptop to the beat of Aerosmith's Love in An Elevator, (not a rare occurrance might I add!)But the life that, over the past three years, I have come to know so well, where sitting in my dimly lit room listening to 90's Rock, clad in a T-Shirt I got free from Walkabout's 'Snakebite Sunday' (yes it does exist) in the middle of the day is acceptable, is soon to be a thing of the past.
In the first year of Uni my Peter Pan mentality helped succesfully eradicate any possibile thoughts or conversations about jobs, graduating and 'The Real world.'However, now, the idea of earning a decent salary as opposed to scraping together the peanuts I earn at my part time job with my ever-diminishing loan, the prospect of coming home at 5pm and NOT having to think about an assignment deadline/scheduling in hangover days around assignment deadlines/overdue library books/wondering whether the festering pile of washing-up left to rot on the crumby surfaces in the kitchen will be there to greet me when I get home are all quite attractive prospects!
Three years at Uni is definitely long enough! Now it is time for a new chapter in my life. One that involves structure and routine. Forgive me if I'm boring you, or perhaps enraging you for not being grateful for easy I've got it by expressing a desire for the routine and mundane. But that is what I really feel I'm ready for...
Now there's just the problem of graduating and finding that dream job. The Journey continues...
I am currently tapping the keys of my rather perfectly formed new laptop to the beat of Aerosmith's Love in An Elevator, (not a rare occurrance might I add!)But the life that, over the past three years, I have come to know so well, where sitting in my dimly lit room listening to 90's Rock, clad in a T-Shirt I got free from Walkabout's 'Snakebite Sunday' (yes it does exist) in the middle of the day is acceptable, is soon to be a thing of the past.
In the first year of Uni my Peter Pan mentality helped succesfully eradicate any possibile thoughts or conversations about jobs, graduating and 'The Real world.'However, now, the idea of earning a decent salary as opposed to scraping together the peanuts I earn at my part time job with my ever-diminishing loan, the prospect of coming home at 5pm and NOT having to think about an assignment deadline/scheduling in hangover days around assignment deadlines/overdue library books/wondering whether the festering pile of washing-up left to rot on the crumby surfaces in the kitchen will be there to greet me when I get home are all quite attractive prospects!
Three years at Uni is definitely long enough! Now it is time for a new chapter in my life. One that involves structure and routine. Forgive me if I'm boring you, or perhaps enraging you for not being grateful for easy I've got it by expressing a desire for the routine and mundane. But that is what I really feel I'm ready for...
Now there's just the problem of graduating and finding that dream job. The Journey continues...
Best Served Cold
A Dark Short Story...
The rain is deafening me, beating hard and relentlessly against the thin and fragile panes of the phone box. My ankles are damp and cold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, in any direction; I am completely alone in a ghost town. But I feel safe; I am alone, just close your eyes breathe in through your nostrils, out through your mouth, in the nose out of the mouth…
The date is September 13th. It is 2003, and the time is 2.37pm exactly and it is a Sunday. My name is Jacob Peter Spencer and I am 24. It was exactly 3 months ago that I met Katie. Katie’s eyes: deep and brown, so dark I would often get lost in them; melt into a euphoric silent, safe place. She had a way of tucking her fine caramel hair behind her tiny ear when it would fall in front of her amazing eyes, blocking my view of the windows to her mysterious soul. She saved me. But that was then…
On a mild June day I was feeding a sparrow in central park. So trusting it was. Fragile and naïve, and solely dependent on my donation: a morsel of bagel. I liked it best this way, just me, independent, ‘I don’t need anyone else’ I thought. Remembering my home town I shuddered and was cold. Quickly I swallowed one of my tablets. “They help me, I need them” I reassured myself, exhaling deeply and shutting my eyes. The sparrow fled, isolated again. Pulling my sleeves down around my hands and hugging my knees to my chest was my instinct, a reflex action. I could not bear to recall what happened, but erasing my past- impossible. She made me jump! A soft comforting palm rested on my shoulder, delicate fingers gently but firmly pressing down. “Excuse me, are you alright?” A soft voice questioned.
And that was how I met her.
That moment seemed to last forever, when our eyes met and I froze. “Is it ok if I sit with you? Its just I saw you were alone, and well like I guess I think you look like you could do with a friendly face?! Sorry, it’s Katie! You are?” she glowed extending her arm towards me. I suppose looking back it was too good to be true. Who was this girl? Why would she talk to a guy like me? “Jake” I answered. “Um uh…” I started before she cut me off: “Sorry if you want me to go I’ll just…” “No, no stay. Please. Talk with me.”
I will never forget That Day. Katie was like no one I have ever met before. Have you ever met someone that you are just in total awe of? Who you never tire of listening to? Is always willing to listen to you, when you think there is nobody left? That was her, and more. In the park we sat for hours. Time passed in a daze and all the while I thought to myself ‘this is not happening, it’s a dream’. We talked about so much. I was so lonely, if only she’d have known. But she understood me in other ways, ways that mattered. A friend. It was only when her cell shrieked a shrill sound she left. Gone suddenly, but not forgotten. I had to see her again. She must want to see me too I figured. Why would this amazing woman have spent the entire day listening to me? Caring?
That night, in The City That Never Sleeps I was alive. I drew. Her face was etched in my memory like a photograph. Sketching carefully I recalled those eyes so fascinating, delicate nose, rose blush cheeks.
The next morning I walked back through those trees, sun filtering between them, rays streaming onto the path. I sat on the bench again. And waited. And thought. And she came. The ecstasy that erupted inside me when I set eyes on her again was immense. “Hey!” She chirped merrily as she noticed me, like a bird at dawn. “Fancy seeing you again!” she joked. If only she knew what she meant to me. “Wanna grab a coffee before I get to work?” she suggested with a trace of Manhattan drawl. I obliged. Sitting in the corner of Starbucks sipping on a caramel macchiato, I was ignorant to the activity, the buzz all around. I was safe.
She left me that day.
It started to rain, small droplets splashed on my nose and I looked at the puddles around me. A web glistened in the corner frame of the window panes, a beautiful prison, a trapped fly.
It was a Thursday when saw her for the last time. I hadn’t been sleeping. Where was she? By now anxious to see her, desperate, I started out of my chair, when I froze. She hadn’t seen me, but I saw her. I watched. She kissed him. She kissed him again. Her beautiful face illuminated like an angel. But my heart pounded stronger, harder tearing out of my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks. Why? Who is he? It was unbearable. It happened in a blur, flashes. I remember swallowing a fistful of pills. My head throbbed. She was mine. Mine! Not anyone else’s. I needed her. “Why?! I Don’t understand!”
She shrieked and yelled but I was deaf to her pleas. The rage! How could she have done this to me? Why?! I tossed her like a rag doll into my dark, stale apartment. And then I left her. Alone. Like she had left me. I turned the key and departed. Calmly, coolly. My sketch, her reflection. Her only companion in that room. Cold. Nobody knows where she is. But me.
The rain is ceasing. I thumb the small key in my hand so hard my palms are raw. And I let it go. Released. It falls down, dropping as if in slow motion, striking the grates of the drain cover, and then gone, forever. Placing a pill on my tongue it melts.
My bittersweet poison...
The rain is deafening me, beating hard and relentlessly against the thin and fragile panes of the phone box. My ankles are damp and cold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, in any direction; I am completely alone in a ghost town. But I feel safe; I am alone, just close your eyes breathe in through your nostrils, out through your mouth, in the nose out of the mouth…
The date is September 13th. It is 2003, and the time is 2.37pm exactly and it is a Sunday. My name is Jacob Peter Spencer and I am 24. It was exactly 3 months ago that I met Katie. Katie’s eyes: deep and brown, so dark I would often get lost in them; melt into a euphoric silent, safe place. She had a way of tucking her fine caramel hair behind her tiny ear when it would fall in front of her amazing eyes, blocking my view of the windows to her mysterious soul. She saved me. But that was then…
On a mild June day I was feeding a sparrow in central park. So trusting it was. Fragile and naïve, and solely dependent on my donation: a morsel of bagel. I liked it best this way, just me, independent, ‘I don’t need anyone else’ I thought. Remembering my home town I shuddered and was cold. Quickly I swallowed one of my tablets. “They help me, I need them” I reassured myself, exhaling deeply and shutting my eyes. The sparrow fled, isolated again. Pulling my sleeves down around my hands and hugging my knees to my chest was my instinct, a reflex action. I could not bear to recall what happened, but erasing my past- impossible. She made me jump! A soft comforting palm rested on my shoulder, delicate fingers gently but firmly pressing down. “Excuse me, are you alright?” A soft voice questioned.
And that was how I met her.
That moment seemed to last forever, when our eyes met and I froze. “Is it ok if I sit with you? Its just I saw you were alone, and well like I guess I think you look like you could do with a friendly face?! Sorry, it’s Katie! You are?” she glowed extending her arm towards me. I suppose looking back it was too good to be true. Who was this girl? Why would she talk to a guy like me? “Jake” I answered. “Um uh…” I started before she cut me off: “Sorry if you want me to go I’ll just…” “No, no stay. Please. Talk with me.”
I will never forget That Day. Katie was like no one I have ever met before. Have you ever met someone that you are just in total awe of? Who you never tire of listening to? Is always willing to listen to you, when you think there is nobody left? That was her, and more. In the park we sat for hours. Time passed in a daze and all the while I thought to myself ‘this is not happening, it’s a dream’. We talked about so much. I was so lonely, if only she’d have known. But she understood me in other ways, ways that mattered. A friend. It was only when her cell shrieked a shrill sound she left. Gone suddenly, but not forgotten. I had to see her again. She must want to see me too I figured. Why would this amazing woman have spent the entire day listening to me? Caring?
That night, in The City That Never Sleeps I was alive. I drew. Her face was etched in my memory like a photograph. Sketching carefully I recalled those eyes so fascinating, delicate nose, rose blush cheeks.
The next morning I walked back through those trees, sun filtering between them, rays streaming onto the path. I sat on the bench again. And waited. And thought. And she came. The ecstasy that erupted inside me when I set eyes on her again was immense. “Hey!” She chirped merrily as she noticed me, like a bird at dawn. “Fancy seeing you again!” she joked. If only she knew what she meant to me. “Wanna grab a coffee before I get to work?” she suggested with a trace of Manhattan drawl. I obliged. Sitting in the corner of Starbucks sipping on a caramel macchiato, I was ignorant to the activity, the buzz all around. I was safe.
She left me that day.
It started to rain, small droplets splashed on my nose and I looked at the puddles around me. A web glistened in the corner frame of the window panes, a beautiful prison, a trapped fly.
It was a Thursday when saw her for the last time. I hadn’t been sleeping. Where was she? By now anxious to see her, desperate, I started out of my chair, when I froze. She hadn’t seen me, but I saw her. I watched. She kissed him. She kissed him again. Her beautiful face illuminated like an angel. But my heart pounded stronger, harder tearing out of my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks. Why? Who is he? It was unbearable. It happened in a blur, flashes. I remember swallowing a fistful of pills. My head throbbed. She was mine. Mine! Not anyone else’s. I needed her. “Why?! I Don’t understand!”
She shrieked and yelled but I was deaf to her pleas. The rage! How could she have done this to me? Why?! I tossed her like a rag doll into my dark, stale apartment. And then I left her. Alone. Like she had left me. I turned the key and departed. Calmly, coolly. My sketch, her reflection. Her only companion in that room. Cold. Nobody knows where she is. But me.
The rain is ceasing. I thumb the small key in my hand so hard my palms are raw. And I let it go. Released. It falls down, dropping as if in slow motion, striking the grates of the drain cover, and then gone, forever. Placing a pill on my tongue it melts.
My bittersweet poison...
Circus of Horrors
A Dark Short Story...
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
Quick Break
At 10am the sun was already blazing high in the cloudless sky of Cabarete. The past nine days spent there had browned my skin pleasantly, freckled my nose prettily and warmed my hair to honey-colour. I was happiest in hot climates. Slipping his hand into mine, my small fingers recognised Jeremy’s weathered palms. It was time to go. Putting on my gritty flip-flops we left the cool air-conditioned room to face the day’s heat.
The door slammed heavily behind us; there was no turning back now. Our friends greeted us with a smile that I mirrored. I could sense their excitement. Pattering through the terracotta reception area the warm sea breeze enticed me. Then I saw our mode of transport. I sensed the driver didn’t share my apprehension, as he sat tall and proud upon his rusty steed. “You expect three of us to fit on that?” I thought. I expect my face showed it too.
Balanced cautiously we set off at speed. Negotiating the dusty tracks that Dominican’s liked to call ‘roads’, the faint smell of fumes and melting sun-cream combined in my nostrils making me pleasantly heady. The sunshine brought a smile to my windswept face. Altogether, the bumpy ride was strangely soothing, and my eagerness to reach our destination mounted with every pedestrian we overtook. Finally the nasal whine of the bike faded like a fleeing mosquito and the hot rubber tyres crunched to a halt under the shade of a palm.
Now, I had never been one to say ‘no’. I had always liked a challenge. After all I had been scuba-diving in Borneo, tried wakeboarding in Dorset, jumped waterfalls in Thailand and white-water-rafted in Malaysia. No, I was no wimp. Hell, I’d even had two tattoos! But today was different. Today I would be surfing in the Caribbean. There was something challenging to me about this prospect. More pressure. Perhaps it was the mental image of the posters adorning Jeremy’s walls depicting ‘tunnels’ and ‘tubes’ and surfer ‘dudes’ that frightened me? “The waves at Encuentro reach six feet most days,” he’d excitedly told me. Or was it the fact that he was a trained kite-surf instructor? Or maybe it was just the memory of the first time I had tried to surf coming back to haunt me. Either way, the prospect was excitingly daunting.
“Everything happens very quickly in surfing, so you have to be prepared,” Jeremy said, out of nowhere. Emerging slowly from the safe of the cool shade, I crept toward the surf shack. The wooden hut roofed with reeds and surrounded by long-boards housed various lycra rash-vests and torn rubber reef-shoes. A young French guy approached me. His eyes were creased at the edges, making tiny white ravines in his weathered skin. “I’ll get you a board,” he said. So we began.
Being a mere 5”2, I was assigned a tiny board compared to the giants my buddies were given. Gripping the oversized board’s waxy surface under one arm, we approached the beach. “Remember it’s a strong reef break, so don’t detach the board from your ankle or it’ll smash,” Jeremy warned. Furrowing my brow in the face of the glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glistening blue ocean, I witnessed waves taller than I crash powerfully like shattering ice, tumbling one after the other. It was at this moment Jeremy decided to mention: “Encuentro beach is not the best place for a beginner really. The wave break is so quick” Brilliant. Now he tells me. Struggling awkwardly through the thick sand in my rubber booties, I could feel my arms warm and redden already. We had reached our surf spot.
No longer fear, this was sheer excitement. Splashing through the small torrents in the clearer waters, the rock beneath my feet surprised me. Golf ball sized purple urchins littered the ocean floor, making for a treacherous clamber– thus the unflattering footwear. At last I was out of my depth. Heaving myself onto the waxy board and lying on my front was easy enough. The struggle came with trying to catch a wave! Surfing involved a lot of waiting, I discovered. Breaking my neck to spot a ‘good wave’ whilst my skin was roasting and eyes stinging was painful. But I ventured on. Wave after wave came and went rhythmically; each time I fell the sea tasted saltier, the sun burnt stronger. But Jeremy urged me on, “It’s something you have to be patient with.”
I was ready to quit. But then, out of nowhere an almighty wave was surging temptingly, just metres behind me. I remember saying to myself “you can catch this one.” With all my strength I began to paddle, and as it neared I could feel the board forcing me up and forward. With a quick twist I positioned my feet one before the other and slowly rose. At that moment I knew I’d done it. The feeling of balancing on this powerful pull of nature, made my face beam with pride.
My run lasted until the wave crashed into nothingness, eradicating the means of my achievement. Trudging back onto the beach, wet hair in face, my friends cheered in celebration of my long awaited victory. Ellie: one, Ocean: nil! The rush of catching that wave was the highlight of my trip and beat white-water-rafting any day!
The door slammed heavily behind us; there was no turning back now. Our friends greeted us with a smile that I mirrored. I could sense their excitement. Pattering through the terracotta reception area the warm sea breeze enticed me. Then I saw our mode of transport. I sensed the driver didn’t share my apprehension, as he sat tall and proud upon his rusty steed. “You expect three of us to fit on that?” I thought. I expect my face showed it too.
Balanced cautiously we set off at speed. Negotiating the dusty tracks that Dominican’s liked to call ‘roads’, the faint smell of fumes and melting sun-cream combined in my nostrils making me pleasantly heady. The sunshine brought a smile to my windswept face. Altogether, the bumpy ride was strangely soothing, and my eagerness to reach our destination mounted with every pedestrian we overtook. Finally the nasal whine of the bike faded like a fleeing mosquito and the hot rubber tyres crunched to a halt under the shade of a palm.
Now, I had never been one to say ‘no’. I had always liked a challenge. After all I had been scuba-diving in Borneo, tried wakeboarding in Dorset, jumped waterfalls in Thailand and white-water-rafted in Malaysia. No, I was no wimp. Hell, I’d even had two tattoos! But today was different. Today I would be surfing in the Caribbean. There was something challenging to me about this prospect. More pressure. Perhaps it was the mental image of the posters adorning Jeremy’s walls depicting ‘tunnels’ and ‘tubes’ and surfer ‘dudes’ that frightened me? “The waves at Encuentro reach six feet most days,” he’d excitedly told me. Or was it the fact that he was a trained kite-surf instructor? Or maybe it was just the memory of the first time I had tried to surf coming back to haunt me. Either way, the prospect was excitingly daunting.
“Everything happens very quickly in surfing, so you have to be prepared,” Jeremy said, out of nowhere. Emerging slowly from the safe of the cool shade, I crept toward the surf shack. The wooden hut roofed with reeds and surrounded by long-boards housed various lycra rash-vests and torn rubber reef-shoes. A young French guy approached me. His eyes were creased at the edges, making tiny white ravines in his weathered skin. “I’ll get you a board,” he said. So we began.
Being a mere 5”2, I was assigned a tiny board compared to the giants my buddies were given. Gripping the oversized board’s waxy surface under one arm, we approached the beach. “Remember it’s a strong reef break, so don’t detach the board from your ankle or it’ll smash,” Jeremy warned. Furrowing my brow in the face of the glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glistening blue ocean, I witnessed waves taller than I crash powerfully like shattering ice, tumbling one after the other. It was at this moment Jeremy decided to mention: “Encuentro beach is not the best place for a beginner really. The wave break is so quick” Brilliant. Now he tells me. Struggling awkwardly through the thick sand in my rubber booties, I could feel my arms warm and redden already. We had reached our surf spot.
No longer fear, this was sheer excitement. Splashing through the small torrents in the clearer waters, the rock beneath my feet surprised me. Golf ball sized purple urchins littered the ocean floor, making for a treacherous clamber– thus the unflattering footwear. At last I was out of my depth. Heaving myself onto the waxy board and lying on my front was easy enough. The struggle came with trying to catch a wave! Surfing involved a lot of waiting, I discovered. Breaking my neck to spot a ‘good wave’ whilst my skin was roasting and eyes stinging was painful. But I ventured on. Wave after wave came and went rhythmically; each time I fell the sea tasted saltier, the sun burnt stronger. But Jeremy urged me on, “It’s something you have to be patient with.”
I was ready to quit. But then, out of nowhere an almighty wave was surging temptingly, just metres behind me. I remember saying to myself “you can catch this one.” With all my strength I began to paddle, and as it neared I could feel the board forcing me up and forward. With a quick twist I positioned my feet one before the other and slowly rose. At that moment I knew I’d done it. The feeling of balancing on this powerful pull of nature, made my face beam with pride.
My run lasted until the wave crashed into nothingness, eradicating the means of my achievement. Trudging back onto the beach, wet hair in face, my friends cheered in celebration of my long awaited victory. Ellie: one, Ocean: nil! The rush of catching that wave was the highlight of my trip and beat white-water-rafting any day!
Tuesday 22 January 2008
Sandbanks
If the thought of dwelling on busy Bournemouth beach on a sunny Saturday fills you with dread, Sandbanks beach in Poole offers a welcome alternative. A fifteen minute drive from Bournemouth town centre, Sandbanks is more ‘undiscovered paradise’ than ‘overcrowded Costa del-Dorset.’ As soon as you arrive, the atmosphere here is noticeably different to that at Bournemouth, and it becomes clear why a wealthier, more mature audience chooses Sandbanks as their weekend playground.
The blue flag-winning beach itself stretches noticeably wider than the sands at Bournemouth, creating a greater sense of space and tranquillity. In the height of summer FC Watersports Academy provides beach and sea entertainment in the form of kayak and pedalo hire, beach volleyball, banana boat rides, rib boat rides and wakeboarding tuition to boot! Yet despite the wide choice of activities in and around the water, those seeking a day of undisturbed sun-basking will not be disappointed either. Head a few metres down the beach and the hustle and bustle seems a million miles away. But a word of warning, on a windier days the beach has been known to kick up a mean sandstorm! Swimming into the flat expanse of sea that stems from the famous beach is very safe and guarded by lifeguards over the summer months.
Numerous beach-front food outlets and shops selling beach essentials such as sunscreen, buckets and spades, and children’s swimwear will relieve the more forgetful beach goer! Modern and stylish beach huts set further back from the beach may catch your eye, but unless you’ve got the odd ten thousand pounds a year to spare, a windshield and towel will have to make do! The cosmopolitan Jazz Café offers patrons indoor or outdoor seating, with evening music entertainment for those wishing to extend their stay.
Had enough of sand? Starting to resemble a blushing lobster? To escape the beach, simply cross the road and you are at Poole harbour, a marina-cum-watersports-haven. Beach babes and surfer dudes will appreciate FC Watersports’ shop, situated on the harbour side of the Quay. Downstairs, hardcore board and wind-riders can lust over the latest Cabrinha, O’Neil, JP, and Switchblade gear, whilst upstairs clothing by Animal, Roxy, Quiksilver and Reef is available for men and women. Next door, both Le Café, a friendly family-run bar and Café Shore, a bigger, stylish bar/restaurant offer tempting seafood and very reasonably priced beverages. Cosmopolitan-types will love the array of exotic cocktails offered in Café Shore.
All that sun, sea, sand, shopping and schmoozing can be exhausting. Take a break from it all and escape, by visiting Compton Acres. The famous gardens are just three quarters of a mile from Poole Harbour and offer fabulous views of the sea and Studland peninsular. Still not satisfied? Loch Fyne restaurant will tempt seafood-lovers whilst Canford Cliffs village provides even more choice of bars and restaurants.
Sandbanks offers an award winning beach, stylish bars, one of the best places for windsports in the country and impressive modern architecture. For a closer peek into the lives and homes of some of Sandbanks’ most exclusive residents, as well as catching a glimpse of the beautiful Brownsea Island, take a boat trip from Bournemouth Pier.
The blue flag-winning beach itself stretches noticeably wider than the sands at Bournemouth, creating a greater sense of space and tranquillity. In the height of summer FC Watersports Academy provides beach and sea entertainment in the form of kayak and pedalo hire, beach volleyball, banana boat rides, rib boat rides and wakeboarding tuition to boot! Yet despite the wide choice of activities in and around the water, those seeking a day of undisturbed sun-basking will not be disappointed either. Head a few metres down the beach and the hustle and bustle seems a million miles away. But a word of warning, on a windier days the beach has been known to kick up a mean sandstorm! Swimming into the flat expanse of sea that stems from the famous beach is very safe and guarded by lifeguards over the summer months.
Numerous beach-front food outlets and shops selling beach essentials such as sunscreen, buckets and spades, and children’s swimwear will relieve the more forgetful beach goer! Modern and stylish beach huts set further back from the beach may catch your eye, but unless you’ve got the odd ten thousand pounds a year to spare, a windshield and towel will have to make do! The cosmopolitan Jazz Café offers patrons indoor or outdoor seating, with evening music entertainment for those wishing to extend their stay.
Had enough of sand? Starting to resemble a blushing lobster? To escape the beach, simply cross the road and you are at Poole harbour, a marina-cum-watersports-haven. Beach babes and surfer dudes will appreciate FC Watersports’ shop, situated on the harbour side of the Quay. Downstairs, hardcore board and wind-riders can lust over the latest Cabrinha, O’Neil, JP, and Switchblade gear, whilst upstairs clothing by Animal, Roxy, Quiksilver and Reef is available for men and women. Next door, both Le Café, a friendly family-run bar and Café Shore, a bigger, stylish bar/restaurant offer tempting seafood and very reasonably priced beverages. Cosmopolitan-types will love the array of exotic cocktails offered in Café Shore.
All that sun, sea, sand, shopping and schmoozing can be exhausting. Take a break from it all and escape, by visiting Compton Acres. The famous gardens are just three quarters of a mile from Poole Harbour and offer fabulous views of the sea and Studland peninsular. Still not satisfied? Loch Fyne restaurant will tempt seafood-lovers whilst Canford Cliffs village provides even more choice of bars and restaurants.
Sandbanks offers an award winning beach, stylish bars, one of the best places for windsports in the country and impressive modern architecture. For a closer peek into the lives and homes of some of Sandbanks’ most exclusive residents, as well as catching a glimpse of the beautiful Brownsea Island, take a boat trip from Bournemouth Pier.
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