Saturday, 26 January 2013
What's your poison?
I am currently participating in a ‘dryathalon’.
One month without booze.
This is not the first time I have partaken in such an event. Last summer, In June I decided that enough was enough and my body needed a break. I’d been to long-weekend upon long-weekend of weddings (4 in total), birthday parties (my own included), close colleagues’ leaving parties and numerous mid-week impromptu dalliances.
Now don’t get me wrong, I loved the party season, but there’s only so many white wine headaches and fry-ups that one can take before one starts to feel the negative physical effects.
I made it to one month tee-total.
And I will do it again now.
Today is day 21 of the challenge and I must say that so far it’s been a relative doddle. That is not to say that I haven’t missed a large goblet of merlot to accompany my hearty winter dinners, nor have I found it easy to ignore the craving for an ice-cold beer to wash down my Friday night curry.
But on the whole, it’s been a breeze.
One cunning coping method that I have devised is to replicate the delicious sensation of a perfectly executed gin & tonic. A can of ice-cold Schweppes tonic water draped over ice with a slide of lime makes for the perfect substitute.
Some people may think of it as a weakness that I have to create a faux-alcoholic drink in order to get through the 4 weeks. And maybe it is weak. This is what got me thinking about the bigger picture.
My attitude towards alcohol has definitely changed over the last few years. Arguably, the fact that I work for a global alcohol company has made me more tuned into the wider debate about alcohol responsibility, the role of booze in our society & its culture-shaping properties.
I have found people’s reactions to my challenge most curious too. The majority of people in my social, work and family circle I have told have reacted with surprise and shock. They simply couldn’t seem to understand that I would want to avoid alcohol for a month, not for medical, political or religious reasons, but simply just ‘because’.
It got me thinking about motivation.
What makes a person do, (and equally NOT do), something?
I have never been a particularly self-disciplined person, having never been on a diet or lasted more than 6 months as a member of a gym. However, I know that I will complete this challenge because I WANT to. More than I WANT that delicious glass of Montepulciano.
I can be very stubborn when I want to be; mind over matter.
At the age of 26 I have been a part of the alcoholic sphere for twelve years. I’d say I’m very well versed in the negative effects of alcohol – the falls, the cuts & bruises, the banging headaches, the inevitable nausea, the wasted money, the shame of recollecting what you said/did the night before, the slow rebuilding of a reputation.
But let’s be clear – overwhelmingly, alcohol has formed a positive part in my life.
Wine; red in particular, in my view is one of life’s simplest pleasures. The warm, spicy sensation when the liquid hits your tongue. That moment when it creeps down into your legs and reaches your toes creating a relaxation crescendo. The taste, the aroma, even the sight of the velvety liquid swirling around a sparkling clean glass is enough to switch my mood from furious to blissful. (Naturally, this exercise should be accomanied by a slither of crumbly, mature cheddar cheese. Mmmmmm).
And what about Champagne? It doesn’t even have to be real Champagne – I’m talking Cava, Prosecco – those beautiful little gaseous spheres of giggly-gleeful pleasure!
Yes alcohol can be an evil; but it is also a source of pure pleasure for many.
So coming back to my original point, wouldn’t you say it’s OK that I want to ‘fake’ the stimuli of a ‘pretend G&T’, simply because of the emotional pleasure it brings me to associate with the feelings of the real thing?
Surely, it’s as healthy (mentally at least) as a person who goes to the gym religiously, purely because of the endorphin-rush they feel at the end of a good work out?
I feel strongly that people fall into two categories – those whose lives are led by their body and those whose lives are led by their mind.
So what do you think? Why has alcohol become such an integral part of adult life, so much so that when someone chooses not to participate, it is considered unusual?
We call it a poison, but maybe it’s more of a placebo. What we make of alcohol and its effects on our senses is far more open to interpretation that perhaps we first thought.
Monday, 16 July 2012
Things that get my goat - part 1
In my much anticipated comeback, (ok no one anticipated it at all and as far as the blogosphere is concerned I am as significant as that snail you accidentally trod on last week), I have decided to take to the web again to vent my angsty London-induced/commuter/wrong-side-of-25-er views again! Rejoice!
In previous episodes I have tickled you with my hilarious (sure) and oh-so-insightful musings on stupid sayings (the "phrases that get my goat" series, or PTGMG if you will).
Now I think it's time we focused on TTGMG, the things that get my goat, rather than just the phrases, as after all there are so many of them!
Here goes...
Things That Get My Goat
1. T F f***ing L
I find it most charming how almost every time I use my Oyster card to travel from my nearest station to Waterloo, it charges me double what it should, in what I can only assume is some mother-of-all-cock-ups of supposedly "labour saving" technology. The worst part is that I can't be arsed to formally complain or queue up to speak to some disinterested ticket-monkey therefore they have won! If there's on thing you need to know about me, Boris, it's that I don't like losing... Beware you mop-headed buffoon!
2. The curse of the deafblind commuter
Alert the press! Call the World Health Organisation! A virus is spreading amongst the gaggle of commuters who make the daily pilgrimage to the South East's answer to industrial Mecca, Woking. It seems that the main symptoms of said virus are blindness to other passengers and their need to sit, deafness to your pleas of "excuse me" and "can I sit down?", and a strange and unwholesome odour akin to 2 parts Joop, one part sweat, one part misery. The most severely affected victims have adopted a zombie-like state and follow a ritualistic routine of placing their laptop/coat/cello on the seat next to the window and then they park themselves in the aisle seat. Most considerate. Experience has taught me that the best way to deal with one of the infected specimens is to greet them with a beaming smile (they don't know what's hit them), and a settling-down-into-your-favourite-arm-chair bum wiggle and elbow nudge into their rib cage. Works a treat!
3. The call of nature
In all seriousness, I find needing to go to the loo a massive inconvenience. Especially when I'm at work. I have started to adopt a method whereby I literally challenge myself to complete just a few more lines on the spreadsheet, or read two more emails before having to force myself up to go and relieve myself. It's partly down to the bloody door entry system (getting access to our office in the morning is like Mission Impossible set during the 2012 Olympic Games after a severe terrorist threat). See also: http://eloiseparker-picken.blogspot.co.uk/2009/08/c-m-why-k.html?m=1 with reference to work related door issues. Ironically I play a similar sort of game when it comes to refilling my glass of water. Despite having a raspy tongue and dry throat, I often venture on, taking on the world one red flag at a time.
That's all for now folks, but don't worry, there'll be more soon, after all I am massively intolerant to most things.
TTFN, from TTGMG
In previous episodes I have tickled you with my hilarious (sure) and oh-so-insightful musings on stupid sayings (the "phrases that get my goat" series, or PTGMG if you will).
Now I think it's time we focused on TTGMG, the things that get my goat, rather than just the phrases, as after all there are so many of them!
Here goes...
Things That Get My Goat
1. T F f***ing L
I find it most charming how almost every time I use my Oyster card to travel from my nearest station to Waterloo, it charges me double what it should, in what I can only assume is some mother-of-all-cock-ups of supposedly "labour saving" technology. The worst part is that I can't be arsed to formally complain or queue up to speak to some disinterested ticket-monkey therefore they have won! If there's on thing you need to know about me, Boris, it's that I don't like losing... Beware you mop-headed buffoon!
2. The curse of the deafblind commuter
Alert the press! Call the World Health Organisation! A virus is spreading amongst the gaggle of commuters who make the daily pilgrimage to the South East's answer to industrial Mecca, Woking. It seems that the main symptoms of said virus are blindness to other passengers and their need to sit, deafness to your pleas of "excuse me" and "can I sit down?", and a strange and unwholesome odour akin to 2 parts Joop, one part sweat, one part misery. The most severely affected victims have adopted a zombie-like state and follow a ritualistic routine of placing their laptop/coat/cello on the seat next to the window and then they park themselves in the aisle seat. Most considerate. Experience has taught me that the best way to deal with one of the infected specimens is to greet them with a beaming smile (they don't know what's hit them), and a settling-down-into-your-favourite-arm-chair bum wiggle and elbow nudge into their rib cage. Works a treat!
3. The call of nature
In all seriousness, I find needing to go to the loo a massive inconvenience. Especially when I'm at work. I have started to adopt a method whereby I literally challenge myself to complete just a few more lines on the spreadsheet, or read two more emails before having to force myself up to go and relieve myself. It's partly down to the bloody door entry system (getting access to our office in the morning is like Mission Impossible set during the 2012 Olympic Games after a severe terrorist threat). See also: http://eloiseparker-picken.blogspot.co.uk/2009/08/c-m-why-k.html?m=1 with reference to work related door issues. Ironically I play a similar sort of game when it comes to refilling my glass of water. Despite having a raspy tongue and dry throat, I often venture on, taking on the world one red flag at a time.
That's all for now folks, but don't worry, there'll be more soon, after all I am massively intolerant to most things.
TTFN, from TTGMG
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Friday, 17 September 2010
Phrases that get my goat - part 4
1. "Pacifically".
Now I know some people do struggle with pronunciation, like those speakers of our fair language whose mother tongue is not English, and therefore their inability to pronounce certain tongue-twisters without struggling, resulting in often inadvertently hilarious double-entendres, is excusable.
And then there are those who were born and raised to speak the English language and have never been exposed to the confusing scenario of two or more languages within their daily lives. Except, perhaps for two weeks of the year when holidaying on the continent, in the traditional Brit abroad cliché - "Me no speaka Espan-yol, amigo."
It is those people who fall into the latter category who confuse and irritate me the most upon uttering the phrase 'Pacifically' when what they mean to say is 'specifically'.
I can just about see how one could accidentally splutter the oceanic version of the original lexicon, when drunk for example. Or aged two.
But when I hear grown men and women, in casual conversation say 'can you be a bit more Pacific please?' I can't help but cringe and squirm.
I just want to yell: "It is not possible to BE Pacific, considering that the Pacific is A. an ocean (the largest on earth nonetheless), therefore a noun and B. an adjective to describe a person with a peaceful nature, so in the latter sense yes it is possible to be pacific but not in the context in which you are using it!"
However, I fear that this strategy would not be well received, nor fully understood by the dullard who said it in the first place.
2. Veranda/Verdana
I blame Bill Gates for this easy slip-up. For those unobservant word processors out there - the Word font is called Verdana, not Veranda, like the outside porch we all know and love. God knows why, let alone what a Verdana is or means!
3. "At the end of the day".
Raaaarrrgh!!! I literally do not understand why Frank Lampard, and most other Premiership footballers for that matter, can't get through the day without using this beaut as a prefix to every sentence.
WAG to footballer, upon waking up in the morning: "Would you like your protein shake now dear?"
Footballer to WAG: "At the end of the day, it's a bit early."
WAG to footballer: "So do you want it now or later then?"
Even a non-WAG would be confused!
4. "It's just one thing after another".
No shit Sherlock! It's also one thing before another, depending on how you look at it, bearing in mind that life's events usually happen sequentially, thanks to a certain little thing we rely on called 'time'.
Now I know some people do struggle with pronunciation, like those speakers of our fair language whose mother tongue is not English, and therefore their inability to pronounce certain tongue-twisters without struggling, resulting in often inadvertently hilarious double-entendres, is excusable.
And then there are those who were born and raised to speak the English language and have never been exposed to the confusing scenario of two or more languages within their daily lives. Except, perhaps for two weeks of the year when holidaying on the continent, in the traditional Brit abroad cliché - "Me no speaka Espan-yol, amigo."
It is those people who fall into the latter category who confuse and irritate me the most upon uttering the phrase 'Pacifically' when what they mean to say is 'specifically'.
I can just about see how one could accidentally splutter the oceanic version of the original lexicon, when drunk for example. Or aged two.
But when I hear grown men and women, in casual conversation say 'can you be a bit more Pacific please?' I can't help but cringe and squirm.
I just want to yell: "It is not possible to BE Pacific, considering that the Pacific is A. an ocean (the largest on earth nonetheless), therefore a noun and B. an adjective to describe a person with a peaceful nature, so in the latter sense yes it is possible to be pacific but not in the context in which you are using it!"
However, I fear that this strategy would not be well received, nor fully understood by the dullard who said it in the first place.
2. Veranda/Verdana
I blame Bill Gates for this easy slip-up. For those unobservant word processors out there - the Word font is called Verdana, not Veranda, like the outside porch we all know and love. God knows why, let alone what a Verdana is or means!
3. "At the end of the day".
Raaaarrrgh!!! I literally do not understand why Frank Lampard, and most other Premiership footballers for that matter, can't get through the day without using this beaut as a prefix to every sentence.
WAG to footballer, upon waking up in the morning: "Would you like your protein shake now dear?"
Footballer to WAG: "At the end of the day, it's a bit early."
WAG to footballer: "So do you want it now or later then?"
Even a non-WAG would be confused!
4. "It's just one thing after another".
No shit Sherlock! It's also one thing before another, depending on how you look at it, bearing in mind that life's events usually happen sequentially, thanks to a certain little thing we rely on called 'time'.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Life Lessons - Number 2 - Every Day's A School Day
It may be the summer holidays for the school kids, (what a genius idea by the way), but that doesn't mean the learning has to stop. It's amazing just how much there is to learn still, as a degree-level-educated twenty four year old. And I don't just mean the boring stuff, like calculating how it's humanly possibly that after five years of steady decline, ones car insurance premium inexplicable rises. Or discovering how to switch the 'keypad lock' funtion off your new BlackBerry without realising how you'd put it on in the first place.
This week alone, (bearing in mind it's merely Wednesday), I have already learned the following useful life lessons:
1. On the whole, a bath is never, ever as good as you think or hope it's going to be. They are usually shortlived occasions spent trying to contort yourself into an unasethicly shaped device, (ironic really considering it's design purpose should be to contain the human form in a spacious and comfortable fashion). Inevitably, the water is either too hot or too cold and if the former then it turns tepid too quickly and the worst part of the unexpected ordeal is the inability to lie down for a proper soak, without a stray limb protruding out in a corpse like fashion.
2. Both The Weakest Link and Eggheads use the same quiz questions as selected from a shared database... FACT.
3. The ranting lady on the bus who has spent the past week complaining about the changes to the timetable should be listened to with the same level of respect and awe that a novice apprentice would their mentor. She is right, the changes are unreasonable and will result in me having to change my entire morning routine. Had she not been so vocal about her discontent, I would have been none the wiser and probably stood like a lemon waiting for a non-existent bus for at least three mornings before bothering to seek an explanation. Thank God for loudmouths. And eavesdropping.
4. It take three days, three hours and 49 minutes to reach the moon. I Googled it, so there!
5. Much like a bath, a meal at Nandos will almost invariably disappoint and bloat simultaneously.
6. Carrying an umbrella around in August is not daft, it is adviseable. Remember, we are in England.
Who knows what nuggets of knowledge and trivia the next few days will bring!
Remember, life may be mundane sometimes, (alright a lot of the time), but there's always an opportunity to broaden the mind through imagining and philosophising wherever you may be and whatever you may be (or should be) doing.
For now, that is all. 'Til next time, that's it from me, Simpleton McGee.
This week alone, (bearing in mind it's merely Wednesday), I have already learned the following useful life lessons:
1. On the whole, a bath is never, ever as good as you think or hope it's going to be. They are usually shortlived occasions spent trying to contort yourself into an unasethicly shaped device, (ironic really considering it's design purpose should be to contain the human form in a spacious and comfortable fashion). Inevitably, the water is either too hot or too cold and if the former then it turns tepid too quickly and the worst part of the unexpected ordeal is the inability to lie down for a proper soak, without a stray limb protruding out in a corpse like fashion.
2. Both The Weakest Link and Eggheads use the same quiz questions as selected from a shared database... FACT.
3. The ranting lady on the bus who has spent the past week complaining about the changes to the timetable should be listened to with the same level of respect and awe that a novice apprentice would their mentor. She is right, the changes are unreasonable and will result in me having to change my entire morning routine. Had she not been so vocal about her discontent, I would have been none the wiser and probably stood like a lemon waiting for a non-existent bus for at least three mornings before bothering to seek an explanation. Thank God for loudmouths. And eavesdropping.
4. It take three days, three hours and 49 minutes to reach the moon. I Googled it, so there!
5. Much like a bath, a meal at Nandos will almost invariably disappoint and bloat simultaneously.
6. Carrying an umbrella around in August is not daft, it is adviseable. Remember, we are in England.
Who knows what nuggets of knowledge and trivia the next few days will bring!
Remember, life may be mundane sometimes, (alright a lot of the time), but there's always an opportunity to broaden the mind through imagining and philosophising wherever you may be and whatever you may be (or should be) doing.
For now, that is all. 'Til next time, that's it from me, Simpleton McGee.
Thursday, 12 August 2010
"The Game"
WARNING! Feminist Rant alert!
I was listening to the radio this morning and a bloke in his early twenties called in to tell the presenter about a book he'd been given by a strange loner in his local boozer. Alarm bells are already ringing. Never trust the weirdo that sits in the corner of the pub and has done every day of his adult life! The book he was referring to was "The Game" by Neil Strauss. I'd heard about this 'Bible' from some of the (how do I put this politely...?) more promiscuous guys who lived in halls with a course mate of mine at uni and I was less than unimpressed with the concept back then. Four years of life experience and a healthy dose of adulthood-induced-grumpiness later and I can safely say that my tolerance for such things has diminished into non-existence.
The premise of the book, so I gather, is a how-to guide for useless/desperate men to pick up women. Or as the author himself puts it: "penetrating the secret society of pickup artists".
Wow. I'm already pissed off.
Where do I start?!
Firstly, what decade is it?! I'm fairly certain that 'picking up' women in bars, (sorry, I can't bring myself to type it without the inverted commas, it's such a nauseating concept), should have died in the 1980's along with smoking cigars at the office and mild sexual harassment of the secretary being an acceptable part of the daily routine. Also - where does this idea of 'artistry' come into it? How is there anything commendable/admirable/creative about following some lecherous creep's advice. If you didn't have the brains to come up with it yourself it's not art! (That's the only compliment Neil Strauss will be getting from moi).
Don't get me wrong, of course I'm not naive enough to think that this sort of thing doesn't happen every weekend in bars, pubs and clubs across the world. It's more the connotation of the phrase 'picking up' that bothers me. It implies such ease and yet the irony is that a lot of these sleazy men, which myself and my female allies have more than likely encountered first hand, are so inadequate at getting female attention/appreciation/respect that they turn to self-help books like "The Game"!
My second reaction is shock at the idea that so many men would actually buy into this bullshit about game-playing and rules when it comes to dating. Isn't that all a little bit year nine? Call me old-fashioned, but I've never been one for waiting a certain amount of time before texting back or any of that other trickery!
I think another big problem is the fact that in creating this 'guide' to what women will (supposedly) like (or at the very least fall for) when first meeting a prospective partner, is that it creates a false sense of panic in the minds of probably half-decent men who perhaps aren't so lucky with the ladies and therefore it tricks them into believing that they simply need this book in order to be attractive to the opposite sex. Oh God - now I'm getting all Marxist on your asses! I can't honestly remember the last time I was bowled off my feet upon seeing some chump down the local wearing a Sombrero. (Yes 'peacocking', I.E. making yourself stand out from the crowd in some obvious way in order to differentiate yourself from the other men in the room was an actual and serious suggestion in this book!)
Problemo numero trois - whatever happened to being yourself? Ah yes - the big problem arises here and this is probably where Neil Strauss was clever and spotted a gap in the market. (OK so I complimented him again, but no more, I promise!) What if you actually are just a boring f*** with nothing to offer a lady? You'd have been screwed (and only metaphorically of course) when it came to women... until now! Neil saves the day! Again my inner-cynic has reared its outspoken head. Why bother becoming a more interesting/friendly/genuine/fun/confident person when you can just lie and blag your way into women's bedrooms?! Ah right... I now see exactly why the latter is a more attractive option, it's simply easier and much less effort to go out there and better yourself than to pretend to be someone/something you're not. What a sad state of affairs...
So my advice to all the hapless men out there looking for love (or lust as is more likely to be the case) is to be yourself. Yes I know, how very boring and cliched of me... But if it was the other way round, wouldn't you rather know that the nice girl you were chatting to at the bar last night actually quite fancied you and wasn't just having a laugh and using you as a pawn in a game that she and her mates would have a great laugh about the next day?
If you still can't seem to win the affections of the ladies that way, then my only other suggestion would be plastic surgery and a personality transplant.
Until next time...!
I was listening to the radio this morning and a bloke in his early twenties called in to tell the presenter about a book he'd been given by a strange loner in his local boozer. Alarm bells are already ringing. Never trust the weirdo that sits in the corner of the pub and has done every day of his adult life! The book he was referring to was "The Game" by Neil Strauss. I'd heard about this 'Bible' from some of the (how do I put this politely...?) more promiscuous guys who lived in halls with a course mate of mine at uni and I was less than unimpressed with the concept back then. Four years of life experience and a healthy dose of adulthood-induced-grumpiness later and I can safely say that my tolerance for such things has diminished into non-existence.
The premise of the book, so I gather, is a how-to guide for useless/desperate men to pick up women. Or as the author himself puts it: "penetrating the secret society of pickup artists".
Wow. I'm already pissed off.
Where do I start?!
Firstly, what decade is it?! I'm fairly certain that 'picking up' women in bars, (sorry, I can't bring myself to type it without the inverted commas, it's such a nauseating concept), should have died in the 1980's along with smoking cigars at the office and mild sexual harassment of the secretary being an acceptable part of the daily routine. Also - where does this idea of 'artistry' come into it? How is there anything commendable/admirable/creative about following some lecherous creep's advice. If you didn't have the brains to come up with it yourself it's not art! (That's the only compliment Neil Strauss will be getting from moi).
Don't get me wrong, of course I'm not naive enough to think that this sort of thing doesn't happen every weekend in bars, pubs and clubs across the world. It's more the connotation of the phrase 'picking up' that bothers me. It implies such ease and yet the irony is that a lot of these sleazy men, which myself and my female allies have more than likely encountered first hand, are so inadequate at getting female attention/appreciation/respect that they turn to self-help books like "The Game"!
My second reaction is shock at the idea that so many men would actually buy into this bullshit about game-playing and rules when it comes to dating. Isn't that all a little bit year nine? Call me old-fashioned, but I've never been one for waiting a certain amount of time before texting back or any of that other trickery!
I think another big problem is the fact that in creating this 'guide' to what women will (supposedly) like (or at the very least fall for) when first meeting a prospective partner, is that it creates a false sense of panic in the minds of probably half-decent men who perhaps aren't so lucky with the ladies and therefore it tricks them into believing that they simply need this book in order to be attractive to the opposite sex. Oh God - now I'm getting all Marxist on your asses! I can't honestly remember the last time I was bowled off my feet upon seeing some chump down the local wearing a Sombrero. (Yes 'peacocking', I.E. making yourself stand out from the crowd in some obvious way in order to differentiate yourself from the other men in the room was an actual and serious suggestion in this book!)
Problemo numero trois - whatever happened to being yourself? Ah yes - the big problem arises here and this is probably where Neil Strauss was clever and spotted a gap in the market. (OK so I complimented him again, but no more, I promise!) What if you actually are just a boring f*** with nothing to offer a lady? You'd have been screwed (and only metaphorically of course) when it came to women... until now! Neil saves the day! Again my inner-cynic has reared its outspoken head. Why bother becoming a more interesting/friendly/genuine/fun/confident person when you can just lie and blag your way into women's bedrooms?! Ah right... I now see exactly why the latter is a more attractive option, it's simply easier and much less effort to go out there and better yourself than to pretend to be someone/something you're not. What a sad state of affairs...
So my advice to all the hapless men out there looking for love (or lust as is more likely to be the case) is to be yourself. Yes I know, how very boring and cliched of me... But if it was the other way round, wouldn't you rather know that the nice girl you were chatting to at the bar last night actually quite fancied you and wasn't just having a laugh and using you as a pawn in a game that she and her mates would have a great laugh about the next day?
If you still can't seem to win the affections of the ladies that way, then my only other suggestion would be plastic surgery and a personality transplant.
Until next time...!
Phrases that get my goat - part 3
"Annual Leave" - Again, this is one of those pesky phrases that only seems to crop up in a work environment. Why do emploeyrs insist on giving such a simple concept such a longwinded name?! It sounds so stuffy and official that it almost connotes images of being given leave from military service! Wouldn't 'Holiday' cover it suffciently?! It just seems so unnatural! I'd be very surprised if you heard someone saying 'I'm off to Spain for my annual leave this year'. Presumably the scoundrel responsible for this irritating label was a David Brent-esque smart arse who wanted to make thier pathetic career seem more important than was.
"Bugbear" - Another ironic one... Seriously what is the etymology of this one?! Was an innocent bear being irritated by an insect just as a budding linguist happened to pass by and observe the unusual situation, when in a flash of brilliance he decided to coin the phrase? I can't think of a more logical explanation.
"Bugbear" - Another ironic one... Seriously what is the etymology of this one?! Was an innocent bear being irritated by an insect just as a budding linguist happened to pass by and observe the unusual situation, when in a flash of brilliance he decided to coin the phrase? I can't think of a more logical explanation.
Saturday, 7 August 2010
Phrases that get my goat - part 2
1. "Smart casual" - I have just received an email confirmation for an interview for a new job. The dress code that it has been specified that I should wear is the infamous "smart casual". I'm sorry, I must have missed something along the way... Is that not an oxymoronic specification?! How can one possibly be smart and yet casual simultaneously? It's equivalent to asking someone to dress "slutty modest" or "snow beachwear". Maybe I'll just wear a tophat and dungarees and hope that ticks the boxes! I'm sure that would guaruntee me the job!
2. "I'm not being funny" - No, quite clearly you are not. I am not laughing, you have not told and amusing anecdote, so why would you prefix an exclamation with this phrase when inherently it's quite clear that what you're about to say is not funny in any way, shape or form.
3. "Many thanks, kind regards" - I blame the invention of email for this one! Does anyone in their right mind who doesn't originate from a 1960's etiquette class/is a robotic Stepford wife actually verbally utter this phrase?!
2. "I'm not being funny" - No, quite clearly you are not. I am not laughing, you have not told and amusing anecdote, so why would you prefix an exclamation with this phrase when inherently it's quite clear that what you're about to say is not funny in any way, shape or form.
3. "Many thanks, kind regards" - I blame the invention of email for this one! Does anyone in their right mind who doesn't originate from a 1960's etiquette class/is a robotic Stepford wife actually verbally utter this phrase?!
Friday, 6 August 2010
Life Lessons – Number 1: Follow Your Gut
This is familiar. It’s 10:44am on a Friday and I’m already bored, sat at my laptop, still wearing my pyjamas and wondering where it all went wrong. Again. Yep, it’s that old familiar friend we like to call ‘unemployment’. Except this time I can’t complain too much, as the predicament I find myself in is self-inflicted.
Six weeks ago I thought I’d hit the jackpot big-time. Having landed my ‘Dream Job’ at a top-ten creative Ad Agency in London my vision of moving to the Big Smoke and becoming an uber-successful, respected media-type was finally coming to fruition, 2 ½ years after graduating.
Sadly things did not go the way I had hoped.
I will not go too far into the gory details, but let’s just say sometimes the idea of something is a far cry from the reality of it. Ever seen ‘The Devil wears Prada’?!
From day one the niggling doubts had already surfaced and began to gnaw away inside my head. Why was I still at the office at 7pm without having taken a lunch break on my first day? Was this ‘normal’?! By day three there were the first tears and an HR intervention. By the weekend the paranoid nightmares had begun (“Did I send the client that urgent document?”, “OhMyGod, you didn’t organise that meeting with the MD...or did you...?”, “Shit, tomorrow is the international conference call and I have no idea what to say!” etc...)
Exhaustion had set in by day five and there were more tears as I gradually realised that everything I thought I had wanted in a job was wrong. But then things seemed to get better... but not for long.
As with most things, it is always advisable to follow your gut instinct. I knew from the start that things weren’t right and yet I was so stubborn and determined to make it work out that I drove myself into the ground, until denial was simply not enough to cover the cracks anymore.
By the fourth week I had a panic attack on the tube on the way in to work – purely through stress and anxiety at the mere prospect of even having to go in. That night I cried and cried until I fell asleep – again purely through the worry of what to do – I couldn’t possibly throw this opportunity away and yet I couldn’t possibly stay. The next day after some firm words from my mum, boyfriend and friends I plucked up the courage to voice my feelings – this just was not working out the way I had hoped and through the pressure I was putting on myself my anxiety had increased tenfold.
The next day I handed my notice in – but with the promise of having a discussion with the Client Partner (my most senior manager) upon his return from holiday on the Monday about changing the role in an attempt to make me stay. Of course this was hugely flattering and yet it made my decision even harder for me. How could I possibly leave now?
The rest of the week was tearful and I had become a total recluse, instead of holding my head high as I walked to the station I dragged my feet, eyes facing the ground. I stopped wearing mascara because I knew that there would inevitably be tears. I didn’t want to eat or talk to any of my friends – just wanted to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world. All this over a job!
This probably sounds ridiculous to some of you – and I realise that in the great scale of things this was a minor glitch on an otherwise relatively clean sheet. And yet this work drama became all-consuming – I was at the office for 10 hours a day, commuting an hour and quarter either side of that, going straight to bed and having nightmares only to get up and do it all again the next day.
I finally summoned the courage to email my boss and say ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ on another tearful Saturday where it had simply gone too far and I knew that something had to be done. I immediately felt rejuvenated and relived. Simply by having taken control of the situation my whole outlook had changed – other jobs would come along and the bottom line was about happiness, not slaving away and struggling for years doing something detestable.
My decision was validated as I handed over to my replacement – as she clutched her face between her hands with that oh-so-familiar look of utter terror and imminent freaking out. For the first time in almost 5 ½ weeks I felt happy and my normal self as I walked out of the doors and didn’t look back.
So... back to the unemployed part... It’s not so bad – I already have an interview for a temporary role which should tide me over while I decide exactly what I want in a job and where I want to be. Recent events have shown me that it’s not about the name of the company you work for, nor the salary, nor the location that makes a job great. It’s about being comfortable, enjoying the work and actually wanting to be there.
The moral of the story? Follow your instincts and count your blessings – there is always someone who is far worse off than you. Life’s a bitch and whether it’s in your job, your relationships or your family life there are always going to be tough times so make the best of the hand you’re dealt with and always, always go with what feels right for you.
(I’d give Jerry Springer a run for his money!)
Over and out.
Six weeks ago I thought I’d hit the jackpot big-time. Having landed my ‘Dream Job’ at a top-ten creative Ad Agency in London my vision of moving to the Big Smoke and becoming an uber-successful, respected media-type was finally coming to fruition, 2 ½ years after graduating.
Sadly things did not go the way I had hoped.
I will not go too far into the gory details, but let’s just say sometimes the idea of something is a far cry from the reality of it. Ever seen ‘The Devil wears Prada’?!
From day one the niggling doubts had already surfaced and began to gnaw away inside my head. Why was I still at the office at 7pm without having taken a lunch break on my first day? Was this ‘normal’?! By day three there were the first tears and an HR intervention. By the weekend the paranoid nightmares had begun (“Did I send the client that urgent document?”, “OhMyGod, you didn’t organise that meeting with the MD...or did you...?”, “Shit, tomorrow is the international conference call and I have no idea what to say!” etc...)
Exhaustion had set in by day five and there were more tears as I gradually realised that everything I thought I had wanted in a job was wrong. But then things seemed to get better... but not for long.
As with most things, it is always advisable to follow your gut instinct. I knew from the start that things weren’t right and yet I was so stubborn and determined to make it work out that I drove myself into the ground, until denial was simply not enough to cover the cracks anymore.
By the fourth week I had a panic attack on the tube on the way in to work – purely through stress and anxiety at the mere prospect of even having to go in. That night I cried and cried until I fell asleep – again purely through the worry of what to do – I couldn’t possibly throw this opportunity away and yet I couldn’t possibly stay. The next day after some firm words from my mum, boyfriend and friends I plucked up the courage to voice my feelings – this just was not working out the way I had hoped and through the pressure I was putting on myself my anxiety had increased tenfold.
The next day I handed my notice in – but with the promise of having a discussion with the Client Partner (my most senior manager) upon his return from holiday on the Monday about changing the role in an attempt to make me stay. Of course this was hugely flattering and yet it made my decision even harder for me. How could I possibly leave now?
The rest of the week was tearful and I had become a total recluse, instead of holding my head high as I walked to the station I dragged my feet, eyes facing the ground. I stopped wearing mascara because I knew that there would inevitably be tears. I didn’t want to eat or talk to any of my friends – just wanted to curl into a ball and ignore the rest of the world. All this over a job!
This probably sounds ridiculous to some of you – and I realise that in the great scale of things this was a minor glitch on an otherwise relatively clean sheet. And yet this work drama became all-consuming – I was at the office for 10 hours a day, commuting an hour and quarter either side of that, going straight to bed and having nightmares only to get up and do it all again the next day.
I finally summoned the courage to email my boss and say ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ on another tearful Saturday where it had simply gone too far and I knew that something had to be done. I immediately felt rejuvenated and relived. Simply by having taken control of the situation my whole outlook had changed – other jobs would come along and the bottom line was about happiness, not slaving away and struggling for years doing something detestable.
My decision was validated as I handed over to my replacement – as she clutched her face between her hands with that oh-so-familiar look of utter terror and imminent freaking out. For the first time in almost 5 ½ weeks I felt happy and my normal self as I walked out of the doors and didn’t look back.
So... back to the unemployed part... It’s not so bad – I already have an interview for a temporary role which should tide me over while I decide exactly what I want in a job and where I want to be. Recent events have shown me that it’s not about the name of the company you work for, nor the salary, nor the location that makes a job great. It’s about being comfortable, enjoying the work and actually wanting to be there.
The moral of the story? Follow your instincts and count your blessings – there is always someone who is far worse off than you. Life’s a bitch and whether it’s in your job, your relationships or your family life there are always going to be tough times so make the best of the hand you’re dealt with and always, always go with what feels right for you.
(I’d give Jerry Springer a run for his money!)
Over and out.
Monday, 9 February 2009
We never Learn, Part Deux
It happened again. And, yes we should have known better. But apparently the Pavlovian dog response doesn’t apply to right-thinking humans. If I were to refer you to the post “We Never Learn” you’ll begin to see where I’m going with this.
So, picture the scene. It’s a cold evening in late January and in order to celebrate payday as well as the end of this dismal month, my friends and I decided (and I quote) “to go somewhere different for once”. How foolish of us. A few other local towns were cautiously tossed into the hat as potential destinations for our evening of silliness, Sambucca and dancing. But a decision on the location had not been reached even as I drove to our host’s house to get my ‘glam’ on for the night ahead. Inevitably, after a delicious Korma dinner, laziness (undeniably my biggest vice) got the better of us and we decided to take it back to the old school, (yep you guessed it), Guildford again.
Upon arriving at Wetherspoons, (which has actually been a ‘Lloyds’ now for at least three years, but I refuse to acknowledge this change) we were slightly mortified to find ourselves in the (how do I put this euphemistically?) bracket of the minority, “mature demographic”. In other words, the rest of the clientele resembled nursery children who’d found their mother’s make collections and gone wild! Some of the people were so infant-like, that to say that we felt like we were babysitting wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Nevertheless, we purchased our pitchers of luminous-coloured cocktails (healthy) and plonked ourselves down on a battered old sofa in a quiet(ish) corner.
A mere ten minutes later a boy (to describe him as a ‘man’ would be an outright lie) with a face so youthful I almost congratulated him for discovering the elixir of eternal life, invited himself to sit with us. “Here we go”, I thought. Emma was his victim of choice. Unimpressed within milliseconds, Emma visibly geared herself up to tell him where to go, when he whipped out a pack of cards. We all sighed simultaneously and attempted to get on with the conversation we were having before being rudely interrupted. However, Babyface was apparently having none of this. “Do you believe in Magic?” he probed in Em’s direction. “UUUUGH! That has got to be the worst ‘line’ I have EVER heard” she retorted.
Eventually, after a few pitiful attempts at impressing us the penny dropped and he gave up. As he rose to locate his next unsuspecting victim he uttered: “It was nice talking to you, even though you were incredibly rude!” Of course! How rude of us to cut to the chase (saving him the effort of continuing to waste his breath) and inform him that we weren’t in the slightest bit interested in his “trick”. How terribly inconsiderate of us, to want to continue our private conversation without the irritation of having a pre-pubescent dullard giving us earache. My mistake.
Shortly after this episode we collectively decided it was probably for the best to let the kiddies play together with their own kind, and we departed.
As we clattered up the piss-strewn high street in our tottering heels, an icy wind bit at our ankles whilst we collectively shivered/winced. “Why are we here?” I imagined was the thought running through all of our minds. Nevertheless, onwards and upwards. As we approached our next destination a flurry of gleaming yellow jackets materialised in front of us and the noise of a crowd grew louder. Now normally, an intelligent bunch of 22 year old girls would have alarm bells that should begin to ring when faced with ten police officers and bouncers outside the establishment that you intend on entering at 10.30 at night. Nope, not us. So in we went.
One thing I did manage to remember from the last time we entered this dungeon of doom was to avoid the dreaded VK at all costs, or pay the price of forever losing your tastebuds. Instead of purchasing overpriced bottled-sugar sweat we headed for the loos (an ancient female ritual whose sanctity must not be taken lightly.)
Amongst the clientele dans le WC were the obligatory gaggle of round-bellied, ample bosomed, Ann-Summers-outfit-clad hen do party. One of them was crying. Already. Another sat in a pile on the floor. I glanced down to mind where I was stepping, haphazardly avoiding the girl whom had chosen to land in a heap right in my path, and as I entered a cubicle I came across a pile of what could only be described as green ectoplasm. Unfortunately, I hasten to add that I doubted highly that anyone within a fifty mile radius of this dive would have the intellectual capacity to conjure up any form of chemical or biological substance, unless it came from within their bowel. Which this putrid little blob evidently had done. I decided my bladder could wait, so we made our way to the dancefloor.
After a good twenty minutes of shoving, elbowing and eventually finding a suitable pervert-free spot to dance we settled into our groove and started letting our hair down. After about bout half an hour of vigorous boogie-ing I went to get some water from the bar. As I returned to the group, I found them giggling hysterically and pointing. It turns out, while I’d been gone a gangly, pock-faced youth had started grinding on innocent little Charlotte, who obviously had not taken great delight in this act. When she turned to shoo him away apparently he had taken the rejection badly and spat the word “virgins!” at the girls before stomping off in a hissy fit. Possibly the best and simultaneously worst insult I have EVER heard!
By this point it was definitely time to call it a night. To make the evening even more joyus, on the way down to the taxi rank we encountered two balding squadies who yelled “girls!” in our direction, to which Row responded with “No shit, Sherlock.” They didn’t like that one bit and within milliseconds we’d gone from sexually desirable objects to (and I quote) “F***ing dogs.” Delightful.
By the time we finally got in a cab, the bulbus-nosed driver who was decidedly bigoted and slightly racist (“You can tell he’s Asian because look at the way he’s got his wheels in my lane. You can bet any money he’s gonna cut me up”) actually came as a relief and perhaps even came across as comparatively a good catch.
I think next time I’ll just stay in. Or drink a hell of a lot more!
Monday, 17 November 2008
Sponge
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.
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.
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.
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