Towie has a BBQ

Two very good friends of mine had a BBQ jointly for one of their birthdays and a friends birthday. They live in Essex. When I arrived I felt like I had walked onto the set of  The Only Way Is Essex. All Essex accents, permanent tan, collagen lips, boys who pump iron at the gym. One of the women was footballer Frank Lampard's ex. Gradually I figured out there were sort of two halfs to the party. The women of independent means with the Essex boys and the london, northern crowd amassed from various works, and classes and old clubbing days of my friends. The women of independent means were extremely helpful - bringing out food, clearing up. The gay contingent were hilarious recounting outrageous stories of the past. And then some time after dark it felt like it was time to leave before the  last train left.

Notting Hill Carnival in the Rain

Standing on the side of the road at Notting hill carnival in the rain. Waiting for the friends who invited me down to get reception and text me back. A man in orange asks me if he could stand with me under my umbrella. I spread it towards him and he takes hold of it. I don't let go. There's a silent tussel. I say I can hold it - it's my umbrella - smiling. He says I'm a man I've never had a woman hold an umbrella for me in my life, it'll feel odd if you do that. I let him have it. You won't run off with my favourite umbrella will you? I'm joking. No I have plenty of nice umbrellas at home.  We stand silently for a bit. Then he introduces himself. And I introduce myself. Some youths ask if they can borrow some shade in the umbrella to make a call. I say I guess that's ok. They are giggling and excitable. They blow a kiss back as they leave. We stand together under the umbrella again. Watching floats go past with their associated dancers. Some are trailed by huge crowds of excited young people, grinding, moshing, singing, hands up, running. The DJs winding the crowd up as they go. People are wet through, rain running down their glistening skin. Ignoring the persistence of the rain. Despite all this jubilation he thinks the atmosphere is subdued in comparison to last year. Eventually I ask the man how is the best way out of here. He being local knows that Holland Park is the best bet. We stroll up the hill from Ladbrook Grove, chatting. He is still firmly in charge of the umbrella. I hook my hand in the crook of his arm. He saves me a couple of times when I slide on something wet. And then I do the same for him. Safely delivering me to the station - I thank him. I wouldn't have found it this easily without your help. He hands back the umbrella. I go home. Gentleman. 

Drunk love

It's 5 in the afternoon. She's got a big boxer dog, she's thin, wearing jeans, smiling. The dog is leading her. She turns her head and shouts back at someone, in a slightly uncouth manner.

Coming up behind is a tall man looking like Saturday but not scruffy carrying a sainsburies orange bag which he has slung over his shoulder. His legs quiver as he is standing staring after her confused. He cautiously turns around on distinctly wobbly legs and staggers off. 

Who's in control?

So a friend was relaying a story about telling a workman that her brother-in-law liked to be in control. The workman said oh yes I know. Since the workman had barely spoken to her brother-in-law she wondered how? The workman said that when he went to shake hands he had reached out his hand palm down and covered his hand when they grasped. As opposed to meeting as equals with thumb up or friendly with palm slightly raised. 

As a woman I don't have as much experience of handshakes as I expect a man has, and frequently I think people temper their shake when they grip a woman's hand, so I'm fascinated by learning this new body-language... It's like secret coding. 

Jahovah bashing

Don't know where the Jahovah stands first appeared from or even when they arrived exactly but they are there at stations handing out pamphlets if a person approaches them for one. This is not hard sell like chuggers or traditional Standard distributors. Just a lot of meek ladies and men in badly fitting suits. 

On London Bridge today a man, quite possibly slightly irritated from a day in the bank bereted one of them standing quite close to her face - get off the street you are taking up space on the pavement with your pathetic pieces of paper. A man who had been waiting for the bus came over to tell the man he shouldn't be so abusive to her. The first man grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously while dragging the man towards himself. A bit of too-ing and fro-ing to the tune of there is no need to speak to her that way, with the first man saying nice to meet you in a passive aggressive manner. Finally the first man released the hand of the second man and stormed off down the street. The second man retuned to his travelling companion declaring his shock at such behaviour.

The Jahovah woman was shaking and tears formed in her eyes. Her colleague hugged her and told her, I'm guessing, about the evil that the devil bestows in people and we have to feel sorry for them for they know not what waits for them. And how she needs to develop thick skin because there's a lot like that around. 

Grey seal

Sunny evening after the heavy rain and wind of the tail end of Hurricane Bertha passing over the UK. Walking on the beach near Waxham in Norfolk. Beautiful clean golden sand. Head of a seal popped out of the sea having a look around. As we walked down the beach saw another one - grey seal with silvery head.  Took a peek. Went back under. Popped up later on down the beach. Standing at the place where the waves reached up to on the beach, watching the seal float along the length of the waves, nostrils breathing. Sometimes it's head turned towards me on the beach to have a look. Followed us up the beach for a couple of kilometres and then back again while the tide came in. Total of five seals seen at one time. 

Other than work

A colleague sitting across the aisle from me in the vast open plannism that is our central office is having a discussion with a men's outfitters about when he can bring the morning suit in that he bought from them to have the jacket taken in, and a couple of waistcoats. He has to wait for a time when Monty can come. I think these sorts of things should be arranged in home time. And not in a loud authoritarian voice in the middle of the working day. I'm reminded of the wedding that took an entire year to plan where I used to work. Lots of deliveries recieved and considered in the office. Cakes, menus, kilts, invitations... It went on and on! And when we eventually went to the wedding it was ever so slightly blended polyester, as opposed to 100% silk. 

Over hung

Long afternoon drinking on Saturday - watching the world go past in Brick Lane, chatting, lubricating with sambucca. Jolly fun time. 

Woke up this morning. Head unwilling to get off the pillow. Body craving eggs. Preferably with hollandaise sauce. Struggle ensued between the head and the body. Bathed. Full submersion helps the head. Prepares the body. Still not working very fast or coherently. Get dressed. Put on sunglasses while still indoors. This helps. Until I step out the house. Bright outside. Feels early and it's midday. Self inflicted - what gave pleasure yesterday gives pain today! 

Kensington

Working day - generally walking purposefully, fast even, everyone in the tube corridors know where they are going. Bankers and office workers at London Bridge and Moorgate. Pace set by the urgent need to be making money. This pace helps to shave important minutes off a journey to enable better timekeeping. 

Meeting in Kensington. All the people in the tube, on the platforms and all over the pavement appear to be tourists. Crazy holiday outfits. Massive suitcases. No idea where they are going. Travelling from London Bridge to here I'm caught in that weird thing where you start off at one pace and on coming out the other end you are persistently tripping over people - like catching the tube on the weekend and forgetting it will be full of shoppers strolling rather than the work commuters that are usually down there. Don't know that I could cope with always working in a tourist area. 

Fitting

At the bus stop at Finsbury Square there is a man waiting. He is wearing black jeans - very slim fitting (not skinny jeans stretched over stick thin legs like gothic punks) so you are aware of the muscles in his legs and an asexual bulge a la Ken (as in barbie and ken). And a faded denim shirt - this is worn slim fitting also. Tucked into his jeans there is no blousing from excess fabric - the buttons lie flat over his stomach which doesn't have obvious abs and flat over his chest which doesn't have obvious pecs. I'm looking at him because I can't figure out why this slim fitted look is so odd. It's old fashioned somehow. None descript in its nothingness. Perhaps this is normcore. Just ordinary in a totally non-styled none-descript manner. 

Trains

I'm waiting at Peckham Rye Station for a train to Victoria on my way to a meeting in Kensington. I'm at a different platform than my usual one and at an odd time of day for me. Two long long trains pass each other - trundling along carrying train track replacement materials, load after load after load. No paint on the containers just rust. An engine with a number plate that the trainspotters will probably be drooling over. A workman all dressed in high vis orange opens a room on the platform. Goes in. Comes out and locks up again. Goes away. Comes back five minutes later with a toilet roll. Staff loo. 

Passing

An old lover passes in the street. A year has passed since I saw him last. He looks happier than the last chance meeting we had. He is strolling with a woman. Talking. It takes me a moment to recognise him such are the changes in his appearance. But OMG it is him. I wave slowly and persistently with my hand at chest height until he notices me. Oh my god he says in absolute shock. And then we've passed. 

Scream if you want to go faster

OMG Thorpe Park. Family day out with my sister, her husband and my niece and nephew. Mostly there was queuing. Between 50 and 85 minutes per ride. All the queues were cleverly hidden from view so you couldn't see how far you would be queuing until you got past the first corner. Lots of chatting and shuffling along. Lots of teenagers and young people. Most popular fashion choice for girls was cut-off-jeans hot pants and bare midriff. 

So then there were rides - big rollercoasters. Feet dangling, upside down, loops, corkscrews, really high drops, g-force 4.2 like a rocket. Those of us aged over 25 were probably not the demographic they were aiming at (as pointed out to me earlier today). Dizzy. Slightly nauseous. Bit shaky. Actually glad to be back on firm ground. 

Go Cats

I got cats a couple of years ago because I first had a rat problem and then when I'd gotten rid of them I got mice. Fairly persistently. All food stuffs had to be in tin  or glass containers. And then there was the incident of the mouse falling out of my shopping bag at the checkout in the supermarket. Anyway. The cats were cute. And then they grew up. They love me because I feed them. And we haven't had mice since they arrived. Yesterday evening they caught and killed a mouse. And lay around in the kitchen with the remains until someone came to congratulate them. Well pleased with themselves they were. So GO Cats! Keep at it. 

Bus stop compliments

Waiting in Dalston for a bus. Stop crowded with after work shoppers. A thin old man with the blackest skin and false teeth too big for his gums that clattered as he spoke, passed by pointing at me - you, yeah you girl, you have one built body, nice. And because I didn't respond he pointed harder and repeated himself.  Everyone at the bus stop started tittering to themselves. Before I got embarrassed,  I thanked him. He nodded his approval and slinked off round the corner. Compliments are good. From any source. The bus came. We all got on. 

Girl in the city - old draft post from 2009

Girl in the City

There's a building site next to my office that I pass everyday. Yesterday the foreman ran over wanting to exchange numbers with me. Which is flatterning but has to be met with the negative. In the evening as I walked back to the station an elderly gentleman called out asking after me, "hey, how are you?"
"I'm fine," I replied, "how are you?" (gotta be polite after all).
"Not as fine as you," he retorted.

Arriving at London Bridge this morning a man with large feet and 60s style slim legged suit trousers engaged me in conversation on the escalator - he was very taken with my matching hair and glasses and coat (I'm very coordinated sometimes).

I'm feeling a little bashful with all the attention.

Two glasses of wine

He arrived at the same time as me, ordered 2 glasses of wine and a portion of chips and told the barstaff he'd be over in the corner. He settled in. I imagined he would be joined by a chic woman. When the woman arrived she was wearing a very short skirt, rather more suited to a teenager. They greeted and proceeded to snog passionately until the wine and chips were gone (I didn't quite notice how they were eaten) and then they left.

World Cup 2014

Germany supporters in Shorditch celebrating their World Cup Win - road blockage, impromptu motorbike wheelspins display in the road. Disgruntled teacher on the bus wanted to pour orange juice on them to make them get out of the way. I didn't think it would work - the juice bottle being tiny and there being a lot of supporters. 

Ordering the whole menu

It started off with a trip to a secret gig at No Show Space in which the artist, Giorgio Sadotti, sang songs he had written to accompany his exhibition in a closing event with his band (including his daughter on vocals). His texts and lyrics make use of repetition and plays on words. It was a fun gig, slightly hippy rock with a girl on guitar and another one on drums. 

Afterwards, six of us went to a little Indian restaurant on Redchurch street and decided since there were six starters and six mains that we should just order the entire menu (including the five chutneys and accompaniments). Which is what we did. And great delight was had making the order. And plans were made to make this 'ordering the whole menu' into a regular thing - could review restaurants like that (albeit that for most menus a good number more dining companions may be needed to sample the whole menu in one sitting - but that could be big fun if slightly nightmarey logistics), or make it into a programme of some sort...

Lunchtime tennis

More London big screen in the scoop showing tennis. Workers flocking to watch in their stolen lunchtimes. Not even sure it's because it is great - maybe just to be in the crowd, outside, in a heat trap. 

And then the Murray match is starting. So perhaps they are actually fans. 

Painting

Still trying to sort out the house après le film crew. Painting. All Sunday. Two coats so far. It's nice to get rid of the sort of dingy grey/blue colour they painted. Difficult to cover it being as it was a. quite dark, b. kitchen paint with a sort of wipe clean surface. Glad it's started to look back to normal and matt. In the day light the blue is still impacting through making a colder feel to the paint than the two walls they didn't paint. 

And then paint gets everywhere. My girl cat Philomena somehow got a swipe on her tail even though I didn't see her in the room at all. And I am still picking paint flakes off my arms and out of my hair. 

The Annual Val Hugo Memorial Mele

So I spent Saturday playing pétanque on a triangle of ground with an appropriately gravelled surface down Narrow Street in Docklands near The Grape pub. There are trees with broad leaves providing dappled sunlight when it shone and some relief from the rain when it fell. Quite like France in fact. Reminded me of the Tuilleries. It's an annual event in memorial of Val Hugo, a keen player, with a core membership of people who she played with. Serious, good players. It's a tournament. Players span several generations and a wild mixture of abilities. Teams are drawn out of a bag and matches are held between teams of 2 or 3. Then players are ranked by scores and numbers of wins and put into quarter final playoffs. Complex. Long. 

But along the way I was in teams which won and teams which lost. I learned something of how to play, managed to not totally embarass myself and made it into a semi final for runners up. Lots of looking at the boules nestling up to the coche (short for cochonet) to figure out which team's boule was 'on'. Inbetween matches there were sandwiches, biscuits, coffee and some pastis. And a lot of chat about the game, the tactics and the players. It was fun. 

And the final was a serious affair for the best players through the ranks and gave them a properly decent match. 

Grass (2)

The last time I came to this cafe to eat there was a man with his feet in the grass. Today sitting looking out of the window of the cafe I saw his saunter up the hillock of the park, kick off his shoes and plant his feet on the grass again. Shortly after he threw himself onto the grass and lolled on one elbow while talking on the phone. Here is a man who needs to feel the earth through the soles of his feet. And does so as often as he can. 

World Cup 2014

It started off pretty exciting - lots of good feeling and summer joy, Brazilian carnival taking over London. Pretty quickly depressed by England's shocking, although not really suprising, performances. Decision on who to support next is pretty key - brazil perhaps, probably not Holland, or perhaps Ghana. 

We have connections to Ghana. We went to watch their match against Germany in a local Ghanian joint. Expecting not much. Got an extremely exciting performance celebrated wildly by a packed bar - drumming and singing whenever the ball went vaguely near the goal. Half time singing, dancing and flag waving in the street. 

And in the middle of the second half some argument got a bit heated and a small scuff broke out. The lady who owned the joint shut it down, everyone piled into the street and dispersed as the police showed up. We went next door for the nail-biting last quarter. Winning for a bit only for Germany to come back. And despite rallying Ghana couldn't get another goal. Probably one of the most exciting games I've ever watched. 

Lunchtime queuing in tescos

Tooley street tesco, down some escalators into the basement. Pick up a quick sarnie and some fruit. Well, that was the idea anyway. The queue snaked round the checkouts, back past the fruit, up the side of the salad bar, round the back of the store all the way to the frozen food section. Pretty much it seemed like all lunchtime would be spent queuing. In actual fact it was quicker than expected. And then was chucked back out off the up escalator to the street. 

Gossip from the green room and other parts of the filming

One of the actors flew in from LA to do his part. He had one line. He does a lot of street performance making like a silver statue. And once auditioned to strip for Peter Stringfellow. Without wearing Velcro whip-off trousers, getting caught up at the bottom trying to get out of the trouser legs. One of the others was a bit insecure and liked to talk to other professional actors about how often she was recognised in Romford from her time in Eastenders. My neighbour's bath was used in a scene and the dressers were instructed to dirty it up. In the morning, after a finish at 3am, my neighbour threw a wobbly about it not having been cleaned up afterwards. They diligently cleaned up what they messed up and left behind any dirt that my neighbour had originally had on it (taking the leave-it-as-you-found-it to the extreme).

Making a film

Never had any idea what kind of chaos making a film is. Lent my house for a set. It's doubling as set and base for the film. Kitchen is full of canteen for actors and crew - the fridge is overflowing, milk spilling, counters full of biscuits, endless cups of tea and coffee. A "green room" upstairs where the actors are hanging out watching football. The crew, half of whom are Italian, are watching football downstairs when they get a moment. 

Took about 7 takes to make a couple of minutes intro outside in the street - closing the road, directing a van and some kids playing, elderly man crossing the street and a character crossing their path. After several rehearsals. Close to pissing off some of my neighbours as they are asked not to drive down the road or indeed at times walk down the road to the shop. 

Stuff is all over the house in an organised chaos of moved furniture and house stuff mixed with equipment. Don't know where half my stuff is but am relying in the runners knowing where they put it. 

Sort of interesting but displaced. Roll on the end. Cut. That's a wrap. 

Regrets, I've had a few

Lovely evening spent with pops, bails and heather spaffing on about a number of things while pops fed us delicious dinner and plied us with wine and Cachaça (it being two days until the World Cup starts in Brazil). With Bails and me being only 10 days apart in age (I'm younger believe it or not, and so much more concerned about it than she) there is always a moment when she despairs at me. This evening I was thinking back over turning points in time when I've chosen the wrong path. Regrets, I've had a few, and I'm just going to mention them. 

When I was 18 we spent a lot of time in the Spice of Life pub where I would chat with a particular barman - I was just about to go to art college, he was a film student. He would give me free drinks. On the evening when I met my first serious boyfriend the barman gave me his number. I should have rung him. He would have been creative, he was slightly older, I could have learned a lot from him. Instead I went for a pretend part time punk who came from a small town and never quite shook the small town from himself. 6 years that lasted. Unfortunately.

A very sexy blond Australian with dreadlocks once made a play for me rubbing his foot up and down my leg under the table of the coal hole pub. We kissed deeply on the stoop of the pub until the doorman moved us on for making the place look undesirable. One night of passion ensued. And I stupidly left in the morning without taking a number (pre-everyone with a mobile phone).  Never to be able to find him again.

There used to be a private members bar in Crouch End that my friend Alex belonged to. We went a couple of times. One time I struck up a chat with a girl and a cute man who turn out to be actor Don Gilet. Late in the evening he came back and unexpectedly kissed me full on the mouth. Do you come here often, he asked me breathlessly. I don't, I said, do you? No, says he, but I will now. A big missed cue - he was on the brink of doing some big tv and film. I should have picked up his cue and run with it. But I failed to. C'est la vie.

I guess you can't spend all your time mulling over regrets. Need to keep on experiencing life and attempting to make better choices!

New phone

I've never dropped a phone before. Had it splashed by salt water when a wave swept up unexpectedly behind me and soaked me (it corroded inside and stopped working). Dropped it in the bath before (tried drying it out to no avail). But not dropped it on the corner so the screen broke. But that's what I did. Luckily I was due an upgrade so ordered a new one - asked for the silver version. Forgot to ask what colour the front was. It turns out to be white. I'm trying really hard to love this phone despite its blatent Essex girl looks. I'm struggling... I feel like I should be driving round in a white rhino jeep and getting long straight extensions and a deep orange tan. 

Post

There was a time when you had to go to a shop to purchase an item and have cash to cover the cost. (I don't have a good memory of these times but my parents used to tell me). Then came credit cards. Then came the internet and the blossoming of online shopping.

In the early days of internet shopping your goods arrived with the Royal Mail in the morning delivery. If you weren't in they would leave a card and you could collect the package from the local delivery office. Mine was conveniently situated directly on my route home. They seemed to stop actually carrying the packages and would only bring the card (occasionally I would be in when the non-delivery proportedly happened). But I didn't mind too much because it was easy to get the non-deliverable. 

Now with the post office losing its monopoly things are delivered with a huge raft of other mail-handlers. Which is why I found myself in Star Lane, Canning Town, further into the east of  London than I have any cause to be, collecting an item from UKmail's depot after 3 days of struggling to find an appropriate delivery time. This is a back of beyond place. One massive industrial estate spread wide to enable articulated lorries easy access to warehouses. One prefab caf set up on the side of the road to service lorry drivers and warehouse workers. Nobody comes here, particularly by foot. Desolate even on a sunny morning. Inconvenience in the highest order. Not sure competitive mail services are really better for the customer. Particularly when you can't just wait at home for 3 days for a potential delivery. 

Waiting for the train

Its late coming in. There's a woman with black hair and huge false eyelashes sitting against the ledge where a screen is kept held in place with a chain padlocked with a combination lock. Her partner is hunched over the padlock trying to get it to open. He steps over to the tracks to spit. He's short, ginger, unattractive in a white boxer sort of way - all has-been-smashed-up face. He is wearing a tracksuit and keeps fiddling with his package - either down the elastic or blatantly - uncomfortable underpants. She stands up - she's shorter than him but beautiful in a TOWIE sort of way, perma tan, pale lipstick, dark sultry eyes. She's wearing a wrap coat of velvet with a real fur collar. They talk to each other without seeing anybody else around them. He talks on the phone to someone telling them they can't take this other person to his dads place no way. He's sort of bouncing around back and forth across the platform. He ends up back beside his woman he shadow boxes a bit and then pretend-spars against her held-out hands. He suddenly sees something in her face and looks deeply at it, wipes something off her. She picks something off his lip. He puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her to him, her arm wraps round his waist and they wander off up the platform as the train finally arrives. 

Grass

Lunchtime June warmer air even though the sunshine is only sporadic. I'm in a cafe eating lunch watching a man with bare feet enjoy the feel of grass underfoot as he talks on the phone. He's laughing in the conversation he is having and pacing around kicking his feet up and gripping the ground with his toes as he places them down. Living in the moment. 

Upsets of the Stomach

Was greatly looking forward to hooking up with bails and getting a few drinks après work on Friday night. Good to let the hair down after a week of work. She had something to do that kept her late. I hung out a bit before making my way to the Royal Festival Hall - it's a good place to meet initially when we need to formulate a plan.

By the time I got there I was a bit hot, and feeling unsettled in the stomach. All the smells of people eating warmed meat sandwiches contributed to a queasiness that I couldn't quite shake off. First drink I had to decline and had a glass of water. Shortly after which I ran towards the toilet hand over mouth and didn't quite make it. Vomited on the floor, ran into the loo with a handful of sick. Grossed out. But felt a lot better. We sat and chatted a bit more, watched the world go by and a youth dance group practising. Only to be struck again with a dash to the loo. Decided we had to call it a night.

Rolled up in bed later with a discomfort that only could be ignored by sleeping.

In the morning there is the fear of eating but the craving of hunger. Can't tell you how lovely it is to eat cereal and milk. It feels sort of clean and comforting. And has no adverse effect. So maybe that's it and it's only a 24hr bug. 

The Barrow Boy and Banker

"Meet you at the barrow boy and banker (sounds like a gay porno)"

I've been in the pub before, it's always full of after-work wanker bankers chugging beer as fast as they can before catching their trains from London Bridge to the commuter belt. Lots of male guffawing and banter. Good location to meet but not my favourite pub.

Was rather looking forward to going in there after the suggestion that it would make an excellent title for a gay porn movie. I can imagine the scene - lively crowd, a mixture of cockney wide boys drinking after working all day in the market wrapping up ripe fruit for rich ladies and fancy chefs and bankers in pin stripes and loosened neckties, slowly descending from a mass shedding of clothes to an orgy revelling in their hard bodies. Sadly the venue of the meet up was changed before I got there. So the gay porno will have to wait.

Flicker of recognition

The bars are full of excitable young people spilling out onto the pavements, corralled into smoking areas or queuing sections. Overseen by bouncers in black coats. Walking past I get a thrill, would so like to get involved rather than dodge past it all attempting to get home. Passing revellers coming the other way or dawdling in my direction. Lure of the bright lights of the late city. Pass a group of guys. Laughing as they fall out of a joint and steer round a crowd of people. Four of them. Pass by. And then there's one of those out-of-context late recognition moments. I spin round as the leading guy also turns round smiling and points at me nodding. I smile. Work. This is a man I know only by sight at work. And then we pass. They melt into the background crowd on their way to their next stop. We have never spoken but I had a sudden feeling of missed opportunity here - I could have asked how their evening was going. Perhaps I'll have to ask how it was on Tuesday. 

Overheard

"I'm so lucky that my nicest finger is my marriage finger. So lucky. Nicest by far"

Travel writing workshop

Peter Carty - Travel writing workshops

Never been to a writing workshop so I had no idea what it was going to be like. Arrived 5 minutes early but still too late to hide in the back row. It was like being at school again - posturing to find out where we were in the group and trying not to catch the eye of the teacher. There were lots of middle class white young women and then some older people.

We had to do that classic icebreaker where you chat to your neighbour with a view to introducing them to the group. This was where the contest for most-exotic-country-visited was played out. Living in Hong Kong, recently been to Borneo and flew in from Sydney came top. I felt like a fraud - more interested in the writing part of the workshop in an attempt to expand what i write (a blog post is never going to be a short story in my current style) than in the specifics of travel writing. My partner and i both decided we were a little intimidated by the rest of the group - we both were bloggers but by no means felt like professional writers, although she was a copywriter so she kind of beat me.

The first part of the course was about writing itself - making it interesting, balance between fact and experience, the atmosphere of a place. Lots of discussion about the use of cliche, hackneyed phrases of the genre, very interesting thing about beginnings (many of which were actually more like the start of novels - better at drawing me in personally than some of the gushy, over-enthusiastic travel writing we find in brochures - this was a bit of a revelation to be honest, started to feel like there was a path to be followed potentially), lots of discussion about the pieces of writing we had been asked to read before we came - some liked them, others didn't for a vareity of reasons. Then we had to write 100 words on one of three themes:

• view from a high place
• beach scene
• sunrise or sunset

A slow ascent looking out over the green fields of Hyde Park intersected by white paths and milling people shrinking into the distance. Up over the tree tops until we could see Marble Arch and the buildings at the top end of Oxford Street. Grey London rooftops, traffic in Park Lane. Suddenly whipped face down back to earth with the g-force of the Tornado we were riding on.

Some were enthusiastic reader-outers, others of us hid in our seats and tried not to attract any attention! It all seemed a bit too soon for public consumption of my lowly blogger efforts in my own quaky voice. Later we had to do 100 words that would be an introduction to somewhere we had been recently (not having been terribly far recently I thought back).

"Barrier, barrier, barrier" the man hanging out of the window shouts. We pile into the vehicle, people, shopping and live chickens, me the only abronyi on the bus. The conductor slides the door shut and we take off into the traffic on the dusty pot-holed road, quietly crossing our fingers that the string holding the door shut is strong.

Not being called on to read out again, left me with a false sense of security in my own blogging-bubble (nobody needs to hear it, therefore I can avoid being ashamed of the drivel I may be writing - perhaps thats what is comforting about blogging - not that much critical feedback comes in, and you can bathe in the stats of readership that at least someone out there likes to read the drivel, perhaps over and over!).

Final part of the morning looked at structure and how to make sense of a place, quotes and interviews from local people, local knowledge gleaned from 'interviewing' people, some facts, some sense of how the writing experienced the place and neatly rounding up a piece at the end (perhaps returning to the beginning, or a recurring theme) to make it seem whole. And then we were thrown out to get some lunch and write a postcard on one of a number of local places.

Icons of London [I'm thinking of this always in the tune of Werewolfs of London by Warren Zevon - for some unknown reason]
Fitzrovia is a slightly shabby back street neighbourhood in the heart of London overseen by the British Telecom Tower. Once the tallest building in London at 627ft, it was the iconic skyscraper of my childhood - cylindrical, glass and covered in satelite dishes - a prominent pointer to a digital future. It remains one of the better London tall buildings even now with the city's burgeoning high-rising skyscape. In my early childhood I was promised a visit to the famous revolving restaurant on the 34th floor but sadly the IRA bombing of it meant it was shut before I was taken. Opened in 1965 when Fitzrovia was probably a more industrious neighbourhood it is now planted in an area surrounded by student accomodation, neighbourhood restaurants and independent art galleries. Slightly grubby and vacant the Telecom Tower is a much-loved icon still.

Afternoon sessions were about pitching, selling yourself as a writing, writing your first piece, how to get published (market, which publications, type of travel those publications would be interested in, difference between writing for web and writing for print, cold calling). Extremely valuable advice for people getting starting as travel writers. Making it not seem exactly easy - but certainly achievable if you follow the guidelines. We worked in groups pitching ideas of destinations to one another, feeding back as a group. Each individual's idea was given feedback - very useful to get you thinking about how to write travel pieces (what to write about if you are going to a common destination - how to think about what is interesting about your trip, never start with the journey for instance, remember you may be on holiday with your family but you are also working - set the boundaries before you go). Useful not only for budding travel writers, but also potentially for student potters who may want to sell their work.... but I digress.

And then fatefully we had to read out our lunchtime tasks, and I didn't manage to escape this time. Feedback was: more local interest needed - interview people, more of me, fewer facts. Its an issue of a. speed writing and b. not quite knowing what I'm trying to do. Blogging is a short thing, usually for me. And I manage to do it in my head as I go about. This is a proper task. And perhaps I shouldn't have been writing about the tower as much as the neighbourhood, and getting a sense of its atmosphere more than just this is what it is. I don't have to consider any of this kind of thing with the writing I generally do. So its a very useful exercise - think about the purpose of the writing, and who the audience is - write to that criteria, don't pander to your own eccentricities. And with that we were turfed out onto the street again. An extremely thought-provoking workshop.

Glimpse

A Mini Cooper in red with white bonnet stripes takes an empty side street between tall buildings bathed in evening post-storm sunlight and turns into a traffic jam on Tower Bridge Road. 

Thunder and lightning

Absolutely amazing rain - thick and heavy - huge crack of lightning directly overhead. Rumbling thunder. And then the shard reappears from the grey as the storm moves on.

Lightning hits the Shard

Modern life

Here is an indictment of modern life - two people come to a cafe together for a coffee and spend the entire time plugged into their own phones, heads down in Facebook, email or some other social media and fail to say two words to one another for an entire half hour. Isn't it one of the joys of company that you can talk to each other? In person. And have a conversation that develops through voice? 

Perhaps we are becoming too concerned about missing out. Unable to focus on the present and what is right in our real sphere for fear of missing something more exciting happening elsewhere. No wonder mindfulness is having to be raised as an issue/idea. 

Supporter

It might be a little known fact but I am an arsenal supporter - at least through a succession of dalliances I have grown to consider myself a supporter - perhaps not fully fledged red army (he was thinking I might be red TA). Anyway we went to see them parade the cup (FA cup for those of you who may not be in the know)- and a jolly good time was had by all, waiting on the side of the street at Highbury roundabout, walking along in a throng towards the town hall on Upper Street and then to the pub for a drink before going down to the stadium. 

Length of Service

Paul was reminding Bails how long they had been together. It turns out - six years. Thats a sizable length of time. Especially for some of us. So interestingly her response wasn't, it seems like only yesterday, or, wow that long! Her response was Oh my god what a nightmare! Swiftly followed by the caveat i didnt mean that how it came out. Tactful as always!

The Drunk and Disorderlies

Me and the drunk and disorderlies (pops and his cronies including an almost-shared birthday twin of mine divided by a decade or two) went to eat Argentinian steak at the Bariloche Grill in Battersea High Street. Absolutely delicious melt in the mouth meat. Much wine imbibed followed by shots of flaming sambucca. Pops fell off the front door step and did a wide circle of the pavement before his legs caught up with himself and the waiter managed to get a hold on his arm to steady him. Average age of the group was probably 70, mostly not too great in the hearing department - much talking, not so much listening. Carcophany of voice. More drink, more volume. Weird being the youngest and parenting the elderly because you are being the sensible one. Really. What is the world coming to? Feel it might be time to try to reverse this trend. 

Smells

There's someone on the bus with bad breath. Dont know if its the young man next to me who is leaning against me while playing a crap phone game. 

Earlier there was a man in a leather coat which had a fur lined collar. He stank of dog. Which was strange - he looked cool and most unlike a street person - y'know trendy, well kept. I had to turn away sometimes because it caught in my throat and stopped me breathing.

Girls

Bright sunny day walking from Bank along King William Street with lots of bankers on lunch breaks, serious suited, women in court shoes and slick american-style dark blond hair. Two teenage girls dolled up a la Towie stars - all fake tan, pitch black hair, and track suits with legging-style bottoms are mingling along the road. One closes on a group of women and barks as she passes making them jump. The girls walk off laughing like hyenas. Passing Starbucks she flattens herself on the glass licking it as she slides down in front if a man in a crisp white shirt and tightly knotted tie sitting inside the window eating a sandwich. He is somewhere between bemused and amused. Moving on along the road she barks at women and propositions men in a manner that has the effect of scattering the serious workers as if they have been suddenly repelled by a magnet. Much to the girls continuing mirth. 

London Bridge Sheep Dip

London Bridge station is being renovated to match the glass and steel look of the Shard. They have gradually removed the Victorian steel and brick train shed that used to let snow through in the winter and replaced it with concrete brick flooring in a parquet style and platform roofs in undulating waves. 

Platform 15 is the current perimeter of the station on one side and still has fencing dividing the platform from whatever major building work that is going on beyond. Platform 15 is therefore very narrow. And serves a popular route. Lots of people off, lots of people on. So, they've introduced a herding mechanism to help with the traffic calming. The last time i saw corralling like this was at the Great North Fair when they are trying to keep handsome bulls calm enough to do a circle of the ring showing off their stocky solid muscles and massive balls. Or at sheep dipping time when the dogs have slinked around and managed to get all the ewes and their lambs through the gate and into the sheep dip in an effort to escape. 

There was a section of fencing today allowing people off the train into the station concourse in single file. To say there was a pile up that wasnt pretty is putting it mildly. And on the other side the  people trying to catch the train were attempting to scale the fences while being told off by the station staff. I thought of a programme i watched earlier in the week when a bull in a bull ring got so mad he lept out of the ring into the bleachers full of fans. 

Its going to lead to trouble. The public only takes so much crowd control before rioting was what it felt like today. 

Finding some peace

Its the day after the 48hour tube strike. A day when i find my resiliance totally depleated. Its raining. Properly raining. I run across the road to catch the 318 bus which is sitting at the bus stop. I shouldnt have - its a little one door bus that goes round the houses and is picking up heaps of local sorry-arse people too thick to move inside the bus properly and allow their fellow passengers to get on after them. This delays the bus. At every stop. It takes a long time to get to the station this way. I am now late. And sweary. 

The tube is packed. Everyone is irritated. A woman wraps herself round the central pole in a way that nobody else can hold onto it. At my interchange at Highbury the train is due in 6 minutes. Too long for my agitated self to wait. Back onto the Victoria line - one stop to kings cross to pick up the Northern line instead of riding the overground to Moorgate. 

The Victoria line train is packed still. I squeeze myself on. Shoulder to shoulder with a man my height and my head bent out of shape by a woman's arm hanging onto the overhead bar. Behind me a tall black man's buttocks fit into the small of my back. His lower back rests against my back. Its a strange in the moment thing. But i find i don't mind. Its a sort of intimate strangers' touch that makes me reconnect with human kind. Touch. It can be very important. And it replenishes my reailiance enough to complete the commute more calmly. 

Crossing the river

If you have to cross the river as part of the commute there's nothing better than doing that above ground - over one of the many bridges. This morning i rode the train from St Pancras and it took me over Blackfriars Bridge - part of the new station. Sun dappled the Thames sparkling brightly. The view east included the Millenium footbridge straddled with people walking, and London Bridge with Canary Wharf and her cronies misty shadows as a backdrop. I tried to ignore the awful walkie-talkie building. Monstrosities like that, which take up more air room than their footprint on the ground, shouldn't be allowed - they flout the aesthetic rules for skyscrapers with blatent disregard - and the only fun thing about them (the concave surface focussing sunrays into such powerful light that they can melt jaguar cars) having to be fixed to save the wrath of the banker wankers who may want to park outside them. South london train journeys are above ground which gives a great view of London going past - its mesh of new, victorian and older. And a totally empty train which is a commuting revelation. 

Beards

When will the Hoxton Beard thing be over? On the train on the way to work there were two men both with impeccably well groomed hair - short back and sides, slicked quiffs - sporting short beards (trimmed over the upper lip and cut to an even length all over). The beards not really matching the hair for grooming, despite there clearly being work done on them. Not enough work done on the lower neck below the beard line however, stubbly, unattended growth. Not keen on the way the whiskers look around the lips. 

Off the train in Peckham there was a man with the same haircut but a proper full-on long beard - hiding at least half his face, growing length well below the chin, fanning out like it had been brushed. 

This is a look like lumberjacks from the 1930s. It seems inappropriate in the same way range rovers do in the city. What are all these young men hiding from? Or do they think we will be impressed with their hair growing prowess? I'm not averse to a bit of stubble, or even a bit of a goatee. But these big square jaw beards in all shades of brown and orange and white are quite unattractive. And sometimes are just odd when teamed with a waxed mustache or pulled out into strange shapes. It doesnt even seem to be a lazy perspective of not being bothered to shave because there is still quite a bit of looking after to be done.  

Pub games

Never been very good at pub games - crap at pool, bit of a danger at darts, dont know how to play bar billiards. Used to play Mortal Kombat in the Vibe bar in Brick Lane but was rubbish at it. Was in the Grafton Arms yesterday and apparently they have car racing video games in the urinals (i've been reliably informed, evidenced by pictures of said game not in use). The controls are in tne bowl - hit this spot at the back to go left and this other spot to the right to go right. I was very intrigued to see it but didn't know any man well enough to go in and have a look... And it doesnt seem to be a good idea to ask for film evidence of it in use - men pissing in public tend not to watch so i hear. 

Lunchtime

Today the sun is breaking through the crispy white clouds to warm a chilly april day. The rays are so bright passing the glass of the cafe window i have had to take off my glasses to allow my eyes to deal with the light unhindered. The Shard is looming over the street with a glinting sunspot harshly flashing off one of its fascias. People walk up and down the street, fetching lunch, looking about, taking in the daylight. I think of people who are not here right now. Wonder what their day is bringing them. Concern, and hope for good things. I prolong the agony of having to go back to the battery-hen open plan office. So much grey utilitarian desking. So few people of interest. So little colour and spark. Like so much mud to wade through. Maybe it's time to wear red. 

Words i learned this week

So i do a bit of pinterest pinning: collecting visual stimulation into groups. Lots of ceramics, photos of the human body that i might eventually draw, quotes and stuff. I learned some new words this way this week. Words that seek to explain or describe aspects of my psyche that i didn't realise had names. 

Sehnsucht (pronounced zEn-'zukt)

German

Noun

"The unconsolable longing in the human heart for we know-not-what"; a yearning for a far, familiar, non-earthly land one identifies as home. 

I didn't know there was a word for this ache - i have it most of the time - particularly when there is not enough stimulation in my life. Bails says she doesn't understand my craving for excitement - she thought i would grow out of it and is suprised that i havent so far. But this is how sehnsucht manifests itself in me, an urge for something more, more than i have, more than I'm experiencing, more, just more. I fear i live a boring life. I don't want it to be dangerous or scary but more eventful and perhaps slightly debauched. Less routine. See more things. I think that might be why i am drawn to people who are edgy. And why i get itchy feet when i've been in London too long without a break. Im currently dreaming of selling everything and taking myself around the world to see if i can find what it is that the heart desires. 

Nyctophilia

Noun

Love of darkness or night; finding relaxation or comfort in darkness. 

I first felt this when i was a child and we drove into Exeter at 2am. Something thrilling about the street lights flashing past the rear window of the car. I didn't know that would become a stimulation in later life. A second wind comes to me frequently after dark, things are more exciting then, in the city anyway. Something in the darkness allows a release that daylight confines. I dont think I have done enough in life to harness this to its most advantage. 

Basorexia

Noun

The overwhelming desire to kiss. 

I love kissing. There are people who you know without testing will be good at it. Something about the set of their mouth, or an arch of eyebrow (not that there is any correlation but when a man has good eyebrows they are generally ok - perhaps its just something about attraction). Sometimes its a test of will not to kiss someone, even a stranger - I get that sometimes on the way to work on the tube. Crushed in, focused only on a small fraction of the face - not staring. Then there are times with people known to you where the time or setting makes it inappropriate and that is a harder-still test of will. But it is no longer attractive to snog furiously in public (at my grand age I really dont want to look like middle-aged desperately clinging to youth). I remember a night bus journey home from Leicester square to Enfield Town where the man and i didnt draw breathe once. The thrills of youth. All in the past. But its the worst part about the complacency of a lengthening relationship - less kissing, and less passionately. 

Spring is sprung

Blossom. Its beautiful. A flurry of delicious scent and floaty petals. Sunshine with a hint of heat warming it up and wafting it around. One or two particles hit the nasal passages. Turning the face to the sunshine and feeling the rays for the first time this year. Warmth into the collars of the winter clothes. Enough to know it is now ok to reduce the number of layers. Not warm enough to do as some of the crazy sun worshippers have done and put on short lightweight cotton dresses and flip flops. These peoole are slightly goosebumpy in the breeze. Warm enough for open jackets and no scarf and a teeshirt in case its truly hot in the middle of the day. Obviously lengthening days. Glory of the coming summer months. 

Out out

So friday night - went to see Her with pops. Was a good film. Liked it more than i thought i would. After we met Bails and her friend Steve. Had a drink. Cocktails in a little side street bar in Canonbury. Old fashioned's. Warmth of whiskey and sweetness of orange zest. Marvellous on a chilly evening, with good  mixologists behind the bar. 

Being quizzed on the stance of the modern middle-aged woman (supposed to be a joke but sadly feel it may not be possible, any longer, to feel this is far from the truth) by an ever so slightly old fashioned man, as it turns out. He decided we were the right age group to be MILFs (not flattered exactly) and then decided we were probably cougars (still not flattered exactly). And if we are cougar - does that mean automatically that we are preditory and looking for younger? Don't know about the influence of interent porn - seems to give you too many boxes to be put into! Its no longer possible to just be whoever you are - you have to fit into an appropriate category to be able to be understood by the world at large. 

Woke up this morning

Woke up this morning to the alarm ringing and couldn't understand why. The phone alarm has gone wrong - just another minor irritation in the slow breakdown as we get closer to the date they will upgrade me. And then it dawned on my dream addled head - its bloody Monday. That's why the alarm is ringing. Bad luck for you its work today!  Whoop. 

Night bus

Long evening of drinking and dancing followed by a night bus journey home.I haven't been on a night bus for some time. And especially an N29.

I was lucky the doors stopped right by me so i got on second and found a seat. 

I was sitting opposite a couple of dollybirds who looked a bit worse for wear. Not a coat between them. No tights. Just a thick layer of fake tan keeping them warm. One of them was carrying her extremely high platform shoes rather than wearing them. They were slumped in their seats - one with her back to the other. Hair messed so you could see their extensions sewn in where the outer layer of hair was no longer covering it. 

The one nearest the window was softly whining and crying. There were black mascara streaks running down in furrows through her foundation on both cheeks. Fake eyelashes holding large drops of tears. Her sister (it transpired when she turned back to her) said why does it happen every time? You can't live with me anymore, you're a nightmare, go back to Mum, you aren't ready to look after yourself. She then got up and stood by the door ready to get off. At the next stop the doors opened and she shouted at the tear stained one, are you coming or are you just going to sit on the bus? When her sister just managed to get off in time she jumped back on, in the hope to leave her sister stranded on the street. 

Some how both girls were still on the bus but without a seat. Tearful one was mumbling to herself how she couldn't fucking cope with it anymore. It wasn't clear whether that meant life in general, her sister, this night in particular or having to stand on the bus (she turned to an older woman at one point asking when she was getting off because she needed to sit fucking down - older woman ignored her with distain). The annoyed sister sat on the floor and at some point kicked out at her sister's ankles whereupon they set about each other in a half hearted manner - punching and kicking. The other passengers looked on in disbelief. Eventually they fell out of the bus at Holloway and wended off into the night. Drunk, disorderly and discordant. Bet they had a horrible Sunday - hungover and arguing, or hungover and ignoring each other, trying to avoid one another in a flat. 

Leaving home

Recently my nephew (aged 9) got so mad about having to do guitar practice that he packed a bag and stormed up to the front door announcing his intention to leave. He didn't in the end. He packed his bear-suit onsie and his wrestling figures. His dad gave him a toothbrush and some toothpaste to put in. And then his mum cried and said she would miss him if he went. So he stayed. I'm interested in what the important items to take are, in a 9 year old's mind. I dont remember wanting to leave at that age either. My sister recounting the story made me laugh actually. And that made her laugh also. Perhaps i should provide him with a tag with my address and phone number on it so if he really decides to do it he can come to me which would at least be safer.

The evil of curly hair

We went to see a digitally enhanced version of the black and white film Night of the Hunter at the BFI. Robert Mitchum plays a serial killer who pretends to be a priest. In the beginning if the film he is driving a car along the road and offering a prayer to god,"There are things that you hate Lord, perfume smelling things, lacy things, things with curly hair". As a naturally curly haired person this made me laugh out loud. What is it with all the jealousy of the curly haired that we get all this? Like the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead... Don't straight-haired people know how difficult curly hair can be to manage?

Airports

Funny places airports, excited and tension of waiting for your party to arrive. Tired people over packed. Endless searching the crowd for recognition. Its exhausting. And i dont think the plane I'm waiting for has even landed yet. Hate that nervousness wondering whether everything has changed or if it will be the same. Experiences can change people. 

And greetings, love and hugs and flowers and laughter. 

New bad neighbours

The neighbours who lived next to me to the left when I moved in have recently moved away. They were chavvy but nice enough. But in some ways it helps me avoid the little embarrassment of my cat names.

When I saw pictures of the kittens I was getting I had an epiphony for names in tbe night - the girl cat was Philomena, and the boy cat was Leopold. My sister said its a good thing I don't have kids because they would be lumbered with some godawful names going by those. But these names suit the cats and you can shorten then to Philly (or Pip if you are my dad and are looking after them) and Leo. Better for shouting out the back door. What i hadn't realised at the time was that my neighbour was called Wilimena. And her 16 year old daughter had just had a baby and called him Leo. You discover these things in London due to proximity of living conditions hearing family life go on over the wall. I hadn't realised I had named my cats after my chavvy neighbours. And was then totally embarrassed to shout their names at all!

Anyway. They moved and in their place a new family moved in. On the day they arrived they had a fight and an ambulance and the police had to attend. Then there were lots of arguments, slamming of front doors, and shouting. Drunk dad would arrive home opening the door saying don't any of you fucking piss me off, not you, or you, or the fucking dog. I feel sorry for the dog. It's confused. They were concerned it didn't bark when people came to the door, so they taught it to do that. Now it does that, they shout at it because it barks when they get home. They also have three or four cats, I can't quite figure it out. But of all the things, the worst is they don't do any recycling and they make rubbish like its going out of fashion. Our bins are only emptied once a fortnight. Once they fill theirs up, they fill mine up as well. Which as long as I can fit my rubbish in wouldn't be so bad, but I can't, so it really gets my goat. Antisocial. Bring back the chavs, would be my preferance!

Alternative employment - the options

What other job could i do, discussion with my sister. Suggesting i teach adults in the kind of setting i already work in. Not that keen. Not enough salary. 

She's been watching The Bridge, and thought i could be a detective. But don't you have to be a policeman first? I laugh. Loudly. Me? A policeman. Hilarious. Wouldn't mind the detective bit. But not sure it would work with my politics and stuff. 

Fireman? just laughing. Not even a need to examine why not (don't love ladders at height, couldn't throw a man over my shoulder to rescue him, might be able to drive the engine...), nah. Ludicrous. Never was that keen on wearing uniforms. 

Maybe i should be a criminal she says. What sort? I'm slightly indignant. Fraud says she. But I'm not a great liar. Could you lie on the phone and be a scammer of some sort? I think. Its a bit shitty though isn't it? And my IT skills arent up to it. 

You could run a house. She says. I pause. Madam, she means. How does she come up with that? Thats one of my joke dream jobs! Hostess. Make men comfortable. Make sure the girls are clean. Don't actually have to shag the dirty mac brigade myself. But i like men. As a gross generalisation. We laugh. I can't believe she said it! I've said it myself before. As a joke! She knows me better than i think. I'm an open book, sadly. 

Morning

Jack frost has coated the cars and grass. The bus is crowded with school children. They can see their breath in the cold air, even inside. 

Filming

They are filming Youngers in Choumert road today. They have transformed the Internet cafe into 'Shorn Combs' barbers and have parked three huge lorries along the street. Lots of young actors milling about in clean bright urban streetwear, getting tea and soup from the refreshment cart. And cameramen, lighting, sound engineers, etc. Inside the cafe at lunch the regular iPad engrossed clientele ignore the hubub on the street. Me I kinda want to join in! 

Things which delight the mind

Whilst running/walking along Tottenham Marshes (dragging the Christmas dinner belly along for the first time - distractions very necessary)

• Reeds on the canal

• A tree full of long tailed tits

• Seven cormorants roosting on an electricity pylon overlooking the reservoir

• Canada geese and two swans

• The cold wind burning my cheeks

• Looking for a rainbow as the sun glimmers for a few minutes out from the grey clouds as fat drops start to fall

2014 mistakes

Bad move - lent my phone to someone on our way home (giving them and some others a lift) - he'd run out of credit - he called 15 people at 6am. No one answered. They are all texting me asking me who is this today. And some of them are quite shirty demanding to know who I am. 

2014

Started the New Year's Eve celebrations talking about the last few hours of 2013 - putting it to bed, fresh starts and all that. Celebrated the new year in five minutes after getting into a club having queued round the block for an hour. Danced and wandered around. Got in at 7am. Haven't seen the day at all today! Perhaps it isn't starting as I mean to go on! Happy 2014. Hope it's a good one.

Breakdown

I drive an old car. It's a retro golf gti. But that is sort of irrelevant to the story. The bad thing about old cars is that they are liable to breakdown. 

Driving to pick up my sister and her kids from kings cross station passing St Pancras it stalled and didn't have any power left. I was stuck in the middle lane of three lanes of solid traffic. Hazards on. Unsure how to proceed. A cab stopped and asked what was wrong and suggested I get to the side of the road and call my breakdown cover. A man on the pavement came over and pushed me into the drive of the St Pancras Hotel. We stopped when he couldn't shove it uphill on his own anymore. Relieved and very grateful. 

The doorman from the hotel sidled down and asked what was wrong. I broke down and it has no power. Well you can't stay here it's private property. I'm only going to be here while I call the breakdown company. His colleague came. Have you got a permit? No. Well these spaces are paid for by the residents of the building. I'm broken down, I don't want to park here. Well you can't leave it here. What do you suggest I do then? We will help you to push it back onto the street. 

I look at the Euston Road, there are three solid lanes, a bus lane, double red lines. It's a ridiculous suggestion. I laugh at him. I can't wait here for the breakdown company? No madam. You don't have a permit. There are two wedding buses coming shortly and they need to get past. I cast my eye over the 30 empty parking spaces. 

At which point my sister came round the corner from Kings Cross with her children. Overhearing this she started on him - you cannot push this car onto that road - it's dangerous. Look at how many spaces you have, it not like we are going to be here for ages. She called the local police. He told her they have no jurisdiction here it's private property. 

Two staff from the wedding venue came down. One very reasonably said - we are going to push the car out of the way - up to there. While you wait for the breakdown company. Thank you. The four of them pushed the car up the hill and backed it up in front of a lovely clean Mercedes. Individually they each asked how long we were going to be. I will let you know, I said. 

They all went back to their jobs. The buses arrived and decanted guests into the reception. We waited. And finally an hour later I tried the car again and it started. We crossed our fingers and went on our way after cancelling the breakdown people. 

Christmas

The aftermath is a kitchen where almost every pot, plate, glass and implement in the house is waiting to be washed and the dishwasher has been going solidly since yesterday. Good food and good fun though. 

Christmas dinner

By Christmas, how many Christmas dinners will you have had? Today In our staff canteen they are doing roast with lamb. That's roasted potatoes and parsnips, over-boiled sprouts and lamb slices, with a side of pigs in blankets. It looks and smells most unappetising. Last week on our works do you had a choice of roast turkey dinner or something else. I chose the something else because turkey can be so dry. I was right. That time the portions were on the extreme stingy side. It was like Noah's ark - 2 sprouts, 2 roasted potatoes, 2 parsnips, 2 carrots (pieces not whole parsnips or carrots). A well roasted dinner can be a delight but it can also be dreary and unappealling. Particularly when it comes in long metal trays in bulk! I prefer to wait for the real deal. 

Journey

"Have you ever pretended to be a monkey for five hours?"

My sentiments exactly after five hours on the train. Actually I was itching to get off after fifty minutes. Shorter attention span than usual. Much like a monkey. 

Nelson Mandela 1918-2013

I've been thinking about Nelson Mandela a lot but haven't known what to say.  He was very influential in my youth. And I think back fondly on those politicised and active times. I spent over a year picketing outside South Africa House in Trafalgar Square for his release in the late 80s. My designated time was from 11-1 on a Saturday although I ended up staying for much of the afternoon generally until we slopped off to the pub. We collected petition signatures, sang songs, chanted and felt like we were doing a good thing. There was comraderie there. And some genuine communists. I met Archbishop Desmond Tutu once when he came over to show his solidarity with the non-stop picket while he was in London on some greater business. 

I was 17. It felt like we could change the world if enough of us joined in. We individually sanctioned South African produce refusing to buy Rowntrees, bank with Barclays or buy South African fruit and veg. Persuaded the adults in the family to do the same as far as we could. We hated Mrs Thatcher for her refusal to sanction South Africa. And all the bands and artists who played Sun City (stand up Elton John, Queen, Rod Stewart, to name a few).

And then in 1990 he was released. It was a jubilant time. Like grass roots political activism was a powerful and important mechanism. This older, smiling, strong, amazing individual walked free and seemed to change the world. 

It was heartwarming across the world. To people who were not directly under his power. But were inspired and amazed and awed by him. He had a long, important, influential life.

Arsy day

Today has been an arsy day (irritating with annoying people and their demands - and the predictive text doesn't believe in cussing and keeps wanting to sanitise my words into something that doesn't make any sense). Finally on my way home. Sitting on a bus at some traffic lights. Next to us a cab driver smokes a fag slowly out of his open window. Behind him a bus has pulled up and honks at him. He leans out of his window with an angry scowl and gestures wanker at him. Bus driver honks again. Taxi driver mouths into his mirror fuck off. And when the light goes green he sits there smoking until he is good and ready to move off. The epitome of what an arsy day makes you do. 

Post pottery pizza club

It's late, I'm a bit drunk from drinking sambucas on ice to wash down a couple of slices of "really hot" pizza with extra pineapple. Everything seems a bit crazy in Finsbury park. Lidls doors open when I pass by so I go in looking for catfood only to be told by the third or forth staff member I pass that they are actually shut. I'm not the only errant shopper in there. Their security guard comes out from the back in a big strop. There is a tall man at the railings of the park trying to help his friend climb out of the park without being impaled on the railings. They are laughing too much and he's stuck on the top with a railing spike between his legs. The bus is going to be eight minutes. 

Attempted Mugging

It's winter. The streets are dark, cold, wet and deserted. Walking at 9pm from my dad's to Mr's. Streets I've known forever. Running footsteps coming up the railway bridge behind me. I'm aware. They pass me and carry on. I'm passing under enormous plain trees around which has recently been repaved so the path is flatter and not cracked by their roots. I turn onto Oakfield road. Passing over the railway I hear running steps again and then someone grabs my handbag handles and jerks, give me the bag he growls. Instant reaction is to hold firmly and I shout no, loudly. Louder than I realise I can. Top of my lungs. No! Leave me alone! Get away from me! Fuck off! As we struggle with the bag between us. I shove him in the chest. He turns and runs off leaving me. I have my bag. I check whether he managed to get anything out of it (not sure why I think he could have). And then I turn and run the rest of my way, looking back sometimes. I'm shaking. But not really as afraid as I thought might have been. When I get in they can't believe what happened and question me about where, what and who did this. I remember he was wearing pale jeans and a tan balaclava. I think he was a teenager. He was slight. Not tall (similar to me). And they laughed, incredulous. And then said they were proud of me fighting him off. I think they may have thought I would have wimped out and given in. I thought I might as well but instinct does surprising things sometimes. 

Inadvertent peeping tom

Opposite my office is a row of shops with flats above. There's a woman in the top flat brushing her hair looking in a mirror she has leaned against the window. She hasn't a stitch of clothing on. Bare. Nude.  Like a naturist (as opposed to naked, like in porn, if you recognise the difference). But we have builders on the roof of our building. I doubt she realises she can be seen. Or maybe she really is just nude and doesn't care to be seen that way. 

Autumn drawing in

The afternoon darkened gradually until fat raindrops splattered the windows, then ran down in thick riverlets. Everything dark grey. Apart from a sparkling yellow edged cloud, that reminded you it was only 3 o'clock in the afternoon. One of those afternoons at work where distraction has to come from inside the building because the outside has closed around you. Free disgusting coffee and hot chocolate from the machine. Mild Friday flirting at the coffee machines. Short conversations with people you only know by sight. Not your team, no reason to speak to them really. Like so many familiar strangers at the train station every morning. One or two have breached this stand offishness. People from the company who do totally different roles to you that you talk about outside work activity to. Weird hot desking open plan working. People meet in glass walled rooms. No hiding. 

Fantasy overtakes the mind from boredom. I'm imagining swinging the revolving chair round and flashing a la Sharon Stone in basic instinct. Giving a particular someone in the glass meeting room a thrill. That fantasy evolves into round beds with satin sheets, slip-sliding through the wrinkles with a air of abandon. Boredom. A bad thing for a creative mind on a Friday afternoon. 

Word blindness

Pops and I were working a code word puzzle in the evening standard. It's one where I was being a bit risky with putting in the letters (feeling like sometimes I had to try it in order to move forward). One of the cross checks could have been SHAM or WHAM, with the word WHIM/SHIM/WHOM/SHOM. We eventually decided it had to be WHOM - a word neither of us knew but were pronouncing WOM. Only on looking it up in the dictionary did we realise this is that commonly used word whom. 

whom

huːm/

pronoun

1. 1.

   used instead of ‘who’ as the object of a verb or preposition.

We laughed at ourselves. 

1. 
   

   
   

   
   

Pets in the supermarket

Been to the vets (by public transport) on the way home popped into the supermarket. Put the cat basket in the trolley and hoped nobody would notice. Which almost nobody did. Is it bad? My feeling is that while not quite ok it's less bad than taking a dead mouse in one of my shopping bags and accidentally tipping it out on the floor by the checkout...

Close

In the dead of night lying wrapped around the hard body of my bedfellow. Secure in the arms that hold me. Nuzzling into his neck and toying with his earlobe. The bed is familiar. The night dark and shadows in the room are normal to me. The trundling night trains passing have become soothing over time rather than distracting. These are the times. The times of whispered dreams and hopes. Of soothing words and accompanying strokes. A hand over hair, brushing skin of the shoulder and hollow of the lower back. Comforting. Lovely. 

Autumn

Silver birch trees flashing the pale undersides of their leaves in the wind. A delightful flickering of brightness in the autumn sunshine. 

Post exercise blues

Been having some bad days recently. Despondent and out of sorts. Itchy feet. Unhappy. I've been putting it down to a sense of boredom and feeling the need to broaden my horizons. Someone at work today said she knew exactly what it was. Post gym blues. She said I complain of this on the days after I've been in the gym. Post seretonin come down or something. Apart from the health benefits, I always knew the gym was bad for you!!

The world according to...

Tottenham mother on the school run (by bus). Talking on the phone to a girlfriend, child chattering next to her whispering why do you always do this to me never talk to me...

The mother is saying

I have to say though, bacon tastes nice in a sandwich. Nah but bacon doesn't count as pork. I don't eat pork but I so eat bacon and sausage...

The kid starts whinging in a way that sounds like a cat meowing.

Wandering hands

It's hard to decide whether its accidental or purposeful brushing or touching, when crammed together on the tube swaying from the motion of the train on its forward trajectory. I became aware of a light touch in the groin area and saw a mans large hand with the knuckles leaning against me, so I moved away slightly. My stop came. I got off walking with the throng of crowd towards the escalator, stepped on, suddenly aware of a body close behind me. Tall. Sort of looming. But escalators are crowded in rush hour and people do step up right behind you in these busy times. And then the brush of something lightly against my buttock. Could be accidental. Could be. Just not at all sure that it was. A cursory backward glance revealed the same man with the knuckles. And then I stepped off at the top and walked away. 

Hastings

Being by the sea is a lovely thing - mesmerising and in persistent motion with light sparkling off it in ways that delight the brain and brighten the atmosphere. 

And then there are the things that we don't see everyday - the mangled ironwork of the burned-down pier rising out if the sea, massive baby seagulls sitting on car roofs in the car park, fishing boats beached on the shingle having been dragged out if the water, double story beach huts for drying fishing nets, man frying white fish freshly caught and tucking it into fresh buns. 

Public Transport

The trouble with public transport (and I'm not going to moan about late, crowded and cancelled because while its par for the course we are actually pretty lucky in London with tubes every couple of minutes and our iconic red buses) is the presence of occasionally over-hot and large other passengers. A man sat next to me on the bus. He sat right next to me. His thigh touched the full length of mine and he was wearing a scratchy woollen sleeveless cardigan that itched my bare arms (26 degrees today - really no need for a jacket). As we rode along I gradually became aware of his temperature. Not sure whether it was rising or just seeping through his jeans. He was very tall and broad. I started to feel quite enclosed. And very hot. It was only when he got up and left that I realised that I was feeling his sweat through my skirt. Sadly I didn't have enough time to cool down because a woman took his seat almost straight away. Nowhere near his bulk but her upper thigh is against mine. And I can feel the heat heating up again... 

Breakfast streaking

Bails thought she had left the front door keys in the door of Rodney's flat. Forgetting that despite it being a side basement door that there is a view to the street she opened the door in the buff to check just as a woman walked past. 

Disgusting people

I work in an open plan office. I have just seen a colleague diagonally opposite dig his ear with a bic biro lid and then examine it before he licked it off. Ugh. Bet he is a nose picker as well. 

Cravings

I'm wondering, 8 months on whether I will ever be able to slake my craving for beef. Particularly in steak or burger form. Will it take me 26 years (length of my vegetarian gap) to catch up?

Classy bar staff

I came into a classy restaurant with a bar. Sat on a comfortable stool at the marble topped bar. Ordered a cocktail sitting where the barman makes the drinks. It is happy hour. I got two cocktails for the price of one. The barman spilled chipped ice around that looked like rough cut diamonds. The other clientele were all couples. I watched the barman and wished mr was here. By the time I started my second cocktail I was perhaps one sheet to the wind and managed to tip some down my shirt. Barman just quietly placed some additional napkins by my setting without even seeming to notice what I had done. Classy. Very classy.