little.red.boat.
Friday, November 30, 2001
I'm going to Italy tomorrow.
Has anyone in life experienced the "Vacuum" kiss? Because, this guy, Hugh, Hugh Morris, talks about it as if it's entirely the norm. I've heard of the phrase 'sucking face', or, now I write it down, I'm not sure that I have. Did I just make that up? No, I'm sure I've heard that said. "They were sucking face..." "no, you wouldn't have seen the explosion, you were too busy sucking face..." I think I've heard it. Not sure.
Anyway, Hugh makes it sound like it's a regular part of courtship. Like smalltalk - the "vacuum" kiss. Like meeting parents - the "vacuum" kiss. Like arguing over which tv programme the robot that said "biddybiddybiddy" was from... - the "vacuum" kiss.
Like it's the run-of-the-mill progression from normal kissing-kissing, the "vacuum" kiss.
Is is only me that hasn't had this particular pleasure? It isn't. Is it?
Right, for anyone who has read the book, (and I'm sure we all should have done, else how can we kiss?) We're talking the section after put variety into your kisses, which includes the fabulous Nose section;
Feel the rolling orb quiver under your lips.
sorry, that's the 'eyeball' section. I thought I'd give myself a run-up. So, after molesting your loved-one's quivering orbs...
'Then, when you have done this, run your lips down along the line of her nose.'
depending on context, give yourself time for this. For example, I have a long nose. I'd pencil in around half an hour, probably.
'when you reach the wrinkle of her nostrils, bury your lips deeply...
mm-hmm. we're talking about nostrils. November in Britain, again. I wouldn't.
Anyway. The "Vacuum" kiss. Away from sucking snot.
Far away. As far as possible.
The point, it seems, is to create, I think, a vacuum. which is, as far as I remember it, a bad thing. Nature abhoring it and so on. Or something. You suck your girlfriend's face.
...first opening your mouth just a trifle after you have been resting peacefully with closed lips. Indicate to your partner, by brushing her teeth with the tip of your tongue,
not just up and down mind, left to right and in small circles too. And Don't forget to brush the Gums!...
that you wish for her to do likewise
"If she doesn't respond she's probably asleep or bored mindless (what little mind she had to start with, eh Hugh?" Grrr.) "You can wake her up soon enough, You Are The Aggressor, remember?"
the moment she responds, instead of caressing her mouth,...
...which would be a Nice thing to do...
suck inward as though you were trying to draw out the innards of an orange.
"And don't stop til you taste Giblets! Come on boys, we're gutting This bird clean!"
The section goes on, in a pain into pleasure, pleasure into pain, 'It's exciting to near-suffocate!' kind of business, more of which later in the book, to describe the whole feeling of the kiss.
And I don't want to intrude on that moment. It's private.
But the kiss ends. And I love this.
'When you decide that you have had enough of it...
about two pages ago, but thanks for asking...
don't suddenly tear your mouth away. At least don't do it if there are other people present in the house. For, they will become startled by the sound of a loud report which will result if you act suddenly
...like a bomb, a big huge bomb, detonated in the front room of your parent's modest suburbian semi-detached house - people will have their eardrums blown out 50 miles away by the power of you unfastening your face from the face of your kissee...
any vacuum when suddenly opened to air gives off a loud popping noise. The procedure is simply to open first a corner of your mouth. You will hear a faint hissing sound when this is done.
I'm thinking tupperware.
Is anyone else thinking tupperware?
Planning the 'most romantic moments in my life' yet to come, I don't want to have to think myself into being a 'stay-fresh-sandwich-box' tm.
Call me unadventurous...
i just tried to write a personal post. about life at the moment, staying with my father. And I can't. I don't think I want to share that. I don't think you'll want to read it. I'm slightly worried. I'm scared not to be funny. ooh. not sure what this blog thing's for.... bollocks to it.
As Meg says, the whole 'art of kissing' is available online. Which, I guess, saves me typing and you having to listen to me talking at you all the way through. Unless you read this site, where I'm going to carry on talking at you. That's the point, isn't it?
Thursday, November 29, 2001
how to approach a girl
from The art of kissing pub 1936.
Now, I'm going to try and give this to you straight, as the good book advises. And I will try to interrupt as little as possible. I will fail, but I will try. So if there's a bit too much oscutlatus- (new one on me, too, don't worry, it'll come up later...) -interruptus, I'm sorry. I just can't help myself. As far as snide comments go, I'm sitting on my hands. Apart from the typing, that is. Apart from the typing, I'm sitting on my hands. Here we go;
how to approach a girl as i already said. sorry.
'In kissing a girl whose experience with osculation is -'
There you go. osculation. It means kissing. Why he didn't just say kissing, I don't.... ooh, sorry.
'- [is] limited, it is a good thing to work up to the kissing of the lips. Only an arrant fool...'
"Oh you Arrant fool you! Unhand me, you cad!"
I'm sorry, it sounds stupid.
'seizes hold of such a girl, when they are comfortably seated on the sofa, and suddenly shoves his face into her's and smacks her lips.'
'Smacks' in what sense, whateveryournameis? Hugh. Are we still talking about our friend, the Tall Man, The Aggressor? I'm just picturing being in a romantic setting, on a sofa, say, and some handsome chap leaning in and whapping me in mouth. I probably wouldn't kiss him. That's all.
'Naturally, the first thing he should do is to arrange it so that the girl is seated against the arm of the sofa, while he is seated at her side.'
Naturally naturally, because...
'In this way, she cannot edge away from him when he becomes serious in his intentions'
Although she can hit him over the head with a nearby table lamp.
'This done, on some pretext or other, such as a gallant attempt to adjust the cushions behind her, he manages to insinuate his arm, first around the back of the sofa and then, gradually, around her shoulders.'
Published in 1936. Here I am, laughing at the outdatedness of this all, and men still do this all the time. Grown-Up men. Show of hands, who's been on the giving or recieving end of this move? Come on, Hands Up!
Now you've got your hand up, why not slip it round the shoulders of whoever's next to you? You'll probably make their day. They Probably want to kiss you, by God.
Coming up, my favourite bit. I'll shut up.
If she flinches, don't worry. If she flinches and makes an outcry, don't worry. If she flinches, makes an outcry, and tries to get up from the sofa, don't worry.
Worry! Worry! What's she got to do? Stab you?
Hold her, gently but firmly, and allay her fears with kind, reassuring words. Remember what Shakespeare said about "a woman's no!"...
...just before he got kicked in the nuts...
However, if she flinches, makes an outcry, a loud, high-pitched outcry, mind you, and starts to scratch your face, Then start to worry or start to get yourself out of a bad situation. Such girls are not to be trifled with...Or kissed.
And that's the end of that.
Don't do this at home, kids, you don't want to get blood all over mummy's new sofa.
The interesting thing is, I think I might have met this guy at a house party in my teens. Or someone like him. No matter.
Wednesday, November 28, 2001
"The art of kissing" published 1936, re-printed 1988.
It was in a rack next to some postcards of 50?s pulp fiction covers, with titles like 'Naked on rollerskates', 'Fast, loose and lovely' and most memorably, 'Take it and like it'. I was buying a set of the postcards, planning to send one every day until I'd run out. Not realising that with life as it is at the moment, I'd run out of interesting things to say after the first two. But that's a different matter. At first I thought 'The art of kissing' was just a greeting card, but when I was out of the gallery and on the bus, I realised it was a book. Not a thick book. But a book. A kissing manual for boys. With three whole pages on Different kinds of kisses, and two whole pages on How to kiss girls with different sizes of mouths, which conjured up images of women only able to eat through a straw, and people with flip-top heads. According to the book, the contrast is not usually that big, but they were fun mental pictures for a while.
The book starts conservatively, with the science of why people kiss - Glands, apparently - and Approved Methods of kissing;'The only kiss that counts is the one exchanged by two people who are in love with each other'All thus far was well, and good, and wholesome, and tasted like huge chunks of apple pie.
My problems started to arise in the section Kisses are but preludes to love which sounds very cute, if a little unrealistic.'Man and woman are born to love, marry, and beget children'Oh, That's where I've been going wrong.'Man... must take the initiative... He must be strong, willing, physically able. He Must be the Aggressor'The Aggressor. Sounds like a Van Damme movie. A bad one.'It is therefore necessary that the man be taller than the woman.'This sentence from nowhere. How is this suddenly a forgone conclusion? Ahh, read on though. All is reasoned in the next sentence;'The psychological reason for this is that he must always give the impression of being his woman's superior, both mentally and especially physically'Oh dear. My problems with this are manifold. Well, essentially 3. But 'my problems with this are 3', doesn't sound as good.This man, what's his name? Oh, Hugh. Hugh carries on for another half-page about the importance of height in domination and the impossibility of a kiss being anything at all when the man is wee and the woman is big. Hugh doesn't like short people. In fact, a couple of pages later it seems to emerge that Hugh doesn't care for women either. Not much;
- His Woman? Obviously this is only in terms of snogging, so I can see where they're coming from, but it still has a ring of "grunt! man make fire! Man kill mammoth! Man barbeque mammoth on fire! Man taller than woman and therefore mentally and especially physically superior! Grunt!" Or however cave people talked.
- Tall people, of course, are, or give the impression of being, mentally superior. Is this so?
- If someone goes into a kissing situation feeling mentally and especially physically superior to his prey - and prey is what this is starting to sound like - quite frankly he's more likely to get kicked in the shin than his tonsils tickled. That might just be my opinion, I don't know.
'You now must flatter her. All women like to be flattered. They like to be told they are beautiful even when the mirror throws the lie back into their ugly faces.'Mmmm. Cheers there, Hugh. Up yours. This comes at the end of a section on how to approach a girl. Which is one of the single most hideous bits of the book.
I'll post it later.
What kind of world is it where people cannot find the strength or inclination to rise up and manually draw the curtains with their own two hands?
What kind of world is it where the design, manufacture, fitting and use of pulley systems to draw curtains For you is supported by the curtain buying masses?
It's a world of suburban hell.
It's my world this week.
four videos a day from blockbuster and curtains on pulley-systems. And white carpets.
Does anyone want to swop?
I'd happily sell my week, if anyone wants to buy.
15p or best offer.
Sunday, November 25, 2001
now click your heels together three times and say "there's no place like home..."
Last week someone asked me where I was from, and I was a bit stumped. Up until the beginning of last year I would have had no hesitation in saying "Manchester - well, ish" since I'd been there 8 years and it was beginning to feel like home. But now I'm not from there anymore. I've got no ties there, no home, no real relationship to it anymore. So I'll just say I'm from London. Which I am. Well, I was. In that I was born here. And lived here for two thirds of my life. So that constitutes 'From', doesn't it? Just because I don't live here now. Still From here, like. What relationship do you have to have to a place to say you're from there? I'm certainly not From Iona, and would feel really weird saying I was. I'm from London. I suppose.
I'm sorry, I appear to be talking shite.
I'm not actually sure I have anything to say today. Which is funny, because I've just had a really nice afternoon bimbling around North London with meg. I'm from London, you know.
I left St Albans at lunchtime to come into London (where I'm from), and although I'm going back that way later, well, the next town, I've had to drag my size-of-Canada 15-ton bag all the way down here and back again? And why? Because there are no such things as Left Luggage facilities at train stations anymore. "Security risk, you know" said the man at the ticket office.
Terrorists worldwide have been consulting, and apparently what they've decided is that the most debilitating hit to the west will be made by bombing a small commuter-belt train station. I agree whole-heartedly. Bomb away, chaps.
I've added more links!
And the guest book is back from holiday! yay!
And I know how to do bold things too!
This is very exciting.
Unfortunately I'm not kidding. I am actually very excited.
Very.
And all because I'm at Meg's house! And she knows what she's doing!
Saturday, November 24, 2001
Do you have a walking speed of under 2 miles an hour?
A large unwieldy pram carrying anything up to three children?
An elderly and infirm relative you want to amuse for a day?
Then St ****** market is the place for you! Hours of fun for all the family as you battle through a market street the width of a small sofa, with points awarded for every shin struck - double for groins! Annoy shoppers, terrorise stall-holders, take over whole pavements! And all this riotous fun, Absolutely Free!
I swear that the people of this small, well-to-do commuter belt town near London, must be almost constantly shagging, if the number of women with prams and toddlers in the town today is any measure. Billions, there were. Actually, and very literally, billions. And Yes, I do mean literally. Which is funny because it's one word that I hate to hear mis-used, as it is, quite literally, All the time.
I was walking behind one couple with a pram, shuffling along at the pace of roadkill, and walking in front of another family, mother, father, child on legs and child on wheels. The child on wheels was making loud and demanding conversation with her mother, all the time with a large dummy in her mouth. I have no idea how the woman understood her child. I guess it's like people with dogs. I guess. Maybe she couldn't. It's possible. As far as I could tell, the girl was crying out for 'Steven Sonderburgh' and 'Mussels on flat-rind', and the mother kept saying "Yes! That's right!" and "No, darling, not yet!", and the last thing I heard, before I found a break in the stream of people and headed off, sharply to my left, was a high-pitched burble of "I doughnut tye-dye snapshut doodah wheel nyaaaaih!" and "What's that darling, you want to go to Macdonalds? In a minute, kerry, in a minute." Amazing. Children constantly amaze me. Sometimes it's almost as if they're human.
Thursday, November 22, 2001
My Personal stereo and why I love her.
by anna pickard.
She's sitting on my knee as we speak, chewing through a tape, slowly, carefully, with great precision and attention to detail. Every few minutes or so, she'll cut off sound in the left headphone, so I'll turn from my typing, flick her onto auto-reverse, shake her a bit, and then flick her back again when she decides to play nicely. I don't mind. Because I love her. I do.
I've loved her since I bought her; around this time last year, from Argos in Oban, if you're interested, for a not unreasonable price, just before a 17 hour coach journey. It was a neccessary purchase, and I've never regretted it. I was in a hurry, so I bought an updated model of the personal stereo I used to have, which died after I poured half a can of coke over it - by mistake, you understand. The one before that had been terrible, its only redeeming feature being a rather natty pair of headphones, which were never the same after being caught in the car door and dragged along the M1 halfway to London. We arrived at a lay-by Happy Eater to discover I had a personal stereo with two frayed-wires sticking out of it.
But my present companion is still intact. On the outside at least. It seems more and more that she suffers from some form of electronic dementia. Although a two-way playing thing, she decided after a while that she was happier only going the one, and that that one was sometimes going too much for her. She tires easily, bless her. But you just have to wean her back to health. Unless you listen to tapes constantly - who does? It would certainly be hard for me, she's chewed up most of them in various spats and diva fits. - she forgets how to play them at all, and once you've gone through the proceedure slowly, usually crimping several metres of tape in the process, she's happy to sit and play for you as long as you don't move, stop, or rewind. Much.
And then, having ground her way through most of one side, she'll decide the effort is too much. and stop. Or flip the tape over and throttle it. So you have to catch her as soon as she gives up, make her stop, turn over manually, rewind and play to the middle of the next side. Every time you turn the tape over, you'll get slightly longer, and each new song, or even bit of a song is a triumph. Eventually you'll be working together in perfect harmony.
Until I put her down again for a couple of days, at which point she goes in a terrible mood and refuses to do anything at all for weeks.
But I love her. I do. Why else would it be called a 'Personal' Stereo? It's a stereo only I know how to work. And come what may, I Will make it work.
It's very, Very personal.
All this because I just bought some cheap albums on tape at HMV and the man looked at me like I was insane. It's not like I was asking for 8-tracks, is it?
He just didn't know my personal stereo. I couldn't give her up. She'd probably kill me in the night. You'd wake to find me throttled by headphones, lynched by yards of crinkled audio-tape, choked by a clear plastic hinged box. I'm telling you.
Aeroplane in the morning.
Quiche Now.
I saw the Harry Potter film this afternoon.
hmm.
I didn't think I'd be disappointed, seeing as I'd not read the book or anything.
I wasn't disappointed, so I suppose I was right. I was confused, yes. Bored at times, yes. Critical, yes, grumpy, yes, But Never Disappointed.
That's why it's always important to go into these things with an open mind.
So you can hate them unreservedly knowing that you're not being unreasonable. Not much.
this was the article I was thinking about yesterday. Not very comfortable reading for me, as I've heard it and said it a few too many times before, and it's become an entirely logical concept to me. But over the last couple of weeks, I've been thinking, and slightly sore though it might be, I have to admit that it doesn't stand up to scrutiny well. In fact it starts to sound more and more like shite.
Another beautiful day in the city, the sun shining in a frosty kind of way, wandering round charity shops (me, not the sun...), being very self-controlled and sitting in quiet places looking like a twat on a mobile phone. Well, not looking like. I suppose it's difficult to Look like a twat on a mobile phone without actually Being a twat on a mobile phone. Not that everyone with a mobile phone looks like a twat. That's illogical. I'm just not used to it anymore. I used to be very anti-, and then when I discovered that they helped reduce the time wandering round looking for lost and constantly late friends in any number of bars and cafes, i became very pro-. Then I moved to an island and lost reception. For a year and a half. Now I'm back on the mainland, my bill's going to go throught the roof, and my head's going to melt into a small pool on the floor.
Fine. It's all good.
Cinema I think.
I feel like I've been in a bubble. And, contrary to what I might have thought, bubbles burst aren't scary at all...
I bought a book for a friend yesterday. Something I know he'll love. More a pamphlet really, "The art of Kissing", published in about 1936. The problem is I didn't realise quite how funny it was until I got it home, and now I'm going to have to go to the back of beyond to get another before I leave town. I think I may serialise it. Watch this space.
It starts off all very proper, segways into high comedy and ends up talking about electric shocks and minor S&M.;
Right. I'm off to M&S.;
Wednesday, November 21, 2001
I remember what the point was, it was a really interesting article in the Guardian rubbishing the "right person wrong time" concept, words that I've heard and said a few times. But I can't find the article and frankly I'm a bit too giddy to think seriously right now. I don't know why.
I do know why. People, noise, flashing lights and city things. I'd forgotten that I was as much me in a city as I am on a hill or a stony beach or in a boat or on an island. I do like it a lot. And I'm thereby giddy.
And I don't think I've eaten today. dash.
The sand's running out on this thing anyhow. I'll come tomorrow, it's by far the cheapest thing in town.
I've just reminded myself of something, which is not my original point, or even a very interesting one, but true all the same;
I Can't Play The Guitar.
That's it. I'm aware that a lot of other people can't play the guitar. It's quite a common thing not to do. But the reason is this. While all my other fingers work just fine, bending-wise, slowly or fast, little gentle arcs of fingerness, my little finger doesn't. This may be a common affliction. I've no idea. Maybe it's shameful. Again, I don't know. But when I wish my little finger to hit something, that's exactly what it does, it hits, really hard. It pops from poised to pointing really fast, and I don't aim it right, I have to will it to pop back to poised and aim again. So some chords are fine, I can find them, and play them for as long as you like, no problem. It's all good. Give me a song with one chord, or with lots of chords not using little fingers and i'm fine. Well, not fine, I'm still quite amazingly shite, but fine comparatively.
And I have tried. I really have. I've tried to play chords using my gammy little finger. But to hear people's reaction, you'd think that watching someone with a jerky little digit is the funniest thing they've seen since they last saw someone fall into a puddle. Or saw someone have a puddle fall onto them by the wheels of a car. - I know what I mean... - I can't be the only person in the world, surely? Not the only one on the earth with a gammy finger. Surely not. It doesn't actually matter. I suppose having acoustic-guitar-little-finger is the same as having tennis elbow. I dodn't want to play the guitar anyway.
so i'm sitting in this 'no-personal-space-r-us-internet-sweat-shop' in the middle of Edinburgh. And the guy sitting next to me, who incidentally doesn't smell of sweat, which is a likable thing by itself, couldn't be typing any harder if his hands were wooden clubs, his wrists and elbows solid brass hinges, and the only way of typing was to bring them up above the head, aim, and hope to land on the right key.
I'm not sure what's going to be through the floor first, the keyboard, the whole desk, or this leather clad type-thor when i jump on his head.
arg.
Do you know how many men there are in the world? I can't be sure, but I would guess it's something like half of the population! Who knew?! That's amazing.
Because, you see, I've been on this tiny island. And the only people that come and visit are serious old churchmen. Or old druids. But generally old. Or older. And generally married. or gay. And the men that work there are also mainly married. Or gay. Or married And gay. Or completely adverse to anything like relationship or reality and so choosing to live and work on tiny islands. Mainly that, actually. Or very good friend material. You know what I mean.
Like me, I suppose. Lovely people that just don't float your boat. Little red or not.
But whoever they are, whyever they're there, whatever completely platonic realtionship you choose to have with them, the bare fact is this. Is also this. There aren't very many of them. Women outnumber men by, i don't know, four to one or something equally moronic. And I'm not used to seeing them around. Not so many of them. Hundreds there are, Hundreds. Maybe more. And all with penises. Or is it peni? Or Penius? Or penii? Whatever they are, it's almost definite that they've probably got them. Not that that's all a man is. Certainly not. But it's a feature. If a man were a house, it would probably be in the estate agent's description. I'm sorry, I appear to be writing without processing first. I do that. I'm going to go away a little now. I'm all giddy at being in a city and modern art things and stuff... I'm going to go and find my point. I had one when I came in here. I'll check my jacket pockets, they sometimes slip through the lining...
Tuesday, November 20, 2001
Incidentally, I did complain last night, if you can call it complaining, I think the exact words were these;
"Excuse me? Sorry to bother you, I don't mean to be a nuisance, but it's just I'm not sure if we've got a waiter or not. Sorry. It's just that we were shown to our table half an hour ago and we haven't ordered anything yet. No, no it's fine, the wine waitress came and the wine was lovely, but we've almost finished the bottle and we sort of wanted some food to go with, sorry. Is that ok? Thanks, thanks ever so much."
Ladies and Gentlemen, one of my first complaints ever. I'm very Very proud.
I'd not left the island since september. And then it was only for a day and a bit, no mixing with people or shops or public transport as such, just straight into Glasgow, a night in a bar and back again. Before then the last time I left was june, when I went down to the countryside outside manchester to pack all my things into boxes, spent one evening in the city, the whole of that evening in a bar, and that was it. Really the last time that I did the whole reality thing was January.
Chuffing Nora.
So on friday I left. Sad to go and excited, worried and happy and nevous and bouncing. And tired. But after four days in that lovely, but wierd and borgeouis hotel, I'm in the city. Spent the afternoon wandering around big shops, checking where I'd put my wallet and things, and trying not to get run over.
I'm going to get run over. I just know I'm going to get run over. I'm fine at the moment, I'm being extremely, overly, cautious, but as soon as I get my city head back on, I'm going to get run over. I just know it.
I went to the city Art gallery, something I've wanted to do, just to wander round in the quiet looking at beautiful things and stirring things - not like blenders, we're not talking about browsing at argos here, we're talking about stirring of the soul. Obviously. - , for so long. Granted, the walls were full of romantics and renaissance things and many other things that I hate, and I sped round the rooms in big loops going 'No.....no.....no...oh God No......eurgh.....' every now and again stopping for something with a little life.
I'd forgotten that that was what I Do in art galleries. I had this beautiful romantisized picture of myself in my head standing, considering, gazing with rapt adoration at some masterpiece. I forgot that most art is simply pretty pictures that I've no time for whatsoever. What on earth am I talking about? I'm sure I had a point. Or a story or something. No, can't remember.
Really, i'm now working under false pretences. This is not scribblings from the western isles, from hundreds of miles from civilisation, it scribblings from a busy internet cafe in the middle of a big, huge, scary city, which is no different from anyone or anything else. I think i may have just lost my one selling point. Until Christmas. I've lost my niche til christmas.
Monday, November 19, 2001
I’m terribly impressed with myself. I almost managed to complain yesterday. We’d been having a conversation about being more assertive, and I suppose I was in the mood to do so. I should explain that although I’m very exacting, no, enthusiastic, about the way my food is prepared, I never complain in case – oh I don’t know – I upset someone, or they don’t like me anymore, or something.
Well, I’d ordered my food, and I sat there, staring at it, and then I set about it with implements and chewed on it for minutes at a time, all the time thinking exactly what was wrong with it and in which way to phrase my complaint in order to sound reasonable yet disappointed and at the same time likeable, and I’d just got the wording to a fine point; when she came and asked if everything was okay, I’d smile sweetly and tell her exactly why it wasn’t, succinctly, pithily, assertively…
“Hi! Is everything alright?…”
“Yes! Great! Thanks!”
Damn damn damn damn damn.
I don’t know why I bothered, the waitress obviously hated us all anyway.
Oh, I’m so pleased, someone found my site looking for ‘aliens f*****g’
Sorry to disappoint. Next week, I promise.
Sunday, November 18, 2001
Now, I can't be sure of this, but I think I may be staying in Scotland's leading Hotel and Catering training placement centre.
Not sure what leads me to this conclusion, but it's probably one of several things.
1. The 'trays full of crockery being dropped'/meals ratio is around 3:1. And whenever this happens, the staff never look surprised, just resigned, and perhaps glad that it wasn't them. Not this time.
2. Whenever you try and order food your waiter will look surprised and a little scared. When you try and ask about the food you ordered an hour ago, they will say they'll go and check, and come back fifteen minutes later, red-eyed and blotchy, offering you a bread roll.
Don't ask them any questions. Don't ask what's in the salad. They'll stare at you confused and worried, hoping you'll give up or change your mind so that they don't have to go and ask their supervisor, who probably beats them.
3. Last night, the waiter nearly took my thumb off with a menu. I was still holding and reading it when he snapped it shut on my hand and wrestled it off me. It, and my thumb.
Bless them. I've done service jobs before, and I really like them, especially bars, I love being behind a bar. But this kind of training, I don't think I've ever been through. They don't look like they're enjoying it at all. Like child ice-skaters or something.
bless.
Saturday, November 17, 2001
Health spa or your local Spar, which is better value?
(or 'Luxury my Arse')
by anna pickard
Several things that I have never done, never in my 24 years.
1. Been skiing.
2. Seen ‘Bambi’
3. Eaten liver.
4. Smoked crack.
5. Stayed in a posh hotel.
And, you know, I’ve never felt my life lacking.
Several things that have happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, in a luxury hotel, in no particular order.
1. I went mountain-biking in a forest.
The one time I got off my bike, to take a picture of a very beautiful furry tree just off the road, I stepped in the biggest pile of poo you could ever hope to see in your life.
If that Is the kind of thing you would hope to see.
I don’t know. It takes different strokes.
2. I realized the multi-tiered way of these places.
I went to ask about newspapers last night, at reception, thinking there may be some clever way of having them materialise outside my door; that being the sort of thing that happens in hotels, I would imagine. The nice young man behind the desk stared at me, and nasally enquired – “I’m sorry, madam, But You’re not in an Executive Room, are you.”
I said no, having noticed that our room, although en-suite, didn’t have a toilet-roll holder, and was pretty sure in the belief that whatever executive rooms were, they would almost certainly have a toilet roll holder.
“No then” he said, explaining that there would be some available in reception, and I should come and get one, but early, before 7 say because otherwise they probably would have run out.
Hmf.
3. I took a shower. A power shower.
Not doing That again. I think it may have taken most of the skin off my back. I’ve never met such a fierce spray. It was like having a thousand needles thrown at you by a thousand tiny needle-throwing monkeys, with tiny needle-throwing devices.
From the moment I stepped in, and was almost forced back out again, I should have given up and held whichever parts of myself I wanted washing in the toilet and kept flushing. It would have been so much less painful.
Instead, I stood there, forcing my hand through the mighty falls to reach the shampoo, standing leaning back at 45 degrees as the pointy water shot into my eyes and through my neck.
I’ve never been so glad to be Not in the shower as I am right now.
4. Food.
And much of it. I actually thought I was coming to a health spa type thing, but one glance at the ‘very big lumps of meat served in cream’ menu put paid to that. I was hoping that after two days or so of eating healthily I’d be confident enough to go swimming, but I don’t think that’s going to be the case.
Ach well. I’ll eat healthily for the rest of the winter. Although I haven’t been within 150 miles of a Chinese restaurant or pizza delivery firm for almost a year, so that may be hard.
They’re charging me mightily for use of the computer bunker.
I’m going to go and lie down. It’s good for you.
And it's free.
Thursday, November 15, 2001
panicking.
packing.
In a state of high emotional flux.
and panic.
i already said panic.
leaving tomorrow, 7.15am
must pack.
and panic.
Wednesday, November 14, 2001
now it's tomorrow. I'm still not packed.
and now i'm panicking. Two days til i leave the island.
party tonight.
right. good. all will be well. I'm sure.
three days til I leave the island and I haven't started packing to go or putting my life belongings into storage in the attic.
It'll all be fine. After all, tomorrow is another day. It's wednesday.
And I've just booked my tickets to London and to Italy.
Why am I going to Italy? I'm broke.
Still, I was invited, and, well, I'm going now. Great. I'm going to Italy. How bizarre. Good. Right. Haven't quite got my head round this yet. Great. I'll work it out tomorrow. Which is wednesday. Good.
I went on this date once, with a nice man that I’d met for a brief spell at a bad party.
We’d only talked for about 15 minutes in a crowded room full of terrible music, smoke, and a faint odour of sick, but he seemed funny enough, and it was in a double-datey kind of way that I agreed to go out one night in the next week.
Everything was going quite well, he was older than I had thought, and not quite as funny as I remembered, but it was pleasant enough, and conversation didn’t die too badly or too often. Well, not at first. An hour and a half or so into the date, we got stuck into a big discussion about institutionalised
Religion (what can I say? I’m not very good at small talk), at which point he came out of the closet and declared himself to be Christian, which was fine, most of my best friends are people of great faith, and I respect and love them for it... For some reason he seemed to think that I would have a big reaction to his revelation, and when I didn’t he seemed pleased and surprised, which was nice.
I told him about my familiarity with the Church, and that although I could see how faith was good for a lot of people, I just couldn’t rationalise a lot of the core things; body&blood;, resurrection, heaven, hell, that kind of thing. Especially the idea of someone being my ‘saviour’, that really narks me.
(disclaimer goes here. This is all just an episode and an opinion. Disagree, ignore, I’m just writing, whatever. sorry)
“It’s interesting you should mention that” he said. “I had a vision of heaven once…” And off he went, floating away on his own little cloud, telling me all about his vision of eternity for what seemed like an eternity, a strange vision that included saints and sinners, good Christian folk, everyone else in the whole wide world, Hitler’s mother and Jesus. “So you see”, he said “everyone goes to heaven!” As if it was the obvious and rational conclusion we should all draw from his imaginings, vision, whatever.
“That heaven?” I said.
“Yes”.
“But what you’ve just described is only the Christian idea of heaven, not everyone’s”
“Yes, I know. It doesn’t matter. Everyone gets to go there. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“No.” I said. Anna had been drinking all through this date and was getting cross. “What if I’m Buddhist, or Hindu, or a Viking, or whatever, what if whatever my faith leads me to strive for is nothing like that at all? Or just nothing? What then?”
“That’s the most beautiful thing about it” he said, “everyone goes to heaven. Whether They Like It Or Not.”
I almost screamed. Was I over-reacting? I don’t know. I do over-react, I know this, but I don’t know if I’d ever before or have ever since been so angry at an argument or the smug dogmatism with which it was delivered. So I said nothing, took three deep breaths, excused myself, went to the bathroom and climbed out of the window.
I didn’t really. I stood by the basins, calmed down, went back and changed the subject. But by then it was nearly time for the last bus anyway. I smiled goodnight, went and caught it, and went to bed still seething.
But the statement still makes me cross, can you tell?
Whether you like it or not, Indeed.
F*** That.
Tuesday, November 13, 2001
Interviewing people is scary. I've only ever been interviewed before, and I thought That was scary, but it's nothing to asking the questions. Especially when trying to extract an answer is like pulling teeth.
Conducting interviews, wading through treacle, remarkably similar experiences.
And more this afternoon. Bollocks.
oooh! I forgot. Today, Sophie, one of the girls that lives here, she's four, drew a picture of me and my house, on which she'd written her name for the first time all the way through without any help. I feel so honoured.
No I'm not broody. I'm Not.
The mystery of missing mail.
Alright, so three and a bit weeks ago, three of us (only three that I now of, it could be more…) post three important things, three important bits of mail that never materialise.
Mich posts her cancelled air tickets in order to get a refund. The tickets never arrive. Thus no refund. Mich is angry.
Moiz posts a cheque and a booking form, to some conference on conflict (or conflict resolution, whatever) the envelope never arrives. Moiz is spitting blood.
Myself, I post an important package. A package to a friend that I’ve promised will arrive. Today I get an e-mail asking when I will send it. I am sad, because this looks like I do not care. Grrr. Therefore I am cross with the post.
One answer was in the guardian the other day, but I don’t think that can be it. My envelope contained leather. Do snails eat leather?
Monday, November 12, 2001
So, all morning cleaning, and now entering a full afternoon of the same. I know in my heart that my workshop is getting tidier, i know that everything is finding a home and feeling happy and secure there. I've thrown out seven binbags full of rubbish this morning alone.
So why does it look like there's been an extremely localised tornado, and feel like it will never be tidy ever, Ever again? I shoul never have started. I'll never stop.
Moral dilemma of the day; If you knew that your friend was leaving because it was the end of their contract, and not particularly because they wanted to go, and you were on the interview panel for their job, would you try and make the candidates you interviewed admit to illegal habits and bad oral hygiene and other unsavory things, in order to wipe the floor clean for your friend to stay?
I don't think I would either. Damn it.
(But, ask me tomorrow, just in case. I'm known to have fluctuating morals.)
Sunday, November 11, 2001
Spending the day developing films and ringing around trying to work out where I'm going when I leave the island. Fine, so far so good;
A: Leave here 7.15 next Friday morning. This is too early, but happens to be the only ferry that connects with a bus, so we'll leave that be and grumble quietly. grumble grumble. quietly.
B: Four days break in luxury spa hotel, which we get to stay in extremely cheaply because of who we work for. Gosh, what a bind. Swimming and saunas and gyming and film-watching, golf and lovely walks and all I'll want to do is sleep for four days. But I Will get up. I shall force myself to have fun. Oh, the trauma of it all.
C: Go to Edinburgh for several days. Not sure what I'm doing there. I have one two hour meeting, but have somehow ended up staying for four days. Edinburgh, apparently nice this time of year, but cold. This is fine. We do cold.
D: Daaan saaaf. Move down toward London, via two outlying commuter-belt towns. See first my ex-boss (ish), line manager, friend and mentor, and his lovely wife. And then go and see my dad and step-mother.
I must, must remember to take Christmas presents for my father and his wife. Last time I was going to see them I remembered only fifteen minutes before the train was due to leave that his birthday was in four days time and that I'd also neglected to send them anything for Christmas, so turning up empty-handed would look a little bad. Checking the time, I ran into the nearest shop, luckily a delicatessen, (because God only knows how much my dad Loves cheese. I'm sure I'd like to think that God would have more to think about than my father and dairy products, but we'll let that go. Theology is for another day.) And ran out bare minutes later with generous amounts of local brie, stilton and mature cheddar, plus a box of mixed highland soft cheeses and some oatcakes.
And on to the train I went. For a four hour journey. From the train station to the bus, on to the airport and there boarding a small plane, for a short flight down to London. Well, a short flight down to London excluding the two hour delay in taking off.
Then on to another train.
On the first train, all was well. For the first twenty minutes or so I don't think I smelled too bad. Or at least, I didn't notice it. And I don't think anyone else did either. No one actively moved away from me, but then, no one actively chose to come and sit by me either. And I would see people subtly sniff the air and then their own clothing, not sure whether it was themselves that were smelling slightly off or not. Gradually, over the next few hours, shrinking in my window seat in a busy train carriage in the middle of the day I passed from fragrant, to smelly, through reeking, to rank.
Or rather, I didn't. The cheese did, I didn't. I want to make that clear.
But I couldn't leave the cheese. This was expensive cheese here, good cheese - no, Great cheese - and an amazing present for my cheese-loving dad.
On the bus it was worse. Buses are smaller than trains, and warmer. Granted, with so many people, it took slightly longer for everyone to pin down who smelt, but they worked it out in the end. And everybody stared at me. I felt like the playground punch-bag, the meek little boy that got picked on at my nursery school, that everyone pointed at, and called smelly-cheese-face; but this time it was true - Because I Was smelly-cheese-girl, and there was no denying it. I smelt of cheese. Really, really badly. Or rather my cheese did. Not me. I should make that clear.
The plane was great. I must admit, the plane turned the whole experience around for me. We'd been waiting in the lounge for two and a bit hours, me with my coffee, and my book, and my hand-luggage, which smelt of old things, big animals and the countryside. It really, really peffed. I got a whole row of seats, pretty much a whole section to myself. Gorgeous window seat, legs stretched out on the seats beside me, no one between me and the stewardess when the drinks trolley came round. And that's where I hope little smelly-cheese-face is now, I hope he's happy, wherever he is. I hope he's revelling in his uniqueness, because smelling of cheese taught me several things:
- That 'smelling of cheese' highlights how good the concept of 'Not smelling of cheese' is.
- That personal space is a very important and lovely thing.
- That even air-stewardesses look ugly when their faces are all screwed up against nasty cheese smells.
Of course, when I got there, my dad had been put on a no-cheese diet for the sake of his heart, and couldn't eat any cheese at all, which of course was always going to happen.
If I'd bought him an enormous hardback set of the complete Bill Bryson, and put my back out bringing those down, he'd have been put on a 'no smug-travel-writers' diet, for the sake of his spleen or something, and we'd have had to throw those away too. We kept the Brie. Brie I like. The rest went the way of all things. To Luton town dump. It awaits us all eventually.
Where was I? Oh yes.
E: then I'm seeing big sis. Hurrah!
F: then off to Huddersfield.
G: then back here. I think.
And that's it. Hopefully by then it'll be Christmas.
really nice weekend, the highlight of which (don't laugh. Don't.) was playing trivial pursuit with milk and warm cookies in front of a nice big fire. Well, the pub's closed, what are you supposed to do?
the lowlight of which was waking up at 5.30 this morning sure of only one thing. That I was going to be extremely and violently sick, extremely soon. I was right. bleurgh. muchly.
And I have no idea why.
Saturday, November 10, 2001
You know when you eat something really greasy and your mouth has a inch thick coating of bleugh all the way round, inside, for hours? Is there any way of not having that? Some kind of caustic acid type stuff? Or some kind of metal scrapy thing? Because i've had this greasy mouth for eleven hours now and it's getting really very annoying.
Eiuw.
Friday, November 09, 2001
Small talk around here is getting increasingly dull. Every conversation is a mixture and variation of several short phrases….
“I’m cold”, “cold isn’t it?”, “my, but it’s cold.”, “colder than it was yesterday”, “yes, it’s very cold.”, “don’t know if I’ve ever been so cold” etc etc etc.
I don’t know whether it’s because to open one’s mouth for longer would lead to icing up of the mouth, vocal chords and brain, but everyone’s keeping it short.
But then, I’m looking out of the window and watching the white horses dance along the sound, and the more hardy tourists ooh and aah from under a billion layers, and the sea is a silvery slate colour, and the sky is beginning to darken over the snow dusted mountains on Mull. And it’s not that bad really. And I’m sad because next week I’m leaving the island for a month, and I’ll miss it all so much. Even if it is very, Very cold. Isn’t it though? Mm, very cold. Very very cold. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so cold. No indeed, it is very cold.
I’ve had a very difficult day, talking to people about things it is very difficult for me to talk to people about. But I’ve finally sorted things out, to the point that the bank may not now threaten to send the Vikings round anymore. And things are much clearer to me now. That ‘Banks being Bastards’ thing that I’ve heard so much about all this time turning out to be actually true has to count as the lesson of the day.
*sigh*
I just heard of a magnificent conversation between the local doctor and one of our staff. The doctor is incredible. Serving a Huge area, she deals with emergencies incredibly, first by phone, then, if need be, she’ll drive from her home (on the next island) to the ferry, the ferry will be brought out, and her across, and she’ll come and decide whether the helicopter needs to be called or not. Or she’ll drive the patient two hours across Mull to the big ferry or to the small hospital, administering oxygen and/or advice and comforting words all the way. She’s amazing. She can only get over here for one morning surgery a week, although you can go to Mull to see her any time, and while she’s over she seems to have to see half the island.
Naturally, she doesn’t have too much patience with head-colds. Neither would I.
The conversation ran as follows, and was pretty much the whole thing;
Doctor: What seems to be the problem here?
‘Patient’: I can’t breathe through my nose.
Doctor: Then breathe through your mouth.
‘Patient’: But my throat gets all dry and I cough.
Doctor: Aye, well, life’s a bitch sometimes, eh?…
Rest a bit. Liquids, all that.
Patient: Um. Thankyou. Goodbye.
I sometimes wonder how doctors cope with common sense stuff, or how they’re tempted to. Now I know. Fabulous.
Thursday, November 08, 2001
In a small act of rebellion against the weather, I have travelled to the ‘deck options’ bit of the solitare gamey thing on this computer, and set them to the desert island picture. It makes me feel better.
On a more serious note, the pub has decided to open for two hours a week during the winter, momentous news, and since I am busy for almost half of that time, I will therefore be drinking a week’s worth of beer between 10 and 11 o’clock this evening.
it's very very cold. whose idea was this winter thing anyway?
Yes, alright, thanks for the e-mails and the attached scientific studies. So sheep can reconise faces. Big Whoop.
They still poo in the road, and spend most of their time pissing, eating or bleating. I'm very impressed at the face recognising thing, don't get me wrong. But my point still must stand. Recognising another fleecy face after six months does not intelligence make, not entirely anyway. Even I can do that. Breaking a light beam in search of snacks does not always, Not Always anyway, make one a sparkling conversationist. This was my point.
The great thing about living on this island is the amusing, and surprisingly large amount of complete nutters that come here. And yes before you wonder, this is indeed leading to sheep, eventually. There is one particular hotel to which they mostly seem to flock (nutters, not sheep. Sheep are later. And that Was unintentional…), some very interesting New Age Spiritualists, Some interesting Energy Healers, an some people from mars. Or thereabouts. People who, when going walking on the island, take with them a jam jar with holes in the lid just in case they should happen to find a fairy on the way... So they can take it home. And feed it cakes.
(Christ! There’s hailstones the size of marbles out there! Fucking Hell! Where’s all this weather come from?)
Last year there was one group in particular that amused many folk with their naked dawn dancing and their fairy-summoning songs, and when they left the island one of the group leaders sent a letter of thanks. I am lucky enough to possess a copy of this. Now, most of the letter is your average run of the mill insanity, raven flying in through windows only fractionally open, moving jewellery around the room in symbolically interesting ways, and floating around the lady’s bath in a sponge bag “like a sailor, ,in a tiny barge, or boat…”
But the letter opens so;
“I came to Iona for the first time following the death of a close Parrot friend of mine, I had no idea whether I was doing the right thing in coming, but as I stepped on to the jetty, a sheep ran up to me, placed its front paws (?) on my shoulders, and nuzzled my nose. I knew then that I would always feel at home here…”
and ends…
“A friend of mine was lying in a field, thinking how dull it would be to be a sheep on Iona, when all of a sudden, a sheep walked up to him and said…” (Mark me – Said…) “ ‘It’s not boring to be a Sheep on Iona, I choose to be a sheep on Iona.’ Yours sincerely, blah blah blah”
So yes, maybe sheep aren’t stupid after all. Look, not only do they talk, they also mindread.
Wednesday, November 07, 2001
It's all cows and sheep today. That's not some bizarre rhyming slang, it just happens that all I seem to be able to think about or write about are cows and sheep. And here I go again. And then, I go to dinner, and get served Lamb Korma. It's All About cows and sheep. Everything. What the F**k is going on? They've got into my brain. It's that incessant bleating.
'meh', 'meh', 'meh', 'meh'.
It happens a lot round here. There are a lot of sheep.
Sometimes it's as if they're talking to each other, and then you realise how dull their conversation would be....
Sheep one: "I've just had a wee."
Sheep two: "good idea. ... I've just had a wee"
Sheep one: "And now i'm eating grass."
Sheep two: "A good idea. I am also going to eat grass."
Sheep one: "I now need a wee"
Sheep two: "I am presently eating grass."
Sheep one: "I have just had a wee."
Sheep two: "A Good idea..."
Because if they talk, they're certainly talking incessantly, and lets face it, and I have it on High Authority here, I got told this by the most powerful sheep farmer on the island; Sheep are really Stupid.
Friends of mine had freed the fourth sheep that day from the football nets on burnside stadium (the reasonably flat field by the side of the burn) when the farmer turned up. 'Your sheep keep getting their heads stuck in the nets' said I, being helpful. 'You know why that is, don't you?' he said, in a beautifully thick islands accent. 'No' said I, expecting some answer about refraction of light or sheep melancholia - 'it's because they're stupid.' He said with such immense venom - 'Really Stupid.'
So when I lay awake one morning soon after, listening to two sheep having some form of debate, or at least some form of call and answer thing, one high bleat, one low bleat; "MEH!", pause, "meh!", pause, "MEH!", pause, "meh!", pause, etc. etc. ad infinatum. As I attempteed to drift back to sleep, their conversation translated itself in my head;
sheep1: Where are you?
sheep2: I'm over 'ere!
sheep1: I can't see you!
sheep2: I'm over 'ere!
sheep1: What?
sheep2: I'm over ere!
sheep1: Where are you?
sheep2: I'm over 'ere!
sheep1: Yeah, but, Where Are You?
sheep2: What?
sheep1: Where are you?
sheep2: I'm over 'ere!
for hours and hours and hours. And hours. And once I'd fitted words to their bleats, I couldn't stop hearing them. Bit Edgar Allen Poe really. The sheep are in my head. Don't even get me started on the cows.
Not sure about the whole chicken as vegetable and thus allowable to vegetarians thing that big seester has been talking about, but I do have a friend that classifies himself as a Vegetarianian. In that he can eat anything that is vegetarian. So he’s fine with, say, Cows or Sheep, but not, say, lions or sparrow-hawks or something. I don’t know where he stands on Paul McCartney.
(But then, since we found out that cows are fed sheep and sheep are fed God-knows-what, I’ve no idea where he stands on any of this. But in theory, I like the rule...)
if cows are in water, are they absorbant or waterproof? And if they're absorbant, what happens to the milk? Does it turn all watery like skimmed milk is? Leather's not waterproof is it?
I'm pretty sure sheep can't swim. They definitely Are absorbant. They'd soon soak up too much and sink like a big fleecy stone. But then, sponges don't sink, do they? They float. And sheep are a bit like sponges in many ways. Except with faces. Some sponges have faces. But sheep have internal organs, and I don't think sponges have those. Although they might. What I know about sponges could be written on, well, could be written here, i suppose:
1. Some of them grow at the bottom of the sea, and some seem to manufactured out of nylon, brightly coloured dye and wire wool or something.
2. They smell after you've used them twice.
3. There are two kinds of sponges, people sponges and plate sponges. These should not be mixed up unless you particularly want to scrub your armpits with bits of yesterday's lasagne.
I don't know much about sponges.
And I don't like meetings. My brain is deep-fried brie. I want to explode. I'm going to go and throw paint around.
Well, apparently cows Can swim. Thankyou. But do cow-pats float? Who knows?
I know I'm certainly never going to my local pool on Cow Day again. Just in case.
Hours of endless committee meetings about budgets and staffing, chaired by a man that looks like an alien and I sit and I squirm and the room mists over an suddenly I’m thinking about toast or snow or angels or pencils. I’m not sure I’ll ever be any good at being a grown-up. I hate meetings, all of them, have the concentration span of a bean, and won’t stand for any kind of authority figure (or chair, or whatever other furniture they want to be today) telling me when I can talk or not talk. I’ll talk when I bloody well feel like it. So there.
What is it with meetings? Put the most rational, likeable people in a meeting setting and suddenly they’re all caught up in details and little things and complete bollocks, and they talk and talk and talk, in circles and completely off the point until all you want to do is shove a chair up their arse. A chair. Not The Chair. He looks like an alien.
Everyone loses perspective. It’s infuriating. Nothing really gets Done. You can be talking about the most exciting proposal in the world and it just will get talked and talked and talked into a hole from which you’ll never want to retrieve it because you’re so sick of the mention of it.
I hate meetings. I’ll never find grown-up work. I don’t know what I shall do.
Two more F****ng days. I shall shrivel up into a tight ball of frustration and then roll away into dreamsville. Mmm… toast …. Pencils …. Crispy bacon, cream cheese and avacado with salad on warm ciabatta … mmmm….
Tuesday, November 06, 2001
That’s it. Decided. I want to live in Canada. I don’t quite know why, apart from the fact that I went there eleven years ago and liked it. And every one I meet from Canada is quite nice. And Canada’s really big. I don’t quite know what I’d do in Canada. But then, I don’t quite know what I’d do in London Either, so there’s no argument there really. I’m not quite sure that one Can just dedcide to go and live in Canada. There’s probably something the Canadian Immigration people would have to say about it, but I’ll cross that bridge later. I mean, I’m not going to go and live in Canada today. In a bit. Good.
We just played trivial pursuit. I won! ish. yay!
Monday, November 05, 2001
What I would like to do for a living today
A: be a bear cub.
B: make sandwiches.
Discounting the bear cub option – it’s not very realistic, I’d have to lose quite a bit of height to make it even remotely plausible – I’m kind of stuck on the sandwich thing. I love sandwiches. I’m not sure if Lord Sandwich was made a lord because of his invention, but if he wasn’t, he certainly should have been. Hell, he should have been made pope. Think how much more palatable religion would be if there were more sandwiches involved… I know that a lot of people like sandwiches, I know I’m not special.
But you have to understand.
I really like sandwiches.
A lot.
And the funny thing is, I can’t cook. I’m not ashamed, I mean, I wish I could, but I’m just terrible. Everything burns (which is pretty much how I like most stuff) or is ridiculously peppery or garlicky or otherwise over-flavoured. I’m also auto-condimental, and will put salt on anything as soon as look at it, certainly before tasting it, as I believe that no-one in the world puts enough salt or pepper in stuff. I like the things I cook.
But no one I’ve ever cooked for shares this.
I try not to take this personally. I fail.
So when I have to cook for myself, I go simple. Pasta pesto garlic more garlic salt pepper voila. More salt.
Unless bread is involved, and suddenly it’s a different game altogether. Friends of mine who spend four hours on a meal for themselves spend two minutes on a sandwich and are done. I’m physically incapable. Everything has to be in the right order, and the right amount so to balance flavour. For every chunky thing there has to be creamy to balance, everything has to be cut just right that the sandwich won’t fall apart on first bite. And the more layers of flavour, texture and aftertaste you can get in the better, as far as I’m concerned. Like nothing else in my life, when I have a sandwich, it must be perfect. Perfect.
And shamefully, even if I’m not making them, that’s still the case. Sandwich shop workers all over this land hate me. With passion. But I can’t help myself. These things have to be done right. Else what’s the point. I ask for exactly what I want, how I want it, and the order I want it laid down on bread. And they stare at me with bloodlust. And that’s why I think I should make sandwiches for a living. Unless I own my own shop one day (called ‘Serious F***ing Sandwiches’, served by sandwich-angels for sandwich connoisseurs, where you don’t mind waiting ten minutes for two bits of bread because it makes you happy and anyone who asks for ham and cheddar cheese on white sliced gets stared at) then one day sandwich workers of the world are finally going to tire of me, and I’ll end up twitching on a tile-effect floor, before a glass fronted case full of goodies, buttery knife thrust deep into my heart.
It probably wouldn’t make any money, but I’d live well. I’d end up too fat to get out of my shop door.
And I wouldn’t care.
Because I’d have sandwiches.
the wind is blowing through every pore and the rain is soaking in. The only place to be is curled up in bed with books, boiling water in various forms, sad music on the stereo and a low heart. If anyone has a spare minute to send a small, rain-sodden, stormbound wreck an e-mail, anything that could raise a smile, i would be eternally grateful. I've had no mail for four days. everyone's gone. everyone not gone is sad. effervecent waves of affection would be yours. Ta.
*sigh*
Getting up before your hot water bottle has had time to get cold is against natural order, and should be banned.
A long weekend filled with goodbye meals and goodbye drinks and goodbye bonfires and goodbye tea parties and walks and hugs and baths and ceilidhs and concerts and time. And they haven't even gone yet. On mondays, the only ferry with a connecting bus from us to the next ferry is at 6.15am. All the volunteer staff, 23 people I like and work with, one perky annoyance whom I'd happily push off the jetty tied to a cow (cows can't swim, am I right?), will be leaving the island tomorrow morning at 6.15. Or to give it its full title, six-fucking-fifteen-in-the-fucking-morning. And I'll be there to wave them off. Because I'm nice like that? No, because I have to.
It'll be dark! They won't even see if I'm there or not, for God's sake! I'm grumpy as hell in the morning, I'll just stand there, shivering, chain-smoking, and with this "try and hug me and I'll stab you" look on my face. What's the point? Argh! why isn't my e-mail working?!? I'll walk down to the jetty in sub-arctic temperatures, wearing as many clothes as I can lay my hands on all at once, on top of my pyjamas, with my hot water bottle stuffed down one of my pairs of trousers feeling miserable because I hate saying goodbye, and miserable because I hate getting up, and miserable because I know that when I get up again four hours later, It will all have seemed like a dream except to dream it would have been far less hassle and far warmer.
And then I'll wander around all day wondering where all my friends have gone. And why it's so quiet. And why I'm not getting as many hugs and smiles as I'm used to as I go from here to there, or there to here. That's why I don't generally say goodbye at all. Because if you don't physically watch them leave, it's somehow possible to believe that they're just hiding, and may turn up again later, until after a few weeks they slip from your consciousness and you stop expecting to see them around. This is not a healthy way of dealing with people leaving. This I understand. But it hurts a bit less. It's funny, with so many people coming and going here I always thought that I would feel lucky and blessed and that, finding new friends and contacts so easily and often. But I don't feel like I've been finding new friends, just losing them. Because as soon as you get to know someone well enough to truly call them 'friend' they leave. Here, they come to work for between 6 weeks and three months, and then they go back to busy real life, and it's difficult to keep in touch when you're thrown back into what's usual for you, your job, your home, old friends... It makes the time you spent here seem like a dream, not something real.
Like having got up to wave people off at 6.15 in the morning will to me, when i get up again at 10ish and wander round feeling sad without knowing exactly why...
And out of all the people I've met this year, the only one that I know for sure is working on the island next year is the only one I would happily impale on a sharpened ancient standing stone. The perkiest girl in the world. One more year of trying not to punch someone. Joy.
Sunday, November 04, 2001
So, unbearable thing I’ve had to deal with today: my neck.
I like my neck. It’s a good neck. As necks go, it’s one of the better necks I know. But I can’t do with people touching it. Call it a personal space thing, call it a vulnerability thing, call it a confidence thing, call it a chakra thing - you can do, it’s been called all those things – call it the fact that in high school, as a joke, someone strangled me in math class one day until I passed out, whatever,… I don’t deal very well with people touching my neck…
Now I’m living with a two year old girl who shows affection by tickling your neck. It’s beautiful and lovely, and really helping me to deal with things because when you’re holding someone in both arms, ,you can’t drop them just because they tickle something that they can’t comprehend you don’t like. I like it when leah tickles my neck. Because every time she does she follows tickling by giving me the biggest and best hug in the world. By holding on to my neck and burying her head in my chest and snuggling until both of us are entirely and completely comfortable.
Tickling in general though, is bad. Once is bearable, sometimes, twice an annoyance, three times becomes a harassment issue.
Or once can become a grudge forever-more. Depending on the circumstance. One lovely evening I was sitting in the pub with b and lots of volunteers. I’d just taken a swig of beer when someone said something hilarious. Actually hilarious.
I, with my mouth bulging full, giggled and squeaked and snorted and shook. B, seeing me laughing, vibrating and fizzing, said “Swallow! Swallow!”, which of course being the thing I most wanted to do, was the thing I could do least in the world. “Swallow, swallow” he said again… Which made the vibration increase and the possibility of swallowing lessen by about a billion times.
So he decided to spur me into movement. He tickled me. Oh…
Everywhere.
Beer was everywhere.
I spat, and my god, it must have covered everyone in the whole pub.
Before words, before recriminations, b had been and gone to the bar and there were four new drinks in front of me. It deserves it. Some of my clothes still smell of beer from that night. That was in May.
Tickling, kids. Just say no.
Saturday, November 03, 2001
I have to decorate the refectory for a goodbye meal tonight. All our volunteers are leaving on monday, so we're having a huge chinese banquet to say goodbye and thankyou to them. So with a little help, i'm making huge banners with manderin symbols saying 'goodbye', and 'thankyou', we'll probably make a couple more that say things like 'it's going to be nice and quiet now, hurrah!' and 'don't hurry back Perky Girl' as well, after all, no-one will know....
I can’t believe it. I sang in public. I sang complete two songs.
This is not my way. I do words. Jokes. Stories. That kind of thing.
I sang. I sang “Cry me a river” and ‘a nightingale sang in Berkley square’. Just me.
You don’t understand how excited I am here. This is something I’ve never ever done on my own before. I’ve always loved singing but I’d never before presumed I could do it. Not jujst me. Not in front of people.
Yay.
Tonight is a good night.
And yet, I’m miserable as anything. Call it the end of the season, call it the pull of the moon, call it the time of the month, call it my temperament, you can do, it is all of those things. I’m as blue as the sky used to be. I’m as blue as the sea somewhere else.
Damn it. All my friends have left. I’m pretty hugless. I've drunk a lot of wine. I need to be more of an asleep person right now.
Friday, November 02, 2001
no time. don't want to miss last orders.
That's right, it's that time again. The bar is closing.
Til' march.
What's a girl supposed to do with her time? Not drink?
What?
Thursday, November 01, 2001
ten things i need today:
1 - a great big glass of Merlot. Achievable But with what shall I pay for it? wax?
2 - sunshine. fat bloody chance. Anyway, it's dark now.
3 - a kick up the arse. I can't get motivated at all.
4 - a big hug.
5 - salad dressing. salad dressing always cheers me.
6 - a cat. a live one.
7 - to pull my socks up. moping is no good. I don't even know what i'm moping for.
8 - a dream. it would be nice to have something unattainable to chase. or something attainable.
9 - a big jumper and/or a big coal fire and/or a hug. I said a hug already. Damn.
10 - a filling. my tooth hurts.
Really, on the evidence, I need shooting more than anything, I'm whinging and whining and moaning and self-absorbed. Sorry.
I'll be fine tomorrow. Hell, I'll be fine later, once i get a big glass of merlot, a hug, some food, a jumper, and oh. Oh of course. and a cigarette. That's why I'm the worst company in the world. I forgot to smoke. I have to go. smoke.
I don’t know if it’s only me, but the one thing I cannot stand, well, one of the many things I cannot stand, there are several, is when people start questions with “I don’t suppose you can…” or “I don’t suppose you have…”, it always just makes me want to say “no”. I mean, I know it’s probably very polite and proper and British and everything, but if you don’t suppose you’re going to get what you ask for, what’s the point of asking for it in the first place?
I mean, I’m not suggesting that we go around and Demand things, but it’s nice to approach the subject Positively, isn’t it?
And this is the most interesting thing I have in my life to write about his afternoon. What’s that? You don’t suppose anything much is happening round here right now? No. I don’t suppose much is. No, it isn’t.
Nothing.
Nothing Whatsoever.
No.
With the man's arm around his partner's waist, her hand on his shoulder,
both starting with the inside foot, swing, swing,
Step two three, turn, swing, swing,
Step two three, turn.
Cross to the left, point, cross right, point,
turn away from each other full circle twice,
in, out, woman turns under,
in out, woman turns under, into waltz hold
forward two
back two
and waltz around the room for four.
Ladies and Gentlemen; take your partners for the Pride of Erin waltz.
Just did the last ceilidh of the year. Which makes me a bit miserable. It’s been such a staple, dancing every Monday night and some Saturdays, and yes, I know I sound like an old woman with her legs cut off, mourning the days of her youth, and I know that Scottish Country dancing doesn’t sound quite so thrilling as, lets say, cocaine. But I swear it’s addictive. To me, anyway.
But anything’s addictive to me; salad dressing is addictive to me. I just have that kind of personality.
The thing is, I’ve always loved dancing, as in, you know, Dancing dancing – I’d say disco dancing but that brings to mind Sister Sledge, and that’s Never a good thing – but I never realised how good it would feel to move around a room with such grace, and elegance. Not that I neccesarily Do move with grace or elegance, but in my head I do. In my head I’m Ginger Rodgers, if Fred Astaire was wearing a kilt.
Oh, I know what I mean.
I shall miss waltzing. Jesus, I would never have thought I would hear myself say that. Or at least not until I was an old woman with her legs cut off.
a weblog by anna pickard
(adrift in a sea of commuters)
(adrift in a sea of commuters)
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