little.red.boat.
Friday, May 31, 2002
I've realised this evening that I am quite good with words. That my, thingie ....you know ...vocabulary is really quite ... mmmf. Doo-dah. Full of words.
That word that means 'full of words'.
My thingie is really quite 'that'. Full of words.
They're just the wrong words. They're just the bad words.
When I was young (approximately 10 years ago), I used to make fun of my mother for not being able to think of words. Here was a woman of words, a writer, an editor, who would sit at the table and tell me to clear my ... 'you know... round thing... food on... thingie... 'plate'!'
Then a couple of years ago I started doing it.
And now it's awful.
I ask people to pass the 'White... yummy... shakey... shoulder throwing... thingie... condiment...there... salt. Thing.'
I ask people to pass messages to my 'Glasses... tall... loud... bloke... hair... loud... American... Best friend. Guy.'
When I type, I'm slightly better. I can think of words slowly, over a long period, without feeling the need to vocalise the thought process.
But, this evening, I found my vocabular (vocabular??) niche.
Swearing.
Explaining to a new (and lovely) Canadian volunteer the root and meaning of various British colloquialisms.
one person;"But of course, it's all bollocks."
New lovely Canadian;"Bollocks?"
anna; "Yes, a common euphemism for 'testicles'. Also oft used you'll hear 'Balls' (with which you may well be familiar) (No, I mean, oh, it doesn't matter) 'Jewels', 'Nads', 'goolies', ... etc... etc..."
one person; "...but then, he's just a complete Twat."
canadian (lovely);"'Twat?' But I thought that meant..."
anna; "...And you were right. As well as a common term of abuse, in Northern England especially, it is also a slang term for women's genitalia. Other terms for womens bits include 'fanny', 'vag', 'minge', 'gash', 'pam', and, most famously 'c***'." A word, that, curiously, I cannot bring myself to type. Although it is, actually less offensive to me than most of the others listed. Especially 'gash'. Which makes me feel physically ill.
yeuch.
My biology teacher in secondary school refused to say the word 'Vagina'.
My biology teacher.
For five years she referred constantly to the 'Ladies Front Bottom'
Hmm.
Anyway. I find myself, this evening, to be a veritable cornucopia of rude words.
I'm very glad.
I feel like a walking thesaurus. Well, the walking rude bits, anyway.
Which were the only bits that really counted.
I can give definitions of all, examples, contexts, histories, of words.
And, the thing that makes me proudest of all, I can also cross-reference.
"And in this situation, you could also say that someone was talking shit, crap, bollocks, balls, bullshit, wank, out of their arse, rubbish, shite, ...."
Yes. For once it feels big. And clever. So there.
Thursday, May 30, 2002
The other day we went for a drive.
Well, I went for a 'passenger', which is pretty much all I can do, that is. I can't go for a drive. I can't drive. So I can't, therefore, go for one. The loud american (in remarkably quiet mode) went for a drive.
I just happened to be in the car.
So yes. Collectively, 'we' went for a 'drive', even though only one of us was acitiely active in that setence.
And what an active sentence it's turned out to be.
So we went for a drive.
But the point was not the drive. The point was the cat. I've not mentioned the cat yet. But the cat was the point.
There was a cat. Sitting on a stone wall overlooking Carsaig pier, curled up in a ball and looking contenteddly over to Jura and Islay and other islandy things. We got out of the car, and sat on the wall, and talked aout guff and beans, and the cat uncurled and stretched and recurled on my knee. We were very suddenly loved and adopted. It was extremely good.
But it made me sad. I miss having a cat, I miss Poppy. And more than this, I have absolutely no idea when I'm going to be in a stable enough situation to be able to have a cat. As far as I can tell, from November, I'm on the move. I don't know where, or what to do, but I certainly don't think it'll involve a cat. Not for ages.
If I had a cat, I would get hugs and unconditional love. Sometimes. When the cat felt like it. But even that would be good.
If I had a cat, I would feel much less stupid walking around the house talking to myself than I usually do.
If I had a cat, I could let it out of the back door, and then it would find the Corncrake outside my window. And then it would kill the Corncrake outside my window. And then the Corncrake would be dead, and it wouldn't be alive anymore, alive to make noises, and keep me awake.
I wish I had a cat.
Wednesday, May 29, 2002
A long afternoon spent with too many people.
Being pleasant loses its charm sometimes. Quite often, really. Perhaps too often.
But just this once, just for a few moments today I felt socially useful.
I felt like a nice person.
A sweet german 12-year-old, often in trouble with her English Mistress for bad English Pronunciation, spent the afternoon making batik after batik after batik, and is going home with a letter that says;Dear frau 'insert hard-tp-spell-German-name-here'.
Just a quick note to compliment you on teaching Julia such very good English.
Her pronunciation, in particular, is fantastic.
And I am English, so I should know.
regards
anna pickard.
I don't know why that makes me feel so good. But it does. I feel like Amelie.
By the way, if anyone knows how to dance any fool-proof May-Pole dances, I know someone that would be as happy as a wee lamb to hear them...
She's a book, but all in it's nae good.
Look at me. I've gone all very tired and colloquial. Do excuse.
I've got two days left to apply for that BBC job that I'll never ever get.
Do I bother?
You've been to the pub.
Everyone else has too. But when you get in the taxi, suddenly, you're the one that's sober.
You can calm everyone else's merriness, and, to boot, you can direct the taxi home. In a perfectly sober voice.
All the way home.
And when you get home again, you're suddenly drunk, all of a sudden, without warning, very.
And that's what it's like. A little.
I'm not sure I relate to any of the people I have to be.
I surprise myself, because I open my mouth and this 'other' person speaks.
And I can't tell if it's me. I seem to be able to remove myself from everything. When I open my mouth, no matter how I am in the middle, a voice seems to come from nowhere and seem fine and well and happy and confident.
I just don't know who that Is.
When someone tells me they enjoy something I did, I thank them and move on in the conversation, thinking;
"Well That's nice. Something somewhere touched this person. Something somewhere resonated in them and in order to fix the experience they need to speak it aloud, therefore they're attributing the feeling to something fixed - to me. That's nice. That seems to make them happy." It's not to do with me. Not at all.
When someone says something flattering, or flirtatious, or loving, I move on in the conversation and think;
"Well, that's good. Obviously, at this point in their emotional development they need to say that sort of thing to someone. They have some inner need to fall in love/become attached/ be rejected/ be moved. I'm honoured to have been the person that they've attached that need to. Perhaps now they'll be a happier person."
Nothing, it seems, is about me. I seem to be entirely removed.
And that's okay.
I'm not whinging. For once.
I'm just making an observation. Making an observation on my mood of observation.
The only time I seem to have any sense of 'self' is when I'm sitting here, in the wee small hours, feeding monologues to some invisible elsewhere.
Or some invisible elsewho.
Which is a fantastic phrase.
I don't know if you can comment on this. I'm just very much thinking.
Out loud.
to myself.
ish
Actually, it wasn't a question, but a statement. but still.
Ok. So think of it as a game.
Sitting in the pub with a new aquaintence, think of it as a game.
A transcript of the conversation that actually happened, let's guess what the next question was...me; "So, to summarise the conversation. Your favourite recording artists are George Michael?..."Prize for the person that guesses the next question.
He; "And Elton John!..."
Me; "I was just coming to Elton. And Kylie?.."
He; "Minogue, Yes, and the sound track from 'Studio 54'.
Me; "Which is entirely composed of?.."
He; "Disco. Lots of disco."
Me; "And you say you're very cleanly?"
He; "Ooh yes. The bathroom has to be spotless, else I can't sleep..."
Me; "And How well do you get on with your mother?"
He; "Oh, she's my best friend. We talk on the phone. Every day. When I'm at home we go out for Latte. All the time.
Me; "Are you alright for a drink?"
He; "I'd love a glass of white wine, if you're going..."
Me; ".....?"
A prize.
Not a big prize. But a prize.
Is it healthy to feel so removed from oneself?
I mean, I know in some religions, eradication of all ego or 'self' is a goal, but it feels wierd.
Everything seems three steps away from me.
More of this later, it's occupying me greatly at the moment.
Maybe it's these pills.
I'm not sure if I like it.
They're only herbal, for goodness' sake, how much self-removal can they do?
Tuesday, May 28, 2002
I don't like sport. Why can I not have a bottle with a whole at the top to let the water out?
Why is that so wrong?
I don't know why, but today nothing is annoying me more than those plasitic water bottles with the 'sports top'.
Maybe it's the noise they make, maybe it's the loud snap back into place when you've finished drinking, maybe it's the sucking thing, the glooping noise, the fits and starts of the water as it comes out of the bottle. Maybe it;'s the 'regression to breastfeeding' thing.
I just want some form of vessel with a hole at the top. Not a squeezy hole. A hole.
how hard is that?
Ooh, bollocks, I'm meant to be at the dentist.
Monday, May 27, 2002
Apparently, most of the magic of a good joke is in the telling, as everyone in the world knows.
I've learnt this from experience. And know it just because everyone else knows it.
Which is a good thing, as most of the jokes I know are rubbish.
I mean, the meat of them is good and juicy, but the punchlines themselves are beans.
However, if the punchline is spectacular, then the joke could be told by someone dead, and it would still work out alright.
But everyone knows this.
I don't know why I'm thinking about this.
Two reasons, actually, spring to mind.
1. I'm trying to think of a joke suitable for a room full of middle-aged middle-class Christians.
2. A five-year-old boy just ran up to me and with great passion and excitement, told me his two favourite jokes;
q: "Why did the chicken cross the road?"
I don't know, Andrew, why didthe chicken cross the road?
a: "To go to the park!"
I'm sorry?
and
q: "Why did the worm cross the road?"
I don't know, why did the worm cross the road?
a: "So he could buy a new camera!"
What the fuck, little boy?
(now, lets see how many search engine hits I get for That sentence...)
I don't know why, because that joke clearly fitted neither category, but the second joke of little Andrew's, possibly because it was told with such excitement and vim and vigour and stuff, was the funniest thing I've heard in weeks.
I think I need some rest.
Or a pint.
Or a dance.
Or something.
Today I am mostly listening to;
Nick Cave and the Bad seeds - "Into My Arms"
Someone suggested in the comments that I may well be a hopeless romantic.
Damn it, I am.
One of those 'emancipated damsel' types.
I'm just fine on my own, thank you very much for asking, but if a knight in shining armour happened to sweep me off my feet, I would be ok with that too.
At the moment, however, they seem too stupid to work out the ferry timetable. Or they don't allow White Steeds on the bus across Mull. Or they've been trying to swim over in armour.
Whatever it is, they're late.
Can I just check, is everyone else in the whole world having a bank holiday right now?
Or everyone in Britain at least?
Is that jubilee thing somewhere around now?
Or did I miss it?
Said to me last night;
"If I had to spend much more time around you, I'd fall too far in love. You're lovely..."
Why thank you, middle aged Canadian the size of a fridge freezer. I'm very flattered.
I am actually.
Sunday, May 26, 2002
Gosh.
In other news, tonight, I think I may, finally, have found a conversational habit more annoying yet than the current, long-standing, chart topper.
This evening "Evening" I met "You met" an American lady "An American lady" who repeated "repeated" every single word "every single word" or, maybe "Maybe" practically every "Every other word, practically" other word, immediately "Immediately..." ... ahm ... immediately ... "Immediately?..." I'm sorry, where was I? "Practically Every Word..." Ah yes, Practically every word "Yes ... Every word" Immediately after I'd said it myself. "Immediately after you'd said it yourself"
And sometimes "Sometimes..." joined in the "Joined the.." sentence as I was speaking "Joined in as you were speaking..." quite often finishing the "Sentence on your behalf."
I'm sorry, I'm even pissing myself off now.
It was like talking with a constant echo. Perhaps like being a bat.
No, that doesn't work. Like talking with a constant echo. Like hearing the last few words you'd said while still trying to think of the next few.
I got lost several times in the conversation, not being able to work out which were the last words I'd said and which were several words ago, but repeated back to me...
The funniest thing was watch her speak to my friend Paul, who, attempting to hold discourse and also having to lip-read her half of the conversation, kept thinking himself rudely interrupted, and having to go over the same ground over and over again.
She's here "I'm here for..." for six days "Six days.".
How do I not "How do you manage not to" kill her? "Kill me."
I suppose I could simply repeat everything that she repeated, immediately back to her, but it could go on forever. "On forever."
On forever. "On Forever..."
On forever. "On forever ..."
On forever.
I feel uplifted. And moved by lots of things.
I love whiskey river.
I clicked on the page and found a love letter to 'Anna'.
It's not me. Of course it's not me.
But I felt my heart warmed, all the same...
(thank you vaughan, for pointing...)
What is it that changes a communal mood? The weather? The moon? The season? The mix of people, the interaction?
Whatever it is, it's amazing.
The same group of people that last night rushed past each other, heads down, and murmured goodnight and hurried to their beds tonight sit in cloisters lit by a full moon and drink coffee and wine and they whistle and laugh and laugh at each others' laughter.
I don't know I ever noticed this so much in the city. Sure, sometimes people were open and giggly and relaxed, sometimes not, but I never noticed it moving in cycles and groups so much.
Living in community this way, you do. Living with people, working with them, eating with them, socialising with them, you can't but notice the movement of stress, emotion, mood.
It's beautiful.
And yes, to answer my own question, very much affected by weather. When it rains, people are subdued. When the sun shines they skip. In high pressure, in the build up to a storm, people get grumpy. It just happens.
Whether affected y each other, or by the weather itself, the mood of a whole group of people ebbs and flows together.
It's amazing.
I guess it's kind of like the period synchronising thing. Athough I'm not quite sure how.
I guess I've probably lost a bunch of people at that point...
Thought so.
Why don't I get e-mail? Not fair. Everyone else in the whole world gets e-mail and I don't. Don't like it. Not fair. I don't want to play if I'm not going to get any e-mail. I give my e-mail address to people, and then I never get e-mail.
Sure, when I do, I forget to reply to it and therefore piss everyone off so they never bother to send me e-mail again, but, discounting that for a second; why don't I get any e-mail?
Everyone else gets to get e-mail. Not fair.
Saturday, May 25, 2002
Incidentally, the little mother is fine. Thanks for asking.
Getting better.
Pacing the ward like a caged tiger. But getting better.
Tonight, the first village hall disco of the year.
Not the kind that I do, not the monday night strain, safe and full of children and the easily-pleased, but the friday night classic.
The music, as ever, was entirely dependent on the personal taste of the DJ. Regardless of what people actually wanted to dance to. Tonight, up to the point that I left, around 1.30, before the second DJ had had time to take over, it was entirely Ska.
All Ska.
And apart from five or so songs, there were only three people on the dance floor.
And one of them was the DJ.
Who had to scoot back to the decks at the end of each song to change the record.
But as I've said before, it's more of an experience than a simple dance.
The seating arrangement, one gang on one side, one on the other, is more School disco than 'West Side Story', and the alcohol and smoke fumes made all but the drunkest drowsy.
The drunkest danced. For at least the first fifteen seconds of every song, before they retreated to their bench and their beer and their cigarette stash.
And the DJ danced, bouncing up and down with arms in front of him, like he was holding reins, as if, if you can imagine, he were riding two cows at once.
And the girl danced. Spinning and bouncing, no matter that with every turn her skirt flew up, the hemline hovering around her waist.
Her hair in a high ponytail, her fringe covering her face, she span and bounced with rounds of applause for her visible panties.
And the other man dancing, with amusingly visible pantyline, swayed and waved and chased his tail.
You had the impression, watching him move, that the dance would have been the same no matter the music.
It seemed to flow through him, and he had no choice but to interpret and give life to the flow, pushing out of every pore and powering every flick of the hand, the head, the hip, the wrist, the legs.
The legs seemed to move indepedently from the head, the arms independent from the hands, the brain long removed from any motor controls whatsoever.
In fact I've a feeling the man may hae been remote controlled. That certainly would have explained a few things.
People watched amazed. Some watched amused. Some watched confused.
People giggled behind hands. Some by-product of envy perhaps.
Although I probably can't say the same for the pointing and laughing. They didn't look terribly envious.
But regardless, our hero danced on, like a bightly coloured butterfly on an afternoon breeze.
Regardless of the staring, the snorting, the pointing, the laughing, the gawping, the envy, the solitude.
Rgardless of his visible pantyline.
Regardless of his probable tiredness, stress and dance-fatigue.
And regardless, all power to him, that, at the end of the day, he looked like a complete wanker.
Well done you. Whatever your name is. You are our hero of the day.
And lacking your actual name, we shall call you;
"Tosspot, Lord of the Dancefloor (MC, VIP, VPL)"
Worried and tired and sad.
I've not had much to say.
When voices that have kept you strong break at the end of a telephone line.
When the rain eats away at your edges.
When tiredness fills all your tiniest veins and unwraps the layers that protect your centre.
When sitting still for a minute is all it takes to start you crying.
When, underneath the fifteen people you're pretending to be, you can't find even one made of warm and solid flesh.
When everything is grey clouds and rolling waters.
When the day feels like walking through cooling toffee, and the night is like sleeping in briars.
I haven't got much to say.
I'm thinking. I'm holding on. And I'm thinking.
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
I'm off to visit the grumpy and unwell in Oban General hospital.
Back in a couple of days.
People just seem to be getting sick and falling over all around me.
Why do people get sick?
How are you? Are you sick?
How does one aquire the tidyness gene?
Is it a gene? Is it genetic? Or conditioning (in which case I'm screwed)? Or to do with age (I'm sorry to bang on about getting older)(But obviously not sorry enough to not bring it up again...)? Or sexuality? Or homones? Or position? Or geography?
As I get older, the cleaning of bathroom and kitchen seems to come naturally.
Especially when drunk.
At what age does this happen with Bedrooms?
Probably at the age that one can afford a big-enough bedroom.
Ach well.
I'm just keeping myself up now, with worry and thinking. Stop it, anna.
Depending on the prognosis, I may be off to the hospital tomorrow, to keep her company.
If so, I'll be back in however many days...
Search request of the day; 'Jesus holding lamb picture'
Well, whatever it takes to have a nice day.
Curious, I did the search myself. And came up with this. Which did make me feel slightly better. If only in the 'laughter...best medicine' kind of way.
Again, it makes people feel better.
And if a large deformed tree, probably with some kind of large tree disease.
But if it puts their hearts at rest, without hurting anyone, I'm glad that it makes them happy.
Just as long as they don't start trying to foist their tree upon other people.
That would hurt.
Trees are big.
I don't understand, really, when people start believing in things to the exclusion and pain of others.
And I know that's a very simplistic point of view, bearing in mind a lot of world situations, but it's a statement of personal opinion. I, personally, don't understand. My understanding was hindered more by a conversation I overheard today, with a mother basically disowning her child because he had not chosen the same, Bible-based drug of choice as herself.
"Well, we must have brought him up wrong. He must be rebelling against us. Otherwise he wouldn't be consorting with all these 'Buddha's'"
"How old is he now?"
"Thirty-six."
To her credit, the 75-year-old woman sitting next to the 'bad mother' tried to talk about 'different paths' and 'harmonious spiritual journeys' and 'inter-faith dialogue', but the solemn matriach with a crucifix up her arse shook her head and announced she'd not be talking to her only son until he accepted the only truth.
Am I wrong to find this sad?
The thing not to do to make yourself feel better about your mother going to hospital, number one;
Read online cram notes for medical students, giving all the possible complications and wost case scenarios for the mild infection she has.
This does not make one feel better.
Or it doesn't make me feel better
Doesn't make her better, either.
Tuesday, May 21, 2002
The best story I ever wrote
(mentioned in passing earlier, I thought I must have mentioned it before, but seemingly not.)To set the scene; the story, now framed, is written on a square piece of paper, in pencil, alongside a picture of a girl, obviously me, with blonde pigtails, a pouffy pink dress and glittering tiara. In a garden. With big flowers. The writing is that of a six, or seven year old, with guidance by the teacher at some of the harder words, and reads;And at the bottom it just says 'v.good' with a big tick.One night I dreamed that
Sorry, I should just mention here that all spelling and grammar will be left unchanged. Not that you'd be able to tell the difference, mind, knowing me...
One night I dreamed that children ruled
Actually, padding out a little background would be useful, at this point, too.
See, I was a child of demonstrations. At least one demonstration a weekend. Against something Bad. Most things, really, Apartheid, Amnesty Stuff, Tax things, Education Authority things, Nuclear things, Quiche things, Government funding things, Government policy things. Whatever you could possibly demonstrate against, I did. At six. I'm proud of my mum for that. Did I mention she has a court date for her latest protest? Well, she does. Anyway.
One night I dreamed that children ruled the world. I was the princess of the world. I said all the grown-ups should go to bed early. I had a very important job.
One fine day we decided to kill Margaret Thatcher. So we burned her and got 9000 punds. The end.
Hurrah. Big tick for me. As a teacher, if I was a teacher, I'd at least asked to have met the parents. If only for a laugh.
But why 9000? And why punds? Is it a mis-spelling of punts? Some early IRA connection?
Who can know?
It's still the best piece of writing I ever did. Big tick.
I'm going to sleep now. Until doomsday.
Sorry, I meant TUESday. I'm always getting the two confused.
When Doomsday comes, will it be on a tuesday?
Who can know?
One thing we do know; when it comes I'll almost definitely be asleep.
Big tick for that, too.
Today;
We did the best ceilidh ever
With 40 small English kids that had never danced before, and 10 adults who had, bearing in mind the other 30 adults went to bed, bearing in mind the tiredness and the weather, we had simply the best ceilidh in the world, ever. We laughed and danced and listened to people singing and drank so much orange squash that I'm going to be on a sugar-rush 'til my wedding and pissing like a racehorse 'til next thursday.
Today;
I looked in the mirror and noticed that my eyes were blue green. I like that.
I hardly ever notice my eyes. and They change colour when I cry. And when I'm happy. Today they were a shiny blue-green. Usually they're a murky blue-green. Dishwater eyes.
I liked them today.
Today;
Someone made me cry.
It's not often that a candle making session will turn into a full blown theological argument. It's more often than you'd think, and certainly more often than I'd like, but still, it's not so often as to expect it.
It's not so often someone makes me cry either.
And it's never that those two things would be related.
Well, never until today.
Until I met a lady so unhappy with everything that happens here, everything she'd done, everyone she'd heard speak, everything she'd been asked to do. A lady for whom nothing could be right and nothing done to change it. A lady with a forthright manner, an aggressive tone, a pointing finger, an accusation for everyone.
A lady with a chip the size of Kentucky on her shoulder.
A lady who shouted about everything for two hours, two full hours, while I defended and explained and rationalised and breathed deeply.
A lady who made me cry.
When she pointed her finger and barked another remark at me and then said 'Anna. Where's your sense of humour?'
"It left the room two hours ago when you started shouting at me"
And then I bawled.
No one makes me cry. I don't want people to make me cry. That really pisses me off. This is not a very funny story. Sorry about that.
Today;
I forgot to make phone calls, wrote e-mails and send letters and do all sorts of other things that I've been meaning to do for weeks
Tomorrow, I promise.
Today;
No news happened
As far as I can tell. As far as I know. If the world blew up, one piece at a time, I'd be the very last to find out.
The only news headlines I could catch today featured a lot of football.
Football happened today.
A lot of stuff about football.
Apparently.
Today;
I looked forward to tomorrow
Sleep comes tomorrow.
Or today, even.
Just a little note to the lovely person that would choose to describe themselves as 'the pickard sister's fanclub' (a organisation that, to my knowledge, does not exist, and thank f*** for that, because it would be a little odd. More than a little odd, actually. Really f**king odd...)
Thank you for the video. For 'Play it again Sam'. Which I will watch at least three times tomorrow, on my day off. And cheer myself up thoroughly.
Ta.
Monday, May 20, 2002
At the front door to my flat, there's a bell.
Not a good bell. A good bell goes 'ding-a-ling-a-ling', like in the song.
A bad bell. More of a buzzer really.
It goes 'eurghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!' in a really off-kilter, out of tune, raspy way.
I am getting to a point here, I promise. It's an update on the Corncrakes, the small endangered (and more endangered by the day...) bird outside my bedroom window.
If rung, or buzzed, in short bursts, it goes 'Eurgh..urgh....eur...eurch' in an off-kilter, out of tune, raspy, kind of way.
The bell does. Not the Corncrake.
Although it does sound, to the ears of the sleepy, quite a lot like a Corncrake.
That's the point of the story. I'm just getting there.
The bell is at the front door to the flat so that at any time, day or night, if there is any kind of medical emergency, the infirm or the friends of the infirm can ring on the bell and someone can come and give sleepy medical assistance.
Therefore there always has to be someone in the flat.
But that's another story. This is a story about Corncrakes. Not that a corncrake rang the bell. Although that would be a better story. I suppose it did. In a way.
I'm very tired. That's why I'm not posting much. It's been a heavy, very heavy week or so, and I'm bordering on exhaustion and on the brink of tears. So sorry for being a little quiet. That'll do it.
What isn't helping, not at all, this morning, is the fact that I got out of bed three times last night, in the wee small hours, to answer the door to the invisible infirm.
Three times I was woken by the buzzer noise, half dressed, twice put on my hooded top back to front, fell over my slippers and stumbled to the door to be of help.
And found no-one there.
Three times I went back to bed, confused and cursing.
Only after the third time, as I was settling back to sleep, I realised the noise was coming through the window. 'eurgh...eagch...eugh...'.
Damn those endangered species.
The interesting thing is, the farmers get given money from the government, money in order not to mow their fields, to give the Corncrakes safe space to nest.
I'm thinking of starting a collection to better the government's bid. I'll pay them more if they agree to mow.
In the meantime, I'm off to e-bay to find a machine gun.
I really felt myself settled by this article in the Guardian on saturday.
Not because it justifies my being single, although that's good too, since I realised that in many of my childhood stories I was married by this age.
Then again, in most of my childhood stories I was a princess, and in some I was a fish, so I don't think that's much to go by. In fact in one in particular I was assassinating the prime minister, which is not bad for a six year old. But I digress.
It was this phrase that made me happy, among others;In your early 20s, you haven't had enough growing experience to become your own independent person," says counselling psychologist Dr Valerie Lamont. "If you stay single until your late 20s, you've developed as a full individual...."
The thing that made me happy was the idea that people do quite a lot of their growing up in their twenties.
I didn't know that.
Whatever I saw myself as having to be when I reached this age, married, royal, a fish, I think, most of all, I expected myself to be fully grown up, fully formed as a person. And, having got here, I don't feel that way. In a lot of things, I've a way to go.
And it felt good to know that maybe I don't have to be grown-up yet. Not in the sense that the seven-year-old me would have thought.
I can still be getting there.
I can still be a bit lost.
I don't have to be this lost forever, though.
That's good to know.
Sunday, May 19, 2002
Incidentally, thank you to people for all the birthday stuff. The recieving of which made me very happy and very aback-taken.
Thank you to ruth for Amelie.
To Adrian for the book, to Morag for the CD, James F. for the David Shrigley book, which I love, and other James for the CDs and the book, all of which are fab, and the latter of which I'm going to go and curl up with right now.
ta.
Glasgow was good.
Short, but good. I mean, I got to go to a whole other pub, so that was exciting.
And I got to sleep. On beds and trains and ferries and buses. Lots of sleep.
That's the good thing about living 7 hours from the nearest city.
Lots of excuse to sleep.
And sleep I did. Lots. Which was all good.
I mean, as usual, I was a magnet for freaks and loud people on the train, but that's just something I've come to expect.
Posh boat people on the way down. Not 'boat people' as in drifting asylum seekers, but rather the loud posh types of Ya's that go and sail for a week and then spend the next four years talking about it like they were a seasoned old sea dog. "rahrahrah ... yardarm ... rahraharah ... technical knots .... rahrahArrrrrr, me hearties ... rah." Idiots. Sitting opposite me all the journey down. I kicked them twice, but I was asleep at the time, so that's alright. Well, almost asleep.
And on the way back, I was sitting across the aisle from curious staring woman, an over-enthusiastic, wide-eyed lady who took intense interest in everything I did, whether it was changing the CD in my borrowed discman, to picking up the paper, to writing a postcard, to opening my eyes after another refreshing nap. Every time I looked, she was staring at me in a fascinated fashion. Not in a rude way, but still, in that way that made you want to ask "What?! What is it? What do you want? Do I have a large snot-bubble? Are there pants on my head? Have I mutated into a koala bear in my sleep? What?!?"
I only didn't ask for fear that she was one of our guests, and that I was going to have to spend the rest of the week being over-nice to make up for any train outburst I made.
Besides, exploding on the train would have made me, by default, one of those weird train people, which would certainly explain a few things, why they seem drawn to me, for example, and why I'm single, but it wouldn't exactly help me sleep easy.
Still. That was hours ago now. Technically a whole different day.
And now I'm happy. Covered in red and orange and yellow acrylic paint, and happy.
Having the stink of metallic gold marker still rattling around my head, and happy.
Going to bed. Happy.
Friday, May 17, 2002
Damn falling asleep.
I had dreams that I wanted to write about, wax that I wanted to write about, revelations.
Now I have to go to Glasgow, meetings and all.
Still, at least the children who've been making me so tired will be leaving today.
However, they will be leaving on the same boat, same bus, same boat, same train.
What fun.
If you're passing through the highlands and see sveral small bodies being thrown out of speeding windows in sequence,
call the police, that's sick, and nothing whatsoever to do with me.
I have to run, ferries and clothes and that, I'll be back in a day or two.
But is it true that all men urinate with their hand on their hip, like a pirate?
Thursday, May 16, 2002
removed - fetish reasons In fact, no wonder the little fuckers are on a limited time budget.
I appreciate that the RSPB are looking out for every single one of the little croaking bastards.
And, if my aim is true, by the end of the night there'll be one less Corncrake to watch out for.
Hell, I'm doing them a favour...
Actually, I should just mention here, I'm not going to kill a corncrake.
I did, I think, step on yet another toad as I walked home this evening.
I certainly trod on something squishy at the gate.
But this thing 'squeaked'. Like a dog toy would squeak. And not, to my knowledge, has anything ever squeaked in its death throws before. Not when I've been doing the deathing, anyway.
It was really quite comedy. Noir-ish. Toad noir.
Squish. "Squeak!". Splat. "Euw!" " -->
I have to tear up the contract;
I don't know which it is, it'll be one of those things I'll have signed without looking properly, but unlike the rest of them, this one is affecting me immediately.
It's somewhere in a drawer. Maybe in a Box. Perhaps under the bed. Wherever it is it stipulates that;'Any man of the male sex (hereafter refered to as 'The quarry') being of attractive person and unarming demeanor shall not be allowed within 100 yards of our client, the young and the restless (hereafter referred to as 'anna pickard'), without beingI'm sure there's another contract drawn up somewhere. Or perhaps it got lost when I last moved house. Something about being nice to me, or at least a permenent resident, or something.Any man that does not fit immediately fit into these categories should find reason to fit into them within a few days of meeting Ms Pickard. (i.e Anyone attractive and not married and/or gay, should find reason to leave the island within a week.)Any man of the male sex, sorry, The Quarry, not fitting into any of the above brackets, should find means to become, in some fashion, within 3 months or so a
- Married
- Gay
- An Ordained Priest
- Leaving in only a few days
- any combination or all of the above.
6. Bastard.
Well, if anyone's seen a scroll signed in blood and tears, lying around, send it back.
I need it.
Legal proof, and that...
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
How do you tell a nice respected older man that his kilt is too short?
How do you let him know that sometimes, just sometimes, it's a little too high above the knee?
Or far, far too high, for that matter?
How do you hint gently that the bouncing of his sporran and the tassels upon it might, in more sensitive workplaces, classify as sexual harasment?
Because it's not like it only comes out for special occasions. No, no. It makes an appearance all the time.
Every day.
And sometimes, that much thigh is too much.
And it's difficult to say to a 67 year old man "Come now, will you, dear?... Sit like a lady."
Because sometimes the crossed legs need be uncrossed and recrossed for comfort's sake.
And take my word, it's in this action that I see far too much elderly thigh.
And, - and I realise I'm getting overly worked up here - I hate to revisit the whole etiquette thing...
(Come on though. WWEPD?... Emily Post. What would Emily Post do? Oh, it doesn't matter. I knoew that joke would work if I said it...)
But I was always made to understand that when picking something from the ground in a skirt, one should never bend over from the hips, rather crouch with a slight turn, so the skirt covers all modesty, and not, as in the case in point, displays your testicles to the several dozen people behind you.
It's just not ladylike.
It certainly doesn't help that the man in question is a loud man. A passionate man. And Emphasises Every Important Word With a Thrust of his Pelvis, Sending the Tassels that Adorn his Sporran Swinging and Bouncing in one of the most Distracting Ways Possible.
And this man emphasises a lot. To the extent that, the other day, one of his tassels fell off.
Mid Thrust.
And he bent over to pick it up.
I looked away. One of us had to act like a lady.
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
I'm sorry, but how do the BBC expect me to take the television news seriously when a comment from Colonel Tim Chicken of the Royal Marines is followed sharply by a soundbite by Coporal Luke Curry.
Are the Marines only accepting applications from people with comedy names?
And would you join the marines on purpose, ,just because you'd been called 'Chicken' all your life?
And the worst thing is, I don't even know what the news story was. I was too busy giggling at two unfortunate soldiers.
Morally irresponsible, it really is.
I mean, isn't that what deed poll is for?
The Fire Alarm yelps at 70 decibels every twelve seconds or so as they test every sensor in the building.
Being extremely over-hormonal this morning, I am verging into tears almost every time it does.
This is not my chosen Alarm clock.
My alarm clock at the moment is my mobile phone, useful for nothing else at the moment. With no signal in the islands.
It goes 'beebeebeebeep" and has a snooze button. Which is essential.
My alarm clock of choice is one I've seen only once in my life. A plastic cow-shaped cow. With a bell. That at the appropriate time rocked from side to side playing the tinned version of the '1812' overture.
And then you hit it and it said 'Moooo'.
But I've never seen one to buy.
Tell me about alarm clocks.
Please.
Or I'll cry.
Tired by school disco. School disco in the Village hall, but school disco all the same.
Girls in bright and best clothing, too much make up and tight clothes that barely match and don't really suit.
Girls dancing, in circles, in lines, practiced steps. Boys watching. Girls watching boys.
Same old, same old.
Boys sitting, and looking entirely disinterested with practiced scowl.
And very occasionally getting up. Very very very occasionally.
Although to be fair, when they did, they both moshed and played air guitar. Which was a whole evening's worth of entertainment, as far as I'm concerned.
I never did school discos.
I don't think we had them. I don't remember them. If we did have them, I didn't go.
So really I don't know what they were like. I'm guessing, from other people's versions.
Anyone remember theirs? Am I way off the mark here?
I never did school discos.
I went to gigs. Live bands, several at a time, if possible.
Starting with my first, on, I think, this date. 1990. The Violent Femmes. In the Royal Albert Hall.
I'm still proud of that...
Chocolate sauce up. In the Air. Flying. Chocolate sauce flying.
This is not some new euphemism.
Well, it is now, it wasn't when I said it three lines ago, I mean.
Except then it wasn't three lines ago, it was on the same line. And now it's four.
To continue. Chocolate sauce in an arc, flying. Or along the same lines.
I've never had the chance to see chocolate sauce arc through the air before. Although, to be honest it felt somehow familiar. I'm sure I've known it in a bad movie.
Although I can't put my finger on which bad movie right now.
I may have dreamt it, I suppose, though I rarely dream. Although when I do, they're quite like bad movies, so that explains the connection.
Where am I?
Flying chocolate sauce.
That's it really. A dining room, 70 people, 44 of them under 14. Chocolate sauce, slippery socks, shiny floor, misfooting, jug flying, chocolate sauce in bid for freedom, arc of brown and gloopy - just like a rainbow, but brown. And gloopy - 10 teased Britany hair-do's speckled with sweet, fifteen Adidas trainers striped dark brown, cardigans sauced, white shellsuit trousers flavoured with chocolatey goodness. Lots of howling, lots of screams - more screams than you'd think feasible, but nothing's impossible with these people - folding into laughter and running for bathrooms and excited talking and cloths and mops and stern looks from tall teachers trying hard to hide giggles.
A two second brown arc the highlight of my day.
A day otherwise filled with tears and anger and rain and hormones and post-birthday tired.
I'm post-birthday tired. And rained on. Much.
Monday, May 13, 2002
Incidentally, for anyone that hates me for my good fortune, as outlined below, I have solace.
Slow death by skin contraction.
Sun-burn combined with slight eczema are making my life sheer hell this night.
Lying in bed, calamined arms straight out above me, drying, like the horizontal undead.
Facial expressions running through the 57 varieties of 'discomfort'.
Slow death. In the morning I'll be a raisin. That'll teach me to have a good day...
Sunday, May 12, 2002
I am simply over-awed with birthdayness.
Birthdays have never rocked so much as this before.
I don't think, even when I was actually five years old, I enjoyed birthdays as much as this.
Have I mentioned yet how good this birthday is? Well, it is.
Point one. I didn't have to do much work, and the work I did have to do was nice and simple and went just fine.
Point two. People kept ringing. And saying happy birthday. It always surprises me when people remember and do stuff for my birthday, so I spent the day in an almost permanent state of confusion.
Point three. I got cards and presents. I got a ring. And a bracelet. And a necklace. All from different people, that without consulting each other, bought things which almost match. Which rocks. I mean, it means I've got ridiculously predictable taste in accessories, but who cares. It rocks.
Point four. I opened my package from Amazon, containing a Dave Barry Book. Thank you, Adrian. Yay! People who don't know me buying me presents! I don't know how that works, but I have to admit that I like it.
Point five. I did a tour of the ruined nunnery for a bunch of cruise-ship gims. A half hour tour of something I knew absolutely nothing about this time last week. Did it go well? Who cares! They paid in cash!
Point six. Opening the official looking envelope, the envelope that I'd been dreading opening, thinking it was going to be a foul-smelling bank statement, revealed instead a three-figure tax rebate. (fuck me, but this day is going too well. I'm actually worrying myself now. No day should be this good.)
Point seven. In half an hour I'm being taken for a meal.
Point eight. And then I'm going to the pub. With lots of my favourite people.
Point nine. And then I shall probably die horribly in some freak accident. It's the only way that this day should really end. I'll get pecked to death by marauding corncrakes. Hit by a falling star. There'll be a tsunami. Something bad is going to happen. Something bad must happen. Else I shant ever believe this day was real.
Incidentally, thank you for all the birthday wishes.
I don't think I've ever felt so blessed by niceness as I do today.
If one more person says something nice to me, I think I shall cry.
Or punch them, just to bring a little reality back into the day.
Twenty five years and a couple of hours ago, a little blonde baby with a funny-shaped head was squeezed into the world, just as the first Underground Train was rattling past the window of Queen Charlotte's Hospital, London.
The nurses asked if they would call the girl Jubilee, in honour of the Queen's celebrations. But they didn't, thinking it would be cruel.
So they called her Joanna Mary Claire Olusola Pickard instead.
Which - to be frank - isn't much better.
Happy Birthday me. Yay!
Saturday, May 11, 2002
Why do Old people like Country and Western?
There seem to be Countrty and Western nights all over the place in retirement homes and Old people entertainment centres.
From my extensive research.
Is it Obligatory? And why, when it isn't music they grew up with?
It's not like the spirit of Nashville carried them through the blitz.
To my knowledge.
Will I be forced to enjoy Country and western music when I'm old, too?
Because I don't want to.
And will I have to like Neil Sedaka just before that? Or Engelbert Humperdink.
He played a concert at the hall where I worked before I came here. We were all amazed at how good he looked until halfway through the concert when he got all sweaty and his eyebrows fell off. And his face ran. Making his crisp white shirt a soggy orange.
It wasn't pleasant, if I'm honest...
But the auditorium was filled with ladies of a certain age.
Will I? When I get there?
Because I don't want to.
And women over thirty and under thirteen like boy bands. Which is wierd.
And boys, big and small, like air guitar music.
I realise I'm making sweeping generalisations here, but as is the case when I make sweeping generalisations, I don't care.
I'm supposed to be somewhere else, singing.
Oh, wank.
*running away...*
Galligan made me giggle today. Thank you galligan.
Search request of the day - "what people want from students washing up liquid"
Is there a specific washing up liquid for students?
Made to handle coffee months-hardened on chipped cups?
Made to ease away food from plates piled next to or in the sink for as long as possible?
Made to wash dishes for you?
I don't know. But I'm intruiged.
Why can't I have toast in the shower?
I need a shower, I need toast, I've not much time, why can't I have toast in the shower?
Why can't I make toast in the shower, come to that?
And coffee.
I have hot water, why shouldn't I have coffee in the shower.
I need to go and clean.
There was a party. My party. And I need to go and clean.
I'm not feeling all too clever this morning. I'm not hungover, not in the classical sense of the word, but I'm certainly feeling like I should be in the remedial class of life this morning.
Why do I do that?
Why do I continue to drink gin, when I know it sends me loopy?
I'm just procrastinating now. There's the aftermath of a party to clean up, and I'm procrastinating. Is that how you spell procrastinating? Or is it procastinating? Or procastrinating? Maybe I've been saying it wrong all these years. Like february. Which everbody else says wrong. Or investigative, which I can't say right. I can barely say it at all, in fact. Not that I have to say it at all. The word 'investigative' doesn't come up all that often. Unlike procrastination, which comes up really quite often. Or it does in my life, anyway.
blah.
Ooh! I got a package from amazon.
This is exciting.
I'll open it tomorrow.
ut thank you, who ever, all the same...
Friday, May 10, 2002
Bugger. I've got no tights.
It's my birthday party tomorrow. Two days ahead of my birthday, but all the same.
I've dresses. By the truckload. But tights I've none.
Wank.
This is of no interest, it just struck me as I was about to write something scintillating. Poor you. Sorry.
And now I've forgotten what the other thing was.
Damn my memory. I should be sent to some form of glue factory.
At 25. It's sad.
But more than that, I should be sent to my bed.
Go to bed Anna.
Oh, and the other thing was the passport.
The passport I had in my bag - I don't know why.
The bag I took to the beach.
The beach I dropped my bag on, carelessly.
The bag my tobacco fell out of.
Fell out of onto the beach.
That pissed me off. My tobacco falling out of my bag onto the beach.
The beach where - five hours later, some random guests found my passport, lying in the sand.
The tide, coming in, had just caught the corners...
Now, tell me, is it a sign that I lost it? Or a sign that it was found? Or pure coincidence both?
Thursday, May 09, 2002
Look! Look at Anna!
What is Anna doing?
Anna is demonstrating how to change a duvet cover!
Doesn't Anna look silly!
Ha ha ha ha ha!
Anna is pretending the duvet cover is an enormous glove puppet. She is funny, isn't she?
Look! Anna has collapsed on the floor!
Silly Anna!
Ha ha ha ha ha!
Anna's not moving! Isn't Anna good at pretending?
Ha ha ha ha ha!
She's just kneeling on the floor, clutching her shoulder!
Silly Anna!
Ha ha ha ha ha!
Oh look, Anna is leaving the room! Still clutching her shoulder! Good show Anna! Well done!
Ha ha ha
ha
h a.
ah.
argh.
Stupid fecking shoulder.
Ever since I dislocated it badly 8 -8! Jesus. - years ago, it now pops out as and when it feels like it.
Have I told the dislocation story? I should. It's cracking.
And it hurts. It's hurty. And will be for a couple of days, while I walk around with my hand clamped upon my breast like I'm about to pledge allegiance to something.
Which I'm not.
Stupid fecking shoulder.
I don't want to be a gracious hostess.
I want to hide under the table cloth with my favourite people.
And my sausage rolls. And my toys. I want to giggle and whisper and think that nobody knows that we're there.
I want to eat the stuff that I like, and demand that anything else gets removed from my plate.
I don't want to lead a mandala meditation on the beach.
I want to squat by a rockpool with sand between my toes and poke sea anenomies with sticks.
I want to run into the surf and away again screaming as the waves coldly nip at my ankles.
I want to stuff so many stones and shells into my pockets that my trousers fall down.
I want to make sand angels face down, and then cry because my mouth is all gritty.
I want someone to put strawberry scented sunblock on my ears.
I want to tell people straight out that I don't like them. I want to sleep with my party ballons held in my arms. I want to fall over and cry because it hurts. And then forget about it three minutes later. I want to write my name, big, in crayon, on the walls. I want to think that mary poppins is real. And a good film. I'd like to bounce. On beds and sofas and people and grass. And trampolines, if I could have one.
I want to find lambs amazing.
I want to be overawed by juggling.
I want to find magic fairy dust in the tube that I thought contained glitter.
I want to wear a tutu and pink wings because my dress is in the wash.
I don't want to turn twenty-five on sunday.
I want to turn five.
And I don't think I'm allowed.
Question of the day - And you'll have to excuse my poor excuse for a mid-west accent, impersonations were never one of my selling points -
"So is the ferry for tourists? Or do, like, the locals use it too?"
...
wtf?
No, Britney dear. We walk on the water.
Or use our jetskis.
Or swim.
Daft bint.
Wednesday, May 08, 2002
Why am I having a birthday party?
I'm not feeling sociable.
I don't want to get old.
And by friday, I'll probably still be hungover.
bleurgh.
I have a hangover. And the hangover hurts.
It's my own fault. I cannot deny it.
But it hurts.
Anna is a sick bunny today.
Be kind to her.
This time last year I was in Tunisia.
This time the year before, manchester, England.
and the year before, same, and the year before.
Five years ago today I was standing in the San Andreas Fault.
The earth didn't move.
Not at all.
Too many involvedconversations.
I swear, If I Hear the word 'God' one more time, I'm going to scream...
Tuesday, May 07, 2002
Every morning we have a meeting.
To discuss what's going to happen that day,
To sort out any immediate problems, to ... well, ,to do stuff that needs be done.
When the minutes of this meeting come out, 20 minutes later, there is, at the bottom of the page,
"Thought for the day."
For some ungodly reason, it seems to have fallen upon me to provide these.
I don't know why.
And I'm running out of witty or interesting 'Thoughts for the day'
Help needed. They can come from anywhere, from anyone, about anything. I don't care. it's just to lift or enlighten someone's day...
Help?
It's my day off, and seems to be usual with my day off, I seem to have spent quite a lot of it swearing.
From incontinent fridges to shiny bacon and the mystery of sausages, The kitchen has been the root of much swearing.
And the rash I gained from making juggling balls with felt yesterday. Well, felt and water and washing up liquid and sugar soap.
That's been making me swear a fair amout too.
And that tour of the ruined nunnery I know nothing about for an unknown number of people for an unspecified amount of time that I have to do on sunday.
On Sunday. My 25th Birthday.
That 'Great gardens of the Highlands and islands - Iona Nunnery' tour.
That's been prompting some obscenities too.
And clouds. And little yappy dogs. And tourists.
Do excuse me.
Tits. I'm supposed to be elsewhere, I think. Oh, no I'm not. That's later.
Arse.
Pocket Coffee is (are?) one of my favourite sweets.
I only discovered them in december, and hardly get to eat them at all.
They contain a lot of caffeine. An espresso's worth, basically.
Someone wonderful, (thank you anna!) has recently been to Italy.
And brought me Pocket Coffee. Two packs of Pocket coffee. Two party packs.
Big f***-off party packs.
This evening, feeling tired, and not really disco worthy, I distractedly ate most of one pack.
A couple of pieces I gave to other people.
But not so many.
I had around eleven of the little blighters.
I have consumed around 15kg of caffeine. And will be awake until a week next thursday.
Just now I could swim to Tahiti, do the London Marathon, go 6 rounds with Orson Welles, wrestle Mr T into a small aircraft, learn to do a Viennese waltz, direct a passable action film, resolve the Middle East Crisis, weed the west side of the island and still have enough energy to skip to the moon.
Just don't ask me to think.
Thinking we're not doing.
Thinking we can leave for tomorrow.
Doing we can do, but not thinking. My brain left town a while ago. On the midnight train to Georgia.
After everyone left the disco we stayed for over an hour, playing snippets of favourite songs and dancable tunes loudly.
And other songs. And nice things. And happy.
I'm sorry. I think I've decided to stop making sense now.
But I've got a day off tomorrow. And that's got to be a good thing...
I'm going to go to bed and twitch.
Monday, May 06, 2002
This day seems to be going on forever.
Never has a day so empty ground on so relentlessly, or for so long.
Periods of mooching broken up by spells of having nothing to do, all tied together by selective timewasting and general faffing.
And having a headache. Although I must admit I'm getting rather attached to the headache.
We've been through a lot together.
Well, a lot since lunchtime, anyway.
And then, to top it off, Dinner was spent having a cracking row with two highly opinionated literature students from some Christian University in Minnesota, Brad Arrogant and his girlfriend Brittany Thick.
I'd never heard of the concept of Christian universities before this week. Although I applaud the man that came up with them. It obviously cradles and nurtures young Christian folk (I was having trouble with the spelling of that 'n' word. For a while it was neuters. Which was funnier.) and gives them a safe, non-threatening environment in which to be opinionated and nuts.
So this evening I've been told that I know nothing about English literature, since I don't like the work of Charles Dickens, from whom - apparently - all modern writing stems.
They were blathering about having to do a Shakespeare scene study, and when I asked 'Where from?' - meaning which play - was first told who Shakespeare was and what he did (a playright, apparently), and once we'd been through that, and I asked again, "Yes, but where was the scene from?, I was given the name of their text book.
Dang, I have to go and plan a disco...
Is that the time already? And I've still done nothing of note today...
They were working on the fence around the building today.
General maintenance and things.
Knocking in posts. Tightening wires.
And turning the gate inside out.
Which led to a great afternoon of sitting in the sun watching people opening the gate (after several moments of not opening the gate, as hard as they might try), and then closing it again behind them, all with a slightly puzzled look.
But which also led to the fact that there was a sign that you had to pass on your way through the gate to the rest of the world reading 'residents only'.
I'm sure there's probably some significance could be read into that.
F***ed if I know what it is though.
Sunday, May 05, 2002
I don't care if they're rare.
I don't care if they're not found in many other places.
I don't care if they're nearly extinct and a twitcher's wet dream.
They're loud, they're persistant, they're annoying, and in a perfect world they would be braised and served in a white wine and shallot sauce rather than croking themselves hoarse outside my window every night.
F***ing corncrakes.
Yes. The miricle of nature.
Fine. The marvel of spring and the fauna it brings.
Alright. How joyous, the cycle of nature, turning again.
But all the same. F***ing corncrakes.
Imagine a matchbox once of those rough ones, struck again and again by your pillow as you sleep.
Imagine a clockwork toy that never winds up enough.
Imagine a small ADHD child with one of those percussion instruments that makes those nasty rasping sounds.
They have nothing on a randy corncrake.
F***ing corncrakes.
RSPB my arse. There doesn't seem to be a 'Royal Society for the Protection of My Sleep Patterns'. Or 'of My Sanity'. Once the RSPMSP or RSPMS gets formed, then - and only then - will I enter into conversation with the corncrake lovers. Until then I'd happily spread them on toast.
(I'm sorry. I'm now too amused by the idea of the RSPMS. I'm going to go to bed, ,and dream of being the patron of the Royal Society of PMS.)
Croak croak. Croak croak croak. Croak. Croak croak croak croak croak. Croak croak. Croak. Croak croak corak croak croak croak croak. ... Croak. Croak croak croak. Croak croak. Croak croak croak croak croak Croak. Croak croak corak croak croak croak croak. ... Croak. Croak croak croak. Croak croak. Croak croak croak croak croakCroak croak. Croak croak croak. Croak. Croak croak croak croak croak. Croak croak. Croak. Croak croak corak croak croak croak croak. ... Croak. Croak croak croak. Croak croak *Bang*.
whoopsies again.
whoopsies for not being able to remember birthdays.
Happy birthday mr random oddness, dear.
I that I hope you had one.
A nice birthday. 6 days ago.
Balls.
The sun was shining.
All day.
And hardly any wind. The sea, like a really big mirror, bouncing back the blue of the sky and the tiny islands on the far side of the Sound.
When the tide was at its lowest, you could see the sandbar, where the water is less than a metre deep.
There were ripples there.
The cuckoo did its thing, and the lambs did theirs, people sauntered, and I was happy with my painting.
mmm.
A satisfied mmm.
Saturday, May 04, 2002
Oooh! I forgot. This is exciting.
Well, to me this is exciting.
According to some random Dutch people, I'm not an Alto after all.
I always thought I was.
I can still sing exactly the same range as I could three days ago, But I am now, apparently, a 'Mezzo-soprano'.
Which sounds much posher.
Yay!
The sun is shining, and I'm going to go and roll around in it.
whoopsies.
I've not been updating my candle counter.
This experiment is never going to work if I keep forgetting.
Still, there's not been too much need for candles this week. Apart from the ones for the shop. And for anyone desperately interested in all things candle (and isn't everyone?) the new supplies I picked up in London have my made my candlemaking life so much easier, and I'm in love with a 500g bag of Sterin...
I think I've finally worked out the amazon wishlist link thing.
I think.
Although I'm still working on the wishlist itself.
It's like letting someone look through your CD Collection, or taking someone to see your favourite film.
Well, it's like that if you care overmuch what people think of you, which is one of my worst things.
In fact, sad to say, there's very few people with whom I will watch one of my favourite films. If I do calm down enough to watch it with someone, I know I'll just sit there, eyes flickering between the screen and their face, making little disclaimers to the effect that "It's not that good really, sorry, we can watch something else..." or "...I know it seems a bit obscure, it'll all come right in a minute..."
In fact I was going to put in a link to it here, but now can't in case someone says that they don't like it. I'm an idiot, I really am...
Anyway. I've worked it out. I think. Which is timely.
It's still got a bunch more to be added or taken away though...
And it's not a reflection of me. Is it?
Bone of contention in the pub tonight...
Would the following chat-up line work, or is it the worst in the world - ever?chatter-upper;excuse me, have you ever had crabs?You know, now I see that in writing, I know the answer.
chatter-uppee; no...
chapper-upper;would you like to?
Damnit.
Right. I'm going to begin my lie-in...
The sun's been shining for two days.
Therefore I've been happy for the same.
Everyone seems to relax when the sun comes out. Far from shuffling past each other and grunting, heads down and arms wrapped around against the wind, a trip down the village street can take an hour, as everyone stops to lean against the wall and blather, faces tilted to the sun.
So there have been many good things. Many good moments.
Most of them are mine, and I don't know how to put them in writing. But we went around the island this afternoon in a boat. And that was fabulous.
All the bits that I only ever see from the land, all the bits that I walk to but never see, all the bits that, on this tiny island, I never get around to going to at all.
And all from a lovely boat. Which rocks.
We passed Port Ban, by far the best swimming beach on the island.
People swim all year. From all the beaches.
Even from the ones on the east side. Which, quite frankly, are like breaststroke in the septic tank, but that's not the point right now...
But the best beach for swimming is Port Ban. A sheltered bay, it holds the heat of the sun. And the water, in mid summer, is likely to be perhaps two degrees (maybe even three!..) higher than the water everywhere else.
Granted, it's still ten degrees lower than you'd actually feel comfortable swimming in, but it's that tiny bit warmer than elsewhere, and beggars can't be choosers.
I went swimming there once. Only once. We'd been swimming for a while, and I'd come to rest on a rock with my friend.me; You know, they're right, the water is warmer here.
emma; mmm. I've just had a wee.
me; ....
If I wanted to swim in someone elses urine, madam, I'd certainly not go to the Atlantic for it.
For that, Chorlton swimming baths was just fine.
I write because I love to write. And I need to practice writing. That's why I write.
And the fact that anyone reads it, I find bizzare.
But it makes me happy.
It's affirming. And encouraging. I like writing for people. It makes sense.
I have my e-mail address here because it's useful for people if they want to e-mail me.
And the fact that they do, I find bizzare.
But it makes me happy.
It leads to longer conversations, and dialogue, and sometimes friendship.
I have a guestbook. Mainly because it seemed the 'thing to do', but now because it serves as feedack on the blog as a whole.
People write things in it.
And that makes me happy.
I have a comments system so that people can remark on things that I happen to be thinking about.
It makes me happy.
The fact that people use these things, sometimes, to demean, belittle, or try to upset me, I find bizzare.
If someone didn't like me, or what they might have read of me, I would assume they might just not read this anymore.
Do you not think?
Friday, May 03, 2002
Three attractive strangers flirting with me in a week.
Around here, that's a rarity.
No, a miricle.
Twice this week my hand has been kissed.
I didn't even know that happened any more.
And between them, between them and their distance, and their short-term stays, and their terrible beard, and lack of humour, or lack of conersation, or lack of personal space allowance, or terrible laugh, or no laugh at all, their accent and their beliefs, their absence or their over-presence or whatever...
Between them, and their various perfections and flaws, I'm still left in the altlantic with nothing.
Nothing but a soggy hand.
darnit.
Balls. Dropping.
It's all I'm going to dream of when I lay my head down tonight.
Balls dropping. Onto tiled floors.
TAP Tap tap Tap tapTap tap taptaptapatapatapatpaapapaaptaptaaaaaaa. donk.
It's good. Because people love to play pool. It crosses boundaries, class and language, age and sex. I fully support the principle of having a pool table in the centre.
I just don't understand why it has to be in the tiled lobby.
When its pockets are too old and tired to hold its balls, and they drop and make the tappytappytappy annoying noise.
It makes me want to shout at people.
And at children. And at people and children that I usually like and have much patience with, which is a bad thing.
At least it doesn't make me violent.
It wouldn't be good to feel violent. I have the feeling that, as a child protection officer, smaking someone around the face for dropping the 67th snooker ball of the day wouldn't go down well.
Corporal Punishment as a whole isn't really very 'in' at the moment.
And hurrah for that.
But it does get annoying.
Just imagine it for a second.
Close your eyes. Well, close them to the extent that you can still read the next sentence.
TAPP TAp Tap tap Tap tap tapTap tapattaptapataptpapatpatpattapptaaaaaaa donk.
maniacal laughter.
TAPP TAp Tap tap Tap tap tapTap tapattaptapataptpapatpatpattapptaaaaaaa donk. "ahahahhahahhaaha!"
TAPP TAp Tap tap Tap tap tapTap tapattaptapataptpapatpatpattapptaaaaaaa donk. "hahahahaaa"TAPP TAp Tap tap Tap tap tapTap tapattaptapataptpapatpatpattapptaaaaaaa donk. "hahaha!"TAPP TAp Tap tap Tap tap tapTap tapattaptapataptpapatpatpattapptaaaaaaa donk. "hahahahhahahahhhaha!"TAPP TAp Tap tap Tap tap tapTap tapattaptapataptpapatpatpattapptaaaaaaa donk. "hahahahahaaaaa"
And for a Grand finale, twelve balls dropping at once.
You spend a day with it and try not to kill someone.
Go on. I dare you.
Actually, the evening turned out a whole lot shinier than I'd thought, when I managed to persuade several people who are never going to meet me again to buy me a birthday drink.
rah.
Thursday, May 02, 2002
What are those things called through which one talks out of ones neck?
trach box? no. You know, those things.
Well, I've just spent the afternoon painting with a boy with one of those, a little Dutch girl with no Engish at all, a girl whose entire conversation was composed of snippets of S Club 7 songs, (or S Club 6, or whatever they are now. Free the S Club 6) and a little boy whose favourite thing by far was ramming his wheelchair into other chairs, and then pulling those other chairs over.
And dropping snooker balls onto tiled floors. Over and over and over again.
Conversation was limited, but communication was easy.
Smiles. Lots of smiles.
I'm sorry, that's extremely saccherine, isn't it?
Don't worry, I'll come back in a foul mood later, I'm sure.
Then again, no. I probably won't. I'm about to go and drop a thousand tissue paper snowflakes from the roof to surprise the kids. And that's going to make me very happy indeed.
Wednesday, May 01, 2002
Incidentally, I'm one of those annoying 'birthday' people. The ones who can make their birthday stretch for two weeks.
I now declare the birthday season open.
Only 12 days to go, after all...
However, on the way home, I managed to mug a random American for a luminous orange plastic torch with 'jesus is the light...' written on the side. Just what I never knew I wanted. Fantastic.
All I need now is WWJD underwear. That would complete the collection.
I'm going away for the night. Dinner and that. Back thursday.
x
How exactly, is it fair, that whenever I meet somebody fun to flirt with, whenever I meet somebody that I can talk to endlessly and well, how is it, exactly, that these are always the same people that are leaving in two days.
Or only here for a day trip.
How does that work, precisely?
I'm not expecting an answer here.
I just wanted to ask the question out loud...
a weblog by anna pickard
(adrift in a sea of commuters)
(adrift in a sea of commuters)
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