take one woman with low self esteem, but quite good hair
add one moronic illness
stir in some medication which causes hair to fall out
mix it all up and this is what you get...
Saturday, April 26, 2008
You were beautiful.
"Don't look at me!" you muttered to the staff outside the main room. But how could they not?
I heard the "ahhh" as the assembled guests in the room saw first the two little nieces, holding hands, dressed in pink, then you, luminous, arm in arm with our brother, in loco parentis. Then me, following behind, barely able to look up, only once to find Big with my eyes and return his smiling, gentle wink, but trembling, clutching the bouquet.
I remember only fragments of the ceremony, mostly being occupied with the effort it took to remain composed as poignant words were spoken with shaking voices. We in the front row independently and silently resolved not to look at each other, though we could sense the struggle in the others as we gulped back the tears. I heard your name - your full name, your middle name, our mother's name. A reminder of the gaping hole. I remember our brother-in-law delivering his reading with less gusto than is normal for him. His voice faltered, his eyes glistened - we sympathised.
The ceremony over with, we relaxed a little, but we knew there was more to come. Later, the heartfelt speech from your new husband and his toast to "absent friends" was another catalyst for our eyes to fill and our lips to tremble.
Because we'd been saying for some time that your wedding would be a "blub-fest". The first wedding in our family without mum. Yet another wedding without dad - the dad that you and I can barely remember. The three grandchildren they would never know, though perhaps they see them, perhaps they watch over them.
I wonder how many of your guests knew that just five days before your wedding, you had gone back to the clinic for the results of the biopsy. I wonder how many of them knew that a few weeks before that, you'd found that lump. I wonder how many of them knew that, although the biopsy had suggested that the lump was benign, the doctor was still concerned and booked you in to have it removed, a few days after you return from your honeymoon.
I suppose our bad genes were not content with giving you a rare, congenital heart condition, necessitating bypass surgery at the age of 21 and lifelong medication. I suppose they didn't think that the loss of both parents to cancer by the time you were 28 was sufficient. I guess they reckoned that a younger sister diagnosed with a rare, lifelong, auto-immune disease at the age of 34 and treated with chemotherapy wasn't quite enough for them.
Sometimes, I want to scream: "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JUST LEAVE US ALONE!"
To whom, to what? I don't know. Whoever or whatever it is that has cursed the health of our family, please, just leave us alone.
Through it all, though, you smiled, you laughed, you danced.
You shone like a star, my sister.
You were beautiful.
"Don't look at me!" you muttered to the staff outside the main room. But how could they not?
I heard the "ahhh" as the assembled guests in the room saw first the two little nieces, holding hands, dressed in pink, then you, luminous, arm in arm with our brother, in loco parentis. Then me, following behind, barely able to look up, only once to find Big with my eyes and return his smiling, gentle wink, but trembling, clutching the bouquet.
I remember only fragments of the ceremony, mostly being occupied with the effort it took to remain composed as poignant words were spoken with shaking voices. We in the front row independently and silently resolved not to look at each other, though we could sense the struggle in the others as we gulped back the tears. I heard your name - your full name, your middle name, our mother's name. A reminder of the gaping hole. I remember our brother-in-law delivering his reading with less gusto than is normal for him. His voice faltered, his eyes glistened - we sympathised.
The ceremony over with, we relaxed a little, but we knew there was more to come. Later, the heartfelt speech from your new husband and his toast to "absent friends" was another catalyst for our eyes to fill and our lips to tremble.
Because we'd been saying for some time that your wedding would be a "blub-fest". The first wedding in our family without mum. Yet another wedding without dad - the dad that you and I can barely remember. The three grandchildren they would never know, though perhaps they see them, perhaps they watch over them.
I wonder how many of your guests knew that just five days before your wedding, you had gone back to the clinic for the results of the biopsy. I wonder how many of them knew that a few weeks before that, you'd found that lump. I wonder how many of them knew that, although the biopsy had suggested that the lump was benign, the doctor was still concerned and booked you in to have it removed, a few days after you return from your honeymoon.
I suppose our bad genes were not content with giving you a rare, congenital heart condition, necessitating bypass surgery at the age of 21 and lifelong medication. I suppose they didn't think that the loss of both parents to cancer by the time you were 28 was sufficient. I guess they reckoned that a younger sister diagnosed with a rare, lifelong, auto-immune disease at the age of 34 and treated with chemotherapy wasn't quite enough for them.
Sometimes, I want to scream: "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JUST LEAVE US ALONE!"
To whom, to what? I don't know. Whoever or whatever it is that has cursed the health of our family, please, just leave us alone.
Through it all, though, you smiled, you laughed, you danced.
You shone like a star, my sister.
You were beautiful.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Let's get persona-l
She is a loudmouth. Her voice carries more than you'd think it would. She hiccoughs, sneezes, belches without stifling it, like a man. She cackles like a witch - deep and throaty. Dirty.
She swears. On a Gordon Ramsay scale, she's small fry, but she cusses and curses more than you'd think, from what little you know of her.
She is tall. She undoubtedly has a physical presence. She looks confident - almost intimidating - but there is an inner awkwardness perceptible to the more observant. She is incredibly clumsy - always flailing her arms as she walks and bashing them on walls, radiators, door handles, grazing her knuckles as she goes.
She is incredibly opinionated. In the privacy of her own home, she rants and raves and argues the toss about education, politics, the environment, society, claiming to have an answer to all the wrongs. Outside of her home, she is rarely drawn into any serious debate, doubting her ability to express her view articulately, stifling her thoughts, silently simmering.
She is an appalling gossip. Incredibly observant and intuitive, she can spot the seed of gossip almost before it happens. She can bitch for England (or for any other country that may require her services).
She is an inverted snob at times. A snob at others.
She is "a million different people from one day to the next".
Do you think you know her?
She is me. The me (most of) you don't see. The me who writes, presses publish, gets up, walks away from the screen and becomes a real, three-dimensional, multi-faceted, multi-talented and multi-flawed human being.
Not just anxious. Much, much more.
inspired by this
She swears. On a Gordon Ramsay scale, she's small fry, but she cusses and curses more than you'd think, from what little you know of her.
She is tall. She undoubtedly has a physical presence. She looks confident - almost intimidating - but there is an inner awkwardness perceptible to the more observant. She is incredibly clumsy - always flailing her arms as she walks and bashing them on walls, radiators, door handles, grazing her knuckles as she goes.
She is incredibly opinionated. In the privacy of her own home, she rants and raves and argues the toss about education, politics, the environment, society, claiming to have an answer to all the wrongs. Outside of her home, she is rarely drawn into any serious debate, doubting her ability to express her view articulately, stifling her thoughts, silently simmering.
She is an appalling gossip. Incredibly observant and intuitive, she can spot the seed of gossip almost before it happens. She can bitch for England (or for any other country that may require her services).
She is an inverted snob at times. A snob at others.
She is "a million different people from one day to the next".
Do you think you know her?
She is me. The me (most of) you don't see. The me who writes, presses publish, gets up, walks away from the screen and becomes a real, three-dimensional, multi-faceted, multi-talented and multi-flawed human being.
Not just anxious. Much, much more.
inspired by this
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Hair today
I've had a few double-takes. A few lingering looks that say "hold on there, missus!". A few "amusing" comments. A few awkward silences, where you can feel the weight of the stares. But mostly raised eyebrows and surprised smiles.
I'd been waiting for this moment for months, putting up with things in that stoic way that I'd learned from my mother. Irritatingly, it was only when the situation became significantly more bearable that I was able to go ahead with the "cure" - or at least, the partial remedy. When I was most desperate for the change, it simply wasn't possible to effect it.
But last Friday, my time came.
It was rather more painful than I'd expected, not only during, but just after. At first, I found it hard to sleep at night and woke up sullen. The tearfulness would continue all day.
Tearfulness, because it wasn't everything I'd hoped for. My expectations were, I fear, a little too high. I'd wanted them to give me back everything I'd lost, but they could only work with what they had. And what they had was not a lot.
Tearfulness, too, because I wondered if this was all just too ungrateful, too vain. Shouldn't I be pleased that everything seems to be okay on the inside?
I suppose that partly, I did it for my sister. Had I not been asked to be her bridesmaid, I wonder whether I would have gone through with it. But with the assurance of photos that will be looked at for years to come, I just wanted to look a bit more like me.
Just a bit.
You see, I paid someone to painstakingly braid the lower sections of my hair into tight cornrows. I paid someone to sew, with an alarmingly large needle, woven sections of real, human hair onto the braids. Human hair so well matched to my own, that it even contains the same odds flecks of grey.
I got some new hair. And though it's so clearly a mullet, I am growing to like it.
I'd been waiting for this moment for months, putting up with things in that stoic way that I'd learned from my mother. Irritatingly, it was only when the situation became significantly more bearable that I was able to go ahead with the "cure" - or at least, the partial remedy. When I was most desperate for the change, it simply wasn't possible to effect it.
But last Friday, my time came.
It was rather more painful than I'd expected, not only during, but just after. At first, I found it hard to sleep at night and woke up sullen. The tearfulness would continue all day.
Tearfulness, because it wasn't everything I'd hoped for. My expectations were, I fear, a little too high. I'd wanted them to give me back everything I'd lost, but they could only work with what they had. And what they had was not a lot.
Tearfulness, too, because I wondered if this was all just too ungrateful, too vain. Shouldn't I be pleased that everything seems to be okay on the inside?
I suppose that partly, I did it for my sister. Had I not been asked to be her bridesmaid, I wonder whether I would have gone through with it. But with the assurance of photos that will be looked at for years to come, I just wanted to look a bit more like me.
Just a bit.
You see, I paid someone to painstakingly braid the lower sections of my hair into tight cornrows. I paid someone to sew, with an alarmingly large needle, woven sections of real, human hair onto the braids. Human hair so well matched to my own, that it even contains the same odds flecks of grey.
I got some new hair. And though it's so clearly a mullet, I am growing to like it.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Girly swot
"Did J tell you what N said about you?" my Manager asked me, quite out of the blue and rather enigmatically, as is his "style".
"Um... no..." I furrowed, slightly concerned. "Wh-what did he say?"
He gave a wry smile.
"I'll forward you the email," and with that, he scuttled back to his "pod".
When his email appeared in my inbox, the subject line was simply "Anx". My hand was trembling slightly and I could feel a prickly heat rising to my cheeks as I moused over the bold lettering, gearing up for the double-click.
I'd had a meeting with N (a senior manager in the user community) the day before, to discuss requirements for a system I'm designing singlehandedly. With only a sketchy, verbal brief from J (my immediate superior), lots of delving around an unknown system and only a couple of weeks in the job, I'd spent some considerable time preparing prototype screen shots and made sure to put my "listening hat" on for the meeting. As a newbie, I wanted to make sure I got it right.
After a productive discussion with N and his colleague, I'd come away from the meeting with a clear idea of how to proceed, and translated this into a detailed requirements spec.
Eager to please - sometimes pathetically so - I was especially curious to find out what N had thought.
I took a deep breath, and double-clicked it open.
Whilst recognising my eternal, internal desire for a life less corporate, it is nice to know that I can still do my day job, and do it well.
"Um... no..." I furrowed, slightly concerned. "Wh-what did he say?"
He gave a wry smile.
"I'll forward you the email," and with that, he scuttled back to his "pod".
When his email appeared in my inbox, the subject line was simply "Anx". My hand was trembling slightly and I could feel a prickly heat rising to my cheeks as I moused over the bold lettering, gearing up for the double-click.
I'd had a meeting with N (a senior manager in the user community) the day before, to discuss requirements for a system I'm designing singlehandedly. With only a sketchy, verbal brief from J (my immediate superior), lots of delving around an unknown system and only a couple of weeks in the job, I'd spent some considerable time preparing prototype screen shots and made sure to put my "listening hat" on for the meeting. As a newbie, I wanted to make sure I got it right.
After a productive discussion with N and his colleague, I'd come away from the meeting with a clear idea of how to proceed, and translated this into a detailed requirements spec.
Eager to please - sometimes pathetically so - I was especially curious to find out what N had thought.
I took a deep breath, and double-clicked it open.
-----------------
From: Manager
To: Anx
Subject: Anx
Well done!
-----------------
From: J
To: Manager
Subject: Anx
For your info, I spoke to N this morning who made comments like "Where did you get Anx from?" "I'm well impressed" "I think you've taken on a good one there".
So it looks like she's making a good start!
J
Whilst recognising my eternal, internal desire for a life less corporate, it is nice to know that I can still do my day job, and do it well.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Would that the crow flew
I live about four miles away from my office, as the crow flies.
If there were a crow big enough to support my not-insubstantial weight, hitching a ride to work would be quick and efficient - if a little unusual in transport terms. Alas, we do not live in such a world where stygian, carrion-eatering harbingers of doom provide green transport for us eco-wannabe commuters. More's the pity.
Our offices were built at a time when "out of town" and "good road links" were perceived as positive factors. On a business park, two miles from the nearest station, nowhere near town, local shops or anything remotely useful, we are stranded in our own little corporate universe.
"Good road links" are all well and good, but when whoever planned the building in the first place grossly underestimated the required parking capacity, you end up as we do: sharing one space between three employees. Others risk the wrath of the local residents, parking on the surrounding housing estate. None too pleased with the influx of corporate drones clogging up their streets, some residents have resorted to vandalism in an attempt to deter the clamouring commuters.
Recognising the severity of the problem, the company provides a secure, monitored "park and ride" facility nearby, with a regular, chartered bus service in the mornings and evenings to ferry the bleary-eyed commuters from car to office, office to car. A reasonable solution, though many would rather run the risk of punctured tyres or scratched bodywork than be separated from their precious cars.
Then there's the traffic. You'd have thought, wouldn't you, that since I'm travelling out of the city, I would not have to contend with traffic. I thought it too, but I was wrong. Even given my "secret knowledge of backroads" of Southampton, I still always manage to stumble upon a bottleneck somewhere along the way. In fact, it takes me around the same amount of time to drive those four miles as it used to take me to drive the twenty from [town in the West Country where I lived] to [town in the West Country where I worked].
Having been spoiled at previous jobs by being able to walk to work, I find it most uncivilised having to drive. Not to mention unhealthy, carbon-footprinty and stressful, especially on those days when I park in the "park and ride" and have to co-ordinate my time of arrival with the regular (yet not as frequent as one would like) bus service.
So I spend much of my time working out ways of getting to work which do not involve driving...
Yes, admittedly, the most logical solution is so clearly to cycle. In fact, I'd rather like to. Helpfully, there are off-road cycle lanes along much of the route and showers available at work. But there is one rather big problem with that. One rather big problem who goes by the name of Big. Those of you more recent readers are probably not aware that, when Big was 13 years old, his dad was killed in a cycling accident, while cycling to work in Manchester. For his own peace of mind, he has respectfully asked me not to cycle to work, and I have respectfully agreed. And there is nothing more to be said about that.
There are two buses which stop a short walk from the office building. However, in order to take either of these buses, I must walk for almost a mile from my home to the bus stop. It takes me fifty minutes, door to door, to travel those four miles by bus.
I live just five minutes' walk from the Central train station. There are frequent services which can get me to the station nearest to the office building in less than ten minutes, but I am still a two-mile walk away from the office itself. With no useful bus service from the station, again, we're talking about a fifty minute journey door to door.
As preposterous as it may sound, I have even considered running to work. Four miles used to be a short run in my long-distance repertoire. Not nowadays, of course (although I am run-walking again with my old Southampton running pal, who is just returning from injury).
Walking. Four miles. Morning and night. That's just crazy talk, isn't it? Yep.
Car sharing - yes. I have even identified someone who lives just up the road from me. After his initial excitement at the thought of halving his fuel bills and being able to park on site two days out of every three, he has gone all non-committal on me.
These factors, together with my inherent laziness, mean that, despite my strong feelings on the subject, I find myself guiltily bundling myself and my MP3 player into the car each morning, alone.
But, readers, I have a plan.
I will approach the staff council. I will ask them to consider a "train and ride" scheme, providing chartered bus services to and from the two stations in the area. I will ask them to provide a car-sharing forum on the intranet, so that those who wish to pool their resources can find other, like-minded individuals.
And then I will find out whether there is anyone else out of the 700-odd who work in that building who gives a damn.
If there were a crow big enough to support my not-insubstantial weight, hitching a ride to work would be quick and efficient - if a little unusual in transport terms. Alas, we do not live in such a world where stygian, carrion-eatering harbingers of doom provide green transport for us eco-wannabe commuters. More's the pity.
Our offices were built at a time when "out of town" and "good road links" were perceived as positive factors. On a business park, two miles from the nearest station, nowhere near town, local shops or anything remotely useful, we are stranded in our own little corporate universe.
"Good road links" are all well and good, but when whoever planned the building in the first place grossly underestimated the required parking capacity, you end up as we do: sharing one space between three employees. Others risk the wrath of the local residents, parking on the surrounding housing estate. None too pleased with the influx of corporate drones clogging up their streets, some residents have resorted to vandalism in an attempt to deter the clamouring commuters.
Recognising the severity of the problem, the company provides a secure, monitored "park and ride" facility nearby, with a regular, chartered bus service in the mornings and evenings to ferry the bleary-eyed commuters from car to office, office to car. A reasonable solution, though many would rather run the risk of punctured tyres or scratched bodywork than be separated from their precious cars.
Then there's the traffic. You'd have thought, wouldn't you, that since I'm travelling out of the city, I would not have to contend with traffic. I thought it too, but I was wrong. Even given my "secret knowledge of backroads" of Southampton, I still always manage to stumble upon a bottleneck somewhere along the way. In fact, it takes me around the same amount of time to drive those four miles as it used to take me to drive the twenty from [town in the West Country where I lived] to [town in the West Country where I worked].
Having been spoiled at previous jobs by being able to walk to work, I find it most uncivilised having to drive. Not to mention unhealthy, carbon-footprinty and stressful, especially on those days when I park in the "park and ride" and have to co-ordinate my time of arrival with the regular (yet not as frequent as one would like) bus service.
So I spend much of my time working out ways of getting to work which do not involve driving...
Yes, admittedly, the most logical solution is so clearly to cycle. In fact, I'd rather like to. Helpfully, there are off-road cycle lanes along much of the route and showers available at work. But there is one rather big problem with that. One rather big problem who goes by the name of Big. Those of you more recent readers are probably not aware that, when Big was 13 years old, his dad was killed in a cycling accident, while cycling to work in Manchester. For his own peace of mind, he has respectfully asked me not to cycle to work, and I have respectfully agreed. And there is nothing more to be said about that.
There are two buses which stop a short walk from the office building. However, in order to take either of these buses, I must walk for almost a mile from my home to the bus stop. It takes me fifty minutes, door to door, to travel those four miles by bus.
I live just five minutes' walk from the Central train station. There are frequent services which can get me to the station nearest to the office building in less than ten minutes, but I am still a two-mile walk away from the office itself. With no useful bus service from the station, again, we're talking about a fifty minute journey door to door.
As preposterous as it may sound, I have even considered running to work. Four miles used to be a short run in my long-distance repertoire. Not nowadays, of course (although I am run-walking again with my old Southampton running pal, who is just returning from injury).
Walking. Four miles. Morning and night. That's just crazy talk, isn't it? Yep.
Car sharing - yes. I have even identified someone who lives just up the road from me. After his initial excitement at the thought of halving his fuel bills and being able to park on site two days out of every three, he has gone all non-committal on me.
These factors, together with my inherent laziness, mean that, despite my strong feelings on the subject, I find myself guiltily bundling myself and my MP3 player into the car each morning, alone.
But, readers, I have a plan.
I will approach the staff council. I will ask them to consider a "train and ride" scheme, providing chartered bus services to and from the two stations in the area. I will ask them to provide a car-sharing forum on the intranet, so that those who wish to pool their resources can find other, like-minded individuals.
And then I will find out whether there is anyone else out of the 700-odd who work in that building who gives a damn.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Supporting...
Thursday, February 28, 2008
"Hey, Dr. Jones, no time for blog"
It appears to be that time of the year again. In my case, of course, it can happen at any time of the year, but that it happens is an inevitable truth.
Once again, it's time to stop this nonsense. For how long, we just don't know. A couple of days (if a suitably bloggable event arises), a couple of months, maybe even forever, though if past experience is anything to go by, that option seems unlikely.
I'll keep it brief.
My new job is making me use my brain. This is, of course, A Good Thing (to use the title case which seems de rigueur in such situations). This means that, when I get home from work, there is not much brain left.
Although I could probably continue to churn out the odd snippet once a week, I just don't have time to read blogs. And to me, writing without reading in the world of Blog is... well, it's just not right. It might be okay for those famous bloggers, whose fascination with their fabulous selves leaves no time to consider the mundane lives of anyone else, but for blogging pondlife such as myself, it's Just Not On.
And so, I shall retreat into the shadows,leaving only my Facebook friends to discover my fate...
Good evening to you, one and all.
Once again, it's time to stop this nonsense. For how long, we just don't know. A couple of days (if a suitably bloggable event arises), a couple of months, maybe even forever, though if past experience is anything to go by, that option seems unlikely.
I'll keep it brief.
My new job is making me use my brain. This is, of course, A Good Thing (to use the title case which seems de rigueur in such situations). This means that, when I get home from work, there is not much brain left.
Although I could probably continue to churn out the odd snippet once a week, I just don't have time to read blogs. And to me, writing without reading in the world of Blog is... well, it's just not right. It might be okay for those famous bloggers, whose fascination with their fabulous selves leaves no time to consider the mundane lives of anyone else, but for blogging pondlife such as myself, it's Just Not On.
And so, I shall retreat into the shadows,leaving only my Facebook friends to discover my fate...
Good evening to you, one and all.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Special Agent:Amber A.k.a:"Bam-Bam"Age:2
Sex:Female
Appearance:Small, fluffy, tortoiseshell, large white feet
Special Abilities: Jumping into boxes, hiding under beds, endearing self to human subjects.
Cover Story: Your owner has gone on an extended holiday. You must be temporarily housed with other humans for your own welfare.
Mission Summary: Study the humans in their home environment, collect data and submit report of lifestyle, behaviours, food and hygiene.
Details:
Your duties have two main purposes. Firstly, to engage the humans in order to gain their trust and admiration. Humans are generally weak-minded and will inevitably respond to your charms. Secondly, to collect data on their habitat and behaviours. Duties include, but are not restricted to, the following:
- Patrol the room
- Peer into the fireplace, going up on hindlegs to better inspect the chimney if necessary
- Rub lips against cardboard box on floor to detect its chemical make up. If humans become suspicious, jump into box, looking slightly bewildered and making scratching noises. The humans will probably laugh at this, and continue about their business
- Inspect plant pot - try to ascertain the function of the plant in the humans' life. Beware: the plant may try to attack you by brushing you with its fronds. If this occurs - run like the wind!
- Jump up on back of sofa and stare out of the window
- Use scratching post with intense concentration and with ears pinned back. This is preferable to using other pieces of human furniture - you may lose their trust if you use, for example, the sofa
- Jump onto suede beanbag, examine its strange squidginess. This can be an alarming experience if you are not used to it
- Beware of any sudden movements/slight noises/passing cars/someone sneezing and run for your life if required.
- Jump onto humans and settle down to snuggle, patting them on their face if they dare to stop stroking you. This is part of the endearment process - they will not be able to imagine life without you.
- Drink from the humans' water glass on the side table. This is the only way to ensure that the water you drink is safe
- Attempt to gain a sample of any foods the humans are eating, by mewling pathetically and looking up at them adoringly
- If the humans attempt to shut you downstairs at night, attempt to burrow your way through the carpet using your claws. The humans might shout at you when they come down in the morning, but do not let this deter you - remember, you must study their nocturnal behaviour!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
About a hundred years ago...*
... the lovely Miss Tickle tagged me.
I am to come up with Six Random Things About Me, apparently. Now, having been blogging for nearly five years, there's probably not a lot you long-term readers don't know about me, but I'll see what I can do...
* give or take... um... about a hundred years.
I am to come up with Six Random Things About Me, apparently. Now, having been blogging for nearly five years, there's probably not a lot you long-term readers don't know about me, but I'll see what I can do...
- I am quite simply incapable of sitting at a chair with my feet flat on the floor, as recommended by Health and Safety advisors the world over. I have a quite curious need to hoist one of my legs at an unlikely angle so that its ankle is resting on the other thigh. Sometimes I will go so far as to rest my foot on the desk top. I did this once without thinking, in a no-doubt vitally important "business meeting", much to the disbelief of my fellow attendees.
These contortions inevitably end in pins and needles and an inability to walk until the feeling returns, but it is quite simply beyond my control.
I am quite comfortable sitting cross-legged, even though I do precisely no yoga. My friend winces when she witnesses this. To wind her up, I show her how close I am to getting my leg right over my head. A useful skill, I think you'll agree. - I played steel drums at school.
We used to play "At The Sign of the Swinging Cymbal", which many Brits will know from the legendary Alan Freeman's "Pick of the Pops" radio show. If you put a "ping-pong" (tenor) steel drum in front of me today, some twenty years later, I could probably still play it, though I remember the movements required to make the tune more than the sequence of notes.
I remember becoming emotional as I played, and I still get a shiver down my spine today when I hear "Wonderful Life" by Black - the only song I know with a (probably synthesised) steel drum rhythm section. I always focus my listening on the steel drums and imagine how easy it would be to play... Man, give me a steel drum! - I am curiously drawn to singing harmonies, as opposed to the melody.
When listening to my iPod in the car, I often find myself singing along, but virtually always with the harmony - sometimes making a harmony line up if it doesn't exist.
I was once a member of a barbershop quintet. When I say a barbershop quintet, I mean that me and four friends used to get together and sing in a barbershop style. We never performed, but we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
As I've mentioned before, I *love* singing. - I am extraordinarily heavy.
Before you click away with disgust at the sheer tediousness of this statement, this is not your typical "I'm too fat, I hate myself" rants (although I am, of course, too fat and hate myself).
It is a simple fact that I am much, much heavier than anyone ever imagines. When I was in hospital, I noted several nurses checking the calibration of the scales in disbelief. Even when I was at my slimmest and running twenty odd miles per week, I was still a good couple of stone heavier than I looked. Most people would be horrified to be as heavy as I am, even considering my above-average height. I think I am living proof that there really is such a thing as "being big boned".
This is one of the reasons that I try not to weigh myself. My measure is the relative snugness of the trouser. - At the age of twelve, I was chosen from my school to attend "Mathematics Masterclasses" at the Royal Institution of Great Britain.
- I simply cannot walk in high heels. The end.
* give or take... um... about a hundred years.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Friends like these...
I doubt you noticed. It seems to me that, these days, you rarely notice anything outside a five metre radius of your own navel. Our friendship, if we can really call it that, started with a kind of kinship, a shared reaction to a similar experience, a mutual, gentle admiration. You, living the life that, at one time, I thought I might live. There was some envy from me, there always is, though not for everything. Not for the failing relationship, the child, the crushing routine. Just aspects of that life - the life I thought I'd live. In those early days, I was one of the chosen ones and I was pathetically grateful. Too pathetically grateful. I am ashamed to say that I sometimes joined in with the gushing admiration which, when I witness it now, fills me with bitterness and exasperation.
Things started to turn around for you, in a big way. You moved on, were part of something wholly different now - I fell by the wayside, like many others. You paid lip service to our friendship on rare occasions, but there was more and more smugness and aloofness about your changed fortunes and you became part of a clique: a clique which was not open to me. Too ordinary, too mediocre to be on that list.
Mediocre and ordinary, I may be, but my friendship must still be earned and I'm sorry to say, you haven't worked hard enough. And so, for the first time, I used the "Remove from friends" button in Facebook. On you.
I doubt you noticed.
