Well, my therapist certainly earned her £45 yesterday, although I suppose it's possible that I was just being brilliantly insightful. Whatever the cause, I don't really care - it was an excellent session and I feel like a new woman, my mood not even dented by a fairly unsettling hangover.
We picked up where we'd left off, with me unable to love someone if their love is consistent. Why can't I respect someone who just straightforward loves me? Because it feels too easy, thickie - you're not even testing me! I'm used to jumping through hoops for love, having to be on top form at all times, having to excel, and then you come along and love me without challenging me, without pushing me to my limits? Well, pah to that. OBViously your standards are rock bottom, my friend, and you're just a teeny bit desperate. Because if you were worthy of my respect, if you really were a valuable human being, you wouldn't just love me so easily. You would have to test me, hard, to see if I was worth your time. High quality people don't give their love to just anyone, you know. The creme de la creme will challenge my loyalty, challenge my commitment. Can I bear it when their attention comes in fits and starts? Of course I can! Will I buy them amazing presents to persuade them that I'm worth their continued affection? Yes, yes I will. How about putting up with it when they don't keep their promises? Fine with me! It just means I have to work harder, which in turn means you'll really love me, and you'll see that I really love you too! Pant, pant!
I'm fully aware how excruciating this sounds. But jeez Louise, it explains so much. Not only does it justify some of my less equal platonic friend choices over the years, and the fact that I've consistently fallen crazy in love for guys who've only given me glimmers of inconsistent, patchy interest, but it also explains why, once I've won a guy over and we've become boyfriend and girlfriend, I have then become so critical of them - partly because I lose respect for them because they seem to be loving me UNcritically, but also because I'm showing them that I love them the only way I know how: by challenging them, testing the level of their love for me and giving them the opportunity to up their game and shine to the max. "You think you love me?" I'm saying. "I've jumped through hoops for you, so you know I'm amazing. But how do I make sure you're high quality goods too? Don't think you can sit on your laurels now, young man. You have to prove it, prove it, prove it. Look! I made you this unbeLIEVably romantic dinner! I bought you this absurdly thoughtful gift! I painted your portrait! I printed out all our emails and got them bound into a hardback book! Top that, motherfucker! Can't? Then I'll highlight your inadequacies until you want to rip out my tongue and feed it to squirrels." So they eventually dump me, and finally I get that yearned-for taste of them not wanting me, so I suddenly decide that they ARE good enough, after all. Cue me begging them to take me back, them refusing, and me spending the next several months thinking the one who got away was The One Who Got Away while my parents and friends sit around going, "But you found him really annoying!"
What a fucking nightmare. Still, at least I now have a comprehensive answer to anyone who shakes their head, looking mystified, and says, "I just don't understand why you're still single!" I don't respect anyone who goes out with me, but on the rare occasions that someone slips through the net, I put them through an insanely rigorous, constant and unending series of tests, 'generously' allowing them occasion after occasion so that they can prove their worth every single day we're together, and then, when they inevitably fail, I criticise them to the point of mutual madness, until they end it, when I suddenly grovel at them to take me back.
Then, as if that wasn't enough to send me barking for The Priory, I realised that my love for mySELF is hot and cold, too. Sometimes I think I'm great - usually when I've got visible evidence that some current target thinks I'm cool. Then, just when I'm getting comfortable, the target loses interest, I realise I'm actually a fraud and a failure, I go off myself and plunge into depression. My self-esteem is totally conditional on my passing all my own tests, one of which is to be loved by someone, but that someone has to love me in a conditional way, otherwise I won't respect them.
If that's not a complex little web of insanity, I don't know what is. But frankly, it feels great to have got it out in the open, to see what we're working with. On the downside, I can't see how I'm going to stop doing any of this. And right now, as my therapist identified last night, I'm going through a very angry stage. Anyone who is breezing through life being uncomplicated is making me very annoyed indeed, because I feel like it's very unfair that I should be the way I am. But hey, que sera sera; at least now I understand it, I have a chance of breaking the habits of a lifetime. And the sun's shining.
Plus, I am fairly certain that I'm better off than Ruby Wax, in pretty much every way other than financial. After my landmark therapy sesh, I then went for an hour long drink in Borough Market with Emily, a schoolfriend I've not seen for over fifteen years. Well, honestly, we weren't friends at school. We discussed it last night, and I said I'd been thinking about it, and I reckoned the reason we weren't friends was because we both felt unpopular, and both responded in similarly annoying ways: by trying REALLY REALLY HARD to be popular. Which, as we both know now, is not the best way to make friends. Anyway, it was supremely lovely to add some wine to the water under the bridge and, once again, I gave thanks for the internet and social media for bringing yet another wonderful, feisty, intelligent and entertaining person into my life.
Sorry, that doesn't explain the Ruby Wax comment. After seeing Emily, I then rushed over to the Mernier Chocolate Factory to meet lovely Laura and her amazing friend James for a quick drink and a bite to eat before a performance of Ruby's current show, Losing It. I was just tucking into my chicken breast (skin on) and potato croquette, when Laura paused mid-sentence. "It's Palomino Faith," she whispered, only later realising that Paloma was not named after a blond-maned pony. I whipped round, and saw the back of her ginger beehive. Thrilling celebrity spot, we thought. Moments later, James spluttered into his cheese and grapes. "Ohmygod, what's her name?!" he hissed. "She was like Jane MacDonald, but less famous, and she won Strictly Come Dancing or something and, and, SHE USED TO BE IN BROOKSIDE!" Eventually, someone other than me put the clues together and worked out that D-list, red-faced lass, Claire Sweeney, was eating a few tables away. We were awash with excitement. Two famous people in one evening! Never mind that most normal people would never have heard of either of them. We were feeling very glittery.
Then in walked Joanna Lumley. James began to froth.
"This is too much!" he said. "I cannot cope with this level of excitement." Laura was rocking gently in the corner. I used to work for a pop magazine so cannot act excited around famous people without feeling like I will get fired. Then I spied my friend Damian. He walked over to our table, followed by his wife. "How did you get tickets for this?" he asked with a tone of slight surprise. "I know the right people," I said, coyly, neglecting to mention that we had just bought them, online, a few weeks ago, like any normal person would go about getting tickets for any normal event. Clearly, though, we had picked an interesting night. It was the Gala performance, for Comic Relief, and about five minutes before curtain up, the floodgates opened. You couldn't swing a copy of Hello! magazine without hitting someone whose face you recognised but whose name you couldn't quite remember. Between us, we identified Zoe Wannamaker, Nick from The Apprentice, Jo Brand, Harry Shearer, Harry Enfield and someone called Oliver Something.
Keeping cool, we moved through to the bar. I had to pinch James who was identifying people too loudly, and then I left the two of them and went to get drinks. As I reached the front of the queue, I turned to see Ronnie Wood behind me. This was someone genuinely quite cool, but also unquestionably a dick and a womaniser, so I maintained my glacial air of "Do I look bothered?" As I walked back to my friends with our beverages, however, Laura was holding something approaching what Rodney Yee calls Powerful Pose, knees bent, arms tensed, eyes slightly bulging. "RONNIE WOOD IS HERE," she bellowed. "I know," I said, passing her a glass of house white. "RONNIE WOOD!" she repeated, as he stood an inch away, wearing a bizarre Inca-themed jacket.
We took our seats, and Ruby began her show, which told the story of her descent into depression and her experience of living with the illness. The audience were agog, laughing uproariously when expected to do so, and sitting in horrified silence as Ruby described stuff that sounded perfectly normal to me, like not leaving the house for days on end. She is still heavily reliant on medication and says she hasn't had enough therapy. That's when I realised I wsa better off than her. So that was something. In the second half Q&A, an audience member thanked her for being brave enough to speak out, and I realised then what a generational gap there is - that while a large chunk of my peers are openly in therapy and on medication, where we all know several depressives and it's just, sadly, a common fact of in all our lives - for many of those in their fifties and sixties, it's still a taboo subject, still something that's not taken seriously. Basically, our parents should go, but for us, it was all a bit old hat. Afterwards, we muscled into the aftershow party, ate canapés, drank prosecco and dissected the validity of racist comedy. I tottered home, spoke to Grania for way longer than intended, and seconds later my alarm went off.
Which brings me to the end of today's episode of LLFF. I have had a lovely day, a fast run this morning, a delicious and highly enjoyable lunch with my wonderful dad in the heart of the City where he ruffled my feathers about Thatcher ("But how can you criticise her?") and the Middle East ("They're all morons") while simultaneously being completely hilarious and utterly charming. Winner. I'm off to uke band practice in an hour, then home for some TV and meditation. I'm still not sure why I feel quite so lifted having identified myself as Definitely So Mental As To Be Surely Beyond Hope, but I do. Long may it continue. Love love love to you all xx
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Inside Jane's head: the weekly peek into my psyche
I think about Chris, the Chris in my office, all the time. We've been friends on and off for a year or two, and he literally fascinates me. I think he's about 27 or 28. He was a radio producer and then came to work in the City to make more money. Now he produces music in his spare time and socialises. He owns a fast car, some sort of Mazda I think. It's black and, I believe, capable of 180 mph. Or maybe it can go faster than that, but that's as fast as he's gone in it. I don't know. It makes him happy. And this is the thing. Chris knows exactly what makes him happy, and, vitally, those things are attainable for him. He likes: his friend group (already attained), getting drunk on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays (easily done), girls (never has any problems), going to Glastonbury (easy), and his car (attained). He has struggles, of course. His dad nearly died last year, which shook up Chris a lot, but now he starts every day being grateful that he can even stand up without assistance, and he spends the remaining hours counting down to the next time he can go out with his friends and get drunk. He never seems to get bored of the pattern, never seems to want more than he has, or certainly not more than is achievable for him. He wants his own life.
I want his life too. My head is nothing like Chris'. His head is so simple, with a few clear functions and no clutter, like an airport departure lounge. I am embroiled in an existential crisis and my head is a frenzy, no clear ideas about what is happening, where it's going, or faith that it can achieve what it should, like a squat. I need some sort of interior head designer to turn my squat into a departure lounge. I want to live in The Terminal, but with a better script.
I believe there is no overarching meaning to life, and that everything ends when we die: there is no afterlife, there is no reincarnation, there are no souls. All humans need a sense of purpose to function, so we set ourselves goal after goal, until we die. I believe that death is life's vital ingredient, the border that gives the garden definition (you'll like that, TB). I do not fear it, but I don't want it to happen just yet. I believe that life is a gift, and, like anyone else, ideally I'd enjoy what's left of it.
To be at peace, I think humans need a purpose. I want to enjoy myself, but that is impossible without peace. I believe that helping others or spending one's working hours doing something rewarding, providing a service that benefits others, is a good way to feel purposeful. My boss needs me, but I do not feel stretched. However, I struggle to think of a job that would suit my needs better - certainly any job that I could get would involve taking a fairly big pay cut, which is a scary prospect with a large mortgage in these times of economic uncertainty. And besides, I don't want my job to define me. I don't think jobs are that important. So I stay where I am and focus on the positives.
And yet I am lonely. My friends cannot give me the attention I crave. I want all-encompassing love and recognition from a higher place. I am such a perfect candidate for evangelical Christianity it is gobsmacking that I manage to remain such a devout atheist. But my persistence in searching for the next goal, the next person to convert, is tragic. I am not enough. I must always be proving myself. It is exhausting and fruitless, and yet, to stop would be terrifying. To say, "Here is good. Right now. This is what I want." The thought makes me want to cry. It feels like failing, which is ironic since believing that now is alright would be to have found peace at last.
And yet, not so long ago, I thought I had it. At the beginning of this year, I felt amazing. I had accepted that this was all there is, and I had (I believed) come to terms with it. I felt free and ecstatic. Yet now, five or so weeks later, I'm battling with it all again. So what changed? I'll tell you what happened: I was rejected and it wobbled me. The boyban is still intact (apart from one 20 min incident that we'll gloss over), but there was a frisson with someone, and then it turned out to be nothing more than that. And I crashed.
I talked about it a lot in therapy. Why do I keep going for guys who reject me? Why do I always criticise the boys who love me? And eventually, last week, I said it: I cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject me.
My therapist repeated it back to me, slowly. (This is what I pay her to do). You cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject you, she said. I thought about it, and nodded.
And, of course, this makes it impossible for me to love anyone who doesn't treat me like shit at least some of the time. Faithful, this was not a happy realisation. I felt left out as a child, and so now I don't feel comfortable unless I'm still being excluded, unless I still have to jump through hoops to get someone's attention. If you give me all your attention, you're obviously a loser and not worthy of my time or respect.
So I idolise people who go hot and cold on me, and I fancy boys who can't commit. It all makes sense. But it sure as hell doesn't paint my future in a rosy light. How the heck do I stop doing this? How do I start fancying the good guys, the ones who will love me outright? How do I hear them say, "I love you," and not automatically think, "Well, then you are clearly a moron. Please leave."? I suppose just being aware of this propensity is a good start. And, let's face it, I am so far from being able to break the boyban that it really isn't a problem right now. But the fact is: I am a bit of a mess. I have no clear purpose in life, love is all I want, yet loving someone who loves me seems like a dialectical impossibility. I feel like a really thick dog chasing its tail. HOORAY!
In happier news, I am looking thin and two people this year have thought I was IN MY MID-TWENTIES. That is brilliant. Totally superficial, but brilliant.
I want his life too. My head is nothing like Chris'. His head is so simple, with a few clear functions and no clutter, like an airport departure lounge. I am embroiled in an existential crisis and my head is a frenzy, no clear ideas about what is happening, where it's going, or faith that it can achieve what it should, like a squat. I need some sort of interior head designer to turn my squat into a departure lounge. I want to live in The Terminal, but with a better script.
I believe there is no overarching meaning to life, and that everything ends when we die: there is no afterlife, there is no reincarnation, there are no souls. All humans need a sense of purpose to function, so we set ourselves goal after goal, until we die. I believe that death is life's vital ingredient, the border that gives the garden definition (you'll like that, TB). I do not fear it, but I don't want it to happen just yet. I believe that life is a gift, and, like anyone else, ideally I'd enjoy what's left of it.
To be at peace, I think humans need a purpose. I want to enjoy myself, but that is impossible without peace. I believe that helping others or spending one's working hours doing something rewarding, providing a service that benefits others, is a good way to feel purposeful. My boss needs me, but I do not feel stretched. However, I struggle to think of a job that would suit my needs better - certainly any job that I could get would involve taking a fairly big pay cut, which is a scary prospect with a large mortgage in these times of economic uncertainty. And besides, I don't want my job to define me. I don't think jobs are that important. So I stay where I am and focus on the positives.
And yet I am lonely. My friends cannot give me the attention I crave. I want all-encompassing love and recognition from a higher place. I am such a perfect candidate for evangelical Christianity it is gobsmacking that I manage to remain such a devout atheist. But my persistence in searching for the next goal, the next person to convert, is tragic. I am not enough. I must always be proving myself. It is exhausting and fruitless, and yet, to stop would be terrifying. To say, "Here is good. Right now. This is what I want." The thought makes me want to cry. It feels like failing, which is ironic since believing that now is alright would be to have found peace at last.
And yet, not so long ago, I thought I had it. At the beginning of this year, I felt amazing. I had accepted that this was all there is, and I had (I believed) come to terms with it. I felt free and ecstatic. Yet now, five or so weeks later, I'm battling with it all again. So what changed? I'll tell you what happened: I was rejected and it wobbled me. The boyban is still intact (apart from one 20 min incident that we'll gloss over), but there was a frisson with someone, and then it turned out to be nothing more than that. And I crashed.
I talked about it a lot in therapy. Why do I keep going for guys who reject me? Why do I always criticise the boys who love me? And eventually, last week, I said it: I cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject me.
My therapist repeated it back to me, slowly. (This is what I pay her to do). You cannot respect anyone who doesn't reject you, she said. I thought about it, and nodded.
And, of course, this makes it impossible for me to love anyone who doesn't treat me like shit at least some of the time. Faithful, this was not a happy realisation. I felt left out as a child, and so now I don't feel comfortable unless I'm still being excluded, unless I still have to jump through hoops to get someone's attention. If you give me all your attention, you're obviously a loser and not worthy of my time or respect.
So I idolise people who go hot and cold on me, and I fancy boys who can't commit. It all makes sense. But it sure as hell doesn't paint my future in a rosy light. How the heck do I stop doing this? How do I start fancying the good guys, the ones who will love me outright? How do I hear them say, "I love you," and not automatically think, "Well, then you are clearly a moron. Please leave."? I suppose just being aware of this propensity is a good start. And, let's face it, I am so far from being able to break the boyban that it really isn't a problem right now. But the fact is: I am a bit of a mess. I have no clear purpose in life, love is all I want, yet loving someone who loves me seems like a dialectical impossibility. I feel like a really thick dog chasing its tail. HOORAY!
In happier news, I am looking thin and two people this year have thought I was IN MY MID-TWENTIES. That is brilliant. Totally superficial, but brilliant.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Milo Yiannopoulos: LLFF responds
As every child who's ever been bullied will know, the most effective way to deal with the perpetrators is to ignore them. Don't give them any more airtime than they've already got; they'll soon get bored and go away.
This morning I read an article that made me huff, roll my eyes, toss my head and go, 'Oh for fuck's sake' about six time while I was sitting at my desk. And normally I'd ignore it. Normally I'd think such rubbish is not worth my time. But this article was written by a young man in The Daily Telegraph, the (sole) paper my parents read, and it is so blasély one-sided, so irritatingly and confidently partisan, that if it were your only source of opinion, it would be almost impossible to see the other side. As my parents' only child, I feel it is my duty and my right to stick up for my side of things. Unfortunately, this means engaging with Milo Yiannopoulos, the man described by Nationaltreasurestephenfry as a "cynical, ignorant fucker."
The background: Milo was on last Thursday's Ten O'Clock Live, an unapologetically left-leaning current affairs show that goes out once a week on Channel 4. As a writer for the Telegraph, and one who's no stranger to controversy, he was clearly drafted in to represent the right on a panel that was to discuss the recent spate of public protests in Britain. Following Milo's short appearance on the show, he was subjected to a barrage of angry messages on Twitter and Facebook, and this morning the Telegraph published an article he'd written about this incident.
The piece starts with Milo claiming that people had decided to hate him because he had said that protesting "has been historically ineffective" in Britain. First mistake. People weren't angry because he said that polling isn't a big deal. People were angry because he was utterly dismissive and patronising to Tamsin Ormond, and because in the few seconds he was on air, he managed to come across like the worst type of privileged know-it-all, utterly unable to engage with the average Joe. His presence on the panel did nothing to change the view that the right in this country is a collection of grandiose bigots who are convinced that They Know Best. The opinion that protesting may be ineffective is a fine and valid one to hold. But if you speak like Hugh Grant, you should know if you decide to go on live TV and laughingly scoff at your opponents as if they're flies on your caviar, you're going to ruffle a lot of viewers' feathers.
My parents won't ever see Milo's performance on Ten O'Clock Live. They'll read his article and think he's right, that he's being unfairly vilified by the naughty Left for holding utterly normal views.
My parents won't know the original context of the Jan Moir incident - Milo empathises with her as she was similarly victimised on Twitter. Poor old Jan, whose article suggested that there was something inherently "sleazy" and unnatural about the death of Stephen Gately, the gay member of Boyzone who died in 2009, and then managed to connect the incident to a paragraph questioning the validity of civil partnerships for gay couples. Yes, poor Jan, victimised so unfairly for such unprejudiced open-mindedness that she eventually won Stonewall's Bigot of the Year award. Now I'm not the brightest bulb on Harrod's, but if you're ever reduced to thinking, "Now I know how Jan Moir must have felt," it might be time to question the validity of your original quest.
Having explained what happened to him, Milo then warms to his theme. How, he asks, can the Left think it is acceptable to publically bully those with whose views they disagree? "How come it always seems to be the Left doing the shouting?" he asks, with staggering blindness. So there are no right wing bigots stirring up hatred online? He's clearly never come across Guido Fawkes or Sarah Palin. And I'm not actually sure that calling users of social media "this congealed clump of morons", as Milo does in his conclusion, shows much generosity of spirit.
Yes, Milo, the left are shouting online. Why? Because the Right are in control. The people who lead our country are rippling with privilege, the people who run our economy are wealthy to the point of immunity, and our current electoral system is fundamentally unfair. The Left is shouting because they're unhappy, and they use social media because, for many, it feels like the first time they've been heard. Like it or not, their voice is valid - but to say that social media is dominated by the Left is a little silly. There are over half a billion people on Facebook: approximately one twelfth of the world's population. Do you think they're all Marx-reading commies? Because they really, really aren't. You can slag them all off as a congealed clump of morons, Milo - or you can try to find the huge and wonderful variety within. But then, I guess that an appreciation of difference isn't one of the Right's special skills.
Milo won't read this blog, but my parents will. Every time I wince at their Telegraph-reading habits, I know they're mentally doing the same, thinking that my Guardian experience is just as biased. They're right - the views I share with my friends, and the newspapers I read, lean further to the left than the tower of Pisa. I'm not trying to persuade my parents to abandon Cameron - I'm afraid I've given up wasting my breath. But I hope they can be aware that there are two sides to every story - and, on this occasion, Milo's version was as wilfully blind as a bat in a backwards balaclava. We didn't scoff at him after Ten O'Clock Live because we disagreed with his opinion. We scoffed because of the patronising way he expressed it, and then we scoffed again about his article this morning because he missed the point so spectacularly. Social media is modernity, and slagging it off is to whine "I do not like reality": unconstructive, anachronistic and guaranteed to make enemies. Which, the cynic within points out, is exactly what sells papers.
I don't think Milo should have a bath with a toaster. I don't wish he were dead and I don't want to cause him physical pain. I don't really even care what he thinks. I just want my parents to know that, on this topic, The Torygraph got it wrong. I'm politically left, and I love social media, but I'm not a moron, mummy, I promise. Please still love me.
This morning I read an article that made me huff, roll my eyes, toss my head and go, 'Oh for fuck's sake' about six time while I was sitting at my desk. And normally I'd ignore it. Normally I'd think such rubbish is not worth my time. But this article was written by a young man in The Daily Telegraph, the (sole) paper my parents read, and it is so blasély one-sided, so irritatingly and confidently partisan, that if it were your only source of opinion, it would be almost impossible to see the other side. As my parents' only child, I feel it is my duty and my right to stick up for my side of things. Unfortunately, this means engaging with Milo Yiannopoulos, the man described by Nationaltreasurestephenfry as a "cynical, ignorant fucker."
The background: Milo was on last Thursday's Ten O'Clock Live, an unapologetically left-leaning current affairs show that goes out once a week on Channel 4. As a writer for the Telegraph, and one who's no stranger to controversy, he was clearly drafted in to represent the right on a panel that was to discuss the recent spate of public protests in Britain. Following Milo's short appearance on the show, he was subjected to a barrage of angry messages on Twitter and Facebook, and this morning the Telegraph published an article he'd written about this incident.
The piece starts with Milo claiming that people had decided to hate him because he had said that protesting "has been historically ineffective" in Britain. First mistake. People weren't angry because he said that polling isn't a big deal. People were angry because he was utterly dismissive and patronising to Tamsin Ormond, and because in the few seconds he was on air, he managed to come across like the worst type of privileged know-it-all, utterly unable to engage with the average Joe. His presence on the panel did nothing to change the view that the right in this country is a collection of grandiose bigots who are convinced that They Know Best. The opinion that protesting may be ineffective is a fine and valid one to hold. But if you speak like Hugh Grant, you should know if you decide to go on live TV and laughingly scoff at your opponents as if they're flies on your caviar, you're going to ruffle a lot of viewers' feathers.
My parents won't ever see Milo's performance on Ten O'Clock Live. They'll read his article and think he's right, that he's being unfairly vilified by the naughty Left for holding utterly normal views.
My parents won't know the original context of the Jan Moir incident - Milo empathises with her as she was similarly victimised on Twitter. Poor old Jan, whose article suggested that there was something inherently "sleazy" and unnatural about the death of Stephen Gately, the gay member of Boyzone who died in 2009, and then managed to connect the incident to a paragraph questioning the validity of civil partnerships for gay couples. Yes, poor Jan, victimised so unfairly for such unprejudiced open-mindedness that she eventually won Stonewall's Bigot of the Year award. Now I'm not the brightest bulb on Harrod's, but if you're ever reduced to thinking, "Now I know how Jan Moir must have felt," it might be time to question the validity of your original quest.
Having explained what happened to him, Milo then warms to his theme. How, he asks, can the Left think it is acceptable to publically bully those with whose views they disagree? "How come it always seems to be the Left doing the shouting?" he asks, with staggering blindness. So there are no right wing bigots stirring up hatred online? He's clearly never come across Guido Fawkes or Sarah Palin. And I'm not actually sure that calling users of social media "this congealed clump of morons", as Milo does in his conclusion, shows much generosity of spirit.
Yes, Milo, the left are shouting online. Why? Because the Right are in control. The people who lead our country are rippling with privilege, the people who run our economy are wealthy to the point of immunity, and our current electoral system is fundamentally unfair. The Left is shouting because they're unhappy, and they use social media because, for many, it feels like the first time they've been heard. Like it or not, their voice is valid - but to say that social media is dominated by the Left is a little silly. There are over half a billion people on Facebook: approximately one twelfth of the world's population. Do you think they're all Marx-reading commies? Because they really, really aren't. You can slag them all off as a congealed clump of morons, Milo - or you can try to find the huge and wonderful variety within. But then, I guess that an appreciation of difference isn't one of the Right's special skills.
Milo won't read this blog, but my parents will. Every time I wince at their Telegraph-reading habits, I know they're mentally doing the same, thinking that my Guardian experience is just as biased. They're right - the views I share with my friends, and the newspapers I read, lean further to the left than the tower of Pisa. I'm not trying to persuade my parents to abandon Cameron - I'm afraid I've given up wasting my breath. But I hope they can be aware that there are two sides to every story - and, on this occasion, Milo's version was as wilfully blind as a bat in a backwards balaclava. We didn't scoff at him after Ten O'Clock Live because we disagreed with his opinion. We scoffed because of the patronising way he expressed it, and then we scoffed again about his article this morning because he missed the point so spectacularly. Social media is modernity, and slagging it off is to whine "I do not like reality": unconstructive, anachronistic and guaranteed to make enemies. Which, the cynic within points out, is exactly what sells papers.
I don't think Milo should have a bath with a toaster. I don't wish he were dead and I don't want to cause him physical pain. I don't really even care what he thinks. I just want my parents to know that, on this topic, The Torygraph got it wrong. I'm politically left, and I love social media, but I'm not a moron, mummy, I promise. Please still love me.
Friday, 18 February 2011
Yawn
I spoke to my parents this morning - ostensibly, they'd called for a chat, but it soon emerged that they were worried about me following yesterday's blog: apparently I didn't sound particularly convincing when I wrote that I hoped I'd get through this current low patch.
I tell you what is one of the most irritating things about depression: it's so freaking boring. Day in, day out, you think you're getting somewhere, and then all of a sudden, the snake slithers over and starts to suck you in again. Other health conditions seem to change and evolve over the years, adding a little bit of interest to an otherwise dull and unpleasant scenario, but this depression hilarity just seems to come and go in waves, and you never seem to know when you go to bed whether tomorrow will be a day like normal people experience, where you just pootle along through your various assigned chores and activities and then go to bed, or a day where the men in your skull suck away your positivity and press against your eyes, and every single thing you have to do, from standing up to go to the loo to getting off the tube station when you get to your stop, becomes a monumental and dreaded effort. I've longed to get home all day today, but when the Northern Line train pulled up to my home platform, I very nearly couldn't make it to the door. And it's not tiredness. It's like a magnetic force that pulls you away from wanting to do anything you should do, or anything you have to do; an evil sorcerer who turns everything you touch into the opposite of what you wanted. I'm at work, I want to go home. I'm at home getting ready to go out, I want to be in bed. I'm out at a gig, I feel guilty for drinking wine (fattening) or spending money. I'm wishing my day away and it's awful.
And my sadness is so vicious. A) it is deeply unpleasant to experience. B) the longer it goes on for, the longer it will go on for. It is self-perpetuating and I know I have to stop it, but I can't seem to control it. C) I am upsetting my parents, my parents who love me. I don't want to upset them. I want them to be happy. But that would involve hiding my feelings, and writing this is one of the few outlets I have where I can speak about how it really feels to be in my head. So I write, but then I feel guilty about that too.
Despite this current plummet (and it's like I've been pushed off a cliff), I still believe that I have made progress in recent weeks and months. In many ways, the snake's venom hasn't been nearly as poisonous this time. I'm taking my drugs, I'm going to therapy, I'm eating pretty healthily, I'm not drinking to excess, I'm exercising regularly, I'm going to bed early enough, I'm reading, I'm writing, I'm playing music and singing, I'm seeing friends, I'm going to work, I'm socialising, I'm keeping mindful of my many blessings, I'm meditating, I give to charity, I engage with the outside world, I don't drink too much caffeine, I take time to switch off and watch bad TV a couple of times a week, I'm not stressed at work, I have several wonderful friends, I have a gorgeous family who love me, I have holidays to look forward to and I have no regrets. My present and my future are bright.
OK, so my past is an issue, there's no denying that. I've spent 33 years feeling wrong, and no matter how good my therapist is, no matter that I'm doing all that good stuff listed above or that I've accepted that I have major issues, it's still going to take a long time to put right. I'm clinging on to the fact that this woman said it took her a year, and she seems pretty clever. I've been in therapy off and on since 2006, but for various reasons, this current stint feels like the only real one, and I'm seven months in. Five months from now, I hope I'm in a very different place.
In the meantime, when these new peaks reveal themselves, and I realise anew that my journey of self-discovery is far from over, and will in fact never end, how do I stop myself from giving in to self-pity? How do I prevent the fifty foot wave of envy taking me out as I observe the people who laughingly surf life's ocean with ease and grace, never struggling in the perpetual rip tides I seem to encounter. I'm a strong swimmer but it's hard to keep up the energy month after month. I'm sick of things being so hard, sick of this knowledge that I'll never be this young again, that I'm ruining the greatest gift that can be given with my utterly needless negativity. What I'd give to be one of the simple ones, the ones who potter, who amble, who don't ask questions. But someone gave me the red pill and it's too late to spew it up.
So I have to learn to love my situation. It's a big ask, but it's my only choice. As Eckhart Tolle always says, why fight the only thing that is? Philosopher, Alain De Botton, wrote on Twitter today, "I find it hard to be friends with people who don't find life something to be almost continuously anxious about." I wrote back to him, "You would LOVE me then." But if that's a precondition of being friends with Alain De Botton, I'd rather get better and have him shun me. Here's hoping Alain meets and hates me in the next few months.
I tell you what is one of the most irritating things about depression: it's so freaking boring. Day in, day out, you think you're getting somewhere, and then all of a sudden, the snake slithers over and starts to suck you in again. Other health conditions seem to change and evolve over the years, adding a little bit of interest to an otherwise dull and unpleasant scenario, but this depression hilarity just seems to come and go in waves, and you never seem to know when you go to bed whether tomorrow will be a day like normal people experience, where you just pootle along through your various assigned chores and activities and then go to bed, or a day where the men in your skull suck away your positivity and press against your eyes, and every single thing you have to do, from standing up to go to the loo to getting off the tube station when you get to your stop, becomes a monumental and dreaded effort. I've longed to get home all day today, but when the Northern Line train pulled up to my home platform, I very nearly couldn't make it to the door. And it's not tiredness. It's like a magnetic force that pulls you away from wanting to do anything you should do, or anything you have to do; an evil sorcerer who turns everything you touch into the opposite of what you wanted. I'm at work, I want to go home. I'm at home getting ready to go out, I want to be in bed. I'm out at a gig, I feel guilty for drinking wine (fattening) or spending money. I'm wishing my day away and it's awful.
And my sadness is so vicious. A) it is deeply unpleasant to experience. B) the longer it goes on for, the longer it will go on for. It is self-perpetuating and I know I have to stop it, but I can't seem to control it. C) I am upsetting my parents, my parents who love me. I don't want to upset them. I want them to be happy. But that would involve hiding my feelings, and writing this is one of the few outlets I have where I can speak about how it really feels to be in my head. So I write, but then I feel guilty about that too.
Despite this current plummet (and it's like I've been pushed off a cliff), I still believe that I have made progress in recent weeks and months. In many ways, the snake's venom hasn't been nearly as poisonous this time. I'm taking my drugs, I'm going to therapy, I'm eating pretty healthily, I'm not drinking to excess, I'm exercising regularly, I'm going to bed early enough, I'm reading, I'm writing, I'm playing music and singing, I'm seeing friends, I'm going to work, I'm socialising, I'm keeping mindful of my many blessings, I'm meditating, I give to charity, I engage with the outside world, I don't drink too much caffeine, I take time to switch off and watch bad TV a couple of times a week, I'm not stressed at work, I have several wonderful friends, I have a gorgeous family who love me, I have holidays to look forward to and I have no regrets. My present and my future are bright.
OK, so my past is an issue, there's no denying that. I've spent 33 years feeling wrong, and no matter how good my therapist is, no matter that I'm doing all that good stuff listed above or that I've accepted that I have major issues, it's still going to take a long time to put right. I'm clinging on to the fact that this woman said it took her a year, and she seems pretty clever. I've been in therapy off and on since 2006, but for various reasons, this current stint feels like the only real one, and I'm seven months in. Five months from now, I hope I'm in a very different place.
In the meantime, when these new peaks reveal themselves, and I realise anew that my journey of self-discovery is far from over, and will in fact never end, how do I stop myself from giving in to self-pity? How do I prevent the fifty foot wave of envy taking me out as I observe the people who laughingly surf life's ocean with ease and grace, never struggling in the perpetual rip tides I seem to encounter. I'm a strong swimmer but it's hard to keep up the energy month after month. I'm sick of things being so hard, sick of this knowledge that I'll never be this young again, that I'm ruining the greatest gift that can be given with my utterly needless negativity. What I'd give to be one of the simple ones, the ones who potter, who amble, who don't ask questions. But someone gave me the red pill and it's too late to spew it up.
So I have to learn to love my situation. It's a big ask, but it's my only choice. As Eckhart Tolle always says, why fight the only thing that is? Philosopher, Alain De Botton, wrote on Twitter today, "I find it hard to be friends with people who don't find life something to be almost continuously anxious about." I wrote back to him, "You would LOVE me then." But if that's a precondition of being friends with Alain De Botton, I'd rather get better and have him shun me. Here's hoping Alain meets and hates me in the next few months.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
AV, DF, TT and me
First, a public service announcement. Then a review of the gig I went to last night.
It has been announced that the referendum on voting systems in the UK is being held on 5th May 2011. The Faithful will recall that the main reason I voted Lib Dem at last year's General Election was that I believed that was the best shot we had of getting parliamentary reform. The AV system is not flawless, but I still believe that it is substantially fairer than the existing first past the post (FPTP) way of deciding who leads us. Prominent people have been campaigning for an overhaul of this system for years - check out this video of John Cleese fighting for it over two decades ago:
Sorry if this is patronising, but in case you haven't made up your mind:
I passionately believe that, without a fair, representative voting system, we do not really live in a true democracy, and the lack of engagement among young voters in particular will just get worse. At the moment, over two thirds of MPs are elected when most of their constituents have voted against them. The majority of people in this country are represented in parliament by an MP they did not vote for. Is that fair? Is that democratic? No.
Another problem with the existing FPTP set-up is that a lot of constituencies become 'safe seats', and in these areas, MPs simply don't have to work very hard to get your vote. It's only in the swing constituencies that votes really count, so it's only there that MPs put the effort in to attract votes. Is that fair? No.
There are several weeks between now and the AV referendum on 5th May. I don't want to be too boring about it, but I hope that all my Faithful who are eligible to vote in the UK will vote in favour of the referendum. Whether you're right, left or loony, this is a vote that will make politics more representative for all of us. There are Old Guard members of all three major parties who are scared of it - they fear change and are right to be scared: AV will shake things up - and the electorate will benefit. Whatever your affiliations, it is clear for all to see that the current state of affairs is fundamentally, systemically unfair. Vote for a system upgrade - you deserve it.
That concludes the public service announcement. And now, back to our regular programme of whining and tomfoolery.
Last night I went to a gig at the Barbican - Teddy Thompson, supported by David Ford. I've liked David for several years, and had the rare pleasure of walking into the Barbican gift shop last night to help Grania buy one of his CDs in the interval and asking another customer in my crisp private school English, 'Is that the album with Cheer Up, You Miserable Fuck on it?' His gig was fantastic - heavy use of the loop sampler allowed him to show off his talents on acoustic and lead guitar, piano, harmonica, percussion and vocals, and although at times he was a bit cringingly cod-American during his inter-song banter and the removal of his porkpie hat and subsequent angsty head-stroking felt slightly Chris Martin contrived, his performance was energetic, well-balanced and well-rehearsed, the breadth of his musical talent was clear for all to see, and his voice was confident and emotive. He is clearly an intelligent, wry, funny man and I am more of a fan than I was this time yesterday, so he's doing something right.
Then on came Teddy Thompson, stage right. Oh dear. The first and last time I'd seen him previously was also at the Barbican, for the exceptional Nick Drake tribute concert I went to a year ago. He sang on a couple of numbers and I liked his voice. When I saw that David Ford was supporting him, I took that as a positive endorsement of the rest of his oeuvre. Error. What I saw was a set of drab, disappointing country songs with undiscernable vocals, predictable harmonies and a drummer who could have been replaced by a 1980s Fisher Price keyboard. After two thoroughly conventional tracks, both of which left me weeping for Rufus Wainwright, my mind drifted into a favourite bad gig pastime: working out who the band resemble. It turned out we had Michael Stipe on guitar, Danny Boyle on drums, that lady from Episodes and Green Wing on violin and backing vocals, Osama Bin Laden on bass and Ryan Stiles on lead. The girl particularly offended me, but I'm aware I was being very oversensitive yesterday. She was wearing a cropped, fitted black leather jacket, a black pencil skirt, black opaque tights and ankle boots. From Row B of the balcony, she looked like a Foxton's estate agent. Her violin playing was as subtle as a fat kid at ballet, thumpingly behind the beat throughout, reaching a climax in a song that reminded me of a lazy version of Sting's Desert Rose. The loyal audience had remained polite throughout David Ford's set but lapped up every ounce of Teddy's output, whooping, hollering, laughing and taking photos. Grania and I got restless, started chatting and then left before we got too rude - the first time since The Longpigs supported U2 on the Zoo Tour at Wembley Stadium that I have preferred the support to the main event.
Instead of tutting at Teddy, we went and sat outside in the foyer, worked on Grania's CV and took photographs of ourselves gooning in the empty reception space. I looked for all the world like a young lady fully sure of myself and where I'm going in life, so it's odd that a few hours earlier I was wondering what type of lobotomy it might take to make me stop crying. During the morning, I'd seen a photograph of a girlfriend on Facebook - she is tall and gorgeous, and was standing in shallow sea on some sort of Greek island paradise holiday, looking out to the horizon, brown back, brown slim legs, tiny purple bikini bottoms. And there, at my desk, I started to cry with jealousy at how different my life would have been if I'd felt attractive all these years, rather than blighted by cellulite and fat. Then, on the way to therapy, I saw a photo of a beautiful model in an ad on a bus, and I started crying again. And I know it's ridiculous: it's not as though I'm some sort of gargoyle. So I asked my therapist why, if I'm so convinced that I'd be happier if I was thin that I actually cry with envy at others who are lucky enough to be slim, am I not anorexic - or at least on a permanent diet. And she suggested that it's because I know that deep down it wouldn't make any difference if I was thinner, and that I know that I'm not really that ugly - that it's all just a cover for the real shit, a scapegoat. That was interesting. Our whole session was fascinating, actually. In between sobs of PMT-induced self-pity, I unlocked a major truth about the skewed way I see things. God only knows I've felt like I'm en route to a new me for the past few weeks and months, and it's not a great deal of fun reaching what I thought was a summit and realising it was a foothill. But there's no doubt that I'm making progress.
I'd dearly love to be one of those carefree people, like those well-meaning friends of mine who say 'You're over-thinking this, Jane,' not realising that it makes me want to throw my stapler at their head. In the same way that saying 'Calm down' to someone who thinks they've lost their passport at Stansted doesn't do much to lower their blood pressure, telling me to stop thinking so much doesn't tend to elicit the response, "Oh, OK then, thanks." I don't sit here all day, staring into space, deliberately trying to complicate things. It just happens. I know some people just concentrate on the project in front of them until 5 o'clock and then go out and get pissed with their friends. I hope they know how lucky they are. I sit here doing five different things at work, and still, bubbling away underneath, is the feeling that I should be doing something else, or at least doing what I'm doing but differently. The volume of the Greek chorus has definitely quietened over the past few weeks and months, and I don't beat myself up nearly so much as I used to. I know, Big Picture, how lucky I am. But stuff's been so dark and bad recently that I haven't really been able to vocalise it to anyone else, which for a compulsive truth-teller such as myself has been odd. Anyway. Here's hoping I make it through.
In the meantime, I'll distract myself by playing the ukulele, going to gigs and getting worked up about the AV referendum. Bear with me.
It has been announced that the referendum on voting systems in the UK is being held on 5th May 2011. The Faithful will recall that the main reason I voted Lib Dem at last year's General Election was that I believed that was the best shot we had of getting parliamentary reform. The AV system is not flawless, but I still believe that it is substantially fairer than the existing first past the post (FPTP) way of deciding who leads us. Prominent people have been campaigning for an overhaul of this system for years - check out this video of John Cleese fighting for it over two decades ago:
Sorry if this is patronising, but in case you haven't made up your mind:
I passionately believe that, without a fair, representative voting system, we do not really live in a true democracy, and the lack of engagement among young voters in particular will just get worse. At the moment, over two thirds of MPs are elected when most of their constituents have voted against them. The majority of people in this country are represented in parliament by an MP they did not vote for. Is that fair? Is that democratic? No.
Another problem with the existing FPTP set-up is that a lot of constituencies become 'safe seats', and in these areas, MPs simply don't have to work very hard to get your vote. It's only in the swing constituencies that votes really count, so it's only there that MPs put the effort in to attract votes. Is that fair? No.
There are several weeks between now and the AV referendum on 5th May. I don't want to be too boring about it, but I hope that all my Faithful who are eligible to vote in the UK will vote in favour of the referendum. Whether you're right, left or loony, this is a vote that will make politics more representative for all of us. There are Old Guard members of all three major parties who are scared of it - they fear change and are right to be scared: AV will shake things up - and the electorate will benefit. Whatever your affiliations, it is clear for all to see that the current state of affairs is fundamentally, systemically unfair. Vote for a system upgrade - you deserve it.
That concludes the public service announcement. And now, back to our regular programme of whining and tomfoolery.
Last night I went to a gig at the Barbican - Teddy Thompson, supported by David Ford. I've liked David for several years, and had the rare pleasure of walking into the Barbican gift shop last night to help Grania buy one of his CDs in the interval and asking another customer in my crisp private school English, 'Is that the album with Cheer Up, You Miserable Fuck on it?' His gig was fantastic - heavy use of the loop sampler allowed him to show off his talents on acoustic and lead guitar, piano, harmonica, percussion and vocals, and although at times he was a bit cringingly cod-American during his inter-song banter and the removal of his porkpie hat and subsequent angsty head-stroking felt slightly Chris Martin contrived, his performance was energetic, well-balanced and well-rehearsed, the breadth of his musical talent was clear for all to see, and his voice was confident and emotive. He is clearly an intelligent, wry, funny man and I am more of a fan than I was this time yesterday, so he's doing something right.
Then on came Teddy Thompson, stage right. Oh dear. The first and last time I'd seen him previously was also at the Barbican, for the exceptional Nick Drake tribute concert I went to a year ago. He sang on a couple of numbers and I liked his voice. When I saw that David Ford was supporting him, I took that as a positive endorsement of the rest of his oeuvre. Error. What I saw was a set of drab, disappointing country songs with undiscernable vocals, predictable harmonies and a drummer who could have been replaced by a 1980s Fisher Price keyboard. After two thoroughly conventional tracks, both of which left me weeping for Rufus Wainwright, my mind drifted into a favourite bad gig pastime: working out who the band resemble. It turned out we had Michael Stipe on guitar, Danny Boyle on drums, that lady from Episodes and Green Wing on violin and backing vocals, Osama Bin Laden on bass and Ryan Stiles on lead. The girl particularly offended me, but I'm aware I was being very oversensitive yesterday. She was wearing a cropped, fitted black leather jacket, a black pencil skirt, black opaque tights and ankle boots. From Row B of the balcony, she looked like a Foxton's estate agent. Her violin playing was as subtle as a fat kid at ballet, thumpingly behind the beat throughout, reaching a climax in a song that reminded me of a lazy version of Sting's Desert Rose. The loyal audience had remained polite throughout David Ford's set but lapped up every ounce of Teddy's output, whooping, hollering, laughing and taking photos. Grania and I got restless, started chatting and then left before we got too rude - the first time since The Longpigs supported U2 on the Zoo Tour at Wembley Stadium that I have preferred the support to the main event.
Instead of tutting at Teddy, we went and sat outside in the foyer, worked on Grania's CV and took photographs of ourselves gooning in the empty reception space. I looked for all the world like a young lady fully sure of myself and where I'm going in life, so it's odd that a few hours earlier I was wondering what type of lobotomy it might take to make me stop crying. During the morning, I'd seen a photograph of a girlfriend on Facebook - she is tall and gorgeous, and was standing in shallow sea on some sort of Greek island paradise holiday, looking out to the horizon, brown back, brown slim legs, tiny purple bikini bottoms. And there, at my desk, I started to cry with jealousy at how different my life would have been if I'd felt attractive all these years, rather than blighted by cellulite and fat. Then, on the way to therapy, I saw a photo of a beautiful model in an ad on a bus, and I started crying again. And I know it's ridiculous: it's not as though I'm some sort of gargoyle. So I asked my therapist why, if I'm so convinced that I'd be happier if I was thin that I actually cry with envy at others who are lucky enough to be slim, am I not anorexic - or at least on a permanent diet. And she suggested that it's because I know that deep down it wouldn't make any difference if I was thinner, and that I know that I'm not really that ugly - that it's all just a cover for the real shit, a scapegoat. That was interesting. Our whole session was fascinating, actually. In between sobs of PMT-induced self-pity, I unlocked a major truth about the skewed way I see things. God only knows I've felt like I'm en route to a new me for the past few weeks and months, and it's not a great deal of fun reaching what I thought was a summit and realising it was a foothill. But there's no doubt that I'm making progress.
I'd dearly love to be one of those carefree people, like those well-meaning friends of mine who say 'You're over-thinking this, Jane,' not realising that it makes me want to throw my stapler at their head. In the same way that saying 'Calm down' to someone who thinks they've lost their passport at Stansted doesn't do much to lower their blood pressure, telling me to stop thinking so much doesn't tend to elicit the response, "Oh, OK then, thanks." I don't sit here all day, staring into space, deliberately trying to complicate things. It just happens. I know some people just concentrate on the project in front of them until 5 o'clock and then go out and get pissed with their friends. I hope they know how lucky they are. I sit here doing five different things at work, and still, bubbling away underneath, is the feeling that I should be doing something else, or at least doing what I'm doing but differently. The volume of the Greek chorus has definitely quietened over the past few weeks and months, and I don't beat myself up nearly so much as I used to. I know, Big Picture, how lucky I am. But stuff's been so dark and bad recently that I haven't really been able to vocalise it to anyone else, which for a compulsive truth-teller such as myself has been odd. Anyway. Here's hoping I make it through.
In the meantime, I'll distract myself by playing the ukulele, going to gigs and getting worked up about the AV referendum. Bear with me.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Harrowing
What with all my "tedious" navel-gazing (copyright A. Reader, 9 January 2011) and pontification on the subject of love and relationships, you'd be forgiven for expecting me to be a Full and Vocal Member of The Valentine's Haters Club. Actually, I kind of like it. I know, I know: it's horribly commercial, and yes, I know that Real Love happens 365 days a year, and I am fully aware that restaurants put their prices up just to cash in, and I know that the whole thing seems designed to make people who are alone feel much worse about themselves, increasing the sense single adults often have of being second class citizens.
But hey. At its loosest extremes, it's about telling people you love them, and I'm all for that. I just stretch the boundaries a bit, and send cards to my parents, and a few friends, and then yesterday Grania came to my office early in the morning and dropped off a small, red, heart-shaped helium balloon on a stick, so anyone who cared could see I was loved. I put it under my seat on the tube home so as not to be too unbearable, but I still enjoyed seeing it waggling along beside me as I went up the escalators. And I got a card from Astrid, and one from my dad, and then I got changed and wore a heart necklace and heart earrings and a vest-top with hearts on it, and three single girlfriends came over and I made a three course meal including heart-shaped lamb burgers, and we drank a lot of wine and I felt pretty happy, all things considered.
Doubtless, it's a good deal more fun to look down one's nose at those willing morons who allow themselves to be duped by Hallmark and Cafe Rouge into spending their hard-earned cash on cardboard and marked-up set menus; to tell oneself that one is a vastly superior specimin because one doesn't buy in to all that capitalist claptrap, because one refuses to let one's emotions be controlled by such a cynical and commercial endeavour. But I just can't do it. I'm a sucker for love.
Kate and I did the next section of the Capital Ring on Sunday, from Greenwood to South Kenton. It was grey, windy and drizzling, and by the time we reached Harrow, the only photo I'd taken was of a decomposing dead fox floating in the Grand Union Canal. I was boiling from the climb and my rucksack had created an attractive sweat patch on my back, meaning that I became absolutely freezing as soon as we sat down in the Blues cafe in Harrow for a bowl of tuna pasta. The room was slightly less frosty than the waitress, but more potent was the thudding fug of oppressive, eternal Sunday mid-afternoons that one can only understand if one has been to boarding school, where you're bored out of your tree with nothing to do and yet painfully aware of a conflicting sense that tomorrow morning is approaching at speed and that the ever-craved weekend will shortly be over for another five days. You're thrilled for the change in routine that is heralded by the arrival of your parents to take you 'out' for lunch, but then are cripplingly embarrassed by their every move and spend the longed-for, fantasized-over, hour-long pizza lunch fervently wishing that your mum was more glamorous and that your dad's voice wasn't so loud, desperate for them to stop asking stupid questions about such OBVIOUS stuff but then spitting with rage the moment the subject meandered even a millimeter from yourself. And then they tell you they love you and kiss you goodbye and you don't even want to be seen with them in case someone sees you together and finds another reason to think you're uncool, and then they get in the car and start the hour and a half drive back home, and you're left alone in the cold gloomy evening, filled with sadness and regret and self-loathing and homesickness and a physically painful feeling of loneliness.
Surrounding us in the cafe were many clusters of hopeful parents feeding their costly offspring, following in the footsteps of Winston Churchill and Baby Carrot, oops, soz, Benedict Cumberbatch in being educated at this esteemed establishment. The MILF next to us chatted to her penne-chokingly handsome teenage son about the upcoming BAFTAs and other hip things, and then casually paid for the meal with one of several crisp £50 notes and five one pound coins. On the table behind Kate, two slightly uncool brothers sat opposite their slightly uncool parents and discussed forthcoming sport fixtures over burgers, pizza and a chicken caesar salad. So much money, so many extraordinary facilities, so many privileged, forlorn boys walking outside in the drizzle wearing tailcoats and a mournful gaze. It was all just desperately sad.
Why do I feel sorry for these young men? Because it's not about love. You can pay many thousands to send your son to Harrow, or Eton, or St. Mary's Whatever. They can grow up with like-minded friends on tap, an unrivalled circle of influence, guaranteeing them entry into society's highest echelons, a free ticket into advantage that never expires. They can wake up on a Sunday aged 14 and have a golf course at their disposal, a running track, swimming pools, tennis courts, squash courts, a judo room, an art school, theatres, photography and film facilities, music rooms, recording studios, computer labs, open fields, a farm, and wealthy parents to take them out for pizza. They can be educated by top teachers for five years and come out with top grades and places at top universities, where the grooming process can continue. They can have every head start it's possible to have. But they can never be normal. They can never un-go to boarding school. And although it was wonderful in so many ways, and although parents are only doing what they think is best, the fact is, it breeds difference and it's unfair. And - vitally - for every over-confident Churchill or Carrotbatch, there are men and women who were permanently scarred by the experience, who will never fully recover from feeling abandoned during those formative years.
I'm not blaming boarding school for the snake. I just... I just wish it didn't need to exist. I wish state education was so good that even the richest felt that private education was unnecessary. Some are more equal than others and I wish it weren't so. I just want us all to be friends. Underneath the confident tone of voice, I am, as an ex-boyfriend once told me, just a big bundle of love. I think he meant it as a compliment.
I'm also massively hormonal AGAIN, and hungover and needy, and all I want to do is eat dark chocolate with sea salt and then lie in a huge bed, enveloped in some strong arms, and sleep. What I do NOT want to do is schlep over to west London and have a FREAKING CHOIR PRACTICE.
But hey. At its loosest extremes, it's about telling people you love them, and I'm all for that. I just stretch the boundaries a bit, and send cards to my parents, and a few friends, and then yesterday Grania came to my office early in the morning and dropped off a small, red, heart-shaped helium balloon on a stick, so anyone who cared could see I was loved. I put it under my seat on the tube home so as not to be too unbearable, but I still enjoyed seeing it waggling along beside me as I went up the escalators. And I got a card from Astrid, and one from my dad, and then I got changed and wore a heart necklace and heart earrings and a vest-top with hearts on it, and three single girlfriends came over and I made a three course meal including heart-shaped lamb burgers, and we drank a lot of wine and I felt pretty happy, all things considered.
Doubtless, it's a good deal more fun to look down one's nose at those willing morons who allow themselves to be duped by Hallmark and Cafe Rouge into spending their hard-earned cash on cardboard and marked-up set menus; to tell oneself that one is a vastly superior specimin because one doesn't buy in to all that capitalist claptrap, because one refuses to let one's emotions be controlled by such a cynical and commercial endeavour. But I just can't do it. I'm a sucker for love.
Kate and I did the next section of the Capital Ring on Sunday, from Greenwood to South Kenton. It was grey, windy and drizzling, and by the time we reached Harrow, the only photo I'd taken was of a decomposing dead fox floating in the Grand Union Canal. I was boiling from the climb and my rucksack had created an attractive sweat patch on my back, meaning that I became absolutely freezing as soon as we sat down in the Blues cafe in Harrow for a bowl of tuna pasta. The room was slightly less frosty than the waitress, but more potent was the thudding fug of oppressive, eternal Sunday mid-afternoons that one can only understand if one has been to boarding school, where you're bored out of your tree with nothing to do and yet painfully aware of a conflicting sense that tomorrow morning is approaching at speed and that the ever-craved weekend will shortly be over for another five days. You're thrilled for the change in routine that is heralded by the arrival of your parents to take you 'out' for lunch, but then are cripplingly embarrassed by their every move and spend the longed-for, fantasized-over, hour-long pizza lunch fervently wishing that your mum was more glamorous and that your dad's voice wasn't so loud, desperate for them to stop asking stupid questions about such OBVIOUS stuff but then spitting with rage the moment the subject meandered even a millimeter from yourself. And then they tell you they love you and kiss you goodbye and you don't even want to be seen with them in case someone sees you together and finds another reason to think you're uncool, and then they get in the car and start the hour and a half drive back home, and you're left alone in the cold gloomy evening, filled with sadness and regret and self-loathing and homesickness and a physically painful feeling of loneliness.
Surrounding us in the cafe were many clusters of hopeful parents feeding their costly offspring, following in the footsteps of Winston Churchill and Baby Carrot, oops, soz, Benedict Cumberbatch in being educated at this esteemed establishment. The MILF next to us chatted to her penne-chokingly handsome teenage son about the upcoming BAFTAs and other hip things, and then casually paid for the meal with one of several crisp £50 notes and five one pound coins. On the table behind Kate, two slightly uncool brothers sat opposite their slightly uncool parents and discussed forthcoming sport fixtures over burgers, pizza and a chicken caesar salad. So much money, so many extraordinary facilities, so many privileged, forlorn boys walking outside in the drizzle wearing tailcoats and a mournful gaze. It was all just desperately sad.
Why do I feel sorry for these young men? Because it's not about love. You can pay many thousands to send your son to Harrow, or Eton, or St. Mary's Whatever. They can grow up with like-minded friends on tap, an unrivalled circle of influence, guaranteeing them entry into society's highest echelons, a free ticket into advantage that never expires. They can wake up on a Sunday aged 14 and have a golf course at their disposal, a running track, swimming pools, tennis courts, squash courts, a judo room, an art school, theatres, photography and film facilities, music rooms, recording studios, computer labs, open fields, a farm, and wealthy parents to take them out for pizza. They can be educated by top teachers for five years and come out with top grades and places at top universities, where the grooming process can continue. They can have every head start it's possible to have. But they can never be normal. They can never un-go to boarding school. And although it was wonderful in so many ways, and although parents are only doing what they think is best, the fact is, it breeds difference and it's unfair. And - vitally - for every over-confident Churchill or Carrotbatch, there are men and women who were permanently scarred by the experience, who will never fully recover from feeling abandoned during those formative years.
I'm not blaming boarding school for the snake. I just... I just wish it didn't need to exist. I wish state education was so good that even the richest felt that private education was unnecessary. Some are more equal than others and I wish it weren't so. I just want us all to be friends. Underneath the confident tone of voice, I am, as an ex-boyfriend once told me, just a big bundle of love. I think he meant it as a compliment.
I'm also massively hormonal AGAIN, and hungover and needy, and all I want to do is eat dark chocolate with sea salt and then lie in a huge bed, enveloped in some strong arms, and sleep. What I do NOT want to do is schlep over to west London and have a FREAKING CHOIR PRACTICE.
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Grey day
DO YOU SEE IT? There, on the blue gel wrist rest, clear as day? It is a deafening message from my body to remind me that I am DECOMPOSING, and that every day that passes brings me closer to MY END.
WHY WOULD I FIND MY FIRST EVER GREY HAIR TODAY? It is raining, and other bad things have happened to me recently. I am going to get my hair dyed this evening. If I had only waited until tomorrow to look in the mirror, instead of getting all vain and accidentally examining my overlong roots this afternoon, the offending item would have been disguised with bleach and I would have been able to trundle along, merrily smug that although lots of other people my age have grey hair, I do not knowingly have any. WELL NOW I CAN NO LONGER DO THAT, WORLD. I don't have many causes for smugness. Maybe just one or two exist. And me not having grey hair was one of them. Now I am just down to 'soft skin'. This SUCKS.
It's especially hard to take as I had been walking on air after a rare moment of serendipity last night meant that the glass of red wine I knocked off my table went, in its entirity, into my handbag, staining my hardback book and ruining a diagram showing the different ways people in the UK die that I'd printed out from the Guardian website a few weeks ago, but completely missing my cream carpet. It was an extraordinary moment for which I felt profound gratitude.
But can I be left alone to enjoy that happiness for, say, 24 hours? OH NO. That is too much to ask. Something must happen which will alert me to the proximity of a hooded figure, standing behind me in the work toilets with a MASSIVE SCYTHE.
Livid.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Unencumberbatched
I don't normally read reviews of plays before writing my own, but this time I just had to check, and frankly, there is something of the elephant in the room about them all. And elephant is really not the kindest word here. Let's just put it out there (he did).
I SAW BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH'S PENIS LAST NIGHT. NOT JUST BRIEFLY. IT WAS FLAPPING AROUND FOR ABOUT TEN TO FIFTEEN MINUTES.
Anyone who DOESN'T begin their review of the Danny Boyle-directed Frankenstein (National Theatre) exactly like that either:
a) saw the play on a night when Johnny Lee Miller was playing the creature rather than Benedict (the two actors alternate the main parts), and should therefore have started their write-up by saying 'I saw Johnny Lee Miller's penis last night.' (Block capitals optional.)
Or alternatively:
b) they are UTTER PONCES.
I've skim-read several reviews and NONE of them have mentioned Mr Beefy McManStick (thanks to this website for the excellent list of euphemi). Yes, I am 33 with a degree in English Literature, and yes, I have several other things to say about the two hour play, but if we've evolved to a stage where remarking upon a prime viewing of celebrity tackle has become taboo, then mister, pull the cord and stop this train, because I want to get off.
So. On with the trouser snake review: I know the rubbish they tell men to make them feel better - that willies are all sorts of sizes when flaccid, but tend to grow to a fairly standard length and girth when erect - but even if this were true, clearly it is still preferable to have a big One-Eyed Nightcrawler even when flaccid. Unfortunately, Benedict Cumberbatch's organ is not big. It isn't even medium. I'm afraid it is small and tapered, like a baby carrot. To make matters worse, his buttocks are surprisingly curved and fleshy, like a woman's.
But hey, Benedict, if you're reading, fear not - because I thought your acting was, like, TOTALLY AMAZING! Once I'd stopped judging the lunchbox, I could get on with enjoying his performance. The creature is born from a weird, taut, circular womb in a spellbinding opening scene. He flails, jerks and grunts, making an utterly convincing transition from homo foetus to homo erectus over ten or fifteen captivating minutes, Cumberbatch's extraordinary voice put to brilliant animalistic use, the vulnerabilities of his character illustrated perfectly, setting up the audience for an empathy that continues throughout the play, helping us root for him even once he's behaved in the inevitable montrous fashion.
Sadly, there's another reason we long for Benedict's creature to succeed and remain on stage: basically everyone else in the play is pretty much totally crap. I think it's probably down to a really lameass script which suffers from squeezing a plot that lasts several years into an interval-less two hour rush, but the singsong West Country accent of the fat maid is like something out of a GCSE Shakespeare production, the farmer's wife is sub-panto, Frankenstein's dad was wooden, his fiancée's naive optimism was reminiscent of Playschool-era Floella Benjamin, and the many hammy one-line roles set the scene well enough but ended up feeling really token. At the other extreme, some of the sets are so good that they feel embarrassing - early on, a blinding locomotive enters centre stage to banging Underworld beats, ridden by steampunk-goggled actors yelling and singing unintelligible songs among jets of sparks and waves of dry ice. The creature rolls past the engine and has a seconds-long encounter with one girl - but then, after only a couple of minutes on stage, the train retreats, never to be seen again. So much work, so much money, so little payoff.
But still, go if you can get tickets (I think it's sold out 'til April). Benedict is truly amazing, bringing pathos and even humour to a brutish, violent creature. There are some interesting ideas about loneliness, the need for parental love and acceptance, and the role of man on earth. And I even learned an important life maxim - having become convinced that Frankenstein would be a much better role than the monster, I'd wanted to see the play on a night when Ben was the scientist and Johnny was the creature. Thus, when the former flopped out of the womb, I thought (and may even have whispered) 'Bollocks.' But then it unfolded that a) had I had things my way, I would have seen Johnny's penis, not Ben's (I'd far rather have seen Ben's); b) the creature is a MUCH bigger part than Frankenstein even though I'm pretty sure that he does not have a bigger 'part' than Frankenstein (ahem) and c) Benedict, I'm convinced, will make a much better creature than Johnny. So I didn't get what I'd thought I wanted, but what I ended up getting was even better than I'd imagined what I'd wanted was going to be. Lesson: SHUT UP.
I SAW BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH'S PENIS LAST NIGHT. NOT JUST BRIEFLY. IT WAS FLAPPING AROUND FOR ABOUT TEN TO FIFTEEN MINUTES.
Anyone who DOESN'T begin their review of the Danny Boyle-directed Frankenstein (National Theatre) exactly like that either:
a) saw the play on a night when Johnny Lee Miller was playing the creature rather than Benedict (the two actors alternate the main parts), and should therefore have started their write-up by saying 'I saw Johnny Lee Miller's penis last night.' (Block capitals optional.)
Or alternatively:
b) they are UTTER PONCES.
I've skim-read several reviews and NONE of them have mentioned Mr Beefy McManStick (thanks to this website for the excellent list of euphemi). Yes, I am 33 with a degree in English Literature, and yes, I have several other things to say about the two hour play, but if we've evolved to a stage where remarking upon a prime viewing of celebrity tackle has become taboo, then mister, pull the cord and stop this train, because I want to get off.
So. On with the trouser snake review: I know the rubbish they tell men to make them feel better - that willies are all sorts of sizes when flaccid, but tend to grow to a fairly standard length and girth when erect - but even if this were true, clearly it is still preferable to have a big One-Eyed Nightcrawler even when flaccid. Unfortunately, Benedict Cumberbatch's organ is not big. It isn't even medium. I'm afraid it is small and tapered, like a baby carrot. To make matters worse, his buttocks are surprisingly curved and fleshy, like a woman's.
But hey, Benedict, if you're reading, fear not - because I thought your acting was, like, TOTALLY AMAZING! Once I'd stopped judging the lunchbox, I could get on with enjoying his performance. The creature is born from a weird, taut, circular womb in a spellbinding opening scene. He flails, jerks and grunts, making an utterly convincing transition from homo foetus to homo erectus over ten or fifteen captivating minutes, Cumberbatch's extraordinary voice put to brilliant animalistic use, the vulnerabilities of his character illustrated perfectly, setting up the audience for an empathy that continues throughout the play, helping us root for him even once he's behaved in the inevitable montrous fashion.
Sadly, there's another reason we long for Benedict's creature to succeed and remain on stage: basically everyone else in the play is pretty much totally crap. I think it's probably down to a really lameass script which suffers from squeezing a plot that lasts several years into an interval-less two hour rush, but the singsong West Country accent of the fat maid is like something out of a GCSE Shakespeare production, the farmer's wife is sub-panto, Frankenstein's dad was wooden, his fiancée's naive optimism was reminiscent of Playschool-era Floella Benjamin, and the many hammy one-line roles set the scene well enough but ended up feeling really token. At the other extreme, some of the sets are so good that they feel embarrassing - early on, a blinding locomotive enters centre stage to banging Underworld beats, ridden by steampunk-goggled actors yelling and singing unintelligible songs among jets of sparks and waves of dry ice. The creature rolls past the engine and has a seconds-long encounter with one girl - but then, after only a couple of minutes on stage, the train retreats, never to be seen again. So much work, so much money, so little payoff.
But still, go if you can get tickets (I think it's sold out 'til April). Benedict is truly amazing, bringing pathos and even humour to a brutish, violent creature. There are some interesting ideas about loneliness, the need for parental love and acceptance, and the role of man on earth. And I even learned an important life maxim - having become convinced that Frankenstein would be a much better role than the monster, I'd wanted to see the play on a night when Ben was the scientist and Johnny was the creature. Thus, when the former flopped out of the womb, I thought (and may even have whispered) 'Bollocks.' But then it unfolded that a) had I had things my way, I would have seen Johnny's penis, not Ben's (I'd far rather have seen Ben's); b) the creature is a MUCH bigger part than Frankenstein even though I'm pretty sure that he does not have a bigger 'part' than Frankenstein (ahem) and c) Benedict, I'm convinced, will make a much better creature than Johnny. So I didn't get what I'd thought I wanted, but what I ended up getting was even better than I'd imagined what I'd wanted was going to be. Lesson: SHUT UP.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Envy, needles, walking, fat, Egypt, patience
So like I said, I don't read other blogs very often because I feel lame and unsuccessful in comparison, and yesterday I discovered this one and I know my parents wouldn't approve but I have been laughing like a drain at her brilliant writing and it's made me think 'Meh, why do I even bother?' because there is SO much fantastic stuff out there. But then, it's fun to write. Even if she gets a gazillion readers and I get nine. And actually, I'm being a bit hard on myself, I haven't had a day with only nine readers for a long time. Years. Usually I at least get into double figures.
The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.
So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.
24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!
So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.
Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.
Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.
The fact is, this blog could definitely be a lot funnier if I decided to write only about funny stuff. But I like the mix. Life is a mix. We can't all be hilarious all the time. Well, Becky can, but she's a rare case. Besides, she has pets and a brother and sister and a mother, all of whom make regularly funny appearances. I would be much funnier if I had a pet or siblings, or a funny mother. As it is, I have a regular mother who only occasionally provides me with material. We have to play the cards we're dealt.
So, where were we? Acupuncture. It was un-fucking-believable. Its effects have faded now, but I swear, for about 36 hours, my new shoulders were a smooth river rather than their usual gnarled bit of driftwood. They don't half give you the hard sell, though, trying to get me to sign up for a course of ten and telling me I absolutely had to start coming weekly to feel the full benefits. I resisted because I am spending my money on other vital things like BOOZE and MORE CLOTHES. It doesn't hurt when they put the needles in, although it doesn't feel great. There's a little fumble, a bit like when your mum's doing the breaking-an-egg-on-your-head thing and is trying to get her nails to flick against each other to simulate the shell cracking, and then the needle goes in. It hurts 1/10, where getting your finger pricked pre-blood-donation is 4/10 and stubbing your little toe on the corner of your bed, unexpectedly first thing on a Monday morning, is an 8. And then you lie there, face down on the bed, and it's freaking weird because you know you've got twenty long needles sticking out of your back and neck, but you can't rise up and twist round to have a look because you think that any wiggle might drive the ones in your neck so far in that you might die, or maybe they'll just fall out and you'll have to lie there getting reduced benefit, so you stay completely and utterly still for thirty minutes, with a heat lamp pointed at the uncovered area, and it's freaking pleasant just lying like a beached whale and having an excuse to do so. And then she comes back in and quickly pulls out the needles and then gives you an acupressure massage, which is amazing, and then you go home and even the whole of the next day, all the muscles feel as new. For £15 on a Groupon voucher I thought it was unparalleled. For the regular price of £50, I'd never justify it unless something was seriously wrong, like I was so cramped up that I looked like a sexy hunchback. Gurgle. God it was nice.
24 hours later it was Tuesday evening and I went on a walking tour with a handsome friend round St. James' and we had a really seriously lovely evening, nattering and drinking and eating and laughing, until he decided to be a bit mental, but what was great is that Old Jane might have blamed herself and been like, 'Eeek, he's being mental, but if he thought I was amazing, he'd never risk our friendship by being mental, so clearly he thinks I am FAT and doesn't care about my opinion and so isn't bothered about coming across as a nutcase.' But on Tuesday I thought 'He is mental. I am a goddess, the little-known Goddess of Cellulite and High Priestess of Egos That Oscillate Between Over-Confidence and Crippling Insecurity. Bow down at my altar and weep, ye minions!
So after Tuesday night's mysterious shenanigans, I woke up yesterday feeling exhausted and ropey, and once I'd agreed with Emily that Erfan would take her to the restaurant instead of me last night, I then decided to use my day's fat allocation on a hangover lunch at Pret. I bought the following: a smoked salmon sandwich and a Pret Choc Bar, which, for the uninitiated, is a rectangular slice of what looks like chocolate biscuit cake, about the size of a Crunchie. I went back to my desk knowing that these heavenly items would be enjoyed and over all too soon. I swallowed them. Interested in the damage I'd just caused my weightloss intentions, I looked up the value of these items on the Weight Watchers website. The sandwich was worth nine points, the same as half a bottle of wine, and just under a third of my daily allocation of 29 points. That was a little galling. I'd definitely rather have had half a bottle of hair of the dog than a stupid sandwich. Then I checked the Choc Bar. Bear in mind that a Mars bar is eight points. The Choc Bar contained sixteen points. SIXTEEN. The total point count for my lunch was 25. I could have had a bottle of wine and a Twix for that. I'd have probably got fired for drinking that much during working hours, but at least I would have consumed some fat that made things fun, rather than fat that makes you feel guilty.
Meanwhile, Egypt is FASCINATING. Well actually, the whole Middle East is getting pretty feisty. I am following developments on Twitter and staring in awe at Jon Snow's feed, not merely because it is very interesting, but because I will never fail to find it amazing that some people are prepared to risk everything and go to these places and report on things, and yes, Jon Snow has fame and fortune and respect, but for every Jon Snow, there are hundreds of others who are taking the same risks but in a much lower-profile capacity, all doing their bit for global democracy, while I sit here eating fresh baby figs imported from South Africa and wondering whether to wear the aqua or grass-green eyeliner to the party tonight.
Yesterday afternoon, I had a gripping therapy session where I updated her on Tuesday night's weirdnesses, a couple of other ongoing sagas and my weekend in t'country. I told her how impressed I'd been with Lucy's mothering patience.
"I just could not have done it," I said, and explained how I'd have been more inclined to say 'Pull yourself together' than be endlessly supportive. My therapist was quiet for a bit and then suggested that I saw the Three Year Old Jane in Lucy's daughter, and that I had been told to pull myself together when I was being needy or unfun as a toddler. I thought that was possible. Later on, I checked with my mum, who said that it was more than possible, and was in fact extremely likely. And I think it's what I'd do in the same situation. Oh, I'd be a shit parent. Later on, the daughter had said to Lucy,
"Are we going to get out of the car when we get to the train station?"
"Yes, darling," replied Lucy.
"Will you look after me?" she asked.
"Darling, it's my job to look after you. I will always look after you, for ever and ever and ever."
The daughter sat in contented silence, swinging her be-tighted legs and silver glitter Mary-Janes from the safety of her carseat. I told this to my mum later, adding that I thought what Lucy had said had been just right, that every three year old wants to hear their parent say they'll always be there for them.
"What would you have said in her position?" asked Mum.
"I dunno. Probably something like, 'Look, I'll do my best to look after you, nutcase, but if you jump onto the tracks, you're on your own.'"
She laughed. I laughed. It's what my parents would have said to me. And look how I turned out. Shit. I should be sterilized.
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