Things I feel I would like to write: a review of my trip to see Clybourne Park at the theatre on Tuesday, a paean to vocabulary, a summary of yesterday's budget, a rousing call for Saturday's march, a record of my dinner at Bob Bob Ricard and a rant about the difficulties of hiring an RV in California in late August. Clearly I can't possibly get into all of those topics, I am far too distracted. Hmmmm. Drums fingers. Adds another line to the epic poem I am co-writing with Kate about the wonders of white wine. Hmmmm. Thinks again. Maybe I will do them all in one sentence. Depending on which ones are popular or generate feedback, I can then expand on them at a later date if necessary.
A play about changing attitudes to race in the Chicago suburbs, Clybourne Park disappointed me while seeming to delight ninety percent of the audience: they thought it was shocking and hilarious, while I felt jaded and unimpressed - the acting was patchy at best, the Big Shock moments weren't shocking, and there was no insight into current race divides that you couldn't find in an episode of The Office.
Partially inspired by this most amazing flowchart, I've realised that, possibly even more than my health, I am grateful for my vocabulary, a gift I received from my word-loving, crossword-solving parents - if you can't express your feelings, if you can't explain why you are thinking something or articulate your motivation, you're effectively rendered mute - I see it in teens who fight, not because they're violent, but because they can't tell the other person what they mean - and I'd argue that an ability to speak about the contents of one's head with precision is the greatest asset we can have.
I haven't really investigated the budget fully yet - my concentration levels are not at their highest at the moment - but it doesn't seem to have said anything too pleasing, and the thing that jumped out at me is that they are now going to tax private jet travel, to which I say, WHY THE FREAKING HECK WASN'T IT BEING TAXED BEFORE?
In the pub after choir on Monday, I became aware that none of my right-leaning singing friends had even heard of this Saturday's March for the Alternative, which a) means that they're not reading my blog (outrageous) and b) means that the right-wing press are not even covering it, even to slag it off - not something that should have surprised me, but since it's been on the front page of The Guardian's website pretty much daily since its announcement, the realisation that huge swathes of the populus don't even know it's happening is slightly frustrating - so for one last time (maybe), please read about it, and please come if you can.
I kind of don't want to tell anyone how much I like Bob Bob Ricard because obviously I am childishly possessive of a popular restaurant in central London and want it to be my place and no one else's except the people who know about it already, but in the spirit of sharing, it really is a gorgeous restaurant in Soho that has only become nicer since I was last there three years ago - the food is reliable, the menu has a good selection of prices and the atmosphere is basically my idea of eat-out perfection; on the downside, the wine list is a bit expensive, the waiting staff sometimes top up your glass even if you haven't taken a sip since thirty seconds ago when they last came round, and if there are celebrities present you can't see them because each table is curtained off, so opportunities for spying are limited - but basically, if I was richer and/or famous I'd go there constantly and if you want to take me out for a romantic meal, you could do worse than choose this place.
Hiring an RV in California in late August is freaking difficult, not just because there is a massive shortage of RVs for hire, but also because all the websites work like this: you type in your dates, they show you a list of possible vehicles that they may or may not have for hire, you are allowed to select one (and only one) of the vehicles that you're interested in (even if you'd be delighted to hire any of the twenty or so results they've found), and a new page loads asking for your details including your credit card number to secure the deposit, which you fill in, and then you get an email saying that they will look to see if the vehicle is available and then get back to you when they can, usually within 48 hours but no promises, and they can legitimately charge your card if the vehicle IS available, so you're loath to give your card details to anyone else, but you also know from experience that it's unlikely that that particular RV is going to be available and time is of the essence and there are possibly only two RVs available for that week on the whole of the West Coast, but you can't request a quote for any others because what if they all are available and your card gets charged twenty times and you end up paying a non-refundable 20% deposit on twenty RVs when you only want one?
OK that's it for now. I am bored and busy and grumpy and very happy all at once. Also: read Siddhartha, it's amazing. And this is brilliant too. Also, Boots own Skin, Hair & Nails supplements are just as good as Perfectil's and half the price. And I bought Pureology shampoo and conditioner for coloured hair - extra volume version - and it makes my hair really greasy. And I think one of the crayfish in my salad this lunchtime was funny. I spat it out but if I die in the next 12 hours, that's probably why. Also about a month ago, I got my highlights done by a girl and then quite soon after I saw my mum, who was like, 'When are you getting your hair done?' and I was all defensive and like, 'I just HAD it done!' and she was like, 'Oh! Sorry! Aren't they meant to dye the roots so you can't see them any more?' and I was like, 'They DID!' and she said, 'Hmmmm,' which she says quite often, and I said, 'It's HIGHLIGHTS, Mum - they take a section of the hair and then split it in half, and dye half of it and leave the other half undyed - it's meant to make it look more natural rather than just a block of solid colour.' And she nodded and realised she wasn't going to get anywhere with that argument, so she stayed quiet. And then I looked in the mirror, and my mum was right, I think the girl in the salon must have chosen each section, dyed about 10% of it and discarded 90%. And it's freaking annoying but it was too long ago to complain so now I'm going somewhere else to get it done again. Boring boring boring annoying. BYE.
Thursday 24 March 2011
Thursday 17 March 2011
Another perspective
"So hang on, you're saying that you could go to a house party, meet a girl, find her attractive, talk to her for five or ten minutes, talk to other girls later on, realise in retrospect that she was your preferred girl of the evening, realise that she'd left before you could ask her for her number, but still not ask the host or hostess of the party for her number, even though you would have loved to see her again and you know for 100% certain that they could get her number for you?"
"Yes."
"So you could go to a party, completely fancy a girl, give her the signals that you fancy her, and then not follow up on it, even though you'd totally wanted to see her again?"
"Yes."
"So a guy could have gone to a party, completely fancied me, given me the signals that he fancied me, and then not followed up on it, even though he'd definitely wanted to see me again?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"Yes."
"So you could go to a party, completely fancy a girl, give her the signals that you fancy her, and then not follow up on it, even though you'd totally wanted to see her again?"
"Yes."
"So a guy could have gone to a party, completely fancied me, given me the signals that he fancied me, and then not followed up on it, even though he'd definitely wanted to see me again?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
Overheard
On Facebook last week, one of my virtual friends wrote that she'd just been groped by a sex pest on the tube, and that it was a shitty end to a shitty day. Several of her friends had expressed their sympathy. I sat there fuming. No one ever gropes ME on the tube. Through my warped eyes, her status update said, 'A stranger found me attractive enough to risk a fine or prosecution.' Well just hang on a moment while I get out my violin and start playing something REALLY SAD to accompany your entirely unjustified self-pity.
Similar phrases:
I'm trying really hard to put on weight at the moment, but I just can't seem to do it!
I'm in love with two guys and I don't know which one to pick!
I've been invited to three parties this Saturday and I feel really bad turning two down :(
POOR YOU. I didn't feel sympathetic. I felt murderous.
Then last night, I was walking along a quiet suburban street in a fairly new pair of skinny jeans. I can wear these now because, since last November, I've lost quite a lot of weight, most of it from my lower half. I was also wearing a longish cardigan and a coat. On the street behind me, I heard a largish vehicle approaching. Then I heard it slowing down and, just as it reached me, an unmistakably black voice said, "Nice arse." My arse has long attracted the attention of black guys. Several times a year, I receive comments on it from them. Unfortunately, that is the extent of the comments I receive - nothing about my face being pretty, or any other element of my appearance of which I'm happy, and nothing from white guys. It's always black guys, it's always about my arse, and it's always about the fact that it's bigger than average. I had hoped that my recent weightloss would change this. But clearly not.
As the van drove off, I was pretty sure the driver had genuinely meant that he thought my arse looked nice. I think he had gained pleasure from its existence and had intended to pay me a compliment. But at that moment, I felt like lying down on the pavement and sobbing. His comment was proof that I had still not achieved my goal of having an arse that wasn't worth a remark. I desperately want a boring arse. And as I schlepped on towards my therapy session, I felt a brief surge of sympathy for the girl who was groped.
Still angry and hurt, I ate quesadilla and fish and chips and spinach for dinner, and drank a lot of white wine.
Later on last night, I was walking into Shepherd's Bush tube station. As I approached, I noticed a young guy dancing to the music in his head. He was good. About twenty yards away two school-age girls walked by him. "Excuse me," shouted the podgier one at the guy, "your dancing's bangin'."
"Thanks," he replied. I was now right by him.
"She's right," I said.
"Thank you, sir," he said, grinning.
"SIR?!" I wheeled round.
"I said SWEETHEART!" he said, immediately, as I broke into a smile. "I must've mumbled. Sorry."
Sir would have finished me off.
Similar phrases:
I'm trying really hard to put on weight at the moment, but I just can't seem to do it!
I'm in love with two guys and I don't know which one to pick!
I've been invited to three parties this Saturday and I feel really bad turning two down :(
POOR YOU. I didn't feel sympathetic. I felt murderous.
Then last night, I was walking along a quiet suburban street in a fairly new pair of skinny jeans. I can wear these now because, since last November, I've lost quite a lot of weight, most of it from my lower half. I was also wearing a longish cardigan and a coat. On the street behind me, I heard a largish vehicle approaching. Then I heard it slowing down and, just as it reached me, an unmistakably black voice said, "Nice arse." My arse has long attracted the attention of black guys. Several times a year, I receive comments on it from them. Unfortunately, that is the extent of the comments I receive - nothing about my face being pretty, or any other element of my appearance of which I'm happy, and nothing from white guys. It's always black guys, it's always about my arse, and it's always about the fact that it's bigger than average. I had hoped that my recent weightloss would change this. But clearly not.
As the van drove off, I was pretty sure the driver had genuinely meant that he thought my arse looked nice. I think he had gained pleasure from its existence and had intended to pay me a compliment. But at that moment, I felt like lying down on the pavement and sobbing. His comment was proof that I had still not achieved my goal of having an arse that wasn't worth a remark. I desperately want a boring arse. And as I schlepped on towards my therapy session, I felt a brief surge of sympathy for the girl who was groped.
Still angry and hurt, I ate quesadilla and fish and chips and spinach for dinner, and drank a lot of white wine.
Later on last night, I was walking into Shepherd's Bush tube station. As I approached, I noticed a young guy dancing to the music in his head. He was good. About twenty yards away two school-age girls walked by him. "Excuse me," shouted the podgier one at the guy, "your dancing's bangin'."
"Thanks," he replied. I was now right by him.
"She's right," I said.
"Thank you, sir," he said, grinning.
"SIR?!" I wheeled round.
"I said SWEETHEART!" he said, immediately, as I broke into a smile. "I must've mumbled. Sorry."
Sir would have finished me off.
Monday 14 March 2011
Just another sanctimonious Monday...
...woah-oo-woah...
OK, it doesn't scan quite as well as the original, but it does at least warn you that I will be leading my beloved High Horse over to the sizeable mounting block and clambering on board, and then shouting out in my over-privileged plummy voice that you should do something that a) you were going to do anyway or b) you weren't planning on doing and whatever I write here won't manage to change your mind. But I will have TRIED, and that's all that matters, right Mummy?
Hang on, just have to rearrange my jodphurs, getting a bit restrictive there for a minute. OK. Reins in left hand, don't pull the head as you step up, swing the right leg over, and oop-la, there we are, comfortably in the saddle, no discernable groin strain as yet, heels down, walk on.
There is a march in London on Saturday 26th March. A march in March! Reason enough to go, surely? But since I've made all this effort, I'll blunder on for a little bit longer. The march has been organised by the unions to protest against the cuts to education and public services that the Tory government is making. It is called The March For The Alternative and you can show your interest on the official site or via their Facebook group.
My mum was horrified when she found out I was going. "But the cuts are necessary," she wailed. Some cuts are indeed necessary. Our country is in financial trouble and things need to change. But this is not just a UK problem. It is a global problem, and making these local changes will not help things in the long run - the cuts are hugely significant in the short term, but in the long term, our welfare state is being dismantled and the state of our nation will - I guarantee it - suffer. We WILL be worse off.
Probably the most heavily criticised changes are the proposed grimnesses with the privatisation of our beloved NHS. I can't seem to find anyone other than Tory ministers that think these are a good idea. The British Medical Association, the nurses' union, the British Heart Foundation and many other powerful bodies have attacked the plans. And for a detailed explanation of why there is so much cynicism and anger about the bill, you could do worse than take a look at this 15 minute documentary, which highlights the nepotistic world of Westminster policy wonks. Not pleasant viewing.
Even if you're bizarrely convinced that the NHS should be handled by big business, pretty much every other cool thing about the UK seems to be under threat. The UK Film Council is on its knees, as are cultural institutions countrywide - and even overworked and underpaid celebrities have cried out in anger. Our education system is changing radically - for the worse - while private schools remain able to claim charitable status and dodge tax worth £100 million annually. Libraries are going. Our forests were nearly sold off but we moaned loudly enough so it didn't happen.
Clearly protest can work. And it's no surprise that a lot of people are angry - but what is this 'alternative' - what is the other option? There are other ways to generate money: namely tax. Two thirds of UK companies pay no tax. What the heck is that about? Tax havens are a joke. The fat cats in the City are getting fatter - I've seen it first hand these past few days. The cuts are affecting everyone except the richest, and it's not fair.
I'm not going to be throwing fire extinguishers on the day. I probably won't even chant. I'm just going along to march along peacefully and show the powers that be that I'm politely grumpy, that even if I'd voted Tory I'd feel ripped off, that no one predicted this level of cuts, that there has been a shocking amount of dishonesty and secrecy, that there are fairer and better ways to generate cash for the recovery of our country. We're all prepared to make sacrifices, but the neediest of us should make sacrifices last, not first.
You don't have to join for the whole day. Just come for a bit. Show your support. Every body counts. Saturday 26th March.
Woah there, High Horse. Good girl.
OK, it doesn't scan quite as well as the original, but it does at least warn you that I will be leading my beloved High Horse over to the sizeable mounting block and clambering on board, and then shouting out in my over-privileged plummy voice that you should do something that a) you were going to do anyway or b) you weren't planning on doing and whatever I write here won't manage to change your mind. But I will have TRIED, and that's all that matters, right Mummy?
Hang on, just have to rearrange my jodphurs, getting a bit restrictive there for a minute. OK. Reins in left hand, don't pull the head as you step up, swing the right leg over, and oop-la, there we are, comfortably in the saddle, no discernable groin strain as yet, heels down, walk on.
There is a march in London on Saturday 26th March. A march in March! Reason enough to go, surely? But since I've made all this effort, I'll blunder on for a little bit longer. The march has been organised by the unions to protest against the cuts to education and public services that the Tory government is making. It is called The March For The Alternative and you can show your interest on the official site or via their Facebook group.
My mum was horrified when she found out I was going. "But the cuts are necessary," she wailed. Some cuts are indeed necessary. Our country is in financial trouble and things need to change. But this is not just a UK problem. It is a global problem, and making these local changes will not help things in the long run - the cuts are hugely significant in the short term, but in the long term, our welfare state is being dismantled and the state of our nation will - I guarantee it - suffer. We WILL be worse off.
Probably the most heavily criticised changes are the proposed grimnesses with the privatisation of our beloved NHS. I can't seem to find anyone other than Tory ministers that think these are a good idea. The British Medical Association, the nurses' union, the British Heart Foundation and many other powerful bodies have attacked the plans. And for a detailed explanation of why there is so much cynicism and anger about the bill, you could do worse than take a look at this 15 minute documentary, which highlights the nepotistic world of Westminster policy wonks. Not pleasant viewing.
Even if you're bizarrely convinced that the NHS should be handled by big business, pretty much every other cool thing about the UK seems to be under threat. The UK Film Council is on its knees, as are cultural institutions countrywide - and even overworked and underpaid celebrities have cried out in anger. Our education system is changing radically - for the worse - while private schools remain able to claim charitable status and dodge tax worth £100 million annually. Libraries are going. Our forests were nearly sold off but we moaned loudly enough so it didn't happen.
Clearly protest can work. And it's no surprise that a lot of people are angry - but what is this 'alternative' - what is the other option? There are other ways to generate money: namely tax. Two thirds of UK companies pay no tax. What the heck is that about? Tax havens are a joke. The fat cats in the City are getting fatter - I've seen it first hand these past few days. The cuts are affecting everyone except the richest, and it's not fair.
I'm not going to be throwing fire extinguishers on the day. I probably won't even chant. I'm just going along to march along peacefully and show the powers that be that I'm politely grumpy, that even if I'd voted Tory I'd feel ripped off, that no one predicted this level of cuts, that there has been a shocking amount of dishonesty and secrecy, that there are fairer and better ways to generate cash for the recovery of our country. We're all prepared to make sacrifices, but the neediest of us should make sacrifices last, not first.
You don't have to join for the whole day. Just come for a bit. Show your support. Every body counts. Saturday 26th March.
Woah there, High Horse. Good girl.
Friday 11 March 2011
Gang(lions) warfare
OH I SEE. I write regularly for months, pouring my heart out, letting you in to the deepest pits of my despair, allowing you to witness my heartrending battles with the huge intellectual and philosophical questions that we all must face as part of the human condition, desperately clutching on to sanity with shredded fingertips, begging for your advice and respect, and you just sit there silently scrolling down the paragraphs, only very occasionally clicking the box at the bottom to say, 'That wasn't shit,' before returning to your normal lives and silently thanking some higher power that you don't overthink things like that nutcase on LLFF.
And then I write flippantly about a CYST and I am OVERRUN with feedback. People I've not spoken to in years, true friends, distant colleagues, an ex-lover: all have risen to this occasion and clamoured to give me their thoughts and advice on the chickpea-sized lump on my left hand. Clearly I have found your level.
The advice I've been offered has been pretty unanimously in the 'don't bash' category, which, from a dramatic point of view, I've found disappointing. And I am still hurt that it was this that inspired such a flood of correspondence. Nonetheless, I am putting aside my petty concerns and, for the benefit of all my fellow gang(lion) members, I've pasted a selection of the feedback below:
"now i had a ganglion. and it did just disappear. not much use to you that is it."
No. No it isn't. How perceptive of you, reader. I've had mine since I was about ten. If it hasn't disappeared in over two decades, sadly I don't think it's going to start disappearing now.
"My sister had one, and someone bashed it and it was *horrifically* painful and she screamed. And it didn’t work. And she ended up having surgery. Don’t do it."
Being a glutton for punishment, the pain thing didn't put me off. "And it didn't work" was pretty persuasive, but there's a part of me that thinks that maybe they just didn't get the right bashing technique...
"Use a hot tea bag and apply to it for as long as you can possibly stand it. Never drop a book on it. If it doesn't start improving in 2 days go to the doctor, could be a staph infection. Not something you want to mess with."
Ooh, this person sounds like they now what they're talking about because they use the word 'staph'. In my case, if it's a staph infection, it's a 23 year old staph infection, so I'm thinking it's probably not that. I'm going to try the teabag thing though (not a sentence I ever thought I'd type). Tesco's Online sent me lemon tea by accident about three years ago so I can use the bags for my cyst. I will report back.
"My bro had one of these so i just asked him what he did about it.. he said he had an operation to remove it.. I asked if he had ever just "bashed it".. he said he had on many occasions but it just made it worse.. helpful?"
Yes. Many thanks.
"Encyclopaedia Britannica. Or maybe War and Peace. I'd offer to do it, but I'm in the wrong country."
Excellent suggestions, both, but I think the pleasures of cyst bashing are looking increasingly unlikely. :(
"just read your blog on ganglions... join the club!! i've had one in my right wrist ever since i started working so that's err over 10y ago now... i'm sure it's 100% correlated with computer/mouse use.... mine inflates/deflates according to how much i'm working.. i had it drained once (v painful) which helped temporarily but that's it... i keep asking about other options but the surgery route as you say is not permanent.. and you get a big scar on the wrist... great! it bugs me doing stuff like yoga - am never going to be able to do a hand stand!!! and would also stop me being any good at racquet sports but other than that i live with it... think it will go once i become a lady of leisure!!!! i actually think i have bashed mine accidentally and again it helps a bit but has always come back..."
DING DING DING! We have a winner. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence is clear: I am working too hard and my body is in revolt. If I do not resign immediately, I will never be able to do a handstand, and I'm sure we can all agree that that is not a sacrifice anyone should have to make. I am off to write a last email to my boss. Then I will go home, sit on my sofa, stroke my cyst and wonder what I have done.
And then I write flippantly about a CYST and I am OVERRUN with feedback. People I've not spoken to in years, true friends, distant colleagues, an ex-lover: all have risen to this occasion and clamoured to give me their thoughts and advice on the chickpea-sized lump on my left hand. Clearly I have found your level.
The advice I've been offered has been pretty unanimously in the 'don't bash' category, which, from a dramatic point of view, I've found disappointing. And I am still hurt that it was this that inspired such a flood of correspondence. Nonetheless, I am putting aside my petty concerns and, for the benefit of all my fellow gang(lion) members, I've pasted a selection of the feedback below:
"now i had a ganglion. and it did just disappear. not much use to you that is it."
No. No it isn't. How perceptive of you, reader. I've had mine since I was about ten. If it hasn't disappeared in over two decades, sadly I don't think it's going to start disappearing now.
"My sister had one, and someone bashed it and it was *horrifically* painful and she screamed. And it didn’t work. And she ended up having surgery. Don’t do it."
Being a glutton for punishment, the pain thing didn't put me off. "And it didn't work" was pretty persuasive, but there's a part of me that thinks that maybe they just didn't get the right bashing technique...
"Use a hot tea bag and apply to it for as long as you can possibly stand it. Never drop a book on it. If it doesn't start improving in 2 days go to the doctor, could be a staph infection. Not something you want to mess with."
Ooh, this person sounds like they now what they're talking about because they use the word 'staph'. In my case, if it's a staph infection, it's a 23 year old staph infection, so I'm thinking it's probably not that. I'm going to try the teabag thing though (not a sentence I ever thought I'd type). Tesco's Online sent me lemon tea by accident about three years ago so I can use the bags for my cyst. I will report back.
"My bro had one of these so i just asked him what he did about it.. he said he had an operation to remove it.. I asked if he had ever just "bashed it".. he said he had on many occasions but it just made it worse.. helpful?"
Yes. Many thanks.
"Encyclopaedia Britannica. Or maybe War and Peace. I'd offer to do it, but I'm in the wrong country."
Excellent suggestions, both, but I think the pleasures of cyst bashing are looking increasingly unlikely. :(
"just read your blog on ganglions... join the club!! i've had one in my right wrist ever since i started working so that's err over 10y ago now... i'm sure it's 100% correlated with computer/mouse use.... mine inflates/deflates according to how much i'm working.. i had it drained once (v painful) which helped temporarily but that's it... i keep asking about other options but the surgery route as you say is not permanent.. and you get a big scar on the wrist... great! it bugs me doing stuff like yoga - am never going to be able to do a hand stand!!! and would also stop me being any good at racquet sports but other than that i live with it... think it will go once i become a lady of leisure!!!! i actually think i have bashed mine accidentally and again it helps a bit but has always come back..."
DING DING DING! We have a winner. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence is clear: I am working too hard and my body is in revolt. If I do not resign immediately, I will never be able to do a handstand, and I'm sure we can all agree that that is not a sacrifice anyone should have to make. I am off to write a last email to my boss. Then I will go home, sit on my sofa, stroke my cyst and wonder what I have done.
Thursday 10 March 2011
A Once In A Lifetime Opportunity
I have masses to say because I'm still mental and I went to see Simon Amstell live on Tuesday night and the UK's economic crisis is being really interesting and I've watched a couple of GRIPPING TED talks but what I really want to talk about is ganglions.
I have kidded myself that mine was a bit of bone for years, but I've just read about it online and apparently, as I had feared, they really are cysts YUCK YUCK YUCK a big cyst containing THICK JELLY-LIKE MATERIAL on my HAND. And apparently it really is true and not just an old wives' tale that you can get rid of them by bashing them with a big book and I'm really really tempted. So here is today's question: Faithful - has anyone ever tried this in the past 100 years, and if so, what happened? According to the website I read, the odds of it returning don't seem to be massively different whether I bash it with a book or have a surgical procedure and as a good liberal girl, I would prefer to avoid wasting state facilities if possible.
Just so you can see exactly what we're playing with, this is a photo of my hand from above:
I have kidded myself that mine was a bit of bone for years, but I've just read about it online and apparently, as I had feared, they really are cysts YUCK YUCK YUCK a big cyst containing THICK JELLY-LIKE MATERIAL on my HAND. And apparently it really is true and not just an old wives' tale that you can get rid of them by bashing them with a big book and I'm really really tempted. So here is today's question: Faithful - has anyone ever tried this in the past 100 years, and if so, what happened? According to the website I read, the odds of it returning don't seem to be massively different whether I bash it with a book or have a surgical procedure and as a good liberal girl, I would prefer to avoid wasting state facilities if possible.
Just so you can see exactly what we're playing with, this is a photo of my hand from above:
So far, so inoffensive, right? But here is a photo of my hand taken from the side. I have formed a clawlike grasp to maximise the visibility of the lump:
So I think something needs to be done. Now the choices begin. What book should I use? I'm thinking not The Bible (too traditional). Do I use the spine or the flat side? I am left-handed, so I think I will have to employ a cyst-basher. I will need to get very, VERY drunk first. Maybe I should sell tickets and give the proceeds to the Royal Society for the Protection of Ganglion Sufferers. Would you like a ticket? More importantly, would YOU like to bash my cyst? RSVP.
Monday 7 March 2011
Inspiral Post-It
I REALLY don't want to go on about this much more, believe me, but please allow me to pass on something I found helpful on Saturday - I was sitting opposite a Jungian psychotherapist at Nessa's party, and once I'd established that he really was asking me about my therapy rather than being bored to death of having to listen to someone else talk about themselves on his night off and not pay him, I was just briefly bemoaning the fact that I felt like I had dealt with some of this stuff a few weeks ago and was just whacking into the same branches over and over again. And his analogy was as follows:
Imagine a piece of paper rolled up to resemble an ice cream cone. Something like this will do:
Imagine a piece of paper rolled up to resemble an ice cream cone. Something like this will do:
This cone represents the therapeutic journey. The inside of the cone is divided into vertical segments, like this:
Hm. It appears I used a different filter on Instagram for that photo. Oh well. Anyway. Each one of the vertical lines represents one of the important pillars of your life - parents, friends, love, money, career, shelter etc. etc. You start at the top of the cone, and you progress down through the cone in a circular motion, like a coin in one of those supermarket swirly charity box things. And as you roll down the inside of the cone, you hit the lines over and over again. The number of times you hit each line depends on the steepness of the gradiant that you spiral down the cone, but you're pretty much guaranteed to hit them more than once. And of course, as you get to the centre of the cone, rolling full pelt towards the chocolate at the bottom of the Cornetto, the gaps between the times you hit each line get smaller.
"So what happens when you get to the bottom?" I asked Yoda, breathlessly. He said nothing, but unrolled the paper and smiled at me.
I nodded like I understood, thinking that the flattened piece of paper looked like peace, but then I wondered if I'd had too much prosecco.
Anyway. It's 17:05 so I am sitting at my desk and I don't have to, which makes me feel like I am wasting my life in an inexcusable fashion. I'm off to frolic in this blissfully cold winter sunshine and bemoan the fact that my new wool dress which hugged me like a sexy wool glove this morning has now bagged out and is about as flattering as a shroud. I think I might send it back. Exciting times...
Friday 4 March 2011
Weekend feeble
Ok, ok, OK mofos. This is where we're at. Last week I wrote two semi-eternal blog posts about my mental state and the way I think about boys and the way boys think about me, and how that makes me feel. And I briefly felt all liberated and amazing, and then I got really ennuiey and crap, and hardly left the flat, and then my mum came to meet me for lunch on Tuesday and I perked up a bit, and then on Wednesday something odd happened, which was that I started feeling quite a lot better.
The feeling down was a real spiral. First I started feeling down. Then I asked myself why I was feeling down, and when I couldn't find an answer, I started feeling down about the fact I was feeling down for no real reason. It really annoyed me and seemed very unfair. I hadn't been rejected by a handsome man about town. I wasn't feeling guilty following a spell of frenetic seal clubbing. I hadn't done anything of note, to be honest: just gone to work, eaten food and moped, like millions of other normal people the world over. What was the difference between them and me? Why do they just sigh, rotate their legs ninety degrees and regularly get out of bed in the morning, while I lie there in a pit of panic, pleading to some invisible benefactor like a desperate coward, "Please don't make me get up, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease...", hoping beyond hope that something magical will happen and I'll receive a text message or a phonecall that will somehow mean I don't have to face the day, a day which REALLY WON'T BE THAT BAD.
Given that everyone has a good long list of things they'd rather were different, how do they manage to keep on trucking, while I am overwhelmed by my own petty gripes? Why am I so livid that my life is the way it is? Is it SO much worse than I was sold? Is it so horrific, so unbearable? Of course not. But it's not perfect, and that seems to destroy me. In my rational moments, I know that no one's existence is ever perfect, that life is flawed and this is all there is. I'm also annoyed because I thought I'd realised all this weeks ago. I guess the Old Jane keeps fighting back with her evil habits, and I'll probably need to have this conversation with myself a few more times before she shuts up altogether.
So I was feeling not-good-enough and unhappy for five or six days, and then, without warning, it stopped. My first reaction was to analyse. What had changed? Whywhywhy? If only I could bottle what was happening on Wednesday and use it against whatever had been happening on Tuesday. But then, suddenly, I got scared of breaking the spell. "I know," I thought. "I'll just not ask. I'll just take this good mood, and not look at it, in case I spoil it." And I didn't ask, and it's stayed.
And then yesterday, I read this article that my friend Jules wrote about the paradox of happiness, which basically said exactly what I'd been thinking. If you're asking yourself if you're happy, then you're not. If you strive to be happy, you'll fail. I haven't been striving for happiness all this time, but peace. And strangely, I have felt pretty peaceful of late - just peaceful and sad, rather than peaceful and happy. Meh. Is this really all there is? A random and ridiculous series of ups and downs followed by death? I guess so. And if you're aware of that all the time, and work hard to improve your lot, you'll probably make things worse? Hmmm. That sounds like a pretty tricky trap. How best to cope? As always, Mother Nature has the answer, and it involves hot sand:
The feeling down was a real spiral. First I started feeling down. Then I asked myself why I was feeling down, and when I couldn't find an answer, I started feeling down about the fact I was feeling down for no real reason. It really annoyed me and seemed very unfair. I hadn't been rejected by a handsome man about town. I wasn't feeling guilty following a spell of frenetic seal clubbing. I hadn't done anything of note, to be honest: just gone to work, eaten food and moped, like millions of other normal people the world over. What was the difference between them and me? Why do they just sigh, rotate their legs ninety degrees and regularly get out of bed in the morning, while I lie there in a pit of panic, pleading to some invisible benefactor like a desperate coward, "Please don't make me get up, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease...", hoping beyond hope that something magical will happen and I'll receive a text message or a phonecall that will somehow mean I don't have to face the day, a day which REALLY WON'T BE THAT BAD.
Given that everyone has a good long list of things they'd rather were different, how do they manage to keep on trucking, while I am overwhelmed by my own petty gripes? Why am I so livid that my life is the way it is? Is it SO much worse than I was sold? Is it so horrific, so unbearable? Of course not. But it's not perfect, and that seems to destroy me. In my rational moments, I know that no one's existence is ever perfect, that life is flawed and this is all there is. I'm also annoyed because I thought I'd realised all this weeks ago. I guess the Old Jane keeps fighting back with her evil habits, and I'll probably need to have this conversation with myself a few more times before she shuts up altogether.
So I was feeling not-good-enough and unhappy for five or six days, and then, without warning, it stopped. My first reaction was to analyse. What had changed? Whywhywhy? If only I could bottle what was happening on Wednesday and use it against whatever had been happening on Tuesday. But then, suddenly, I got scared of breaking the spell. "I know," I thought. "I'll just not ask. I'll just take this good mood, and not look at it, in case I spoil it." And I didn't ask, and it's stayed.
And then yesterday, I read this article that my friend Jules wrote about the paradox of happiness, which basically said exactly what I'd been thinking. If you're asking yourself if you're happy, then you're not. If you strive to be happy, you'll fail. I haven't been striving for happiness all this time, but peace. And strangely, I have felt pretty peaceful of late - just peaceful and sad, rather than peaceful and happy. Meh. Is this really all there is? A random and ridiculous series of ups and downs followed by death? I guess so. And if you're aware of that all the time, and work hard to improve your lot, you'll probably make things worse? Hmmm. That sounds like a pretty tricky trap. How best to cope? As always, Mother Nature has the answer, and it involves hot sand:
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