2011 always seemed likely to be a bit of a meh year, sandwiched in the No Man's Land between the pleasing roundness of 2010 and the Olympics horizon of 2012, so hopefully you will forgive me for not weeping with excitement at its commencement.
On top of this gambolling levity, I had a bit of a psychological breakthrough last night while I was listening to Eckhart Tolle, and, with some initial shame, I faced up to this: the basic fact of my existence does not bring me pleasure. I have not yet experienced a gladness at just being alive. Before you call the Samaritans and draw up some sort of suicide-watch rota in Excel, I would like to clarify that I do not by any means wish to suggest that I'd rather not be here. I'm just pointing out that the mere fact that I live and breathe - miraculous though it unarguably is - is not enough to make me ooze with contentment. Currently, it takes more.
And I don't think that this is especially unusual. Many people would point out that everyone has basic human needs that need to be met in order to be happy, and that several of my boxes remain stubbornly unchecked. I am not in a loving relationship, you could point out. I don't have a strong sense of place in my local community. I don't have a clear career path or a clear idea of my life's purpose. How can I expect to be happy?
But I'm not talking about happiness: I'm talking about peace.
Some big things have changed for me in the past few months. I'm no longer angry with myself 24/7. I no longer feel like a failure. But I've spent my whole life thinking I was one, and now that conviction has gone, now I don't have to beat myself up for not being good enough every waking moment, I'm not really sure what to do with my time.
I know this: there are people who are way worse off than I am who still feel, at their core, that they're glad to be here on earth. I know I should be thanking my lucky stars, but I live feeling constantly trepidatious. I wake up in the morning and wait for the next thing that will trip me up. If you've read this blog before I hope you'll be more than aware that I'm more than aware that I have more than a lot for which to be thankful. But an awareness that one has, for some improbable reason, landed pretty much at the zenith of the planet's fortunate doesn't equal peace. For me, it equals guilt, and pressure. Those lolling-tongued dogs running about in the park don't need a raison d'etre. They don't feel guilty for being happy, or for not being one of the starving dogs in Africa. They just are.
And so, this is my resolution for 2011: to be at peace with reality - not what could be, or what was, but what is.
Admittedly, it's not one of those HILARIOUS resolutions that I will recount down the pub and look down self-consciously as I receive a wry chuckle from my assembled friends, smiling to myself as I pretend not to see them exchange knowing glances about my unarguable Wildean brilliance, but since the whole 'going down the pub with a group of friends' thing that I thought would be a constant staple of my existence turns out to be a pathetically rare occurrence in adult life, what with none of one's real friends knowing each other particularly well, and everyone living in different places and most people having to get back for the babysitter and the others not really concentrating on your answer, even though it was them that asked you the question in the first place, because they are too busy checking their emails to see if anyone from Soulmates has emailed them, which of course they probably have because everyone else seems to meet people at the drop of a hat, maybe that's not a problem. Anyway.
So my year has started off with plenty of potential for growth. I was feeling flat as a steamrollered sheet of A4 on NYE itself as I got off the tube at Liverpool Street station, and then I received a text from Grania. Its mere arrival was enough to irk me as I'd been consoling myself that the reason why she hadn't messaged me from wherever she is in the Middle East is because she couldn't due to bad reception. Then its contents turned irk to vex, as she confirmed that she was having an amazing time with her new man, and I was flooded by a combination of genuine happiness at her good fortune and the shameful hatred of being excluded. Then Sarah was ten minutes late and I suddenly wanted to give up altogether. I was a minute away from going back home, redonning my velour and climbing back into my risk-free bed, but then she arrived and it was lovely to see her and we tottered over to Brick Lane and met up with the others. It was a good night in the end, although we were definitely a friend group who'd tagged on to someone else's friend group, which is better than not tagging at all and just being a tiny unit, but, as discussed above, it'd be nice to be the dominant friend group for a change, rather than the taggers. I spent a lot of my late teens and twenties being part of the dominant friend group, and I know that at the time, it wasn't perfect. It was pretty claustrophobic and limiting, but there was also something comforting about it that I do miss. But I'm sure I'll have that claustrophobic set-up again all too soon and then envy those heady days when I drifted around, unfettered, from group to group, all varied options and non-committal freedom.
I cycled home in my leopard-print jumpsuit at 3am, singing and waving at the people who wished me Happy New Year en route, and was thrilled to get back, so happy, in fact, that I haven't opened the front door since. By the time I leave to go to work tomorrow morning, I'll have been in here for 77 hours, or 4650 minutes. I haven't achieved much in that time. I made two lots of soup, did three loads of washing, ironed patches onto my slippers and cleaned up my hard drive. On 31 December, I had realised that my diary was bare for this three-day stretch and I thought I should make some plans. I invited a ton of people over for lunch today, but barely half replied and, of the ones who did, only two could make it and they didn't know each other and probably wouldn't have got on, and an awkward lunch for three wasn't quite what I'd had in mind when I'd sent out the invitation, envisaging rowdy Trivial Pursuit and daytime drunkenness. Everyone else I asked was going to see family or already had plans. So I cancelled it. Initially, I felt sad. Then I listened to Eckhart and I calmed down for a bit. Why fight what is? Silly me. Then I realised I was tired and I didn't want anyone to come over to my flat anyway. Then I thought about Grania and felt left out again. Then I told myself to stop being such a self-pitying nightmare. I thought about Glastonbury but realised that inner peace doesn't come from using future excitements to cope with present boredom. Then I tried to meditate but couldn't concentrate. Then I sat down and wrote this.
Meh.
For someone who doesn't want their blog to be about mental health, I seem to spend a ridiculous amount of time writing about it.
Showing posts with label New Year. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Year. Show all posts
Monday, 3 January 2011
Friday, 31 December 2010
The Year of the Snake
And so we bid farewell to 2010 and the Noughties. I spent Millennium Eve in a small restaurant in Putney with my then-boyfriend Henry. I was 23. We'd been together for three years and I was pretty darn certain I'd spend the rest of my life with him. I was deputy editor of a pop magazine, living with my parents, and he was running a web design start-up with two friends in Dalston. We broke up, unacrimoniously, in 2001. Now he's an IT teacher and lives with his girlfriend of several years in a bungalow just outside Canterbury. I've been a PA in a City bank for a fair while and have far less clue about the future than I did ten years ago.
2010's not been the greatest for me although it's certainly had some spectacular moments. It started high as a kite, drunk and delighted in Prague, peaked again in March with probably the best holiday of my adult life in Finland, followed by the baking bliss of a glorious Glasto in June. Since then there have been many fun times: Morocco was relaxing, Paris was inspiring, Edinburgh was funny, the school reunion was hilarious, Lady Gaga was fantastic, Twitter has been life altering, and the Boris Bikes have been transformational. But there's been an awful lot of introspection too: a fair amount of heartache in the early portion and, for the past six months, the strange void left by the boyban, which was without doubt the single most important decision I made this year. It's left me utterly and terrifyingly bare, unable to distract myself from the truth, and I think I'm more honest, more vulnerable and more confused now than I was at the beginning - and I mean all of those things as positives.
If growing up is about realising we know nothing, then I am certainly a fair bit older and wiser than I was twelve months ago (when I was still convinced that the only way missing from my life was a man) and categorically better off than I was ten years ago, when pretty much my whole identity was Being Henry's Girlfriend And Interviewing Popstars. Not that that was a bad place to be, but it's not quite a picture of someone with a strong inner core of self-esteem. When I first went into therapy about five years ago, I remember describing myself as totally surface - together on the outside but an empty mess within, like a Rubik's Cube - easily able to alter my colourful outer persona to suit my audience. Sure, underneath there's an unattractive jumble of strings and black plastic underneath, but who cares about that as long as the others are fooled? These days things are slowly reversing and the value I place on the opinions of others is fading. I'll never turn their volume down all the way, and I don't want to - but there's more in my middle than taut lengths of fishing wire (NB this metaphor only really works if you've taken apart a Rubik's Cube). As I've started to care less about how I'm perceived, I've actually grown a bit more fond of myself, which in turn has made me feel less like I have something to prove. Which has probably ended up making me more attractive to that audience I used to be obsessed about pleasing. And that's a nice irony.
So. 2011. It's weird but perhaps fitting that I'm going into it feeling fairly zen, actually. I have no idea what it will bring and I'm not sure I'm really that fussed either way. I'm sure it'll be OK. I don't know if I'll still be in my job in another 365 days but I kind of hope I am. The boyban still holds, for how long I'm not sure. I'm looking forward to writing more, and travelling somewhere hot at some point. I'd like to get better at the ukulele, take some good photographs, do a lot of yoga, learn to use my sewing machine, see some good music at Glasto and elsewhere, be a good friend, a good daughter and a good member of society. I'm ending 2010 feeling exceptionally grateful to the many people who've been supportive to me, and thankful to those who've been unreliable or disappointing - I've learned from you too. Right. I'm off to meditate and make lunch. Wishing you all a great night out. But a) don't worry if it's rubbish, it doesn't really matter. And b) if it IS really fun, spare a thought for those who are struggling. You're one of the very lucky ones. Happy New Year.
2010's not been the greatest for me although it's certainly had some spectacular moments. It started high as a kite, drunk and delighted in Prague, peaked again in March with probably the best holiday of my adult life in Finland, followed by the baking bliss of a glorious Glasto in June. Since then there have been many fun times: Morocco was relaxing, Paris was inspiring, Edinburgh was funny, the school reunion was hilarious, Lady Gaga was fantastic, Twitter has been life altering, and the Boris Bikes have been transformational. But there's been an awful lot of introspection too: a fair amount of heartache in the early portion and, for the past six months, the strange void left by the boyban, which was without doubt the single most important decision I made this year. It's left me utterly and terrifyingly bare, unable to distract myself from the truth, and I think I'm more honest, more vulnerable and more confused now than I was at the beginning - and I mean all of those things as positives.
If growing up is about realising we know nothing, then I am certainly a fair bit older and wiser than I was twelve months ago (when I was still convinced that the only way missing from my life was a man) and categorically better off than I was ten years ago, when pretty much my whole identity was Being Henry's Girlfriend And Interviewing Popstars. Not that that was a bad place to be, but it's not quite a picture of someone with a strong inner core of self-esteem. When I first went into therapy about five years ago, I remember describing myself as totally surface - together on the outside but an empty mess within, like a Rubik's Cube - easily able to alter my colourful outer persona to suit my audience. Sure, underneath there's an unattractive jumble of strings and black plastic underneath, but who cares about that as long as the others are fooled? These days things are slowly reversing and the value I place on the opinions of others is fading. I'll never turn their volume down all the way, and I don't want to - but there's more in my middle than taut lengths of fishing wire (NB this metaphor only really works if you've taken apart a Rubik's Cube). As I've started to care less about how I'm perceived, I've actually grown a bit more fond of myself, which in turn has made me feel less like I have something to prove. Which has probably ended up making me more attractive to that audience I used to be obsessed about pleasing. And that's a nice irony.
So. 2011. It's weird but perhaps fitting that I'm going into it feeling fairly zen, actually. I have no idea what it will bring and I'm not sure I'm really that fussed either way. I'm sure it'll be OK. I don't know if I'll still be in my job in another 365 days but I kind of hope I am. The boyban still holds, for how long I'm not sure. I'm looking forward to writing more, and travelling somewhere hot at some point. I'd like to get better at the ukulele, take some good photographs, do a lot of yoga, learn to use my sewing machine, see some good music at Glasto and elsewhere, be a good friend, a good daughter and a good member of society. I'm ending 2010 feeling exceptionally grateful to the many people who've been supportive to me, and thankful to those who've been unreliable or disappointing - I've learned from you too. Right. I'm off to meditate and make lunch. Wishing you all a great night out. But a) don't worry if it's rubbish, it doesn't really matter. And b) if it IS really fun, spare a thought for those who are struggling. You're one of the very lucky ones. Happy New Year.
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Czeching Out
My eyes are stinging with tiredness but now is as bad a time to write as any. New Year's Eve was truly wonderful. We went to a restaurant we'd spied earlier, and had a delicious four course dinner including pizza underneath a gorgeous vaulted ceiling, chatting non-stop to the Hungarians at the table next to us and the stammering Germans opposite, and later to the enthusiastic Greeks at the table even further away. At 23:47 we rushed out into the Old Town Square, determined to see the Astrological Clock chime us in to the new decade, but there was no way we could muscle through the packed crowd, so we celebrated midnight opposite the Christmas tree, as thousands of impromptu fireworks were set off all around us, with scant regard for health or, indeed, safety. Nick got through his hatred of NYE by pretending he was reporting back for a local BBC News channel, asking everyone who would make eye contact with us where they were from, and what their hopes were for 2010.
After the big moment had quietened down somewhat, we returned to the restaurant for a final drink, and a lovely waitress chatted to us for ages and then revealed herself as the place's owner, saying we didn't have to pay for any of the extra drinks we'd had. Result. We gave her a fat tip. Then we wandered, headily, through the streets and over the Charles Bridge, photographing things and reveling in the fact that although everyone was undoubtedly drunk, no one was being aggressive, unfriendly or anti-socially loud. It was lovely.
This morning started a little slowly and we missed the hotel breakfast so had a snack from the Christmas market, me feeling optimistic that the Nutella and crepe that surrounded my banana did not detract from its 'one of my five a day' status. Then we wandered over to the Jewish Quarter. Now, I know as well as you do that it is impossible and deeply stupid to generalise about an entire race, so I won't, but I will say that the Jewish section of Prague is the most badly organised and stressful area in the city by a country mile. Everything is numbered, but the numbers don't correlate to the buildings on the map they give you, and the numbers on the map don't correlate with the numbers on your ticket. Then there are long rooms full of displays of things, but you have no idea what the things are/mean, because the panel of information explaining their significance is behind the door through which everyone is walking. The Holocaust was, undeniably, absolutely horrific. The things those people went through, whether they survived or died, are beyond my powers of imagination - or, perhaps, I just don't want to have to think about them. And I totally buy the whole 'lest we forget' argument - we should be reminded, regularly, of the horrific elements of humanity's past, sometimes shockingly recent, so that we don't let such atrocities happen again, if possible. But, that said, it does seem to me that Judaism's PR is almost entirely negative. If it were me, I would focus on the Sho'ah, sure, but I would also talk about the wonderful things about my faith that make me proud. I'd like to hear a bit more about the positives. Maybe that's just me. The cemetery, the synagogues and the exhibitions were interesting, once we worked out what was going on, but the tourists were disrespectful and the highlight was probably the tiny menorah that Nick bought on a stall outside.
After the Jewish Quarter, we walked back over Charles Bridge and had yet another deep fried lunch before heading up to St. Nicholas' church, where we arrived at 15:48 and the last admission was at 15:45, so we grumpily went on to The Church of Our Lady Victorious, just down the road, where Nick had read about this little statue of Christ that was donated by a Spanish woman ages ago, and is thought to have magical powers and is one of the most sacred icons in Catholicism. We'd started calling it the Waxy Jesus, because it is made of wax. And so we went to see the Waxy Jesus, and sweet Mary mother of God, if it wasn't the most gloriously kitsch thing in the history of the world. There's this tiny, alabaster-pale doll, perched high on a wall, surrounded by ornate metalwork, wearing an elaborate white gown, and in front of it are people praying. Real people. And upstairs, in the museum, are glass cases full of all the Waxy Jesus' other outfits. For there are many. All donated by other countries. Gorgeous ruffled cuffs and collars on a gown sent from Columbia, a beautiful embroidered cape from Shanghai, a deep red get-up from Vietnam and a case full of white, lace undergarments to protect Waxy from damage, accompanied by a photo of three nuns helping him into a new costume. He changes every feast day. It was fantastic but simultaneously deeply worrying. Nick can't stop thinking about him.
Then we went back to St. Nicholas' church and bought tickets to a 5pm concert, and sat quietly in the back pew while a good flautist and a semi-good soprano and an excellent organist played a selection of hits old and new, and I admired the trompe d'oeuil ceiling and snoozed, and a woman sat down next to us and knocked my antique Czech metal paint pot onto the floor, and then we left fifteen minutes early because we had to go back to the river to see the wonderful New Year's Day fireworks, which were great, and then we thawed in a bar and I had a heated conversation about wine with an argumentative Frenchman who, it seemed, deliberately misunderstood my point. And then it was time for the JAZZBOAT, and we were sharing a table with a very cute couple, early-twenties, she was from Holland, he was from Hungary, they hadn't seen each other since early October and god they were so happy, it was quite moving. The jazz was good, the boat travelled, I kid you not, about half a mile before we stopped at a lock for ages, and then went on a little bit and turned around almost immediately, stopped at the lock again for ages, went back to our starting point and a fraction beyond and then turned round and docked, but it was fun anyway. And now I'm at Prague airport, having started writing this last night and then passing out. I loved Prague. The people were very friendly, the architecture was stunning, the history was fascinating and had a good spread of interesting incidents through the ages, the tourists were nice, the items for sale were excellent, especially in the area of miniature things - I am most excited about my tiny matches and my tiny glass snail - and the food was, while perhaps not the healthiest, definitely delicious. The ratio of couples to non-couples was approx. 93:1, so if you are feeling particularly sore about your unwed status I might suggest avoiding it, but other than that I have no complaints. That said, I've just seen a photo of Vegas on my computer and I slightly wish I was in the States, and I am so excited about getting back to my flat that I might weep. London, I'm coming home.
After the big moment had quietened down somewhat, we returned to the restaurant for a final drink, and a lovely waitress chatted to us for ages and then revealed herself as the place's owner, saying we didn't have to pay for any of the extra drinks we'd had. Result. We gave her a fat tip. Then we wandered, headily, through the streets and over the Charles Bridge, photographing things and reveling in the fact that although everyone was undoubtedly drunk, no one was being aggressive, unfriendly or anti-socially loud. It was lovely.
This morning started a little slowly and we missed the hotel breakfast so had a snack from the Christmas market, me feeling optimistic that the Nutella and crepe that surrounded my banana did not detract from its 'one of my five a day' status. Then we wandered over to the Jewish Quarter. Now, I know as well as you do that it is impossible and deeply stupid to generalise about an entire race, so I won't, but I will say that the Jewish section of Prague is the most badly organised and stressful area in the city by a country mile. Everything is numbered, but the numbers don't correlate to the buildings on the map they give you, and the numbers on the map don't correlate with the numbers on your ticket. Then there are long rooms full of displays of things, but you have no idea what the things are/mean, because the panel of information explaining their significance is behind the door through which everyone is walking. The Holocaust was, undeniably, absolutely horrific. The things those people went through, whether they survived or died, are beyond my powers of imagination - or, perhaps, I just don't want to have to think about them. And I totally buy the whole 'lest we forget' argument - we should be reminded, regularly, of the horrific elements of humanity's past, sometimes shockingly recent, so that we don't let such atrocities happen again, if possible. But, that said, it does seem to me that Judaism's PR is almost entirely negative. If it were me, I would focus on the Sho'ah, sure, but I would also talk about the wonderful things about my faith that make me proud. I'd like to hear a bit more about the positives. Maybe that's just me. The cemetery, the synagogues and the exhibitions were interesting, once we worked out what was going on, but the tourists were disrespectful and the highlight was probably the tiny menorah that Nick bought on a stall outside.
After the Jewish Quarter, we walked back over Charles Bridge and had yet another deep fried lunch before heading up to St. Nicholas' church, where we arrived at 15:48 and the last admission was at 15:45, so we grumpily went on to The Church of Our Lady Victorious, just down the road, where Nick had read about this little statue of Christ that was donated by a Spanish woman ages ago, and is thought to have magical powers and is one of the most sacred icons in Catholicism. We'd started calling it the Waxy Jesus, because it is made of wax. And so we went to see the Waxy Jesus, and sweet Mary mother of God, if it wasn't the most gloriously kitsch thing in the history of the world. There's this tiny, alabaster-pale doll, perched high on a wall, surrounded by ornate metalwork, wearing an elaborate white gown, and in front of it are people praying. Real people. And upstairs, in the museum, are glass cases full of all the Waxy Jesus' other outfits. For there are many. All donated by other countries. Gorgeous ruffled cuffs and collars on a gown sent from Columbia, a beautiful embroidered cape from Shanghai, a deep red get-up from Vietnam and a case full of white, lace undergarments to protect Waxy from damage, accompanied by a photo of three nuns helping him into a new costume. He changes every feast day. It was fantastic but simultaneously deeply worrying. Nick can't stop thinking about him.
Then we went back to St. Nicholas' church and bought tickets to a 5pm concert, and sat quietly in the back pew while a good flautist and a semi-good soprano and an excellent organist played a selection of hits old and new, and I admired the trompe d'oeuil ceiling and snoozed, and a woman sat down next to us and knocked my antique Czech metal paint pot onto the floor, and then we left fifteen minutes early because we had to go back to the river to see the wonderful New Year's Day fireworks, which were great, and then we thawed in a bar and I had a heated conversation about wine with an argumentative Frenchman who, it seemed, deliberately misunderstood my point. And then it was time for the JAZZBOAT, and we were sharing a table with a very cute couple, early-twenties, she was from Holland, he was from Hungary, they hadn't seen each other since early October and god they were so happy, it was quite moving. The jazz was good, the boat travelled, I kid you not, about half a mile before we stopped at a lock for ages, and then went on a little bit and turned around almost immediately, stopped at the lock again for ages, went back to our starting point and a fraction beyond and then turned round and docked, but it was fun anyway. And now I'm at Prague airport, having started writing this last night and then passing out. I loved Prague. The people were very friendly, the architecture was stunning, the history was fascinating and had a good spread of interesting incidents through the ages, the tourists were nice, the items for sale were excellent, especially in the area of miniature things - I am most excited about my tiny matches and my tiny glass snail - and the food was, while perhaps not the healthiest, definitely delicious. The ratio of couples to non-couples was approx. 93:1, so if you are feeling particularly sore about your unwed status I might suggest avoiding it, but other than that I have no complaints. That said, I've just seen a photo of Vegas on my computer and I slightly wish I was in the States, and I am so excited about getting back to my flat that I might weep. London, I'm coming home.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Dancing in the Dark (would have been preferable)
And now it really is the last LLFF of the Noughties. It's about 6pm and Nick and I have returned from a long day's wandering and learning and eating and being confused. First stop was the fantastic Museum of Communism, which had a lot of boards displaying photos and quite small writing, and both of us later admitted that we had thought we were going to struggle to focus, but were pleasantly surprised with how well it held our attention. It was really quite amazing. I was 11 when the Berlin Wall came down, and I don't think I really understood what Communism was until about 2006, when I read The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists and 1984 in quick succession. Part of me briefly thought I was a Socialist for a while, and I suppose I still might be. But I also feel a bit Libertarian, which really doesn't fit on the same side of the fence at all. Hmmm. Either way, I would like to believe in democracy. There was some interesting footage at the museum showing ordinary Czechs in ordinary, slightly Eighties clothing, fighting the Communist forces in squares we'd been walking through moments earlier. It was inspiring. Not that I want to start a revolution but just that, maybe, if we needed to revolt, one day, we could find the courage. Power to the people.
Then we walked out of town a bit and went to the Museum of Prague, mainly to see a miniature model of the city that was made in the nineteenth century. And we would have enjoyed seeing it if it hadn't have been for the freaking annoying feature which meant that the model, which was about as big as four ping-pong tables and surrounded by a glass case, could be lit up in different sections by one person standing at a computer screen at one corner. Fun if you are in control of the screen and wanted to light up the Old Town Square or the Charles Bridge or whatever, but unbeLIEVably irritating for everyone else, who has walked around the glass case and is staring in detail at one particular area and then all the lights go out and only one patch of the model, invariably on the other side of the case, is illuminated and the bit closest to you is in pitch darkness. Badly thought out and made us both strop off. Still fun though.
Suddenly we noticed that all the while, time had been marching on, and we had to rush back across town to our hotel, pick up a couple of things and then wolf down a delicious lunch in a nearby eatery where we had gone because our hotel had supplied us with vouchers giving us 10% off if we ate more than 400 CSK which was basically impossible as a main course was about 125. But the waiters were charming and the food was perfect so we were well happy innit. Then we charged over to the National Theatre where we'd bought our tickets for Godzilla: The Ballet yesterday and the man at the door frowned at us and we thought it was because we were late, so we went up the stairs and he shouted at us and then his colleague explained that it was at another theatre and that we needed to go out and turn right, which we did, but we couldn't find anything resembling a performance of Goldilocks, so we went into another building and asked a woman who said "Hmmm. You have three minutes to go two kilometres," and it turned out the theatre was directly opposite the Museum of Communism, and we ran back across town and got there a bit late and flustered, and walked into our box, expecting to see taut men and wispy women in 200 dernier tights and perhaps some sort of figurative bear costume, delicately acting out 'Who's been eating my porridge?' in a routine choreographed by Rudolf Nuryev or similar, but instead appeared to have walked in to the live version of Let's Pretend, where the rejects from Prague's second-best ballet school went to get drunk and then die. I know as much about ballet as I do about microbiology, but even I can say with confidence that the dancing was a disgrace. The main man did four average pirouettes in a row and then expected applause from the audience. And then there was the singer/narrator, who sounded like a haggard, inebriated tramp who had stumbled onto the stage and been told to make up a song as he went along. There were no bears and no bowls of porridge. There were lots of people dressed up as red ants, some of them with women's knickers attached to their thoraxes, doing routines with silver Swiss balls, looking like something any sixth form girl could have choreographed in a twenty minute tea break. It was all quite extraordinary. In the first interval, the lights went up and I looked around - Nick and I were almost certainly the only people who had not brought a five year old with us. In the second interval, I felt a bit drowsy after my nap and Nick said he had had enough, so we culled. An experience.
Since then, we've been to a couple of shops. I developed an obsession with buying a fur muff while I was in Prague, and must have been in about thirty shops over the past two days, miming inserting my hands into a soft fur ball. I have been greeted with many strange looks, although one lady showed me a gigantic, bottle green one made of fox yesterday that I loved until I found out it was around £200. Today I walked past yet another shop that had hats on display in the window and said to Nick, hopefully, "Muff?" He agreed it looked possible, and yes, lo, inside was my dream muff, creamy white, very soft and - crucially - much cheaper than the other one. I now own it and am very happy. Sorry Peta.
Tonight we have a table booked at a restaurant near the Old Town Square, and all around everyone is getting excited. Nick, however, has a hatred of New Year's Eve so we are not allowed to talk about the end of the decade. He is lying on his bed next to mine reading Barbara Walters' autobiography and I am desperate to compile lists of best albums of the past ten years, best movies, best moments, worst moments, top three lessons learned, etc., while he just wants to forget about the passing of time. He tells me that he gets excited on New Year's Day, and looks forward to the future, but hates to think about what has been lost, missed opportunities and ineradicable truths. So, just between you and me - my best album released in the Noughties is Poses by Rufus Wainwright. My best book published in the Noughties is The Road by Cormac McCarthy. My favourite movie released in the Noughties is... TBC. I can't think of any good films I've seen at the cinema in the past ten years. That's insane. I did love Anvil. Maybe it was Anvil. Is that possible? I'll come back to that. My personal highlight is one long complex string - it's that I'm finally happy, but I wouldn't have been happy if I hadn't bought my flat, and I wouldn't have done that if I hadn't taken the job in the bank, and I wouldn't have taken the job in the bank if I hadn't been tutoring my boss's kids, and I wouldn't have been tutoring them if I hadn't been doing my MA, and I wouldn't have been doing my MA if I hadn't had been lost and blue and had my wonderful parents to help me... it's all a beautiful chain of events that's reached a wonderful viewpoint, crystal clear in retrospect but murky as a swamp at the time. What I know for sure is that everyone who's reading this makes me happy, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. TBC.
Then we walked out of town a bit and went to the Museum of Prague, mainly to see a miniature model of the city that was made in the nineteenth century. And we would have enjoyed seeing it if it hadn't have been for the freaking annoying feature which meant that the model, which was about as big as four ping-pong tables and surrounded by a glass case, could be lit up in different sections by one person standing at a computer screen at one corner. Fun if you are in control of the screen and wanted to light up the Old Town Square or the Charles Bridge or whatever, but unbeLIEVably irritating for everyone else, who has walked around the glass case and is staring in detail at one particular area and then all the lights go out and only one patch of the model, invariably on the other side of the case, is illuminated and the bit closest to you is in pitch darkness. Badly thought out and made us both strop off. Still fun though.
Suddenly we noticed that all the while, time had been marching on, and we had to rush back across town to our hotel, pick up a couple of things and then wolf down a delicious lunch in a nearby eatery where we had gone because our hotel had supplied us with vouchers giving us 10% off if we ate more than 400 CSK which was basically impossible as a main course was about 125. But the waiters were charming and the food was perfect so we were well happy innit. Then we charged over to the National Theatre where we'd bought our tickets for Godzilla: The Ballet yesterday and the man at the door frowned at us and we thought it was because we were late, so we went up the stairs and he shouted at us and then his colleague explained that it was at another theatre and that we needed to go out and turn right, which we did, but we couldn't find anything resembling a performance of Goldilocks, so we went into another building and asked a woman who said "Hmmm. You have three minutes to go two kilometres," and it turned out the theatre was directly opposite the Museum of Communism, and we ran back across town and got there a bit late and flustered, and walked into our box, expecting to see taut men and wispy women in 200 dernier tights and perhaps some sort of figurative bear costume, delicately acting out 'Who's been eating my porridge?' in a routine choreographed by Rudolf Nuryev or similar, but instead appeared to have walked in to the live version of Let's Pretend, where the rejects from Prague's second-best ballet school went to get drunk and then die. I know as much about ballet as I do about microbiology, but even I can say with confidence that the dancing was a disgrace. The main man did four average pirouettes in a row and then expected applause from the audience. And then there was the singer/narrator, who sounded like a haggard, inebriated tramp who had stumbled onto the stage and been told to make up a song as he went along. There were no bears and no bowls of porridge. There were lots of people dressed up as red ants, some of them with women's knickers attached to their thoraxes, doing routines with silver Swiss balls, looking like something any sixth form girl could have choreographed in a twenty minute tea break. It was all quite extraordinary. In the first interval, the lights went up and I looked around - Nick and I were almost certainly the only people who had not brought a five year old with us. In the second interval, I felt a bit drowsy after my nap and Nick said he had had enough, so we culled. An experience.
Since then, we've been to a couple of shops. I developed an obsession with buying a fur muff while I was in Prague, and must have been in about thirty shops over the past two days, miming inserting my hands into a soft fur ball. I have been greeted with many strange looks, although one lady showed me a gigantic, bottle green one made of fox yesterday that I loved until I found out it was around £200. Today I walked past yet another shop that had hats on display in the window and said to Nick, hopefully, "Muff?" He agreed it looked possible, and yes, lo, inside was my dream muff, creamy white, very soft and - crucially - much cheaper than the other one. I now own it and am very happy. Sorry Peta.
Tonight we have a table booked at a restaurant near the Old Town Square, and all around everyone is getting excited. Nick, however, has a hatred of New Year's Eve so we are not allowed to talk about the end of the decade. He is lying on his bed next to mine reading Barbara Walters' autobiography and I am desperate to compile lists of best albums of the past ten years, best movies, best moments, worst moments, top three lessons learned, etc., while he just wants to forget about the passing of time. He tells me that he gets excited on New Year's Day, and looks forward to the future, but hates to think about what has been lost, missed opportunities and ineradicable truths. So, just between you and me - my best album released in the Noughties is Poses by Rufus Wainwright. My best book published in the Noughties is The Road by Cormac McCarthy. My favourite movie released in the Noughties is... TBC. I can't think of any good films I've seen at the cinema in the past ten years. That's insane. I did love Anvil. Maybe it was Anvil. Is that possible? I'll come back to that. My personal highlight is one long complex string - it's that I'm finally happy, but I wouldn't have been happy if I hadn't bought my flat, and I wouldn't have done that if I hadn't taken the job in the bank, and I wouldn't have taken the job in the bank if I hadn't been tutoring my boss's kids, and I wouldn't have been tutoring them if I hadn't been doing my MA, and I wouldn't have been doing my MA if I hadn't had been lost and blue and had my wonderful parents to help me... it's all a beautiful chain of events that's reached a wonderful viewpoint, crystal clear in retrospect but murky as a swamp at the time. What I know for sure is that everyone who's reading this makes me happy, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. TBC.
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Penultimatum
I couldn't feel less like writing tonight but I am aware that if I don't, then tomorrow I will have to write my last LLFF of the Noughties and it will all be a bit of a hideous rush, so I thought maybe if I am grown up now then I will feel the benefit tomorrow. There is certainly a fair amount to write about today, or not very much at all, depending on how you look at it. I am choosing to take the median option. We couldn't possibly get out of bed on time this morning and ended up missing breakfast, which was a disappointment as we were both looking forward to a traditional selection of cholesterol-boosting foodstuffs, and instead were reduced to drinking free tea in the hotel lobby while using the wifi to book the JAZZBOAT and eating the last of my mother's banana bread and my final mince pie, which I'd wrapped in tinfoil and carried here in my suitcase, because I am clearly an octogenarian hiding in the body of a 32 year old. And then we went to book tickets for the ballet tomorrow; we had been told that it was the story of the girl with the flaxen hair, and we thought it must be Rapunzel, which was fine, and then when the woman came to the ticket window to help us, she had just taken a gargantuan bite of cake, and we said we wanted to see the ballet tomorrow, and she said 'Goh-GOH-goh' or something, with bits of pastry flying everywhere, and Nick started nodding and I thought we were buying tickets for a ballet called Godzilla and then I realised she had said Goldilocks. Quite how a story about three bears going on a daytrip and leaving their breakfast on the table, and a girl coming and eating it, and them coming back and complaining, is going to take up a 2 hour ballet, I have no idea, but I'll keep you updated.
Then we crossed over the river and I very nearly spent approx. £150 on a bottle green fox fur muff but then didn't, and we took a funicular up a hill and then went into a mirror maze which was very kitsch and good but not QUITE as funny as everyone else in there thought it was, largely because the mirrors had steamed up due to the cold and there were snowy footprints on the wooden floor so you would have had to have been one mascara short of a make-up bag not to work out which was the correct path almost immediately. Then we walked down a hill, past a macabre human statue of a jester, to a monastery, which didn't make a massive impression on me, and from there we went to the Loretta, which I was keen on because it was so absurd - basically, there is this place in Italy where there is a little house and rumour has it that it is the exact house where the Angel Gabriel first appeared to Mary to tell her she was up the duff with God's baby - obviously this house wasn't in Italy to start with, but the Italians claim that angels flew it there. Anyway, the Bohemians love this idea, and built a replica of this Loretta house in Prague - it's one of forty such replicas in the Czech Republic. And basically it's just a really nice, small, red brick barn, about the size of an average room in a Hotel du Vin. But without the eight foot bed, obv. And around the barn they've built this massively ornate ivory-coloured casing, covered in reliefs of saints, so from the outside it looks like a gigantic Arc of the Covenant, and inside it looks like an intimate gastropub waiting to happen.
So from thence to the castle complex, and neither of us do art, so we missed out the galleries and went to the gorgeous, gorgeous St. Vitus or Vilnius o.n.o.'s Cathedral, which had the most breathtaking stained glass and a lot of people. And then to Golden Lane, where there are all these tiny houses that have now been turned into extortionate tourist shops, mostly containing puppets. And then to a concert in a lovely church, where a small chamber orchestra including a very flat second violinist played some Grieg and some Mozart and some Sibelius and some Tchiakovsky, while we sat there turning slowly to stone. It was far, far colder in there than it had been outside. Then we down a lot of steps and then to a pub for a warming beverage and some overpriced pistachios, and then over the deliciously spooky and atmospheric Charles Bridge, where my lifelong scaffolding blight continued, and then for further wanderings round the Old Town Square, Wenceslas Square (where we found a Debenhams and a Tesco) and to dinner at a lovely secret restaurant that no-one knows about except us and the people who were there tonight.
And tomorrow we have a lot more to do, and the same on Friday, and I simply cannot believe that this year is at an end. I feel as though it has flown by, but when I think back to waking up on 1st January, it does seem like an awfully long time ago. I don't think I was truly happy in my life until 2009, if I'm honest. It's been a long and magical journey up to this point, but tough too, and I finally feel as though I am Good Enough. I used to have a permanent feeling that things could be better, and at some undefined point in the past twelve months, something shifted, and now I pretty much continually feel aware of how much worse things could be. The glass is exactly the same, but where it was once half empty, it's now half full, and I couldn't be happier about it. Half full glass FTW. I have wonderful parents and some truly entertaining friends, but ultimately I'm me, on my own, and I'm grateful and content. 2009: I salute you for your part in my story. It's been a joy and I can't wait to see what's next. Butterflies in my tummy, ants in my pants and Czechoslovakian chicken fricassee in my small intestine.
My Noughties (recalled semi-drunkenly, late at night, after a long day's sightseeing, with no access to any memory-jogging apparatus save an iTunes library and a digital photo library begun in 2005 and some computerised diaries from 2001-04 that talk about nothing, and I mean absolutely NOTHING, except boys): Went out with Henry, lived in Shepherd's Bush, went to Cuba, did a car boot sale on a site which is now the Westfield centre, went to LA, interviewed Justin Timberlake, interviewed Britney, went to Bruges for an emergency summit with Henry, went to Frankfurt for the MTV Awards, broke up with Henry, moved back home, wrote off my Fiesta, got made redundant, was obsessed with several unsuitable boys, drove through Spain with Bee, met Luke, loved The Rolling Stones, started going out with Luke, went to Paris for Easter, joined the choir, went to Marseilles and Cassis in the summer, loved Elvis, was bridesmaid at Lucy and Jake's wedding, went to Tanzania and Zanzibar, loved early Elton John, went to visit my family in the States with my mum, broke up with Luke, was single for a year, had a Vespa, wrote a cafe book, started my MA, met Simon, tutored my favourite ever student called Lola, got my best-ever score in Scrabble ('quixotic' on a triple word square), loved Rufus Wainwright and Gorillaz, learned about Marxism and post-colonialism and feminism, wrote my dissertation in the British Library, graduated from my MA, loved The Clientele, went to India for two months, loved Nick Drake, started LLFF, started working at a bank, walked the Thames Path, loved M. Ward, went to Croatia and Montenegro, went to New York, broke up with Simon, loved Amy Winehouse, Sondre Lerche, Martha Wainwright, Tom Malmquist and Fionn Regan, bought my flat, went to Amsterdam, met Paul, loved Tosca and Monteverdi, moved out of my parents' house, loved Elbow, went to Vegas and Seattle, went to Latvia with choir, broke up with Paul, went to Paris with my parents, loved Bon Iver, fell for the gardener, did a politics course, went to Egypt, went to Glastonbury, fell for the Glastocrush, went to France with choir, recovered from Glastocrush, became comprehensively selfish, had several months of independent bliss, took up the ukulele, and here we are, in Prague on a minibreak, with crow's feet aplenty and a smile as wide as a mile. Happy New Year.
Then we crossed over the river and I very nearly spent approx. £150 on a bottle green fox fur muff but then didn't, and we took a funicular up a hill and then went into a mirror maze which was very kitsch and good but not QUITE as funny as everyone else in there thought it was, largely because the mirrors had steamed up due to the cold and there were snowy footprints on the wooden floor so you would have had to have been one mascara short of a make-up bag not to work out which was the correct path almost immediately. Then we walked down a hill, past a macabre human statue of a jester, to a monastery, which didn't make a massive impression on me, and from there we went to the Loretta, which I was keen on because it was so absurd - basically, there is this place in Italy where there is a little house and rumour has it that it is the exact house where the Angel Gabriel first appeared to Mary to tell her she was up the duff with God's baby - obviously this house wasn't in Italy to start with, but the Italians claim that angels flew it there. Anyway, the Bohemians love this idea, and built a replica of this Loretta house in Prague - it's one of forty such replicas in the Czech Republic. And basically it's just a really nice, small, red brick barn, about the size of an average room in a Hotel du Vin. But without the eight foot bed, obv. And around the barn they've built this massively ornate ivory-coloured casing, covered in reliefs of saints, so from the outside it looks like a gigantic Arc of the Covenant, and inside it looks like an intimate gastropub waiting to happen.
So from thence to the castle complex, and neither of us do art, so we missed out the galleries and went to the gorgeous, gorgeous St. Vitus or Vilnius o.n.o.'s Cathedral, which had the most breathtaking stained glass and a lot of people. And then to Golden Lane, where there are all these tiny houses that have now been turned into extortionate tourist shops, mostly containing puppets. And then to a concert in a lovely church, where a small chamber orchestra including a very flat second violinist played some Grieg and some Mozart and some Sibelius and some Tchiakovsky, while we sat there turning slowly to stone. It was far, far colder in there than it had been outside. Then we down a lot of steps and then to a pub for a warming beverage and some overpriced pistachios, and then over the deliciously spooky and atmospheric Charles Bridge, where my lifelong scaffolding blight continued, and then for further wanderings round the Old Town Square, Wenceslas Square (where we found a Debenhams and a Tesco) and to dinner at a lovely secret restaurant that no-one knows about except us and the people who were there tonight.
And tomorrow we have a lot more to do, and the same on Friday, and I simply cannot believe that this year is at an end. I feel as though it has flown by, but when I think back to waking up on 1st January, it does seem like an awfully long time ago. I don't think I was truly happy in my life until 2009, if I'm honest. It's been a long and magical journey up to this point, but tough too, and I finally feel as though I am Good Enough. I used to have a permanent feeling that things could be better, and at some undefined point in the past twelve months, something shifted, and now I pretty much continually feel aware of how much worse things could be. The glass is exactly the same, but where it was once half empty, it's now half full, and I couldn't be happier about it. Half full glass FTW. I have wonderful parents and some truly entertaining friends, but ultimately I'm me, on my own, and I'm grateful and content. 2009: I salute you for your part in my story. It's been a joy and I can't wait to see what's next. Butterflies in my tummy, ants in my pants and Czechoslovakian chicken fricassee in my small intestine.
My Noughties (recalled semi-drunkenly, late at night, after a long day's sightseeing, with no access to any memory-jogging apparatus save an iTunes library and a digital photo library begun in 2005 and some computerised diaries from 2001-04 that talk about nothing, and I mean absolutely NOTHING, except boys): Went out with Henry, lived in Shepherd's Bush, went to Cuba, did a car boot sale on a site which is now the Westfield centre, went to LA, interviewed Justin Timberlake, interviewed Britney, went to Bruges for an emergency summit with Henry, went to Frankfurt for the MTV Awards, broke up with Henry, moved back home, wrote off my Fiesta, got made redundant, was obsessed with several unsuitable boys, drove through Spain with Bee, met Luke, loved The Rolling Stones, started going out with Luke, went to Paris for Easter, joined the choir, went to Marseilles and Cassis in the summer, loved Elvis, was bridesmaid at Lucy and Jake's wedding, went to Tanzania and Zanzibar, loved early Elton John, went to visit my family in the States with my mum, broke up with Luke, was single for a year, had a Vespa, wrote a cafe book, started my MA, met Simon, tutored my favourite ever student called Lola, got my best-ever score in Scrabble ('quixotic' on a triple word square), loved Rufus Wainwright and Gorillaz, learned about Marxism and post-colonialism and feminism, wrote my dissertation in the British Library, graduated from my MA, loved The Clientele, went to India for two months, loved Nick Drake, started LLFF, started working at a bank, walked the Thames Path, loved M. Ward, went to Croatia and Montenegro, went to New York, broke up with Simon, loved Amy Winehouse, Sondre Lerche, Martha Wainwright, Tom Malmquist and Fionn Regan, bought my flat, went to Amsterdam, met Paul, loved Tosca and Monteverdi, moved out of my parents' house, loved Elbow, went to Vegas and Seattle, went to Latvia with choir, broke up with Paul, went to Paris with my parents, loved Bon Iver, fell for the gardener, did a politics course, went to Egypt, went to Glastonbury, fell for the Glastocrush, went to France with choir, recovered from Glastocrush, became comprehensively selfish, had several months of independent bliss, took up the ukulele, and here we are, in Prague on a minibreak, with crow's feet aplenty and a smile as wide as a mile. Happy New Year.
Monday, 31 December 2007
Farewell 2007
Blimey. The last few days have been a rollercoaster and suddenly it's the end of the year. Saturday night was fantastic - way, way too much alcohol in Camden with Luke and Colin, followed by a Roy Ayers gig at the Jazz Cafe - apparently he is some legend and the crowd took it all extremely seriously. Of course it's massively immature but somehow I found it difficult to take seriously the portly sixty-something black man playing the xylophone while singing Everybody Loves The Sunshine. Still, several Coronas on top of the red and white wine consumed pre-gig helped the evening along swimmingly and by the time I arrived home I could barely see.Yesterday was hungover but I massively enjoyed hair of the dog beer in Hammersmith with Lucy and then hair of the dog wine in Earl's Court with Sarah, Joanna and Mungo. Today I arose earlier than I have for some days (8.30am) and went to the flat with my dad to measure up for my new kitchen. This seemed to go surprisingly well until I got home and realised we'd forgotten to mark the location of the boiler, an oversight which, in retrospect, seems extraordinarily unlikely. Mum and I are going to Ikea in Croydon this Friday night after work to purchase the new units - oh, the glamour.
Back to now and I'm minutes away from leaving for my New Year's Eve party. Destination: the Adelaide pub in Chalk Farm for a retro space age party. I am ridiculously smug with my outfit but will clearly break my heel on the way there or suffer some other karmic punishment and have to spend the night blushing in a corner.It feels like the perfect time to be saying goodbye to 2007. This has been a transitional year for me, a vital twelve months that have seen some major alterations in my external and internal states. This time in 2006 I was tutoring and unsure about job options - the future was daunting in the extreme. After an annus that, at times, was pretty horribilis, I'm on my own, having single-handedly purchased a two bedroom flat, started a new career and changed direction onto a happier path of less pressure and more fun. Now it's onwards and upwards, more commuting, more interior design, more jogging, more work, more writing, more singing, more TV viewing on the new Bravia and, of course, mort gage. No new resolutions for me - still the same one I've had for the past three years, but somehow I don't think I'll be able to justify the expense of a parachute jump in the next 365 days either. So, until next time, this is Lost Looking For Fish, wishing you all an extremely happy, healthy, productive, nutritious, romantic, interesting, pleasantly scented and beneficial New Year. Over and out.
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