This is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


William Carlos Williams, 1934

A Short Story

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'No,' said Ishmael.

'Keep it. I've enough goats as it is.'

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A Short Story

John Wayne was sitting under the desert sun.

'Why am I sitting under the desert fucking sun?' he snapped at the lackey holding his sunshade.
'That shade's about as useful as an ice sculpture of my ass.'

Blushing, the lackey -- who had been transfixed by the sight of John Wayne shucking slivers of skin from the soles of his feet with a fruit knife -- re-angled the parasol.

'Actually,' mused John Wayne, 'an ice sculpture of my ass could be interesting.'

'CLAUDITA!' he screamed.

Identity crisis?

Disclaimer: sorry if you're not interested in this guff.

Recently I've been getting dressed in the morning and feeling pretty weird about the clothes I wear. The most frequent reason I leave the house is to go to college three times a week, and after thinking about Style Salvage's appropriation of the idea of a personal uniform, I would definitely agree that I have a personal College Uniform. Perhaps I overthink things, but there are a few things I've noticed about myself and other people when it comes to dressing for college. Firstly, when I get up at 7 or 8 in the morning, I look out of the window and more often than not observe that it's a pretty shitty looking day. I open my wardrobe, and look at my clothes, and I'll maybe look at a skirt; and then a voice in my head says you don't want to wear a skirt, it's freezing outside. Cold legs. Too cold for tights. The same thing goes for a dress - too short. You have to walk through not one but two dodgy neighbourhoods to get to college. Don't want any unwanted attention. Okay, I think, what about going with safety in jeans, but a nice pair of heels? You know your feet will hurt, says my voice. You'll be walking a lot today. You don't want to inflict unneccessary pain on yourself. Plus, heels click on the pavement, and you like to pad along quietly in your scabby old daps. Okay then, what about my nice new blazer? Too cold. You need a coat. Wear your duffle coat, it's warm. Fine. something nice underneath. The arms on your duffle coat, like all your coats, are too short for your lanky arms. You need something underneath. Wear your hoodie.

At that point (I promise, or at least I hope it's clear, that I'm not a nutty schizophrenic and that voice is just my Voice of Reason) I look in the mirror and hey, would you look at that? I'm wearing the same tomboy College Uniform that I always wear from October to April. Daps, jeans, jersey layers, and a duffle coat. And that's not the only thing which frustrates me. I get in to college, and apparently reams and reams of girls have got up that morning and they have NO VOICE OF REASON in their heads. They've arrived in flimsy skirts and thigh high socks, regardless of the 5 degree gale blowing outside; they clickety click along in their artfully bashed-up vintage heels, hips swinging, hair tousled by the pissing rain outside, while I stand gaping, bundled up, dripping onto the doormat with soggy feet and streaming mascara.

Leaving aside what I fully acknowledge as shallow JEALOUSY, plain and simple, of these girls who look so great, what I think I'm more jealous of is the fact that they know what they want. They know how they want to look; they know when they buy something that they will wear it, they'll make it look fabulous in with the rest of their clothes, and they know what they like. I don't know what clothes I like any more, and I don't think I have a personal style. My Uniform stems from practicality and an unwillingness to feel uncomfortable. I don't think I have any idea what I like. I mean, I know THINGS I like doing - if somebody asked me, "what are your hobbies?" or "what do you like doing in your free time?" I could answer - what I do is an easy question. But what does that say about the kind of person I am?

As a rule, I'm not much of a navel-gazer, but recently I'm starting to feel like perhaps I should know these things by now? Because it doesn't just come down to an aesthetic style crisis, but lots of other little things as well. I've talked before on the blog about my uncertain job future, but haven't really voiced my secret inner feeling that my job insecurity is compounded fully by the fact that I have no idea what I want to do. As it stands, I love my degree; but it's not like John, the nature of whose degree pretty much funnels you into a particular world of work, or Jeffrey, who, once he's graduated, is so well rounded and experienced that his skills and knowledge can carry him anywhere. My best friend Lucy floated around for two or three years after she finished school, trying out a few courses here and there, before she suddenly had a lightbulb moment and realised that if she doesn't try going to drama school she's going to have missed out on one of the one things she really loves doing.

I don't have skills, per se. I can't sew, I can't act, I can't design a building. I can think, but everyone can think. The more I worry about it the more I notice how much I have no idea about myself. Things which should be simple have become a challenge. What's my voice like - tone, pronounciation, accent? The more I think about it the more words seem sticky coming out of my mouth. Since when did talking become difficult? And for that matter, how do I walk? I'm not sure where to put the weight on my legs. Did I put my heel down first or my toe? I can't remember. Do I swing my hips? How do I eat? Do I favour one side to chew on over the other? What tastes do I like? And how do my friends see me? Is there anything about me that makes me, individually, me? Essentially, what kind of person am I? I feel like if I knew the answer to that I'd know what to do next, or what I even want to do next, or know at least how to go back to being the kind of person who knows what they want to do next. For now, I wish I knew where the fuck to start, and what to do with myself.

Ode to Beard Hair

It feels funny when I put my contact lenses
in
and there is something in my eye but
I can't work out what it is
so
I take out my contact lens and realise that it is
beard hair.
And not my own.

ICF

Writing Prospects, Cajun Squirrel, Tropical Fish

This term I'm taking a writing course for university. It's supposed to funnel me into a mindset from which I can write mind-bogglingly fantastic, original, witty and yet audience-friendly screenplays, radio plays and short stories. Of course I shall send them to the Beeb and have them commissioned, produced and broadcast (on BBC4 don't you know), become brilliantly well known, and be able to pick and choose ace stuff for the rest of my writing career.

Only I won't, because our tutor recently brought my (small - there are only seven of us) writing group's attention to the rough statistics over in the Commissions office at the BBC. Apparently, of every 100 projects that get commissioned - i.e., the writers have already got through that first rat race of having their scripts read and chosen - ONE gets made.

This makes me want to crawl into a hole somewhere. I wish I'd been good at science. Or pursued a career in maths. I have to admit it doesn't really help matters to constantly be reminded of The Crunch being felt by jobless graduates nationwide, manifested particularly in this depressing article in the Guardian warning that although it might be bad now, things are only going to 'get worse for the classes of 2009 and 2010'. According to the advice that article gives, rather than setting my sights on a mid-range graduate entry job when I finish next year, I should think myself lucky if I manage to find a job stacking shelves at Aldi. Super! That's just what I imagined doing when I signed up for a £30k debt-inducing education.

Anyway. The writing class. As part of some research I'm doing for my piece, me, John, Jeffrey and Li found ourselves walking down Great Portland Street searching for London's Best Aquarium and Tropical Fish Shop whilst munching on two of Walkers' 'they're mental!' new crisps flavours. (Chilli and chocolate was a unanimous disappointment, especially after looking at the ingredients list and finding that there was more garlic and paprika in the flavouring than chilli or chocolate; but Cajun Squirrel - which contains NO squirrel (!?) was a bit tastier.)

The shop was like walking into a parallel universe, so it wasn't hard for the others to humour me and stay there for half an hour while I had a good look. It turns out fish-sellers' rules are surprisingly stringent. I overheard lots of funny conversations, including one between a couple and a shop assistant who was solemnly instructing them to bring in a water sample from their (empty) tank so that he could check it was suitable for aqua-habitation. There's also a million and one products ranging from bubble tanks and oxygenating filters to 'spider's web' rocks for the bottom and 'ceramic noodles' (no idea). The best product I saw was 'Feng Shui Pebbles'. To zen your fish out.

Upstairs was all trickling water and steamy windows with tanks lining the walls, full of tiny breeds of fish; but downstairs there were about a billion different species of sea-plant and coral, and some very bizarre sea creatures including the ugliest turtle I've ever seen.

All in all a good, if unusual, way to try and forget about the nightmare that is my fiscal future. Followed up with a more traditional Saturday-shopping pilgrimage to the behemoth that is the Shepherd's Bush Westfield mall. Which was mostly uneventful (except for a sale Tod Lynn tuxedo jacket and socks in rainbow shades to go with John's new saliva-inducing Grenson Stanleys) until we walked out past the ridiculously overpriced Reiss and delicious, entirely reasonably priced Cos. John and I get the pick of the sales since he grabs the L (S and M seem to go so quickly in men's sizes! No sadomasochistic pun intended) and I get the puny size sixes (there are two reasons my twitter profile describes me as a 'pancake prodigy', and only one of them is related to cooking) which nobody seems to want either. Needless to say, some excellent bargains were snapped up...I'm looking forward to the debut of John's desert boots and woolly jumpigan, and racking my brains trying to think of a posh-ish event to wear my new Reiss dress to.

On a side note, we think that Bamboo Basket is a better instant/inappropriately timed dim sum stop than Ping Pong, plus they do lychee and guava juice by the glass, even if the service at Westfield is a bit chaotic - but that's understandable really, since the food court there is pretty traumatic at the best of times.

The Birthday Party

On Wednesday (and kindly sponsored by my mother) John and I went to see Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party at the Lyric Hammersmith. Some of you may remember that this was the site of the play’s first London performance and subsequent damnation by the press - it closed after 8 performances - despite Harold Hobson’s belated review, which described Pinter as possessing “the most original, disturbing and arresting talent in theatrical London”.

Sitting in our (superb) seats waiting for the curtain to rise, I noticed two things: firstly the inordinate amount of over sixties who had turned up (this was, after all, a matinee) and secondly, that the stage, visible behind the dropped curtain, had been carpeted with pebbles. This excited me; an obvious clue that the set design could be a little peculiar, a little subversive – like the vast majority of Pinter’s works, after all.

I wasn’t disappointed. The curtain finally rose to reveal what was ostensibly an average suburban bed and breakfast-y front room complete with a back kitchen and some of those little doors that you can post food through. On closer inspection, however, the scrubby walls, which were a bizarre shade of what can only be called ‘salmony taupe’, were peeling at the edges; unadorned except for a ubiquitous set of flying ducks (lonely looking), a dirty mirror, sooty fireplace and fading, saggy armchair.

For me, this ties in with Meg’s nonsensical, inane pride: in the cornflakes (“are they nice?”); the solitary piece of fried bread (“it’s a surprise,”) and the house itself (“we’re on the list!”). Meg appears to live, childlike, in a bubble-fantasy in which she has a strange, mother-crush relationship with Stanley. She clings to facts that she considers certainties, like Stanley’s piano playing, but fails to grasp others, as we see in her garbled retelling of Stanley’s concert. I thought Sheila Hancock did a brilliant job of Meg, really acing the scenes with Petey and showing the character’s vulnerabilities as Goldberg’s ‘persuasive’ nature charms her into submission.

Alan Williams as Petey, however, was a bit of a disappointment. I always considered Meg and Petey’s relationship to be slightly more complex than that of a weary-husband-harping-wife scenario – for example, one wonders the reasons behind Petey’s staying with Meg in the first place, and putting up with her obvious infatuation with Stanley – and at the end of the play, when Petey decides not to tell Meg about Stanley’s leaving, it is suggested that this is due to a sense of protectiveness or duty. Likewise, Meg’s comment about Petey always complaining that Stan spends too much time in bed implies that his character plays a relatively important observational role in the mock family; an implication that was opposed by Williams’ monotonous, shouting delivery. In fact, I thought Williams was acting more like a robot on Xanax than anything. This really got to me, because it lead to Williams’ rendering of the all-important line “Stan, don’t let them tell you what to do!” almost completely pointless.

Justin Salinger did a great job of Stanley, portraying him not as a bedraggled artist type (as some productions do) but instead really emphasising the bitterness of the character’s poisonous personality and simultaneously managing to convey the inherent desperation that comes with it. It is this weakness in Stanley’s personality that's later exploited by the sinister Goldberg and McCann (Nicholas Woodeson and Lloyd Hutchinson respectively).

I have to say at this point that Lloyd Hutchinson really stole the show. His timing and delivery were so spot on, bringing much-needed comedic relief to the role and to the play itself. Despite coming across at first as merely the beef to Goldberg’s brains, McCann turns out to be the foil against which Woodeson’s Goldberg is able to appear wicked. And yet Hutchinson’s comedic lines themselves provide an excellent foil for his dark side: as Goldberg remarks, though McCann might dither about before doing something, when it comes to the crunch he acts the part. The menacing side of McCann’s personality seemed exacerbated by the literal dark created by switching off the lights – symbolically, an action he’s ordered to do by Goldberg – and there was a thrilled collective gasp from the audience when he savagely snapped Stan’s glasses in half. And yet in contrast, in the last scene of the play, he balefully tells Goldberg with visible discomfort that Stanley, in his now near-catatonic state, is trying to fit the lenses back onto his face.

In comparison, Woodeson’s Goldberg seemed more of a doddery dodgy dealer than dastardly prosecutor. His weird mockey-Ameri-Jew accent grated the wrong way, and his attempts at comedy came off as pantomimic. Goldberg’s repeated, but dubious, recollections of childhood family time were almost stripped of their significance when spoken by Woodeson.

However much I’ve moaned about Goldberg and Petey, though, I think the actors who played McCann, Meg and Stanley really excelled in this production, and this, teamed with a great set and seamless stage direction makes it a must-see. I’m definitely glad I went. And to Pinter, father of the pregnant pause, cheers for persisting with it, eh.

Image from Flickr

Telephone conversation with a robot

"What is the issue number of your credit or debit card?"
"Four."
"Please state the issue number of your credit or debit card now."
"Four."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please state the issue number of your credit or debit card now."
"Four."
"I'm sorry, there appears to be a problem. Please state the issue number of your credit or debit card now."
"Four."
"If you are having problems, you can choose Option One to speak to one of our advisers, Option Two to end the call, or Option Three to resume. Please say one, two or three."
"Three."
"What is the issue number of your credit or debit card?"
"Four."
"You said 'four'. To confirm, please say 'yes' or 'no'."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please say 'yes' or 'no'."

.....

Image from Flickr

Lucky Charms

I think I would seriously consider going to America just for the Lucky Charms. General Mills, I bow to thee, creator of such oaty kibble deliciousness and powdered sugar indulgence. Actually, to be honest, I'm not such a big fan of the oaty kibble - I eat that part first and save the charms 'til last - but I suppose that other people who don't possess such a die-hard sugar addiction need it for palatability reasons.

When I was younger I used to have quite a long running daydream where I had access to vast amounts of money, with which I could do as I pleased (like most people I think). Since 'forward planning' in my young and nubile mind stretched probably as far as Saturday (30p sweetie money and the Beano), it probably isn't surprising that my biggest dream was to either a) fill up an Olympic sized swimming pool with the confectionary of my choice, or b) go for the multi-choice option of filling various wooden barrels with said confectionary.

I should point out that back then, I wasn't really interested in the consumption of the sweets, or whatever it was, but more in the physical feeling of a) swimming in something other than water or b) plunging my whole arm into a barrel full of something. Mainly my swimming fantasies revolved around jelly beans, because I thought they would be relatively streamlined, and I think at one point I was intrigued by the idea of jumping into Hula Hoops because they had gaps in which might or might not enable me to breathe 'underwater' as it were.

Jelly was another swimming pool possibility. Bit sticky though. Anyway, what this brings me back to is that if I could get hold of barrels of things in the near future (let's face it, if I get rich and want to indulge myself, the barrels are a lot more accessible) there would definitely be a barrel of Charms on the list. Obviously I'd pay someone to pick all the oaty kibble out.

Image from Flickr

Ode Part Two

But

I get angry at John because

He has a shower and then

Folds up the towel and leaves it where it doesn't get dry but stays

Soggy

Also he makes the step

Wet.