When I was at high school all those many, many years ago, there was a period of time in which my mates and I used to wag school quite a lot. I think back to this as the start of my delinquent phase which I am still waiting to grow out of.
But, I digress.
Having successfully legged it from whatever class we were supposed to be attending (Home Economics was a popular choice), my mates would chirrup:
Shall we go hang out at the park? Stalk some cute boys? Listen to music? Go to the markets?
Nah, I’d reply coolly, I’m going to the library.
That’s right. The Library.
Now you may be thinking, what sort of freak wags school, a place of paid learning and education just so they can go to the library?
Erm. That would be me.
After my friends had ditched me (after much vociferous disapproval at this library business), I would hunker down between shelves with a stack of books higher than my head and just dive in.
Bliss.
Together with delinquency, the need to read is also something I have never grown out of. I think if I could eat books, I would.
Therefore I am so happy to be visiting the London Library soon.
The London Library is, and I quote this from their Facebook page:
the world’s largest independent lending library. Founded in 1841, today it houses a remarkable collection of over one million books & periodicals from the 16th to 21st century.
Billions of stories are hidden behind those walls...
The library offers a service by which they give a tour to wanna be members. Membership is open to all but is incredibly expensive. £395 annually. So despite the “all is welcome” policy, the subtext is actually, "money talks, the rest can walk". On a brighter note, you can pay £10 for day membership and have access to the library but without borrowing privileges.
I haven’t a hope in hell of gaining borrowing rights but I’m excited still. Posing as a rich person, I will be getting a guided tour through this lush and gorgeous place where Tom Stoppard goes to write and Jeremy Paxman is on the board of Vice-Presidents. I can’t wait.
The germs that got their mitts on me a few weeks ago have come back for seconds.
I. Am. Not. Happy.
Sickness and I have a push-pull relationship. I pull myself out of its fug and it pushes me back into it. It’s like a freaking tug of war. Some time ago, it pushed me into ME hell for two years.
But hello. I ran a marathon. Isn’t that supposed to mean I’m healthy now? Fit?
I am particularly unimpressed to be ill right now because not only is it summer and there are Lots of Things to Do but I have an overseas trip to plan.
Ill or not, my excitement is growing. Apart from all my loved ones that I’ll be flinging myself on, there are many places that I’m looking forward to visiting. Places laden with memories; good times and bad. Places that I’ve never been to and always wanted to try. Places that might mean nothing to you but everything to me.
Sydney has always confused me with its ghetto-like urban sprawl and wannabe mentality. This time round I hope to make some sense of it. Apart from seeing my dear Grandma and some friends whose kids I plan to kidnap, we are going to Sydney so I can visit Glebe Markets. I am a market aficionado and Glebe is one of my favourites since I stumbled across it in 1998. Back then the hostel I stayed in stunk of pee. This time round, I'm not even bothering with accomodation. I'm going straight from the airport. From a 22 hour flight. I'm not kidding.
I love Melbourne. I love it more now that I don’t live there. It’s the perfect city for me from a distance with its amazing food and coffee, great shopping, integrated demographic, cultural riches and diverse nightlife. I have a long list of must-go-to’s in Melbourne:
Shanghai dumpling place on Tattersalls Lane, my kitchen away from home
The Latrobe Reading Room at the State Library. Quite possbily the reason I moved to Melbourne in the first place.
Northcote, Elwood, Balaclava, Fitzroy, Thornbury, Yarraville, Footscray, St Kilda, – all places I formed a bond with
Hosier Lane to check out the latest graffiti art. Melbourne has the best graffiti art and has done for years. Far before Banksy became all the rage.
The Astor Theatre; the best place to watch films in art deco decadence
The Ding Dong Lounge and Northcote Social Club. Melbourne's live music scene is amazing. These are just two of the many places to go see some great acts.
Beautiful, natural, isolated Perth. A frontier city perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean with a Mediterranean climate. Relaxed, quiet, beautiful and clean.
The last few days have been a total whirlwind of sporting, musical, theatrical and political activity.
First and foremost, England pulled their finger out and beat Slovenia to go through into the next deciding round. As much as I feared for the English nation as I watched the match with heart in mouth, I also feared for the loss of my Australian nationality as I find myself utterly consumed by GO ENGLAND fervour.
The heat at the moment is a welcome change but it does remind me how ill equipped London infrastructure is for anything hotter than 18 celcius. This was evident on Tuesday night when I sweltered along with thousands of others at the otherwise excellent Brixton Academy for the Scissor Sisters concert. Jake and Ana's return to the stage was a triumph. Hot as we all were, their music and theatrics compelled us all to jump up and down for hours, complete with jazz hands and many ironic, bouffant hairstyles:
Back to Back Theatre have been on my radar for years. Based in Geelong, Australia, they provide a performance platform for actors with disabilities. Their show Food Court debuted in London at the Barbican last night. I'd been wanting to see see them for years so my expectations had built up accordingly. What a bummer it was then, when they all came crashing down. What to say? The piece seemed unfinished, as if the collective had workshopped it to a point and then ran out of time. The actors themselves were fantastic but the tempo and structure of the play let them down.
Note to dramaturg - no need to bludgeon the audience. We Get It. How about some humour? Even people with disabilties like to laugh.
As much as I've assimilated into being a Brit, I was relieved to find my inner Aussie was still very much alive on news that Julia Gillard was our new Prime Minister. And a red head at that!
On hearing the news I was shocked. Logging online, I quickly consulted the speediest news format available to me from Australia. Facebook. A cursory glance at the updates of all my Australian friends confirmed this swift reshuffle of the ALP leadership. There was nothing in the British news about this much apart from that fact that Julia was born in Wales.
Shame on you Murdoch. And you being an Australian too.
A new day has dawned in my (other)home country and the debate that is following fills me with hope. The inertia that surrounds politics seems to have been shaken off for now. A fervour lit by a Redhead is taking hold. Let's see what happens....
I don't mean to piss on an open wound but consider this in relation to England's appalling performance on Friday against Algeria. A comparison of our national anthems:
Algeria:
We swear by the lightning that destroys, By the streams of generous blood being shed, By the bright flags that wave, Flying proudly on the high mountains, That we have risen up, and whether we live or die, We are resolved that Algeria shall live - So be our witness -be our witness - be our witness!
We are soldiers in revolt for truth And we have fought for our independence. When we spoke, none listened to us, So we have taken the noise of gunpowder as our rhythm And the sound of machine guns as our melody, We are resolved that Algeria shall live - So be our witness -be our witness -be our witness!
England:
God save our gracious Queen! Long live our noble Queen! God save the Queen! Send her victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the Queen.
Thy choicest gifts in store On her be pleased to pour, Long may she reign. May she defend our laws, And give us ever cause, To sing with heart and voice, God save the Queen.
The past few months have seen a few firsts happen in my life. I’ve run my first marathon, played in my first piano recital and also, attended my first RPM class.
For the uninitiated, RPM stands for Revolutions Per Minute. Meaningless in itself, the term has been repackaged by the Les Mills global sports franchise into an indoor cycle class that mimics outdoors cycling. At least that’s what it says on the package.
The marathon had left me with a foot injury which means that I have been unable to run, dance, jump; do any high impact activity for the past month. To hold stir craziness and boredom at bay, I’ve been swimming, cycling, yoga-ing and pilat-ing but it hasn’t really worked. I got bored.
I needed more variation.
My husband, a RPM fan had been urging me to go for months.
Give it a go, he said religiously until weakened by his nagging, I succumbed.
So at the ungodly hour of 7.15am, I found myself perched on top of a stationary bicycle in a dark, airless room with 30 other people, all there to “feel the burn” Thankfully the instructor, a lycra -clad Australian seemed not prone to the fake cheering or whooping that inflicts many of his type (Fitness instructors. Not Australians). As the thumping music started, everyone around me started churning away at their pedals in Lance Armstrong fashion.
I started to feel quite peculiar. The room started to close in. My chest felt tight. I had an overwhelming urge to run outside and gasp in cool, clear air.
Did I listen to my body’s’ good sense? Did I leave the class before passing out from claustrophobia?
No. I kept going. Why?
Because I needed to feel the burn, baby.
Overcrowded. Tick. Airless. Tick. Dark. Tick. Welcome to RPM
Succumbing to the oxygen-deprived psychosis that RPM inflicts, I pedalled away. Up imaginary hills, around imaginary tracks; all the while humming the tune, We’re On the Road to Nowhere beneath my breath:
We're on a ride to nowhere Come on inside Takin' that ride to nowhere We'll take that ride...
At last the class ended and I collapsed in a sweaty, spun out heap. My heart rate was off the charts. The burn had well and truly been felt.
So how did you find it? asked the Husband who had been pedalling away in his own Tour de France fantasy next to me.
It sucked. It’s stupid.
Eloquent as I am, I didn’t mention to him that I was planning to go again.
So I went along last night to the Buffalo Bar on Upper Street to hear a friend’s band play. The last time I had been to a live gig, the dinosaurs still roamed the earth. The bar rated well on my personal dank factor scale which filled the night with promise. As the music and beer kicked in and the space around started filling up with punters, I had the same reaction I get every time I drag myself out to hear live music.
Why don’t I do this more often?
Actually that’s not strictly true. I went to a Get Connected charity gig for in April organised by a friend of mine. It was held at the Hoxton Underbelly and featured three up and coming bands which entertained us amply and well. I would have preferred a little more sweaty crowd moshing but that’s just me.
So it wasn’t that long ago. Only two months. Why does it feel like centuries?
Because there was a certain period of time in my life where I would go to gigs on Tues, Weds, Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Thursday the local gig guide would come out and I would plan my week accordingly.
I was a groupie. For gigs. Alas uni days ended and full-time work beckoned. Talk about responsibility being a killjoy.
Gigs are cheap, easy to come by and on all night, every night. They don’t require you to sit quietly as in a theatre or cinema. You can move around. You can talk. You can leave when you want and come late. You can dance. They’re usually at night in the dark so you can look like crap and it doesn’t matter.
I love going to gigs. Why don’t I do it more often?
It turns out that I am a runner. A few posts back where I said I wasn't. Rubbish.
You know how I know this? How did this dramatic turnabout happen in a matter of days?
I ran a marathon. In Edinburgh. On the hottest weekend ever recorded in May in Scotland. It was brutal. I suffered. But so did 13,999 other people.
It seems like a surreal dream and I would think it so apart for the fact that I am limping badly and have a very strange tan.
Memories of the pain are fading already. All I remember is rounding the corner and seeing the finish line, 200 meters ahead of me. The end that I had longed after for 42 kilometers had finally come. Time seemed to slow. Pat Benatar started to sing, We Belong, on my ipod:
We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder..
Adrenaline coursed through me, propelling me to sprint. My breathing became jagged.
No, I thought. Relish It.
So I slowed down and took in the shimmering crowds and wall of noise. The other runners hurtling like coloured bullets past me. The blue sky and hot sun. The feeling of freedom, strength, lightness and joy as my legs carried me over that threshold; where I would never have to run again if I didn't want to.
That's what I remember.
Is that how I know I am a runner?
No.
I know because 48 hours after putting my body through that hell, I find myself thinking that it would be nice to go for a bit of a run.
There are cat people and dog people in this world and I am the former.
I like dogs. But I wouldn’t want one. Not even a cat-sized one.
Cats on the other hand, are to me, the very raison d’être of life.
Which makes it all the more sad that I have been cat-less for nigh on seven years. Seven long, lonely years….
This exile is self imposed for you see, I have a bit of a history. See for yourself:
Fluffy - Orange tabby. Circa 1980. Grew really fat on Chinese food. Ran away with Flossy (see below)
Flossy - Silver tabby. Circa 1982. Stray that came and stayed.”Disappeared” on the same day as Fluffy (see above)
Misty – Grey shorthair. Circa 1985. Run over by heartless driver who left him on roadside. Buried under Mum’s rose bushes.
Otto – Grey shorthair. Circa 1986. Spooked by vacuum cleaner. Ran outside. never came back
Max – Ginger and white shorthair. Circa 1991. Had a long and happy life with my parents whom I left him with when I moved out. Put to sleep last year after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Moush – Black shorthair. Circa 1995. Another one I left with my parents when I moved overseas. Still alive. Speaks Chinese.
Rufus – Black longhair. Circa 2000. Another one I left. My parents said No More so my dear friend and her family welcomed him into their home. Human being in a cat body. I miss him the most.
Recently I could take it no more. I applied to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home to volunteer as a Cat Socialiser. What this means (before you think it involves hanging out with felines on a Friday night with a gin and tonic), is someone who spends time acclimatising cats to human company. Cats that are brought to the shelter may have been subject to tough circumstances which makes them surly, mistrustful or just plain psycho. What the Cat Socialiser does is hang out with the cat so that over time, the cat learns that human beings are Good and can be Trusted. Before they get adopted out to said humans and ruin their furniture.
A friend who had applied to Battersea to volunteer as a Dog Walker warned me that they were very particular with their volunteer recruitment. She, an ardent dog lover had been rejected with no good reason it seemed.
Oh that won’t happen to me, I thought. I’m practically Egyptian in regards to cats. The Felidae family and I are one.
I filled in the lengthy application form. I pledged away all my free time. I supplied them with referees.
Four years ago I wheezed my way through my first 5K fun run. It was the annual Crisis Square Mile Run; a charity that I volunteer with every Christmas.
After completing the race and getting my free banana and t-shirt, I felt a sense of achievement. I'd run 5k! Roll out the red carpet! Sound the horns! Where was the Queen to congratulate me?
What was a one-off foray into running soon grew legs and took hold. 5ks became 10ks which became half marathons. I graduated from level running to hills. I came to love earth and trails rather than plodding interminably on concrete. Yet if someone asked me if I am a Runner, I would say No. If this person then asked, Well why do you do all this running then? I would reply, Because it makes me feel free.
Bearing this in mind, I must've been feeling very free and easy the day that I committed to a marathon because quite why I did it is at times, beyond me. It definitely was not a long held dream of mine unlike my wish for naturally curly hair or to have seen Nureyev perform. No, my marathon journey was born from curiosity. Just to see if I could.
Come this Sunday when I gather with 15,000 other curious people at the start line of the Edinburgh Marathon, I hope I'll be able to find out.
What do you do when you’re alive during a moment of history that pains you?
Britain has a Tory government. There are worse things I know, like 80’s hair and burnt coffee, but my disappointment is acute. My husband is tiring of my rants, claiming that I need to learn detachment. He is right.
Perhaps I’ll detach myself from him.
When I fly to Cuba.
To communism.
He has a point. Life can be easier sometimes if you are more measured and pragmatic. Less idealistic and crazed. Not so black and white. More grey. Or beige.
By coincidence, I visited the Zen Habits website today where this article, Letting Go of Attachment seemed to have READ THIS LAVENDAR sprayed all over it in neon pink.
This is just what I need to help me come to terms with Fascism I thought. I read through the list, processing my overly attached election feelings as I went:
Letting Go of Attachment to Feelings
Understand that pain is unavoidable. Not true. Alcohol does wonders.
Write it down. I did. I wrote to all my friends who voted Tory and now they are not speaking to me
Vocalize your feelings. To who? I’ve got no friends left
Yield to peace. How about yielding to something a little stronger. Morphine anyone?
Xie Xie. It means thank you in Chinese. Fully embrace your happy moments. Oh please.
Zen your now. What does this mean? Who wrote this crap?
After reading I was still angry. And the government was still Tory.
The British elections are not boring. Far from it.
It’s now the fifth day since the elections and still we wait to find out who is going to govern us. Brown’s resigned. Cameron’s stopped chopping logs. Clegg is swinging like a pendulum; trying to amass maximum power in his moment of glory.
A hung parliament is a vote of no confidence in all parties. This hedging that has gone on for five days has surely killed off any shred of faith remaining in the voters. The media, parrot-like, are issuing round after round of inane sound bites to fill in the airspace.
Less than 24 hours ago, Brown stepped down and a two-faced turnaround was immediate. Accolades began piling in thick and fast. All the papers started pulling the daggers out; the very ones they plunged in him in weeks gone by. History, I believe, will judge him far less harshly. I don’t think he deserves all the shit that's been piled on him. It was his misfortune to come to power in an age where the population value celebrity shine and glib oratory, whereas I do think he is a man made of much sterner stuff.
So is it to be a Tory leader at the helm? A man who after his 36 hour, I’m-not-going to sleep-because-I’m-tough display of Putin-esque machismo thought it a good idea for his press office to issue the statement that instead of sleeping (because why would you want a well rested person to guide the future of the country), he went home and chopped logs for two hours.
Of course.
The election has become car crash television. And I hope it’s over soon so I can tear my bloodshot eyeballs off the screen.
He's been flogged to death by the media for the past year. He inherited the reins from the guy who took Britain to war. He had the unpopular job of steering the economy from the cliff edge. He had a very (public) bad day at the office and he was crucified. I cannot even begin to perceive the amount of pressure he has sustained and yet he's still standing, determined to fight to the end.
For all their on camera sparkle, I do not think that Cameron or Clegg have the sheer guts that Brown does.
It's hard to find nice Brown stories in the press. The closer the election gets, the harder it is. It's refreshing when something nice leaks through:
Clegg and Cameron remind me of two interchangeable models from the Next catalogue. Bland, bland, bland. Gordon's different. He's dark, flawed and chaotic and the more people rail against him, the more craggy and heroic he appears in my eyes. Gordon's a true Brit. If he didn't exist, I'd be duty-bound to make him up.
I don't think Brown or Labour are political nirvana. But I think Cameron's Big Society waffle is using community responsibility as camouflage for public spending cuts. In a different economic climate, I might've taken a punt on the Lib Dems even if their policies are a bit thin. But not right now.
The need for a change seems to be the key leverage being used against Labour by the other parties. But a lot has changed in the 13 years that Labour has been in. I don't know about the rest of the UK, but London is certainly a much better place to live than it was in 1996.
Billions of stories are hidden behind those walls...
