I am going to a Burlesque dancing class this evening. If I don’t have a stomach ulcer before I get there through worry. I understand I’m a comedian and I’m supposed to be brave with no fear of audiences or people laughing, but dancing...
I have a deep rooted fear of dancing in public. At school I was never formally dance trained – dance classes consisted of the teacher putting on some Enya and then us just moving wildly about the room in a way that felt good and was reminiscent of...nothing. I imagine the results were similar to the result if you were to put everyone at Glastonbury in a leotard and tell them to express themselves after drinking their body weight in cider.
Not pretty.
So why am I going? Good question. Well, I’m trying to make the most of London. (Cue Dawson’s Creek music) I live in one of the most vibrant cities in the world and I bet half the people here only ever go to their office and their home. Being a comedian I get to see a lot of very funky places and meet some uber cool people – but there must be more to it?
But there must be more to it than wearing a corset and pouting, I hear you say. Well, yes. There must. But I didn’t get invited to any of that stuff so I’m going to do this instead.
How does one even go about doing Burlesque?
I went to a Bollywood dance class a few weeks ago (I really need to get some less dance based friends) and I would have enjoyed that had it not been for the tendency of my hips to decide to go elsewhere other than their sockets. This is less than helpful. It’s a little bit like my joint saw the hip of the person next to me and thought if it took a giant leap of faith it could go on holiday. It results in me standing stock still while everyone else is shimmying, with a pained expression on my face, trying to put my leg back out of right angles.
I’m fairly certain Burlesque will involve less hip shimmying? I imagine it’s more cleavage thrusting? And I’m pretty sure my boobs won’t attempt to leap off my chest. If they do then I can potentially think of an alternative career lending them to people considering breast enhancement surgery. A sort of, Velcro ‘try before you buy’ option.
So I will update you tomorrow on the fruits of my endeavour. But don’t get your hopes up that I’ll have become all Moulin Rouge in any way. I think it’s far more likely to be Nicole Kiddingmyself than Ewan MacGregor...
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Old Folks' Town
Well, my travels have certainly taken me travelling this week!
I spent the weekend in deepest, darkest Somerset chilling out with my family. This was excellent for many reasons –
1. I got to eat my mother’s roast dinner. My mother’s roast dinner is certainly not to be spat at – it’s not a spit roast.
2. My now 1 year old nephew was freely available for hugs and games and dribbling. Hmmm, saliva seems to be coming up a lot in this blog already. I’ll try and keep a lid on that. Otherwise it will leak onto the keyboard and I might get an electric shock.
3. There is nothing like watching Disney films curled up on the sofa with your Dad (and your little sister if she’s about). I don’t think it matters how old you get to be, a cuddle from your dad will instantly make you want to put your hair in pig tails and suck your thumb. And if you’re my little sister you’ll probably be doing that anyway. Bless her, she’s only 18. Possibly my favourite moment of the weekend was turning to look at her during Nany McPhee 2 to see that she was crying. Actually crying. Big fat tears running down her face at the plight of the poor swimming pigs. Well, ok, to be fair she was just misting up at the poor kid with no dad to put his hair into pig tails for but my version is much better.
So today I am no longer in Somerset but I have travelled to a different Shire, today I am in the Cambridge Shire. Or to be precise, Ely. Now, you know you’ve come to a hip hop and happening place when the first thing the person you are meeting there says ‘I don’t live here, I just work here’. A good sign. And at first I couldn’t see what she meant – it’s a very lovely city with a cathedral and pretty stuff and cobbles...and HUNDREDS OF OLD PEOPLE!
Old people. Everywhere. Collectives of them. A gaggle of old people, herds, troupes, armies, flocks, shoals, shawls...
The thing is...it’s got me wondering – why do old people all congregate in the same places? You very rarely get an even spread of olds. I’m not talking old people spread eagled evenly, or nicely pasted in I can’t Believe It’s Butter...I mean, you always get Old People living in specially designated habitats. It’s like one pioneering hobbler finds a city with an Edinburgh Woollen Mill and a Clarks shoes and then sends a smoke signal to every other cardigan sporter in a 5 mile radius and they all go there for a cream tea.
Within this old people metropolis you then get different sub types of old people cropping up. There’s the olds that have faded a bit – their hair skin and clothes have all blended into one toneless entity. There’s the olds that haven’t died inside and are wearing brightly coloured summer dresses with leathery crinkle skin on show – advertising to the world that there’s life after 40, and 50, and potentially 90 too. Brilliant sub species. But then there are the smaller sub sects – like the old men that stare at you like they can’t think of a conceivable reason why you should be on the planet, or what you might be to begin with. The middle aged women that got bored of waiting for retirement and pensions and weeing in ASDA and just gave up the ghost early to blend in...they are the weirdest!
Why do you not get this kind of generation concentration with any other ages? I very rarely visit a town purely populated with babies. No baby has ever travelled to somewhere suitable like Liverpool and thought, “This is a great place to grow up – I’ll call all the other babies and we’ll do it together” so that you have a town populated by scouse babies serving you coffee and selling you ironing boards.
It seems obvious therefore, that the older generation have in built homing devices which tell them where their true calling, and a bingo hall, lies and they just get the wind in their hair one day and set off out the front gate. Well, Ely, I salute you. 70 years on the planet obviously gives you very good taste in cities – I don’t think it’s too far fetched to believe in 40 years time I’ll be trotting up and down these streets with my pink and white hair (I would like my Grandchildren to call me Grandma Flump) buying toffee and feeding it to my beagle.
I spent the weekend in deepest, darkest Somerset chilling out with my family. This was excellent for many reasons –
1. I got to eat my mother’s roast dinner. My mother’s roast dinner is certainly not to be spat at – it’s not a spit roast.
2. My now 1 year old nephew was freely available for hugs and games and dribbling. Hmmm, saliva seems to be coming up a lot in this blog already. I’ll try and keep a lid on that. Otherwise it will leak onto the keyboard and I might get an electric shock.
3. There is nothing like watching Disney films curled up on the sofa with your Dad (and your little sister if she’s about). I don’t think it matters how old you get to be, a cuddle from your dad will instantly make you want to put your hair in pig tails and suck your thumb. And if you’re my little sister you’ll probably be doing that anyway. Bless her, she’s only 18. Possibly my favourite moment of the weekend was turning to look at her during Nany McPhee 2 to see that she was crying. Actually crying. Big fat tears running down her face at the plight of the poor swimming pigs. Well, ok, to be fair she was just misting up at the poor kid with no dad to put his hair into pig tails for but my version is much better.
So today I am no longer in Somerset but I have travelled to a different Shire, today I am in the Cambridge Shire. Or to be precise, Ely. Now, you know you’ve come to a hip hop and happening place when the first thing the person you are meeting there says ‘I don’t live here, I just work here’. A good sign. And at first I couldn’t see what she meant – it’s a very lovely city with a cathedral and pretty stuff and cobbles...and HUNDREDS OF OLD PEOPLE!
Old people. Everywhere. Collectives of them. A gaggle of old people, herds, troupes, armies, flocks, shoals, shawls...
The thing is...it’s got me wondering – why do old people all congregate in the same places? You very rarely get an even spread of olds. I’m not talking old people spread eagled evenly, or nicely pasted in I can’t Believe It’s Butter...I mean, you always get Old People living in specially designated habitats. It’s like one pioneering hobbler finds a city with an Edinburgh Woollen Mill and a Clarks shoes and then sends a smoke signal to every other cardigan sporter in a 5 mile radius and they all go there for a cream tea.
Within this old people metropolis you then get different sub types of old people cropping up. There’s the olds that have faded a bit – their hair skin and clothes have all blended into one toneless entity. There’s the olds that haven’t died inside and are wearing brightly coloured summer dresses with leathery crinkle skin on show – advertising to the world that there’s life after 40, and 50, and potentially 90 too. Brilliant sub species. But then there are the smaller sub sects – like the old men that stare at you like they can’t think of a conceivable reason why you should be on the planet, or what you might be to begin with. The middle aged women that got bored of waiting for retirement and pensions and weeing in ASDA and just gave up the ghost early to blend in...they are the weirdest!
Why do you not get this kind of generation concentration with any other ages? I very rarely visit a town purely populated with babies. No baby has ever travelled to somewhere suitable like Liverpool and thought, “This is a great place to grow up – I’ll call all the other babies and we’ll do it together” so that you have a town populated by scouse babies serving you coffee and selling you ironing boards.
It seems obvious therefore, that the older generation have in built homing devices which tell them where their true calling, and a bingo hall, lies and they just get the wind in their hair one day and set off out the front gate. Well, Ely, I salute you. 70 years on the planet obviously gives you very good taste in cities – I don’t think it’s too far fetched to believe in 40 years time I’ll be trotting up and down these streets with my pink and white hair (I would like my Grandchildren to call me Grandma Flump) buying toffee and feeding it to my beagle.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Tobogganing all the way to the X-Ray machine...
Cripes, apologies for the lack of blogoloy yesterday for those of you that sit at home sucking tissues until I update you with the illuminating progressions of my life. It's been a funny couple of days.
So...to start with the trip to see the back doctor. I was already vaguely dreading the visit as not only was I going to have to explain that I have ceremoniously avoided getting my spinal damage medically checked for 7 months, but I was also going to have to explain that I incurred the damage whilst dressed as an elf, tobogganing in Lapland. Not the easiest thing to do whilst trying to encourage someone to take you seriously enough to give you morphine. But I actually encountered something I had not expected.
Have you ever had to explain to someone from a very hot country what tobogganing is?
It turned out my doctor was fairly new in the country from Africa, and while eager to help me out of my misery she hadn't the faintest idea what toboganning was and so needed some more information. I was trying desperately not to ask her if she'd ever seen the film 'Cool Runnings'. It turns out tobogganing isn't really that easy to explain.
"You know, when you sit on a tray and go down a hill?"
Silence.
"A bit like skiing but sat down?"
Silence.
"Well, I was working as an elf...and we had some time off. So we went tobogganing."
Silence.
"Which is fun, I promise. You sort of sit in a plastic box and gooooooooo."
Silence.
"It's very safe, usually."
Frown.
"Except, it's always dark in Lapland, so I couldn't see where I was going."
Disapproving frown.
"And it was quite icy, so I went a bit faster than we expected."
Raised eyebrows.
"Ok, a lot faster"
Silence.
"There's a video if it helps...?"
Silence.
"It probably won't help...but it's pretty funny."
Silence.
"So it was dark, and I was tobogganing. Which is sort of like go karting but with snow and no wheels...and no steering. And it was dark. And someone had left a mound of snow at the bottom of the toboggan run..."
Silence.
"Well, I say 'left', I mean it was a safety precaution because there's a main road at the bottom of the toboggan run."
Raised eyebrows.
"But, it's perfectly safe - tobogganing's a bit like surfing but you can't usually drown."
Silence.
"Only, the mound of snow didn't stop me - it just sort of taught me to fly. But I haven't grasped landing yet. Which really it ought to have taught me first. And that is why I'm here."
Silence.
"Because my back hurts. Here...(at which point I pointed to my back, pointedly). Ow."
She wasn't mightily impressed and suggested I take pain killers.
"It's sort of like skateboarding but you don't have to wear a baseball cap..."
I implied that I'd been taking pain killers for the last 7 months, and while I enjoyed the debate as to whether aspirin was extending my life or not, I'd prefer a cure to a cocktail.
She gave me a pink slip to take to the hospital and ask for an x-ray.
I'm taking the video with me to the hospital - just for safe measure.
"It's sort of like a death slide on a Zoom lolly?"
"Please get off the bed now."
So...to start with the trip to see the back doctor. I was already vaguely dreading the visit as not only was I going to have to explain that I have ceremoniously avoided getting my spinal damage medically checked for 7 months, but I was also going to have to explain that I incurred the damage whilst dressed as an elf, tobogganing in Lapland. Not the easiest thing to do whilst trying to encourage someone to take you seriously enough to give you morphine. But I actually encountered something I had not expected.
Have you ever had to explain to someone from a very hot country what tobogganing is?
It turned out my doctor was fairly new in the country from Africa, and while eager to help me out of my misery she hadn't the faintest idea what toboganning was and so needed some more information. I was trying desperately not to ask her if she'd ever seen the film 'Cool Runnings'. It turns out tobogganing isn't really that easy to explain.
"You know, when you sit on a tray and go down a hill?"
Silence.
"A bit like skiing but sat down?"
Silence.
"Well, I was working as an elf...and we had some time off. So we went tobogganing."
Silence.
"Which is fun, I promise. You sort of sit in a plastic box and gooooooooo."
Silence.
"It's very safe, usually."
Frown.
"Except, it's always dark in Lapland, so I couldn't see where I was going."
Disapproving frown.
"And it was quite icy, so I went a bit faster than we expected."
Raised eyebrows.
"Ok, a lot faster"
Silence.
"There's a video if it helps...?"
Silence.
"It probably won't help...but it's pretty funny."
Silence.
"So it was dark, and I was tobogganing. Which is sort of like go karting but with snow and no wheels...and no steering. And it was dark. And someone had left a mound of snow at the bottom of the toboggan run..."
Silence.
"Well, I say 'left', I mean it was a safety precaution because there's a main road at the bottom of the toboggan run."
Raised eyebrows.
"But, it's perfectly safe - tobogganing's a bit like surfing but you can't usually drown."
Silence.
"Only, the mound of snow didn't stop me - it just sort of taught me to fly. But I haven't grasped landing yet. Which really it ought to have taught me first. And that is why I'm here."
Silence.
"Because my back hurts. Here...(at which point I pointed to my back, pointedly). Ow."
She wasn't mightily impressed and suggested I take pain killers.
"It's sort of like skateboarding but you don't have to wear a baseball cap..."
I implied that I'd been taking pain killers for the last 7 months, and while I enjoyed the debate as to whether aspirin was extending my life or not, I'd prefer a cure to a cocktail.
She gave me a pink slip to take to the hospital and ask for an x-ray.
I'm taking the video with me to the hospital - just for safe measure.
"It's sort of like a death slide on a Zoom lolly?"
"Please get off the bed now."
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Fruit pastilles.
So I had a slightly later start this morning - and this pleases me for two reasons.
1. I get to listen to a different variant of the Breakfast Show on Radio 2. I'm a big fan of the radio but when you're commuting it is difficult to listen to it conveniently on a train with little reception. I usually catch the very first hour and then the last hour before moving on to sampling the delights of Ken Bruce a little later with Popmaster. My daily text message to my Dad is then emitted revealing just how badly I failed at answering the questions...
2. The school children are out. This is exciting for a couple of reasons, which I will turn into subclauses of this already established list -
a) I get to smile to myself at the hierachy and oh so important politics of the schooling years. Who's wearing what uniform and who's spending their lunch money on Dr Pepper in the morning.
b) LOLLIPOP LADIES. What a joy it is to have these luminous oestrogen goddesses back in my life. Who knew they still helped you cross the road when you're 23?! There is simply nothing better than approaching a road that you cross several times a day and being assisted across it just because it is between 8:30 and 9:30 when they are charged with the safety of this little patch of tarmac. Phenomenal. They will always ask how you are and wish you a nice day - which is frankly as much good cheer as you're likely to get all week with Londoners. What a brilliant start to the day.
I am off back to the West Country this weekend and the timing just couldn't be better quite frankly. I've found London to be a cruel mistress, the sort that shows you a fruit pastille and then whips it away before you've licked it. Or promises you a fruit pastille but then gives you a green one. Bastard. That's not to say she's not fun, she has fruit pastilles, she's just not always willing to hand them out willy nilly.
What on earth does willy-nilly mean?
Perhaps I'll give up all this working nonsense and become the world's first stand-up comedian lollipop lady? Only with fruit pastilles. I wasn't allowed fruit pastilles for a large portion of my childhood due to the sugar content. IT's now abundantly clear that this was probably a very good idea. VEry good indeed.
Folks I'm off to the doctors tonight to see about getting my back fixed - the old lapland injury just hasn't fixed itself. If it turns out I have been shrinking all this time because of it then prepare for giant Laura to reappear tomorrow all guns blazing. Or just happier with no pain and some fruit pastilles. Do doctors give out fruit pastilles?
1. I get to listen to a different variant of the Breakfast Show on Radio 2. I'm a big fan of the radio but when you're commuting it is difficult to listen to it conveniently on a train with little reception. I usually catch the very first hour and then the last hour before moving on to sampling the delights of Ken Bruce a little later with Popmaster. My daily text message to my Dad is then emitted revealing just how badly I failed at answering the questions...
2. The school children are out. This is exciting for a couple of reasons, which I will turn into subclauses of this already established list -
a) I get to smile to myself at the hierachy and oh so important politics of the schooling years. Who's wearing what uniform and who's spending their lunch money on Dr Pepper in the morning.
b) LOLLIPOP LADIES. What a joy it is to have these luminous oestrogen goddesses back in my life. Who knew they still helped you cross the road when you're 23?! There is simply nothing better than approaching a road that you cross several times a day and being assisted across it just because it is between 8:30 and 9:30 when they are charged with the safety of this little patch of tarmac. Phenomenal. They will always ask how you are and wish you a nice day - which is frankly as much good cheer as you're likely to get all week with Londoners. What a brilliant start to the day.
I am off back to the West Country this weekend and the timing just couldn't be better quite frankly. I've found London to be a cruel mistress, the sort that shows you a fruit pastille and then whips it away before you've licked it. Or promises you a fruit pastille but then gives you a green one. Bastard. That's not to say she's not fun, she has fruit pastilles, she's just not always willing to hand them out willy nilly.
What on earth does willy-nilly mean?
Perhaps I'll give up all this working nonsense and become the world's first stand-up comedian lollipop lady? Only with fruit pastilles. I wasn't allowed fruit pastilles for a large portion of my childhood due to the sugar content. IT's now abundantly clear that this was probably a very good idea. VEry good indeed.
Folks I'm off to the doctors tonight to see about getting my back fixed - the old lapland injury just hasn't fixed itself. If it turns out I have been shrinking all this time because of it then prepare for giant Laura to reappear tomorrow all guns blazing. Or just happier with no pain and some fruit pastilles. Do doctors give out fruit pastilles?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Chris Evans as a life guru?
Well, the thing is I'm a massive Radio 2 addict - always have been and always will be. I was as upset as the next die hard fan when Terry Wogan decided to move on to greener pasture and yet I now find myself in the curious position of adoring Chris Evans...there is very little not to like. I like him so much I've found myself reading his book. He is th emost delightfully upbeat and enthusiastic person I've read in a long time. While it's difficult not to notice the slight 'faddish' nature of his obsessions throughout his life, I've found myself reading the book with a smile on my face and a feeling that everything will be ok.
Ok so it's not particularly intellectual and some could argue the guy's a bit opf a muppet (hell, I think he'd argue he's a bit of a muppet) and could have avoided some seriously stupid decisions had he thought about it. But it's impossible to argue with his positivity and for this reason I'm slightly adoring of him. He has joined my list of men in 2010 that I would like to have dinner and a cuddle with. This list includes but is not limited to -
Dr Who
Matt Smith
Chris Evans
My Dad
David Attenborough
Ronnie Corbett
Ricky Gervais
Gregory Peck
Some of these have rolled over from previous years I should also add.
I am a bit frazzled at the moment, what with work commitments, moving house, comedying and the post break-up blues my head is so far out of the game that Zac Efron would tut at me. My head is so far out of the game that 9:35 am this morning I found myself at Paddington station looking for the train that departed to Grantham at 9:48...the announcement was blazing away in neon yellow, only it was doing so at London Kings X because I was at the wrong station. There is no subtle way to back away from an arrivals board and then leg it to the circle line. Man up Lexx, there are things to be done and a world to be conquered in a slightly ambivalent but nonetheless determined way.
Yesterday, upon leaving my local station I was quite surprised to see Michael Portillo standing on the street. I'm sure Michael Portillo doesn't often frequent Charlton. I'm not sure anybody voluntarily frequents Charlton - particularly not the bottom end. My experience of Charlton has generally been dog pooh and chicken which both litter the pavements in equal amounts. The Michael Portillo incident would barely have been an incident had it not been for the highly amusing woman behind me who was absolutely baffled by his presence there.
"But what's he doing here?!" She asked her disinterested husband who failed to reply. "What's he doing in Charlton?" She's shaking her head and sighing in disbelief, "What would Michael Portillo be doing in Charlton?" She's moving up the pavement again now with the pace of a trauma patient. "And wearing a pink shirt too - I didn't even know he was gay!"
Brilliant. I didn't have the heart to point out it was salmon...
Ok so it's not particularly intellectual and some could argue the guy's a bit opf a muppet (hell, I think he'd argue he's a bit of a muppet) and could have avoided some seriously stupid decisions had he thought about it. But it's impossible to argue with his positivity and for this reason I'm slightly adoring of him. He has joined my list of men in 2010 that I would like to have dinner and a cuddle with. This list includes but is not limited to -
Dr Who
Matt Smith
Chris Evans
My Dad
David Attenborough
Ronnie Corbett
Ricky Gervais
Gregory Peck
Some of these have rolled over from previous years I should also add.
I am a bit frazzled at the moment, what with work commitments, moving house, comedying and the post break-up blues my head is so far out of the game that Zac Efron would tut at me. My head is so far out of the game that 9:35 am this morning I found myself at Paddington station looking for the train that departed to Grantham at 9:48...the announcement was blazing away in neon yellow, only it was doing so at London Kings X because I was at the wrong station. There is no subtle way to back away from an arrivals board and then leg it to the circle line. Man up Lexx, there are things to be done and a world to be conquered in a slightly ambivalent but nonetheless determined way.
Yesterday, upon leaving my local station I was quite surprised to see Michael Portillo standing on the street. I'm sure Michael Portillo doesn't often frequent Charlton. I'm not sure anybody voluntarily frequents Charlton - particularly not the bottom end. My experience of Charlton has generally been dog pooh and chicken which both litter the pavements in equal amounts. The Michael Portillo incident would barely have been an incident had it not been for the highly amusing woman behind me who was absolutely baffled by his presence there.
"But what's he doing here?!" She asked her disinterested husband who failed to reply. "What's he doing in Charlton?" She's shaking her head and sighing in disbelief, "What would Michael Portillo be doing in Charlton?" She's moving up the pavement again now with the pace of a trauma patient. "And wearing a pink shirt too - I didn't even know he was gay!"
Brilliant. I didn't have the heart to point out it was salmon...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Lounge on The Farm
Well..what a beautiful weekend! And just what the doctor ordered - if, of course, the doctor had ordered me to make my ongoing back pain even worse and to roll in a lot of dusty mud. The South East of England has been blessed with some beautiful blazing weather this weekend and I can safely say I've made the most of it!
I had my feet eaten by fish...yes...yes I did. I partook in an amazing little thing where you put your feet in the tank and these blessed little creatures come along and nibble all the crappy skin off them for you. Was one of the weirdest experiences of my life! A bit like putting your feet into very fizzy lemonade...but with gobbly slimers in there too. It's apparently the latest celebrity beauty therapy and while I can't vouch that it actually achieved anything remarkable, it was certainly very lovely and I'm always happy to feed fish if it'll help the whales somewhere along the line.
I attempted a Bollywood dance lesson this morning - not something I'd recommend for people whose hips are keen on vacationing from their sockets - but it was highly amusing. There's nothing like being half way through a shimmy when your leg refuses to do any more of the, well, leg work.
I then attended a deep breathing workshop where I was asked to imagine I was sitting in a field...bearing in mind I was at a festival called Lounge on the FARM in Kent...this was not tricky and I lost faith in my well meaning but slightly odd teacher. He explained that we were to breath in and out whilst blocking one nostril at a time. This separated breathing allows us to balance the flow of oxygen going to our brains and bring the two sides of our personalities into balance...riiiiight. But hell I did it and I did well.
Now, I'm not intending to make this blog whiny in any way but it's worth pointing out at this point that my attempt to enjoy this festival comes in a week when I have just been 'released' by my significant other. I prefer released to dumped because it makes me feel more dove than pigeon.
So this was very much a break away and a chance to try and get my head sorted into the single life again. Something I'm not much looking forward to doing. I've decided a split from someone you love but cannot be with anymore is very much like getting out of bed on a cold morning. You know that if you jump straight in the shower you will be happier much quicker and the day will be much more prodcutive...but the temptation to have 'just 5 more minutes' is very strong despite it only being a stay of execution for the inevitable.
All was going well in my festival of new starts until the 24 hour shop (which came equipped with 24 hour music blaring...) seemed to get stuck on reggae. Reggae going to sleep, reggae waking up, reggae with my tea...reggae reggae reggae. Now I really quite like reggae, but this only due to the absolute love affair my ex has with it. So I have spent the entire weekend with the tantalising soundtrack to 18 months permeating my sub conscious. Was much like waking up in the past only to find out I wasn't blissfully reunited - I had a blow up doll bearing a slight resemblance that was insisting on poking me in the eye with my hairbrush.
I think the first few weeks are the hardest - like trying not to itch a scab or think about the game (apologies the world over...!). But I've lain in the sun, performed a good hour of my finest material, sat and talked with very good friends and done it all without the merest sniff of the comfort blanket man. And if I can do all that then I can do tomorrow, and that's all I need to do for now.
But I have survived - feeling very tanned, very grubby and very delicate, I'm back in the real world. And the wintry bed is still tempting, but the shower is most certainly the way forward for now...
So apologies for the more 'thinky' than 'funny' approach, but I've balanced my brain through nostril relocation and this appears to have been the resulted. Having expelled all of this tripe I've now moved on to being concerned as to the balance of folks like Daniella Westbrook who must very much struggle...
I had my feet eaten by fish...yes...yes I did. I partook in an amazing little thing where you put your feet in the tank and these blessed little creatures come along and nibble all the crappy skin off them for you. Was one of the weirdest experiences of my life! A bit like putting your feet into very fizzy lemonade...but with gobbly slimers in there too. It's apparently the latest celebrity beauty therapy and while I can't vouch that it actually achieved anything remarkable, it was certainly very lovely and I'm always happy to feed fish if it'll help the whales somewhere along the line.
I attempted a Bollywood dance lesson this morning - not something I'd recommend for people whose hips are keen on vacationing from their sockets - but it was highly amusing. There's nothing like being half way through a shimmy when your leg refuses to do any more of the, well, leg work.
I then attended a deep breathing workshop where I was asked to imagine I was sitting in a field...bearing in mind I was at a festival called Lounge on the FARM in Kent...this was not tricky and I lost faith in my well meaning but slightly odd teacher. He explained that we were to breath in and out whilst blocking one nostril at a time. This separated breathing allows us to balance the flow of oxygen going to our brains and bring the two sides of our personalities into balance...riiiiight. But hell I did it and I did well.
Now, I'm not intending to make this blog whiny in any way but it's worth pointing out at this point that my attempt to enjoy this festival comes in a week when I have just been 'released' by my significant other. I prefer released to dumped because it makes me feel more dove than pigeon.
So this was very much a break away and a chance to try and get my head sorted into the single life again. Something I'm not much looking forward to doing. I've decided a split from someone you love but cannot be with anymore is very much like getting out of bed on a cold morning. You know that if you jump straight in the shower you will be happier much quicker and the day will be much more prodcutive...but the temptation to have 'just 5 more minutes' is very strong despite it only being a stay of execution for the inevitable.
All was going well in my festival of new starts until the 24 hour shop (which came equipped with 24 hour music blaring...) seemed to get stuck on reggae. Reggae going to sleep, reggae waking up, reggae with my tea...reggae reggae reggae. Now I really quite like reggae, but this only due to the absolute love affair my ex has with it. So I have spent the entire weekend with the tantalising soundtrack to 18 months permeating my sub conscious. Was much like waking up in the past only to find out I wasn't blissfully reunited - I had a blow up doll bearing a slight resemblance that was insisting on poking me in the eye with my hairbrush.
I think the first few weeks are the hardest - like trying not to itch a scab or think about the game (apologies the world over...!). But I've lain in the sun, performed a good hour of my finest material, sat and talked with very good friends and done it all without the merest sniff of the comfort blanket man. And if I can do all that then I can do tomorrow, and that's all I need to do for now.
But I have survived - feeling very tanned, very grubby and very delicate, I'm back in the real world. And the wintry bed is still tempting, but the shower is most certainly the way forward for now...
So apologies for the more 'thinky' than 'funny' approach, but I've balanced my brain through nostril relocation and this appears to have been the resulted. Having expelled all of this tripe I've now moved on to being concerned as to the balance of folks like Daniella Westbrook who must very much struggle...
Friday, July 9, 2010
Essex and trains
I spend a lot of time on trains - today I'm in Essex and have just come back through a place called Calvedon. Of course this has now resulted in me singing this to the tune of Glaveston in my head...la la la Galveston oh Calvedon...that is neither a modern nor a particularly tuneful reference but I'm the one that's stuck with it so it's not harming anybody.
I've just been to Colchester, where I met some incredible people. I'm appealing to the general public for help in translating this info - I was sitting, minding my own business on a train platform in the sun when some one shouted 'Oi Yoshy'. I looked around for a small mario player, perhaps in a cart of some kind but there was none. I then heard 'Oi Yoshy howdja get ta Cowchesda?' and I looked towards the source of the noise.
Do you know what a guttersnipe is? Now I wasn't sure. But there the word was popping into my head, just like Galveston. Upon googling it now I see that it means;
1. A street urchin.
2. A person of the lowest class.
And while I'm not one to throw stones in glass houses, I can safely say that there are more innapropriate words for the source of the noise than the one my faithful brain threw my way.
The source of the noise was apparently talking to me so I replied that the next train to Colchester was in 20 minutes and it silenced itself. Once silenced it stopped the pram it was pushing in time to light a cigarette and moan that it wasn't allowed to smoke it on the platform - which it proceeded to do anyway.
C'est La Essex thinks I and got on the train.
Trains have been troubling me lately with their forceful terminology. The latest in a long line of bothering phrases is 'this train terminates here' which I think is a ghastly way to inform people that the train doesn't go any further along the country. Makes it sound as though anyone left in the carriage after 15 seconds is going to be gassed to death or strapped to the line for the train to perform some sort of highway abortion on it. Horrible.
I can only hope that language like that wasn't around in the times of Thomas The Tank Engine for I can think of nothing worse than some poor child being informed that -
'Henry pops his clogs here' or 'Gordon will scissor kick you 'til you die here'
I've just been to Colchester, where I met some incredible people. I'm appealing to the general public for help in translating this info - I was sitting, minding my own business on a train platform in the sun when some one shouted 'Oi Yoshy'. I looked around for a small mario player, perhaps in a cart of some kind but there was none. I then heard 'Oi Yoshy howdja get ta Cowchesda?' and I looked towards the source of the noise.
Do you know what a guttersnipe is? Now I wasn't sure. But there the word was popping into my head, just like Galveston. Upon googling it now I see that it means;
1. A street urchin.
2. A person of the lowest class.
And while I'm not one to throw stones in glass houses, I can safely say that there are more innapropriate words for the source of the noise than the one my faithful brain threw my way.
The source of the noise was apparently talking to me so I replied that the next train to Colchester was in 20 minutes and it silenced itself. Once silenced it stopped the pram it was pushing in time to light a cigarette and moan that it wasn't allowed to smoke it on the platform - which it proceeded to do anyway.
C'est La Essex thinks I and got on the train.
Trains have been troubling me lately with their forceful terminology. The latest in a long line of bothering phrases is 'this train terminates here' which I think is a ghastly way to inform people that the train doesn't go any further along the country. Makes it sound as though anyone left in the carriage after 15 seconds is going to be gassed to death or strapped to the line for the train to perform some sort of highway abortion on it. Horrible.
I can only hope that language like that wasn't around in the times of Thomas The Tank Engine for I can think of nothing worse than some poor child being informed that -
'Henry pops his clogs here' or 'Gordon will scissor kick you 'til you die here'
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