Working in the Dark

LPC threw me an easy post the other week: to provide the tenth picture of my first folder. Nice one, LPC. It must be getting across through my long silences and pissy posts that I am running up mental sand dunes these days and in need of some small victories. I am subtle and self-contained like that. Like LPC, I am not the biggest techie going round so instead I have provided an old picture that was found in one of my few folders. It’s of a mother and her girls sharing stories and enjoying Autumn in the Loire Valley, France. I took it two years ago, the day after the wedding of a family friend.

I wish this were the Autumnal mood of Oxford, here where the grey clouds overtake the peach-pink clouds by 4:30pm, and the sky becomes the darkest blue by 6pm. Apparently, there are more (or at least as many) correlations between poor health and the onset of daylight saving time than adjusting to ‘normal’ time in Autumn. I am not convinced. The odd farmer, please excuse me, but this whole getting dark in the early evening is, for the rest of us, simply rubbish.

Evidence for the government inquiry and/or PhD student class action (leading to legislative changes): Most evenings, I have slap my own face and throw myself against my carrel wall in order to stop myself from crawling under my desk to lie down and stare and blink. As that last dark bird passes the fluffy, descending clouds, all I want is a good tuck-in and a parental kiss. Instead, frowny, I drag myself to eat dinner in College hall (something having boyfriend had spared me) where the walls bounce an orange glow that makes me squint and feel I have been woken up at midnight to join a party, but a party of people with chunky backpacks and flourescent trouser protectors. The air is chilly and makes a sound like we are all in a plane, a plane heading for the darker months and then, eventually, death.*

Tonight, I avoid hall. I am heading home to cook something with Vitamin B in it, and watch my lovely friends (some of my oldest here, the first to make me less frightened of scientists and mega introverts) play in their band, the dreamy Stornoway, on Later with Jools Holland. They’re playing alongside Jay-Z, the Foo Fighters, Norah Jones, Sting and Ginger Baker, a prospect Brian, the lead singer, said made him need to lie down. Will post a clip of it tomorrow or as soon as I can (learning not to make promises during this writing time). Have significant creativity envy, but been trying my best to reframe thesis as a hugely free, infinitely creative pursuit. Please feel free to chuck me some help here.

As for the pic, I tag Aliteralgirl (whose recent post on creative living is pretty superb).

*Not a cry for help. Last clause put in solely for my own amusement.

Things Brought into My Life….

…which I want to pass on to you.

I have been receiving some incredibly considerate emails lately. Most are simply words of encouragement or quick reality checks, some set forth life lessons, while others are solid attacks on the enemy, as if it were shared. All to get me through the next little bit. I think you need all of these at various points along the way, occasionally all in one day.

I have also been given some lovely things from people who get to see me in real life (the lucky few!). I wanted to pass these on, not least because I have noticed a hefty measure of burnout in blogland at the moment – in both hemispheres. Hoping they will help a little.

Aspire Style tea

This exact mug and Happiness tea were given to me by a friend, Emily. Pretend to warm your hands on it and take a sip. It’s a very large mug:

Cath Kidston mug

The boyfriend set me up with the best, chunky (organic) vegetable soup to watch a handful of TED talks. (If you’re not all over these by now, sort it out!). Here is one we watched given by (pop) philosophy essayist Alain de Botton, on a kinder, gentler philosophy of success. Some twitchy eye moments particularly when he makes his conclusions, but certainly some helpful tools to manage the Sunday (status anxiety) blues. (The comments are also worth a browse).

We also watched some oldies. Probably the most thought-provoking of this oldies lot (and certainly the most kooky) was Amy Tan’s talk, Creativity:

And, finally, The Journey, a poem by Mary Oliver (not easy to find without a photograph of a sunset or waterfall), sent to me by a friend whose pretty name is so distinctive that I can’t name her here:

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Thanks to my supporters and as the Brits say: Chin up, tigers!

The Good, the Bad and the Funny

photos by: Kate

The Good:

Surprise mail at any time is good. Surprise goody bag mail to “cheer up dreary thesis-plodding” is the best. Check out what Kate (of love you big) sent me! The rainbow tape that was binding the handmade packaging was very exciting for me, so imagine my inner squeals when I discovered inside an old-fashioned popcorn bag filled with super cute, crafty treats. Thanks Kate! Check out the rest of her goodies, get amongst her free giveaway, and do think about sending one of your friends a pack of colour sometime. It helps. The return of sunny weather, regular exercise, summertime energy and patient loved-ones also help.

The Bad:

Dealing with my thesis, other publications, and ‘What Next’ questions at the same time; inner siren going off at second email this week informing me that I ‘must be almost finished’ (I assure you, I will let you know); trying to come to terms with the situation in Iran; and a non-blog-friendly dull sadness about something personal.

The Funny:

The other night, two ginger friends (who don’t know each other particularly well) were sitting around a table at The Turf with a bunch of non-gingers (including me). They start to size up each other’s gingerness. Ginger boy has to show he is a real ginger by revealing his arm hair. Ginger girl tells us how when she walks past another gingette (my term) there is an implicit understanding between them, as well as a quick scan to see whether the other is wearing the right shade of pink, for instance, given their limitations (and opportunities, I would say. Greens, browns, ruby red and electric blue are winners!). Ginger boy declares that society is intolerant of ginger couples, that if we see two dark-haired people cuddling or walking hand-in-hand, it’s not an issue, not even noticed, but if they are two gingers, we see it as wrong (as if gingerness should only ever be an outcome of a freaky throw-back) or highly suspicious and uncomfortable. Ginger girl replies that she learnt early on in high school that having a ginger boyfriend would be no easy choice.

For some more funny, check out this song from Aussie rednut, Tim Minchin. Hope you’re having a positive week!

Congratulations, You’ve Won a Free Trip to Sardinia.

I am back from my ladies’ trip to Sardinia. Just in case you can’t have a holiday for a while, here’s what it entailed. I think you could just about pretend you were there with this information:

New Colours: Peach, purple and blue (flowers, houses, clothing, earth), a welcome variation to the green, brown and grey palette of England.

Local Food and Drink: Thin-based pizzas and fresh pastas soaked in oil and covered in salt, red wine, bright orange spritzers (mystery drink), olives, anchovies, bread, tomatoes, prosciutto and cheese, grapes, peaches, pears and apples. We were there for a short enough time to avoid bready-overload and any related symptoms.

Coastal and Inland Adventures: Long days spent clambering on sharp, granite rocks, running towards the clear water only to be stopped by the ‘fresh’ temperatures and then diving/falling in rather robotically to start slow laps (while the locals and Italian mainlanders stared and blinked from the sand – men in their white or dark blue speedos, legs apart, chocolate tans and haughty women in dark-coloured bikinis with gold trimmings), marching through cricket, caterpillar and bug-infested wheat fields in the singing heat to find huge, ancient olive trees that looked as if their knots could turn into faces and their branches into benevolent arms.

A Night with the Trendoids: On our last evening the three of us rocked up at Costa Smeralda hotspot, Phi Beach. We were given a textbook snub by the waiter who was utterly contemptuous of our shock at having to pay 15 euros/drink (even non-alcoholic!). We figured it was just about worth being able to lie on the white leather sun beds overlooking the moonscape, sea and sunset, but we also figured it might mean nursing each drink for a couple of hours. My friend said, ‘Alone again’ and we laughed, recalling that most of our nights out had meant the three of us in restaurants or back at the hotel alone and various very small, but nonetheless failed attempts at cracking the local scene. Then an hour or so later, this short, cocky Italian guy invited us to join him and his friends. We looked over to see a bunch of coolies attached to flourescent straws drawing from a communal drink. We strutted over, probably a little too keenly, but it was our last night and we didn’t have the time or Euros to be aloof. It turned out that they were the owners and managers of the bar (and other bars throughout the world) and general hangers-on (rich kids who fly from hotspot to hotspot and the well-connected locals). One of the locals said that the life of a (young?) Sardinian is: Work in the morning, beach from 1-4pm, work til 7pm, then bars and night clubs from 9pm. I must admit, for various reasons, I had been a bit snobby about joining them, but they were very warm, chatty, and generous. It was a good reminder that having completely superficial fun is not the worst thing. It can actually be extremely positive and pleasant.

Some Adorable Characters: The composed, handsome concierge who became increasingly paternalistic towards us over the week and rushed out to wave at us as we left in the taxi for the airport, the 70 year old taxi driver we used a couple of times who showered us with ‘bella’s, the lady who made our coffees and hot chocolates in the morning who had such a wonderfully warm smile, the initially surly blacksmith who brightened up just as we were leaving and essentially trapped us in his studio to show us his craft from beginning to end (he produced the most beautiful wall pieces, hand made from a single piece of steel and then hand painted, many of which are made to sit in front of lights, creating a magical effect), the bronzed owner of the Indonesian and Thai accessories shop who proudly showed off his village to us, the lady in faded floral leggings at the church service (first mass for me in several years, the church – Stella Maris – was simply beautiful) whose full arm, right-angles cast made me laugh, taking me back to the many times in my childhood when I struggled with laughter fits in church.

A Very Long Trip Back: We scrambled out of bed for the 7:15am taxi, arrived at the airport, squinty and a little snippy with each other, to find our plane had been delayed until 3:15pm. On three hours’ sleep, this was crushing. What was even more disconcerting was that once we were finally on board the Easyjet crew member on the mic informed us that the crew and pilot had to be hauled out of bed that morning so we had to be extra nice to them. I said to the passengers around me, “Right, so we’re handing over our lives to tired, resentful people. Great. The pilot will probably take a short landing in spite of his boss.” The presence of Geri “Ginger Spice” Halliwell on our plane (who would have thougt she used Easyjet?) made it mildly more tolerable as there were some Spice Girls jokes amongst the passengers. The American guy in the seat behind me googled her nude pics and showed them to people in the plane. This seemed funny at high altitude. Not so funny was having to join the non-Euro queue at immigration control and therefore being one of the last to make it to baggage claim to then spot a few sad suit cases remaining, none of which was mine. One of them looked like mine EXCEPT FAR SMALLER AND WITH A BRIGHT BLUE RIBBON ON IT that the owner had obviously attached as an identifier. I knew straight away that the owner had taken my bag home. I then had to deal with a super angry, lined-lipped woman at the ‘baggage dramas’ counter. I was anxious for her to ring the person whose bag I had before he or she got too far away, but she treated me like I was going out of my way to pester her. She finally rang the person with my bag, en route to London (she had the nerve to ask whether I could meet her in London!). My friend and I then had to wait for an hour and a half until she (bag-taker) came back to the airport for the bag exchange. The baggage counter lady told me to go and meet the “dumb woman” with my case (she had loyalty to neither one of us in the saga). Dumb woman was irritable too and she actually told me how returning to the airport had been really hard for her. There is lots of anger at airports (Love Actually lied). It was a harsh welcome home, I’ve got to say.