Let's Get Physical #2

Thanks to the joy of South West Trains and their uselessness over the weekend, I arrived in Angel considerably late. But late for what? Some wonderfully charming friends of mine in their final year at university have their own dance collective called DRA. Already in demand for film premieres, music videos and unique club nights, their spectacular branch of contemporary dance with its 1960's rockabilly flair is certainly very much on the rise. DRA is a major player behind an intriguing new concept: getting fit while at the pub. This might raise eye-brows, but it truly worked.

I arrived at The Lexington on the Pentonville Road, quickly changed into some incredibly attractive red lycra trousers featuring stirrups and side panels of red and white horizontal stripes; and jumped onto the dance floor in time for the tail end of the warm up. It was such a fun and interesting experience. Imagine your local pub, preferably one with a medium sized dance floor (possibly upstairs), the dance floor lighting to which one is accustomed, and also that instantly recognisable smell of stale alcohol that you find in public houses when they first open; plus aerobics! The juxtaposition and the exercise in the semi-darkness were almost too fab for me after the simple pot of Nettle tea I had from Orange Pekoe in Barnes only the hour previously.

Almost, but I managed to control my excitement, for the break was upon us all too soon. Now imagine a lot of warmed-up bodies in lycra, half heading for the bar, the other half heading outdoors for a replenishing cigarette - instructors included, of course. It was just too funny, and of course it felt very London and supremely cool. Part Two was the feature, the highlight. After another re-warm up, we were introduced to the main thrust of the event: learning a routine to Madonna's Holiday. Oh the excitement that filled the room! This might have just been myself, as I do have a habit of filling rooms. Off we went. It was here I rediscovered my two left feet, but perseverance and determination saw me passably reproduce the movements of our instructors. Effectively, act and think like Madonna and one is three quarters of the way there. The practice culminated in the class being divided into two, so each group could perform for the other and we could see how the thing looked en masse. Rounds of applause and ta-da! actual exercise completed. Some people changed, others merely draped a jacket or jumper over their wonderfully sweaty lycra before heading to the bar for their well deserved post-"gym session" drink.

The next event is scheduled for March 20th, and at £5 it is incredibly good value. A sort of aerobics-lite for those of us who are more likely to go drinking than to the gym, it combines the two in a safe, un-scary manner and I wish it all the success.

Photo courtesy DRA Dance Collective. 

Ms Welch and Mr Chips

Thanks again to Mrs Trefusis for a fabulous exhibition recommendation (Beauty Through A Lens). This lady's intimate knowledge on all things to do and see in London is too enviable, but equally she removes all the hard work for the philistines, such as myself. 

It is a wonderful exhibition of the work of Terry O'Neill, one of Britain’s most popular photographers at the Chris Beetles Art Gallery in St James's. Some of the images are quite breathtaking, such is their intimacy.

I was also rather struck by how very seamlessly the subjects would fit into a modern context of fashion and beauty. Such people are so extraordinary timeless, the magic translates across the decades, the generations. Or perhaps it is cyclical? To me, the people in the photographs could not merely be limited to the London of yesteryear, but could be quite easily seen promenading the streets of my London.

O'Neill is a wonderful photographer because he truly knew his subjects. As such, he had no trouble capturing that very human sense of vulnerability. Something so intimate could only be offered to a friend.

One such human was Raquel Welch. At one point she was the most famous and desired woman on the planet, but it was only at home that I was treated to a lovely tale featuring Ms Welch. (Such an hilarious name, it reminds me of Wellington boots.) My friend's grandfather spent a long time as headmaster of one of England's public boys' schools, Sherborne. During his leadership, the musical film Goodbye, Mr Chips, starring Peter O'Toole and Petula Clarke was filmed at Sherborne. As headmaster, he was quite involved with the production and often O'Toole would join him for lunch.

The American production team decided to ship the headmaster and his wife to America to help with promoting the film. His role I presume, was to be the stereotypical Englishman that Americans would consider quaint and charming and therefore spend money at the cinema on the film. While not so commercially successful, the film was nominated for Academy Awards and O'Toole won the Golden Globe that year (1970) for his role. It is the Academy Awards that brings me to Ms Welch. This wonderfully innocent and very English headmaster was sat right next to this American deity. Naturally, he had absolutely no idea who the woman to his right was. The photographs show him animatedly discussing something, which my friend tells me was most like something meta-philosophical or some such thing. Despite much of the world's press snapping away at them, he seems oblivious. And Raquel, for her part, seems genuinely interested. Perhaps for the first time in years, somebody was speaking to her without any idea - nor care - of who she was. And about something other than her films, or Hollywood in general. I rather love this.

Breaths of fresh air, physical and metaphorical can be wonderful. They energise with vigour and give us the impetus to carry on, somehow renewed. Both the film Goodbye, Mr Chips and the photographer Terry O'Neill reward us with such a feeling, so go; do!

Images: copyright Terry O'Neill.

Utter TEFL

Boring absence. Apologies.

I'm sitting here - having just politely declined an invitation to go out - completely devoid of any analytical thought. My brain is utterly dead and has refused to engage all day. Most annoying and inconvenient. I can excuse it, but only just. It spent the weekend on a very intensive training course, and I know it was intensive because it required movement before 8 o'clock on a Saturday. AND on a Sunday. The whole thing lasted 20 hours and in theory qualifies me to teach English abroad. Or to immigrants/asylum seekers. It was long, arduous, fun, bewildering, maddening, humorous, enlightening and baffling.

The majority of the class were very cut-glass and boarding school, which surprised me greatly. And pleased me in equal measure, a sort of confirmation and reinforcement of the worthiness of being there, I suppose. Most of them were planning to volunteer selflessly in Africa and Asia, all in an effort to gain "life experience". All this sort of thing does look so very good in a CV, and it is a wonderful thing to tell at dinner parties. I rather meanly wonder how genuine people are with these things, especially as now post(ish)-recession, employers want that little something more in their prospective employees. It is after all, their market. I try to imagine myself doing the same, but the image will not fit. Somehow, I feel that being anywhere like the poorest parts of Africa will affect me terribly, and so will leave it all to the lovely friends I made. To whom I offer my support wholeheartedly, and thank ceaselessly that it isn't me.

One such lovely lass, who shall henceforth be known as Miss Aquitaine of Kent, was supremely fun (PS they were all females as well, brilliant!!). A fellow actor and nabber of jobs in post-production in Hollywood, we hit it off from the beginning. I think that anybody suddenly confronted with an hour's immersion in a completely foreign language will find their nearest fellow for support. The Slovenian was quite daunting, yet the purpose was glaringly obvious: How one can teach with no common language. And make it enjoyable, productive and successful. We were also united by our dislike of another would-be teacher. Oh she was painful. Insufferable. I find trusting people with bad skin difficult, it is horribly shallow of me and I usually overcome it, but I cannot help mentally applying cosmetics with a spatula. Anyway anyway, this character also had a hint of the insane about her. I adore eccentrics, as I suspect does Miss Kent, but Silence of the Lambs mentalism? We thought no. It was mainly the off-topic comments that grated. After a perfectly harmless opinion about a cafe in Fulham (Flahm as I now call it), she asks how I could sound "so posh when you're from Barnes when I've lived in Fulham all my life?" I think that one, after a pause, was very much a saved by a bell moment. It was then at morning tea that the most peculiar little piece of information was served up to us. We were discussing directors, and she made some comments (borderline slander) on James Cameron. All fine. Then proceeded to inform us all about decapitations to be found on YouTube. So very charming. In a sense, "Flahm" was perfectly nice, but oh to be stuck working with her, to be taught by her... I pity the Koreans.

The Sunday was, as anybody within earshot of Western media will attest, St Valentine's Day. Hurrah etc. Miss Aquitaine and I got to chatting on the whole thing, and we concluded that we ought to have an anti-Valentine's lunch. I'm not remotely bitter, and not really single, but 'tis more fun to join in and get the actor's juices flowing. We decided we must make a good effort of it, and eschew anything heart-shaped. Silly to wander into Fortnum & Mason for lunch then! But oh it was fab. We wandered around making up silliness about suffrage, submission, loss of identity, all very GCSE English essay. The only thing to do when "down" is to elevate oneself back up again. One must never admit defeat nor lose face. This is how Britain has carried on for the last century. The loss of an empire should wipe away all the smugness, the superiority. Gladly, the opposite is true and the subconscious belief in self and country and status quo keeps the mill turning.

We had our lunch of saumon en croute, roasted English vegetables and chocolate and honeycomb mousse, washed down with an elderflower drink and planned our lesson. And it was fun. The chance to meet new people, the opportunity to throw oneself in at the deep-end should not be turned down. It should be entirely embraced, because whosoever could say what will happen next?

PRECIOUS (BASE ON NOL BY SAF)

I have previously mentioned that I often enjoy rather sickly films and preferably British. I am one of the hapless masses, the sheep who need to be fed their silage and enjoy a blindingly blissful existence amongst the general ignorance. My fur is of good quality, my brain - merely fur. In a sudden bout of proactivity, and with a push from a friend, I made it to the cinema. The Vue in Leicester Square, no less. Luckily this friend also has a certain penchant for wine, so we headed for the bar to try our luck with the white wine. And it was warm.

Warm white wine; unimaginable pain. It must somehow allow the alcohol to be absorbed quicker, which was frankly no bad thing considering the circumstances. I hadn't gone to the cinema for a delightful Hollywood romp, but rather its American antithesis: the grittiness of suburban New York City.

Precious is a film I'm sure most people have by now come across in some form or other. Preparing myself for the possibility of public weeping, I tried to forget all the details about the film the reviewers had fed me, all their opinions and most importantly, how terribly painful the warm wine was. Sitting down, obscuring others' views and trying to eradicate my prejudices against obese people, I watched. The film was amusing, charming, delightful, horrifying, devastating, crushing, hopeful, scandalising, tormenting and wonderful. I didn't cry, for I cannot. Tears do not flow so easily for me, but my body ached with the agonising struggle endured by this remarkable protagonist. My bones wept on a level of empathy I have never known.

Perhaps it is in light of some of the tragedies and horror stories that have emerged in recent years that make this film seem all the more real. The frequency of such dreadful tales can often have a numbing quality, much like Holocaust survivors who numbed themselves to the pain surrounding them in order to survive. The "physical and spiritual degradation of mankind in the industrialised world" is as evident today as it was in Lady Chatterley's world. However for me, the horror was not numbed, the pain did not abate. Punctuated by brilliant comedy so heightened amidst the gloominess, I loved it. It even challenged me to question how I view individual obesity, no mean feat.

These films reveal so much about ourselves. Our preconceptions, our selfishness, our isolation, our luck. How lucky I was to be born into a home where I was loved, how wonderfully lucky I was to be encouraged to read, to write, to learn, to try as much as possible, to be told I could achieve anything to which I set my mind. I am forever telling myself to be thankful. Well, quite often I am at least. And now I shall redouble my efforts to take time to appreciate being. It doesn't last forever.

I did scrutinize one aspect of said film. I have never been a fan of Ms Mariah Carey and her utterly awful warbling/shrieking. And I don't believe her last foray into film was successful, so with breath a-baited, I waited. And do you know, she wasn't terrible. "Uglied" to the point of normality, she looked the part. Ish. But the voice... Frightfully husky, the sort of thing a self-proclaimed "serious actor" would come up with and it did grate. I tried to forget who it was onscreen, but the eyes of a diva don't lie. A surprise was Lenny Kravtitz, a man I had assumed dead. Very touching portrayal of "Nursing Assistant". A position one never knew existed and seems on a similar level to "Community Support Officer".

If you enjoy cinema on any level, seek something a little more real than the latest blockbuster filth and are capable of empathy, see this film.

What Can I Say?

There are so many things I'd rather like to write about. So many things I could, or could at least attempt. When I started to write, there did exist a thin veil of anonymity. Sort of. A few people had to know, of course. And I wanted people to stop by, read and perhaps learn a little more about me. The cheapest format for this is to recruit friends and family, but therein lies my problem.

I cannot now, write about certain things. I have noticed a similar thread amongst some other writers, and a certain Irish Daily Mail article springs to mind. How truly free is one to write and to express himself? Naturally, I am privileged to live in a democracy, privileged to live a life free of the traumas so many others endure in their vies quotidiennes. Particularly today, Holocaust Memorial Day, we reflect on the many, many things that make us so lucky. The most obvious: I am alive, and I assume you must be as well if you are reading this, so therefore - no moaning. But, I find there are so many underlying constraints to writing. I would love to write about the previous weekend in full. However, I cannot, because too much is too revealing. Perhaps it's the middle-class morality again.

 

One thing I am pleased to write freely about is the ballet. An incredibly lucky (and kind) connection offered me tickets to Giselle, a production by the English National Ballet. It was the first time in several years I had made it to the ballet, something I really must do so much more often. It was quite lovely, and I had forgotten how moving it can be. I would moan about how I wish I could dance, had done ballet myself as a child, but moaning is banished for the day. I often find the universe so funny. It was only the previous day I was reading the production's review in the Evening Standard, thinking I really must try to go. And lo and behold, the call came minutes later with the offer of tickets. Marvellous!

The prelude to Giselle is Men y Men, which is somehow a most annoying name. I do get it, but it sounds cheap. I suppose then I was most surprised by how good it was. The effect was of a great many floating male torsos, it was entirely mesmeric. Again, I might moan about my torso not looking quite like that, but I mustn't. Though I do feel this is slightly cheating. It was bold and powerful, but very harmonious. Quite stunning. I often prefer contemporary dance to some of the older stuff. Then Giselle started and drove this from my mind. The two pieces contrast well; the strongly masculine with the quaintly feminine. The very nature of Giselle's death is quaint and dainty, and it actually rather bothers me. Naturally, she is distressed, maddened by the identity of her lover, but actual death seems so pathetic. I mentioned this to a friend, and feel much validated by her response. Apparently Giselle kills herself by Albrecht's sword in the original. This makes so much sense, especially as she picks the thing up and threatens to do the deed anyway. Why the change? I sense some Victorian censorship.

Nevertheless, both were thoroughly enjoyable and another reminder of how lucky I am. If you have wanted to do something cultural for sometime, make it this. A glass of champagne upstairs is also thoroughly recommended. Incidentally, so is a Flirtini at Green Carnation, which I happily enjoyed when I met fan of Lambert, Smack, Crumple, Bang. Much of what occurred after this I feel too constrained to make properly public. Definitely stems from the middle-classédness. Such fun.

Cool Britannia

Life is a very curious thing. The more I experience, the more pointless it seems. And I've decided that this can only be a good thing, because it means that nothing matters. Absolutely nothing. I don't believe that it is meaningless, but certainly pointless. Perhaps that's how I was able to survive. I have spent the last two days in a most unexpected and uncompromising position. Amidst the bright lights, the chaos of traffic and tourists on Piccadilly Circus, I stood. Absolutely statuesque - or something scarily close, I hope. I seem to remember wishing, not so long ago, to be noticed. Clearly some higher power heard me, and so sent me the uniform of a Grenadier Guard. Complete, of course, with Bearskin. 

Uniforms are an amazing invention. They speak to all people on behalf of the wearer. Whether an informed observer or not, a uniform will tell you something. It also speaks to the wearer. In many ways it dictates; it keeps the wearer, literally, in-line. It affects personality, thought, judgement. The simple act of "dressing" will effect this change. This particular uniform was an extremist version. Being tied into the uniform, the force pulling back one's shoulders and therefore delivering an exquisitely erect frame, was very nearly metamorphosis. It made one suddenly very serious. I had always wondered how those wonderful Palace guards were able to maintain their composure, particularly during the public's best efforts at breaking it. Suddenly, the question was answered. In that uniform, any form of speech was made near-impossible. Every facial movement became very forced and uncomfortable. The uniform wasn't in favour of any of that smiling nonsense. The final flourish of the Bearskin made it difficult to see much anyhow.

Perhaps I ought to explain what brought me to this position? Nothing much to tell, really. Sort of friend-of friend-of friend rubbish that flavours most of these stories. Suffice to say, I was asked at short-notice to fill in for somebody, effectively to promote a new-ish, and wickedly kitsch, souvenir shop on the Circus. But my, did I take my Method Acting seriously. The work supposedly entailed standing about and looking pretty, encouraging the punters inside. But to me it was oh so much more. The chance to be resolutely still, unwaveringly so. The chance to be completely silent (an unusual state for me) and the chance to people-watch. Relentless hordes from all the corners of the globe passed before my eyes. With the Bearskin, it was quite easy to completely ignore the passers-by, or pretend to do so. As one might imagine, this was not the same reaction meted out to me by the hordes.

For several hours - odd tea-break excepted - I stood. And the attention people paid me was fabulous. The image of me will now be found on countless cameras, destined for countless tags on Facebook. Ladies held my arm, gentlemen would copy my salute. The people's faces lit up with obvious delight as their turn came to pose. Most would try to make me laugh, or at least smile. I made an effort to do so for children (a tall man in a furry hat and red coat I imagine to be somewhat intimidating), but mostly I remained silent. This, I think, excited them all the more. But, as previously mentioned, speech required a concerted effort. I felt I owed it to the uniform to do the job properly. Several people wanted directions, the best I could manage was a muffled go straight on, complete with hand-signals. Had I doubted it, yesterday would have confirmed the true insanity of most of the world's people. My foot soldier was shouted at, prodded, told he was too skinny, that his cap was made of bear, that he should salute like an American, hugged, kissed, groped, offered copies of photographs and told that: "It'll be all right, mate". Will it truly? I very much doubt it.

My legs certainly were not. Absolutely anchored down by the lack of movement, they were nearly impossible to move. It felt as though they had swollen to the size of tree trunks. Those poor older ladies must suffer terribly. I found myself lying on the floor of the changing room, pedalling my legs in the air in an effort to make them workable again. It was a very strange feeling, and hardly executed in a very dignified way. I don't believe the Uniform was all that happy, but then we cannot all be happy, all the time. How dull.

I'm sure it goes without saying: the relief I felt at shedding the uniform and returning to me. Will I do it again? I'm still unsure... Perhaps with some Dutch courage. But, did I enjoy myself? Absolutely!

Jag älskar dig...

How is that I come to be sitting here (again), in multiple layers of knitwear and watching The History of the British Family? Having just watched Delia Through the Ages? Have I, without noticing, aged two score and twain? Subscribed to the Daily Mail, found fault in everything and begun spying through my curtains?

I do not wish to remain like this. I am pro-active, dynamic, entrepreneurial! Sadly, all those are lies. I suppose I was vaguely cultural over the weekend. I dashed madly from Shepherd's Bush on Saturday morning to the Wallace Collection. Which I do love. I like that it is usually the more discerning visitor who makes the trip there. I always wander, wanting to put everything I see into imaginary drawing rooms I possess, remembering things from National Trust properties which would go well together. Drawing room full, I entered the Damien Hirst exhibition currently showing there. Firstly, sorry what? Hirst in the Wallace Collection? I don't follow. Nor did the elderly Swedes in front of me. The contrast between the beautifully ostentatious gold statuettes and scarlet curtains, suddenly with paintings of skulls and daggers on a black background. The colour of which matched the wallpaper well, so noted my companion. Well it had one thinking, at any rate.

What also had me thinking was the tremendous pain my feet were in. Like the pre-recession Mrs Trefusis, I had eschewed sensible shoes. It was nightmarish and complete agony. I'm sure it would be utterly small-fry for any female passers-by, but for the inexperienced, the naive... Oh dear. And the absolute worst thing, is that my Father is a fully qualified podiatrist. Such betrayal and so very pathetic.

Later dinner at Sohojapan. It was quite charming and inexpensive, and I had forgotten how delicious Japanese food is. The stodgy British and Swedish fare I have eaten almost exclusively the last month had left me in desperate need of some variety. Raw fish and noodles and such other things as plum wine. Yummy. Shame about some of the company. I would have embraced a state of temporary deafness the whole evening. I am becoming less and less tolerant as I age. I am turning ever faster into my paternal grandfather. A man loved and feared, though I was the favoured grandchild. One of our party was an insufferably dull American*, carrying on about his intimate knowledge of the DJ scene. It irritates me no end when people lack any real social skills whatsoever. How hatefully dull to dictate the conversation for the entire evening. Thankfully my biting comments went over his head, it's that wonderfully British ability to seem polite and charming and yet be quite nasty. I was feeling positively venomous once the underground music scene in Utah was mentioned. I'm sure it's fabulous, but I have absolutely no interest in such matters and I resent being forced to listen to such things. I had come to dinner with friends (Well, one friend and her brother, an old boy from school), not to a lecture. One of the other's was equally taxing: "Oh I don't shop at Waitrose, only Wholefoods." The most surprising company was my friend's brother. We had met-ish at school and about, but never really spoken. It was nice to see the youngest member of the group being, by far, the most mature and grounded of the lot. And capable of engaging in conversation, not merely regurgitating his thoughts.

Then I saw Frances. Quel film! Jessica Lange is utterly breathtaking. Oddly enough, I was hoping to see a happy film of sorts, something to soothe the beast within. However this film was so eye-openingly wondrous, I loved it. The descent into madness, the life-blood - taken away by higher powers. And so classically pretty, too. It was fabulous. More films of the calibre need making. I had only vaguely known of Frances Farmer, the film made me do much more research. The film is based on a biography, supposedly quite fictional. Artistic license, perhaps? Much of the chronology is very accurate, but certain events (Clue: Lobotomy), are not verified and apparently untrue. But the truth isn't so important. Or the truth about Farmer, at least. But the tragedy of her story, and of the stories of other people who suffered under the system in much the same way. Quite horrific, and not light viewing. But also, touchingly funny at points. I walked from Marylebone at midnight in the snow, and felt so burdened by "sanity". And feet less painful and in better shoes, but nonetheless, sore.

For a surprise Thai finish to the weekend, I found myself in the Faltering Fullback on Perth Road near Finsbury Park. A charming, independent local featuring main courses at £5.50. And thoroughly delicious. I had a chicken, seafood and pineapple rice dish, which I couldn't not try because of the interesting combination. I was given a chipped wine glass, which may have cut my lip ever so slightly, but they were so very apologetic and upgraded my wine, I couldn't possibly let that detract from my evening. And then there were the mad locals, very forthcoming in their conversation. Including one who was off to see his ex in Croydon. Apparently jumping on one's partner is enough reason to separate. Who would have thought. Enlightening.

Now, I am eagerly awaiting a Treasure Hunt through London that a friend has organised for me tomorrow. Such fun!

*I have enormous respect for the American people and many individual Americans. A charming and inspiring nation in many respects. This one was sadly a poor ambassador.

Gramercy!

Just a little vieux anglais to thank people for the very kind things they have told me the last few days. One writes for a variety of reasons, but deep within, a little acknowledgment - even praise - spurs one ever onwards.

Having just opened my diary at random, I came to the Oxford & Cambridge boat race day. I have no direct connection with either university, but for some reason have always cheered on Oxford. I do, however, have strong rowing connections. My brothers both row, and very well, for my old school. My father rowed in Australian Surf Life Saving competitions. And friends here have rowed at Henley Regatta (possibly my favourite event in the English calendar) and even for Great Britain in the Commonwealth Games. So I naturally have tried to take an interest, and usually eventuate with a strong desire to look every bit as fit as they do. Then I remember how early they rise and the temperature thereat. And despite the fact I tell anyone who will listen that the Thames is one of the cleanest city rivers in the world, and has welcomed back marine life including sea horses, it remains the Thames.

But I wish to tell no more of rowing. The day preceding this world-famous event, was much more peculiar. On arrival in this country, I made a varied assortment of friends, as I think one does. This happened to include some South Africans. Goodness knows why, but I rather enjoy the lilting accent some of the posher SA's seem to have. The proper Afrikaans leaves me rather cold. One of the better-spoken ones returned home not long after we had met. Naturally, one says in a very well-meaning manner "Oh yes of course, do keep in touch, must catch up if you're ever back again etc. etc."

Imagine my surprise to receive a text many months later. "Hallo, it's *such and such*, how are you? I'm back in town, do you fancy catching up?" Naturally I accepted. I find it difficult to refuse anything at the best of times, and I genuinely thought it might be nice to share a cup of tea, Rooibos of course. Come the time to leave, an eerie, black cloud was bearing down upon Londres. I should have known then and there. Still I carried on; TfL this, replacement bus service that. Meeting in Vauxhall with no Victoria Line is incredibly painful. And dull. Finally I arrived, late of course, with my phone ringing.

"Hallo!" I trilled.
"Hallo?" Blatant unease there.

Quickly I became aware that the voice on the other end of the line was wrong, and for several reasons. One being that the voice was English, another that it was wholly unfamiliar and latterly, it was coming from the man standing next to me - staring and slightly colourless.

"Well you're not the *insert name here* I was expecting! How hilariously awkward." I don't think I was quite so articulate, but then I'm allowed some artistic license.

 "Oh. I was very worried *insert name of friend who had failed to mention she was giving out my number to chaps when they asked for hers* had had a sex change."

Worryingly, he looked genuinely concerned as though this could have been the case. At this point, the heavens chose to open, featuring golf ball sized hailstones. As we could both appreciate the comedy of the situation, we decided that, rather than remaining outside, amongst the weather, we should have that cup of tea after all. It turned into a rather funny afternoon. Howsoever could I have been so foolish! To lazily assume that nobody else, similarly named, would mistakenly contact me, asking to take tea. The first twenty minutes was spent laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. Shame that didn't last, because he then became frightfully dull and nouveau riche. Yacht this, broken marriage that, celebrity party this, negative equity that. Dull, dull. Little wonder my friend gave him un faux numéro. How irritating that she should have chosen mine. Why not one of the many people she truly dislikes.


Bored, I made my excuses and dashed into the maelstrom.


What I do cherish is that this and other bizarre modern tales can and do happen. Sometimes they might bring unexpectedly welcome surprises, others... Little more than stories for a dying dinner party. They remind one of the possibilities of life and equally, it's abject pointlessness. For years, my brothers and I have rolled our eyes at our Mother's incessant use of positive affirmations. Irritatingly, I may be doing some unrolling.

Whatever do you Meme?

From the Taxi...
 
A very highly ranked member of the Bloggerati, and incidentally one of my idoles, has sent forth a meme from her Taxi. I shall do my utmost to live up to her immensely kind words.

What is always so difficult with such exercises is the degree of emotional self-examination required. It is in much the same way as my relationship with mirrors; sometimes the reflection is rather terrifying. The next day I may be Narcissus incarnate. Thankfully, I have always found the strength to turn away from the looking glass and unlike Narcissus, have not - thus far - perished. Today is more an example of the former than anything else. Lack of sleep, travel, aeroplanes and Heathrow do not a good mixture make, and this is before I even look at my face. However, ten things it is and will be...

1: I am Australian...
Frequently I forget this, as do many of my friends. There is usually laughter, then shock when new acquaintances discover the truth. It is often quite embarrassing. In my self-important manner, I am embarrassed by my own country and heritage. In many ways it is a terrific, industrious nation, full of enterprise and opportunity. And talent. I was extremely lucky to grow up there. However. It is also severely dull and very, very hot. And I want more.

2: I am snobbish...
...To the point of obsessiveness. What is "done" and "not done" echoes in my head insufferably so. I have known myself to miss my Tube station because of this. A hierarchy exists in my mind and it tends to categorize within nanoseconds. Very bad. I have no idea where this comes from, and how I managed to exempt myself from the scrutiny. I have tried to unlearn this affliction, but it sneaks up behind me all too unexpectedly.

3: I like to be paid attention...
I dislike being invisible. My ego demands fame/infamy on any scale whatsoever, but I hope I keep this much more under control. I think I do so, in public at least. However, beware alcoholic lubrication. This is why I like acting, it is an excuse for public exhibition and the adrenaline rush is better than chocolate etc. etc. I think it was another reason to blog: another opportunity to be noticed.

4: I have embarrassing musical tastes...
I do like some "socially acceptable" music. I can't think of much though. Think Abba, which at least proves the Australian in me. 'Nough said. Just re-read that header and have visions of a choir of taste buds, with the sweet singing soprano and so forth. 

5: I am naturally pessimistic...
Certainly if the last four are anything to go by. I measure my achievements against others' and I frequently come out the lesser. Hence the snobbery, possibly. I have impossibly high standards and find it hard to compromise. This does not mix well with my sloth-like being. I would make a fabulous monarch, I just need my own nation. As these first five have invariably been negative, I shall attempt five positive notes about myself. Hmm.

6. I am kind...
Hopefully the majority would agree. It is perhaps a secular synonym for being Christian towards others. I think it is incredibly important to be kind to people. It is a lesson many seem to have lost, or perhaps they missed out on bedtime stories courtesy of Enid Blyton. Real kindness is so difficult to find, yet it is (usually) so appreciated. Small acts can make an enormous difference to people. I find that smiling, politeness and empathy can completely change the outcome of a horrid day. Naturally this need not erode the steeliness of the stiff-upper lip and nothing is more irritating than the perpetually happy chap we all avoid, but I think there is a space somewhere that more people could try to find.

7. I love the countryside...
London is a very oppressive place to be 365 days a year. I think it is the most wonderful city in the world and I have loved (very nearly) every minute of living here. But nothing beats the English countryside. In rain or shine, it is magical. The yearning for fresh air, fields and drinkable water is rather like seasickness, with the obvious difference excepted. Trudging over muddy fields in Wellington boots - bliss!

8. Snow...
I have mentioned the stuff before on here. To many, snow means miserable weather and inconvenience. All anathema to me. I love it wholly and absolutely. I become a toddler, filled with excitement and joy. It's cold! And white! And it's falling on me! Of course, as a toddler this is not actually articulated by words, merely a gabble of noises and giggles. But it must have been hilarious for all the onlooking Swedes.

9. I seek adventure...
I have been incredibly lucky in all my adventures thus far. Things happen, good and bad, but somehow, something has always come up. I don't necessarily crave jungles or desert islands, but exploring the unknown and discovering new destinations, people, foods are all things I truly enjoy. That said, I do have a low comfort threshold. Pickled herring or Västerbottenspaj is one thing, but fried cockroaches? I think not. Ditto walks on the moors versus climbing Mont Blanc.

10. I am not afraid to be myself...
One thing that has struck me is how many people have said they like me because of this. Particularly in Sweden. Do they like "me" or do they just like this trait in others and wish they had it as well? Or both? Overall, I do like myself. I also care about how others perceive me. Which I then juxtapose by not caring so much about what others think. Perhaps I should be allowed to hold two contradictory ideas in my head... I'm not afraid to! I think moving to London has allowed me this freedom. There are infinite opportunities to meet people and equally to forget them. It's too exhausting to remember who one was on that particular day, when one met Whatshisname.

All the blogs on my list I have enjoyed at some stage or another, though I have sadly not kept so up-to-date with all of them. Here are some, an eclectic mix, I think:

Psynopsis
An intriguing mixture of fashion and health, Teutonic style.

Reality Strikes Back
One of my irritatingly brilliant peers. An ongoing story of his charity work in East African refugee camps. Did I mention he established the charity by himself?

Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Why stop at six? So this blogger says, and rightfully so. If you enjoy books, but wish you read more.

The Tea Appreciation Society
I love tea. So do they.

Go Fug Yourself
Because the voice in my head as I read makes me laugh out loud. I can be frivolous too!

Un Vieux Vélo
As a fellow city cycling enthusiast, I must recommend this one.

Miriam Levine
A wise poetess from across the pond.

Mrs Trefusis Takes A Taxi
An extra one, simply because I wouldn't have commenced writing in the first place without her.

Happy New Year!

Over two weeks ago, waiting for my airport transportation, I felt rather a lot of uncertainty. Will I love it, hate it, be bored, be understood, be overwhelmed, find congruence? I was at least certain I'd find time for the odd blog, after all, isn't that why I was taking my laptop? Quite evidently, I failed, spectacularly so. I now have less than forty-eight hours in this country, and I am filled with melancholy. I want to stay! I had not predicted I would feel quite so strongly as this. If anything, I was worried I would be far too bored of the whole thing, especially after almost three weeks with the same person. And now, here I am desperately trying to learn a new language, with a view to applying here to study.

One thing I am so hopeless at avoiding is comparing oneself to one's peers. In the last hour, I just discovered an old-boy has established his own charity to help the refugee camps in Eastern Africa, and will also use his research for an honours programme next year. Some have already finished their degrees and many were probably budding entrepreneurs mid-way through. E.G. that chap who imports champagne to sell online, why did I not think of something like that?  Oft-times I wonder if I will ever amount to much, too much sitting and not enough thinking to make even that viable.

Passion is a wonderful thing, and some people are very lucky to possess it. I can be passionate, but then I weary of it. I traipse about aimlessly, hoping for something to pop-up and seem applicable, but naturally this shouldn't involve too much work. I shy from work. I want and crave the extraordinary, the unusual, yet I will not work for it. How do I drag myself out of the inert swampland I seem content to mellow in? Even today, one of my last days and one I should really make the most of, I overslept. Who does that? I may have been a little tired from the New Year's celebrations, but I don't think that required missing all 4.5 hours of daylight Umeå offers mid-Winter. I could at least have been practising my Swedish! Jag kommer från Australien men jag bor i London...

Perhaps it is just my traditional New Year's pessimism, resurfacing. I have always been very hard on myself, but similar to Edina from Absolutely Fabulous, "I like results." The problem is, as her daughter Saffron counters: "Life is in the details." Regardless, repetition doesn't help it sink in any better. How does one balance between living in the present and for the future? I expect it would be a good 18 months 'til I were ready to start at university here. Time at least to learn the language sufficiently -  or so one would suppose. Many people I have met here compliment me on the incredibly basic Swedish I have learned. This in itself is very heartening, especially as the Swedes are usually quite reticent about compliments. In English we throw them about meaninglessly, they are dispensable, of incredibly low value and clog up one's wallet like the copper coins of the realm. Perhaps I have made more effort than many other visitors do, but then, as my friends here are all native, I am often left out of parts of the conversation. Of course I do not begrudge them that, if anything it makes my pursuit of fluency even more important to me.

Growing up in a hot country, I dreamt of living somewhere cold, where the white Christmas fantasy was reality and everything fits, like a postcard. Or indeed a Christmas card. Many people laugh at the irony of somebody coming from such a desirable climate wanting to leave for colder climes, when of course it is the reverse journey they want to make. I expect it's all a case of "grass is always greener". I do know that I am happier in this hemisphere. So I shall stop moaning, and simply look forward to achieving it, I'm sure that will be another prolonged adventure. To anybody who has ever known the quagmire of uncertainty, I wish you a very Happy and Prosperous new year, and new decade.

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