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It's very odd to be, as I currently am, in my last week at Kew. For all its peculiarities, for all the stress and pressure it's put me (& many others) under over the years, I have loved working here and have been deeply committed to the place. Up until just a few months ago I honestly thought I'd be here till I retired. The evening of the day I accepted I would have to leave, I cried for hours (all over a very patient friend whose forebearance and loving-kindness I aspire to have one day). It seemed beyond belief; and in many ways it still does now. Yet at the same time, part of me just wants this to be over now.
This last week is so weird. Each day, when I go out at lunch for a stroll, I know I am saying goodbye. I am losing my connection to these places, these trees and flowers and historic buildings; when next I see them I will just be another visitor, no longer one of their people. I am saying goodbye to little hidden corners, to short-cuts behind the scenes, to all the secret places that have given me refuge and a moment of peace on hectic days.
And, of course, I am saying goodbye to people.
Many of my friends have left already (or been made redundant); many others are away on annual leave at the moment. Yet others do not work on Fridays; and still others for various reasons I don't see often to begin with. By now it's very likely I won't see them again before the end of the week. And I finish on Friday.
I'm trying hard not to get depressed. I'm also trying not to brood over-much about what will happen, going forward, to this venerable place as it struggles to modernise without killing itself. It's simply not my look-out anymore. I have to let go.
But I look at the big, bountiful shapes of trees, cushiony with foliage, delicate with their many-textures of leaves large and small and bark silken or rough; I smell the perfume drifting down from the lindens as they flower in the midsummer warmth; I see the Rose Garden at last really come into its own, six years after being completely replanted; I talk to people I'm fond of, people I've never told how much I like them; I listen to their sense of humour, I laugh and hear their laughter rolling along with mine. And I miss everything that has been good about Kew.
I won't miss the stress; I have to be honest about that. I won't miss some of the really arcane and circuitous decision-making practices, either, or the frankly lousy internal comms. I won't miss waiting in fear to see if the next difficult, business-essential round of cuts will hit me. But I will miss the place, I will miss knowing I'm contributing to something of real value in the world, and I will miss the people.
Well, very soon now my life is my own again, to do with as I will. And who knows what the future holds? Not me.
My week in Crete, last month, was so blissful and restful that I'm sorely tempted to do it again. There are (unsurprisingly) some very good special offers around at the moment for trips to Greece. I'm sure foreign tourism is too important to the Hellenic economy for them to risk anything impacting on visitors from overseas. I would take cash with me because I always do take cash anyway. And I could be sitting on a terrace somewhere with a good book, with a long swim in the sea already done and a good supper of fish and salad to come, putting all this behind me for a week. I know my few hundred quid of spending money is a microscopic drop in the ocean of the Hellene economic woes, but it would still make a tiny scrap of the difference to the individual restaurants and cafes and shops where I spent it. And I would have sun on my back and pine trees to walk under, the sea to swim in, and xiphias and sinagridha and horiatikisalata to eat and a glass of good wine or two.
On the which note, it's extremely silly of me, but I'm enormously encouraged to discover that the person in charge of the Greek Government's economic negotiations at the moment is Euclid Tsakalotos. I heard him mentioned on the radio a couple of mornings back and did a double take, and stood in the kitchen with a mouthful of cereal, and a silly grin spreading across my face as I listened.
A long time ago - a very long time! - I used to deal with him in my then job; he was an economics lecturer at UKC, and I was the economics buyer at the Uiversity bookshop. He was a nice man, always courteous and helpful, and friendly, even to a shopgirl like me (he was also terribly ornamental - I had a dreadful crush on him). I'm very happy he went into politics. The world needs politicians who have some empathy with people who work in dull jobs. I know it's completely idiotic of me, but I do feel reassured now I know that he's working on something so vitally important, for a place I love so much.
Go well and good luck, sir!
Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts
Tuesday, 23 June 2015
Monday, 18 May 2015
Holiday
I know it's a bit redundant to say this when I haven't posted anything for over a month, but this is just a quick one tosay I am off at crack of dawn for a week's holiday. Going to be slightly different to any holiday I've had in my adult life, as for a change it's important I still stick to my diet, instead of letting myself take a holiday from that as well. But my BG readings have been good, and pretty steady, for the last few weeks, and my weight is much better than it was a couple of months ago. So I'm fairly confident that I can keep healthy in Crete. Yay, Crete! Mountains and sea; and if the forecast I've seen is at all accurate, good, calm weather. I have a sketchbook and a notebook and a couple of novels to read. I have two bathing costumes and plenty of sunscreen. I have healthy snacks for the plane.
I have pre-flying jitters, too, but although I know how silly that is, they are a regular visitor at this point before any holiday.
I wish anyone reading this a good week! I'll be back on Tuesday 26th.
I have pre-flying jitters, too, but although I know how silly that is, they are a regular visitor at this point before any holiday.
I wish anyone reading this a good week! I'll be back on Tuesday 26th.
Monday, 1 December 2014
Holiday
Just very quickly.
Work has been hectic, the last few weeks. November is a busy month anyway, with the run-up to the Christmas programme, plus the exhausting World Travel Market. I promptly went and added to the demands on me by adding one of my own and signing up for NaNoWriMo. I didn't "win" it, but I'm 36,000 words into a new story, which I wouldn't have begun at all if I hadn't decided to try this. So that's not bad for someone who's been fairly run off her feet.
I've also done most of my Christmas shopping and seen some excellent ballet and dance and a very good (if sad) play, and completed a couple of small projects at work, as well as doing all the day-to-day sales things.
On Friday I finally reached my longed-for spell of annual leave, the one that was postponed from September. I really am very tired, and I went to pieces rather on Saturday; did virtually nothing except play with the kittens and go to the laundrette, and had a nap in the afternoon like a convalescent.
And so to today, and packing a suitcase, for tomorrow at silly o'clock I am off to Cyprus for a week. Holiday! It's warm and sunny out there and I have a bathing costume, a couple of fat novels and a couple of notebooks. Bliss. Have a good week!
Work has been hectic, the last few weeks. November is a busy month anyway, with the run-up to the Christmas programme, plus the exhausting World Travel Market. I promptly went and added to the demands on me by adding one of my own and signing up for NaNoWriMo. I didn't "win" it, but I'm 36,000 words into a new story, which I wouldn't have begun at all if I hadn't decided to try this. So that's not bad for someone who's been fairly run off her feet.
I've also done most of my Christmas shopping and seen some excellent ballet and dance and a very good (if sad) play, and completed a couple of small projects at work, as well as doing all the day-to-day sales things.
On Friday I finally reached my longed-for spell of annual leave, the one that was postponed from September. I really am very tired, and I went to pieces rather on Saturday; did virtually nothing except play with the kittens and go to the laundrette, and had a nap in the afternoon like a convalescent.
And so to today, and packing a suitcase, for tomorrow at silly o'clock I am off to Cyprus for a week. Holiday! It's warm and sunny out there and I have a bathing costume, a couple of fat novels and a couple of notebooks. Bliss. Have a good week!
Tuesday, 3 June 2014
Mixed bag
Well, I'm back from my holiday. Feeling a bit mixed at the moment.
Katelios is still beautiful. It was quiet and peaceful, the hills around were golden and green (wheat fields and olive groves on the lower slopes, scrub and maquis above), the beach was unspoiled, the sea clean and clear as sapphire. My doubts about staying in a block of studios in the centre of the village were groundless; this early in the season, I was disturbed more by the squeaking taps in a neighbouring room than by any noise from the tavernas and bars along the street. My studio was lovely; comfortable and well-appointed, with a balcony giving me sea views to the left and mountain views to the right. Sparrows chirped on the roof every morning, and swallows and housemartins swooped by constantly.
If I wanted a dip, I could go downstairs and across the road, and be on the town beach in two minutes, or I could turn left and walk along the front for five minutes and be on scruffy, sandy Ayia Varvara beach, with the amethyst silhouette of Zakynthos looking like Bali Hai on the horizon. Shade trees, benches, a couple of rubbish bins, a pinewood changing cubicle for the more modest bather; sand and fine shingle, gently shelving so that one walked for 50 yards to get to chest-deep water; no currents, sandy sea-bottom, perfectly safe swimming with little lapping waves, and small fishes coming to inspect your toes...
A row of tavernas and cafes along the front, above the town beach, and a couple more one street back. Good, classic Greek food; by gum, Hellene cuisine is fine stuff! I don't just mean souvlaki and moussaka, but things like horta and home-baked gigantes, lemon potatoes, briami, skordhalia, beetroot served with its own greens, and so much wonderful fish... Tremendous local wines, too. If you wanted a change, La Floridita served ginormous fresh-cooked pizzas, or a pleasant nameless beach bar halfway along the strand would do you a salad and a toasted cheese-and-olive-paste sarnie, and a bottle of Mythos or Fix...
If you wanted a more untouched spot, then forty minutes' walk on a rocky cliff path over the headland to the east would bring you to Mounda Bay and the almost entirely undeveloped - and quite spectacular - strand of Kaminia Beach. One small cantina, set well-back behind trees, and two very modest hotels, on a golden sandy beach a couple of miles long. It's a turtle nesting site, and it would seem any further development has been stopped because of that. Hurrah! For my money, the walk over the headland and then along this beach to Cape Mounda, the southernmost point of the island, is one of the best I know in Greece. On the Cape there are wind-sculpted caves and tumbled boulders, and the path gets scrabblier and scrabblier until one fears turning an ankle. In fact I just stopped there, and sat on a sloping rock above the waves, to meditate in the utter isolation on The Eternal Spirit Of Hellas...
As well as several very lazy days having a stroll, a swim, a sit in the sun, and then a read in the shade, I did this walk one day and another day I went on an organised but nonetheless highly enjoyable day trip to Ithaka. Ithaka is beautiful; I was moved to poetry. May share that, may not; it's a rambling semi-homage to Cavafy's "Ithaka", and I'm not sure if it's any good or not! But the island herself, being high and green and secret, was very good indeed.
So far, so good. Warmth and good food, good bathing, plenty of time to relax under a tree and read Fat Novels no's 1 and 2. But there were downsides.
Firstly, minor but desperately irritating, I caught a cold. All of that good swimming and good eating is less exciting when one has a sore throat and a stuffy head, and is periodically letting-off explosive sneezes. It's the classic run-down thing; I was tired and I didn't have enough resistance to fight off the germs.
Secondly, those squeaking taps I mentioned? Someone who had access to them used to squeak them rather a lot. I can't say I'd prefer neighbours making noisy love every night (I've had that, elsewhere), but someone who turns a squeaky tap on, and off, and on again,and off again, on-and-off steadily for about tweny minutes at 2.00am is almost as inconsiderate. I have no idea what they thought they were doing. But thanks to them waking me at these unholy hours with their random-tap-turning obsession, I don't think I had a single unbroken night's sleep. Boo.
Lastly, my alarm clock began to play up; so because I am a Big Girl and know what I am doing with modern technology (Oh Yes I Do), I set up my mobile phone to give me an alarm call. Which it did, most efficiently. But in turning it on, last night while I was packing for my return journey, I picked up a text message from my landlady giving me notice to quit the place I'm living, because she and her partner are putting the flat on the market.
B*llocks. I hate flatshare-hunting, and I hate moving, and I was already feeling worried about coming back to face the latest stage of the restructure at work. Now I also have to face finding somewhere new to live. Neither area of my life is clear and straight at all, suddenly.
So if anyone reading this is in south, and in particular south-west London, and wants a lodger or a flat-mate, or knows anyone else who does, let me know.
I need to wind this up, wash up my supper plate, and finish unpacking; and then I need a fairly early night. Work tomorrow, and I am still on Greek time. And I have a ticket to see the Draft Works bill at the Linbury Studio tomorrow evening. To remind myself of the consolations of London; the things like culture, that I would miss most painfully if I were to chuck it all in and decamp permanently to Greece. I would miss my friends, too, and some of my colleagues; and I would miss bookshops. I can see myself spending a fortune on Amazon, and setting up a amateur theatre group and a choir and a cinema club, just to try and have some Culchah in my paradise.
I think I would fail as a lotus eater. But I do crave my little doses of lotus from time to time...
Katelios is still beautiful. It was quiet and peaceful, the hills around were golden and green (wheat fields and olive groves on the lower slopes, scrub and maquis above), the beach was unspoiled, the sea clean and clear as sapphire. My doubts about staying in a block of studios in the centre of the village were groundless; this early in the season, I was disturbed more by the squeaking taps in a neighbouring room than by any noise from the tavernas and bars along the street. My studio was lovely; comfortable and well-appointed, with a balcony giving me sea views to the left and mountain views to the right. Sparrows chirped on the roof every morning, and swallows and housemartins swooped by constantly.
If I wanted a dip, I could go downstairs and across the road, and be on the town beach in two minutes, or I could turn left and walk along the front for five minutes and be on scruffy, sandy Ayia Varvara beach, with the amethyst silhouette of Zakynthos looking like Bali Hai on the horizon. Shade trees, benches, a couple of rubbish bins, a pinewood changing cubicle for the more modest bather; sand and fine shingle, gently shelving so that one walked for 50 yards to get to chest-deep water; no currents, sandy sea-bottom, perfectly safe swimming with little lapping waves, and small fishes coming to inspect your toes...
A row of tavernas and cafes along the front, above the town beach, and a couple more one street back. Good, classic Greek food; by gum, Hellene cuisine is fine stuff! I don't just mean souvlaki and moussaka, but things like horta and home-baked gigantes, lemon potatoes, briami, skordhalia, beetroot served with its own greens, and so much wonderful fish... Tremendous local wines, too. If you wanted a change, La Floridita served ginormous fresh-cooked pizzas, or a pleasant nameless beach bar halfway along the strand would do you a salad and a toasted cheese-and-olive-paste sarnie, and a bottle of Mythos or Fix...
If you wanted a more untouched spot, then forty minutes' walk on a rocky cliff path over the headland to the east would bring you to Mounda Bay and the almost entirely undeveloped - and quite spectacular - strand of Kaminia Beach. One small cantina, set well-back behind trees, and two very modest hotels, on a golden sandy beach a couple of miles long. It's a turtle nesting site, and it would seem any further development has been stopped because of that. Hurrah! For my money, the walk over the headland and then along this beach to Cape Mounda, the southernmost point of the island, is one of the best I know in Greece. On the Cape there are wind-sculpted caves and tumbled boulders, and the path gets scrabblier and scrabblier until one fears turning an ankle. In fact I just stopped there, and sat on a sloping rock above the waves, to meditate in the utter isolation on The Eternal Spirit Of Hellas...
As well as several very lazy days having a stroll, a swim, a sit in the sun, and then a read in the shade, I did this walk one day and another day I went on an organised but nonetheless highly enjoyable day trip to Ithaka. Ithaka is beautiful; I was moved to poetry. May share that, may not; it's a rambling semi-homage to Cavafy's "Ithaka", and I'm not sure if it's any good or not! But the island herself, being high and green and secret, was very good indeed.
So far, so good. Warmth and good food, good bathing, plenty of time to relax under a tree and read Fat Novels no's 1 and 2. But there were downsides.
Firstly, minor but desperately irritating, I caught a cold. All of that good swimming and good eating is less exciting when one has a sore throat and a stuffy head, and is periodically letting-off explosive sneezes. It's the classic run-down thing; I was tired and I didn't have enough resistance to fight off the germs.
Secondly, those squeaking taps I mentioned? Someone who had access to them used to squeak them rather a lot. I can't say I'd prefer neighbours making noisy love every night (I've had that, elsewhere), but someone who turns a squeaky tap on, and off, and on again,and off again, on-and-off steadily for about tweny minutes at 2.00am is almost as inconsiderate. I have no idea what they thought they were doing. But thanks to them waking me at these unholy hours with their random-tap-turning obsession, I don't think I had a single unbroken night's sleep. Boo.
Lastly, my alarm clock began to play up; so because I am a Big Girl and know what I am doing with modern technology (Oh Yes I Do), I set up my mobile phone to give me an alarm call. Which it did, most efficiently. But in turning it on, last night while I was packing for my return journey, I picked up a text message from my landlady giving me notice to quit the place I'm living, because she and her partner are putting the flat on the market.
B*llocks. I hate flatshare-hunting, and I hate moving, and I was already feeling worried about coming back to face the latest stage of the restructure at work. Now I also have to face finding somewhere new to live. Neither area of my life is clear and straight at all, suddenly.
So if anyone reading this is in south, and in particular south-west London, and wants a lodger or a flat-mate, or knows anyone else who does, let me know.
I need to wind this up, wash up my supper plate, and finish unpacking; and then I need a fairly early night. Work tomorrow, and I am still on Greek time. And I have a ticket to see the Draft Works bill at the Linbury Studio tomorrow evening. To remind myself of the consolations of London; the things like culture, that I would miss most painfully if I were to chuck it all in and decamp permanently to Greece. I would miss my friends, too, and some of my colleagues; and I would miss bookshops. I can see myself spending a fortune on Amazon, and setting up a amateur theatre group and a choir and a cinema club, just to try and have some Culchah in my paradise.
I think I would fail as a lotus eater. But I do crave my little doses of lotus from time to time...
Monday, 26 May 2014
Holiday plans, and afterwards...
I'm getting packed, although truth to tell it's rather chaotic, and am off in the middle of the night on my trip to to Kefalonia. It has rained in London pretty much without ceasing, all day today; I cannot wait for my week away from the Great British Climate. I have two fat novels and two notebooks, and a camera, so between reading, writing, and photography I'll have plenty to occupy my mind when I am not walking or swimming or relaxing under a tree, or drinking freshly-squeezed orange juice or cold white wine...
When I get back, I'll find out the latest about the changes at work, I expect, and I will have some decisions to make about my writing, and (unless I'm frantically trying to find a new job, which gods forbid) I'll be trying to be more sociable. I seem to have seen very little of my friends of late; I've been so miserably tired, and frequently depressed, that I tend to scuttle home and shut the door quickly each evening. I've been wondering about trying to organise a group outing of some kind, maybe to a Prom or one of the Somerset House open-air cinema screenings, or perhaps to the theatre - though I suspect I may be the only one of my friends who feels a yen towards Titus Andronicus (I confess I am partly tempted by the prospect of William Houston covered in gore! - but it's also a weird and powerful play that I haven't seen since I was at school, and I can imagine its subject matter is apt to the times in some ways...).
Anyway, I hope to return from Hellas restored in mind, body and spirit, if that isn't asking too much. Goodness knows I need to be.
I hope this finds anyone reading it well and happy - have a good week, wherever you are!
When I get back, I'll find out the latest about the changes at work, I expect, and I will have some decisions to make about my writing, and (unless I'm frantically trying to find a new job, which gods forbid) I'll be trying to be more sociable. I seem to have seen very little of my friends of late; I've been so miserably tired, and frequently depressed, that I tend to scuttle home and shut the door quickly each evening. I've been wondering about trying to organise a group outing of some kind, maybe to a Prom or one of the Somerset House open-air cinema screenings, or perhaps to the theatre - though I suspect I may be the only one of my friends who feels a yen towards Titus Andronicus (I confess I am partly tempted by the prospect of William Houston covered in gore! - but it's also a weird and powerful play that I haven't seen since I was at school, and I can imagine its subject matter is apt to the times in some ways...).
Anyway, I hope to return from Hellas restored in mind, body and spirit, if that isn't asking too much. Goodness knows I need to be.
I hope this finds anyone reading it well and happy - have a good week, wherever you are!
Friday, 23 May 2014
Made it out...
...I made it out alive...
It's Friday and I made it to the end of this week, and now I have finished work for ten whole days - no, eleven, even. Yea! And at crack of dawn on Tuesday I go to Kefalonia for a week.
Before that I have three days to work my way through a stack of odd jobs. It looks like being a busy weekend. Tomorrow, hopefully I'm meeting up with some friends for tea, after one of those ridiculously cheering pre-holiday shopping expeditions for new walking sandals, sun lotion, insect repellant etc.
Sunday I want to have a proper, full-on Writing Day. I want to make some progress on "The Healers" and I also want to get the rest of my recent poems typed up. I probably won't post many more of those here for a while, though. The majority of them lately are about the odd feeling of falling for someone you thought was a friend, and realising the "It's just biology" trick isn't working anymore... But they're quite good in some cases, these poems, albeit lyrical and soppy; so I mean to keep them. Maybe publishable in twenty years or so; when I retire, yes, that sounds about right.
Monday I will be packing and stashing left-over food in the freezer, or taking it to the Dipgeek for her and the Lovely J to eat, and then I'll be getting two hours' sleep before catching a night bus to Victoria Station, and the train to Gatwick, and my flight...
It has been another hectic week at work; I wound up putting in almost 1 1/2 hours unpaid extra at the end of today sorting things out, in order to leave a reasonable state of affairs while I'm away. The constant barrage of irritating problems with the new system just slows everything down; and there are only the same number of hours in the day as there always have been. I am working flat-out, and I still can't keep up. I'm tired. But I have - I think I have - left a fairly clean desk.
On Wednesday we had a big meeting, all our section, to learn more about the staff restructure. In the event there still wasn't very much to learn about, as the details are yet to be hammered out. The overall new structure, which was presented on Wednesday, makes a lot of sense; but it isn't final and may change further. This is going to take a while, and the lack of certainty is pretty depressing. But then such things always are depressing. I now know that my role is affected, but not much more than that; it's all basically still speculation - "It's likely to be this or maybe more like that, but things may change".
So - well, okay. That's how it is. Nothing I can do but wait and see, give my input if/when asked for it, and do my best whatever happens. If what's been outlined to me as a possible scenario is what does finally happen, I'll be okay with that. But none of it is fixed, so I won't pin too many hopes on it just yet awhile.
Saw my crush on Thursday, and found to my relief that I could be around him, talk to him intelligently and reasonably sensibly, and enjoy his input and his company, without feeling heart-sore or making a fool of myself. And I don't think he has a clue what's going on in my head, which is also a relief (unless, of course, he's just a very good actor!). He's one of those people who restore your faith in human nature; so it would be a pretty rotten thing if I were to be a cause of embarrassment to him. I'm an old-fashioned enough Brit to think one should do right by those one respects; so not to cause a problem for this chap is important to me. Now I can let myself hope that in time we'll be able to be friends. Much the best outcome, if it can be so.
But anyway, now I am off work for a spell, and I can put everything behind me; walk away from the tiredness, from the wry sadness, from having had to crush feelings I had just begun to allow myself after seven years, and from the non-stop pace and general anxiety at work... And so I will go to Katelios, to swim, walk, read, do some writing, eat grilled fish and salad and drink good Greek wine, and have a rest.
I wish I could bestow a week in Greece on all my friends and everyone I work with. I see so many tired, stressed faces lately. It's a busy time of year at the best of times, and with the restructure and the uncertainty that brings, a lot of people at work are worried. Whilst among my non-work friends there are theses to be completed, weddings to be planned, houses to be sold, new jobs to be found, new digs to be settled into, bad break-ups to be got-over... Yes, stressful times for so many people at the moment.
I wish I could just pluck them all up and drop them down in my favourite places in Greece. Athens for the city-break buffs, Crete for the lovers of mountains and archeology, Thassos for the swimming nuts, the serious foodies and everyone who likes a bit of everything, Kefalonia for those who want a complete rest... I wish I could give Greece, the home of my heart, to everyone who would benefit from it.
If I am ever rich, maybe I will. Remind me, if I write a best-seller!
It's Friday and I made it to the end of this week, and now I have finished work for ten whole days - no, eleven, even. Yea! And at crack of dawn on Tuesday I go to Kefalonia for a week.
Before that I have three days to work my way through a stack of odd jobs. It looks like being a busy weekend. Tomorrow, hopefully I'm meeting up with some friends for tea, after one of those ridiculously cheering pre-holiday shopping expeditions for new walking sandals, sun lotion, insect repellant etc.
Sunday I want to have a proper, full-on Writing Day. I want to make some progress on "The Healers" and I also want to get the rest of my recent poems typed up. I probably won't post many more of those here for a while, though. The majority of them lately are about the odd feeling of falling for someone you thought was a friend, and realising the "It's just biology" trick isn't working anymore... But they're quite good in some cases, these poems, albeit lyrical and soppy; so I mean to keep them. Maybe publishable in twenty years or so; when I retire, yes, that sounds about right.
Monday I will be packing and stashing left-over food in the freezer, or taking it to the Dipgeek for her and the Lovely J to eat, and then I'll be getting two hours' sleep before catching a night bus to Victoria Station, and the train to Gatwick, and my flight...
It has been another hectic week at work; I wound up putting in almost 1 1/2 hours unpaid extra at the end of today sorting things out, in order to leave a reasonable state of affairs while I'm away. The constant barrage of irritating problems with the new system just slows everything down; and there are only the same number of hours in the day as there always have been. I am working flat-out, and I still can't keep up. I'm tired. But I have - I think I have - left a fairly clean desk.
On Wednesday we had a big meeting, all our section, to learn more about the staff restructure. In the event there still wasn't very much to learn about, as the details are yet to be hammered out. The overall new structure, which was presented on Wednesday, makes a lot of sense; but it isn't final and may change further. This is going to take a while, and the lack of certainty is pretty depressing. But then such things always are depressing. I now know that my role is affected, but not much more than that; it's all basically still speculation - "It's likely to be this or maybe more like that, but things may change".
So - well, okay. That's how it is. Nothing I can do but wait and see, give my input if/when asked for it, and do my best whatever happens. If what's been outlined to me as a possible scenario is what does finally happen, I'll be okay with that. But none of it is fixed, so I won't pin too many hopes on it just yet awhile.
Saw my crush on Thursday, and found to my relief that I could be around him, talk to him intelligently and reasonably sensibly, and enjoy his input and his company, without feeling heart-sore or making a fool of myself. And I don't think he has a clue what's going on in my head, which is also a relief (unless, of course, he's just a very good actor!). He's one of those people who restore your faith in human nature; so it would be a pretty rotten thing if I were to be a cause of embarrassment to him. I'm an old-fashioned enough Brit to think one should do right by those one respects; so not to cause a problem for this chap is important to me. Now I can let myself hope that in time we'll be able to be friends. Much the best outcome, if it can be so.
But anyway, now I am off work for a spell, and I can put everything behind me; walk away from the tiredness, from the wry sadness, from having had to crush feelings I had just begun to allow myself after seven years, and from the non-stop pace and general anxiety at work... And so I will go to Katelios, to swim, walk, read, do some writing, eat grilled fish and salad and drink good Greek wine, and have a rest.
I wish I could bestow a week in Greece on all my friends and everyone I work with. I see so many tired, stressed faces lately. It's a busy time of year at the best of times, and with the restructure and the uncertainty that brings, a lot of people at work are worried. Whilst among my non-work friends there are theses to be completed, weddings to be planned, houses to be sold, new jobs to be found, new digs to be settled into, bad break-ups to be got-over... Yes, stressful times for so many people at the moment.
I wish I could just pluck them all up and drop them down in my favourite places in Greece. Athens for the city-break buffs, Crete for the lovers of mountains and archeology, Thassos for the swimming nuts, the serious foodies and everyone who likes a bit of everything, Kefalonia for those who want a complete rest... I wish I could give Greece, the home of my heart, to everyone who would benefit from it.
If I am ever rich, maybe I will. Remind me, if I write a best-seller!
Sunday, 4 May 2014
Weary but not unprofitable
Oof. I am tired and I have backache.
I love bank holiday weekends; three days off instead of two, yea! So despite going out last night and eating far too many tapas, and drinking far too much sangria, on top of far too many cocktails, and consequently feeling pretty wiped out today, I have still got two days off after this.
Party last night was the one I was worry-warting about a few days ago, the posh one in the smart bar uptown. I really don't run to much moderately dressy clothing (I have one summer dress and a few really evening-y things) so I compromised on one of my new blouses and my turquoise green linen slacks, and my big gesture towards being dressy was to wear (gasp) make-up. I never usually wear more than a dab of lippy at most. Looking in the mirror at myself in lip-liner and lipstick and mascara and sparkly highlighter and concealer was rather odd, and I confess my first thought was that I looked like a cartoon version of myself. So when I got to the party and overheard one guest saying to another "Is that Imogen over there?" I wasn't sure whether to be gratified or thoroughly embarrassed.
It was a good party though; the cocktails were amazing and the tapas were plentiful and tasty, and the company was good. There came a point though at about 10.30 or 10.45 when the music was cranked up, and I suddenly couldn't hear a thing anyone was saying to me. Not being able to have a conversation rather takes the pleasure out of a party if one isn't young and lovely and partying in order to flirt (there were plenty of attractive interesting people there, so partying to flirt would have been a thoroughly enjoyable activity had I been 28 instead of 48!). And it wasn't my kind of music anyway. I'd entertained hopes of something Latin, as it was a Spanish club; I can still pull off a passable salsa and merengue, though I no longer remember the footwork of the chachacha. But thumping-bass "dance" music isn't my cup of tea. So I snuck off home, and slept abominably, probably on account of all those cocktails, and managed to lie in an odd position and give myself backache...
What else? The National Theatre "King Lear" was even better than I expected/hoped/feared. I can now say I have finally seen a production that really, utterly worked. It was cold and clear-headed and lucid, and terrifying, and heart-rending. Talk about being purged with pity and terror; my God, was I gutwrenched. Simon Russell Beale was tremendous. Not a Lear with any kind of comfort in him, but a harsh, desperate man with dementia, battling his own slow descent, and failing. Stephen Boxer was a phenomenally good Gloucester, too - the embodiment of that poem about realising the man being tortured in the next room is the bureaucrat you thought would save you (it's by Margaret Atwood, I think, but I can't find the bally book in the muddle of my shelves at the moment).
I came out and stood at the bus stop in the torrential rain feeling as though I were a speck of dust to be trodden underfoot and ground to nothing. Hardly a comfortable feeling; but it was a powerful and a kathartic evening, and sometimes, when one is strong enough, these are worth all the grief and pain they evoke.
It did leave me teribly aware though of how much I miss seeing my old mate Alan; he's pretty much house-bound these days and I don't think he's been to the theatre for a couple of years. He is 84, in fairness, so he's entitled to take things more quietly if he wants to. But I would have loved to discuss this production with him; the details, the way no-one was "verse-speaking" and so the verse became like powerful, slightly cadenced but perfectly real speech, the stage design and the fantastic sound design, the casting decisions... I do have theatre and opera and ballet-going buddies, but few of them are as knowledgeable, or as up for a hearty debate on the director's intentions and the political connotations of the blocking of Act one Scene one, and all the rest of it, as dear old Alan.
What elose, what else? I booked a holiday yesterday. I'm going back to lovely Kefalonia for a week at the end of the month; back to the same place I've been to for the last two years, Katelios. This time I'm going to be staying right in the heart of the village, in studios built above one of the harbourfront tavernas. I've tended to be in quiet places in the middle of fields, lately, so this is a bit of a departure for me - the last time I had accommodation in the middle of a town was staying on Poros, way back before I went to college.
Hopefully it won't be too noisy (after all, Katelios is hardly Ayia Napa; the worst I'm likely to get is some music and buzz from the tavernas). But it will be lovely to be back there. Katelios is small and rather scruffy, with a lovely but relatively undeveloped beach, and some good walking in the area, and it has just enough in the way of touristic infrastructure that one can get a good meal or an ice-cream, and a peaceful drink before supper, and book a boat trip...
I can hardly wait.
The last six months have been hectic at work. It seemed to take forever to shake off that horrible bug I had at my birthday. I seem to be permanently tired at the moment, and there's no sign of any let-up for the forseeable future. Even the writing is stalled at present, apart from this sudden attack of poetry.
The western I've been working on is stuck, at a stage where I know what I've written isn't right and needa a full rewrite, and the next part doesn't gel yet. But once I get past that problem, I've got the next two chapters written out in long-hand already. So all I need to do is join up the gap. It ought to be easy; I'm going to have another bash at pushing on through the pain barrier this afternoon. It's going to take me to the point of killing off a minor character who I don't feel I've done justice to (he's the bit that needs to be rewritten) and that feels oddly mean and wrong when he's not been got down on the page right to begin with.
Ugh, I went all through this with Jamie Weston in "Gold hawk" and I'm doing it again? Why do I kill characters off at all if it's so hard to do? Maybe I should settle for writing nice cuddly fluffy stuff where everyone is happy and no-one is ever troubled or untruthful or unfaithful or wrong-headed, and nobody ever gets hurt or dies; where all misunderstandings are righted and all love is true.
The problem is, that would be crap. I write what comes to me, I can do no other; and sometimes it's a mess, and sometimes people die. Torstein Riis is going to die. I'm a-gonna kill you, Sheriff, so watch out! Then Wood will be free to go about the countryside being miserable and avenging people he feels he's betrayed for a while (this is the part that exists in long-hand). In my long-hand notebook I started writing the denouement a couple of days ago.
Maybe I should skip the part that isn't working altogether and type up my long-hand sections, and then come back and fill the gap? "Gabriel Yeats" was written in lumps and bumps and raggedy chunks like that, after all. It's not my best work but I think its weaknesses are due to other factors than the eccentric way I wrote it. I managed to kill of Thomas Rosenau easily enough, come to think of it, and I adored Thomas. Maybe I'm getting lily-livered with my old age...
Hmmph; and maybe I should get on with the writing, instead of with the writing-about-writing...
No, I must not think like this; I must not sit here telling myself I'm feeble and awful and am getting nowhere. It isn't true. I am making progress. It may not be tidy progress but it is progress nonetheless. I am weary, yes, but not stale, or flat, or unprofitable.
There have been some big pluses to the last six months. Several new friends, for starters. I have met some really lovely kindred spirits online lately (hello, Kath, if you're reading this!). And work has thrown me recently into the company of someone I've always been curious about, who has turned out to be interesting, witty, immensely likeable, and possessed of that undervalued quality, great kindness.
Things like this are huge blessings. Friends are sweetness and salt, after all; the essential seasoning of even the most quiet and enclosed life.
The writing is progressing; and poems are not to be sniffed-at when they pop up in the interstices. The Muse is random in her gifts sometimes, but she is still my first and greatest love, and her presence in my life remains another huge blessing.
Life has always been challenging from time to time. And I've always hated the times when it was not, so I have no business complaining now when it is. A great many things, including pressure, struggle and frustration, are better than the soul-sapping effects of being bored.
So - I suppose that means, onwards and upwards for the remainder of today. With maybe a session in the kitchen to start with, since I've promised to make gluten-free chocolate and raspberry cake for tomorrow...
I love bank holiday weekends; three days off instead of two, yea! So despite going out last night and eating far too many tapas, and drinking far too much sangria, on top of far too many cocktails, and consequently feeling pretty wiped out today, I have still got two days off after this.
Party last night was the one I was worry-warting about a few days ago, the posh one in the smart bar uptown. I really don't run to much moderately dressy clothing (I have one summer dress and a few really evening-y things) so I compromised on one of my new blouses and my turquoise green linen slacks, and my big gesture towards being dressy was to wear (gasp) make-up. I never usually wear more than a dab of lippy at most. Looking in the mirror at myself in lip-liner and lipstick and mascara and sparkly highlighter and concealer was rather odd, and I confess my first thought was that I looked like a cartoon version of myself. So when I got to the party and overheard one guest saying to another "Is that Imogen over there?" I wasn't sure whether to be gratified or thoroughly embarrassed.
It was a good party though; the cocktails were amazing and the tapas were plentiful and tasty, and the company was good. There came a point though at about 10.30 or 10.45 when the music was cranked up, and I suddenly couldn't hear a thing anyone was saying to me. Not being able to have a conversation rather takes the pleasure out of a party if one isn't young and lovely and partying in order to flirt (there were plenty of attractive interesting people there, so partying to flirt would have been a thoroughly enjoyable activity had I been 28 instead of 48!). And it wasn't my kind of music anyway. I'd entertained hopes of something Latin, as it was a Spanish club; I can still pull off a passable salsa and merengue, though I no longer remember the footwork of the chachacha. But thumping-bass "dance" music isn't my cup of tea. So I snuck off home, and slept abominably, probably on account of all those cocktails, and managed to lie in an odd position and give myself backache...
What else? The National Theatre "King Lear" was even better than I expected/hoped/feared. I can now say I have finally seen a production that really, utterly worked. It was cold and clear-headed and lucid, and terrifying, and heart-rending. Talk about being purged with pity and terror; my God, was I gutwrenched. Simon Russell Beale was tremendous. Not a Lear with any kind of comfort in him, but a harsh, desperate man with dementia, battling his own slow descent, and failing. Stephen Boxer was a phenomenally good Gloucester, too - the embodiment of that poem about realising the man being tortured in the next room is the bureaucrat you thought would save you (it's by Margaret Atwood, I think, but I can't find the bally book in the muddle of my shelves at the moment).
I came out and stood at the bus stop in the torrential rain feeling as though I were a speck of dust to be trodden underfoot and ground to nothing. Hardly a comfortable feeling; but it was a powerful and a kathartic evening, and sometimes, when one is strong enough, these are worth all the grief and pain they evoke.
It did leave me teribly aware though of how much I miss seeing my old mate Alan; he's pretty much house-bound these days and I don't think he's been to the theatre for a couple of years. He is 84, in fairness, so he's entitled to take things more quietly if he wants to. But I would have loved to discuss this production with him; the details, the way no-one was "verse-speaking" and so the verse became like powerful, slightly cadenced but perfectly real speech, the stage design and the fantastic sound design, the casting decisions... I do have theatre and opera and ballet-going buddies, but few of them are as knowledgeable, or as up for a hearty debate on the director's intentions and the political connotations of the blocking of Act one Scene one, and all the rest of it, as dear old Alan.
What elose, what else? I booked a holiday yesterday. I'm going back to lovely Kefalonia for a week at the end of the month; back to the same place I've been to for the last two years, Katelios. This time I'm going to be staying right in the heart of the village, in studios built above one of the harbourfront tavernas. I've tended to be in quiet places in the middle of fields, lately, so this is a bit of a departure for me - the last time I had accommodation in the middle of a town was staying on Poros, way back before I went to college.
Hopefully it won't be too noisy (after all, Katelios is hardly Ayia Napa; the worst I'm likely to get is some music and buzz from the tavernas). But it will be lovely to be back there. Katelios is small and rather scruffy, with a lovely but relatively undeveloped beach, and some good walking in the area, and it has just enough in the way of touristic infrastructure that one can get a good meal or an ice-cream, and a peaceful drink before supper, and book a boat trip...
I can hardly wait.
The last six months have been hectic at work. It seemed to take forever to shake off that horrible bug I had at my birthday. I seem to be permanently tired at the moment, and there's no sign of any let-up for the forseeable future. Even the writing is stalled at present, apart from this sudden attack of poetry.
The western I've been working on is stuck, at a stage where I know what I've written isn't right and needa a full rewrite, and the next part doesn't gel yet. But once I get past that problem, I've got the next two chapters written out in long-hand already. So all I need to do is join up the gap. It ought to be easy; I'm going to have another bash at pushing on through the pain barrier this afternoon. It's going to take me to the point of killing off a minor character who I don't feel I've done justice to (he's the bit that needs to be rewritten) and that feels oddly mean and wrong when he's not been got down on the page right to begin with.
Ugh, I went all through this with Jamie Weston in "Gold hawk" and I'm doing it again? Why do I kill characters off at all if it's so hard to do? Maybe I should settle for writing nice cuddly fluffy stuff where everyone is happy and no-one is ever troubled or untruthful or unfaithful or wrong-headed, and nobody ever gets hurt or dies; where all misunderstandings are righted and all love is true.
The problem is, that would be crap. I write what comes to me, I can do no other; and sometimes it's a mess, and sometimes people die. Torstein Riis is going to die. I'm a-gonna kill you, Sheriff, so watch out! Then Wood will be free to go about the countryside being miserable and avenging people he feels he's betrayed for a while (this is the part that exists in long-hand). In my long-hand notebook I started writing the denouement a couple of days ago.
Maybe I should skip the part that isn't working altogether and type up my long-hand sections, and then come back and fill the gap? "Gabriel Yeats" was written in lumps and bumps and raggedy chunks like that, after all. It's not my best work but I think its weaknesses are due to other factors than the eccentric way I wrote it. I managed to kill of Thomas Rosenau easily enough, come to think of it, and I adored Thomas. Maybe I'm getting lily-livered with my old age...
Hmmph; and maybe I should get on with the writing, instead of with the writing-about-writing...
No, I must not think like this; I must not sit here telling myself I'm feeble and awful and am getting nowhere. It isn't true. I am making progress. It may not be tidy progress but it is progress nonetheless. I am weary, yes, but not stale, or flat, or unprofitable.
There have been some big pluses to the last six months. Several new friends, for starters. I have met some really lovely kindred spirits online lately (hello, Kath, if you're reading this!). And work has thrown me recently into the company of someone I've always been curious about, who has turned out to be interesting, witty, immensely likeable, and possessed of that undervalued quality, great kindness.
Things like this are huge blessings. Friends are sweetness and salt, after all; the essential seasoning of even the most quiet and enclosed life.
The writing is progressing; and poems are not to be sniffed-at when they pop up in the interstices. The Muse is random in her gifts sometimes, but she is still my first and greatest love, and her presence in my life remains another huge blessing.
Life has always been challenging from time to time. And I've always hated the times when it was not, so I have no business complaining now when it is. A great many things, including pressure, struggle and frustration, are better than the soul-sapping effects of being bored.
So - I suppose that means, onwards and upwards for the remainder of today. With maybe a session in the kitchen to start with, since I've promised to make gluten-free chocolate and raspberry cake for tomorrow...
Sunday, 27 April 2014
Busy busy bee
...that'll be me, next week.
There's work, for starters. I think all the issues I outlined in my last long post are ongoing, so yes, pretty busy at work. Progress is being made, and on all fronts, too; but at this time of year there are more tasks coming in every day, so "progress" does not mean "let-up". No rest for the wicked, ect ect (Molesworth he sa).
At least by the end of the week there may be more information about the restructure. Even if the news is alarming, it will at least mean being out of the limbo of waiting, and into a place where one knows what is happening and can start to plan accordingly.
Monday evening I'm going out with the Dipgeek and another friend to the Curzon in Richmond, to the cinema relay of Christopher Wheeldon's new ballet of "The Winter's Tale"; hopefully with supper beforehand. Given Dip's dietary issues this will probably mean that nice Persian restaurant on the little pedestrain square just off Sheen Road, since they do lots of gluten-free things. Mmm chicken with pomegranate seeds mmmm... Looking forward to seeing my dear Dip again as we haven't met up for several months.
Thursday I'm off to another cinema relay after work, this one at Westfield; the National Theatre "King Lear" with the brilliant Simon Russell Beale, one of my big-time acting heroes, playing Lear. I've been trying to ages to get a ticket to see this in the theatre, but tickets are like the proverbial gold dust and in the end I gave up and said a short prayer of thanks to the gods of live broadcast, and accepted that I will have to spend an evening on board the good ship Axiom... At least I can have gambas al ajillo and patatas bravas and a glass of Mahou at Tapas Revolucion first. I suspect I will need to be fortified with garlic and beer; if Mr Beale is not a harrowingly good Lear I will be very, very surprised indeed. He was easily the best Hamlet I've seen, when he did that some (good grief) fourteen years ago. Somehow every familiar line and speech and scene in the play seemed to come fresh, with him, as fresh as if never experienced before, so that it was almost painful to watch events unfold. For the first time since I was twelve I wanted the ending not to be what I knew it was going to be. It was like seeing one of my brothers going through Hamlet's torments and miseries. Perhaps that's a bad metaphor (neither of them has any inclination to the stage, after all!) - but it all felt so real, so immediate, so like the struggle of a real man. An actor who can do that earns a small piece of my heart, and I don't think I've ever seen Mr Beale give a duff performance; so I am, in a slightly "brace for impact" way, looking forward to his Lear.
Then next Saturday I'm going to an engagement party. TCI and her other half the Lovely G got engaged at Christmas and are now having a proper bash to celebrate. Looking forward to catching up with them, too. I expect that will be a fairly lively evening. Cor-lumme, it's in a posh bar up in the west end and all. I think I need to try and be smart for this one (scurries around trying to think of something dressier than my usual jeans-and-blouse combo). Not that my hair will ever let me be truly smart; it has a disreputable tendency to look messy at any and all occasions. But I can try, anyway.
So, I imagine that by this time next week I may be crashing out and spending my Sunday vegetating under a tree at Kew, or if it's raining then slummocking at home in front of the dvd player watching soppy movies, drinking tea and eating fudge.
I've managed to book some time off, hurrah; a week at the very end of May (hopefully taking me to somewhere in Greece), a long weekend for WOMAD in July, a fortnight in late September (hopefully Greece again) and the week of my birthday (hopefully not having gastroenteritis again!). Having annual leave booked and being able to contemplate the possibility of a holiday is tremendously cheering when one is feeling under pressure. Of course, if (God forbid) I do find myself out of a job then annual leave arrangements become academic... Oh well, one can only wait and see, hope for the best; and have an up-to-date CV just in case. Maybe I should get an actual trip booked for one of those spells of leave; booked and paid-for, so that I can't very easily get out of it if life turns pear-shaped.
But I hope it will not. I hope very much it will not.
What else to report? Bills are stopping making Garlic Pachadi, drat them! It's become a staple in my cooking since I discovered it. I've cleared the nearest store out of their last supplies (four jars) so I'm good for a couple of months, but then... Harrumph harrumph, not fair. I protest, I refuse. I wonder if I can learn to make my own?
Kew Gardens is looking beautiful; it's odd to look back and see that this time last year the snowdrops had only just finished and most trees were still in tight bud. Now we have horse chestnuts in glorious bloom, all the hawthorn family coming out everywhere, rhododendrons in flower and even the earliest roses, like the lovely yellow single-flowered Rosa hugonis... The Rock Garden is an absolute picture, full of asphodels and peonies and alpine tulips... For all its quirks, I work in paradise. Please don't let me have to leave paradise.
Now I must go and get on with some writing. This was going to be a writing day but as always I have got distracted. By thoroughly frivolous things like painting my toenails blue and writing this. Come on, Ims, get a shoofty on!
There's work, for starters. I think all the issues I outlined in my last long post are ongoing, so yes, pretty busy at work. Progress is being made, and on all fronts, too; but at this time of year there are more tasks coming in every day, so "progress" does not mean "let-up". No rest for the wicked, ect ect (Molesworth he sa).
At least by the end of the week there may be more information about the restructure. Even if the news is alarming, it will at least mean being out of the limbo of waiting, and into a place where one knows what is happening and can start to plan accordingly.
Monday evening I'm going out with the Dipgeek and another friend to the Curzon in Richmond, to the cinema relay of Christopher Wheeldon's new ballet of "The Winter's Tale"; hopefully with supper beforehand. Given Dip's dietary issues this will probably mean that nice Persian restaurant on the little pedestrain square just off Sheen Road, since they do lots of gluten-free things. Mmm chicken with pomegranate seeds mmmm... Looking forward to seeing my dear Dip again as we haven't met up for several months.
Thursday I'm off to another cinema relay after work, this one at Westfield; the National Theatre "King Lear" with the brilliant Simon Russell Beale, one of my big-time acting heroes, playing Lear. I've been trying to ages to get a ticket to see this in the theatre, but tickets are like the proverbial gold dust and in the end I gave up and said a short prayer of thanks to the gods of live broadcast, and accepted that I will have to spend an evening on board the good ship Axiom... At least I can have gambas al ajillo and patatas bravas and a glass of Mahou at Tapas Revolucion first. I suspect I will need to be fortified with garlic and beer; if Mr Beale is not a harrowingly good Lear I will be very, very surprised indeed. He was easily the best Hamlet I've seen, when he did that some (good grief) fourteen years ago. Somehow every familiar line and speech and scene in the play seemed to come fresh, with him, as fresh as if never experienced before, so that it was almost painful to watch events unfold. For the first time since I was twelve I wanted the ending not to be what I knew it was going to be. It was like seeing one of my brothers going through Hamlet's torments and miseries. Perhaps that's a bad metaphor (neither of them has any inclination to the stage, after all!) - but it all felt so real, so immediate, so like the struggle of a real man. An actor who can do that earns a small piece of my heart, and I don't think I've ever seen Mr Beale give a duff performance; so I am, in a slightly "brace for impact" way, looking forward to his Lear.
Then next Saturday I'm going to an engagement party. TCI and her other half the Lovely G got engaged at Christmas and are now having a proper bash to celebrate. Looking forward to catching up with them, too. I expect that will be a fairly lively evening. Cor-lumme, it's in a posh bar up in the west end and all. I think I need to try and be smart for this one (scurries around trying to think of something dressier than my usual jeans-and-blouse combo). Not that my hair will ever let me be truly smart; it has a disreputable tendency to look messy at any and all occasions. But I can try, anyway.
So, I imagine that by this time next week I may be crashing out and spending my Sunday vegetating under a tree at Kew, or if it's raining then slummocking at home in front of the dvd player watching soppy movies, drinking tea and eating fudge.
I've managed to book some time off, hurrah; a week at the very end of May (hopefully taking me to somewhere in Greece), a long weekend for WOMAD in July, a fortnight in late September (hopefully Greece again) and the week of my birthday (hopefully not having gastroenteritis again!). Having annual leave booked and being able to contemplate the possibility of a holiday is tremendously cheering when one is feeling under pressure. Of course, if (God forbid) I do find myself out of a job then annual leave arrangements become academic... Oh well, one can only wait and see, hope for the best; and have an up-to-date CV just in case. Maybe I should get an actual trip booked for one of those spells of leave; booked and paid-for, so that I can't very easily get out of it if life turns pear-shaped.
But I hope it will not. I hope very much it will not.
What else to report? Bills are stopping making Garlic Pachadi, drat them! It's become a staple in my cooking since I discovered it. I've cleared the nearest store out of their last supplies (four jars) so I'm good for a couple of months, but then... Harrumph harrumph, not fair. I protest, I refuse. I wonder if I can learn to make my own?
Kew Gardens is looking beautiful; it's odd to look back and see that this time last year the snowdrops had only just finished and most trees were still in tight bud. Now we have horse chestnuts in glorious bloom, all the hawthorn family coming out everywhere, rhododendrons in flower and even the earliest roses, like the lovely yellow single-flowered Rosa hugonis... The Rock Garden is an absolute picture, full of asphodels and peonies and alpine tulips... For all its quirks, I work in paradise. Please don't let me have to leave paradise.
Now I must go and get on with some writing. This was going to be a writing day but as always I have got distracted. By thoroughly frivolous things like painting my toenails blue and writing this. Come on, Ims, get a shoofty on!
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Long time...
...and the time keeps getting longer. The days are getting shorter, true, but I'm still getting older with them.
I suppose I should be grateful that I'm alive to be remarking to myself on my increasing years. It's a quiet, rather dull grey day here in west London and I have put a load of washing out, so I'm hovering periodically at the window to keep an eye on the weather. In between drinking large quanitities of herb tea and eating noodles for lunch. I have also bought a big batch of sensible groceries, had a shower and finished reading "The Help". Which was terrific; one of those books that really live up to the hype. Gut-wrenching at times, moving, angering, inspiring, and beautifully written.
I've been away, for a week in peaceful, rural, damp and dramatically foggy Cornwall. That's probably why I'm feeling a little introspective and depressed today; a mixture of tiredness from the journey back and the general post-holiday-slump-plus-concommittant-blues that I seem to get every time I have a decent slab of time off. God knows what I would be like if I hated the place where I work instead of being fond of it.
Last week I was staying in a place that had wifi, but I didn't have a computer; I was staying with a television-phobe, so there was no tv; and none of us have fancy tech like i-pods and portable speakers, so there was no recorded music either. A complete brain detox and wind-down, with no sounds except gulls and jackdaws, human voices, the odd fishing boat pottering about in the harbour, and once or twice a helicopter overhead or a larger ship coming in to port. Plenty of fresh air, albeit rather wet fresh air a lot of the time. Bit of walking, bit of chilling-out, bit of reading, and a much-needed rest.
I wish I knew why this always happens to me after a holiday. I should love to come home refreshed and re-energised, upbeat, determined to profit by my time off and the perspective it has given me. But despite my best efforts, each time, to think optimistically from now on, I still find myself instead feeling like dust and ashes. Stale, flat and unprofitable...
I looked in the bathroom mirror this morning, and saw a plain, plump, serious-looking woman in her late forties, with her grey-and-brown mixed roots showing as her hair dye grows out, and her spectacles sliding down her nose. She doesn't look interesting or like someone anyone would bother to get to know. She doesn't look as though she has a story of her own (much less a whole head full of them) or anything about her to make her of interest to anyone. She looks tired, even after a week off, and rather grubby and rubbed-about-the-edges, like a beaten-up old recipe book.
I look around my small room in this shared flat, and I see nothing but muddle and clutter; junk I ought to throw away (but don't), half-filled sketchbooks, notebooks on unfinished writing projects... I think of how many times I have gotten nowhere with something I thought I was doing well at; how many times I have failed, by my own and others' standards. A sense of my own worthlessness bubbles up in my mind, gradually filtering through the topsoil of confidence until it is saturating every thought. And I feel, I know, myself and my life to be mere dust and ashes.
It's depression; only mild depression, thank God, but recogniseable nonetheless. I've had it before, I suppose it's likely I will have it again. I know it will ease, and then pass (or, my inner voices of doubt and self-condemnation whisper, it will get buried again under a blanket of denial and avoidance tactics). I will come through it. It's partly because the journey back from Cornwall to London takes about ten hours and after ten hours either sitting in a car or sitting on a crowded train I am tired and rather stiff. I know all this. But I still feel flat. Stale. And dust, and ashes, and all the rest of it...
I suppose I should be grateful that I'm alive to be remarking to myself on my increasing years. It's a quiet, rather dull grey day here in west London and I have put a load of washing out, so I'm hovering periodically at the window to keep an eye on the weather. In between drinking large quanitities of herb tea and eating noodles for lunch. I have also bought a big batch of sensible groceries, had a shower and finished reading "The Help". Which was terrific; one of those books that really live up to the hype. Gut-wrenching at times, moving, angering, inspiring, and beautifully written.
I've been away, for a week in peaceful, rural, damp and dramatically foggy Cornwall. That's probably why I'm feeling a little introspective and depressed today; a mixture of tiredness from the journey back and the general post-holiday-slump-plus-concommittant-blues that I seem to get every time I have a decent slab of time off. God knows what I would be like if I hated the place where I work instead of being fond of it.
Last week I was staying in a place that had wifi, but I didn't have a computer; I was staying with a television-phobe, so there was no tv; and none of us have fancy tech like i-pods and portable speakers, so there was no recorded music either. A complete brain detox and wind-down, with no sounds except gulls and jackdaws, human voices, the odd fishing boat pottering about in the harbour, and once or twice a helicopter overhead or a larger ship coming in to port. Plenty of fresh air, albeit rather wet fresh air a lot of the time. Bit of walking, bit of chilling-out, bit of reading, and a much-needed rest.
I wish I knew why this always happens to me after a holiday. I should love to come home refreshed and re-energised, upbeat, determined to profit by my time off and the perspective it has given me. But despite my best efforts, each time, to think optimistically from now on, I still find myself instead feeling like dust and ashes. Stale, flat and unprofitable...
I looked in the bathroom mirror this morning, and saw a plain, plump, serious-looking woman in her late forties, with her grey-and-brown mixed roots showing as her hair dye grows out, and her spectacles sliding down her nose. She doesn't look interesting or like someone anyone would bother to get to know. She doesn't look as though she has a story of her own (much less a whole head full of them) or anything about her to make her of interest to anyone. She looks tired, even after a week off, and rather grubby and rubbed-about-the-edges, like a beaten-up old recipe book.
I look around my small room in this shared flat, and I see nothing but muddle and clutter; junk I ought to throw away (but don't), half-filled sketchbooks, notebooks on unfinished writing projects... I think of how many times I have gotten nowhere with something I thought I was doing well at; how many times I have failed, by my own and others' standards. A sense of my own worthlessness bubbles up in my mind, gradually filtering through the topsoil of confidence until it is saturating every thought. And I feel, I know, myself and my life to be mere dust and ashes.
It's depression; only mild depression, thank God, but recogniseable nonetheless. I've had it before, I suppose it's likely I will have it again. I know it will ease, and then pass (or, my inner voices of doubt and self-condemnation whisper, it will get buried again under a blanket of denial and avoidance tactics). I will come through it. It's partly because the journey back from Cornwall to London takes about ten hours and after ten hours either sitting in a car or sitting on a crowded train I am tired and rather stiff. I know all this. But I still feel flat. Stale. And dust, and ashes, and all the rest of it...
Thursday, 23 May 2013
A bit of a touch of the blues...
I thought I had posted a short "I'm going on holiday, yippee!" piece, but it seems to have vanished, along with several other recent posts. Perhaps it will reappear when I upload this? Who knows... The mysteries of blogger are past my fathoming.
I went to Kefalonia for a week; I relaxed and swam in the sea and read a great deal and did some writing and slept a lot. There were swallows nesting under the eaves of almost every house in the vllage and the air was full of their lyrical twittering, morning to night. The beach was scruffy and undeveloped, with clean sand and pebbles, pine trees and a few elderly benches along the track at the back. The sea was clear, and as warm as bathwater. The tavernas and the couple of local cafes were good, the local wine was excellent, and the nights were silent apart from the croaking of frogs and the calling of owls.
And now I'm back in London, which seems incredibly dark in comparison, and decidedly chilly. My whole being feels like one huge sigh of regret. It's just one of those blue returns, when I have more than a touch of dust and ashes, and less of a touch of the human spirit, in me. I wish I did not live in a country where the sky is so very often grey. There are places where the colour grey is hauntingly beautiful - in some people's eyes, for example - but in the sky it is just sad.
Saturday, 27 April 2013
What a day, what a day...
...for an auto-da-fe...
It's a Saturday, which is good.
Despite pretty cloudy skies it has only rained once all day, which is good.
I could be a heck of a lot worse-off and I'm not. Which is good (~ish).
But, eee, what a day.
I have spent most of today online, trying to book my annual holiday. I've been so careful with money, trying to save enough so that I can splash out on two whole weeks of perfect relaxation in Greece next month. And I'd looked at my bank account and thought "Yes! I've made it! I have enough money! Holida-ay!"
Then I started trying to book it.
I think I do this every year. I tell myself to be sensible and go to a travel agent; then I think "But all these companies have websites and online bookings, and if I use those I get far more choice. Ach, come on, don't be a baby, you have Kaspersky anti-virus, you can shop online!". And I fall for it again; this illusion that it will be easier. Because there was a time - about ten years ago - when it was.
Not anymore.
Thomson Holidays actively don't want my money. Their online booking system stinks to high heaven; seriously, it SUCKS. It doesn't accept the existance of single travellers, and changes its mind about availability every five minutes, and keeps randomly altering the booking criteria for no apparent reason (one minute I'm booking for the dates I want, the next it's shifted my holiday on by a fortnight. Why, Thomson, why?).
I complained, and was advised to "ring our customer service team". So I did; and they said "Oh, no, we can't take a late booking over the telephone, counter-fraud measures, so sorry, computer says no, please go to your nearest Thomson Preferred travel agent."
My nearest Thomson Preferred travel agent is in effing Ruislip.
Thomson Customer Service: I'm sorry but when a booking date is within three weeks we have to implement counter-fraud measures because it could be fraud.
Me: Other companies take late bookings over the telephone! I work in a customer service role myself, I know this isn't your fault, but - but - it's a really stupid situation. I am trying to give your company my money and at every stage of the process Thomson are making it as hard as possible for me.
She was nice, insofar as she didn't get outright frosty when I was getting arsey. But no go, nonetheless.
I went online some more. Thomas Cook's website jammed when I tried to tell it I want to fly from a London airport.
Thomas Cook's Website: Urgh... Work. Me no like work. London; London? >spinning wheel of death symbol< wtf, nsfw, rofl, hehehehe unf...
Olympic Holidays website does at least work.
Olympic Holidays Website: Here are some options - Kalymnos; north Crete in the middle of nowhere with a shingle beach; or a place on Rhodes that you haven't heard of.
I got hopeful. I'd found some possibilities. Not what I wanted (2 weeks on Thassos) but passable; and still Greece. Still my heart's-home, my heaven and heart's ease, Hellas.
Then I noticed the problem. All these potential holidays have bl**dy night flights. For the return flight.
Oh yes, I'm so up for that. Go away, relax, chill out; walk in the mountains and under the pines swim in the sea eat good Greek food drink retsina and Mythos write sketch read sleep soundly for fourteen nights; and then stay up till three a.m travelling home. Blow all the benefit of your holiday in one night, without even having any bloody fun doing it, and stagger into work the next day looking so pie-eyed people think you've been across the Atlantic and back and partied till you were blue in the face.
Hell, maybe I should. Wonder what Cuba is like this time of year?
Bah humbug, and horseshit and a pile of it. The yearly saga of Im's unbooked holiday.
Tbc, I expect. I hope. I pray.
There's a rainbow over west London as I write this. Please let that be an omen.
It's a Saturday, which is good.
Despite pretty cloudy skies it has only rained once all day, which is good.
I could be a heck of a lot worse-off and I'm not. Which is good (~ish).
But, eee, what a day.
I have spent most of today online, trying to book my annual holiday. I've been so careful with money, trying to save enough so that I can splash out on two whole weeks of perfect relaxation in Greece next month. And I'd looked at my bank account and thought "Yes! I've made it! I have enough money! Holida-ay!"
Then I started trying to book it.
I think I do this every year. I tell myself to be sensible and go to a travel agent; then I think "But all these companies have websites and online bookings, and if I use those I get far more choice. Ach, come on, don't be a baby, you have Kaspersky anti-virus, you can shop online!". And I fall for it again; this illusion that it will be easier. Because there was a time - about ten years ago - when it was.
Not anymore.
Thomson Holidays actively don't want my money. Their online booking system stinks to high heaven; seriously, it SUCKS. It doesn't accept the existance of single travellers, and changes its mind about availability every five minutes, and keeps randomly altering the booking criteria for no apparent reason (one minute I'm booking for the dates I want, the next it's shifted my holiday on by a fortnight. Why, Thomson, why?).
I complained, and was advised to "ring our customer service team". So I did; and they said "Oh, no, we can't take a late booking over the telephone, counter-fraud measures, so sorry, computer says no, please go to your nearest Thomson Preferred travel agent."
My nearest Thomson Preferred travel agent is in effing Ruislip.
Thomson Customer Service: I'm sorry but when a booking date is within three weeks we have to implement counter-fraud measures because it could be fraud.
Me: Other companies take late bookings over the telephone! I work in a customer service role myself, I know this isn't your fault, but - but - it's a really stupid situation. I am trying to give your company my money and at every stage of the process Thomson are making it as hard as possible for me.
She was nice, insofar as she didn't get outright frosty when I was getting arsey. But no go, nonetheless.
I went online some more. Thomas Cook's website jammed when I tried to tell it I want to fly from a London airport.
Thomas Cook's Website: Urgh... Work. Me no like work. London; London? >spinning wheel of death symbol< wtf, nsfw, rofl, hehehehe unf...
Olympic Holidays website does at least work.
Olympic Holidays Website: Here are some options - Kalymnos; north Crete in the middle of nowhere with a shingle beach; or a place on Rhodes that you haven't heard of.
I got hopeful. I'd found some possibilities. Not what I wanted (2 weeks on Thassos) but passable; and still Greece. Still my heart's-home, my heaven and heart's ease, Hellas.
Then I noticed the problem. All these potential holidays have bl**dy night flights. For the return flight.
Oh yes, I'm so up for that. Go away, relax, chill out; walk in the mountains and under the pines swim in the sea eat good Greek food drink retsina and Mythos write sketch read sleep soundly for fourteen nights; and then stay up till three a.m travelling home. Blow all the benefit of your holiday in one night, without even having any bloody fun doing it, and stagger into work the next day looking so pie-eyed people think you've been across the Atlantic and back and partied till you were blue in the face.
Hell, maybe I should. Wonder what Cuba is like this time of year?
Bah humbug, and horseshit and a pile of it. The yearly saga of Im's unbooked holiday.
Tbc, I expect. I hope. I pray.
There's a rainbow over west London as I write this. Please let that be an omen.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Well, this is odd; five:two diet (update)
I still haven't lost that much actual on-the-scales weight on this here five-two diet; just over a stone, in around six months (and that's including a month off after the flu and a couple of shorter breaks). But I have changed shape so much; it's really quite odd.
My boobs are still the same size, hurrah. But I've had to take two pairs of trousers in at the waist. And when I tried on the two shirts I thought I was going to have to let out - to see how much I needed to let them out by - I found that I don't need to let them out anymore.
And three pairs of jeans that were close-fitting, bordering on tight, all through the upper third are now comfy at the waist and loose in the thigh.
I know raving about diets is a problem for some people. I've never been a dieter before, much less a diet fangirl. If you know me, you know I'm definitly not a closet anorexic with horrendous denial issues... But it is really satisfying to lose weight, off the bits that needed to lose it, painlessly and straightforwardly, like this. And to feel so healthy on it (at least now I've shaken off that miserable flu and its aftereffects).
I'm enjoying my days off, although aware (from the degree that I've slumped) that I had indeed got very, very tired lately. I'm doing some writing and some sewing, I'm having a lie-in in the mornings, and yesterday I had lunch out and made a batch of fudge (which came out a bit funny, but still tastes good). Writing, sewing, cookery; all very fulfilling creative acts.
Life is okay, yep, I think so... And realising how tired I've been getting has made me decide that if I possibly can, this year, I'm going to have a full two weeks away in Greece, instead of the one week I have ended up with the last few years. It's worth committing a bit more money to, to get that utter peace, the pine-scented clean air, and the swimming in the sea and reading as much as I want... So if I get the chance, this week, I'm going to try and book that.
Monday, 15 April 2013
Well, this is a pleasure...
I have a week off.
Nothing planned for it, not going away, not even going away for the weekend. Nothing. Yet there is so much to do! I feel as though I may finally catch up with myself. Work has been hectic lately (far, far better than being bored, I remind myself hastily - I have had jobs in the past that were really boring, and it's a seriously grim experience). Life has felt like one long session of chase-my-own-tail, only without the fun that cats and dogs seem to get out of it, and I'm tired.
I've almost completely given up watching the tele lately, in order to get some more writing done. I had read that it was a very effective trick, and I can now vouch for that. I gave myself a long holiday from "Gold Hawk", and wrote a lot of other bits and bobs, and gave my brain a proper rest before facing up to the painful task of killing off my heroine's family. The bits and bobs were fun to do - a few of them are on ICW and there are some others on a tumblr-writers' blog called jrfrustration, if you're interested (though be warned, the two letters at the beginning of that blog address are indicative)... But now it's back to the real thing again, i.e. hurting poor Anna, and making Thorn feel bad. I'm such a lovely mama to my characters.
Besides the writing, which I hope to do some of every day this week, I'm planning on taking in a couple of exhibitions and perhaps doing a bike ride along the Thames towpath. I have some needlework (there are two blouses I want to let out and some trousers to take in, not to mention a pair of summer baggy trews that have been half-finished for about two years). It's my week this week to clean the flat; bleah, but it has to be done. I want to bake bread and make some dried-apricot jam and a couple of batches of proper crumbly fudge (I'm thinking one lot classic vanilla, one lot honey-walnut...). I want to turn out my summer clothes, since out of the blue the weather has turned warm and bright and one can finally believe the spring is here. I want to catch up with some of the weird bits of shopping that get postponed week after week because one simply doesn't have the effing time to go trailing around looking for odd things like expanding compost. I want to de-mealy-bug my phalaenopsis again. And I'd to try and catch up with the Dipterist, who I haven't seen for ages and who could probably do with a break (maybe I can bribe her with fudge?).
Of course, that is a huge wish-list and I probably won't do the half of it.
I also aim to catch up on some sleep. Did some of that this morning, which is why I'm now more than halfway through Monday already and haven't achieved very much. I know it looks like sheer laziness! But, oh, the bliss - having Monday off, and not having to leap from my bed and rush about!
Okay, enough of this; I've got things to do. Starting with lunch, and that cleaning. Get the cleaning out of the way, and the rest of this week is mine to with as I please. Mine, all mine!
Nothing planned for it, not going away, not even going away for the weekend. Nothing. Yet there is so much to do! I feel as though I may finally catch up with myself. Work has been hectic lately (far, far better than being bored, I remind myself hastily - I have had jobs in the past that were really boring, and it's a seriously grim experience). Life has felt like one long session of chase-my-own-tail, only without the fun that cats and dogs seem to get out of it, and I'm tired.
I've almost completely given up watching the tele lately, in order to get some more writing done. I had read that it was a very effective trick, and I can now vouch for that. I gave myself a long holiday from "Gold Hawk", and wrote a lot of other bits and bobs, and gave my brain a proper rest before facing up to the painful task of killing off my heroine's family. The bits and bobs were fun to do - a few of them are on ICW and there are some others on a tumblr-writers' blog called jrfrustration, if you're interested (though be warned, the two letters at the beginning of that blog address are indicative)... But now it's back to the real thing again, i.e. hurting poor Anna, and making Thorn feel bad. I'm such a lovely mama to my characters.
Besides the writing, which I hope to do some of every day this week, I'm planning on taking in a couple of exhibitions and perhaps doing a bike ride along the Thames towpath. I have some needlework (there are two blouses I want to let out and some trousers to take in, not to mention a pair of summer baggy trews that have been half-finished for about two years). It's my week this week to clean the flat; bleah, but it has to be done. I want to bake bread and make some dried-apricot jam and a couple of batches of proper crumbly fudge (I'm thinking one lot classic vanilla, one lot honey-walnut...). I want to turn out my summer clothes, since out of the blue the weather has turned warm and bright and one can finally believe the spring is here. I want to catch up with some of the weird bits of shopping that get postponed week after week because one simply doesn't have the effing time to go trailing around looking for odd things like expanding compost. I want to de-mealy-bug my phalaenopsis again. And I'd to try and catch up with the Dipterist, who I haven't seen for ages and who could probably do with a break (maybe I can bribe her with fudge?).
Of course, that is a huge wish-list and I probably won't do the half of it.
I also aim to catch up on some sleep. Did some of that this morning, which is why I'm now more than halfway through Monday already and haven't achieved very much. I know it looks like sheer laziness! But, oh, the bliss - having Monday off, and not having to leap from my bed and rush about!
Okay, enough of this; I've got things to do. Starting with lunch, and that cleaning. Get the cleaning out of the way, and the rest of this week is mine to with as I please. Mine, all mine!
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
December weather arrives, I swear, escape disaster, and sing in public
Paphos was warm. Not outright hot, except for the first day (my birthday - what bliss to swim in the sea, sunbathe with a good book and eat a large banana split in the sunshine, in early December!), but the kind of warmth where one can stroll and relax and sightsee wearing jeans and a tee-shirt and a pair of sandals. A couple of days were sunny, a couple were overcast, one was rainy (with a spectacular thunderstorm), and one was bright but very, very windy. Not bad for December.
But shortly after I got back to the UK, the winter weather arrived here, with a huge wallop of thick white frost and temperatures that have stayed below zero all day. Sigh. At least it didn't do that in Cyprus.
Coming home, last Saturday evening, I found a note stuck to my bedroom door saying "The washing machine flooded, some water went under your door, hope everything's okay". Not a good thing to return to. I unlocked and opened the door with a sinking heart, and saw a massive dried-out tide-mark about four feet into the room, and I stood there clutching the handle of my suitcase and swearing like a marine. A very angry marine with Tourettes.
I could see at once that the big canvas bag I had at the end of my bed, with all my spare bedding stored in it, had borne the brunt of it, but short of turning out I had no way of knowing how much further it had spread under the bed - & into all the stuff like paintings and electrical goods, and all the pictures for my 2013 calendar, that I have stored there. It was late and I was tired and cold and I just couldn't face it, so I went to bed and slept - surprisingly well, which shows I was tired - above who-knew-what.
But the gods were on my side. When I gritted my teeth next morning, and shifted the wet bag of sheets and towels to look behind it, I found one soaked shoebox containing my least-favourite pair of sandals (not the end of the world if they never recover), and a second damp shoebox containing photos (pics on old-fashioned photographic paper are pretty salvageable if separated quickly and air-dried). And everything else was fine. Basically, the linen bag had sopped all the water up and held it like a sponge. And since Sunday was a cold but dry day, with a good breeze, I was even able to get the sheets and towels dried off. They're now stacked in the corner, smelling a bit funny but otherwise okay, waiting to be washed and dried again properly over the next week or so.
Someone up there must like me. What's more, we didn't need a plumber - the leak happened because my flatmate had taken out the washing machine filter to clean it and put it back upside down.
What else? Since I got back, I've been practising for the carol service, chugging in to work through the freezing fog, and starting to type up "Gold Hawk" in the evenings.
The carol service was today. It went well and had a lovely atmosphere. I think I had got my head round "Rejoice and be merry!" and the lovely piece of Bach, and I survived the Irish carol (largely by piping right down and just relaxing into the very beautiful male voices that were booming away behind me like a granite wall of sound), but I never did get the hang of the horribly complicated arrangement of "There is a flower". And while I was away in Cyprus the others had learned parts for all the congregation carols; so I was left rumbling along in my usual way, just singing the melody an octave down, and feeling rather out-on-a-limb while everyone else harmonised around me. That kind-of sums up my singing career, come to think of it.
I do feel Christmas is coming, now, though. Nothing like a good dose of carols and readings to remind one of that.
And O, fan-girl-happiness, my Dvd of "The Bourne Legacy" has arrived. Along with David Bintley's new "Cinderella" for BRB, which was a birthday present from my brother Stephen ("legacy" is my birthday present from me). So I have a couple of pleasant nights in to look forward to - one of ballet and one of lechery...
But shortly after I got back to the UK, the winter weather arrived here, with a huge wallop of thick white frost and temperatures that have stayed below zero all day. Sigh. At least it didn't do that in Cyprus.
Coming home, last Saturday evening, I found a note stuck to my bedroom door saying "The washing machine flooded, some water went under your door, hope everything's okay". Not a good thing to return to. I unlocked and opened the door with a sinking heart, and saw a massive dried-out tide-mark about four feet into the room, and I stood there clutching the handle of my suitcase and swearing like a marine. A very angry marine with Tourettes.
I could see at once that the big canvas bag I had at the end of my bed, with all my spare bedding stored in it, had borne the brunt of it, but short of turning out I had no way of knowing how much further it had spread under the bed - & into all the stuff like paintings and electrical goods, and all the pictures for my 2013 calendar, that I have stored there. It was late and I was tired and cold and I just couldn't face it, so I went to bed and slept - surprisingly well, which shows I was tired - above who-knew-what.
But the gods were on my side. When I gritted my teeth next morning, and shifted the wet bag of sheets and towels to look behind it, I found one soaked shoebox containing my least-favourite pair of sandals (not the end of the world if they never recover), and a second damp shoebox containing photos (pics on old-fashioned photographic paper are pretty salvageable if separated quickly and air-dried). And everything else was fine. Basically, the linen bag had sopped all the water up and held it like a sponge. And since Sunday was a cold but dry day, with a good breeze, I was even able to get the sheets and towels dried off. They're now stacked in the corner, smelling a bit funny but otherwise okay, waiting to be washed and dried again properly over the next week or so.
Someone up there must like me. What's more, we didn't need a plumber - the leak happened because my flatmate had taken out the washing machine filter to clean it and put it back upside down.
What else? Since I got back, I've been practising for the carol service, chugging in to work through the freezing fog, and starting to type up "Gold Hawk" in the evenings.
The carol service was today. It went well and had a lovely atmosphere. I think I had got my head round "Rejoice and be merry!" and the lovely piece of Bach, and I survived the Irish carol (largely by piping right down and just relaxing into the very beautiful male voices that were booming away behind me like a granite wall of sound), but I never did get the hang of the horribly complicated arrangement of "There is a flower". And while I was away in Cyprus the others had learned parts for all the congregation carols; so I was left rumbling along in my usual way, just singing the melody an octave down, and feeling rather out-on-a-limb while everyone else harmonised around me. That kind-of sums up my singing career, come to think of it.
I do feel Christmas is coming, now, though. Nothing like a good dose of carols and readings to remind one of that.
And O, fan-girl-happiness, my Dvd of "The Bourne Legacy" has arrived. Along with David Bintley's new "Cinderella" for BRB, which was a birthday present from my brother Stephen ("legacy" is my birthday present from me). So I have a couple of pleasant nights in to look forward to - one of ballet and one of lechery...
Friday, 30 November 2012
Couldn't resist...
Sadly not with Mr Renner, but with my mum; I'm very fond of her too though...
I also couldn't resist this lovely post from Mrs Fox:
http://curiously-fantastic.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/high-hopes.html
Which kind of says it all, really, doesn't it? May it be so - for me, for Mr Renner, and for all of you out there. I hope we all read some good books and get kissed by someone who thinks we're wonderful. Soon, and well, and thoroughly, and amen.
Have a good week!
Science 2, opera nil
Last night; Natural History Museum Annual Science Lecture by
Professor Sir Martin Rees.
Wednesday night; Late night opening at the Science Museum.
Tuesday night; Calixto Bieto’s “Carmen” at the ENO.
Hmm.
It isn’t fair of me to say “Opera nil”, actually, as it was
a reasonably competent performance. But
it wasn’t much more than that (except when one particular singer was on
stage - more of that anon!).
Calixto Bieto has
this reputation as a shocker and a bit of a sex-orgy-man, but there was
relatively little shock and almost no simulated sexual behaviour to be seen; we
got one male nude, dancing about slightly feyly, and some fake fellatio,
tastefully obscured behind a parked car (it’s a modern dress production, in
case you’re thinking “Cars? - in nineteenth century Seville?”). But the real problem was that, all matters of taste aside,
it was basically rather an uninspired production, and way, way too bl**dy busy.
Busy-ness on stage is becoming a bit of a bugbear of mine, I
have to admit. There was so much charging around, waving of arms
and brandishing of stuff and rushing hither and thither; it was confusing and
irritating. I don’t want the music to be
drowned by forty extras running about and stamping arrhythmically in army
boots. I don’t want to have masses of
distracting background activity. I don’t
want bizarre things happening on stage, at least not if they are pointless things
that mean nothing. If they have a point,
I’ll give them fair consideration on their merits. But if they are completely extraneous and
incoherent, they just piss me off.
Why, for example, in this production, do the gypsy smugglers
put their child to bed on the bonnet of their car, and not on one of the
seats as anyone sane would do? And why do they push their car everywhere? There’s already been a car driven across the
stage by that point, and plenty of raucous noise, at times covering the music
entirely. So it can’t be because the
engine doesn’t work, since it clearly does, and it can’t be because the engine
will drown the music, since clearly no-one in the production team cares. So why? It doesn’t clarify or illuminate the action,
or create a startling visual metaphor, or anything;
it just looks stupid.
There is one
great moment; just at the point when I was beginning to give up hope of a
single fresh idea, the huge bull silhouette of the iconic Osborne’s Sherry
hoarding that had dominated the set for Act 3 was suddenly thrown down and
dismembered by a team of cheerful workmen during the introduction to Act
4. As a metaphor both for the coming
bullfight and the coming destruction of Carmen herself, this was a fabulously
effective bit of staging; simple, dramatic, clear, striking – everything the
rest of the production, frankly, had not been.
On the plus side, the orchestra played their socks off; one
would never have thought this was some of the most clichéd music on the planet,
it sounded so fresh and potent. On the
singing side, things were patchier. Ruxandra
Donose sounded good (I like a Carmen with a nice deep growl), but isn’t much of
an actress, and wasn’t helped by a production that saw Carmen as completely
two-dimensional. The Don José shouted a
lot, and I’m afraid the Escamillo wasn’t terribly exciting either.
Anyway, I can’t really complain, since the only real reason
I had gone was to hear Elizabeth Llewellyn in action again, and she at least
did not disappoint. Oh boy, did she not
disappoint!
The more I hear of her, the more convinced I am that she is
on her way to being one of the great singers of our time. A lot of Micaëlas go all out for the “unworldly-innocent-girl”
thing, and end up acting dumb and sounding bland. Miss Llewellyn’s singing has enough heft and
plangency to make Micaëla sound like a real, three-dimensional, thinking
person, yet also has the unerring sweetness that is so vital for the character. There’s no discernible break in her voice,
she soars into the top notes as if they were the easiest thing in the world,
she is both lyrical and dramatic, and the timbre of her voice makes the hairs
on the back of my neck prickle up. And she’s beautiful, and she can act. The perfect package.
But the production overall just didn’t have anything much to
offer me. It wasn’t shocking, except for
being shockingly unexciting. Each time
Miss Llewellyn came on, the whole thing went through the roof – she has the
same kind of absolutely committed engagement on stage as Simon Keenlyside or
Sarah Connolly, so that one is simply riveted to her from the moment she
appears. But Micaëla isn’t around very
much, and the rest of the time I’m afraid it was all basically rather dull.
Which the science events were not.
Wednesday, I went along to the Science Museum Late largely
to support the Dipgeek, who was one of the semi-finalists in a kind of
public-speaking rally for wannabe science communicators. To my indignation, she was only the runner-up,
despite being easily the best speaker. I
don’t say that just because I’m prejudiced in favour of my friends, by the way
(although obviously I am!). The winner
was a scarily bubbly lass who gave a terribly jokey talk that was clearly aimed
at kids – to an adult audience. I guess
I don’t like being talked down to, even when the talk is about something I know
b*gger-all about (stem cell research, in this case). Anyway, as far as I can understand it this
means the Dipgeek may yet make it to the final, which is in April and clashes
with a concert featuring Nikolai Lugansky playing Tchaikovsky 1 at the Festival
Hall. Aargh! Support friend, or support Lugansky? Friend or pianohunk? For that matter, friend, or Tchaikovsky at
his most passionate and dramatic?
Aargh...
The rest of Wednesday evening I mooched in the Science
Museum, enjoying the late-night party atmosphere; had a glass of shiraz, amused
myself playing with all the push-the-button, watch-it-explode hands-on stuff
one normally can’t get near for screaming kids, and went on the Apollo Launch
simulator thingy, which turned out to be at one and the same time both slightly
cheesy and one of the most
exhilarating things I’ve done in ages.
Last night I met Jane for a pre-birthday treat of a crêpe
and a lecture on cosmology. Professor
Sir Martin Rees looks like an elderly sparrowhawk and is a terrific speaker who
can make the most mind-boggling stuff sound comprehensible, even to a total
layperson like me. He’s the Astronomer
Royal (I didn’t know we still had one!) and as science communicators go I don’t
think they get better than this. I
haven’t a hope of summing up his talk, but it was witty, fascinating and
thought-provoking, and illustrated with some excellent slides - images from the
Hubble Space Telescope, computer simulations of galaxies crashing into one
another and so on.
Today I had a fairly busy day at work, and this evening I am doing
my packing, eating one of those slightly-odd “use everything up” suppers, and
trying to get a couple of hours’ sleep before getting up in the wee small hours
to take a night bus to Victoria Station, and a night train to Gatwick Airport,
and my flight to Paphos and the joys of brandy sours and good Cypriot food,
fresh sea air, and hopefully some sunshine on my birthday...
Friday, 23 November 2012
A bit of thanksgiving of my own...
I know I’m a day late, but I've been wondering if our Friends
Across The Pond have an idea in this Thanksgiving malarkey...
I’m having rather a trying day (plugging through a
monotonous but useful task [every office job has them!] while trying not to disturb
the person at the next desk who is getting a tad tense wrestling with a lot of
figures) and I find I keep thinking “Roll on five o’clock!”. But it occurs to me that this is wishing the
next three hours of my life away, which I don’t like doing. So for now, while I munch my apple and finish
my cup of green tea, I’m going to practice gratitude.
Thank you, you gods and little fishes, for this very good
apple. Thank you for apples, generally. And bananas. And pineapples. And the mad way pineapples grow...
Thank you for the frail wintry sunshine washing over Kew
Green, and for the beautiful wispy mares-tails of cloud in the sky.
Thank you for the fact I’m going on holiday in just over a
week!
Thank you for the fact that all my orchids are re-blooming.
Thank you for all the actors, dancers, singers and musicians
whose great performances give me so much pleasure and awe. Thank you in particular for all those who are
not just gifted but hot hot hot and gorgeous as well...
Thank you for the wonderful autumn colours all around me at
Kew, now entering the final phase before winter; and for the winter colours
(textured bark, scarlet twigs and stems of dogwoods, rose-pink linden buds,
nerines in bloom) just arriving, and the sharp, musky, bittersweet and
incense-y perfumes of the season.
Thank you for it being Friday evening, the evening I treat myself to a really easy supper, and desert, and a beer. And a dose of silly TV - Friday night means "The Mentalist" and "Castle"; yay, shiny...
Thank you for my health.
Thank you for my family and friends.
Thank you that I have a job, an adequate income, a roof over my head,
sane flatmates, and the use of a kitchen where all the appliances work.
Thank you for my writing.
Even if it never means a thing to anyone else at all, it means the world
to me to have a creative outlet. Thank you for my maddening, mercurial Muse, and Blessed Be She Who Comes With Stories! Thank
you for that mysterious inner spring that wells forth with situations and scenes, characters
and ideas. Thank you for the guidance
that nudges me towards knowing that this
story will work better if it’s told in the first person, and this story doesn’t yet work because
although the initial premise is good there’s a socking great hole in the plot,
and this story is the one I simply have to tell right now... Thank you for giving me Gabriel Yeats and
Simon Cenarth and Anne Hope, thank you for giving me Thorn and Anna, thank you
for the Ramundi clan and dumb, long-suffering Massimo; thank you for Iain
Siward and Aiean Aietes, for the Hobards brothers and Maramne Myers, for Mel
and Dottie and David and Yaz, for the Hughuddles, and for all the other imaginary
people who have made and are still making my life a happier place.
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