Writing Course Success!

In July last year I subscribed to a Novel Writing course offered by the London School of Journalism. Keen and eager (although somewhat less convinced my idea could hold a story) I penned the first draft of a synopsis in a charming little coffee shop in Ilfracombe, North Devon.

(Shout out to Annie and The Flint – perfect atmosphere for penning those challenging first words!)

Fourteen classes and twenty-seven written submissions later, I’m pleased to announce that I’ve have completed the course with flying colours. Go me!

This isn’t the end of my creative exploits. Spurred on by the course, I’m continuing in earnest on my manuscript (#AmEditing as the cool cats on Twitter say) and dipping my toe into the world of short stories.

While my love, life and ambition is to turn my manuscript into a fully published novel, I’ve discovered that diverting energy into other avenues is a great way to refresh and experiment. Also a bit of fun! (Which I know for some people must sound weird. The idea of hours of writing, followed by 2000 words of something news.)

Thank you to my wonderful tutor Val Holmes for being a fresh pair of eyes throughout the course and being unafraid to challenge the creative choices I make.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, this isn’t the last you’ve heard of my writing exploits.

**

This isn’t a sponsored post, but you can support me by buying me a coffee

Five Minute Review: Reasons To Be Cheerful by Nina Stibbe

Five minutes to type up one review. Wait until that second hand reaches twelve and…we’re off!

Reasons To Be Cheerful (hereafter Cheerful) by Nina Stibbe is the comedic novel set in 1980s Leicestershire. The plot revolves around Lizzie, an 18 year old who is recruited as a dental nurse in a practice and follows her antics as she works in her new position, working under the demanding (and quite often racist/xenophobic) JP Wintergreen as boss. As part of the job Lizzie also gets the use of a onsite flat, offered at a heavily subsidised rent. This opens the story up for several subplots featuring her work and personal life as Lizzie tries to navigate adulthood, including her co-worker’s attempts at getting pregnant, her fledging relationship with well known ‘weirdo’ Andy Nicolello and learning to drive.

Despite the occasional darker moments, Cheerful has all the hallmarks of a British comedy. The underlying humour is there throughout, even if at points it has an awkward edge. You know the characters you’re meant to root for, and those who are (at best) jerks. Given it’s central focus, I didn’t find the details of the dentistry too gory (surprisingly I found the prologue the hardest bit to read!)

If I had to be critical, I’d comment that a lot of the 1980s references were lost on me (I was born in 1992) and a subplot story about a three-legged dog didn’t make much sense to me (in my mind it didn’t add to the plot). However, with a few surprise twists and turns, on the whole Cheerful is an easy and enjoyable read to work through. It wasn’t until afterwards I realised this is actually the third book in a series, however I was very easily able to read this as a stand alone and not be held back by lack of character knowledge from Stibbe’s previous work.

**

When Three Weeks Becomes Three Months: Family, COVID-19 and the Faith of the Fatigued

Every morning I roll out of bed and stumble the 1.5 strides to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and study the damage; one new spot since yesterday, five new eyebrow hairs, a shade darker under the eyes. I toy with the idea of doing something to remedy this, but then sigh and do little more than splash water from the sink lined in dirt and limescale. If it’s a ‘treat day’ I might apply a thin layer of face cream but today, like most others, is nondescript so tepid water will suffice. Pasty skin ready, I grab one of my face coverings from the coat hanger, rubber gloves from the box and go out into the big, dangerous world to stand in a queue. “Just another day in paradise” plays solemnly through my headphones, a Phil Collins track which I long to change, but my unisex latex gloves are two sizes too big and even if I could, touching the screen would only defeat the point of preventing the spread of germs. I leave him be.

Here I am, starting another 24 hours in a string of days that end in the letter Y. Dull, predictable and dragging, welcome to the human face of lockdown. 

If you haven’t already got the gist from recent posts, in March (2020) I made the choice to move fully back in with my family, days before the UK went into COVID-19 lockdown.

I own a house, a car and a job in the same location, but with the job reduced to working from home and my ability to travel limited to as far as the curb-side wheelie bin, it seemed more logical to return northwards.

At 27, the novelty of spending an extended period of time with my family felt like a throwback to the days when home was a refuge from exhausting summer jobs or algebra homework. But now the family home represents my safety and my imprisonment. I am denied my freedom and, some days, forgetting what it feels like to be a fully accountable adult at all. I’m turning into a woman-child.

Three weeks I thought this would last, three. But now we’re speedily heading towards twelve and to be quite honest, I fully expect it to last longer than that. I normally work out of an office populated by a large number of employees. I can only imagine what social distancing will look like if I am, ever, mandated to five days a week in that environment.

Practical but impractical: the DIY masks that itch and pull

Can you imagine the first day of everyone being back? A three hour queue to get your pass reactivated, followed by at least two trying to fix some technical fault with laptops (always tends to be that way). Everyone will take an extended lunchbreak (by which point the only option will be a cheese sandwich) and then there’s just enough time to go around hugging as many people as possible before it’s home time. Michelle is given an out of date bottle of wine from the store cupboard for something she won twelve months ago and then it’s off to the car park for gridlock congestion.

That reminds me, I think I left behind a large stash of snack bars in my locker before I left town. Damn.

I’ve gotten slightly off topic, but then again, I always do. Can you really blame me, when one of the few excuses I get to spend time away from my family is to find one of the few quiet spots in the house and type on this blog? Mumma B is forever demanding new blog post, Papa B is forever blissfully unaware of them (but then sending a text to dad has a likelihood of receival on a same level of attaching a letter to a dove in a hurricane).

The improvised supermarket queue barriers of early lockdown

I haven’t dyed my hair since January. I guess originally I saw it as a form of resistance, the idea that I wouldn’t colour it until we were out of lockdown, but that idea faded as quickly as the shade of my roots. Resistance turned to indifference, colour fading with every wash, and now I’m reunited with a shade of brunette I haven’t seen in years. It could almost pass for stylish, a layered multi-tonal style.

Makeup? What are these expensive alien products of which you speak? I’ve almost forgotten how to apply what little I used to wear. Mascara is a challenge, the smudgy black fluid streaking up my eyelid and smearing across my fingers when I try and rub it off. I’m a toddler experimenting with these curious substances, playing about with pencils and powders that used to mean something to me. The woman I recognise in those summer holiday pictures, how can I look like her? How can I wear lipstick like she once did without turning into a clown? But then, what’s the point?

Five closure signs are better than one

Now you can’t exit the house without having to cover up. Facial coverings and gloves have swept across the globe, marking the creation of a new religion with its own dress code. The irony, the racists and xenophobics who used to speak against religious coverings are now the same people yelling that face and hand covering should be made a legal requirement. Next they’ll be demanding the use of headscarves to prevent spread, whilst splashing and gargling in the sea. Society has been united (be it on a surface level) by new codes of conducts and coverings. We have no way to object to the world around us, voices blocked by sheets of fabric, we can only go along with the rule of government. By law or by fear, the faith of the fatigued marches on in varying gaps of social distance.

Early days of lockdown shopping

The highlight of my week is now the Saturday morning food shop and the lowlight is getting back from it. That feeling of exhaustion from exerting myself more than at any other point in the days leading up to it. The rub of the fabric mask, the feel of rubber residue that sticks to my fingers long after I’ve taken the gloves off. In the world I live in this is one of the few excuses I have to leave the house, my world is now so tightly tethered to that of my family. I have no friends to see, no places to visit, no errands to run that can’t be handled over the phone.

Fun is now reduced to comparing the length of supermarket queues week-on-week and counting the number of times we’re reminded to keep two meters apart over the tannoy. The buzz when tinned foods are taken off restrictions, the disappointment when when they’re reapplied the following week. Three tins of soup per customer, a luxury. And yet, the Saturday food shop is the one thing that reminds me time is passing at all. Time is reduced to the little-wins, twice daily teeth brushing, hair washes every other day, changing bedding every few weeks. The mundane activities that make milestones of hope; another week towards a vaccine, another week towards normality. And not just a new one, a true one.

Later methods of enforced social distancing. One way systems and theme park queues outside to reduce store numbers inside

The phrase ‘new normal’ has grated on me since first time it was used by politicians who know about as much on what ‘normal’ looks as Chairman Mao knew of peasant struggles during the 1960s famine. New normal implies that this is the first time normal has changed, but what about the invention of the internet? Or the Industrial Revolution? Or when we started hunting with metal spears instead of stone? In which case, what are we headed into? New Normal Version 9999998767.8?

Instead of new normal, I’ve adopted a different phrase, ‘My Normal’. The way I see it, you have to embrace and adapt to what works best and safe for you. In lieu of coffee shops I’ve taken pleasure in making my own coffee and enjoying the views I’m lucky to have. I miss the noise and hubbub of activity, but sometimes I think it’s easy to romanticise an experience. Countless times in life I’d find myself trawling from coffee shop to coffee shop to find space, only to find it too noisy to focus or hold a conversation.

I write a hell of a lot more now than I used to. Whether the quantity results in quality is yet to be seen but regardless it feels, well, good. But I’ve also dropped the stupid targets, I’ve moved away from expecting myself to have produced the next best-seller. I’ve realised that I get bored, I procrastinate, I live with three other adults who seek me out if I go three hours without doing a tea run. I’m human. One day I’ll spend an evening working solidly on a manuscript, another I’ll decide to do something unrelated to writing; I might watch rubbish TV or read my History Magazine. My lunchbreaks I might donate towards researching the publishing industry or even find myself so done with taking myself seriously that I turn to this blog to remember that deep down I am still the kooky person I’ve always have been. No lockdown is going to stop me being me.

More time to clear out the junk

Do I scrap with my family? Of course! Even when I was living here as a teenager and my parents were working jobs we didn’t see each other as much as we do now. There have been plenty of times I wanted to get away from it all and return to life where I had my independence and my freedom. But the benefits of being in a space where I feel safe and wanted outweigh having to ‘go it alone’. I am incredibly lucky to have the family I do, even if they do all drive me insane.

And here’s something potentially controversial; I’m actually more content now than I have been in years.

More time to read

Gone is the pressure to look a certain way or to live in a certain location (e.g. London). I don’t feel the pressure to be in a relationship, in fact, as time has gone on and the faked perfection has slowly disappeared from the internet, I’m left wondering what it must be like those couples, the unstable relationships built on sand and Snapchat filters.

In just under three months my life has, once again, changed enormously. And there was I thinking living in London was the biggest shake-up to happen to me. Moving back into the family abode is shifting my perceptions and five-year goals more than any office manager or two-day Excel training course ever did.

Those lamenting that office work is as extinct as the dinosaurs need to get real and understand that people will always crave social interactions. There will always be a queue for my office car park and when the doors open I will be at the front of it.

Like everyone else I worry for the future economy, my job security and the health of those I care most about. But of all that I worry most about what we will become. More than once I have woken from a nightmare, to discover it was only a more warped version of the life I used to lead before. I fear that when this is all over and the generation moves on behind us, we will horrify or romanticise this event like it’s our version of Vietnam. The youth will never understand, will never appreciate what we went through, when in fact we were the ones who returned to 45-hour weeks, we were the ones who were so desperate to recoup physical loses that we forgot the gains we made on our front door.

But more than this, so much more, is the reassurance that this will not last forever. One day I will return to the town where I live and work. My mum will go back to cooking for two, not four, my sister will teach in schools and my dad will be able to work in customer’s homes without wearing a mask. None of us will be the same, but we will have future hope. One day we will all be reunited and will laugh; back when we thought this would all be over in less than three weeks.

**

Did you enjoy this content? Say thanks by clicking here:

Buy Me A Coffee

Five Minute Review: Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

Simple premise, five minutes to type up a speedy overview of a recent read. Lets do this.

Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown by Lorna Martin

(Amazon sales link here)

The Sun describes this title as “Bridget Jones with knobs on” and initially you can see why. Like Bridget Jones, Lorna works for a national paper, has multiple calamitous oversees trips (hints of Edge of Reason) and experiences tonnes of supposedly awkward mishaps. This is setup against a background of counselling where gradually Lorna comes to unearth and overcome personal challenges, from deep-rooted peer envy to relationship closure.

Expect a lot of monologues in this book. I didn’t have a problem with the first-person narrative but took issue to her friends who all happen to be phycologists. The author knows a bit about the topic and goes to almost unbearable lengths to use it. I ended up skimming these segments when girly nights out with countless bottles of wine turned into soapbox-speeches on the pros of Freudian methodology.

I also struggled with the approach with wooing the love interest. Two examples (of many) include this 35 year-old woman writing lengthy, one sided, emails about her life and then shocked when he doesn’t reply and another interaction where she bluntly states he can only get her number if he acquires it from a friend. Only a week later (and sans calls) does she internally ponder her tactic. I’m left questioning why the author feels the need to labour this storyline beyond the realms of realistic.

Not the ending I was expecting and, to be honest, a little bit disappointed by this title. It tries to be Bridget Jones in Glasgow but somehow never makes it out of the starting block.

UPDATE: I’ve just done some digging and discovered this is actually a true account of the author’s own experiences in therapy. Awkward…

When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Antibacterial Wipes: Lockdown in the Cotswolds

This is what we do for ‘fun’ in the Cotswolds:

(Thought I’d kick off – pun intended – with something a bit light-hearted)

**

With old Charlie Covid doing the rounds, I made the decision to move back into the family home until “this blows over”. I want to say “until this passes through”, but then that would liken Coronavirus to a digestive complaint you have after a dodgy kebab. Funny, in the strange old world we’re in I think a good deal of us would envy suffering with that as opposed to months of quarantine.

So this is where I am now; in the Cotswolds, with family. I brought with me a kilo of pasta, a 24-pack of loo roll and a massive stash of antibacterial wipes. It was the best cop-out of Mother’s Day – I’ve never seen my mum so happy to see a box of max. strength cold and flu relief.

Antibacterial Wipes
Finally my OCD for end-of-world preparation has come in handy!

(Papa Bennett was kept satisfied with the 25-pack of Quavers squeezed into the boot of my car.)

The current situation does mean however that I’m starved of a good deal of blog/comedy source material whilst everything is closed. For about a week I lapsed, finding myself viewing articles and videos with little meaning or sense.

From the despair of time wasted I’m never getting back, I thought I’d change things up from doom and gloom and pick out some of the positives of my current living arrangements.

Lockdown in the Cotswolds

My diet has vastly improved

People think I’m joking when I say most of the meals I eat contain three ingredients. I’m really not. Case in point, scrambled eggs: eggs (no milk), toast, butter. Cheese sandwich: cheese, bread, butter. I really could go on, but you get the idea.

Mumma B is amazing in the kitchen so I can only assume my body is going into shock right now with the quality of what I’m eating e.g. I’ve just recently rediscovered this wonderful foodstuff called ‘fruit’.

20200409_1918197341052460679135658.jpg

Alcohol on tap

20200416_1918531961275874194660722.jpg

It’s funny, my parent’s generation often see the sights of drunk brits on the street and moan that we’re the ones with a problem with alcohol.

I go for weeks on end in Swindon not touching a drop, but come back to the Cotswolds and am being frequently plied with the stuff. You’d think the water wasn’t safe to drink!

20200410_1721522408499236516905569.jpg

And as for what counts as a single measure around here…

20190907_1855105502308097440662371.jpg

I’ve got time to write

Just because I haven’t been blogging as frequently, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing at all. The time saved not commuting to work, not being able to get out or be tempted to frolic in fields…

Theresa May, ex UK Prime Minister. If you’re British you’ll get it.

…Having that time has been a great push to get me focusing on other writing ventures. Time well spent on researching the publishing industry; learning how to write covering letters, how to sell yourself and your work etc. When it comes to writing, the words on the page/screen are really only half the battle, the other half is convincing people to read them and back you. It’s also why you’ll find me frequently asking lovely people such as yourselves to follow my social media outlets and tell your friends about it.

I’ve also needed the extra time for editing. Not until recently, when I’ve been working on the manuscript for a book, did I quite realise how much crap I tend to produce in my first drafts. God, I’ve been rewriting so much rubbish copy! How do you guys put up with some of the things I must waffle on about? (Don’t answer that.)

writershq_20200409_152720_01632123412764929964.jpg

More time with the cats

20200404_2049508684922054252324050.jpg
Bubble, left; Squeak, right. Both hogging the fire

Anyone who has family pets will relate to this. The family cats, Bubble and Squeak, are two furry faces I spent all of my teenage years growing up with. We think they’re now about 15 years old, which makes perfect sense as they’ve taken to constantly yelling at us for food or sleeping.

That said, I love them very dearly and it’s good to be around them. Plus, Squeak and I have started watching TV together.

We’ve really bonded over the complex storylines.

I’m blessed with space

This one shot of my parent’s back garden:

20200410_1645085657631929250504362.jpg

Need I say more?

**

In short, things really could be a lot worse for me right now. Big claps and respect for everyone working in healthcare, police, frontline or other jobs that can’t be done from home. You are protecting and saving lives or supporting infrastructure, so thank you.

I’m working on a couple of other blog posts in parallel so stay tuned for new content coming soon. We may be under a lockdown but I’m not going to let that hinder me producing or sharing anything less than high-quality!

You’re welcome.

**

Did you enjoy this content? Say thanks by clicking here:

Buy Me A Coffee

Ones to Watch: Writer Alice E. Bennett

I was recently interviewed by as part of a industry-wide ‘Ones to Watch’ podcast. The resulting interviews were distributed across a large national network of Life Coaches and clients.

The series showcased and promoted creative talent but also encouraged high-performers to pursue development goals outside their 9-5 jobs. It was a great project to be part of and I’m now excited to be able to share the final output.

Podcast Bio:

This week we’re meeting Finance professional and writer Alice E. Bennett (author of comedy blog My Housemate’s a Mermaid).

Having relocated to London for work, Alice provides a first-hand insight into the challenges of renting in the capital, getting onto the housing ladder and how a career in Financial Services is continually helping to shape her success as a creative writer.

 

 

**

London Recalling – The Boxset

Want to revisit any of the London Recalling series? Links to all four installments below. (Also available through the Very British Travels page, via the navigation pane.)

London Recalling

 

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

 

London Recalling…Solo Sell-Outs

Well things are really not going my way, are they? Just when I think I’m starting to shake this illness off, boom! Tonsillitis.

Given breathing state is a bit wheezy I’ll have to try and not get too ahead of myself when typing in hurried excitement. That’ll be the hardest part, just like when my teachers used to tell me off for smudging ink all over the page and up my hand. They never really did see the other side, that I couldn’t help it. That I was so keen to write everything down in my head, too impatient to let the ink to dry.

Bruise on the leg has near vanished too, so at least my body is still capable of some level of self healing.

London Recalling

This post follows Part 2, The Creative’s Curse

Part 3, Solo Sell-Outs

It was that very same night as the Sofar Sounds gig that I experienced my minor calf injury. After the meal in Wapping I found myself casually wandering around St. Katharine Docks, a delightful patch of water and wealth next to Tower Bridge. Where rich people flaunt their yachts and people like me walk along raised walkways; enjoying the chance to look down at privilege. It’s also the location for one of my favourite views of London, where Tower Bridge appears from nowhere as a mighty giant of architecture.

img_20200128_213033_7363477417342205301474.jpg

At this time the light was lacking, so I decided I’d return another day to take the above photograph.

There had been a steady drizzle of rain throughout the afternoon, causing the paths and walkways to be more slippy than usual. While the Underground stations blared the same warning to passengers over and over again, on a near silent Sunday night in January the message was perhaps less ingrained in my head as I strolled around the Marina.

Eventually the expected happened, walking down a flight of concrete steps in my flat, sodden, pump shoes, my foot skidded on the slippery surface and I tumbled forward. Thankfully I was near to the bottom, my hands jutted out of my pockets just in time to break my fall down the two or three steps remaining of the flight. My calf however suffered their bite, the impact of these remaining ledges grazing their teeth along the bone, from foot to knee.

It was too dark for anyone to see, too quiet for anyone to notice, too quick for anyone to spot; within half a second of me falling flat in a heap I’d hopped back onto my feet and carried on my way. It was only later when I got back to the hotel I discovered the full impact of the fall was more substantial than I’d originally thought. Lesson learnt; I kept my hands of out my pockets and tread more carefully for the rest of the trip.

**

Monday morning, and now it felt like the time was all mine to play with. Done were the previously agreed engagements, the catch-ups and the pre-booked tickets, now I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted while the rest of the city got back to work.

From my bedroom window I watched the suited men and women in their designer shoes and trainers as they all scuttled in the same direction, towards the heart of the financial district. It drew me back to all those times before when I’d walked the very same path, head down, headphones plugged in.

In amongst the crowd I saw one individual less sure of themselves, less familiar with the route they were taking. They reminded me of myself all that time ago, those first few days where impatient workers would dodge and tut as I stopped frequently to check the direction of travel I was headed in.

Back in the present I knew my place, I would only head out after the walking rush-hour had ceased; after 09:00 when the world was a little calmer on foot.

**

I’d never been to the Museum of London which had always struck me as odd given it was one of the few tourist attractions I’d seen so frequently day-to-day working in The City. It’s imposing lettering on the side of a large brutalist wall that trailed around a roundabout and off towards the Barbican.

Deciding there is always a first time for everything, I skirted around a large school party waiting outside and dived into the building to get a head start on the exhibits.

The first thing that struck me was the music playing loudly across the speakers. The sound of punk music overflowing into exhibitions on prehistoric London seemed initially a strange pairing, until I realised that it formed part of a temporary exhibit on The Clash’s 1979 album London Calling. The album was playing on a loop to help draw people in. As I walked past staff members I wondered how many repeats of the title track would it take before they grew sick of such an iconic band.

The music stayed in my head long after I left the museum. I may have seen some wonderful artefacts and learnt a lot about London’s rich history, but it would be the feeling of seeing Paul Simonon’s broken guitar in real life that would come to brand the entire city-break. I’d never been an avid follower of the Punk movement, but the first time I understood it a little better. I was able to appreciate it for what it represented; the first act of civil disobedience, the first time youth made a strong impact. “No, we will not be silenced!”

**

From the Museum of London I skirted on down past St Paul’s cathedral, through the buzzing crowds of tourists and across the Millennium Footbridge to reach the banks of Southwark. In my sights I had my favourite branch of Caffe Nero; one located in Oxo Tower, but before I could reach it I caught myself on an installation placed outside the Tate Modern. A walk in cuboid-like structure, hung with column upon column of white paper cups (save a couple of black columns at the front).

‘We use 5,555 paper cups a minute in the UK,’ the sign read. ‘Oh which only 555 are recycled.’

I took a step back and, like a few of the passers by, were moved by how explicit the instillation was in showcasing the amount of waste in this country. However, what was equally striking was how the majority of people had responded to the stand-alone piece. All around people were scribbling messages onto the paper cups; some were deeply emotive on the destruction of the planet, others as two-dimensional as a statement that someone had been there, like lover’s hearts engraved on trees. Whether or not the artists has intended their work to be graffitied in this way, it seemed there was no stopping it, the piece had only been erected for a matter of days and yet was already covered in human sentiment.

20200127_1526053025399157773507951.jpg

A ballpoint pen burning in my handbag, I walked forwards and scouted out a suitable cup to make my mark. Not entirely sure what to write, I eventually scribbled down some words. I stepped back to admire my work, only to find myself cringing at the terrible handwriting and the surrealness of the wording. It was missing something.

I pulled out one of my business cards from my bad and, with the help of a few drawing pins and some blu tac, I attached the small square of card to the small paper cup. ‘Yes,’ I thought. ‘That looks better.’

The final inscription read:

Alice E. Bennett, 27/01/20. Mermaids do exist and they can’t survive in our polluted oceans. Instead they are forced into moving to Swindon!

(After attaching the card I also added the words, ‘get curious’.)

20200127_1223503008172747836880424.jpg

I took a couple of photos before moving on. As I walked away I realised a few people had been stood watching me the whole time as I awkwardly attached my card to the cup. An international tourist was quick to swoop in to give it a read, though I felt quite certain they wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I was on about, I barely knew myself.

Whether I had intended it to look that way or not, I’d effectively sold out on an environmental protest.

**

I strategically placed one of my ‘duff’ business cards (ones which were printed with a spelling mistake) under the empty coffee cup as I walked out of Caffe Nero, the space somewhat busier than I expected for a Monday lunchtime. I retraced my steps and entered the Tate Modern just as the heaven’s opened and it started to pour with rain.

‘Better take my time, then!’ I thought to myself, making my way into the turbine hall to admire the dramatic water fountain, Fons Americanus, created by American artist Kara Walker.

20200127_1433227636229222831207667.jpg

I strolled around several of the art galleries, in truth I saw this as a mere fill-in experience for old time’s sake. It’s funny how spoilt you can become when you experience something everyday, in that very moment I only sought out a quick hit whereas for many this would be the highlight of their day or even their trip, to London.

A number of the galleries hadn’t changed since the times I’d been there and for me that felt bothersome, like the Tate was being lazy and people were being cheated out of an experience. But then a quick survey of the people visiting at that moment in time reminded me that for most they knew no different, they were just like me that very first time I’d entered the old factory. Just as fascinated, just as keen to photograph. I knew the issue lay more with me than anyone else; so I put my internal-tantrum to one side and took myself to a different part of the establishment.

I will spare you the War and Peace version of how I view art, but on this visitation I seemed to feel a stronger feeling of hate, divide but also a call from artists to remember we are all human. I suppose it’s not a surprise, artists always have had a reputation for expressing more liberal sentiments than other segments of society. But watching Igor Grubic’s video East Side Story where far-right extremists attack a Pride match with bloody consequences, it felt like the message was stronger now than it ever had been before.

(Warning: video below contains strong language, violence, and homophobic language.)

And then there was hope; that if we recognised the contributions of others we could be a part of something much greater than if we work in isolation. Nowhere else did I see this more strongly than in Yinka Shonibare’s The British Library, a room installation which makes the point of showing how fundamental other cultures, notably African, have played a role in shaping English literature.

20200127_1454577460434579393758365.jpg

A room of books, each covered in bold and heavily patterned fabric, all the colours of Heaven and Earth itself. Not in such a long time had I found myself at pains to stand behind the thin bit of wire that prevented me from reaching out to touch, to feel, the books before my eyes.

img_20200128_213033_7065308528420691266986.jpg

**

The rain still coming down in medium sized droplets, I hurried across Blackfiars bridge back onto the Northern bank and then, from there, Northwards to reach Trafalgar Square. When I’m set on an idea I can become really stubborn to it, even if it makes absolutely no logical sense to anyone else. In this instance I’d got my heart set on a visit to the National Gallery before it closed at 18:00. I left the Tate Modern at 15:00 which, factoring in travel time, would give me a safe two hours in the gallery before hitting the Tube to avoid the peak rush hour at 18:00.

Maybe in a bid to avoid the rain outside, the National Gallery was considerably busier than I had expected it to be; an old building full of hot, wet bodies.

I took a quick turn through the galleries, although I found myself stopping and starting multiple times as soon as I came by a suitable seat to perch on. I hadn’t quite factored in how much walking I’d done today, and in fact every other day, until this very moment. Of all the views within and looking out of the building, the best that day came simply from that of a window seat, where I could idly watch people ascend and descend a large staircase built in a recent extension.

Because I’m me, I did find a couple of humourous bites in some of the artworks; including this piece which reminded me of all the times my friends had placed bets on the length of my hangovers:

20200127_1606148823647255369103734.jpg

And this piece which looked like a screen grab from some type of low-budget documentary. Something along the lines of…”don’t tell me how to raise my kids”.

20200127_1610431376271487687703897.jpg

However, when all was said an done I found myself surprisingly keener to leave the gallery earlier than I had originally planned in my head. After about an hour of breezing through the classics, I left the National Gallery, breaking my route back only momentarily to stop off in a nearby Waterstones. I couldn’t resist plunging myself down to the basement level to enjoy one of my favourite sensory experiences; the smell of new books.

**

That night I returned once more to St. Katherine Docks to enjoy a meal at the restaurant chain Zizzi. The looks people gave me when I walked in by myself! You’d have thought I had a third arm growing out of my waist! Used to these looks of surprise, curiosity and mild judgement, I pulled out a reading book as the staff placed me on the last free table in the house. I settled down for a chilled Monday night with a glass of wine and good company (i.e. food).

20200127_2040506823557380853187645.jpg

As I sat there later, sipping on coffee and making it clear to everyone I was in no rush to leave, I pondered on the art works I’d seen throughout the day. From The Clash, to Shonibare, right through to the classical masterpieces in the National Gallery, they had all been individuals not afraid to make their mark and show off their talent to the world. They would never have considered themselves arrogant or forcing their talent on the world. They may have had rocky patches, but they’d always had a firm belief that the route they were taking was the right one, when The Clash coated brick walls with their posters they wouldn’t have worried about what people said or thought. So why did I still on occasion find myself blushing when friends rolled their eyes at me, ‘putting up another business card Alice? You’re such a sell-out!’

Just then a waiter came by, sensing his chance. I reached into my bag and pulled out a card, tapping it swiftly on the hand-held device to make the transaction and ensure the staff hassled me no more.

I opened up my phone case and pulled out one of my business cards from the inside. As I flicked the small piece of card around my finger, reading and rereading the contact details printed on it, I mused on the idea of all artists being sell-outs. That to be and be regarded and accepted as ‘something’ you have to be prepared to stand out; you have to be a peacock in a field of pheasants.

Image result for drawing peacock

I lifted myself from my seat, applying my coat onto my back in a sweeping movement. I cried out to the remaining staff who responded with a polite smile.

‘Thank you! Have a good evening!’

And then, just as I picked up by bag from the floor, I placed a business card brazenly on the table before walking out into the darkness with a secret smile on my face.

We’ve all got to start somewhere.

**

Places visited (in order):

NB – I was not paid to visit any of the above, adding links for reference.

**

London Recalling Series:

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

Did you enjoy this content? Please buy me a coffee to say thanks by clicking here: Buy Me A Coffee

 

London Recalling…The Creative’s Curse

Okay, so my cold seems to have moved onwards and upwards…from my throat to my head. God I hate it when I’m constantly full of headache, I feel so useless! The bruising on my leg seems to not be quite so obvious now, although I knocked it against a table leg this evening and am very much reminded it’s still there.

While the painkillers are doing their job I best crack on with giving purpose to my life, before the throbbing returns and I’m back to lying in a dark room with music by Norah Jones being the only thing I can tolerate as comforting.

London Recalling

This post follows Part 1, Straight Lesbians Like Us

Part 2, The Creative’s Curse

On parting Cherice at Angel station in Islington, I dashed across London with enough time to check into my hotel near Tower Bridge.

‘I’m going to put you on the quiet side of the hotel,’ the receptionist informed me with a smile.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ I replied, although I felt quite sure it came just as much down to which standard rooms were still free at 18:00 as much as anything else.

I’d already booked tickets to see Matilda that evening, giving me a generous 45 minutes to get back, make a speedy tea and then head out again in time to get to the theatre and collect tickets before the 19:30 start.

I’d stopped by a branch of Doughnut Time earlier in the day and the oversized, over sweetened, Biscoff treat ended up being the perfect solution to my limited time to source an alternative meal. I polished off the item while in the background I stuck the TV onto the only semi-passable, non-committal program basic Freeview had to offer.

‘Why did I ever like this film?’ I pondered as I tried to negotiate the challenges of eating a messy foodstuff out of the cardboard box. ‘What year was this film? 1999? Wow, that would be why.’

No time to change, I emptied my handbag of unnecessary items, grabbed a bag of sweets for the road and headed out into the night.

Once I got to the theatre and found my seat I was pleasantly surprised by the view.

img_20200128_213033_7128535743078347253462.jpg

As I later remarked to a work colleague, one of the few benefits of attending on a Saturday night alongside a number of families – no issues with tall people in front!

I won’t bore or ruin the details of the production, but safe to say I could very much see why the show was exported from my beloved home town of Stratford Upon Avon several years before. It felt good to finally say I’d seen it for myself.

Fast approaching midnight; on returning to the hotel, my last scraps of energy were applied to putting on lounge wear and flopping into bed. Sleep came easier to me than swimming to a fish.

**

The next morning I pulled myself awake with relative ease. I grabbed my watch off the nightstand, 9:00. The downside of thick curtains; the room was just as dark now as it had been in the early hours of the morning.

I already knew where I wanted to go; the Columbia Road flower market in Hoxton only happens on a Sunday morning and I had fond memories of being in the middle of the hubbub of those who flock to the street to buy exotic plants from strange lands far beyond the Thames.

More familiar with the route I used to take from my old stomping ground, Wapping, from Tower Bridge the route was decidedly quicker when taken on foot compared to on Tube…well, in theory it was. Because by the time I’d gone down every side street, studying each passing map like a common tourist, I was the first to accept I was a little lost. But, at only 10:00 most of London had yet to fully wake up and I found myself quite happily riding the wave of confusion as I took in the sights of a slightly less chaotic Brick Lane in the heart of the old East.

**

When I finally arrived at the flower market (spurred on by the sight of people carrying large indoor palm trees), I joined the shuffling crowds. the smells and sounds taking me back to all the times before, the gruff masculine sellers showcasing colourful tulips just as amusing as always.

At the far end of the long street there was a pianist and tap dancer busking to a large collated group of watchers. They, competing against the tradespeople for attention, the tradespeople doing similar as the two parties fought for hard-earned money. It strangely added to the effect, the lady’s tapping feet on the damp tarmac a mesmerising beat to the cries of “two for five pound succulents!”

I purchased a couple of small cacti from a stand, not because I necessarily needed or wanted them in my life, but because they would look nice next to the one I already had in my home in Swindon. A subtle reminder of a moment whenever I made a cup of tea, a way to relieve a memory without anyone else knowing.

As I reached to pick up one of the items off a rack, another cactus pricked me in envy. With the bag tapping against my thigh, I made tracks to find the nearest shop to stock tubes of Savalon balm. Once this had been acquired and applied, I carried on to one of my favourite coffee haunts.

**

‘We don’t do blueberry muffins anymore,’ the barista says bluntly.

‘Oh, well, I guess it has been a year since I last visited. Things change.’ I point to a piece of banana bread to indicate my alternative selection. I hand over my loyalty card, the edges battered and stained from a year in the depths of my purse.

‘We don’t take those anymore, manager had a crack down on them a while ago.’

‘That’s shame,’ I say. While the barista makes my Americano I look down at the small piece of card. Four previous coffees, four stamps that had now amounted to nothing. Still, not like this fifth one would help much towards the free tenth coffee. I put it back in my purse, it still seemed too much to throw it away.

Work in Progress

I set myself up in the window, one of the few people to chose this particular coffee shop as their location of choice on a mild Sunday morning. I carefully placed one of my purchased plants down on the table, rearranging it slightly just as the barista walked over from the counter with my coffee and cake. Not like either of us were in any rush.

About an hour into a session of typing, a swarm of people poured up from the downstairs cellar. Surrounded by a flurry of voices it was impossible not to learn the subject of interest; an artsy film that had been premiered below. Eventually they all vacated and it was service as usual; just me, a couple of bored employees and the words on my screen.

It took a change of a track on the venue’s carefully constructed playlist to realise how long I’d be stationary in the trend-setting shop. I took it as a sign and made my leave.

**

Back at the hotel I dodged past the remaining cleaner trolleys to return to my room, thankful of a slightly longer rest bite to unpack my case properly. I flipped open the lid on a four pack of multi-buy blueberry muffins (small supermarket I’d passed) and happily picked away at its spongy texture as I flicked through an outdated Friday issue the Evening Standard I’d grabbed outside Aldgate East.

In what felt like no time as all I was grabbing my red coat and heading out once more, this time powering towards a Sofar Sounds music gig, hosted in block of flats somewhere deep in Shoreditch. Part of the gig’s charm was the secrecy in location right up until the last minute

**

‘Hey, you!’ I cry out down the street, over the roar of local cars and music blaring from neighbouring flats.

‘Hey!’ My little friend says with a smile, lifting her hood up to expose her dark hair to the rain for the first time. She stares at the metal gate.

‘It’s definitely here, right?’

‘Says so,’ I push the gate open and we enter the complex. ‘Thing is, I have a strong sense of deja vu being here…’

‘You been to many of these things?’ Emily asks, having never attended one of these events before.

‘Sofar Sounds? Yeah, this must be my…’ My eyes shoot upwards as I calculate the number in my head. ‘This is my fourth. Two previously here, one in Swindon.’

I give my name to the lady on the door and she directs us into the block. I recognise the hallway immediately; we’re heading to the same flat I attended before with Cherice.

‘So, what’s the vibe like?’ My friend asks as the lift rattles up four floors.

‘Oh, very friendly. Everyone gets all cosy and watch three acts perform. Some of them are in commercial venues, like bars and galleries, other are like this; people offering up their own homes.’

We knock on the flat door and immediately it shoots open by, I assume, the host. I’d hoped that arriving twenty minutes early would secure us with a greater choice of floor space, however this theory was quickly dashed when the same lady directed us to a large mound of jumbled shoes before permitting us a step further.

We carefully picked our way over several groups before finding a spot to seat ourselves. I laid my coat on the floor and pulled out a bottle of water and snacks, seasoned to the ways of Sofar Sounds.

‘Would you ever offer up your place for this?’ Emily asks.

‘God no!’ I reply. ‘See what people are drinking?’

Emily quickly glossed over the room’s inhabitants, most clutching bottles of beer or small containers of wine. One lady was casually sharing out chicken nuggets between people she’d just met.

‘Now look at the floor,’ I add.

‘It’s laminate.’

‘I think you’ve answered your original question.’

**

After a general introduction, three acts were each introduced to the ‘stage’; a tiny space at front cordoned off with a flimsy string of cheap LED lights.

The room was packed, busier and more overcrowded than the time before. In order to fit in an ever increasing number of ticket holders I found myself having to adopt ever more creative positions to fit my body into the Tetris-like gaps that sprung up and closed as others around me did similar.

Within the performance breaks Emily and I had chance to catch up. I’d spent two years living with her during our University days, going through both the good and rough times life as a student can bring.

I’d seen a kindred spirit in Emily when it came to work. For her dissertation I’d often get woken up in the early hours of the week as she headed to the labs to pull her research; whereas for mine it had resulted in weekends spent living and breathing historical archives to try and locate secretive family information. No one could have ever said we weren’t committed to a goal.

I suppose now, as we both sat in this top floor flat, what changed us was the way in which our studies shaped us. I applied elements of my History degree into jobs with no strong bearing on the subject matter, Emily meanwhile was on a conquest to utilise her education in its purest form. She was in the middle of working through a Masters Degree, whilst holding down a full-time job.

When she’d first told me about it almost two years ago I thought she was mad. Now, hearing her speak so highly on her passion for the subject matter, I could only admire her strength of will all the more.

After act one we stood up to stretch our legs, the guitarist tuning his instruments right before our noses.

‘That’s one to take home,’ I observe light-heartedly. ‘”Ma, he has two guitars!”‘

‘Are you on any dating apps?’ Emily enquires subtly, taking a swig of water from her bottle.

‘Back on Hinge. You remember, the one everyone raved about at improv. event?’

‘Erm…’

I hiss through my teeth. ‘The one with the photo?’

44758935_2199344500392113_8226036079027814400_n

‘Oh, yeah, that one!’

I pop a couple of gummy sweets in my mouth, quickly chomping on them as I offer some more into the palm of my plus one.

‘Basically, and you’re going to love this, I went to a music gig in Swindon recently with a guy…’

‘A date?’ Emily quickly interjects, the story suddenly taking her interest. I lift my hand to stop her.

‘Don’t, I thought that too. Especially when he offered to pick me up and pay for my ticket.’

‘So what went wrong?’

I sighed, it never got any easier to tell the story. ‘He had a girlfriend.’

‘What?’

‘He said I should have known, that it was obvious he was texting her all night. Well, forgive me for being too distracted by the music and, you know, not being a creep?’ I munch down on another sweet whilst looking into the middle-distance.

‘Weird.’

‘Isn’t it just? But it’s kinda been the closest I’ve had to anything since God knows when and I’ve just reached a stage where I’ve been single for two years, only ever had one relationship…’

‘Was it though?’

I chuckle. ‘Lets not go there. It’ just…just…well, everyone seems to be settling down and it feels like I’m doing anything but. Guys don’t ever seem to be on my level. They all want to worship me or aren’t interested no matter what I do.’

‘Men! But still, what’s wrong with wanting to be worshipped?’

‘Not if it’s suffocating.’

I glanced over the large number of couples in the room and took in a deep breath. ‘I want to be considered an equal, to be with someone who has the same values as me but not afraid to challenge me on them just as much. Sometimes I think I ask too much.’

It was at this point we were encouraged to return to our seated positions for the next act.

**

About two songs into the guitarist’s set I found my mind drifting on the waves of the music. The man was amazing, make no mistake, but with all music that lacks the presence of vocal chords, my creative mind suddenly found the opening to run free.

I caught myself gazing at a couple sat up against the back wall. Hidden in partial darkness and at the furthest reaches of attention and music; the two were deep in whispered conversation, he with an arm around her shoulder and she clutching his spare hand in one of her own. The world around them were merely the backing dancers, extras in their sell-out performance. They couldn’t care less about the quality and type of music their entry ticket had funded.

Then my mind raced forwards to later; I pictured them leaving the flat laughing and running down the street, jovial in manner but a hidden urgency to get to the Tube.

She yanks him into the train carriage just as the doors close, his jacket narrowly missing entrapment. She holds him there, by the t-shirt collar, held in suspense while the carriage rattles and lurches in sudden, jerky, movements, the tracks screeching its siren call. Staring deep into her eyes, the urge in his body tightens; building and building until suddenly it’s too great a feeling to contain. It floods into her as he leans forward and sharply kisses her against the sliding door, just as the train pulls into the station. The woman pushes him back with a giggle, a slight nod to indicate that this is the stop to alight from.

And when they get to the flat, that little compact and scruffy space that could have been theirs for years or hers for weeks; when they finally tumble in, they interlock like time itself is as fleeting as sand in a glass. Her delicate fingers grapple and skilfully undo her partner’s perfectly styled hair with speed as she slowly steps backward to hit the light’s off switch with her oil-slicked palm.

The things that are enacted next, in that dark space warmed by both body and street light, they are the thoughts that cannot be written. How constraining and insufferable the English language can be at the times we need it most.

It’s impossible to say from this angle if the transaction is love, or little more than a sudden flare of lustful hope, but the conclusion reached is just the same. They lie there, on the collapsed mattress with passion-stained sheets, no words needing to be said to dare risk spoiling this brief moment of euphoria.

Her head rests on his body, a long tangle of jet black hair intertwining with that on his chest. Slowly, but surely, the pair drift off into a deep sleep; they have barely said a word to each other since leaving the event.

**

Someone suddenly moves in front of me and in a daze I quickly move one my limbs in the opposite direction. Bad decision, I feel something snap at the back of my left leg followed by sharp pain the full length of the limb. Biting my lip hard to prevent a yelp of pain, I look down and see that my leg must have been in an awkward position for sometime, it almost looks dislocated the angle is so unnatural.

Emily gives me a nudge, the performer has finished his set. I clap along, using the chance to curse under my breath and position myself to stretch my leg out. The pain subsides, even if for a short spell.

I glance up and see the couple on the back wall clapping along as well, although theirs seems more out politeness than in genuine recognition for the man’s talent. I slowly blink and return focus elsewhere.

‘When are you going to finish the book?’ Emily asks me.

**

For those with an interest in producing any form of art having a broad and open mindset is an essential part of our very make up. The ability to see something and pull out a deeper meaning or be inspired to create a new one. When I speak of the Creative’s Curse, I don’t mean to refer to some kind of incurable disease or superstition, more the occasional drawbacks of having a unique skill.

Seeing things you don’t always want to see, creating implausible story lines to fill a void you didn’t even know existed. The sole belief a perfect world lies just beyond one’s fingertips. Sometimes it’s impossible to predict the triggers, sometimes you don’t want to. The irony; my sweet heroin is the thing that keeps me sane. I cannot bear to imagine a world where my creativity, including the occasional bought of Creative’s Curse, was sucked from the very marrow in my bones.

**

I was sat in the local pub later that night, one I used to frequent regularly when I lived only a couple of streets away. With a hand resting across my lap; watching boats speed up and down the dark abyss of the Thames, I heard a woman muttering in the seat behind.

‘I wonder what she’s thinking…’

20200126_1959201775118427134500474.jpg

**

Places visited (in order):

NB – I was not paid to visit or promote any of the above, adding links for reference.

**

London Recalling Series:

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

Did you enjoy this content? Please buy me a coffee to say thanks by clicking here: Buy Me A Coffee

McDonald’s, You’re Missing A Trick!

It’s my birthday and I’ll have wine with my McDonald’s if I want to! A quiet in ahead of the Christmas craziness – new blog posts coming soon!

I’ll also bake for my team if I want to, even if ‘baking’ means staying up until crazy o’clock the night before to get it made to my demanding standards.

(The team valued it, I made two batches and they devoured both on a day. I was even told it posed a risk to productivity because it was so good.)

So yeah, go me. Go me and my baking and my wine-sipping awesomeness. Whoop.