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.
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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.
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At the age I am, never did I expect to be contending with a new rival for the love and attention of my father. But then never did I expect to be on my second glass of midweek wine while I wait for my dinner, chicken nuggets and chips, to cook in the oven. We all make surreal life choices.
My dad’s got a new polytunnel out the back. Mum says it’s a monstrosity, I say it’s because we’re on lockdown but dad says it’s something he’s always wanted to do since Autumn (when one of his customer’s mentioned it to him). So that’s all that matters.
One of the agreements dad made with mum was that he’d place the tunnel somewhere out of view from the back garden. After a lot of ‘discussion’ this was the agreed spot, although mum still moaned that you could see it from the Dovecot patio. Mum didn’t get why I was laughing, and then I then took this photo and laughed even more.
Quite literally the most middle class, Cotswold, fiasco to happen since…well, ever.
Dad had the tunnel delivered days before the UK lockdown (23rd March 2020) and then two weeks’ later had a further delivery of wood to build up the raised beds inside. He proudly claimed he was doing a good job of self-isolating, whereas I pointed out making other people deliver water irrigation systems and bamboo poles for his new hobby was, once again, another very middle class response to avoiding non-essential travel.
I’ve commented that it looks more like the pop up hospitals they used for Ebola cases back in 2016 and from that mum has decided it’s going to serve as a self-isolation unit if anyone, aka dad, gets sick.
Not like he has a problem with hanging out down there at the moment, he’s gotten very much into planting his seeds and herbs.
Mum’s justification of the self-isolation polytunnel was further heightened when dad took power and water down to it, making it easier for him to grow produce without having to traipse up and down the length of the garden to utilise the outdoor water tap. The raised borders were completed shortly after that and seed-planting followed swiftly afterwards.
Here is a tour of the polytunnel I made dad do.
The cats have yet to make a formal decision on where they stand with the large tube of plastic in the back field. Given what we know him to be like, I’m convinced Bubble sees the whole thing as a 5-star, deluxe toilet facility. Glastonbury VIP++
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The polytunnel must have been up about a week when mum charged into the dining room to disrupt me in the middle of writing.
‘You have to see what your father is doing with the polytunnel!’
‘What?’
‘You have to go and see!’
I sighed. ‘Right, better go get some shoes on I guess. Not like I was focusing on something else. If I go all the way out there and find it’s nothing…’
‘You have to go and see!’
‘Yes, I got that part. Goodness me.’
So I made my way all the way down to the back field and found dad was digging a trench. The polytunnel wasn’t enough it seemed, he’s now growing raspberry canes as well.
‘Don’t you want to get up and running with all the things you’ve go planted already, dad?’
‘I’ve always wanted raspberries. My father used to grow them when I was a child.’
‘Right. It’s just you’ve already got a lot on the go here, the polytunnel is twice the size mum thought you were buying…’
‘When I have my massive bowl of raspberries I’ll remember you said that!’
‘Well…’
‘Have you seen what your father has done, Alice?!’
‘Hi mum. Well yes, I’m standing by it.’
I took a photo of Squeak sat by the narrow trench and looking in a similar way to how I felt about the whole situation.
And then the slugs came. Downside of trying to be an ecowarrior (and a little bit too proud) with his compost heap, dad’s version of compost came invested with delightful little balls of slime. Shortly afterwards I found myself making hacking up in my car to the convenience store in the next village to procure a bottle of beer as part of my essential food shop. I was more than willing to help, that was until I found him drinking more of the beer than actually using it to kill slugs.
‘This is surprisingly good stuff for cheap beer! How much was it again?’
‘£1.60.’
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have got it then.’
‘The instruction I got was “please get beer. It’s urgent.”‘
‘No worries, thanks anyway.’
‘…Can you please drink something else?’
Mum once made the fatal mistake of telling him that Tesco used to stock a four-pack of canned beer for £1.00, but now can’t been found on shelves for love or money. Dad occasionally laments the fact that Covid-19 has stripped him of his supply of slug trap booze, making him in a unique position of being able to relate to the average park bench boozer.
Slug traps are still ongoing, with more surreal contraptions coming in the post everyday courteously of eBay. If this economy has any chance of survival then it’s through my dad’s endless purchase history of online shops (in comparison, my grand total of spend equates to a set of new books and a couple of reusable face masks).
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Mum has given dad a strict two year lease on the polytunnel, if after that time the venture has been a complete failure or dad stops taking an interest in looking after his produce then the whole thing has to go.
It sounds tough, but given my sister and I have fond childhood memories of trying to salvage his dead salad plants from growbags you wouldn’t blame us for being a bit sceptical of his latest venture. He also once bought a rotisserie from a late night shopping channel which never got used. We love him dearly but he’s the biggest impulse buyer in a household containing three women.
I personally feel that this is very much linked to him being forced to stay at home and needing a hobby to keep him busy. I’ve told mum she shouldn’t complain as much, as him doing this outside means less time of him around the house. I told her it worked for Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice, after all.
Course, whether dad would be as equally understanding if I’d announced I was spending hundreds of pounds on creating an allotment at this very moment in time, I’m less sure. But heck, if nothing else if gives him something to do and countless hours of laughter from me as it winds mum up.
Long term I guess we will all just have to wait and see…
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When your country is in the middle of a hard lockdown it’s sometimes hard to see what life could possibly be like on the other side. Will things ever be the same? What will our human interactions be like?
Here are some of things that have randomly popped into my head as I’ve carried out my day-to-day life trapped in four walls (not limited to just the shower, even if it’s now the highlight of my day).
Will Everyone be Terrible Drivers?
There were enough bad drivers on the road before lockdown, but now everyone has been cooped up for so long without regular driving/commuting, does this mean that the entire driving population will default to their newly qualified status? Will people forget the highway code or which side of the road to drive on?
Will Offices be Full of Zombies?
I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten dangerously comfortable with rolling out of bed and not having to be quite so concerned with hair and makeup. So when we are eventually asked to return to the office will the change of routine and earlier starts result in a workforce of smartly dressed zombies? Zombies downing coffee like there’s no tomorrow.
Should I Have Embraced Dabbing?
For those less aware, dabbing became a worldwide craze in the mid 2010s. It was a thing young people did to celebrate gaming success in their bedrooms, living rooms and (I think) other places? To be honest, I’m not sure of it’s history (I was having too much fun watching paint dry this afternoon to research it thoroughly), however it looks like this. If you were a unicorn.
I don’t think much more explanation is needed as to how this links to Coronavirus and the spread of viruses.
Should have got in on that gravy train back when it was cool. As opposed to now when it’s Government advice (aka ‘the man’ aka uncool).
Will Vampires Become Fashionable Again?
This sounds wacky, but traditionally economic recessions are often marked by a moodier feel to what we watch on big and small screens (think Daniel Craig in James Bond).
Like it or loathe it, the film series went on to become an icon of teen viewing during the time it dominated movie screens. The last film, Breaking Dawn Part 2, was released in 2012, at the point people were beginning to feel more positive about the economy (and waking up to better fiction). Coincidence? I think not!
If that’s not enough proof, BBC’s Dracula started airing on 1st January 2020 and here we are months later facing into economic turmoil.
So, if the economic and popular culture trends are to be believed, do I need to dig out my CD copy of My Chemical Romance and invest in garlic like this town?
Will we be a Nation of Alcoholics?
Short answer – yes. But there are sweet little pictures on the internet making fun at this so it can’t be all that bad…right?
Will Pets Become Intellectuals?
My family cat, Squeak, sitting on my lap and facing onto what are likely to be confidential work emails.
Now we’re around all day a number of family pets must be feeling very spoiled by attention right now. That’s more time watching how we act, more time listening to us talk and, most importantly, more time of my cat watching money advice like The Martin Lewis Money Show.
How Will I React to Other Humans?
It’s exciting enough returning after Christmas break and reconnecting with colleagues and friends I haven’t seen in about two weeks, so how the hell am I going to get through thirty minutes without bursting into emotional tears and wanting to hug everyone?
I’ll be like Miranda from Shakespeare’s The Tempest when, having spent her whole life in her father’s company, she’s introduced to multiple new men also on the island.
Will I be Expected to do Thoughtful Gifting?
Two reasons I say this. Firstly, the world supply chain will be shaky, so the more quirky things things I might usually buy via China (or in shops…via China), well they might not be available to purchase anytime soon.
Secondly, I rely on human interactions to pick up on people’s interests which then feed into what I buy. You tell me how the stuff I’m meant to do that when I’m only catching up with you over the phone, once a month?
Look, all I’m saying is don’t get Judgy McJudgeFace with me when the best you get this Christmas is a bath bomb in one of my old socks, or a Bic “for her” pen.
Has “The Matrix” Run out of Money?
Our alien overlords were sat around a table.
The Director of Financial Records made an announcement to the board. “We’ve got the shareholders on our back,” they said. “We can’t afford the maintenance of the full-blown software this year. We also need to cut costs elsewhere.”
The software operators thought long and hard before responding. “Don’t worry,” they said. “We will create a killer illness meaning the humans are forced to stay in their homes. We can scrap the complex mountain/exotic beach software, because most will do as we (aka their governments) direct. It also will explain why a number of humans suddenly disappear from the Matrix, no one would question it.”
Alternatively…
Truman Show Theory – Have we Become too Boring?
The Chair of Audience Engagement storms into the writing department at Human Watch HQ. She throws the proposed plot lines up in the air.
“Viewers are getting bored of Trump!” She yells. “Our target audience aren’t responding to religious wars like they were ten years ago. The weekly statistics are down and plummeting. Do something better and make it quickly implementable, something that’ll catch people off guard.”
The writers pulled out their previous storylines. “We haven’t used a global pandemic in a while; in fact it’s a centenary since the Spanish Flu affected the richer zones. We could build some great marketing around it.”
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There you go, some initial concerns and/or anxieties I’ve introduced into your merry little worlds. Don’t worry, you’re very much welcome.
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It’s a strange old world when the phrase “you must have been living under a rock” is more of a compliment than criticism. Because why would you choose to be kept informed on a minute-by-minute basis? Why would anyone take to pointing the blobby face in the BBC’s Coronavirus background just to get through the 10pm news? Why would anyone do that? They’ve to be pret-ty sad to do that.
Once you see it…
Like many people around the world who has or is currently going through a version of a lockdown, there are a number of things I feel that I was no prepared for. Most are very typically British and being me, I’m going to take a very Alice-y approach to this. The community spirit, the crazy hoarding, those are commonplace knowledge in the UK. But what about the little things? The small changes to the day-to-day that I really was not prepared for and some I’m really not sure I’m okay with.
Lockdown: 10 Things No One Warned Me About
1. I look good in a mask
Never did I expect to scrub up nicely in a DIY mask. I don’t wear it very often, only the couple of times when I’ve gone out food shopping. But you know what? I kinda like it.
Solves the problem of make up and my fledging career in ventriloquism, as this accidentally taken video shows.
2. I’d be fighting pets for work space
I mean, sure, space can be tight when you’ve got multiple people working from home, and I get having any age of children about can add an additional layer of ‘fun’ to the mix. My cats however, no one seemed to teach them the importance of sharing.
Squeak in particular, she seems to view my presence are a mere inconvenience to her sleeping arrangements and trust me, this lady is not for turning!
3. I’d listen to more questionable radio
I’m not adverse to radio, in fact I listen to a good deal of the stuff when focusing on work or creative projects. But, listening to so much of the same hosts you naturally want to venture out and explore new things, did I however expect to be listening to Heart 90s? Did I ever expect to be researching The New Radicals on my lunch break? And did I still expect for Westlife to not be over their exes? Short answer, no.
Reminds me, I really need to buy more CDs. Also, did you know Cyndi Lauper did a remake of her hit Girls Just Wanna Have Fun in 1994? Well, you do now.
4. I’d drink more
Coffee, gin, prosecco – they’re all the same, right?
Still, for the first time in my life I’m actually drinking two litres of water a day.
5. People are more demanding
Sometimes it’s household chores, other times it’s life admin, but living with family I cannot get away with dodging tasks in the same way I could when I lived over an hour’s drive away. I feel like I’m six again.
On a similar level, I’m getting constantly asked when my book is getting completed, the expectation is apparently I’ll come out of lockdown with the next international bestseller ready to hit the selves.
My face when people ask for a publication date.
I’ll spoil it for you now, it ain’t happening by September 2020.
And then there are some people who use their connections and position to request frequent updates on new blog posts (yes mum, I’m looking at you).
I have more time, but I do also have a job and endless cups of tea to make.
6. Downing Street briefings would become the highlight of my day
The daily updates, usually televised from 17:00 have been a key milestone I structure my day around. Stranger still, I now have favourite ministers who I get more excited by presenting than others. Business Secretary, Alok Sharma, not a big fan.
(Also, I can’t un-see Tom from Tots TV whenever I look at him. Don’t ask me why.)
Just me?
However, Rishi Sunak, Chancellor of the Exchequer, he’s a bit of a political dreamboat. I always look forward to his briefings, which is something because I barely knew the chap before this all kicked off.
At the age of 39 he’s basically 20 years old by political standards and doesn’t he know it? I mean, the man even poses for photos in his socks. Puts the full shirt and tie combo on, but no, leave off the shoes. What a tease!
All I’m saying is that the next series of Love Island needs to watch out.
This leads nicely onto my next point…
7. Having a legitimate excuse for my non-existent dating life
After years of trying to defend my singledom status to an irritating number of people (singletons, you’ll get it), it’s taken a pandemic to stop people asking.
I mean, the apps can give it large by encouraging people to facetime but if there’s one thing I really can’t be handling is the awkwardness of a) making an effort when really, what’s the point? Or b) having to talk through my choice of bedding with someone I’ve known all of five minutes or even c) terminating the ‘date’ because the 17:00 briefing is about to start and Rishi is chairing.
Instead, the phrase I’m not using is “I’m practising this new fashion called social distancing. Very a la mode, it’s all the rage on the continent!”
After all, it worked for the Netflix series Love Is Blind
For those less familiar with the car crash TV series on Netflix…
8. My family are insane
I love them dearly, but with all us temporarily living under one roof for an extended period, a length of time none of us have known for many years, well, the weirdness starts to surface eventually.
Case in point: Mumma Bennett has taken to drawing on a potato.
And I know what you’re thinking…
For better, or worse, Mr Potato is now part of our lives. Mum is very precious about it and gets upset if we says nasty things about it.
Again, we’re all living in the same house.
I’ve now come to embrace Mr Potato; he’s no couch, he’s my mate. He’s pretty sharp on boosting morale.
(But I have had to have words about his unexplained trips.)
9. I’d be using Christmas decorations in Summer
We’re now using seasonal charms on every glass/mug to identify who has been drinking out of what. The only slight difference now is that instead of it being “ho-ho! Wouldn’t want to accidentally drink your wine!” it’s more “DON’T YOU DARE CONTAINATE MY COFFEE, YOU MASSIVE GERM!!”
10. Dad’s legs
Apparently it’s now Summer. Missed that memo; the one which said the weather would be pants for weeks and weeks, but the second we go on lockdown it would improve. But, dad has his legs out so it must be the case. Can’t argue with that, (really, I can’t.)
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To finish off, here’s one of the more respectable 90s songs I’ve heard on the radio (it’s a cover of an absolute classic but then, the 90s):
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Cally Beaton, TV Executive and stand up comedian extraordinaire, delivered a powerful presentation recently in my workspace. If that wasn’t an experience by itself, my colleague I and alo had the pleasure of catching up with Cally afterwards to record a podcast. We covered lots of important topics including imposter syndrome, mentoring dating woes and the difficulty of acquiring paracetamol without ID. First world problems, you know?
Unfortunately due to company restrictions I’m not allowed to share with you the audi (trust me, I tried). However, that said, it was an absolute pleasure to interview Cally and write up the subsequent article.
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Stop faffing about and get on with it!
When Kirst and myself, Alice Bennett, joined this company we never thought we’d have a stand-up comedian instruct us to stop fearing change and become a disrupter. It was a bit forward given we’d only met this woman fifteen minutes prior, but we were prepared to go along with it.
Introducing Cally Beaton; board member, stand-up comedian and single super mum. Cally’s success hasn’t come over night and despite her colourful background, in recent years she’s taken time to strip herself back to her core and purposefully gravitate towards the things that scare her.
An interesting thought. I mean, many people wouldn’t dare venture outside their comfort zone and don’t get me started on imposter syndrome which, according to Cally, affects 97% of us. Could it be our wonderfully unique mindsets are being plagued with self-doubt to the point where we all act and do the same? According to this insightful speaker, they very much are.
Cally turned to comedy only five years ago after realising she had to make space for the things in her life that mattered. Laughing freely, Cally told us she’s never learnt as much from a good gig, as a bad one.
While she’ll be the first to admit it’s not been all smooth sailing, this is a woman who clearly holds no regrets about her life choices. It goes to show, it’s never too late to try something new; one small change today can make a massive difference tomorrow!
There were too many one-liners and stories to detail here but our key takeaway was the need to stay true to yourself and be a driver for change (aka a positive disrupter). The future will be different so, in the words of this charismatic communicator, buckle up!
Kirst and I caught up with Cally afterwards to record a podcast (which truth be told, felt more like a girl’s night in). In doing so we really got under the skin of what makes this vibrant and infectious woman tick (in her own words, ‘no questions are off the table!’).
With everything else going on at the moment, there are a lot of people also talking about mental health (and for good reason, like so many it’s a topic close to my heart).
The way I see mental health, it’s a lot like Mr Blobby’s house. Now, bear with me on this…
(By the way, if you don’t know who Mr Blobby is, he/it was my life in the 1990s and the single weirdest thing to happen to British TV, as demonstrated by Jack Whitehall.)
(My understanding is that to anyone who didn’t grow up with this character it’s the scariest thing you’ll ever come across.)
What’s Mr Blobby got to do with mental health?
The outer bubble
When it comes to how you look and act (especially on the internet), to most of the world you’re like an episode of Noel’s House Party, living this amazing life that people absolutely envy you for. Grand houses, upbeat music, laughing along the way; you’re living the dream!
The secondary bubble
Your friends and family meanwhile, they know you better than that. The flashy estate on TV, that doesn’t exist, that isn’t the real Crinkly Bottom. No, the real CB is somewhere in Somerset, remind me again Noel…?
Gotcha, near Chard.
Those close to you, they see you as being more like Mr Blobby’s house ‘Dunblobbin’. This unique and random construction that is completely random and, to be honest, a bit bizarre. But, they know you’re owning your take on weird and that’s why they love you so.
The inner bubble
But sometimes, it’s really not okay.
Really, things are like Dunblobbin after it was rediscovered in 2014, almost two decades after the park closed…
I.e. in your own head, things are a mess
And deep inside, you don’t even recognise the things you see and feel. And it’s not quirky or unique, it’s scary.
Guess what? Sometimes life is tough.
And I’m not saying that in a ‘they’ve run out of avocados at the supermarket’ kinda way, I mean it’s tough, as in a real challenge.
A short while ago I went through a rocky patch when event after event hit my life like a kick to the shins. While writing was great for getting out the anger (maybe one day I’ll publish the drafts), it wasn’t helping me get out of the rut.
The game changer came when one of my good friends sent me several texts:
Admittedly she’d had a little to drink at the time, but it actually made a massive difference in my mood.
I always harp on about lollipop moments, the idea of recognising someone for the things they don’t see, that I’d never thought about receiving it in return.
(Video for context.)
I realised that while I loved writing, sitting alone in my house and getting pent up over the things I couldn’t change would get me nowhere. So I started going out more, re-engaging with people I hadn’t seen in years. And God did I feel better for it.
There are still things I’d like to change and nothing is ever stable; like all humans I have my good and my bad days. But I just wanted to say that to anyone not feeling entirely themselves that it’s okay. Things can get better.
Never underestimate the power of friendship…and Mr Blobby.
**
Nb – for anyone interested, here is a great mini-documentary video charting the rise and fall of the Crinkley Bottom theme park.
**
Update: This post was originally drafted in January 2020, prior to the mass spread of Covid-19 across Europe. Author fully endorses staying safe and being considerate of others in the prevent of further spread. Be kind.
STOP BUYING ALL THE TOILET ROLL!
**
Did you enjoy this content? Please buy me a coffee to say thanks by clicking here:
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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’.)
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.
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.
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.
**
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:
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”.
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).
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.
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.
My Housemate's a Mermaid 