Author: llamasferrera

The BUS!ker

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When I lived in Horsham there was this busker. He didn’t have the most amazing voice, but it was fine and he played the standard old school guitar classics. He was always cheery, grateful to anyone who gave him a nod let alone tossed a coin in his case (that sounded more like a euphemism than I meant it to). Anywho, nice bloke, reasonable busker. But there was one song (which he always played) that he sung in a slightly peculiar way. He played a lot of Beatles, one of them being ‘You’ve got to hide your love away’. Good song, but when a certain part of it is played at the volume that forcibly ejects your soul from your physical form, you start to question that. Specifically, it was the “hey”. Well to be really specific, it was the

Its particularly unnerving if you’re holding a hot beverage or something breakable, as these will inevitably fall from your grasp as you instinctively reach for your phone to call everyone you love to say goodbye.

It would somehow also always arise when you least expected it. Perhaps you didn’t clock him that morning or he was midway through another song. Then suddenly

and the subsequent tremors last the rest of the day. Which can be very disruptive for work. I was an administrator at the time, which included a lot of audio typing. And my colleagues didn’t like gggeeettttiiinnnnggg tttthhheeeiirrrr lllleeettteeerrrsss bbbaaaacccckk llllikkkkkeeee ttthhhiissss.

I moved to Brighton many years ago now. Not because of him although my nerves certainly didn’t mourn the loss. And I often visit the nearby town of Lewes. I rented there for a year and a half in fact. And would like to live there again one day if I could ever afford it. You still get the artsy vibe of your Brighton but with all the character tweeness of old market towns that I like. Anywho, I was walking along the street there one day when it happened.

There he was. Looking exactly the same as he did way back when. And still as cheery.

But instead of climbing the nearest tree, I smiled. Prior exposure had somehow given me immunity to this new Lewes strand of busking. And it filled me with one of my favourite feelings: nostalgia. Not that I’m sure you could classify nostalgia as a feeling, but we’re all familiar with the oddly pleasing pangs it produces. Any associated annoyance with said busker was clean forgot, replaced with the warmest of glows.

I suppose it was a number of things: the fact that he was still happy doing what he did, even with the same old songbook. That I was reminded of a relatively happy and stable period of my life. But I think I took the most pleasure from the fact that it was a sign that some things didn’t change, which is a complete cliché I know, but I do find it oddly comforting. There have been a lot of negative changes in the wider as well as my own personal world. And a couple of changes that may yet prove to be positive but its too soon to tell. Nostalgia is a funny thing. As I’m sure you know, its got that ‘algia’ bit in it for a reason, there’s an element of pain – it translates as pain for the past or something. Huh, in looking this( up for the exact definition I found an academic article about an experiment using nostalgia to help people with pain management so there’s some pleasing irony for you).

I suppose the feeling it generates is quite ambivalent: sorrow for time lost, but pleasure at the memories evoked. With family visiting soon who I haven’t seen in a long time thanks to Covid, I suspect more of this feeling to occur in the coming days. But what will also come with it is new memories, built in large part by the next generation. Because as much as we mourn the losses, for the larger part of our lives, we always gain more than we lose. Be it friends, colleagues, acquaintances – for the most part, we keep collecting more. And that’s the biggest comfort of all.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some eggs to hide. Hey.

Important update on December post:

The antisocial behaviour from the middle finger chimney house and mooning bum mews is being investigated by the world’s leading private detective no less, spotted on the same road. Hercule Poirot-gate. He’s sure to get to the bottom of all this.

Having a domestic

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Walking to get a coffee (natch), I saw this:

Why is there so much chimney and so little house? Is the house over-compensating for something? Was the house teased a lot when it was nothing more than a brick in a builder’s eye? I suspect there was another level that had to be removed for some reason, but instead of scaling back the chimney to match, they left it audacious and standing proud, a signal to other homes in the area, nay, a warning, this is our patch. If chimneys could click their fingers and do jaunty leaps down an alleyway to an apposing gang, this one would be leading them.

The whole structure reminds me of those people you sometimes see at the gym who have clearly been working exclusively on one area of their body and now their shadows resemble tortilla chips.

Then there is the mews opposite. Its gated and the metal structure has been shaped so that it looks like dozens of pears hanging from branches. Except the pears look more like bums. A series of bums flashing at the house opposite who has its middle finger up in response. This is clearly a feud that’s been going on for generations. I expect the Victorians were very embarrassed by the whole thing.   

Normally at this point I’d try and make some vague connection to my personal life and use this whole thing as a metaphor for some area that needs development. And yes I grant you the obvious phallic shape staring me straight in the face may indeed be mocking the distinctive drought in my love life, but really, I just wanted you to see it. Because its just a bit fucking weird. And I like that. A good walk or stroll isn’t complete without a noticeable oddity en route. It just lightens the whole journey. Finding little unexpected random moments just, well, helps.

On that same short walk, I also saw two builders who had evidently been working on the rendering of a property nearby. One was stood outside using a torch to inspect the outside presumably for any imperfections. Only he had his torch tucked in under his hood which was up and lodged beside his head at eye-line, so from the side it looked like his own eyes were emanating white light, shifting their focus with every nod of the head. Like he was a member of the x-men. Only his superhero outfit was less cape and more paint-stained joggers and hoodie. His handle would be the ‘Render Defender’ or something. He moved his head quite rhythmically like search lights in the sky above some grand plaza like structure. I imagine erection house and butt mews were quite jealous.

So there you have it. Its the odd little details that add dabs of colour that brighten the whole picture.

The Rule of Three

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A couple of days ago I was driving through town and I saw an A-board outside a little café that said ‘coffee, bratwurst and vinyl’. Which I think most people would agree is a somewhat strange combination.

Do you think that was in the original business plan? Or it evolved this way over time perhaps due to an incorrect shipment of German sausage that suddenly proved popular, or a large inherited music collection from a recently deceased relative that needed storing somewhere. I remember the café used to be called something else (one of those unoriginal coffee houses that dared to admit it hadn’t even considered pork-based offerings nestled in-between 45s) and I had assumed it changed hands, but maybe it was some epiphany that prompted a new direction. I can picture them sat there for days:

“Caffeine alone, its just no working. We’re only as successful as all the other coffee places in this town. We need to add two more things.”

“How about tea, mince and bowling?”

“No, no, no.”

“Latte, casserole and cartography?”

“It’s good, but it still doesn’t feel right.”

“Hot chocolate, bagels and ammunition?”

I imagine it going on and on like that before finally landing on the sacred idea, embracing as they did, tears streaming down their cheeks and looking toward the blessed sky with relief.   

Well, I suppose they say the best things come in threes. And then there’s the rule that all good speeches have. Most classic orators will use three examples, or three key principals to express their argument. It’s supposed to be more effective. It speaks to the human brain, the same way we like our stories to have a beginning, a middle and an end. Why Goldilocks had to meet three bears instead of just one, which let’s face it is usually unlucky enough.  

“Mocha, satsumas and dog training?”

Some stories, although in literal terms must have a beginning, a middle and an end, only do so in the sense of time it takes to read them. Our bookmark is placed half-way through the book so we must be in the middle, but the story itself doesn’t necessarily read like that. There’s no definite sense of an ending – that’s a Barnes book, isn’t it? I mean, it ends, the words stop and we’re suddenly accidentally reading the acknowledgements, but it doesn’t feel finished.

“Cappuccino, kale and plastic surgery?”

I remember doing a module back in the day on ‘modern’ short stories, most of them post-war. I appreciated what they were doing from an intellectual point of view, and in a way, they probably reflected a collective feeling for those of that era, who felt so turned upside down by war. All that they hoped would be different afterwards didn’t necessarily materialise, in addition to processing the ongoing traumatic aftermath. But I also imagine people of that time didn’t read books to stay feeling how they already felt, but perhaps in the hope it would make them feel better. Or at least different.

“Cortado, cheese and therapy?”

I guess you could come back to a similar argument about satire and catharsis. Tapping out a sketch that really lays into a corrupt government is fantastic for the soul (that nice, neat ending feeling), but does it dampen your ardour to actually do something about it? But what can we actually do about it if it’s been voted in democratically? We can protest certain laws and sign petitions but that doesn’t often instigate a lot of change. At least it’s a way of sharing our collective outrage, and sometimes in a way we can’t do with just a speech, even with the rule of three included.

“Macchiato, cereal and hypnosis?”

But what about how the politicians or those in the public eye feel about the satire aimed at them? Many see it in a positive light. After all, no publicity is bad publicity. Many will openly say they find it funny so that others appreciate them for being able to take a joke at their own expense, which can serve to increase their popularity. And they might genuinely find it funny. Or in private sneer and snarl and the indignation. As only the writer, we don’t get to know. And that’s certainly not to say that satirists are saints shedding light on the less than chivalrous behaviour of our betters, as sometimes they can be downright cruel. But that’s because they didn’t follow the golden rule: APU – ‘always punch up’. Otherwise, its not satire, its bullying.

“Espresso, noodles and reiki?”

The other golden rule for a classic satirical sketch is you’ve got to end on a strong punchline, especially for live shows. The audience needs to feel that ending and the performers to have earned their applause. Don’t leave your comrades out there with no ammo, give them the means to punch up.

And this is what I need (well want, but it feels like a need) from stories. The ending doesn’t have to be a happy one, but it should feel like an ending. You don’t need to tie up every loose end or resolve every tension, but as a reader I appreciate at least a clue as to what the author hoped I’d get out of it. Just a hint will do, I don’t mind doing the work. In fact it’s often more satisfying that way, but don’t leave me hanging without even a small thread to tug at. Maybe this makes me ‘vanilla’, scared of experimentation, but the truth is writers have done lots of experimenting over the years and there’s a reason why most bestsellers follow the old ways. Because we don’t get it in real life, sometimes tragically so.

So with that in mind… anyone for a flat white, a taco and some glass blowing?

Fixing the Leaks

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It’s called about three different things in the tap community: a ‘threaded valve’, a ‘cartridge’ and horrifyingly enough even a ‘gland’. It’s got 20 teeth and a spline whatever that is. Sounds frightening, but context is everything.

My kitchen tap was leaking. It had been for some time. As per tradition I was putting off doing anything about it. I can’t stress enough how few practical life skills I possess. It’s not that I’m afraid of hard work, rather that there are so many gaps in my knowledge in relation to things that are actually of any use. I can write you an amusing skit about the government or make a fake ham out of chicken wire and Modroc, but don’t ask me to rewire a plug unless you want your entire house to burn down for the insurance. I still claim the time I put up some shelves as a major and frankly heroic victory.

This is the thing, when you try to address a problem, often its far more complicated than you thought it would be. I say often, in my experience almost always. You open a family-sized can of worms complete with worm-granny annexe and extensive grounds and once they’re out you can’t get those wriggly bastards back inside even with the allure of that roll top bath you installed and all that cornicing.

And so was the case with this when the worms (thankfully metaphorically) fell out of the tap. It was just a drip so I’d thought originally it was most likely a simple washer replacement. I’d purchased a pack of various sizes so I’d hopefully have the right fit ready to go. So to start things off, locate the stopcock[i]. And here’s the first hurdle: you might have two. Yeah, some houses have two. Why? Just for shits and giggles I guess. And then the second hurdle: they could be in a number of places. Thankfully as it turned out my house just had the one and it was located outside and clearly marked. It even came with its own ‘key’ to turn it like my father warned me I might need in order to reach it. So far I was apparently winning at life. Having the upper body strength of a bubble, I of course had to ask my housemate to assist with the turning (that and I was turning it the wrong way) but we got it going and let the water left in the system run out of the tap. All still good.

I’d watched a few videos and had the necessary tools so felt ready. I even remembered to put the plug in in case I dropped any small parts down the drain (get me). I unscrewed the casings of each tap, one easily, one quite stubbornly, and next I had to unscrew the headgear nut[ii]. They must have been completely rusted internally, as they wouldn’t budge a millimetre. I know I have no muscle, but I have a reasonable amount of bulk and even with my whole weight pulling on it, nothing seemed to shift it. I checked videos and even texted pictures to my dad to check I was doing it right. Eventually after sheer bloody mindedness and some serious heft, it finally turned.

I was feeling smug until I removed it. It did not look like the one in the video and when I tried to explain it to my dad over the phone (he took a lot of calls that day) he sounded confused. So I sent another photo and looked at more videos and confirmed it was a more modern cartridge / gland / organ / whatever version that could not be dismantled to change the washer. After seeing the latest picture[iii] my father confirmed this, commenting that he assumed my house wouldn’t have anything that modern in it. Charming. For this kind, you need to replace the whole gland / duct / endocrine system. The DIY store was open until late and I was on a (albeit leisurely) roll, so I nipped over. They only had one kind there and it was slightly larger than my existing one, but the instructions on the rear of the packet implied provided that three key measurements were the same, it should still fit: the 8mm spline with 20 teeth (again terrifying) and a half inch thread, which they did. So I took a punt and impulse purchased some gladioli bulbs whilst there as I’m only human.[iv]

The second tap valve was even more stubborn that the first to remove and it took me some time, not aided by the fact that the whole tap seemed to half rise from its base with every pull of the spanner. The second cartridge / toner / Epsom ET-2750 had completely split and I had to lever out the remnants with a flat head screwdriver. This at least made it look promising that this was the cause of the leak rather than anything else even more complicated. I screwed in the replacements and reinstated the casings and although they sat slightly further out from the base than they did before, they fit well enough.

Remembering to move it in the right direction, I managed with some effort to turn the stopcock back to its original position. I heard a ticking and rushing sound and trotted back to the kitchen. And… it worked. It actually worked. After some expected air bubble jetting, the taps worked perfectly and… no drips. I’d actually managed to fix something plumbing related. I know its daft and quite pathetic, but it gave me such a high and a real sense of achievement.

The truth of it is, my housemate and I had had a bit of an argument the previous week. It was over something quite small, but that was symptomatic of a far larger problem. Something I had been avoiding for some time. My patterns of behaviour when home were clearly that of a depressed person.

I’d been spending a lot of time at my parent’s house in order to help them both with things during the pandemic. I was active and productive at their place, but when I’d come home, I’d sleep most of the day, then the remainder would be spent catching up on the work I didn’t have time to do when away and eating too many snacks. And the truth of it was there had been patterns of this behaviour even before my father’s diagnosis and the winter bereavements. Coupled with my mother’s current illness, I have plenty of excuses for my current behaviour, but the reality is I’m using them as excuses for something that was already there.

Again, you could argue there are plenty of excuses for this, I haven’t had much luck in certain areas of my life, but that’s no reason not to work on my resilience. I know it’s a bit buzz wordy and that always makes my buttocks clench, but sadly I think that’s the best word for what I’m looking at here. It feels frightening in many ways though. At the start of the winter, I’d made a conscious effort to put a positive spin on more things, having a tendency to look more on the negative. But it seemed that as soon as I tried that, two tragic events took place as if in an attempt to rid me of any new found optimism. So yes, I’m a bit scared. I’m worried that in trying to make the best of things, I’m challenging life to make it bad again. I’m daring it to do its worst.

But the alternative is creating your own worst. Living in a sort of numb state of pure existence with not a lot else going on. Doesn’t sound very appealing.  

So I need to fix the leaks. Address one small problem at a time so as not to overwhelm myself, and try and get better. There will be days when I fail at this, but I’m hoping there won’t be as many if I plan ahead (at least as much as that’s possible) by setting those ‘small achievable goals’ that people who wear ties always talk about.

I may only be feeling better at present because the sun’s come out and the flowers are starting to emerge (that and my earth-shattering tap prowess), and as soon as the novelty wears off, I’ll go back to old habits. So the trick I suppose is to make the good routines such a habit that they overwrite the old ones?

Just got a phone call update from the hospital about mum. She’s still very frail. So right now I’m feeling that fright I mentioned quite acutely. But I need to reframe this. I can’t let every knock consume me no matter how tempting it is to cocoon myself in my bedsheets again. And they may make the exception for me to visit in view of her communication issues. So this time tomorrow I might be sat at my mother’s bedside, perhaps giving her a belated birthday present.

After all, she spent years trying to fix my teenage broken parts, I’ll keep on returning the favour. And maybe together, we’ll plug enough leaks to make it through.

[i] Insert obvious gag here

[ii] See above

[iii] I’m compiling a collection together for an exhibition simply entitled ‘Damp’

[iv] A deeply sad one

Have a Great Day

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One night I couldn’t sleep so I went through the Nato alphabet in my head to see if I knew it all. Turns out I could sleep as I only got as far as about J. I think I just expected I wouldn’t be able to sleep. But caring for mum, two dogs and trying to hold down a job makes for quite a full day regardless of whatever life-changing news you might receive. But what the fuck is K?

I start strong with alpha, bravo, then it takes me a few seconds but I do get charlie. It’s hard to tell if the other Charlie is any more unsettled than usual. He was hiding is his special spot before all this kicked off. And he’s adapted to the changes surprisingly well: the new walking schedule, even riding in my car. Snowie was her stubborn self to start with but after accepting there was no alternative, now drags me all around the houses. D I thought I didn’t know then quickly realised it was Delta having heard it on ‘Cabin Pressure’ when the character funnily enough called Arthur is being tested and comes up with the most absurd suggestions. Mine haven’t faired much better at times. Echo I also remember from the radio, foxtrot I knew well, particularly after seeing the film ‘Whiskey Tango Foxtrot’ which turned out to be a much better watch than I thought it would be. G must have stumped me because I’m struggling to remember it again now. Ghetto, Godfrey, Godzilla. Got to guess g’s. God?

The ones I’m completely stuck on are K and M, ironically my initials. The general consensus of the family is that it’s more likely kilo than Kardashian, but we’re by no means sure. M I don’t know, unless its mamma as there’s papa further down. Papa himself thinks its kilo and the new carer thought he was a military man so he must be right. No, mum replied, he just likes to be in control. I clarified this wasn’t a coercion thing, worried what trigger words social services might look out for, just that he liked order. There is a degree of order in his days now, but certainly no control.

For ages I was also stuck on V – voluptuous, volcano, Voldemort. Apparently its not Venetoclax. In the end I remembered Victor. Always good to check names as they come up more than you’d think. But M is still a mystery, a muddle, a marvellous medicine? I hope so.

Lizzie’s got a new prescription for her cough. They tested her for Covid. She whined and ‘don’t like it’-d it, but got lots of stickers so all was well. She sweeps through the room like a fresh breeze all care-free and flowing yellow dress – “have a great day” she says. Then a few seconds later she’s back with “and have a great morning”. ‘I think she means for tomorrow’ my brother clarifies. I love the Lizzie more than anything but by god she can be American sometimes. Children are the future as the song goes. V must stand for vomit.

R is definitely for racist dogs – C&S will only interact with little shite dogs, sorry little white dogs. Anything too big or less than eggshell on the Dulux chart is to be barked at or ignored (I’m not sure which is more insulting). On my ever increasing to do list is to check out the Cinnamon Trust. Apparently they can help with our situation. Perhaps R is actually for Responsive Services who visited on Friday and gave us our first taste of carers today – a second Margaret (always good to have a spare) and Ban. They also came for lunch, but they won’t be there for dinner. Guess who’s coming to dinner? No idea. What’s the saying go – about whether you call it dinner or tea? Or you say supper? Supposed to imply which class you fall into. Mum says tea but only because she has her main meal at lunch and to us a tea implies a lighter meal. I say dinner, as tea gets too confusing with the amount of cups of the stuff I make mum each day. And supper is if you’re in a Jane Austen novel. S I would never have got, but luckily mum said sierra straight off. 

M should be for Meg. I miss the fur children. Steph and Andy make excellent surrogates, but I don’t sleep as sweetly without the sound of a small motor vibrating at my side. And the scratch marks on my arms have completely healed now that Gus isn’t around to suckle my inner elbow and knead the surrounding area mercilessly. There must be a term for that area of the body. I’ll look it up. It’s the medial epicondyle of the humerus. Hardly rolls off the tongue. But it abbreviates as ‘meh’ which I quite like. I refuse to look up the Nato alphabet until I think I’ve got a reasonable suggestion for M. I suspect its not Myleoid.

Its getting close to 5pm so I guess I better get back to mum. The nice neighbours are walking the subwoofers to help us out. Means I can actually take this one hour for myself to do some tippy tappy. Steph says I need to take some time for myself. I have to fit in more work tonight – got to finish the monthly report (its only short) then perhaps I’ll steal mum’s foot spa and get the carpet soggy. Tomorrow is a visiting day.

L is for leukaemia. And F is for fuck.  

Languages for life

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So it’s been a while.

“contentType”:”text”,
“contentExcuse”:”I’ve had a lot on?”

Well there’s no point is there? Most of it is down to laziness. Although a reasonable chunk was working on an app I’ve been developing with my brother for the last… I’ve lost count. At least 200 lattes ago. Speaking of the sibling, he’s started writing his own blog. So naturally I had to return to mine to prevent him from upstaging me. Or moreover, it reminded me how therapeutic I had found my own. And unfortunately I’m in need of some therapy again.

My brother’s blog is a different kettle of fish*, more aimed at projects than the inner ramblings of a diseased mind. He’s learning a new language. Not French, not German, not heaven forbid Latin (too many ums, a very indecisive language), but the language of computers, that of coding. But in looking at the structure of this new ‘language’, I began to see the unexpected elegance of it. Learning a few simple rules, you can write anything. No other language is that obliging and will insist on throwing feminines and masculines at you or suddenly pulling the rug out from under you (screw you ‘except after c’).

*such an odd phrase. I’m going to look up its origins.

There are of course a lot of different code languages, but they all follow a similar structure. So I wondered if it could have other applications elsewhere. Because I’m looking for a new – now ‘language’ isn’t the word, more like a new ‘system’ – to get me through the next few weeks. It’s a very busy time for me and certain personal complications and increased work hours with my other job have made it a particular strain. To sum up, I’m struggling to ‘find the happy’. But if I could develop a code that I could apply to myself to inject moments of happy, then I think I can get through it without turning into a human puddle. So let’s break it down into what I imagine my brother’s new language to look like, but is definitely woefully inaccurate:

“Life”:[
{
“chapterTitle”:”Chapter 1: Stress”,
“chapterPages”:[
{
“pageTitle”:”It’s not looking good”,
“storyContent”:[
{
“contentType”:”text”,
“content”:”How on earth am I going to stay positive through this shit show?”
}
],
“transitions”:[
{
“transitionText”:”Survival Strategies”,
“transitionTarget”:”Happy”

Perhaps combining the content principles of coding with the application of an equation would be better? I was never very good at all that, but I could give it a try.

So if we input things that make me happy or what we call our ‘SmileContent’ and rotate these things on a weekly basis, would that work?

Ok, so here’s a list of things that make me smile even when I’m feeling down:

  • Giving my cat an ear rub (this is a risky pick as said cat has to be in right mood).
  • Flowers on a sunny day (again risky as weather-dependent).
  • Foot rubs (best enjoyed when administered by someone else, but I suppose I could improvise).
  • An unexpected painting (unexpected in the sense you weren’t expecting to see a work of art and then you stumble across a really good one, not unexpected art in the sense of I dropped my spaghetti and the shape it made on the floor inexplicably formed a relief of the last supper).
  • The sight of Dachshunds walking (particularly long-haired ones).
  • ‘Isp’ noises – words that end in isp are the most pleasing to my ear, crisp, whisp, go on, say a few, I’ll wait… See?
  • Feeling like I’ve helped someone. Will be difficult this month as my usual weekly volunteering will have to go on hold as I need my Monday’s free to tech shows. Luckily my other job entails helping people as it is and there are a myriad of small ways to help people / animals / vegetables / minerals around you every day. Just keep a beady eye out for opportunities. In order to selfishly make you feel better – mwah ha ha.
  • The absurdities of life. E.g. I was on the bus and a little girl was barking like a dog, which set off an actual dog on the bus barking. Then she got off. Then a little boy came on meowing.
  • ‘Splooting’ or ‘binkying’ . Splooting is the term for when a 4-legged animal, such as a dog, lies down but with its back legs out behind it. Binkying is when rabbits jump and twisting mid-air in weird formations, which apparently they only do when they’re really happy. Bit like watching a really drunk person try to morris dance.
  • Period features (see earlier blog post).
  • Watching my housemate dance. Not club style sexy dancing, but
    her improvised must interpret every word in the song dances. They’re epic.
  • Chatting philosophical aspects of life with my Lewes-based mate. Pretty much ends up being free therapy for the both of us but with more laughs and caffeine.
  • Depending on the room temperature, a really hot or really cold flannel draped over the face.
  • Videos of my niece.
  • Making future plans. Be it around holidays, a creative project or browsing job adds.

As noted above, some of these come with conditions attached so we need to note the ‘Variables’ that might affect the success rate of these endeavours.

Variables:

  • Fickle felines
  • Bad weather
  • Lack of nearby dachshunds
  • Housemate being out
  • Lewes friend being busy

In addition to the above, we can also add the following:-

Things that I don’t always look forward to, but always feel better once I’ve done them:

  • I look forward to it in principal, but the moment before I actually start is usually fraught with worry at what will come out. As large projects aren’t feasible time-wise at the moment, working on short blog posts would make most sense.
  • Again time factor with the setup if using paints, especially oils, so maybe I could do a few sketches in pencil or pastels. Or chose a small piece of furniture to ‘do up’. Not keen on using the word ‘upcycle’. Aside from the associated trendiness, it also suggests an improvement on what the thing was before and I can’t always guarantee this.
  • Refusing to snack on rubbish – this is the biggy. It turns out I’m a stress eater. I’m resolved to the fact that getting through this next month without sugary coffees isn’t realistic, but I don’t have to buy the popcorn as well. I feel better when I’m able to demonstrate at least an ounce of self-control.
  • Long jogs aren’t doable, but I downloaded a 7 min workout app that I’ve been avoiding. It’s these short bursts of intense energy that hurts like a bitch, but you don’t half feel better afterwards. And that’s what I need to focus on.
  • Gardening – now this I often do look forward to, but sometimes I make excuses if I’m feeling too tired so it’s gone into this list. Being outdoors (especially when this next month will see me in a box with no windows for most of it) is essential. So I must make the time. With the days getting longer, a small amount of de-weeding is workable.
  • Now don’t misunderstand me, rest assured I do this regularly as it is. But feeling so sleepy in the mornings, I always put it off until I’m running late, and although it’s annoying and boring having to do it, I do always feel better after, feeling more refreshed and awake.

The key to the above actually being carried out is to log the difference in mood before and after the first few times, and then refer to that list when you’re still in the pre-task mode thereafter, to remind you how much better you’re going to feel if you do it.

So if we take our ‘SmileContent’ (SC), noting the ‘Variables’ (V) and add some of the above list, which we’ll call ‘MoodTasks’ (MT), noting the need for a ‘Log’ (L), and apply it to the current stress I’m feeling, I suppose we get something like this:

(SC / V) + (MT x L) = happy bunny

Then you simply implement a different ‘SmileContent’ and ‘MoodTask’ each day.

Worth a shot at least?

Oh and kettle of fish: kettle apparently doesn’t refer to the equipment we think of for boiling water, but a long saucepan to poach fish in. Not clear why it means a mess, but could be to do with the leftovers once fish has been eaten. It’s a mess of bones, head and skin – lovely. Or it doesn’t have to mean a mess; it can just refer to the state of affairs. And why that is akin to a pot of salmon, no one knows. So that was a waste of a Google. Or more aptly, searching for a kettle of fish turned out to be a fine kettle of fish. Or to put it another way:

“Search”:[
{
“GoogleSearch”:”Kettle of Fish Origins”,
“chapterPages”:[Wikipedia]
{
“pageTitle”:”Origins of Phrase”,
“storyContent”:[Inconclusive]
{
“contentType”:”text”,
“content”:”No one knows”
}
],
“transitions”:[
{
“transitionText”:”Well that was a waste of time”,
“transitionTarget”:”F**K’s sake.”

Window Seat Wishes

/ llamasferrera / Leave a comment

For most, the expression ‘period porn’ usually refers to a television serial set in the time of Austen or Thackeray that involves a degree of corset-ripping antics. Where the writers think that if the cast say ‘bodice’ enough times we’ll overlook the deviation from the plot of the book it was based on agree that although not explicit in the text, there probably was an orgy scene in Sense and Sensibility if you read the subtext. Besides, we’re all secretly having too much fun watching the titillating endeavours on the screen to really care.

But for me it has always referred to the features not of the beautiful people before me, but of the houses in which they reside. A declaration of undying love is all very well dear but can you move to your left, you’re blocking the inglenook.

I have a borderline fetish for period features, you see. They say the first step in any addiction is admitting it, but I’m not sure I really want to overcome this obsession. After all, I don’t think it’s really hurting anyone. I’m not so insensible as to spend all my money furnishing my own humble abode with such treasures; I just like to look at other people’s. And it’s not like I do it secretly by night or anything, if I’m on the premises it’s usually because I have permission, but the longing it entails can sometimes be quite overpowering. The sight of a truly ancient window seat or exposed beam on ‘Escape to the County’ (series record, natch) will sometimes illicit an involuntary sigh. I always reassure myself with the overused phrase ‘one day’ and I suppose theoretically it might be possible for my own small slice of rural life, but the question remains whether I would want this in the long-term. I’m too sociable a creature to live out in the sticks. I’d want to be in a village I suppose, but still with enough land for a smallholding so I could keep chickens. But chickens will lead to sheep, and sheep will lead to cows and before you know it I’m back to a small studio flat in Bognor because I couldn’t keep up the payments.

It’s all tied up in my fantasy of making a living from my writing, whilst living out the rural idyll. Collecting eggs of a morning and patting Constance the cow in the paddock (it’s a prerequisite that cows must have a matronly name, I don’t know why) before returning to my cottage garden to check on how the green beans are doing and maybe pluck some herbs for my evening salad (because I’m somehow also healthy in the country), and then sit down with a cup of tea whilst I work on my novel. Occasionally I’ll bash out a few words on the antique typewriter that resides in my extensive library just to get me in the mood, but I’ll return to my laptop in my oak-panelled study for the serious stuff as ribbons are a bitch and my cats are treading ink everywhere. It’s perhaps a sign of my depressive tendencies that even my fantasies are flawed, but that’s the only way I can ever justify it happening to me. And instead of the odd hour’s writing here and there every few days and only when I deem conditions are just right, I’d write every day in a glorious routine, achieving at least 5-10,000 words a day and all of it solid gold. The morning will be some work on a ground-breaking app, then perhaps an hour’s research for my current play, then the afternoon will be exclusively spent on my latest work of fiction. I can write in any mood, in any weather without distraction. I have the internet, but I only really use it to converse with my publisher or to answer fan mail, so it never serves as a distraction when working.

When reading through her old diaries, my mother relayed to me how as an infant breastfeeding, conditions had to be ‘perfect’ for me to feed. No distractions, I had to be settled and in the right frame of mind. How developed that mind can be at a few weeks old I don’t know, but it was clearly a central core of my character as little has changed since (except the nature of how I get my food, I’d assume that was a given but I live in Brighton and people have preconceptions so I feel clarification is justified). But I know that it’s all in my head. How can where I write feasibly affect the quality or quantity? Yes people are inspired by their surroundings, but most of what we write comes from experience and placing oneself in some cushioned cocoon is never going to produce anything of any real interest.

I used to take pride in myself as being relatively ‘low maintenance’, particularly as a romantic partner. I don’t expect expensive gifts or to be taken anywhere fancy. As long as my beaux is relatively clean and doesn’t have hair longer than mine (that’s my thing, don’t take it away from me), I don’t care if they have abs of steel, impeccable style or perfect skin. In view of my own shape, dress sense and blemishes it would be rather hypocritical if I did. But the truth is in some ways I am exceptionally high maintenance. I’ll constantly put off until tomorrow what I could do today and not just with writing, but with anything my mind or body deems even remotely taxing. I’m therefore usually in a mild state of panic as inevitably the list of things to do piles up until the house is a mass of unclean clothes and tumbleweed balls of fur in every corner. I have a mass of unfinished projects dotted about the premises: half-done paintings in dust-coated canvases leaning against one wall, a basket full of off-cuts of material I will of course put to use one day, and on every shelf a pile of reference books I intend to read as research or to improve myself, but it’s only the fiction that’s dog-eared from attention.

What I need is a personal trainer, not just for my body but for my life. One who gets me up at a sensible time each day and makes me actually achieve something, even if it’s just the ironing. I suppose that’s what some people call a husband or wife. Well, the lucky ones (or unlucky depending on your point of view). Many will find themselves in that role themselves, having to motivate another instead. And as self-appointed spokeswoman for all lazy bastards I would like to take this opportunity to apologise. If you’re one of those rare weird power couples that both motivate each other you can piss off right now, this blog’s not for you.

There are the odd rare days when I turn into a bit of a dynamo and achieve multiple things in one day, but that’s about three times a year at most. They’re great when they do happen though. I can only assume it’s how a bipolar person feels when they have a ‘high’. I tend to become quite generous with my money then too, egged on by my productivity, adopting a new carefree lifestyle that future me can worry about. So I suppose again it’s a sort of putting things off, only this time it’s delaying the concern that should accompany it. That’s no bad thing every once in a while for one as highly strung as I.

But the things is, well, now I guess I do have a sort of personal trainer. There is a person in my life who takes me running and helps me eat better and generally improve myself, but doesn’t charge me for it. And although one could argue the social time we spend together are distractions from the things I know I should be doing, it never feels like time wasted. He’s doing a fine job getting me healthier physically, but actually the best influence he gives is the faith he seemingly has in the rest of me. I’m not sure if he knows how valued this commodity is. To be told by someone that they genuinely believe your best years are ahead of you is something you can’t measure in any practical sense. And for someone who is arguably moving away from what is considered their prime, this is heartening to hear. Yes, he has his demons too, but I hope in my own small way I help him in return by providing a degree of stability and empathy he sometimes lacks elsewhere.

The faith that I will achieve my goals despite my slovenly disposition gives me hope. And when I have hope, the words start flowing. They may not all be golden, but it’s a start. And we’ve all got to start somewhere.

Monet painted his most famous work at 70. I’m hoping to at least have a first draft by then.

Punlitical Landscape

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Puns are one of my favourite things. Every time I see a chip shop called The Codfather or a barbers called Hair to Eternity, it always raises a smile. No matter how naff. It’s a bit of a British tradition I suppose. Not that I’m overly patriotic, but I think my sense of humour is. My diaphragm clearly has a definite sense of self (although my liver is distinctly Russian). I’m not sure what nationality my stomach is. Possibly American Jewish with its Woody Allen-like neuroses, as it certainly knows when I’m feeling anxious. But today the sun is shining and I’m pleased to say my stomach alarm is currently set to snooze. Because the worst of the Fringe chaos is finally over. Don’t get me wrong, there are still two weeks of tight turnarounds and late nights, but the shows now involved are far less personal to me and I finally feel I can take a step back (my feet incidentally are French*).

So what has all this to do with puns? Well my latest project is full of them. A gloriously silly story stuffed with nonsense. I’ve been writing it with a friend on and off for the past couple of years now. Another friend is doing illustrations for it and my brother is doing the coding. Yep coding, that’s right it’s an app, get with the future granddad. It’s a detective story set on a fictional island with an array of strange characters. I’m hoping this will be the year we finally release it. It will likely be a free download. I certainly don’t expect to make money from it. But that’s not the point. It’s been such a nice thing to work on. An escape from some of the more serious stuff, but at the same time kind of makes a satirical point, particularly prevalent within the current climate. It won’t be out in time for the election of course. In fact I fly out to see my brother the day after so I’ll suppose I’ll know just how relevant it will be for the year ahead on my journey over.

*Home to the highest bridge in the world. Can never find shoes that sodding fit.

If political propaganda used more puns I’d probably be more on board. I just can’t seem to trust anything I read at the moment. In the world of fake news you have to check every source an article comes from and it’s quite time-consuming. I try to avoid most of the articles I see on social media, but mainstream media is just as bad. Now I find I have to check who each newspaper is owned by, where news channels get their funding and so on. Ultimately you just have to try and be as objective as possible and listen to what people are actually saying without trying to gloss it with an agenda or edit it to fit a narrative. Mostly I just look at the policies and try and forget the personalities, which with most politicians let’s face it are largely absent anyway.

The other problem with social media is that it looks at what you read and then sends you more of the same stuff. So it’s easy for you to only get one side of the picture and additionally to fool yourself that everyone else is seeing it too and drawing the same conclusions. But just because it can be confusing and a little overwhelming doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. I can understand that some people might not vote out of protest, but I’m not sure what it achieves. Perhaps spoiling your ballot at least sends a message. But it can’t change the system overnight. Then there are others that claim to be not well informed enough to vote. But people are full of opinions they haven’t earned, it’s never stopped them before about far more frivolous subjects. You can be honest and just say you’re not interested, but it strikes me as strange when it could potentially affect so much of if not your future, of the future of others you care about.

I clearly shouldn’t talk about puns; it sets me off on contentious tangents. And I know we’re all sick to death of people lecturing us. I guess I’m just saying that, if you weren’t planning on voting, at least consider it. Blimey, who knew quips were so dangerous? It’s pundemonium out there.

Crushed eggs, harmonicas and duplicating dogs

/ llamasferrera / Leave a comment

Today I walked passed a harmonica player. Well, I say player, he was playing, but I shouldn’t let that define him. I mean, he might want to be a deep sea diver or a cosmologist and I wouldn’t want to pigeonhole him. But today he was playing his harmonica*. He was sat on the wall as I strolled by and I detected a small exasperated sigh mid-puff. Almost immediately after I encountered a smashed Easter egg on the ground.

*I assume his; it might have been on loan.

Sights such as this usually send me into OCD mode and I was instantly worried that a dog walker would come along, their dog would eat it all and then die instantly right there on the pavement. The harmonica player would then have to play some sort of lament for Rover and a passing hipster would remove his man bun and hold it to his chest in respect. If it wasn’t for the embarrassment of doing it in front of the harmonica player I probably would have stopped and tried to clear it all up. But in view of his watchful eye I carried on. I then mused that it wasn’t dark chocolate so probably not as lethal and that any walker would presumably stop said pooch before they could eat a deadly dose. And thus my day was saved from ruin.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a man with three identical looking dogs then appeared in front of me. As a reminder that my OCD is habit rather than based on any actual genuine fear, instead of worrying about their impending egg shaped obstacle, I only marveled at their appearance. It was as if the man had thought, yes I like this dog, I’m going to create a couple of back-ups just in case*. But then I felt that was quite superficial of me. After all, I have two black cats that other people can’t seem to tell apart, despite it seeming obvious to me. And besides, I didn’t get the second one because he matched the first**. I got them because there was something about their character I liked. Black cats are reportedly often overlooked for re-homing in comparison with their more extravagantly patterned counterparts, but my part in addressing this imbalance was purely coincidental. So I realised this was probably the same for the man. There was something about their personalities he responded to. And dogs being pack animals it makes sense to group them up, they always seem happier that way.

*Which reminds me I need to update my hard drive.  

**or because black goes with everything, although it is a delightful bonus.

So it was this odd combination of three things in quick succession that pleased me. It allowed me to create a whole back story in my head as I resumed my journey. I imagined the smashed egg was the Easter bunny’s wife finding out he’d had an affair, “and take your stupid work with you!” Perhaps he was having it off with the harmonica player. Or he’d brought in the player to ease the tension. But the egg was in too many pieces to have only been smashed once, so I then imagined two tiny flamenco dancers in full exotic dress stomping on it to a rhythmic beat (accompanied by harmonica). They would then act as a barrier to the approaching dogs, preventing any lapping up of the evil eggshell. They may even mount the dogs and charge in unison at the man walking them, punishing him for his evil duplication experiments.

All this mind-running silliness reminded me of a story I’ve been dipping in and out of for years. Sort of set in our world but not. Almost exactly the same, but slightly off somehow, and in as delightfully silly a way you can imagine. It’s how I wish the world was sometimes. We go about our business as normal, but there’s always something ever so slightly surreal going on in the background. But that was always the easy part, it was the main plot I struggled with. As with a lot of what I write it’s trying to be too many things at once.  That’s why little meanderings like this are important. Blogs are allowed to be a random stream of nonsense thought. A way I can get it all out of my system before I settle down to concentrate on a single main theme. Time will tell if it works I guess.

But in the meantime, days like this are why I walk into town rather than get the bus. If I haven’t got a clear idea for my day’s work, a walk will inevitably help. You need to see the quirks around you, be open to the opportunities. So if I’m not pressed for time, I’ll walk. After all, you never know when the next harmonica playing, flamenco dancing dog is waiting for you. Just don’t tell the Easter Bunny’s wife.

Coffee C**t

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It’s impossible for me to order a coffee without sounding like a twat. Each order is therefore automatically followed with an apology. “Can I get a [insert wankery here] please? Sorry, thanks.”

It’s just so overly complicated, but ultimately comes from a good place. Having learned more about the dairy industry, I’m trying to cut down on my intake as an attempt to be more ethical. I like cows. In many ways I identify with them. We’re both curious, prefer the company of the herd than to be alone, have strange voices and an awkward walk. So the first complication is I have to specify soy or almond rather than regular milk (not coconut, never coconut, it’s not fooling anyone). Fair enough you say, a lot of people do, lots of people are lactose intolerant and Brighton is full of vegans (and most of them have strange voices and awkward walks also), so what’s the beef? (excuse the pun cows)

The problem is that that’s just the start of it. Next I have to specify that I only want one shot of espresso, not two as comes standard. If I have two my similarity with cows only grows but in a less pleasant manner. You see I have IBS. This I can control relatively easily with my diet and avoiding too much stress, but too much caffeine will set it off. Then I’m producing enough methane to heat a small town. So to save myself and indeed the welfare of those around me, I stipulate a single shot.

The above reasons are ethical and medical and right now you’re hopefully thinking, that’s pretty reasonable. But now things get a bit silly. You see, I’m not sure I actually like the taste of coffee. Yup. “So why the f*ck do you order it you stupid bint?” An astute question. Let me elaborate.

I find coffee on its own too bitter. I like tea but get bored of ordering when out with friends, particularly when modern coffee houses have a huge selection of all kinds of crazy concoctions. So I thought one day, hey, you’re a living breathing human so therefore you like chocolate, why not try a mocha? That should lessen the bitterness and make a nice change. So I did. And if you only have one shot, as my stomach decrees, the bitter / chocolate ratio shifts even further. I could just order a hot chocolate, but passed a certain age it seems a bit childish. But a mocha well, that’s hot chocolate for grown-ups isn’t it?

And mocha is awesome, particularly on a cold winter’s day. But they’re also quite filling, verging on meal replacement. So sometimes you want something distinctly more ‘drinky’. So a latte also seemed like a reasonable choice, this time the milk / coffee ratio shifting. But on its own there’s still none of that sweetness I crave. Now of course you can get any syrup known to man. From the predictable vanilla or caramel to the slightly more challenging cinnamon or gingerbread to the downright ridiculous. “I’ll have the pumpkin spiced wombat please with a sprinkling of chilli newborn.”

Unfortunately the sugar content of most of these syrups is enough to give a t-rex palpitations (and with their tiny little arms they can’t fan their faces properly) so needless to say apart from immediately after being as hyper as a springer spaniel on acid, I’m also about a stone heavier than I used to be.  Now a lot of these places have sugar-free versions of the caramel or vanilla, but I’m already stipulating soy, single shot and syrup, if I have to add sugar free as well the humiliation factor starts to outweigh the desire for the drink so I just can’t bring myself to bring anything else to the caffeinated party.

In view of all the above I know I should just stop drinking coffee altogether, but it’s become an addiction now. A combination of caffeine and sugar is required on a daily basis or I become what I’ve termed  ‘unmanageable’. After all, I work in the vicinity of other people. And it’s just become what I run on now. Like getting petrol I must stop and ‘fill up’ regularly. At both establishments  I feel equally depressed by the price. On both occasions I also feel a bit guilty about the environment. And much like my aged car itself, I always feel a little violated at the procedure but ultimately satisfied when it’s all over.

Most petrol stations have coffee stops in them now. Maybe just a small mocha while I’m here…