Alice and the Universe: Part 2

Dear Universe


It is possible that you have redeemed yourself entirely. We'll see how it goes but, for the minute, we appear to be quits.

Good work.

Love
Alice

A Certain Sort of Contentment

I write this feeling particularly bleary-eyed and slightly sorry for myself. I've been suffering under an annoying cold this week. Not ill enough to stay at home, not well enough to really enjoy anything. I've spent far too much time on the sofa trying to learn new chords. For anyone who's interested, my favourite new chord on the ukulele is C6:

And yet I have not managed to learn any lines. I'll get on that at some point.

In some ways, I am feeling content yet conflicted. I had some amazing advice from a friend and actually acted upon it. Which is so unlike me; I prefer to complain about stuff than do anything constructive. I'd got to the point, though, where I was bringing a certain issue up more and more frequently and had realised how bad it was for me that I was clinging onto it so tightly. I couldn't work out whether it was just an excuse or an actual problem so I took steps to find out. Things have worked out exactly as I would have hoped, which has been an ideal combination of timing and good fortune and I finally feel like there's some sort of (apologies now for the horrible yet appropriate word usage on the other side of this bracket) closure.

So, yeah, closure. It is, completely genuinely, great. However, the downside for me is when do I know whether I'm fixed? Am I okay now? Has the closure fairy worked her magic (totally a thing)? In the last few years, I have run away from anything where I'd be expected to actually have a grown-up, real relationship. I went to the wedding of a friend last year and saw not just how happy they were but how well they knew each other and how much they were each other's partner. I left there knowing exactly what I wanted, ended the mildly dysfunctional relationship I was in, and have been single now for a year and a half.

I am at a point where I feel like less of a hopeless prospect. I don't feel quite so much like that sign is there above my head saying "she's an absolute nightmare of a girlfriend, run away!" The downside, though, is that I am at the point where I have gone far too long without regular sex. Therefore, even though I am emotionally in a position to make decent choices, it is entirely possible that the idea of actual physical contact might make my mind up for me. If I find someone attractive and they seem fairly keen on me, then I might just go for it and realise, several months down the line, that I've jumped in far too quick and basically had an extremely long fling, further delaying the possibility of an actual functional relationship.

At the same time, though, I could end up turning down something great because I am so worried about making a mistake. Seriously, how do I know? If I like someone, does that necessarily mean that I'm wrong?Sometimes I think it'd be nice to believe in something, like a god or fate or whatever, because then you also tend to believe that things will just happen in a convenient pre-ordained type way. But, yeah, that really isn't me. 

I don't know what the future holds but that's okay. I don't know what being sorted is like or whether I am fixed but that's okay too. I just know that, cold aside, I feel better. I feel hopeful.

"Right"

My Mum has this thing that she does. She's never been particularly good at just sitting down and doing nothing. I have probably mentioned before (I could verify this by checking through all my blogs but man, for someone who doesn't blog very much, there are an awful lot to look through when you just want to find mention of a single anecdote) about the reason why I don't do ironing except on very special occasions, primarily like when I don't want to look like a complete bag lady. More often than not I am content with bag lady-ness and will forego the ironing because it is like death. Anyway, the main reason for feeling like this is that the only way I could justify watching the entire programming on Channel 4 on Sundays when I was a teenager (to whit: Dawson's Creek, Hollyoaks Omnibus and As If) was by doing the ironing for the entire family. I was aware that for the majority of my friends they were able to just sit and watch this essential viewing, none of which I can tolerate for more than five minutes now, but for me, I had to justify it. It's like when I wanted to listen to the Radio 1 chart in the afternoons; I had to make the roast dinner at the same time. It was never really a big deal and everyone was similarly busy: Mum and Dad would be doing schoolwork (as teachers. In case there was any confusion. I just read that and it looked weird) and Zoe would generally be doing something productive somewhere. I assume she was. Wait, what was Zoe doing? Thinking about it, this may well have been a routine that started after she'd left for Uni in which case she would have been in her pyjamas and legitimately being lazy but it would have been in a different city, in which case, fair play to her. She was always better at playing the system than me. I still tease her for the fact that she managed to avoid washing up after the roasts on a Sunday by having suspiciously long toilet trips. She is a stealth rebeller, that girl.

Where was I? Oh yes, ironing. No. That was merely an example. Wait, yes; my mother's inability to be lazy. She's got far more relaxed since retiring but she's still not particularly good at just sitting. If there's something on her mind, we'll sit down and have a chat or a cup of tea and once that's done, she will say the word "right". There is no way of conveying this successfully on the page but she says it with such resolution that, despite how cosy you may be, how much you are enjoying the current chat, you will find yourself on your feet. There is a power to the way my mother says "right". To be honest, it should always have a capital "R". It looks wrong otherwise.

Recently, I have had a definite sense of that particular "Right" popping up in my own head. There are certain things that I've been clinging on to that just aren't very good for me. There are plans that I am actually forging ahead with (more on these when there's something definite to tell you. I mean, the number of times I've talked about namby-pamby not-quite plans that haven't happened. It's annoying for me to read back on them and you must all despair of me) and things that I have been encouraged to do in an attempt to let go of certain things that have been holding me back.

Number one at the moment is to try and think less about Mr P. I've been completely obsessed and it's just pointless. He's happy with his life and I need to accept that and not be sitting around waiting for something to change in that respect. Until I'm cool with just being his friend, I need to stop talking to him because every conversation makes me feel sad and wistful, which is old ground for me and I need to stop doing it to myself.

Not Mr P is also not going to happen. We've got a mutual friend who I think is going to drive me mad as she is more desperate for it to work than either of us. He's being foisted on me, although I'm sure it's even worse the other way 'round, and all I'm doing is noticing how much I do not fancy him. He's alright as a person but, wow, am I not interested. Not that she hears me. We had a conversation recently about a job opening and she was telling me for about an hour how brilliant she thought I'd be at that job and how I should go for it, despite me trying to communicate how much I didn't want to do it and how it would actually be a pay downgrade for me. Listening is not one of her skills, is my point.

The most worrying thing is that I'm actually finding it quite difficult to sit and do nothing. For this reason I am actually getting to a level of, I don't want to call it competence, that would most certainly be overstating it, um, imagine the barest modicum of musical ability and that's me on the ukulele. Contextually, though, I would like to remind you that I played the violin for six years as a child without reaching Grade 1. The fact that I have managed to master a few chords and sing along with them WITHOUT LESSONS is, for me, an enormous achievement. I do have to rename the instrument itself though. It was originally my Blue-kulele but I have recently reached the conclusion that it's black. I'm sure it was blue...

I did spend last weekend almost entirely in my lounge in front of the TV but, being short of money, had decided to make a couple of birthday presents so spent Saturday stitching felt triangles to a cord for bunting and spent Sunday trying to work out how to make a costume for a small child without measuring anything or using patterns (this is quite tricky). I was knackered by Sunday night and have spent the small amount of time I've had to myself this week really unable to relax. I just keep feeling like there's something I should be doing.

I might be turning into my Mum a little bit.

Teenage Skin

The funny thing is that when I was a teenager, the skin on my face was pretty flawless. I never even thought about it. The only time I remember thinking "oh hey, I don't have spots" was when they gave out some sort of Clearasil freebies at school and a classmate told me that I didn't need it in an irritable way that implied that the Clearasil freebie I was holding should be his (other skin products are available). Throughout my twenties, I'd get the occasional spot around my period and, like everyone else, think that it was actually taking up the entire circumference of my face so that I became the Lady With The Spot. "Oh God!" The townspeople would cry, "don't look at her, it's too horrible!" I may not be talking to you, you may have a completely rational reaction to having tiny facial imperfections. I don't know your life.

But still, I'm not sure I realised how good I had it. Because acne, the bullet I dodged throughout my teen years, has finally struck. At 32 years of age. What.The.Hell? Even looking back at photos from last year, I start to get nostalgic about how nice my skin was. Now it's getting to the point where I am starting to consider wearing make-up on a daily basis. For reals.

I keep trying different things. So far the most effective has been doing the Festival, which may be due to spending more time outside. I'm hoping that it isn't actually the awful school dinners I had there because I don't want to have to recreate those at home. My skin might have cleared up over the three weeks but my digestion was horrendous. Some people were constantly farting. Not me, I hasten to add. I never fart. And if I were to, it would smell marvellous. Anyway, I'm trying to get outside more, is my point.

I've cut out Diet Coke entirely. I'm eleven days clean. It is driving me a bit potty but I haven't touched it. Given that I've put on weight again (not much but it was hard losing it in the first place and I've still not reached any goals or whatever) and am now trying to lose it again alongside exercising, I am constantly distracted. I keep bouncing around all of these things that I want but can't have. Diet Coke? No. Biscuits? No. Diet Coke? No. Ice cream? No. Diet Coke? Diet Coke?! DIET COKE?!!! No. At least the cravings are keeping me awake because without the caffeine I have a tendency to snooze at my desk. Man, I really want some Diet Coke.

I've sorted a skincare regime now, which is nice. I'm like a real-life grown-up lady. I've always tried to do it but forgot after a few days. Apparently, I really need an impetus to get responsible about my life choices. At the moment I'm washing it every morning and night and going to sleep with stuff on my face. I look a picture. Hey, single men of the world, check me out.

Oh well, it's not like I'm interested in any single men anyway. Stupid Mr P.

Awkward, as in: I am.

I've spent the last couple of weeks taking part in a drama festival at a boarding school in Petersfield. Although not staying, I've been there so much that Mum's been looking after the cats for me and I've just been going home to sleep. The first week we rehearsed Much Ado About Nothing, the second we rehearsed Twelfth Night in the day then performed Much Ado in the evenings and in the third week, which is where I am now, we are free in the day and performing Twelfth Night. Except for me, back at work.

Anyways, it's been a very valuable experience for me for several reasons, none of which I was really expecting. Namely, I have 1) found it really, really hard, 2) had a mahussive ego dent, 3) have had an unexpected kick up the bum. The only thing that has really been as I expected is that I have enjoyed myself but even that has not been for reasons that I thought I would.

To elaborate:

1) I was not expecting it to be so hard for me to have normal conversations with people. Seriously. I was so completely shy on the first couple of days that I barely spoke. When I did, I said things that probably made me seem ever so slightly simple. Since then, I have been impressed by how boring, inarticulate and quiet I am. I have been completely out of my comfort zone: I didn't know anyone when I started; no-one is the same age as me; and the residents all met before I even turned up on the first day. Then the residents have been able to stay up drinking, chatting and forming friendships and running gags while I've been soberly driving back to Southsea. It has been quite lonely at times and I've been so irritated at my inability to just connect with people. However, I'm starting to come through the other side of it now and actually chat and laugh, which is what I need to remember. It isn't so much that I am unable to talk to people but that it takes me longer than it should to chill out about it. I read somewhere that shyness is just another form of egotism, which is true. A lot of it comes from thinking that everyone else is constantly noticing and judging you, which is rarely the case. Actually applying this knowledge is a different matter, though.

2) I am not as good as I think I am. I do, as an actor, have both pride and ego. This is fairly necessary, I feel, in order to be able to get up in front of an audience and perform. If I didn't think I could, I wouldn't be able to. On the first day, I had a certain amount of rage. I had been given a tiny part in Much Ado and nothing at all in Twelfth Night and I'd been fine with that, thinking I was going to turn up and everyone would be so good that I'd be completely blown away. On the first day, I genuinely thought they were all a bit rubbish, including Beatrice, mainly because it's on the list of parts I really want to play. However, the whole festival has been something of a marathon exercise. I am exhausted at the end of the day and my body and voice are starting to get somewhat knackered. If I'd had that number of lines, especially alongside the amount to do that the same actress has had in Twelfth Night as Feste, I genuinely don't think I would have been able to do it. And do it well, which she has. Even though I am good for amateur theatre, there is still so much I need to improve on. I need to be more disciplined and I just don't have the training to fall back on. I probably wouldn't have cast me either.

3) I have surprised and impressed people, including myself. After doing a bit of singing in Much Ado, I went along to the first day of Twelfth Night rehearsals with the director's vague notion that there be a small onstage band, which he'd kind of just had the idea for. This turned into seven-hour daily rehearsals where we learned songs, used bits of these for the show at appropriate points, made up stuff, taught them to people, worked out harmonies and underscored movements. My main contribution was writing everything down, to the extent that I missed the company party on Friday because I spent it in the office next door writing up a cue sheet. That isn't as tragic as it sounds; there were a few of us with beer and cake and gossip, and the occasional drunken interruption from next door. There are 113 cues which is an impressive memory feat given that we only had one point five runthroughs prior to the first performance (the second runthrough got interrupted by a swarm of bees). It has been so satisfying spending every day singing, especially around a group of people who've never heard me before. I've had a lot of compliments. I won't lie; that's been amazing. But the compliments have been followed by "when are you playing next, can I come and see you?" At which point I wonder what the heckins I've been doing with my time. I've already emailed Kathryn; The Fake Aunts are getting mobilised.


What I expected was that I'd turn up and it would be easy. I expected, because I have become more confident in my day-to-day life, that I could transfer this to a new environment. This has not been the case. I expected to win them over just by being a good actor but you do kind of get lost in the crowd when you're surrounded by good actors. What has happened instead is that by working hard, being creative, reliable and supportive, I've managed to make an impression. When your name starts getting used as a positive description for something, that is surely a good thing.

It is entirely possible that by being so useful, I will end up in a similar role next year but I hope I can do more if they let me. Don't tell anyone but whisper it very quietly so that the gods might hear and take pity on me:
Titania. Number one on the list.

Beside The Sea

I have moved. Did you know this? I am now living alone apart from the cats and a disturbingly high number of moths. I have no problem with moths ordinarily but I disapprove of their clothes-eating tendencies so there we must part ways to the extent that I try and smack to death any that get too close to the wardrobe. Not that I've got the best relationship with my, or indeed any, clothes at the mo but I'd prefer to keep the garments I have free from gaping moth-holes. Weird thing about me and weight loss: I start noticing how much fashion does not help me out. I am a funny shape - broad and tall but curvy-ish without a real waist - and fashion and I rarely see eye-to-eye. At the moment, fashions make me look either mannish or matronly, and garments where this doesn't happen cling to the body I'm not happy with yet. It takes me an age to get dressed somedays.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, moving. I moved in April. Finchy got an offer he couldn't refuse, fortunately not from the Mafia, and I decided to try out something that I've been slightly nervous of: I no longer live with another human. So far it has been going okay. It is Expensive living alone but I don't appear to be going crazy, at least not to the point where I've noticed it. Although I wouldn't necessarily, would I? You'd tell me, wouldn't you? Ta.

There are some definite positives. I've created this tidy, quiet nest of a place and there's something about it where I feel like I shuck off concerns of the day when I enter it. Being accountable to myself means that I actually get things done. Rubbish gets cleared, floors get cleaned, ironing actually gets ironed. I've even started making meals from recipes with herbs and spices and such, which is a nice change. I've been a fairly decent cook in the past but have shied away from it in recent years. Apparently putting some effort into stuff like that even when it's just for you is actually worth it. Who knew?

The best thing, though, is the sea. I am so close. I walk out of my door and it is right there. At night, multicoloured lights swing between lamppost. By day, especially on the rare nice days, there's so much life out there. When I don't have anything to do at the weekend, I wander out with a book and just spend an hour or two outside. Sometimes I can feel a bit self-conscious about going out and doing things on my own but there's something about the seaside that negates this. It doesn't matter that I'm not doing anything specific; I'm beside the sea and for some reason I'm at home.



In other news: I phoned up for a hair appointment earlier and was given a slot at 3.45 but just as I was about to ring off was stopped: "Oh wait, there's a note saying you have a lot of hair, can you come in at 3.30 instead?" I like that the difference between my hair and other people's is quantifiable: I have 15 minutes more hair.

Also, I had a chat with Mr P earlier. He left and Charlotte, who has so far been ignorant of my crush, turned to me and said, "you know, it's a shame he has a girlfriend. You'd make a really great couple." After I admitted that, maybe, yes, I found him slightly attractive, she proceeded to point out an instance where there had been "a chink in the girlfriend armour" and encouraged me to wiggle my way in there. Good grief. Even my Mum said the other day that "it isn't as if he's married or anything." Of course, she may have just been trying to shut me up, in which case, job done.

All I'm doing is chatting occasionally and liking him from my side with absolutely no expectations. There's nothing wrong in that, is there?

Alice and the Universe

I've been debating whether to write this for a few days. As the sort of person who, when speaking about someone, has to check that they are not behind me, it is quite terrifying to commit myself to writing about others, as it is a far more permanent method of discussion. I don't really write about other people very often, beyond my family, and have taken posts down in the past for fear of ructions. I don't like ructions. I can mention Kathryn though. Otherwise she may get bored and wander away. Hello sweetie, you've heard most of this and for that I apologise.

However, this post is coming about because the universe and me are somewhat at odds at the moment and unfortunately it does involve other people. Both of whom will hopefully never discover this blog. Unless me and the universe get back on speaking terms and everything works out for the best. This is unlikely to happen so, yeah. Get your hoping boots on.

I am so single. So, so single. So single am I that I am becoming a happy-ending deterrent. At a recent improv night we did a longform based around the structure of a romantic comedy. I was the heroine and the whole plot ended with her alone while the girl who stole both her men chatted up the doctor in the hospital room of the heroine's dead would-be boyfriend. Most tragic romcom ever. Who knew it was contagious? I'm going to have to start ringing a bell.

Part of the problem is that it is very difficult to meet people, not aided by the fact that I have stuck to my anti-dating website stance. Every so often I think about breaking that resolution, even going so far as putting in my search criteria, but then I start thinking through the last few attempts and wonder how worth it, it really is. Outside of that, in the real world, it is incredibly rare that I meet people who actually interest me.

This is where the universe hating me comes in.

I just tried to write the complete history of this which would take me forever. I will try to skip forward to somewhere a bit more pertinent. There's someone at work I like.

UPDATE:
I have long since got over Max. There's no interesting story there. He's still here, I never did anything embarrassing, it was just a crush that died.
END OF UPDATE.

I believed him to be boring so didn't talk to him. He's quiet to the point of nearly being unfriendly at work - I am much the same, I just didn't realise other people did this. I talked to him for the first time in March. We talked for hours and I discovered that he is one of the most interesting people I've ever met. He has a girlfriend though. They got together in January. He's been here since September 2010, which makes over a year of completely missed opportunity on my part. Screw you, universe. A couple of weeks ago I went out with work people, he was there. We danced, he walked me home. We talked about poetry on the way. I am now completely smitten. He has at no point indicated that he likes me, I'm fairly sure he is smitten with his actual girlfriend and probably never thinks about me at all unless I'm right there. There is no hope for me and Mr Perfect. There is just the unavoidable truth of his existence. Being all perfect and that.

On the same night, I chatted to several other people but was effervescent to the point of delirium from proximity to Mr P. Apparently this was infectious and I came in the next week to an invitation to dinner from someone else entirely. I am not really all that interested. For all that he's nice, he suffers in comparison. He is Not Mr P.

So what the universe has done is put me in a position where I meet someone who ticks all the boxes, including some I didn't even know I had, but have missed out on any opportunity with by a matter of months. Then, as a consolation prize, has offered someone else whose main problem is that they are not the other guy.

Of course, the more worrying way of looking at it (if you don't consider the notion that the universe has a weird vendetta against me as quite worrisome in itself) is whether I am doing this subconsciously. The last few times I have liked someone, they have been in some way unattainable. I haven't really liked anyone that I could have an opportunity of actually going out with.

The thing is, I don't know whether there is some part of me that is sabotaging myself. In all honesty, I am terrified of getting hurt and hurting someone else, which is a fairly inevitable part of it all. However, and I think I'm being as truthful as anyone ever can be to themselves or a very small band of loyal readers, what I really want is to be in a relationship that works. Therefore, I will give people a chance but if I do not feel it then I refuse to settle. That is the benefit of Mr Perfect, after all. He may be unattainable but he does remind me that looking for someone who is actually right for me is not a completely pointless endeavour. I won't settle and maybe, just maybe, I won't have to.

Remembering Dad

I'm having a day off work tomorrow. It feels like a very indulgent thing to do but last year I ended up rehearsing the entire day and then fell apart in the evening. One thing I've learned in the last couple of years is that any deferment of my grief tends to mean that I react far more violently later.

Missing my Dad is a daily occurrence. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it's a painless fleeting thought. But most of the time it does hurt. I have a distinct memory of being a child, fairly young, when the realisation of mortality hit me. And the thing that hit first, as it does when they are literally your entire world, was the terror that my parents would die. I remember my Mum comforting me that it hadn't yet happened, that everything was fine and the thing that strikes me is how much worse it actually is than I ever considered. All you can contemplate when you theorise about losing someone is that first howl of grief. The controlled sorrow of the funeral and the grim moment-to-moment slog of the first week of bereavement also factor in but it's impossible to predict what it will be like afterwards. I might have imagined myself in an artfully sad pose somewhere, looking distraught but brave, but what I hadn't ever thought of in the days before it was even a possibility was the mind-numbing stress of continued absence.

I don't think it is really possible to know how much of an impact someone has on your life until they've left it. Dad's death has leeched a great deal of colour from the world for me. I have really struggled to retain enthusiasm and joy in things because his enthusiasm and joy is missing. When I see a fantastically choreographed action sequence in an action film, I hear that "woo-woof" sound he used to make in complete childlike glee. Beautiful music makes me think of that face when he'd close his eyes, completely transported by the sound, before opening them, shining and keen to share the moment. When I act, there's no-one else to whom I can talk so exhaustively about my process or pick up tips without feeling that I was being boring or repetitive because I knew that he was as obsessive and pedantic as me. He was so expressive and passionate and full of life that those qualities bolstered my own feelings and without him, I feel like I've lost something far more than could be imagined from losing one single person. I feel like I've lost an awful lot of myself.

Of course I remember his more irritating qualities but, as with anyone, when you love someone that much, you love all of those aspects of them as well. I miss his temper and laziness as much as anything else. Because if they were here, he'd be here with them.

Two years on from his death, the size of the hole that Dad's going has left in my life is still somewhat immeasurable. I can locate it in specific things that I miss - his bulk, his humour, his exactness, his sayings, his stories, his voice - but a person is never just those things. It's the impact that they had on those around them, small or large, and I think anyone who knew Dad would agree that his impact was always large. He had a talent for making people feel special who had only just met him so imagine how it felt to be his daughter.

My father was an exceptional, infuriating, exciting, honest, incorrigible, sublime, ridiculous, awe-inspiring man. And I miss him every day.

Busy Little Bee

Lawks, is my attempt to blog every week already getting a little delayed? Crazy old February. As part of my whole having-a-new-phone thing (I totally have one! Go me!) I've actually been updating my calendar on my phone. I think it helps not having to write things down. I don't know about you but I find it takes A LOT of effort to write things properly nowadays. But it is, as my family will tell you, a big step forward. Anyway, when I look at February, I have no days free at all now. No weekend days, no evenings. There are little blue marks on every day until the 3rd of March, which is the point at which I fall down and refuse to get up.

I always feel a bit guilty talking about being busy. I mean, my work isn't particularly stressful, I don't have children and the cats don't count. It's like I don't have any right to my tiredness. Partly because it is an entirely selfish laziness. I am working out to be thinner, I am in plays because I love doing them. When I'm tired and need to stop, I am able to stop completely and not be responsible for anyone else, which I think is a luxury. But then part of the reason I keep myself so busy is because I am not responsible for anyone else. The idea of sitting around all the time on my own is quite horrendous. Not to mention; completely, mind-blowingly dull. So I have a guilt talking about tiredness to my friends and family with children because there is nothing quite so exhausting as chasing a small person around constantly.

But, do you know what? I am really tired. And I should take advantage of the fact that I can be selfish because one day that may not be the case. To be honest, one day I hope it isn't. But for now that's the way things are.

Which is rather full of princesses

I'm playing a princess in April. Probably one of the best princesses; Imogen in Shakespeare's Cymbeline. She is just amazing. There are some cracking speeches, she's completely lovely but still gets to be angry and heartbroken, she dresses like a boy and is even a bit brutal to an unwanted suitor: "I care not for you, I hate you;/ which I had rather you felt than make't my boast". All of this is an awful lot of fun to do onstage. However...




The word 'beautiful' gets bandied about quite a lot. Now, people who know me fairly well might hear the warning bells implicit in that word being spoken in any close proximity to me. We don't have a good relationship. Of course, I'm quite happy to use it. Many is the time that word has passed my lips in a breathy exclamation of delight about any number of things - humans, animals, objects, songs, buildings, landscapes, ideas. I am perfectly happy to label these things as beautiful and it generally is something that has a fair emotional whack along with it. I have a real love of beauty, which occasionally hits me like a ton of bricks (oof, beauty) and it encompasses many forms. Which is why I struggle with it being applied to me.




Now, this isn't modesty, false or otherwise. I don't say things like this in order to get compliments. I am not fishing. Full disclosure time: I am fairly vain. I love looking at my face. It genuinely fascinates me. Actually, I am obsessive about faces in general. The photography books I own are all portraits. Part of the reason I love films so much is because of the film books my parents had and I used to gaze at the stills because of the frozen extremes of expression. "I Walked With a Zombie" was responsible for several nightmares growing up. I mean, this:

It's the eyes. Nothing else about this photo is that creepy. The woman on the left even looks slightly bored: "Blah blah voodoo zombies. I want a manicure..."

So don't get me wrong, I love my face. It is expressive and interesting and an absolutely brilliant storytelling tool. The problem is more that I am not beautiful. I have high standards when it comes to beauty and I do not meet them. The emotional whack that is my appreciation of beauty in other things is, when it comes to me, something far more punishing. It hurts me that I am not beautiful. Every time during the readthrough that someone mentions Imogen's beauty, I squirm. And it is A LOT. Seriously. She is so pretty that even when dressed as a boy, when she meets her separated-at-birth brothers for the first time, one of them chats her up: "Were you a woman, youth/I should woo hard". Also, yes, I concede that the plot is completely mental.



Therefore, I am in paroxysms of horror about people watching the play and assuming that because I play the part, that is who I believe myself to be. Much like when I had a hilarious part in a short play where my character thinks she's a 9 out of 10. I enjoyed the part a lot but when I sat in the audience to watch the rest of the plays, a fellow audience member turned to me and said "I'd say you were a four. After a pint". For some reason, perhaps because he'd had a few more than a pint or because my character was kind of a bitch or because we'd been having a conversation in his head prior to that, he felt that was an entirely appropriate thing to say to a complete stranger (if you're interested, my cutting response was to look shocked, say nothing, obsess about it through the rest of the evening, cry in the car on the way back home and then fail to sleep for a few nights. I know, I know. I am the coolest woman who ever lived. The best bit is that my Mum, who had been sitting next to me but had missed the vital exchange, saw him a couple of days later and told him the heck off (she's very polite). Again, I am not in the least bit cool but my Mum is awesome).



However, the upside is the determination that all of this gives me. I may not be beautiful but I am going to try as hard as humanly possible to give the impression that I am. The last time I felt like this because of a play (Closer, 2009), I lost two stone. I hate feeling perpetually hungry. I hate aching constantly because of exercise. But I love the thought of being onstage and doing this part well. And the thought that sustains me when I'm running against the wind on Southsea seafront or when I'm passing up on a meal of Waitrose's Macaroni Cheese followed by their Tarte au Chocolat?



I am a motherfucking princess.

Having a fire relit that you thought to be out

I've been reading again. This wasn't even a New Year's Resolution. I just started reading and I'm back to my old habits. I came in this afternoon, washed up then sat down and read a book cover to cover. Admittedly it was quite a small book but still. That makes my fifth book of the year so far. I blame Finchy. He bought me The Hunger Games for Christmas and on New Year's Day, I bought the second and third books in the trilogy, which I'd finished by January 3rd. Then I had a week's break, partly out of respect and partly for me to try and get them out of my head. I didn't stop thinking about it all for a while. I came to in the shower one day and realised I'd spent about half an hour trying to figure out how I was feeling about the fate of a particular character and how to correctly pronounce their name and how I felt about the fact that they were being played by Lenny Kravitz in the upcoming film adaptation (confused, primarily. I mean; Lenny Kravitz, where did that come from?) I urge you to read them, my obsessions do enjoy company. Also, the actress Kristen Bell had a Hunger Games-themed birthday party and it sounded awesome and I'd quite like one where people weren't just turning up and being confused. Anyway, stepping away from that particular crazy section in my head... actually no, back to crazy for a second: People may be put off by the whole it's-the-new-Twilight thing. Please don't be. It's really good. Despite the whole Team Peeta/Team Gale thing. Stupid other people. Any romance in The Hunger Games is kind of incidental to the fantastic set-up, brutal violence and often startling commentary on human nature, centred around a genuinely fascinating heroine.

Again, attempting to exit crazy for a moment, it feels really good to be reading again. I never really stopped, and I have read some good books in the last couple of years, but it feels like I'm myself again: Delving into fantasy and magic realism and normal fiction and occasional bits of actual educational reading material and plays and poems; scraping time together in my lunch hour and the walk to work and the precious hour of respite between getting in and going out and that half hour between going to bed and falling asleep. I'll have to put it on hold again in a bit when I starts a-line-learnin' again but I think I'll probably get far better at returning to it again. I've rediscovered the feeling that isn't just the promise of a good meal but also the appetite to consume it.

Running

the more i run the more i think that i could start and never stop the thud of my feet and the music's beat the shock of my breath that feeling of death that comes and goes the wind that flows and stops and blows the checking my knee and the feeling of glee as i pick up speed and run and run and fly then trip then on my way to keep up to keep on to keep on past where it's no longer fun but i still must run to be i want to be who i can see in my mind's eye the more i run the more i think that i could start and never stop

Right. That's it. I'm out of here.

The only interest I got from being on match.com were two men in their fifties. In the two months that I belonged, I had 300-odd men take a look at my profile. And the only two men that expressed any interest were twenty years my senior.

It's quite a sobering moment. The point at which you realise that this is just not going to work. The point when you have to leave a dating website because it has managed to dent your soul.

For eharmony it was the moment when they matched me (scientifically!) with someone who was wrong for me in every way. I had even seen him earlier on a different site and had to share the link with friends to show them the most perfect example of a bad profile that I'd ever seen. Hey, I never said I was a nice person.

Now, in all fairness, it has not been all bad. I have had some nice experiences with the dating sites thing. However, every time I sign up to a site I feel hopeful for a few days and then my hope turns to naught. It's like being rejected every day and what makes it worse is that I am simultaneously rejecting others and often for the same spurious reasons that they are rejecting me. It just isn't good enough and I'm sick of feeling that I'm constantly failing.

Not that I have anything approaching a plan. It is well documented that I struggle with this. But I feel that I'm doing myself a favour by just resisting the lure of the dating sites. They promise to make the search easier but, for me at least, they make it more constant and less gratifying. They don't make me feel particularly good about myself.

So, at least until the next time it feels like a good idea, I am through. I am hoping that this decision lasts for a bit longer than it has before.