Feeling Peculiar

I have been having funny feelings for a while now. It's very peculiar. It's kind of as though I've been picked up and shaken and put back down all jiggled-up. I guess you could chart my emotional and psychological reactions over the year on some kind of map and be quite impressed by the uniformity of its ups and downs but when you live it, it is difficult not to be rather startled by each new crest and dip. I'm quite enjoying the funny feelings, mainly because I am back to feeling as though I am actually 17 again. And I particularly liked being 17. But it means that I don't tend to be entirely in control of my actions and have made some decisions based on how I feel rather than what is the most practical or sensible choice. It is not like me to be quite so spontaneous but it has already led to good things. The pragmatic choices that I've been making, out of necessity to give me some hope and focus, haven't really fit in with my perspective on life and what I really want. To be fair, it has taken me a really long time to decide what that is but I feel that now I can start living and enjoying things on a much more day-to-day basis, rather than planning for stuff I don't want as much as I originally thought I did.

I realise that this is quite a cryptic post but I seem to be talking about twelve different things at once and any clarification would undoubtedly turn into a list. But in case it isn't already apparent, I'm quite happy at the moment, if a little peculiar

Thank you!

Thank you to the very generous people who sponsored me, you are all amazing!

Big Sis and I managed to complete the course in 47 minutes, which was quite an achievement as we weren't expecting to actually run and ended up surprising ourselves with how fun it was. The feeling of the day was amazing - surrounded by strong, brave, supportive and friendly women who were all doing something they believed in. For something that could be a sad day because we were remembering those people we have lost and those who are suffering with cancer, it was a hugely uplifting experience. I think it's an opportunity to feel that you are doing something tangible to fight back. So next year, we plan to do more; keep fighting, keep running and keep remembering.

Sponsor Me!

Please give me money for racing for actual life! No racing for minor illnesses and injuries for me, I race so that others may live. I say race, I will amble for life.

But seriously, the Race for Life is the event in support of Cancer Research. It's a very important cause and I would really appreciate your support. Please follow this link to my online sponsorship page. As ever, I am leaving it to the last minute but you can still donate even after the event, which will take place on Sunday.

Thank you!

Acting

Is a funny old malarkey and no mistake. I have been ruminating and cogitating since my course and the play about what exactly I want from it. The showcase day was quite interesting, in that it was very long and a real break from any kind of norm. Spending hours and hours doing nothing with people you don't know at all well is quite bizarre. I told the mad South African woman that I loved her, because she laughs at everything (and also told me that the mad Method woman had singled me out as "an actress", some people have it apparently), I ended up quite liking Doubling Girl after finding her hugely annoying for weeks, I rolled my eyes endlessly at the procession of beautiful girls singling out flaws on their perfect skin, I posed in the mirror with my scene partner as we tried to be as unattractive as hugely possible.

I was quite fascinated, after watching the scenes of the morning group during a period of nothing to do, by how much I had lucked out in the scene department. I had grizzled and groused about the fact that I had received a scene where I was playing an older woman, complained that all the other girls got to be ingenues and femme fatales. However, the fact that I was doing a Pinter play and what turned out to be a very funny little scene from The Birthday Party meant that I stood out as I was almost the only person who got to play an actual character. Everyone else just went on stage and played a version of themselves. I do feel that I did well and definitely was one of, if not, the best of the night. However, I had one agent approach me at the end and she then went round and spoke to several other members of the group. She was part of a co-op agency which means that she is as desperate for actors as actors are for agents. I've since heard that several of the other members of the group who are nice people and hands down, drop-dead, gorgeous but quite frankly rubbish have been picked up by actual proper agencies. And that really makes me wonder what the point is. It really isn't how good you are at acting, that's probably the least important thing, it's how lucky, how good you look, who you know, how ambitious and confident you are, with how good you are coming in in last place.

It's interesting because it has made me re-evaluate what I'm doing and why I'm doing it again. After Bronte, which I found to be a hugely satisfying artistic experience, I re-evaluated again. Having spoken to someone recently with no experience of acting and tried to explain why I do it, despite being shy and awkward (I know, I know, difficult to believe), I could only describe it as a different way of being shy, a different way of putting up a barrier between myself and the world. When I assume a character it's with relief because I don't have to be me any more. It was summed up beautifully for me as "hiding in plain sight".

Then again, maybe not

I'd probably be rather bored, after all. Hermitry isn't the exciting whirlwind of fun it is occasionally made out to be, you know. Apparently it can be quite difficult to find pizza/pancakes/pyrotechnics. Or so I have been reliably informed.

Running Away

I want to be a hermit.

Who's That Girl?

Okay, so it has been requested that I divulge more of the details of my extra-special and exciting acting class. I have resisted the last few weeks as I have been struggling with a major concern. I went in the week after my Method triumph and there, in our little studio, was a video camera. And a TV. My heart sunk and remained in the region of my toes for the whole session. I felt completely out of it with the other members of the group and fell apart a bit every time I went in front of the camera. I also found out that I may have to change my name as I've never really liked it and it shows, apparently. I'm considering Wholahay.

My struggle with my appearance plays no little part in my fear and concern regarding being captured on film. But the thing that really bothers me is being confronted with someone who is not me. That woman on film is not me. I resent that it is me. I do not look like that and I do not sound like that. Seriously, who the hell is it? As anyone who has ever been backstage with me on a play, or indeed anywhere where there's a mirror, can testify, I am a little obsessed with my mirror image. I can quite happily make faces at myself for hours. I have a wide and varied number of faces that I pull, and I get really crazy if I have different hair and make-up, I enjoy seeing my face change and look different. But never, in my obsessive study of my own face, do I see the girl on film. I guess what freaks me out the most is the realisation that the mental image I have of myself is not what other people see.

For me, it is kind of hard that, if I want to do this as a job, I have to get used to this. Actually, if I want this as a hobby, I have to get used to this. Because there is no way I can get more control over what she looks like and the way that she moves if I don't study her and try to correct it. I can feel that I'm doing it right but how do I know that I'm communicating it if I don't look at what I'm doing wrong? And that's the worst thing, it's like having to eat fruit or stand on high things in order to be better at what I do. I am forced to confront something I really, really hate and part of me wants to cry or have a tantrum about it. But the perfectionist part knows I'm going to have to get over it and she is both a pedant and really, really bossy.

As a sidenote to this, I feel I have to make the note that you are lovely readers and friends to try to make me feel better about the way I look. But I do not say it because I need reassurance. I say it because it is part of the narrative.

Big Head May Cause Top-Heaviness

It's true. I am liable to fall over at any point. While I have many crazy little obsessions about myself; the hair in my nose for which MuleBoy did purchase me a nose trimmer (I bet New Variety Girlfriend has a completely hair-free nose), the backs of my ears which are particularly prone to dryness and soreness, and the enormity of my head, which makes me lament my difficulty in finding hats, this post today is about another kind of swollen-headedness than my big, got-it-from-my-dad-gee-thanks-dad-type-mutton-head.

I have been having a big happy ever since yesterday evening about the thoroughness with which I triumphantly kicked ass in class yesterday. And although it's a small scale victory, and, let's face it, it isn't like there were a series of points awarded and I got the most (although if there had been... yeah, yeah, you get the idea) it isn't exactly easily quantifiable. The thing is, that you can know you're good at something, and I do, which I don't think, in itself, is bigheadedness, it's really just accepting a fact about myself - crap at organisation, good at acting - but when you've only been doing it in a selected field you do wonder whether it is a translateable talent. Like, is this something that will be lessened by exposure in a new arena? So doing it well somewhere else and having my talent recognised is reassuring. And really, really nice. I may bounce around some more but, really, especially family members, let me know if it's getting annoying.

Note to Self

St Valentine's Day is quite difficult to avoid when single. Next year, take the day off work and spend the entire day hiding under a duvet somewhere.

If no longer single by this time next year, take the day off work and spend the entire day hiding under a duvet somewhere.

Genius, sounds like a plan.

I was at the BAFTAs, at least geographically...

In my actor's class this week, I spent some time being a dog. I also had an argument with my character, which involved swapping chairs so that I could BE my character. You'll be glad to know that the dog bit was an extension of the conversation as I had to ask my character if she was an animal, what animal would she be and then I had to swap chairs and answer. I also got told off for acting as though I had been covered in ice. In my defence, the woman leading the class had gone around saying that she had a hose and was spraying us with ice and that it was hailing. If you want me to react, I'm going to properly react. In her defence, she told me I was good so she's not entirely crazy. She is quite crazy though. I must admit, the whole method thing is something I find quite frustrating. A big part of me quite often just wants to get on with it. I'm quite good at looking like I'm buying into it (I was totally the best animal) but that generally comes from the knowledge that they will only let us move on if we look like we're really absorbing ourselves in the exercise. Bits of it are useful; paraphrasing the text so that you can really analyse a scene and what is being said, I do genuinely like being an animal because it's fun and I'm a little odd and it does also help with things like changing voice and physicality - see Beanie in Wild Duck once he fixed the idea of being a bird in his head. It's just the submersion that I object to and the fact that you have to take everything so gosh-darned seriously. Is it bad that I feel myself to be a little too English to really do the whole Lee Strasberg thing? That said, it's all experience and it is kind of cool to say that I'm being taught by someone who was in The Godfather.

It was also kind of cool that I came down off Endell Street and past Covent Garden before realising that I was in the middle of BAFTA land. I assumed it was in Leicester Square and actually resented the whole thing because I couldn't just carry on past the Lyceum. I may even have grumbled out loud about letting me get on my bloody train, stupid BAFTA, grumble, grumble. Then a very nice car stopped by me and I forgot my troubles as it was only Ridley-freaking Scott! Granted I may be less and less interested in him as time has gone on (I liked 80s, sci-fi Ridley best) but it was still pretty damn cool to have an actual directorial legend within a metre of me. Bless him, he'd gone to the wrong end and had to be redirected (much like Blade Runner, the film of a bazillion versions) to aother bit so it wasn't as though I could hang around and do some star-spotting, although my train journey was 2 1/2 hours as it was so I didn't really want to miss it. I watched the ceremony and although there were several people there that I would have got quite excited over (if I'm honest, anyone I recognised), a bit giggly about (Paddy Considine and James McAvoy) and awed by (Joel and Frances), there was no-one there for whom I would have legitimately stayed and risk missing my train for - such as Gorgeous George, Jack Nicholson, Scorsese and Kate "my friend were we ever to meet and me get over the whole worshipping her for being so damned good" Winslet. I can't imagine any of them really buying into Strasberg either, you know.

Getting on with things

One of the things that I talk about on here quite frequently, at which point my readership collectively sighs while thinking "Oh God, she's not going to talk about her hair again. Seriously, how much can one person be obsessive about her own hair" at which point I realise that this post will contain mention of my hair and I probably shouldn't make jokes about the fact that I ramble about inconsequential things, such as hair and shopping and weight loss/gain, just in case people start rebelling against my shallowness and do something to end the banality, like forcing me to watch the news and current affairs pogrammes a la Clockwork Orange. Wow, that sentence never even came to a proper conclusion. I'll start again. One of the things that I talk about on here quite frequently is the pressure of being a grown up and how successful I feel I am in this capacity. Normally I come pretty shy of any target of grown-uppedness, see above re: shallow. But I'm starting to think that I am measuring this in the wrong way, namely by comparing myself to other people infinitely more capable and mature, where I should really measure myself against my own achievements and changes. Himself and Herself are marvels and not necessarily people that I could ever hope to match in terms of braininess, organisation, time management and emotional maturity (and I can feel them blush as I type) so there is no comparison. I also strongly suspect that their science-y brains have devised some sort of time travel device so that they genuinely do have more hours in the day than everybody else. Of course, it's always possible that they just don't waste any time, but I think this is rather far-fetched.

However, recently, I am starting to think that I am actually getting there. Not in the way that I thought would happen where I would suddenly know exactly what I'm doing and be in control all the time. But I am doing things that are good for me and trying harder to make the right decisions about things that crop up in my life and I think it's the fact that I am, at least, trying to be better. I may fail, and already have, several times but it is in the trying and in the owning of the failures, rather than blaming other people or circumstances for something where the fault is mine, that is the key to it all.

I think that the last few days have presented opportunities for me to really realise what it is that I want and to try and claim it. For the first time, I have been able to own my appearance in the perspective of what I want to do. The fact that I am a little funny looking makes me distinctive, not wrong. I have made some moves to be the sort of friend I would prefer to be, more likely to make the first move and stop fretting so much about the little things. I am feeling more positive than I have for a long time and I hope it lasts. Thanks for sticking with me, gentle reader.

Random Acts of Meanness

I don't understand unnecessary meanness. Now, I'm not always that nice and was occasionally told off by MuleBoy for excessive rudeness to people. On one occasion, he did catch the rudeness but not the reason as one of his colleagues who I met for the first time asked me the same question in a couple of minutes so my second answer was rather shorter than my first, which had been quite pleasant and enthusiastic. On another occasion, I was told off for being mean to his now-girlfriend because she was starting to edge in on my territory and I am pissed off in retrospect that I apologised to her. So I am no stranger to the mean; I have little patience and am a bit of a bitch. However, what I don't understand is being mean to innocent bystanders. On several occasions, I have just walked past somebody and had an insult shouted at me and I'm sure that this is a shared experience (I hope it is, otherwise this implies that my mere presence is enough to rile people to the extent that insulting me is the only option). Last night, I had one of these experiences and it was one of those things that made me question not myself but just the mentality of other people. While waiting for the loo in a pub last night, a drunk guy, waiting for his equally drunk but much funnier girlfriend to come out (we waited together for a few minutes and she kept confiding things to me in a stage whisper about how drunk she thought she might be), started talking to me. He asked me if I was pregnant and my heart just sank. I said no and he said, no, you are, when's it due? I said, I'm not pregnant, I'm fat, and then he tried to touch my stomach at which point I told him to fuck off and walked away at speed. I don't mind people thinking I'm fat because I think I am too. I do mind strangers telling me I am, because their motive is to try and hurt me, otherwise why would they say anything at all?

On the flip-side, for some reason it reminded me of something that happened last year that, whether for the right reasons or not, gave me something of a warm feeling. I was walking home from work and had fallen into step behind a petite girl. I noticed that we were coming past a group of blokes, drinking beer and got that sense of dread that one gets in that situation. They shouted a comment at the girl in front, and I was surprised that they were complimenting her eyes. Then they shouted a comment at me and it was "look at that lovely red hair". I was really taken aback. It was almost as if they were going out of their way to be nice, and not in a predatory, sexual way. So, thinking about it, I might start talking randomly to strangers and tell them nice things. It's odd but, ultimately, quite nice!

New Year

I think it's appropriate to write something new year-y. Like Beanie, my overriding desire is to say a resounding "fuck off" to 2007. What a pile of shite this year has been. Characterised by heartbreak, fear and bereavement, it is very hard to see the good. At work, despite vowing to be more conscientious, I have been spun away from my good intentions and have spent long hours unaware of time passing and things going undone. The people I grew up with are all earning huge amounts more than me and I feel that I have wasted so much time. With my friends, I have continued to be selfish and inconsiderate and, most of all, lazy. I don't know where I stand with half of them, the smallest thing makes me want to run and hide and I often feel that they look at me and think me ridiculous or stupid. I keep having tiny fits of fear where I panic about things, whether it's the wedding where I will see Muleboy and I have managed to gain a stone and my hair looks like shite. At the wedding, where the most I felt was an overriding sense of oddness, I found out he is now living near me and spent a couple of hours in town today afraid that I'd see him and fretting about what I would do if I did. I cook up little Bette Davis style quips that would be perfect but know I'd forget them or stammer them if I saw him.

For my New Year celebrations, I stayed at home, alone. I had phonecalls from Big Sis and my parents, both at separate parties and both of which I was invited to, wishing me a Happy New Year. I ate a great deal of chocolate, drank some fizzy wine and cried a lot. I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind again. It is my favourite film. This title has been a shifting target in the past but this has stayed at the number one spot for a while, probably since I first watched it. There is nothing about it I don't like. It was painful as it is something that makes me think of MuleBoy. We always said that he is Joel and I am Clem. Watching it again, I think this is fair. He chose me because he saw in me something that could rescue him from his life; something that was exotic and different to that that he had experienced before. I chose him because he was decent and good and seemed like a safe harbour. In the end, my difference became something that pushed him away, he could never cope with the fact that I did not, actually, complete him. Which explains why he would choose someone else; so safe, so dull, so much more like an actual girlfriend should be. And so much for my safe harbour. I toyed with the idea, when in New York, to take the train to Montauk to see if it would work and he would be there but he wouldn't have been and it would have been a day in New York wasted. He was never as romantic or as aware of my wishes and feelings as I would have liked. If I am honest, and for some reason I am being, there was part of me that wanted more and was scared about getting married because being in love with him was never the way I expected it. I never expected something extraordinary but I did want more than I got. He always expected me to know that he loved me without him saying anything, he made it clear at times that he resented my presence and got angry when I cried and wanted more from him. He quite often made it difficult for me to spend time with other people and expected me to bend over backwards for him without giving in return. I sometimes wonder what I was thinking but look back and try to remember that in there, when I still was, the good times outweighed the bad. It is all that has happened since then that has made this so difficult to remember. The fact that there was so much deceit in the last couple of months. The fact that he expected me to come straight back to him without any effort to change or to try and actually win me back in any way, as though the fact of him asking should be enough to wipe out the time that I have spent in pain. The fact that him asking has been rendered insincere by his relationship with someone else and he hasn't even tried to redress that in any way. He is a coward and not anywhere near the man that I hoped he was.

The last paragraph underlines another negative point; that I am obsessed still with the situation and will try to harp on about it despite the fact that other people are bored with it and dealing with their own, far more interesting, lives. When my friends are going through happy and sad times of their own, how can I continue with these lines of thought? Shouldn't I be over it by now? Shouldn't I have dealt with it and moved on? But I don't even know how to begin.

So my New Year's Resolutions have to be for me to change my life for the better. It may be in small ways to begin with but that should eventually lead to an overall change. I will eventually come through this and be less insecure, less fat, more focussed. I may occasionally wish that my memory could be erased by Lacuna Inc, but, as the film makes clear, we make mistakes but if we don't learn from them we are doomed to repeat them. I know what I want now. I know where I went wrong. I want to do better.

Traitorous Gesture

At least once every day, I make a gesture that has become habit over the last five years. I rub the middle finger and the little finger on my right hand against my ring finger. I used to do this as a way of reassuring myself that my ring was on my finger. On several occasions I fidgeted with it so much that I dropped it, especially on a cold day. Sometimes I felt a dart of panic when I forgot to put it on in the morning and always felt relieved when I put it back on.

Now, the dart of panic invariably happens every time, and then the dull thud of realisation hits. I try and stop myself but it's automatic now and has become one of those things that you know hurts but you do anyway, like wobbling a loose tooth or picking at a scab. I've toyed, when the ache has become too intense, with wearing the ring again. Just so that I can get its reassuring presence back on my finger. But even if I did, I know that my mind would be worrying over it still. That it would mean the wrong thing, that I was trying to reclaim something that isn't really real any more or creating false expectations. But mainly, and most significantly, that putting it back on would make it harder to remove again. That when I took it off for the final time, I would be ripping a new wound and that the feeling I've been carrying around for months - the perpetual feeling of breathlessness and disbelief, like being punched in the stomach - would be worse than before.

I am so tired of it. So very tired of all of it.

Boston

So, Boston. That feels like a long time ago. It was lovely, although I didn't feel as absorbed by it as New York. The shape of Manhattan means that it is a very concentrated city, Boston is a lot less contained and there are several huge roads that run through it, meaning that it's less suitable for pedestrians. It's also quieter than New York, unsurprisingly, so I didn't feel that comfortable going out in the evenings, which is a wussy thing to do but you can't underestimate the mind-blowing dullness of going out in the evenings when there's just you after two weeks. I must admit, in Sturbridge and Boston, I got some good telly-watching done. However, during the day, I was all-action Kitten again! My first day there I checked into my hotel which I enjoyed as it was gorgeous and extremely luxurious compared to the previous two. My New York hotel was very functional and the Sturbridge hotel was kind of Butlins-dreary. The Boston hotel even had brand name toiletries. Is it bad that it's stuff like that that impresses me? I spent some time looking up stuff to do in Boston, which I had refrained from doing before as it seemed a bit sad to think too much about the end of my holiday before I'd got there. I underlined some things, some of which I did and some of which I decided not to, like a piano bar that sounded fun, it involved singing, but didn't open until after I'd lost the will to stay out!

On that first day, I went to see a production of Man of La Mancha, mentioned in the previous post, taking some time to wander about in Boston and soak up some atmosphere, find the theatre and have a meal before the show started. It was alright but it is one of my favourites for sentimental reasons and I didn't feel that they did it justice. Mainly because the company, priding itself on using local talent, felt hugely amateurish despite charging professional prices. Some of the voices were good but I felt frustrated at the inability of the actors to just sing the bloody songs. I noted in my book that I felt I was about to giggle during The Impossible Dream because I suddenly realised what the lead actor's delivery reminded me of. If you've ever heard William Shatner "sing"Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, you'll know why I found it difficult to be moved. Such a pity.

The next day, I set out on the Freedom Trail, which is a red line throughout Boston that leads you through the various historical buildings, monuments and areas of significance. I kind of did it wrong as, despite it being a mere 2 1/2 miles only managed to get through 1/2 mile of it. I really like museums and graveyards and things so stopped at all of them along the way with my guidebook and tried to take everything in. It took me several hours, I think it was about six, and I was a wee bit shattered by the end. So shattered that I decided not to visit the replica of the boat from where the tea was thrown off, despite the very exciting fact that it happened on my birthday, although not one that I was actually alive for what with it being 1773 (a mere two years before the birth of Miss Jane Austen, fact-lovers!) I found a notable Irish Pub around the corner from the replica Cheers Pub (a lot of replicas in Boston) and sat and gawped at the sight of football on the TV. Shouldn't have been so excited, I'm not exactly a fan, but it was nice to see something homely. I succeeded in spilling gravy on my only pair of jeans but it didn't stain, unlike the hot chocolate from earlier in the day. At least my natural messiness didn't reveal itself until Boston, when I was within sight of a home and a decent washing machine.

I popped into Quincy Market for a Boston Cream Pie to take back to the hotel and made my weary way home. Watched a silly film and didn't enjoy the pie particularly so dipped once again into my stash of Sturbridge fudge, significantly reducing the amount that I could take home as a gift.

I decided to go a little further up the Freedom Trail the next day and into the Italian part of the city to Paul Revere's house. I thought that'd be an interesting point at which to end my particular stroll down the red line. The best bit was the mini-lecture where they debunked the whole thing about "The British Are Coming" as a) it was a secret mission so he probably wouldn't have shouted and b) the colonists at that point still called themselves British so would have been all, like, "yeah, we know, we're right here." I then walked back to where I'd been the night before, did me some shopping and went on a whale watch. This was awesome and was pretty much the only time when I was snap-happy, desperately trying to get a decent shot of a humpbacked whale. There's a feeding ground 25 miles out of Boston Harbour so it was a fun boat ride and then a wonderful hour and a half watching whales which was splendid. Everyone reacted like little kids, lots of oohs and excited pointing at the whales and I felt very much a part of things, which was nice.

I was happy but tired when I got back to the hotel and went wandering out, proudly wearing my newly-bought woolly boots which I have been wearing to death since I've been back. I tried to get a table at a restaurant but it was quite late, there were queues and, unfortunately, they don't prioritise people on their own. We make less revenue, dontchaknow. In a move that will probably cast shame on me, I ended up getting a slice of pizza and TWO slices of the best cheesecake the world has ever known from the best place to buy cheesecake the world has ever known and took it back to the hotel. Well, I had to enjoy the lovely hotel as much as I could and, oh, it was good. Seriously, if you are in Boston and don't go the The Cheesecake Factory, I will want to know why. Even walking in is an experience, it's completely gorgeous.

I spent my final evening watching Moonlight, which was rubbish, with Sophia Myles who I will freely admit is very nice to look at but who is also a really awful actress. She appears to have had a charisma bypass. But she did bring the count up of Brits taking over US TV, which was something I enjoyed making note of while over there. I did like Boston but I was starting to crave company by the end so very, very glad to come home. Now I just wish that everything was much nearer so I could go over there on daytrips. There were things that were odd and things that were difficult (some out of choice, including my weird decision to get to the airport by subway. I enjoyed it, partly because it was difficult but mainly because it was my choice and being able to make my own choices without having to take somebody else into account is something that is still shiny and new) but on the whole there were many points of blistering happiness that give me strength and contentment when I think back on them. In the words of the song, memorably sung by Jack Edwards and the (3)3 J Girls at The News Guide Awards on Monday night, I Did It My Way.

Jetlagged?

I don't know whether I am jetlagged or just exhausted after not sleeping on the plane. After about 10 minutes of very bumpy flying, I pulled out my notebook and inscribed the immortal words "I HATE F***ING FLYING I HATE TURBULENCE". Poetic in its simplicity and unfortunately true. I really hate flying. I've had about four hours of sleep since; caught a few zzs in the taxi and crashed when I got home but am very conscious of the fact that I will need to get back to sleep tonight so am trying to keep it to a minimum. I do have work tomorrow (oh dear lord, what was I thinking?) so must try and get back to normal rhythms.

I will write a catch-up thing about Boston at some point - the hotel despite being very, very lovely charged extortionate rates for use of the computers and I objected to having to pay seeing as the previous, less good hotels had given me access for free. To while away the time between check out and flight back, I sat in a restaurant with my notebook yesterday and tried to catch up on all the things I hadn't managed to update while I'd been there, a large portion of the notes were given to a review of Man of La Mancha that I'd seen a local professional company do on Thursday. Anyway, that's for another day, I have to have some lunch that my wonderful Big Sis bought in for me and see my Granny who's in a home (!) Both of us will be deaf today as my ears still aren't clear from the flight. Did I mention I really don't like flying?

But a Good One

Okay, so Sturbridge has completely redeemed itself today. Despite being a community overly reliant on cars meaning that there is no real bustle or pedestrian traffic in Sturbridge proper, a bit down the road from my little industrial park bit of it, it manages to be most things I would expect. I had fun exploring it yesterday, it has a little theatre which is extremely random. It calls itself a repertory theatre but as I walked in on a Sunday afternoon there was a show going on and the next show won't be starting until Friday. I'm quite gutted to be missing the Halloween spectacular running the week after which is a stage version of Night of the Living Dead. I would contemplate returning to Sturbridge for a night just to see that! The rest of Sturbridge was mainlymade up of touristy shops, which were lovely as they emphasised antiques and primitives. My personal favourite was a shop that advertised "Gently Used Clothing" and had a little homemade pumpkin that I'm going to buy for myself and something for Big Sis to redeem the whole Enchanted-Forest-being-closed-down fiasco when I go back on Wednesday. I got back to the hotel and had some Rice Krispies for tea because I didn't want to go out and because the food in the hotel is just bad. I watched the finale of So You Think You Can Dance which took me up to midnight and then went to bed.

Today and tomorrow I had decided to devote to Old Sturbridge Village because you get a two-day pass and what a great decision that was. I had an absolutely wonderful day there today. The weather has been lovely; sunny and hot with a lovely breeze and the trees are starting to turn so there'll be a sea of green that'll be broken up with a spectacular red maple. It was quiet but not dead in OSV and the fact that it was a 19th Century village meant that people were actually walking places. I found out how to fire a musket, how to dip a candle, how to use a printing press, met some oxen, learned about schools in Massachusetts, tried some fudge, bought me a bonnet and a fife (I must stop myself from completely whimsical shopping) and rode on a riverboat. I spent about six hours there, enjoying the scenery and the company of the re-enacters, shopkeepers and craftspeople who were all very willing to talk about the museum and their own lives. Two of the men that I spoke to were semi-retired and I was wistful on behalf of my parents that there couldn't be somewhere like this for them to work, they would love every second of it.

This evening I went to the Publick House, which was mentioned in one of the recipe books in the museum giftshop as one of the best traditional inns in New England. I found my way there after getting directions from a girl on the desk at the hotel who clearly doubted my ability to get there in under a day without a car. It was less than a mile to get there, American perspective is very skewed. I did get nervous on my way back because it was dark and I'm on my own but I think that's reasonable. I'm most nervous of the traffic, though, my head keeps wanting to turn English-way and I have to force myself to look the other way so every crossing takes twice as long because I have to factor in being extra-specially sure that I am safe before I go. It was totally worth it as the food was excellent, the atmosphere was great and the service was lovely. They even gave me a doggybag of freshly baked bread and anyone who gives me free bread is... sod it, can't think of anything. I like bread a lot so it's definitely a good thing.

So I'm feeling very positive although am concerned that the talking to myself thing is getting a bit out of hand. It's something I generally do when on my own but have started doing it in public for lack of any other companions. I may have diverged completely into two separate personalities by the time I get back!

p.s. Thank you, Anonymous, for your comment. Do I know you outside of the bloggy world? I am curious. But I really appreciated everything you said, particularly the offer of violence. It's tempting but I think MuleBoy's got it bad enough as it is at the moment. For a start, he hasn't been able to go to New York so he's kicking himself at the very least.
p.p.s. Thanks also to Marion, I haven't been able to publish your second comment due to the phone number but I have written it down and will take you up on it if I have any probs.
p.p.p.s. Everyone is very lovely, thanks for reading this blog. It really feels like a lifeline at times.

Another Universe

I am in Sturbridge. And am about to go exploring after a ridiculously long period of time just being in the hotel. The journey on Friday was hugely, hugely long: frustrating at times; and emotional in the later stages as I indulged in some introspection as a result of being tired and without other amusement, having finished my book and run down the batteries on the iPod. The train journey was fine and broken up pleasantly by Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys as well as Regina Spektor to accompany the stages of the journey where I gawped out of the train windows. My goodness, there's a lot of pretty in Connecticut. I was so astonished at the capital building in Hartford, the state capital, that I pestered my neighbour to find out what it was. I don't think she minded that much.

After the train, I had no plans so in Springfield, Massachusetts, there was more pestering but this time of people whose job it was to be pestered and so they had no right to be as reluctant. I do honestly believe, from my experience, that Americans are actually worse than English people at the service industry. I get more and more English as I get more and more apologetic for everything, including my accent which is apparently unintelligible. The train people did, however, give me information and the phone number for the bus people, leading to the most bizarre phone conversation of my life, and I've had a few. Potentially the guy on the other end of the phone had had some bad experiences with English people in the past but I'm betting he's just had bad experiences with people. He was damaged and emotionally distraught and I did question whether I was being Punk'd. I'm never going to be able to recapture it but here's a sample of the conversation after about five minutes of tension:

Me: I need to get the bus again on Thursday to get to Boston
Him: Okay, the train stops at the South Station and the Back Bay
Me: Oh great, the Back Bay.
Him: What?! There's nothing there at the Back Bay! It's industrial buildings and the docks. What are you thinking?
Me: All I've got is the name of the hotel which is the Back Bay Hilton
Him: (barely concealed fury) There's nothing there!
Me: (very carefully now) I'm very sorry, I didn't know. What would you suggest?
Him: (silence. For about five minutes. I'm genuinely wondering whether he's crying or punching a wall. Finally...) You can get the 11.15 bus service from Worcester to Boston.

I spent the whole phone conversation, which was about 10/15 minutes, feeling as if I was walking on a knife's edge. I walked through Springfield to the bus station and finally, at the front desk met someone who said they loved my accent although this was said almost apologetically after he had gawped at me and I had to repeat myself. I decided that I would put on an accent after this so that conversations wouldn't take quite such a long time when asking questions etc. It backfired. Of course. Anywho. More pretty scenery and introspection on the bus, as well as a charismatic bus driver, which was nice. We drove straight past Sturbridge which, according to the guy on the phone, hasn't had a bus route since 1995. So I needed to get the bus from Springfield to Worcester and then spend loads of money on a fricking cab to go back the way I just came.

As the cab journey progressed, I started to get bad feelings about Sturbridge. The cab driver said we would be driving through towns and I couldn't see any. There were just odd houses dotted alongside the route. As we drew closer, I had the disturbing realisation that I was right. Sturbridge ain't no town. It's a glorified rest-stop. The hotel is quite town-like as it has shopping and facilities enclosed within the main part of the building but there is no real community here. I may be proved wrong as the week progresses, and I hope so, but at the moment it doesn't look good. It has to be said that I haven't made much of an attempt so far, I spent most of yesterday in my room, with brief sojourns out to the fitness center (rubbish) and the pool to make up for my breakfast of M&Ms. I was shocked how tired I was though, which makes it slightly more excusable. So, today I am making amends and will be exploring. Tomorrow I am going to head out to Old Sturbridge Village, which I am expecting to be the best bit and I will get a two-day pass, so that's Tuesday sorted too. I'll be grand.

Leaving New York

It's been a manic few days and I still maintain a complete love for the city. It's so diverse and, despite a fair few grotty places that I feel actually add to its charm, there are points of awe-inspiring loveliness. I slowed down a bit on Tuesday after managing to get back to sleep again, which was a huge relief. I took my first subway train to the World Trade Center site. After visiting the site and the series of galleries that make up the exhibition and tribute to the tragedy, I was left feeling that the people behind it are attempting to create an atmosphere that is very hopeful, looking to the future rather than dwelling on it. The site itself is filled with workmen who are about to start rebuilding and the plans for the memorial garden and new transportation hub are detailed on the information point. The area around it is bustling, understandably what with it being the city's financial district. The visitor's centre creates a progressive exhibition that deals with every stage of 9/11, from contextualising the World Trade Center for people who lived in New York and worked there, to the disaster itself, to the rescue and recovery, to a memorial room with carefully placed tissue boxes and finally to a room which showed messages of hope and love from around the world. The galleries never sentimentalised the tragedy, merely presented it and never touched on the "war on terror". It was beautifully put together and thought-through and I found it very moving without having felt manipulated.



I got back on the subway and headed back a little way north to SoHo (South of Houston) where I attempted to find the shop in my guidebook. After walking up and down Mercer Street a few times, I walked into a gallery and asked where it was and was told it had closed down. I was so gutted, I really wanted to get a present from there that was unique and original but not necessarily touristy. All the other shops around me were boutique-y and despite the US being criticised for obesity, no shop that I had so far gone into had anything bigger than a small-cut size 14. So much for shopping! So I joined Broome Street and walked along to Little Italy, half expecting that the Festa di San Gennaro would be cancelled. I was relieved to see glittery banners and some stalls as I approached as well as some bored looking cops stationed behind road bloacks. The Festa itself probably picked up more speed at night but during the daytime was a number of foodstalls and fairground games, alongside outdoor dining rooms belonging to the restaurants that lined Mulberry Street, the main thoroughfare of Little Italy. As my appetite was still a little reluctant I merely had an Italian lemon ice, perfect for the steaming hot day, and bought a cannolo (singular for cannoli) for eating in my hotel room later. Although the Festa was quite smallscale, it did give me the opportunity to see a lively side to Little Italy that potentially could have been quite quiet during the day. I enjoyed watching the aggression between stallholders on either side of the street as they shouted insults across the pedestrian area, it was nice to know that the bravado you see in fiction isn't entirely sterotype.



After I had discovered every nook of the Festa, ambling through, licking at my ice which had yummy bits of rind in, I headed to the top of Mulberry Street but couldn't find anywhere that looked like NoLIta. Realising I was on East Houston Street, I considered finding Katz's deli but I didn't want to eat anything, having turned down a cornucopia of delights (well, mainly pizza) already. I figured it would probably be crazy-busy as well. I regret it now, 'cause it would be nice to rub it in next time I see When Harry Met Sally and the orgasm scene but there's no point if I'm just doing it for the sake of it. That's been a mantra of mine on this trip - do it because you want to, not because you feel you should. There are many more things I could have done but haven't and all I can say to that is, next time I come, I shall do more. This is not my last trip to New York.



I located Broadway and decided to walk up it, which must have been a mile and a half, although it's difficult to measure in your head until you get to the numbered streets, what with 20 blocks being a mile, and Broadway skews it as it is one of the least geometric roads. It doesn't go in a straight, parallel line unlike the rest. Another reason to love this city; it's so logical apart from the crossings, which make me laugh they're so poorly thought out. I got back to my hotel and totally enjoyed a couple of hours of chill out time before I went out again for dinner and a show. Unfortunately, I left it quite late to get ready and fretted quite a lot about what to wear so only had time for a starter before the show, but that was probably a good thing given the sheer size of the portions and my current limited capacity for food which is restricting me to feeling hungry only twice a day. The show was fun, full of energy but not as moving as it could have been. The style was different but hardly one that, as a small Jewish lady behind me said on the way out, reinvented the wheel. One girl did stand out however with a frenetic dancing style and an extraordinary bluesy, folky voice that was atypical for a musical. On the way home, I decided that walking a mile (this one was easy to work out, hotel on 29th, Eugene O'Neill Theatre on 49th) back to my room in heels was a stupid idea and decided to get a cab - important New York experience no.12. I succeeded in stopping three but wussy little tourists incapable of stopping their own cabs nicked the first two, which was my fault for standing in the wrong place. I learnt my lesson and finally managed to snag cab 3.



Yesterday, I headed downtown again, getting the subway to South Ferry. I wandered through Battery Park, which had a surprisingly emotional effect on me, which was the theme of the day. I got my tickets and set off over the water to Liberty and Ellis Islands. I didn't get off at Liberty, it was enough for me to be close and I didn't want to go up the Statue so just stood top deck and gazed at her a while. After a while the ferry moved off and around and the audio announcement gave a picture of what it must have been like to have been the immigrants coming into Ellis and I got a bit teary again, imagining them seeing La Liberte and the Manhattan skyline and how extraordinary that must have been, and how simultaneously terrified and exhausted they would have felt with the uncertainty and the pressures of the voyage. When we got to the Island I think I spent about four hours there, I had a fun half hour randomly searching for relatives after realising that everyone else in there had a great deal more information that me in the proper archives. But the search programme was great and I found someone who is potentially an ancestor - Charles Carney, Irish/British, from Bradford, England. I shall get Our Kid (would he mind if I called him that too?) on the case! Then I spent hours going through the museum, which was an exceptional demonstration of immigration in the US; historically, sociologically and personally. I didn't even get to the last floor, I'd spent so long everywhere else!

I came back in the ferry and trotted along to the South Street Seaport for some actual shopping - managed to find presents and, finally!, postcards, which was a relief. I would have got into trouble with Granny if I'd not found any at all. I then had a dilemma about the rest of the evening, with my choice dictated by my single status and my back which had really started aching from the walking. I got back to the hotel, got changed and wandered back up to Times Square for a meal and to watch Stardust. I may watch it again when I get home, it's lovely and watching Mark Williams play a man who was previously a goat is something that is still making me giggle a wee bit.

Right, there we go, a comprehensive summary of two days in New York without any insomnia as an influence. I have written so much in my journal (best present ever!), and postcards, and a blog that it is making me a feel just a wee bit like I'm not on my own quite so much. Next stop, Sturbridge.

Here I Am

So, I am in the basement of my hotel at 2 in the morning logged in and letting you know what I'm doing. Unfortunately mainly what I'm doing at this moment in time is not sleeping. I'm very, very tired but my body clock is currently very confounded, doesn't know where I am or what I'm doing. This has also affected my appetite, much to my surprise. Who knew that could happen? It's very appropriate for the city that never sleeps, however.

Yesterday was amazing. I have decided that New York is fabulous. I couldn't imagine living here unless I suddenly became immensely rich but I love it. My favourite part was probably Central Park, particularly Shakespeare's Garden. I happily sat there and sniffed lovely herbal smells and watched butterflies for a while. I also sat in Strawberry Fields, on Drunken Accomplice's recommendation (I also popped into FAO Schwartz where someone was actually playing Chopsticks on the floor piano a la Big), watching the possibly self-appointed custodian and listening to her tales of wild nights and "twinking" roommates and tried to work out whether she had ever been a man.

I walked a lot, starting from my hotel on West 29th Street up 7th Ave (the Fashion Ave) to 34th Street where I walked around to the 5th Ave entrance of the Empire State Building and wandered around the top, although I didn't get so brave as to go up to the 102nd observation deck. I went just before the other tourists piled in and left as it started getting busy, with a real sense of the city's shape that I hadn't been able to get from a map. I then rejoined 7th and walked to Times Square, which was different than I expected despite having seen it on so many films. It is much longer than I thought and not particularly square-like, but as big and brash as I had hoped, even the signs for the subway are illuminated with golden sparkles. After a restorative, yet unfinished due to it's enormous size, muffin, I bought me a ticket for a show that I'm going to see tonight; "Spring Awakenings" and then headed up 7th Ave to Central Park. I almost felt that I got absorbed by the park. I originally intended to take the subway but ended up just walking and the park seemed to stretch endlessly on either side of me. The skyscrapers that I could see over the trees were a reminder of the city but from inside it all seemed so far away. I eventually, after much sitting and contemplating, got to the Metropolitan Musem of Art on 5th Avenue. I snuck in, I'm still not entirely sure whether or not I should have paid an admission fee, wandered about a bit but as an emotional rather than academic enjoyer of art found the exhibits rather dull and felt that I could have been anywhere, except for a few rooms which had been made into recreations of actual living spaces with items like staircases as exhibits. They were quite special but I couldn't find anything that explained them as a whole rather than the sum of their parts. This was a particular disappointment in the room with bed and the cupids as it was stupendously lovely. Maybe if I'd've paid I'd have had some kind of comprehensive guide book. I walked through an exhibition of Dutch paintings from the time of Rembrandt and found my eyes drawn effortlessly to a Vermeer painting across a room of flat portraits. I was very tired by this stage so decided to head back down 5th Ave and look for somewhere to eat and a movie theater. I contemplated watching two films but was so knackered I came back to my hotel room after one and effectively conked out at 8.30. I guess that may be the reason I woke up at 1.30 but I keep hoping I'll need to catch up - I've missed so much sleep!

Anywho, insomnia is a factor in this so don't expect such an exhaustive recounting in the future but that's episode 1 of my adventures. Hopefully there will be many more - I haven't fully decided what to do today but I'm definitely going to go to Little Italy as today is the Festa di San Gennaro. I'd also like to pop into a little shop on Spring Street for a present for Big Sis. And as I'm in Little Italy I may go to NoLIta (North of Little Italy) which is apparently a funky shopping area. And I have a theatre trip planned for tonight, if only I can stay awake...