On holding and being held

I don't consider myself a particularly tactile person. I'm always a bit nervous of what a hug says and what it means and what I'm opening myself up to when I open my arms. I don't read other people very well and I never really know what is being said by a hug. My natural wariness steps in and I hold myself back, never sure whether a hug is welcome or appropriate. I find it so hard to truly relax around people that I can't just accept or give hugs randomly.

The truth is that I am an extremely tactile person who ends up limiting her need for physical contact to just three people: I envelop my Mum; hang from my Dad's shoulders; cling to my Big Sis. There is no way that they will ever construe my need for physical contact as anything other than innocent and affectionate.

Of course, it isn't just affection that motivates me. Touch is necessary to my mental wellbeing. The crazy day that I describe in my previous post (which developed into a full-blown crazy week) is something that comes from a need for sensation. I get so bored and so frustrated that I start reconfiguring everything as a physical experience: I feel the need to cling/touch/throw/hit/climb/push. And most of all I feel the need to be suppressed. To be clamped down until I've calmed down.

But it's a difficult thing to ask of people. Sometimes I just wish for a hug machine because being suppressed is pretty much all I need and then you don't have the tricky having-to-ask-people-to-hold-you-until-the-craziness-goes-away problem.

The problem remains that I both want and need human contact (for a start, there must be a certain amount of peril involved in using a mechanical hug; you wouldn't want to get too squished, for example). But I can't rely purely on friends and family to provide that. I guess that this, like so much else at the moment, leads back tediously to the fact that I am lonely.

Crazy Day

I am feeling insane. Like, properly barking. I keep having this feeling like I want to scream and my mouth kind of is in this state of scream-readiness and I'm not entirely sure how I'm managing to not do it. I'm having kind of a violent reaction to everything; I want to throw things about or hurl myself against walls or bearhug everyone I see. I'm expecting it to subside but I've been feeling like this for hours now. So far I've only taken my frustration out on some plastic cups which I've hurled across the office. I've also yelled a bit. This hasn't worked.

I want to dance. I want to jump around on the furniture. I want to climb into the ceiling. I want to sing songs very loudly. I want to run around the building and laugh in people's faces. I want to cry. I want to run up and down the metal stairs and make them clang. I want to be sick. I want to be held until I stop needing to be crazy any more.

"So talk to him"

You’ll be glad to know that my resolutions have, so far, come to naught. I’ve got excuses, oh yes! We’ve all got excuses. But mine are a bit rubbish in context. It’s a little bit like the time I asked why my sister hadn’t charged her mobile and she started to list all of the reasons why she hadn’t: She got married, went on honeymoon, someone died, she was on her period, ya da, ya da, ya da. All good excuses but not so much in context. And that’s what I’m like at the moment. Apparently, my move has stymied several things including why I haven’t spoken to the nice man at work and why I have not significantly cut down on my cheese intake. This is bollocks. I haven’t spoken to the nice man at work because I’m a coward and I’m still eating cheese because it’s easy and I’m lazy.

Incidentally, I’ve kind of given up with the nicknames recently because it is a faff and, let’s face it, I don’t really have that many readers and as I’m assuming the majority of them know who I am anyway the anonymity thing seemed more than a little pointless. However, as a way of protecting my dignity and providing a shorthand to “cute/nice guy I like at work”, he does need a nickname. I am concerned that this will add an air of import to what is, after all, very likely to turn into nothing but this is turning into something of a series so I may as well make it easier on myself. So from here on in he shall be known as Max*.

The odds have been raised. I confessed in an email to Finch that I have, as yet, failed to talk to Max since stating the intention to do so on here almost a month ago. At that point I was given the ultimatum of talking to him by tomorrow (Wednesday 10th March 2010) or Finchy will not talk to me for the first month that we live together (if we ever find anywhere to live, she wails). At which point I expressed my terror at the possibility of talking to him and got this as a response:

“Just talk to him you massive gayer. You're brilliant. He will see this and then kiss your face with this noise "Mmmmmmmmmmmwwwwwaaaaaahhhhhhh. Mmmmmmmmwwaaaaaahhhhh." And then say something like "Wowzers in my trousers, you are one hootchy kootchy mama!" before his eyebrows wiggle up and down suggestively. Don't you want that? Of course you do. So talk to him”

I do live to be called a hootchy kootchy mama, it’s true, but “so talk to him” is a command devastating in its simplicity. What the frick do I say and how do I create a situation within which I say it? So far, our conversations have consisted of me butting in:

Max (to Sophie): When’s the end of term?
Sophie: July, I think
Me: No, it’s June

Or of me talking to someone else in a bid to sound interesting/funny/clever but probably sounding a little bit manic and like I have multiple-personalities instead. I know, how can he resist? And the other day, I got a little bit distracted and maintained eye contact for a bit too long. He has really nice eyes. At this point, you’re all a little worried for me, aren’t you? It’s just, we work in different ends of the same building, doing different jobs and my job does not overlap with his so he never needs to talk to me about work stuff. When he’s in his office, there is absolutely no reason for me to go there or to see him and he’s rarely in there anyway because he has an actual fun job where he isn’t tied to a computer all day. And there’s no real socialising between academics and admin. Not because it’s forbidden or anything, it just doesn’t happen. Unfortunately for me. I am just stuck and getting to the point where I am going to have to ask for help. And maybe an extension from Finchy otherwise it is going to be a very quiet month.

*No real reason. Other than it isn’t his name. Unless it’s a double bluff.

Moving

Oh good grief. I never want to move again. Unfortunately this is inevitable as my parents, and Margaret who lives next door, will probably want their garage back at some point. I have so much stuff. I have thrown away so much stuff. And taken an awful lot to charity shops. How does it all accumulate? I am far too good at clinging on to things, thinking they're vitally important. I put it down to Father Dougal-like inability to remember things without a physical clue:



Father Ted: Ah, Sister Assumpta!

Sister Assumpta: Hello Father!

Father Ted: Dougal, Dougal, do you remember Sister Assumpta?

Father Dougal: Er, no.

Father Ted: She was here last year! And then we stayed with her in the convent, back in Kildare. Do you remember it? Ah, you do! And then you were hit by the car when you went down to the shops for the paper. You must remember all that? And then you won a hundred pounds with your lottery card? Ah, you must remember it, Dougal! [Dougal shakes his head]

Sister Assumpta: And weren't you accidentally arrested for shoplifting? I remember we had to go down to the police station to get you!... And the police station went on fire? And you had to be rescued by helicopter?

Father Ted: Do you remember? You can't remember any of that? The helicopter! When you fell out of the helicopter! Over the zoo! Do you remember the tigers? [Dougal shakes his head some more] You don't remember? You were wearing your blue jumper.

Father Dougal: Ah, Sister Assumpta!



Despite my extraordinary memory for actors, lines and plots, I fail to remember actual information about my own life so I have had numerous, marginally less surreal conversations with my Mum or my sister when they try to remind me of stuff that has happened in the past and I eventually link it to an insignificant detail. I think, like Dougal, I must spend an awful lot of time just staring into space.

Valentine's Day

For all that we can all be cynical about today as a day to celebrate - it's all about the card companies/chocolate manufacturers/florists, ya da ya da - the fact of the matter is that this is still a day to celebrate. You may choose not to dive in to the over-hyped side of it and just not buy anything in order not to give those pesky financially-minded bastards any of your well-earned cash. But, honestly, I kind of think that it's a good thing that there is a day on which we celebrate romantic love. We can mark it how we choose. But don't shout about it if you went to M&S for an "Eat in for £20", at least not if Kathryn knows where you live.

I'm marking it, currently, by sitting on the sofa in my PJs. I don't have anything particularly pressing to be doing (except getting in the shower but it's okay, Lorraine's out and the cats don't seem too offended so I'm good for the minute) so I took a moment to read a Guardian guide to Love and Relationships that my Mum gave me as a response to my last post about how I'm struggling to be pro-active in terms of love and such-like. I'm a bit embarrassed to say how brilliant it is. It also means that I'm considering therapy a little bit. I do have real problems with being too afraid to do anything for fear of embarrassment. For all that I really like myself, there are things in my life that I just can't do because I'm too scared to do them. And these are the things, love, a career, planning ahead, that I'm really going to have to face up to before I'm too old and I wonder where my life went.

I've thought about therapy before. It's been mentioned as a way to get me to address certain things that I can't deal with by myself. I don't have a stigma about it and actually really respect people for going to therapy. The reason I've avoided it is because I'm scared (that word again) to lose myself. So much of who I am is defined by these little idiosyncrasies and patches of crazy that if I were to sort them out, I wouldn't be me any more. Again, this goes back to what I was talking about before, that I think people only like me because they think I'm interesting and unusual and that if they find out that I'm just a very normal and boring person hiding behind a twitching mass of imperfections nobody will like me any more.

I'm marking St Valentine's Day today by making some resolutions. I know that there are things about me that I kind of want to make better before diving headlong into a relationship. But that doesn't mean that I should wait endlessly for me to make my life better before I even start to look. So, my plan is to just be more open to possibilities. And maybe engage that guy I like in a conversation about something other than photocopying and post-its.

Struggling

I've got my single head on again. I hate this. It's my frame of mind that weighs up single men that I meet and starts wondering whether they'll do, whether they're someone I could meet, have a connection with, be someone of potential interest. Despite logical head saying "you're not ready, it won't work", there's still a part of me that wants something. I think it's the part of me that really feels the loneliness. I set up a dating website profile again before Christmas. I deleted it after Christmas. I'm in constant war with myself.


It's difficult to explain. Part of it is being choosy, part of it is lack of confidence. I don't want just anyone. I don't think that anyone I would want would actually want me. My life has been full of crushes on people who were unattainable, not because they were actually unattainable but because I didn't feel I was good enough.


There's a man at work I actually quite like. He's cute, he's funny, he's interesting. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm an idiot. And there's also this whole thing whereby I am only a version of myself at work. I tend to separate myself - work me, home me, family me. I am different with different people, in different places. I think I do it not because I am interesting but to maintain the myth that I'm interesting. Then if people think I'm weird, or boring, or don't like me as much as they like other people then I can think to myself, "oh, it's okay, they don't know the real me".


So I hide. Especially at work. And I think of myself like a female Clark Kent, hiding my superself behind my glasses. I think of my talent like validation. It's okay that I'm socially awkward because I can sing. It's okay that I build walls between myself and other people because I can act.


But it isn't okay. Not in the long-term. My personality ends up compartmentalised to the point where I don't know where I begin and end any more. The reason I'm boring on dates is because I shut off all of the bits that I think will alienate people but those are probably the best bits of me. The part that feels the need to run because the wind picks up, the part that laughs too hard and too loud, the part that mimics the way other people talk and move (does anyone else obsessively try to copy Cheryl Cole when the L'Oreal advert comes on? I just can't get "worth" right), the part that is annoyingly curious and wants to ask questions all the time, the part that obsesses over crap TV, the part that wants to sit quietly and listen, the part that wants to argue for the sake of it, the part that starts crying when passionate about something even if it's just a moment of perfect contentment.


Over Christmas I spent a lot of time with my parents who never expect me to be anything other than myself. They are used to the whirlwinds and eddies of my temper and tolerate my sudden passions and enthusiasms with amusement and collusion. It was so restful to not have any walls up at all and, as I double-checked with my Mum on Sunday, they like me despite, and because of, my faults. It made me realise how much of the time I am guarded and hold myself back, not just on dates but in real life as well.


I don't really have a conclusion, which infuriates me as I have been writing this, on and off, for several days and I would prefer to have some sort of shape for the sake of tidiness. I guess I need a tidier mental life in order for that to happen.

Night Walk

I suffer from periodic restlessness. An itch in my feet. A need to follow the path until it leads back to my front door again. I try to curb it by walking as much as possible at acceptable times. This often works and I don’t stray too far. My own natural laziness contributes too – “don’t go”, it coos, “it’s warm here, play a game, watch a DVD, read a book” – and I find myself seduced into staying. But sometimes there is nothing I can do but grab my coat, pull on a stout pair of boots and stride into the wind.

Tonight, I had something to think about and needed space in which to think it. The confines of the flat were pressing in on me and I needed to get out. I hadn’t even realised it had started snowing. No sooner had I stepped outside than I was transported, forgetting what was brewing inside my stupid head. It was so beautiful. Feathers of snow were falling, gatherings of flakes. I walked for two hours, finally coming back when Re: Stacks had come around again for the third time, my hat was soaked through and my forehead was starting to ache. I had walked in a circular fashion, starting at an empty park and then arriving back at it after following some kids on their way to a snowball fight. The only time I refused to go the way I wanted to was at the gates of a graveyard, I stopped myself when a car turned down the road towards me. I just walked. I paused occasionally; under streetlights so I could watch the patterns in the air, to place my gloved hands in mounds of snow, not to break it up, just to get some sense of the feel of it, to distinguish the shapes beneath the snow and remember what they were before. I felt the hurry and annoyance of the people around me; wrapped-up people tired by the effort of walking home, car drivers agitated at being forced to go no faster than really slowly, passengers on the train urging it on and would-be passengers at the station urging it to stop. I didn’t have anywhere to be and I felt the luxury of being able to just enjoy it. Tomorrow it will be something else – maybe a threat, probably a hassle – but tonight it was special. I walked through it, part of it, vicariously experiencing the joy of someone else’s well-aimed snowball. I threw my arms out for balance as I teetered and laughed as I fell. I recognised my own, solitary, footsteps as I crossed my own path. I lay down in the park and made a snow angel.

As I returned home, I realised that my decision was made. I had turned my thoughts over and over as I walked, not knowing how to arrive at a conclusion or whether I even should. But at some point, between stepping off one bridge and arriving at another, my mind made itself up. I lose myself when I walk at night, only to return feeling like I'm filling my own outlines again.

Hackneyed Post About Resolutions

On the basis that it has been several weeks since I last posted, I feel that it is time to do another one. And because my brain has been temporarily stunted by the consumption of far too much food and drink I am choosing to post about New Year's resolutions. Bear with me (or not. I am certainly not forcing you to read this. I definitely do not have, say, a sniper's rifle aimed at the back of your head whilst I am observing your reading habits through the view thingie. Ignore that dot of red light, honest). Anyways, here we go:

1) Do more stuff. This looks a bit stupid when written down and it's difficult to explain as I haven't really thought about how to do this without money. I just want to go on more adventures and have experiences. I think the thing I regret about my twenties is that I was far too easily content not doing that much. I'm finding it easier as I get older to care less about comfort and I want to carry on doing stuff because it's fun or interesting. This is another positive thing about being single - I don't have to get someone's permission or argue for what I want or drag anyone along with me unwillingly.

2) Eat less cheese and run more. I've lost about two stone this year and am very, very happy with the amount of weight I've lost. I would really like to lose some more but hate dieting. Therefore, instead of instilling any kind of complicated diet regime I'm going to go back to eating what I like in moderation, listening to my body and trying to limit the amount of cheese I eat. I really bloody love cheese and it tends to be my shortcut when I'm tired and can't be bothered to cook. This is a bad thing. On the plus side, I found out how much I really like running this year and, as a result, would like to get better at it. I'm also planning to do more dancing, mainly because I'm scarily uncoordinated and it helps a little bit.

It is so weird being at the end of a decade, isn't it? I just had lunch with Kathryn and we were talking about the way our lives had changed in that time. My life has changed a lot and probably in small, indiscernible ways that I could never have predicted or even understood ten years ago. I spent so much time in my teens thinking about my future and trying to get some sense, through books and films, of what this future would be like. I thought I'd know how I would react to any number of things that I've been confronted with over the last ten years and it's never been the case. I am far less melodramatic and excitable in real life than I am inside my head. I am fairly sure that the books I've read would have been really dull had the heroine, after being cheated on five weeks before her wedding, coped with it primarily by sleeping a lot - the summer of 2007 is still something of a confusing, hazy blur in my memory. Interestingly, I spend almost no time at all thinking about the future beyond the next week or so now. It feels like a waste. There is absolutely no point in my thinking about it because I can't predict it. I've never been that bothered about fitting in and will not die unfulfilled without marriage or children or property to my name. Which is good because it means I won't waste my time searching for those things or settling for something less than I deserve in order to get them. I would prefer to be surprised than disappointed, I think.

So, there you go. My aim for the year is to do more stuff and my aim for the decade is to be surprised. Never let it be said that I set unrealistic goals for myself.

My Romantic Life

I don't know why I've decided to do a blog on this subject. Maybe it's because I've been thinking a lot about it lately. Maybe it's because I've been sleeping badly. Maybe it's because I am reaching 30 and am starting to worry.


When I think about the fact that I am nearly 30 - less than a week for the curious - it feels unreal. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that, my entire life, I've always been several years behind my peers. I remember feeling lost my whole time at secondary school. I just didn't get it: Couldn't keep up with jokes, music, fashion. My little group that I spent time with were similarly lost and we were bonded through our confusion and the fact that we were just out of step with everyone else. Boys were like another species. I didn't understand them and they certainly couldn't understand me. When I went to sixth form college, it became less of an issue to fit in and I discovered two things: That I could be myself and that that wasn't necessarily a bad thing to be. But still, boys. Couldn't talk to them and they didn't seem particularly interested in talking to me. And to be honest, that's the continuing pattern. Don't get me wrong, I don't not talk to half the population in the world. I can actually talk to my friends who are men. Male colleagues hold no fear for me. But I really struggle with the romantic thing. I don’t get approached by men when out. I did internet dating for a bit last year – had one guy bail pre-date, had a date with one guy who was very, very dull and had three dates with someone who I got on with but didn’t really fancy and who felt the same way about me. After that, I gave up on it because it was kind of soul-destroying. I’m not the most interesting version of me on dates. I hate small-talk with a fiery passion and, conversely, I’m overly eager to please so tend to try and keep conversations going and ask questions even though I’m bored. I want them to like me even when I’m not that bothered about them. This is ridiculous. And most of the time, I just want a script because the effort of knowing what to say is exhausting. I’m never more than a yogic stretch away from having my foot inserted into my mouth at the best of times.

The problem is that I am starting to feel the pangs of loneliness so know that at some stage I am going to have to get back into the game but, at the same time, really don’t want to. I lose so much of myself when I’m in a relationship. I’m so grateful that someone has chosen to be with me that I stop caring about what I need from a relationship, which is an entirely different matter from what I want. I’ve made some really bad choices out of some sort of need to fix something that’s broken. Coming out of the relationship, I realise that I haven’t actually fixed anything; I’ve just papered over the cracks. People do change but not if someone else is doing all the work for them.

I’ve been indulging my need for romance by reading chick-lit and watching romantic comedies. I still have Anna Karenina staring at me from my pile of unread books, raising an eyebrow at my embarrassing need for happy endings. I find chick-lit oddly fascinating, though, mainly because of how reassuring they are. The fact that you know that, despite the trials and tribulations of the heroine, she will get together with the man that, from the beginning, has practically had a big sign over his head saying “he’s perfect”. Then, on top of that, regardless of the story itself, you know from page one what’s going to happen. I have had to stop reading Isabel Wolff though. There’s knowing what’s going to happen and then there’s finding the heroine so dense that you’re nearly screaming at the book in frustration at her stupidity.

I get that it's unrealistic, though. That whole notion that I'm going to meet someone who will be charming and funny and JUST RIGHT seems like a load of bollocks. I've never had a meet-cute. An obvious point given that I've already mentioned that I don't get approached by random men while out in the world. I've never been asked for my number or had a non-sarcastic chat-up line, never been bought a drink by a stranger. I don't think it's got very much to do with attractiveness but I think it goes back to me being out of step. I have no idea how to give out signals or what sort of signals I'm sending. It's like when I tried horse-riding on a camping holiday in France. Every five minutes or so my horse would bound into a trot or a gallop and I had no idea what I'd done to make it do so. Evidently something about the way I was sitting was saying "run, for the love of God, run" but I have no idea what it was. The people leading the ride probably could have told me but we hadn't covered equestrianism in French. So yeah, I'm giving out the wrong signals but I have no idea what these are (probably still saying "run, for the love of God, run" just, you know, away as opposed to t'ward) and the instruction manual is one about horse-riding. In French.

But I seem to be surrounded by people who've got it right. Who sent the right signals, met, fell in love, stayed together. I don't know what they did or how they knew. I don't want to trust in luck or fate but I don't want to botch it either. But in terms of being pro-active, there's no-one at the moment that I would choose to pursue (famous people don't count but if it was feasible for me to pursue Jeffrey Dean Morgan then I would). And my whole unable-to-read-signals thing means that I would be terrified of approaching someone I don't know. I'm kind of stuck really. I guess I just have to be patient, which I'm good at. My romantic life stays where it is and where it probably should be for the time being.

Too Much Stuff

I don't know, things actually happen to me and I struggle to write about them. When there's nothing going on I obviously have more time for meditative thoughts about such important things as ANTM and my hair. Exciting things that have happened to me recently:

The Fake Aunts visited a folk club which was a little slice of heaven. Really clever and talented people singing and playing instruments, some of which I have no idea what they were even called. When we weren't singing ourselves, we were given freedom to join in and every so often I will have a happy memory of staring at the carpet and trying to work out a harmony. One of our songs, a Kate Rusby cover, was just a joy to sing as everyone started picking up their instruments and joined in, with one guy on a penny whistle improvising a hornpipe over the top. Lovely loveliness.

I won an award. Yes, people, you are reading the blog of The Portsmouth News Guide Award Best Amateur Actress Runner-Up. Okay, so I'm not the best but I'm pretty close and I have an actual physical object stating this with my name on it. I also looked good. This is still something of a surprise to me.

My Dad had to go to hospital. This was not nice. As I said to him and Mum when Big Sis and I popped in to see them in QA last Wednesday "seriously, can we get through a year where one of you isn't hospitalised, please?" This meant that he missed the first week of "What The Butler Saw", which was upsetting for him and terrifying for the rest of the cast, especially for Zombie as director who had to step in. Dad's started back in there now so I'll be watching it on Saturday.

I have done a lot of baking. I had a moment on Thursday last week where I didn't even know who I was any more and started thinking I was Big Sis. Then I thought something mean and remembered who I was. Having said that, she's been swearing a lot lately. My favourite is when she's driving and the lights change to amber as we're going through and she goes "shit shit shit shit". Cracks me up every time.

More Fake Aunts News: We recorded a song and now have a MySpace page and a facebook Fans page. This is all done by Mrs DA really as I could never be called the driving force for anything. Good for her but I get a little bit freaked out by it sometimes. People are listening to my songs, you say. Hmm. This is perturbing.

I have taken to listening to Radio 6 even when Adam and Joe aren't on there. It's ideal for sewing along to and it helps me feel like less of a musical retard. Everytime something comes up that I like, I make a note of it and then look it up. When this happens every five minutes, my potential iTunes bill starts looking rather expensive.

So yes, it's been a busy week (obviously, I have barely skimmed the surface of my activities. I also turned into a werewolf, ate Chinese takeaway and met the man of my dreams (well, the last one is clearly fictional. That dude don't exist. I am a picky be-yotch) so I've really been cramming it in, timewise).

Scattered

I'm somewhat unfocussed. I think it's fair to say that this is a pretty accurate description of me throughout all of my life. I read instructions but only of short-term stuff, stuff that can be done quickly and filed away. Like flat-pack furniture. Which I both enjoy assembling and am reasonably good at. I should advertise this ability for the people, like Mrs DA, who loathe assembling flatpack furniture with a fiery passion and for whom I can provide a service. I'm helping! However, I have a whole heap of paperwork for things that are actually quite flipping important that I never read. Ever. This is stuff like my pension, insurance (life and pet), savings, loans etc etc. And it contains a whole heap of stuff that is probably either costing or at least potentially saving me money that I never bother with. I never do research on anything, I just go with the easiest option. I'm very much of the opinion that life is short. Way, way too short for me to go through life in a sensible manner. I think of myself as a spontaneous girl and being a spontaneous girl is, in many ways, a good thing. I'm quite a lot more relaxed than people who are organised and plan things. Any stress that I have is short-lived and essentially goes like this: argh, stuff to do, very little time to do it, get it done, end of argh. But as I am reaching a milestone birthday, should I start planning for stuff a little bit more? And it occasionally worries me that my lack of focus, if allowed to continue, will lead to idiocy and poverty in the future. Well, idiocy is something of a given anyway (I always, always want to say gibbon but worry that people will think I don't get it if I do. Promise that if I ever slip and say gibbon instead of given you will be amused at my whimsy rather than correct me). But then I forget about it because not worrying is so much more fun than worrying.

Also, when I have reached 30, is it weird if I still think of myself as a girl? Should I change the language with which I refer to myself? I still feel like a girl. I strongly suspect that I will still feel like a girl for a long time yet, probably my whole life. I get a bit of a jolt when other people refer to me as a lady, like ""Small Child", watch out for the lady" rather than Lady Alice, although that would be all kinds of awesome. I like my name better when it's preceded by a title. Note to self; marry a Lord. Actually, is it possible to get knighted to be a Lady so that marriage is unnecessary or can you only ever be a Dame? Because being made a Dame is rubbish. I think of pantomimes and South Pacific and old ladies when I think of Dames - none of these are good. So peerage and knighting experts, help me out: How do I officially become a Lady?. But how do other people refer to themselves in their head? Like my Mum, do you think of yourself as a woman, a lady or a girl? It's funny, isn't it, does anyone else have these thoughts?

I kind of need a focus though. It helps having The Fake Aunts to think about - I sat down and wrote the lyrics for two more songs last Tuesday and as I was falling asleep the other night had a great idea for a song and had to switch the light on and scribble it before I forgot it. I haven't worked on it any more so it's still an eccentrically written four or five lines but it's a start. I'm also planning to do a bit more sewing as I haven't done it for a while - I do like making things even if I approach it, as I do everything, with more enthusiasm than skill. But what I need and want is the remarkable sort of tunnel vision that I only ever get when doing a play. I am so jealous of the actors in the current Bench show - they get to turn up and rehearse for hours and then go home exhausted and not have any time for anything else except learning lines and work and sleep. It's the only sort of focus I can cope with - short-term and all-encompassing. Heaven.

The Fake Aunts

Despite heads full of mucus and general cold- and swine flu-related malaise, The Fake Aunts performed for their first professional gig last night. And oh, but that it was fun. We rushed down to Southsea thinking ourselves late at about 7.30 only to be met by a very relaxed Bob who wasn't entirely sure when he'd asked us to start (it was 8.30) and then asked if we wouldn't mind waiting until the end of the readings to do our first set (so, looking at 9.30 at this point) and then we'd go pretty much straight through into our next one. So we sat around in Rosie's for a couple of hours trying to warm up with a background of quite random jazz. I tried to run through one song but ended up matching the beat and key of the song playing from the speaker behind me, it's all good and well having an ear for those things but it got a bit silly. Even though it was a very long wait (at about twenty to ten we were starting to get a bit frantic as with the whole illness thing, this was basically eating into our bedtime. Bedtime!) I did have a good time. Jaaams is down from Liverpool and was there as moral support and watching him and Mrs DA together is very entertaining. He ordered a bottle of wine to himself, and we watched him have his dinner, while nicking mange touts from his plate, I was very virtuous and drank tea and room temperature water, the latter request got a huge amount of scorn from Mrs DA who was on Diet Coke and ice but I'd spent hours drinking warm drinks and as good as the Diet Coke looked, it wasn't going to help me very much.
We eventually went in to the Writers' Workshop that we were playing for. Part of me would have liked to have listened to the stories being told but I would have struggled to concentrate, I think. They seemed quite keen to have us back though so, next time. But we ran through our set list and the response was really pleasantly positive. It was odd singing but not sounding like myself and I did struggle at points, although I like to kid myself that that adds character. The thing that really made me extremely happy was the overwhelming response to the song that we wrote. Originally called the Magic Song on the basis that we actually made it from scratch ourselves, we decided that we had to give it an actual name otherwise we'd keep writing songs and they would all be Magic Songs and it would get a bit confusing, it's called What We've Not Got. Dude, even the title got an appreciative giggle and we got, like, an actual laugh on "I'm stupid, I'm silly, I'm possibly mad", which means that writers are obviously our perfect audience. Then, after we'd finished our second set, we were asked for an encore and they requested that we do that song again. Then a group of guys who'd been quite vocal throughout, Jaaams had even heard them commenting on goosebumps, yay, came up to us at the end, two of them even volunteering to play with us if we had need of a bassist and drummer and the overwhelming opinion is that we're good when we play other people's songs but we're really good when we play our own. I just keep having little happy moments when I think of it. We wrote a song and people really like it! Anyway, the journey home was me snuggled up in Big Sis's scarf and a feeling of achievement in Mrs DA's car while she and Jaaams belted out showtunes and I just giggled and occasionally joined in. Better get writing me some more lyrics.

Little Bits of Random

Well, this is a turn up for the books, isn't it? Two posts in a week; it's like when I first started blogging and the whole world was just a series of events to encapsulate in an anonymous anecdotal form. Now I'm old and jaded and much less interesting - sad state of affairs, aint it?

I have been noticing a trend in myself recently, namely that I tend to use social network-y type sites to indulge the part of me that, when drunk, bored or hyper, wants to poke other people and jump up and down while shrieking "entertain me, entertain me!" I think this is slightly more bearable in written form so when I feel this mood strike, will turn to the t'interweb. Yesterday, I ate two cupcakes (there was a cake sale for the impoverished students and I'm having an off-week, and, hey, I don't need to justify myself to you) and drank too much Diet Coke and was essentially pinging off the walls. My colleagues had begun to bore me, even my game of gurning at Jan had started to wear thin, and they were all in the post-3pm zombie stage of the day. Dull, dull, dull. No-one was on facebook and then *ping* I remembered Mrs DA's recommendation of Omegle.com, a very random chat-site where you have an anonymous conversation with anyone from around the globe. After a couple of non-starters: the phrase "I'm feeling horny" leads to an immediate disconnect from me and, bearing in mind that I have the attention span of a gnat, I don't care to have conversations entirely in initials and acronyms. I eventually lucked upon someone who let me ramble on and here's my conversation for your delectation:

Stranger: hey hey ;)
You: Hello
Stranger: how are you?
You: I'm extremely hyper, you?
Stranger: great to hear that =D well, soso... but the holidays are about to start, so that's a good thing. right? ^^where are you from?
You: Somewhere where holidays don't exist, tragic but true.
Stranger: rly? where would that be? oO
You: The land of No Money and Busy Work. Believe me, you do NOT want to go there
Stranger: so no holidays? not even for students?
You: Oh, well, other people may be able to go on holiday but I can't. It's a principality of one but I'm feeling very bitter about it currently
Stranger: seems understandable... and I thought the situation in my country was bad, just after those recent elections... but that sounds even worse oO
You: Go on then, where are you from?
Stranger: Oh, I think with "recent elections", that should be quite guessable ;) germany, actually
You: Guessable for people who actually read/watch the news. I'm a really well-educated moron essentially
Stranger: haha ^^ touché ;) I'm not too thrilled, though. I've got to work during my holidays, to be able to afford the gasoline for my car ^^
You: So are you a student? And what work do you have to do?
Stranger: Yes, I'm in the senior year. So basically the last year of school. The 13th. Don't know the school system in your country of no money and busy work ;) I deliver pizzas ^^ It's not as bad as it sounds. It's basically gaining money for driving around in a smart car
You: Oh okay, so that'd make you, what, 18? And are you about to go to University, which would start when? And I would totally do that job, especially if it involved free pizza (it does, right?)
You: And in my land, school is a distant, distant memory. Like the dinosaurs
Stranger: it includes 50% off pizzas ;) yeah, I'm 18... I'm going to have a one-year-brake after school, actually. Don't have to do any military or social service, so that's quite reasonable ^^ mmmmh... sounds like you're older than 18?
You: Oh cool, will the one-year-off be purely spent delivering pizzas and saving or will you be travelling to interesting places or something? Yep, I'm oooold - nearly 30, for frick's sake. I'm freaking out a little bit.
Stranger: I'm planning on going to Japan for 6 months =D Well, it's not THAT old, you know? It's 10 years from now for me >_>
You: Japan, nice! Are you going to tour or do you have some kind of placement or something? I know it isn't that old but get in touch when you're my age now and tell me you're not completely freaked out as well.
Stranger: I actually have some contacts in japan, after I've been working in the video game industry for 2 years now ;) and how would I get in touch then? Let's say we logon to omegle on 10/08/2019 again ;)
You: Ma ha ha, sounds like a plan. I have to go now as I have a car waiting for me (not glamorous, really), good luck in Japan and I'll talk to you in ten years, yeah?
Stranger: alright, see you in ten years ;) thanks for the nice chat =D

I woke myself up by shouting "run!" in the middle of the night, last night. I tend to have very epic dreams with insane storylines and I was shouting at someone to run away from me because I knew that if they touched me they would die. Exciting stuff, this was preceded by the destruction of an evil nunnery by the head of a statue of a horse - it was a really big statue but I think it would have had to have, like, some kind of guided-missile-type properties in order to kill everyone there.

I'm currently making a list called Little Bits of Random. It's filled with one-line images, really. It's sort of like going back to my University days when I did little performances like wobbling an orange pencil, sitting on the banks of the canal making paper and interviewing passersby, or being wrapped up in brown paper and getting drawn on. I really liked doing that sort of thing and it would be nice to do it now where it doesn't necessarily have to be contextualised or annotated unless I want to do it. I like making odd little impacts on other people - we did the Ghost Walks last week and, for me, the best bit is crossing paths with people who have no idea what's going on. I think it's got to do with my obsession for there to be something going on beneath the surface of the obvious world that we know and understand and I like the idea that you can make that happen for other people. The one I really want to try is someone riding around on buses with an invisible friend. I'd love to see that.

Making Ends Meet

Or not, as in my case. Why is it such a struggle to get to a point where I am financially comfortable? Every month I look at my bank balance and see the stuff that I owe reducing but it's all so damn slow. And until that's paid back fully, I can't leave or move on. Well, I could, if it was to something better paid but I seem to be getting less and less good at thinking about my strengths and applying them properly to a job search. You wouldn't believe the amount of stuff I've convinced myself out of over the years. Believe me, it's been a lot of stuff. For someone who's reasonably self-confident in several areas of her life, it's quite difficult to believe how much confidence I lack in my abilities as a proper working person. Part of that's because I know how lazy I am and how many mistakes I can make. I worry so much when I think of the idiotic things that I have done over the years and I watch medical dramas with the knowledge that I could never do that job - think of the number of people I'd kill as a doctor. Terrifying. I just want to not have to work - I'd like to win the lottery and never have to work ever again. I don't think I'm any good at the whole working thing. So if anyone out there is able to make any impact on that, please think of me. The dude with the big glowy finger, yes, you there, it IS me. None of this "could be" rubbish (she says, referencing an advert that hasn't been on TV for years). I doubt I'm any more deserving than any one else and, to be honest, I probably would help myself out more than other people (do I have to reiterate that I'm not actually very nice?) but I would aim to boost the economy a little bit. But mainly, I am just so sick of getting to this point every single month and having to work out that I can't afford, well, anything beyond food for me and the cats (who have put on weight, which means I have to feed them less, which is a money-saver). It gets incredibly dull. I start dreaming of all of the things I will do next month when I get paid, they're not excessive dreams: I have managed to walk in my beloved grey boots so much that I have worn out the sole. I am debating whether to get them resoled or buy a new pair as it'd be about the same price. Indulgent foods from Waitrose - chocolate tart, mac and cheese, salami, Diet Coke (which I am so addicted to. Last month I had to stop buying it and spent the rest of the month suffering serious withdrawal. Even when I'd got over the actual pain of withdrawal, I had to deal with the things that made me start doing the caffeine thing in the first place- ie lack of concentration and extreme drowsiness. There's a nice quote in the remake of Freaky Friday (mother-daughter body-swap comedy. I understand that I'm one of the only people in the world who can recite embarrasing teenage girl-oriented films practically verbatim) where Jamie Lee Curtis has an epiphany: "oh, so that's why I've been craving caffeine all day. I thought I was dying" (while I'm on this film, I do think that the fact that Jamie Lee Curtis is happy to scream at her unmade-up face in the mirror and say "Ugh, I'm like the Cryptkeeper" is completely awesome - reasons to love Jamie Lee Curtis #3). I am now back on Diet Coke and loving it but know that I'll have to give it up again soon. I know it's bad for me, I know, I know. But it is the most glorious substance in the world as well, sigh. And the advertising is actually directed at me. I laugh every time I see the advert and The Meanie at work told me that the bride reminded her of me, which I found quite flattering). I have stomped over continuity in this post with that little section, haven't I? Returning to the point - the other thing I have to do with my tiny store of money left over from my pre-established outgoings is to put some money aside so I can dye my hair again in December. I know, right - dream big.

Milestone

I had a bit of a bad week last week diet-wise. I kept craving chocolate and the bit of my brain that has been saying "no. Do you need it or do you just want it? Hmm? Think about it, kitten" was clamouring with the rest of my brain for some chocolatey goodness. So I was fretting a bit that I've been piling it on and had put off weighing myself. This week is my attempt to get back into good habits, in theory, although despite running in my lunch hour on Monday, Big Sis and I spent the evening swathed in blankets, munching chocolate cakes and watching very skinny women on two, count 'em two, modelling reality TV shows. Living, how I love thee. I'm actually starting to wonder whether Make Me A Supermodel is actually better than ANTM - possibly because Tyra is so now so insane that ANTM has become one of the oddest viewing experiences. The audition process for series 12 took place in Las Vegas (there was some pre-credit nutty justification that 12 flipped is 21 which meant gambling which meant Las Vegas. Of course, Tyra, of course, carry on, you mentalist) at Caesar's Palace and there was a whole Goddess-themed thing going on. It was so ridiculous - the trainee goddesses walking on clouds while in the background, t-shirted and sunburnt tourists looked on, Tyra making her entrance with a load of centurions as the Goddess of Fierce - she is officially delusional now. Bless her. Even the Jays are starting to look a combination of resigned/scared for their lives.

When these men are nervous of excess, the Apocalypse is probably looming.

Anyway, back to me. I decided to weigh myself this morning despite recent chocolate cake consumption and have broken a significant barrier. I've plateaued around the same point for about a month or so, which I blame on the steady number of barbecues and such that have taken place over the summer. Apparently my willpower is reduced significantly when presented with sausages in buns and cupcake on tap. Anyway, the other stone that I'm planning to lose before I reassess the situation again feels attainable. There's a weight that I have to get to for my height and that's what I'm aiming for but as I'm losing weight from the good places (boobs, seriously, I think I've gone down a cup size, which is incredibly irritating as new bras are expensive and, dammit, I have other places where I would prefer to lose weight from first, y'know?) I don't want to end up disproportionate. I'm quite disproportionate enough as it is, I've got kind of a tapered shape - broad shoulders and chest and then tiny hips. When I was getting fitted for my wedding dress, the ladies who measured me said that my chest and waist were a perfect size 18 but my hips were a size 14. Which is quite a significant difference. And another reason for not having babies - thems is not child-bearing hips. So yeah, I kind of have to see what shape I get to as I progress and whether I like it. The main reason I'm doing this is because of the extended clothing opportunities it provides (health? Like I care about health - pah!) so if I don't like how my final shape looks in clothes, I have to do something about it again.

And I finally watched Michael McIntyre last night, instead of learning lines which is what I should have been doing, I'm so naughty at the moment. Although Mrs DA would insist that that is what I should have been doing. He is very funny and I like him but actually do feel excluded by some of his humour in a weird sort of way. He does an extended bit about a Man Drawer, which is filled with useless things like ex-currency coins, batteries of uncertain life, keys from old houses, electrical leads with no obvious function and instruction manuals for things that you don't even own any more. All of which I have. Not in one place admittedly, but I know exactly where these things are in my flat. I'm also no stranger to lofts. I know it's silly but every time I hear humour about typical man things and typical woman things, I get a little riled. I can't help it. I think it's because all of that humour is based around specifics of other people but is presented as generalities so where I'd laugh at it as a specific tale of "this is my life" I get annoyed by it as "this is everyone's life". Because, in that scenario, I'm a boy. And I want to be a girl. Just a mildly unconventional one who likes the things that boys like and has her own collection of keys.

Bullied

Woe is me, kids. Mrs Drunken Accomplice is a bully. She totally keeps having a go at me for not posting enough and several other things as well. She interrogates me with direct eye contact - "have you done ... yet?" Inevitably the answer is no, at which point she continues to stare in a slightly frostier way before she flings her eyes heavenward and says something scathing about how rubbish I am. Of course, she normally hasn't done something as well so will chime in with an example of her own rubbishness. Then we get drunk to the point of stupidness, have very long discussions about extremely important things that neither of us remember the next day, although we're sure that it involved monogamy at our get-together last night, before I stagger home. Last night this was literally the case. Anybody following me would have had cause for much mirth as I really must have looked odd. I was listening to the iPod and singing along, which I do anyway to be honest, but at one point decided to check that I wasn't being followed, turned around then swayed like the drunk fool I am and nearly fell. I also decided to run for parts of the way home and, due to recent weight loss, had to keep clutching the waistband of my jeans to keep them from falling down. Good times, good times. But yes, recently I have been sent to the doctor, been forced to watch Michael McIntyre (which I haven't done yet, ssh, she'll banish me), I have to carry a capo with me at all times, contact various people, organise my 30th birthday party and post on my blog. With Big Sis as my diary and Mrs DA as my to-do list, I don't have to organise myself at all, which is probably a good thing. She's right, I am rubbish.

The Blue Room happened and was much fun. It was extremely exciting getting to work with entirely new people in a different theatre. I found both the play and the approach challenging but fun. It was quite an intense process with precious little rehearsal time and space and I didn't actually meet everybody until five days before the performance, at which point I realised that I wasn't the only one quaking in fear. I've never seen a group of actors so thoroughly cowed as we all were at the beginning of that rehearsal. The actual day was surprisingly chilled, for me at least. I was in a maelstrom of panic in the morning until the point at which I reached the theatre and got myself set up. From then on I was probably the most calm - years of doing Dude, Where's My Script having taught me what real terror is. We had a day of extremely hard work - a walk-through of the changes between scenes, then a run through and then a dress rehearsal. We finished the dress rehearsal with 51 minutes before the show itself started and that was the point when the nerves hit. A horrible, endless, not-quite hour of make-up touch-ups, mirror checks, toilet visits (I introduced the new company to the term "Theatre Bum", which is the most typical effect of nerves on digestive system. It generally disappears once stepping onstage but I do live in fear that it will manifest as a a noisy fart during a play - hasn't happened yet, touch wood), pacing and jigging. One particularly surreal moment had all four ladies not presently onstage (The Girl had the unenviable task of going onstage 15 minutes before everyone else and getting into a fake bed while clad only in bra and knickers) dancing and giggling in order to try and control the little fits of energy from excessive adrenalin. Anyone who saw the grace and poise of The Actress in her scenes would have been tickled by the vision of her bouncing in the green room to imaginary music. The performance itself went well, I think. I had a bit of a fright in my first pass across the stage when I wobbled coming down the steps and then again just walking. On flat shoes. On a flat surface. There's me trying to be all elegant. Fail. Anyway, I had the first scene to regain my composure and then was flung into my scenes, which passed by incredibly quickly. I did worry about both my French accent and the fact that my second scene primarily consisted of my walking seductively from side-to-side of this quite long stage. No more wobbles, although the chairs upon which I was "doing it" with The Student threatened to fall as they had in the first runthough. I was so relieved when we got up from them without incident. And Big Sis and Big Blue paid me the huge compliment that I seemed to glide in my scene. I'd spent quite a lot of time walking a longer way home to practise my walk and had even set up a mirror in the living room for a couple of hours to observe my feet and leg position while walking and standing so felt that the work was repaid. The only annoying thing is that my standing position is affected by the fact that I lose my balance so easily when nervous and had to take a less attractive but steadier position when onstage to counteract the fact that I wobble so much. But I loved the challenges of the show - watching everyone else's scenes while remaining onstage (and boy, were those chairs uncomfortable), moving props and furniture while retaining the mood of the piece and having to walk around the entire stage to sing during the Actress and Playwright's scene, my favourite as it was by far the funniest and the actors had, being rather underdressed, decided to fight for the duvet and ended up making themselves corpse. Fortunately, we had been told that we could react while watching so I didn't feel too guilty about giggling along. But, all in all, a very rewarding experience. I'm really hoping to work with them again as I enjoyed it so much and will pester as much as I can bear to - one of the main reasons I could never do this acting thing professionally is my unwillingness to be a pain.

But, yeah... so... monkeys! I started writing that and it looked a little bit Eddie Izzard so I pushed it that extra way by adding monkeys. Because there is no mood that cannot be lifted by the simple adding of a monkey - either real or imaginary. I want a monkey. Anyway, I'm off to be cultural tonight and support Big Sis in her theatrical endeavours this evening, which should be fun. Apparently she gets beaten up so maybe I should try and save her like the little boy in Parenthood - "They're hurting my sister!" ("he's ruining the play, he's ruining the whole play!")

Phenomenal Woman

When I was a quiet girl at sixth form college, I found this poem during the course of my A Level English Literature classes. As someone who did not like the way she looked and had no experience with boys to speak of, it gave me something to aspire to. Not beauty but a complete confidence in yourself. Every so often in the intervening years, particularly when girding my loins and about to go into battle, I would recite "I'm a woman phenomenally" to myself and get a small amount of extra strength. Now, having stumbled across it again, I felt like I wanted to share it, which may well be some kind of copyright infringement but meh, there aren't that many of you who read this blog so just, shhh, okay? Anyway, I feel oddly proud thinking of myself then and now and how I've changed. And I think that, at least sometimes, I fulfil the promise of my aspirations. So, for everybody else who doesn't fit, or who needs a bit of extra strength on bad days or who needs something to aspire to, this is Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou:

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to fit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me,
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

And On To The Next Big Push

So Nightmarish Responsibility No. 2 is now extremely imminent. It would be much less nightmarish had I been a bit more prepared but this is the real world and I don't do prepared. I barely manage to get up and get showered and dressed in the morning so it is unsurprising that I struggle a bit with anything that requires more organisation than just getting out the door every day. I feel bad that my lack of organisation impacts on other people but I have been part of a team from the very beginning so it isn't all my fault. I've just come out from my work appraisal where the recurring theme was "seriously, stop beating yourself up about stuff" which is a reflection of the fact that I really do know how to pile guilt on. Anyway, I've got a free evening tonight, during which I have nothing to except mend my costume from a play I was in 8 years ago (sounds like a stupid thing to do but we're doing an extract, innit), run through one set of lines, pile another set of lines (plus dubious French accent) on top of that in my brain, make an actual list as if I were an organised person, make a few phone calls meaning that me and Big Blue may well be in competition for the phone this evening for different bits of the same event, do a load of washing, make sure that I know exactly what is going on, where and when, and watch Dollhouse. Well, it's not like the latter is really contributing anything but I really, really want to watch it. Dammit.

Anyway, the dodgy French bit, which has nothing to do with Nightmarish Responsibility No. 2, is necessary because it's the bit that starts immediately after that one finishes. I'm in the unusual position of having a first rehearsal for something where I have to turn up with all of my lines learned and not really knowing the other people involved apart from having seen them on stage a few times. I guess it's like being an actual professional-type person. I wouldn't mind the line-learning thing but I quite like to hide behind the script for the first few rehearsals just to disguise the fact that I'm really terrified. I'm finding this particularly daunting because I'd like to make a good impression in order to be able to work with them again. I'd also like to be good out of sheer stubborn pride. I'm also scared because it's really tricky stuff to do with people you don't know very well - lots of physical contact - snogging and caressing and stuff. I'm expecting to be blushing for the whole rehearsal. However, I just read an interview with Michael Sheen for an Orange promotion, which I'll get back to after I have a mini-rant about due it being extraordinarily badly edited and proofread. I don't mind interviews that sound as though the interviewee is genuinely talking normally - it's quite charming. But, there's a way to do it that doesn't make the person who's typing it look like a moron. If he mentions Stephen Frears, maybe, just maybe, remember that it's spelt Stephen and make sure that you don't switch backwards from a ph to a v back to a ph. And, the biggest issue for me - this is a promotion. You are paying an actor to take part. You want to promote the actor and yourself. You know what makes you look really, really stupid? Referring to Michael Sheen as Martin in your promotional material. Twats. Deep breath, and continue. He said the following:

M: There is one other person I would like to talk about... which is the Director Declan Donnellan, who runs a theatre company called Cheek By Jowl. He had a huge effect on me as well. A lot of what I learnt about acting, I learnt from him, the stuff that I use all the time...
I remember him describing acting as being essentially "a really frightening experience," which is why everyone says, “I don’t know how you can be an actor”. A lot of what actors do is try to make themselves feel more comfortable and Declan always said, “don’t do it. Don't try and make yourself more comfortable. That's a mistake and all bad acting is based on trying to make yourself more comfortable in a frightening experience, during a frightening situation, and you have to do what you can to stop that. To allow it to be frightening and allow it to make you feel anxious and vulnerable and exposed. And that had a huge effect on me. If there was one note that anyone had ever given me in my life in terms of acting, that would be it. Don't base what you do in your work, or how you live your life, on trying to pretend that you're not frightened. Life is fairly frightening and the more you try to pretend that it's not, the more you start living an inauthentic life, and you become a more dishonest actor and dishonest storyteller... You can't connect to any emotion as an actor authentically if you can't connect to what you’re actually feeling at the moment. How can you pretend to be feeling what a character’s feeling if you're not acknowledging the essential truth of the moment, which is that you're doing something that's quite frightening?

My Window

One of the reasons I chose my room in the flat is because of the amazing window. Big Blue may well have the nicest looking room with masses of space and three wardrobes (albeit three wardrobes blighted with damp) but mine has a whacking great window and this possesses sufficient space for a seated human and several other bits and pieces. I have recently, pretty much since the summer started and the damp has been less persistent, taken to sitting in my window for extended periods. I sit on pillows, cushions, blankets, often with a glass of wine to hand, my iPod plugged in and sit for hours in my own little bubble. I cracked the lighting design there, I've written masses of stream of consciousness stuff (which I would be beyond embarrassed if anyone but me read) and I've made up playlists and learnt lines. Stevie has taken to joining me and the two of us have sat and watched our neighbours walk their dogs past our little vantage point, often doing double-takes when they see us. Stevie has at several points got distracted by her own reflection in the window as it gets darker outside and meows at herself and then at me in confusion. Last night, Big Blue came and sat on my bed with Meatball, who has a tendency to sit outside the room and complain if left to her own devices, and we chatted, in a post-party dissection type way. We'd spent the afternoon getting rained on at the Annual Bench BBQ, which normally stays rain-free - a bit disappointing - but we still got in several rounds of Novelty Flying Disc (I'm frowning at the word disc now, should it be disk? No, surely it's the right sort of disc? Disk? Disc? That has now lost all meaning to me. Carry on), which is officially a tradition of the party. It normally consists of incredibly bad aim courtesy of me and Big Sis, a lot of shouting, the loss and eventual rescue of discs in trees and at least one slapstick moment so funny that it stops play. Last year it was Penfold falling in wonderful, balletic slow motion over a bench. Yesterday, it was the moment when Finchy loosed the disc with great power between two players, who both missed it and which ended up felling the beautiful Jaspar who was in the middle of hosting. With great aplomb, he cried "ah, my last will and testicles", and a garden full of disc players were lost. I spent the evening downing water to re-hydrate myself, on the windowsill singing along to Aimee Mann and feeling deeply, deeply content.

Oh, yes...

And as a refreshing change from what is becoming an almost entirely head-clearing-out blog, this is me scamming money. I am doing the Race for Life again this year and would really appreciate donations from you lovely and generous people. Please visit my justgiving page here to give money to a really important cause.

Thank you, you're lovely!