Busy Little Bee

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

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

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

Which is rather full of princesses

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




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




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

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

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



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



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



I am a motherfucking princess.

Having a fire relit that you thought to be out

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

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

Running

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two Posts!?!

Hello world! Here she is; blinking and emerging into the light after a sustained period of hibernation. Good.God. Two posts in the whole of 2011. What is that about? I would have to blame it on a general lack of inclination to write about myself. I've only written about 20 or so statuses on facebook. My phone broke two months ago and I've only just got round to replacing it. Don't physically have it yet though...

It's been a bit tricky to dredge up any enthusiasm for my formerly favourite subject (i.e. ME). I don't really know why that is.

It's been a funny old year. I really found it difficult to have or maintain any sort of emotional equilibrium. I've been up and down like a yo-yo, feeling much and understanding very little. Which is quite unpleasant when you're a bit of a control freak like me.

I mainly kept busy. And other people helpfully gave me a lot of opportunities to do so. This year I have done an awful lot of acting with more groups of people than I would normally do. After a fairly full seven months (on average, a show a month, not including Instant SOOP or the fact that we did several flits around the South of England touring), I took August off.

I sort of wish I hadn't as it was the time of year that I found hardest in terms of the aforementioned equilibrium. I spent several days where I just became a panicky weepy mess. Exhausted and too scared to ask for help. And, in all honesty, unsure of whom to ask. I realised a lot of things about myself. That I am unbendingly stiff and proud in ways that are really detrimental to my general wellbeing. That I am scared to let people in but that when I do I become altogether far too dependent on them. That I am too quick to make judgements or to be negative, and that I really need to question why I do this when I do. In all honesty, it was quite a brutal learning curve.

I've been trying to adjust my own behaviour. It's really tough. It's also not very nice admitting that things are your fault and that, in some ways, you are kind of a shitty person. I mean, it's not like I'm evil or anything but some of the things I do are a bit shit. I think that can be said of anyone and I doubt I will ever be perfect, and how boring it would be if I was, but it is just hard to admit fault with stuff. It is also hard to realise that some of that stuff is unfixable. I say sorry almost compulsively but sometimes it's just a plaster over a seismic crack, isn't it?

Anyway, this particularly fun episode also taught me that I really needed to take it a bit easier for the rest of the year, which I have. Far fewer Sundays spent all day at rehearsal, for a start. It was mentioned at my actual job that I seemed to come in to have a rest, which was a comment that I balked at on first hearing it but with hindsight realised was fairly accurate. I've managed to get much better at balance since and I am hugely grateful for how lenient people at work have been.

I am still single. Shocker, right? I mean, it's all gone so well for me so far, how am I still single? It's a mystery for the ages. Well, I've got better at knowing what I'm doing wrong and I have at least "put myself out there" as a phrase that I promise to not use again goes. Again, introspection has helped me realise that I do have some unwieldy baggage. Oh, do I. Someone that I went on a date with at the beginning of June is now engaged (we're friends on facebook - he's a very nice man) and it is quite sobering to realise that this does happen. People meet, fall in love, make a life together. In another universe that could be me. So I guess I need to find a way to not predict the end of something before it's begun. And not start things that I know won't go anywhere.

New years are funny things. They're the time when we take stock, try to work out who we are and what we need to do to become more like the person we want to be. This may not last very long but I do think it's necessary. Therefore:

1) Lose weight. I've done so well in that I lost two stone two years ago and have not gained any of it back. That said, I've also been planning to lose more since. I need to get that done. And I'm looking forward to it in a funny sort of way. It's a mark of getting older that I actually enjoy not eating junk food and exercising regularly.

2) Be better. Never stop being myself but just try and reinforce those things that I've learnt. I'm allowed to be imperfect but I should try and stop sabotaging myself. That's just idiotic.

3) Do exciting things. I need to get better at organising things for myself. I've been given a bit of financial freedom and I should take advantage of that. I need to see a bit more of the world, take some risks. Learn how to ride a horse. Oh no! I've been specific. Now I have to do it.

4) Tidy up after myself. I've had a few days to sort things out and the worst thing is that everything I do seems to lead me to a huge pile of things to tidy and an almost unending supply of new things to sort. I need to try to keep on top of things a bit better.

5) Don't freak out about change. There is the potential for a great deal of things to change, welcome and unwelcome. I need to embrace it all equally and roll with it. Given that I am actually fairly good at rolling with the punches, if I do just calm down a bit it would make the whole process far easier.

6) Blog more often. I'm aiming for once a week. I don't know what it'll be like. Hopefully honest. Possibly funny, although I think that it's a bit embarrassing if I try too hard. And it doesn't really matter, I suppose. It is entirely up to you if you choose to read this. But writing it seems, for me, like a really good idea.

Go on then, 2012. Bring it on.

In the Land of Ingary...

Sitting at my desk this morning at work, I found myself with the rather overwhelming need to sob. Not really sure how to handle it other than bursting into tears in the office, I went to my boss and confessed all: How this was incredibly silly and stemmed mainly from the fact that I'd been naughtily looking at facebook, sorry, and all that had happened was I'd found out my favourite author had died.

I have a history of over-attachment to authors. I went through an extended and unfortunate Enid Blyton phase as a pre-teen and remember crying when Roald Dahl (deservedly) won a best-loved children's author award instead of her. But unlike Blyton, whose books I long ago shipped off to a charity shop, Diana Wynne Jones has been a part of my life since I picked Witch Week up for the first time aged about 10.

As a young girl with an old-fashioned perspective and a lack of understanding about what many of my contemporaries were even talking about, as well as a fairly insistent belief that there had to be a more magical world on offer than the one I could see (I had a tendency to double-check wardrobes and I was forever picking up keys in the hope that I would find the door and it would lead somewhere exciting), there was a real identification with the fantasies that she offered. Rooted in a peculiarly English sensibility and with a surprising lack of sentimentality, I fell in love with her flawed heroes and heroines and their way of looking quite practically at the incredibly unlikely and difficult, generally magically-influenced, situations they found themselves in. Her plots were fun and convoluted, and the resolutions were these breathless whirlwinds of strangeness where everything would be tied up but often in a way where you felt like you'd been dreaming and woken up thinking that everything was in order but not in a way that you could ever explain to someone else. Often, re-reading her books, I'd get so excited about reaching the resolution that I would make sure to stop reading several chapters beforehand if I didn't have time to finish, in order to be able to revel in it.

It's difficult to pinpoint the book that I love the most as there are so many of them. Aunt Maria remains the most accurate depiction of the matriarchal control that I experienced from my maternal grandmother growing up. The real love of English that informs her books with multiple references to Shakespeare (such as the feuding families in The Magicians of Caprona), folk ballads (Fire and Hemlock makes reference to and updates The Tale of Tam Lin and Thomas the Rhymer) and brilliant names like Market Chipping (I had no idea until a recent episode of University Challenge that the name Chipping comes from a word meaning market. I love how darned silly yet clever this is) show her playfulness and knowledge of the roots of the language. Witch Week is a precursor to Harry Potter; a boarding school for witch-children set in an England where witches are regularly burned in bone-fires mean that the setting is much darker than Rowling's even though the tone is lighter.

Then there are the characters. I've already mentioned that they are flawed and in some ways they remind me of Jane Austen's characters where they tend to obfuscate their true intentions due to shame or embarrassment or pride. There are some agonising moments as they realise their own feelings or that they've trapped themselves in something that they have no control over, often as a result of their own cleverness. The phrase "bleached with misery" is one of my favourites from Fire and Hemlock and the subsequent depiction of the protagonist Polly trying to suppress this misery with feigned jollity and feeling all the time as if she were trying to hold down a jet of sadness with her hands is one of the most visually and emotionally vivid sections of the book. Jones' men, who become even more interesting as the books grow more adult and they become love interests instead of father figures, are powerful men who, often as a result of their responsibilities, are interestingly imperfect. The most fun is Christopher Chant, most often seen as the vain Chrestomanci who becomes more distant and apparently distracted as he gets more stressed, and the most heart-rending is Mordion of Hexwood.

However, if I'm honest, although I am fond of many, my favourite is Howl's Moving Castle. More people are probably aware of it than most due to the Miyazaki film of the same name made about five or six years ago as a follow-up to the Oscar-winning Spirited Away (the only other adaptation of her work that I know of is Archer's Goon made by the BBC in the 90s, which should be on Youtube somewhere, have a look. It is pretty faithful to the book and appropriately mental). The film doesn't work for me and that's probably because I don't recognise the world or the people it shows and a lot of that is because it loses all sight of Jones' peculiarities and her characters become perfect versions of themselves. Although Howl still sulks through the medium of green slime, it isn't quite the same. He is noble in the film, which is so weird. Talking about Jones' flawed men doesn't even begin to describe Howl. To paraphrase Sophie, he is vain, shallow, mindblowingly arrogant, manipulative, terrible with money, a coward and those are his good points. He's also Welsh, confusingly, given that the book is set in another world to this one. Then there's Sophie, the book's narrator and the character that I relate to the most. She sounds like me and although she has some quite bizarre things happen to her, especially spending most of the book as a woman in her 70s, she reacts to most things in the same way I feel I would: Mainly by being amused at her own stupidity; talking to herself; adjusting to bad things surprisingly quickly; getting irritable and grouchy; and by having an endearing lack of common sense despite being fairly logical. Howl and Sophie are people that I feel I know. Their world is fantastic and their actions are often over-the-top but they themselves are completely believable human beings.

I think that is key to why I love Diana Wynne Jones so much. It's the ability to make fantasy real and joyous. Her books have made me laugh and cry, populated by characters that feel like friends, and are full of invention, fun and darkness. Although a writer for children, she never shied away from complicated, sad, deep ideas and I think she's been a big influence on the way that I view other people. I have grown up with her characters and I am grateful for the way in which she has touched my life with her wonderful, beautiful stories. "Only thin, weak thinkers despise fairy stories. Each one has a strange, true, fact in it, you know, which you can find if you look". Fire and Hemlock

New Year, New...Something

Ah, well. I'm glad that's over. 2010 officially claimed the title of "Worst Year Of My Life". Well done; 2007 is now relegated to the number 2 spot.

Not that there weren't good things. In amongst the steaming crap heap that constituted the rest of it there were some sparkles of loveliness from new and exciting things that have happened. I have decided to list them in a counting-my-blessings kind of way:




Elowyn. My niece is possibly the most perfect thing I've ever seen. I love her little face, particularly when she is smiling, or sticking her lower lip out (I know it's a precursor to a proper cry but it is still hi-larious), or staring at me as I dance or sing for her amusement. I'm taking her bemused expression as amusement anyway.




Revenger's Tragedy. I took three weeks off work in order to pretend to be a proper actress. The routine of rehearsing during the day; flinging myself about, experimenting and generally being creative was amazing. I got frustrated with myself at times: I'm still not as good physically as I wish I was and got a bit stuck and embarrassed playing about with voices when I didn't get it immediately but the things I enjoy doing the most are the ones that I find difficult. And because of the scale of it (i.e.; small) the performers had to do everything, so props, set and costume were all made by us. Although the amazing puppets and masks are all the creation of the incredibly talented Frankie. The best part was the run in London (including three days when I had to go back to my day job(!)) travelling up on the train, trying to get some sleep and being looked after by the boys before cranking up the energy to perform. By the end of the week I was bruised, exhausted and stupidly happy. I wish it was my life. We've got some performances coming up (check it out at http://www.soop.org.uk/) so it's not yet over and I can't wait to do it again.


My house. I love living in my house. Friends and family turn up, stay over, eat fajitas. Steven miaows endlessly, Meatball snores, Splash Gordon the goldfish has had to be moved to Finchy's room as his life was in danger in the kitchen. But it's strange how much a friendship shifts and moves over time. I've always got on really well with Finchy but he's become one of my closest friends. There have been some really bad times when he's unfailingly been there with cups of tea and big hugs, we have quiet times when we just sit about and get on with sketching (him), reading or writing, and then extremely silly times when we are loud and stupid and I end up scrunched up from giggles. And in the morning, there's a cheery "alright?" that always makes me smile, even if, on some days, it's a smaller smile than on others.

Endings and Beginnings

I've been reluctant to write about my life recently, which is mainly because I've been reluctant to think about it. This blog tends to be a place where I am emotionally honest and I haven't really been that recently. Friends have asked me how I've been and I've replied that I'm fine or that I'm coping because typically, when they've asked me, I have been. But when I've had my dark moments, I haven't felt able to do anything or say anything to reach out. I have rediscovered my inability to ask for help. All I can think about is not being a burden on other people. I hate showing my vulnerability, which begs the question, why am I writing about it now? I don't know, actually. I will readily admit to being something of an emotional mess.

My Dad died. This is the strangest and most horrible fact of my life. It's simultaneously real and unreal. I can't believe it happened but can't forget it: The howling gale in his hospital room, feeling his pulse stop, hearing his final breath. I miss him so much but any way that I have of explaining it makes it sound so mundane. I miss his voice, his face, miss kissing him on his forehead and ambushing him with hugs, I miss talking to him about acting and about life, miss him being in the audience, especially his laugh. I miss running my life through the filter of his love, expectance and critique. I miss the version of myself that he saw; a fearless, honest, extraordinary woman.

But life goes on. Sometimes relentlessly, sometimes joyfully. There have been bad days and good days, occasionally they have been the same day. I continue to be the same person I was but have changed beyond recognition - nothing makes sense in quite the way that it did before.

Dirge Without Music

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Edna St Vincent Millay

I'm fine.

A phrase which is fast becoming a reflex response to anything that anyone asks me. Sometimes I totally mean it, sometimes it's just easier to say than "oh dear God, what the fuck is happening?" before running away and crying.

I keep getting lost in my own head. It's like being underwater - colour and sound and touch are still there but they're slower and make less impact. Every so often, a look or a note of concern will pick me up with the current and I'll be swept along in the sea of it but I'm trying not to let this happen. It isn't about me.

So, for now, I'm fine. Sometimes I'm lying, sometimes I'm not.

I am a rubbish heroine

For a while I was thinking that I'd act as some kind of heroine in a chicklit book for you. I thought that I'd describe my antics in the wacky world of dating and flirtation, including my misadventures, and oh, the laughs we'd have. Unfortunately I have come to the conclusion, yet again, that I am a rubbish heroine. Have I spoken to Max (also known, in some circles, as photocopier man)? Yes, obviously, we work at the same place. Have I had any meaningful conversation beyond work-related things? No. Of course not. To be honest I'm surprised that anyone expects me to have initiated such a thing. I just spoke to him on the phone. He dictated an email - what saucy fun, eh? Did I flirt? Did I say anything of interest? No. Apart from "oh crap, I missed that. Can you go back a bit?" He comes in, fails to notice me, flirts with Sophie (damn her eyes), leaves. And that's kind of it.

And let's not forget the fact that I am atrocious at posting even. Even on facebook, I am so disinterested in writing about myself that there is barely anything going on on my profile page. This is how rubbish I am. I am boring myself.

The thing is, I have lots going on, I'm just disinclined to write about it. I think, as last year, I've been inhabiting an onstage persona too firmly. Elizabeth Proctor would find the status updates and soul-sharing all too invasive, I feel. There's also the fact that she was a Puritan in 1692 and would, therefore, be more than a little confused by the whole technology thing. On the plus side, since playing both Anna and Elizabeth, my general posture and way of holding myself has improved. So I'm a bit mentally messed up but I walk straighter. Oh, and the reviewer called me "strikingly pre-Raphaelite". As with every description of me that has to do with the way I look, I take it with a pinch of salt. I am only too ready to accept that my acting was good but I struggle with people complimenting my looks. I just assume they're blind or being nice and move on. I say "move on" but that's only if you don't count the number of times I returned to the review to check that's what it actually said. I am so needy.

Anyways, stuff is moving on apace as always. Some good, some bad. Unfortunately none of it to do with either Max or a career but I trust that I'll work it all out eventually. Ish.

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.